I saw the movie CRASH tonight. It was excellent. I don't know that I'd watch it again, but I found it to be amazingly well-constructed and a dead-on social commentary on humanity in L.A. Hell, humanity in general. Depressing food for thought. If you'd like to discuss it, message me. I don't want to ruin it for others. (what happened, did't we used to have spoiler tags in journals? Hm.)
I fucking hate L.A.
I'll be there in 13 days. I'm going to go to La Luz de Jesus gallery, the Aquarium, possibly MOCA. Santa Monica, maybe smoke a joint on the beach in Venice. These are the thing that draw me to L.A.
It's the fucking people I hate. People in their fighting masses have destroyed the potential beauty of the city. Everyone is self-absorbed, angry at everyone else. There's no privacy in L.A. There's no down time. There's no place to be outside and alone. (Well, no place that's SAFE to be alone anyway.) It's so claustrophobic. No other city in the world feel like L.A. Being downtown feels like being in a foreign city.
I lived in Hollywood and would walk most everywhere. 70% of the time, I'd have a pimp or a John proposition me. One time, this toothless homeless man asked me if he could piss in my mouth for $20.
I wondered where he got the $20. I told him he should buy himself a blanket and some soup instead.
Papa Tony was a homeless man that lived in a box outside the Buck Buster, a convinience store on the corner of Sunset and Leland. He was so sweet. He had his little home all set up, with candles and his bible and some horrifically rank blankets. We got to talking and he had a croupy sounding cough. I gave him money to do laundry and took him to Rite Aid so I could buy his medication - some inhalers and pills, I forget what kind. Almost daily I'd go check on him and take him a burger.
One day I went to see him and he was in his broken box, shivering under a sopping wet banket. His face was bruised, his lips were bleeding, his shirt was stained with blood. He sobbed as he told me crackheads had smashed his candles, destroyed his bible, and beat him senseless. They also stole all his meds. All I could do was buy him some Bactine, bandaids and a new blanket.
The next day Papa Tony was gone, and I never saw him again. I get sad every time I think about him. The cops were always hassling him to go to a homeless shelter, but he told me it was safer to be on the streets. I miss Papa Tony.
Other times kids would pick our street for after school fights.
Twice I woke up to screams in the hallway. I would call 911 because I could hear her being strangled, but I dared not go out, because it would've been me next, and I didn't trust anyone else to call for help.
I met many, many people in L.A., but I never met anyone who didn't do hard drugs.
The place makes my soul turn black and sticky. There is a little beauty and glamour, but you have to go to very restricted areas to see it: the Boulevard, the Strip. Like a self-made zoo, they don't leave their clubs or ridiculously overpriced breakfast houses. And if they do, they're lost. Jamie Lee Curtis asked me for directions once. She was on Delongpre Ave and looked pretty fuckin' uptight about it. I don't blame her. She was a long way from a safe neighborhood.
Some days I look back very, very fondly on the first year and a half I spent there. I was so naive that much of the danger went by unnoticed. The next two years were hell. I was lucky I made it out alive.
*sigh*
People ruin everything.
I fucking hate L.A.
I'll be there in 13 days. I'm going to go to La Luz de Jesus gallery, the Aquarium, possibly MOCA. Santa Monica, maybe smoke a joint on the beach in Venice. These are the thing that draw me to L.A.
It's the fucking people I hate. People in their fighting masses have destroyed the potential beauty of the city. Everyone is self-absorbed, angry at everyone else. There's no privacy in L.A. There's no down time. There's no place to be outside and alone. (Well, no place that's SAFE to be alone anyway.) It's so claustrophobic. No other city in the world feel like L.A. Being downtown feels like being in a foreign city.
I lived in Hollywood and would walk most everywhere. 70% of the time, I'd have a pimp or a John proposition me. One time, this toothless homeless man asked me if he could piss in my mouth for $20.
I wondered where he got the $20. I told him he should buy himself a blanket and some soup instead.
Papa Tony was a homeless man that lived in a box outside the Buck Buster, a convinience store on the corner of Sunset and Leland. He was so sweet. He had his little home all set up, with candles and his bible and some horrifically rank blankets. We got to talking and he had a croupy sounding cough. I gave him money to do laundry and took him to Rite Aid so I could buy his medication - some inhalers and pills, I forget what kind. Almost daily I'd go check on him and take him a burger.
One day I went to see him and he was in his broken box, shivering under a sopping wet banket. His face was bruised, his lips were bleeding, his shirt was stained with blood. He sobbed as he told me crackheads had smashed his candles, destroyed his bible, and beat him senseless. They also stole all his meds. All I could do was buy him some Bactine, bandaids and a new blanket.
The next day Papa Tony was gone, and I never saw him again. I get sad every time I think about him. The cops were always hassling him to go to a homeless shelter, but he told me it was safer to be on the streets. I miss Papa Tony.
Other times kids would pick our street for after school fights.
Twice I woke up to screams in the hallway. I would call 911 because I could hear her being strangled, but I dared not go out, because it would've been me next, and I didn't trust anyone else to call for help.
I met many, many people in L.A., but I never met anyone who didn't do hard drugs.
The place makes my soul turn black and sticky. There is a little beauty and glamour, but you have to go to very restricted areas to see it: the Boulevard, the Strip. Like a self-made zoo, they don't leave their clubs or ridiculously overpriced breakfast houses. And if they do, they're lost. Jamie Lee Curtis asked me for directions once. She was on Delongpre Ave and looked pretty fuckin' uptight about it. I don't blame her. She was a long way from a safe neighborhood.
Some days I look back very, very fondly on the first year and a half I spent there. I was so naive that much of the danger went by unnoticed. The next two years were hell. I was lucky I made it out alive.
*sigh*
People ruin everything.
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He wrote a lot of words, haha.
m