I Moved To New York To Fulfill My Dream Of Moving To L.A. To Talk About Living In New York
I grew up on the poor side of Asskrack, Wisconsin. Even though my clothes smelled like dairy farm runoff, and my only toys were the bones from freeway roadkill, I knew I was WAY too good for that flown-over, dolt farm of a town. I needed to get out and live my best life, with the best people, in the best city to ever sprout on this dirt-ball we call earth! Right after I’m done living in New York.
When I’m finally in L.A. I can act like I miss the toxic black winter slush and the heavy summertime scent of street-baked urine. I’ll pretend I long for splitting the rent on a Brooklyn closet with the waitstaff from one of my seven restaurant jobs, and crying myself to sleep because I can’t afford to even fold a slice of street pizza.
My entire life, or at least since I saw LALA Land, I’ve fantasized about chasing dreams in the City of Angels. When I finally get there I’ll run down Hollywood Boulevard and yell “It’s nice, but it’s no Times Square!”
I want to hang out on the porch of an Echo Park Bungalow with musicians, artists, and trust-funders and casually say “The City.” Then correct some local yokel when they naively think I’m talking about the city of Los Angeles. Nothing will be better than seeing that look on their faces as they recognize that I am one of “Those” people. One of the elite former New Yorkers on the left side of the front half of the bottom step of that porch.
I long for a perfect summer night at the Hollywood Bowl — I can almost smell weed/exhaust breeze and taste the overpriced, three-buck chuck. When the mood is chill, and the band I say I like is playing their one KCRW hit, I can lean over to some stranger and scream, “I saw them play when I lived in New York. They were so much better”! They may be too high to understand me, or too self-absorbed to care, but just saying it will mean I’m now one of the golden people.
My Aromatherapist/Scrotum Waxer will love hearing how I met his favorite author as we both sat in subway gum. Then I’ll peacefully drift off for my waxing as I pine for the smell of taxi vomit and the lonesome howl of a tourist being robbed.
I love that my friends will count the seconds between the time we walk into an L.A. pizza place to the time I say, “There’s just no good pizza in this city.” I will savor that moment like a good bagel…there just aren’t any good bagels in L.A.
I’m suffering in New York now, but someday I’ll be a transplant New Yorker and legit Angelino. I’ll suck off the WiFi in some Silverlake coffee/goat yoga shop and take up a table for four while I micro-sip another cup of drip and pump social content for a 17-year-old influencer who I’m not convinced isn’t a computer-generated cyborg. All while knowing there is a MET visitor sticker gracing the front of my laptop, and a Yankees backpack on the seat next to me. A seat that could be yours.
If you also dream of lecturing an L.A. Uber driver about Bushwick’s walkability score while riding 46ft to buy kale flavored vape juice. Or spending your Saturday in line for Jackfruit Bacon wrapped Kogi Dog while complaining how nobody in Los Angeles can read, then come to New York and We’ll move to L.A. and talk about living in New York.