If men and women in L.A. understood each other there would be no cafes in Silverlake. There would be no restaurants in Venice. The benches on Larchmont would groan under the unbearable lightness of nothingness and bar doors would yawn with boredom.
Try this: Find a spot. Sit down. Listen. Pizza is the accompaniment to a pile of woe. Double espressos sprinkled with Splenda quench the thirst of disappointment. An Old Fashioned has become ubiquitous to declarations of desires that eat away at the soul.
The city is one, giant, confessional keeping the service industry alive. It isn’t that we need food. Or coffee. Or a cocktail. It’s that we need to talk about how we don’t understand each other. Because if we did, we’d have stayed home.
Maybe it’s the town – a place built on drama must be sustained as such, keep its collective unconscious teetering over the edge, looking down into the abyss of the canyons knowing that to fall, means getting eaten by coyotes. Certainly success in Hollywood isn’t so simple as applying for the job. Why should love be any different?
Maybe we understand that fighting for our parts is an important aspect of the game, that if we want success – in work and in love – well so does everyone so get out your gloves and lace up. May the most adaptable win.
Is it possible for men and women in L.A. to understand each other? Maybe. But then where would we go to eat and what the hell would we have to talk about?
