Los Angeles – Page 2 – Yellow Brick Missives

April 1, 2013

While You Were…Away in LA

Alright. So this isn’t the terrible sequel to the horrendously nineties, horrendously wonderful While You Were Sleeping.

But it does involve some nineties celebrities, and celebrities in their nineties.

***

You may recall that I dropped the news that Andy and I are moving to LA.

And I’ve been deathly silent ever since.

Like a boa constrictor.

Mostly because, right after we decided to go for it, we got scrunched and twisted, and felt like things were tightening around us.

Taxes hit the fan big time (I’m sure plenty of y’all feel the hurt), and we had to entertain “what ifs” before damning the torpedoes and fully steaming ahead.

Have there been tears? Yes.

And doubts? Hell yes.

Did we start to think that our lives really were mirroring Revolutionary Road? That our Kathy Bates-like apartment manager would tell the new gay tenants some lamentable story about how we lost ourselves, ran down the road screaming, and were never heard from again?

Of course.

So, yes, there have been some dark days.

But then: Mom to the rescue.

“Honey, look at it this way. If you’re in a pit of despair, the only way you can look is up.”

And, poof.

Up I looked. To a clearer, albeit cloudy sky.

So we’ve chipped away at the negative, have balanced it with the positive, and have continued to move forward.

Sure, there’re still unknowns, but they’re kept in check–always tempered with a bit of optimism and underlain with fortitude.

Because that’s all any of us can do: salvage the good from the bad, shore up a cracked foundation, and keep building.

***

After pulling ourselves out of our funk with the help of a few amazing friends, we set off for LA apartment hunting.

Now, similar to the Powerpoint-driven cross country road trip, we go equipped with Excel spreadsheets chocked-full of various information about neighborhoods, prices, parking, freeway proximity, amenities, and all the other fun stuff.

I venture out a few days before to ensure I have a couple of appointments under my belt before Andy makes it out later in the week.

Once I get the rental car, get a quick lesson on LA driving etiquette, and find the hotel, I steel myself for the coming days and whatever they’ll bring.

***

Earlier in the week, I’d spoken to Kaz, sl-landlord of the first apartment I’d planned to tour. After clarifying things a bazillion times the morning of, and him changing the address at the last minute, I fully expect the apartment to look nothing like what he’s described.

And I’m right.

It’s perfectly fine. For someone else.

Next.

An hour later, I find myself en route to the next place, which happens to be in the same area where we ran into Sandra Oh.

And while I doubt Ryan Gosling lives across the way, the apartment itself is super cute. Minus the slightly disturbing glorified anorexia photos on the tenant’s refrigerator, and her rambunctious dogs.

The agent is pleasant, and her name isn’t Kaz.

And after a few laughs, we’re like, “Gurl, she said whaaaaaat?”

Double plus bonus.

***

The next day, after three dry runs of navigating LAX, I finally pick up Andy.

Then we buzz into Hollywood, lunch on some comfort food, and start walking around, reminding ourselves that we’re not on vacation. That part of the point of this entire trip is imagining ourselves here.

The next day we pop into an apartment complex on our list.

Mostly because of the neighborhood, my internal monologue immediately switches into Daria mode. But then we walk inside.

And our jaws drop.

It’s like an Art Deco explosion everywhere.

I pee a little.

And then the hipster apartment agents show us one of the units, leading us up ornate staircases and into crazy-ass-cool Deco elevators.

Surely, I think, the apartment itself can’t be this nice.

But it is.

And so is the rooftop pool. The first of its kind in the nation.

And I think to myself, “I can totally swim here.”

So we say our thank-yous, shoot each other ohmahgerd looks, get into the car, and explode into dialogue.

And we keep it going to the next place.

The one with Deco moldings dripping down from the corners. With etched glass built-ins. With original hardwood floors. With the original Deco vanity the hipster apartment agent “wouldn’t think of removing.”

And I start feeling weak in the knees.

Then, after that one, we go to a wild card.

And wonder if Adam Levine might be our neighbor. (‘Cause y’all know Andy and I would be running each other over in the hallway to ask him for a cup, or gallon, or handful of sugar.)

And try to keep it together when the hipster apartment agent (sensing a trend?) says, “Yeah, it’s sort of crazy around here during the Oscars. So, here’s the kitchen.”

And then, after the appointments end, merge onto one of the main freeways and not mind the slowed traffic. (Because one good thing about enduring extreme commutes for several years is that we’re used to traffic. And delays. And more traffic. And we realize LA isn’t as bad as most people make it out to be traffic-wise. Which then reminds us that most people have never had the commutes we’ve had.)

And we think, “Hey, we could live here.”

***

As part of our quasi-decompression time between appointments, we venture to the same mall where we saw Brad and Gary from It’s A Brad, Brad World.

And right as we get to the top of an escalator, a curly-haired guy casts a glance our way.

“I think that’s Ben Savage.”

“Who?”

“Boy Meets World. Like, critical show of my adolescence.”

“Oh. I never watched that show.”

“WHAT?!”

“Isn’t he sort of not in anything anymore?”

Which Andy says right behind him.

And I realize that, yes, it’s totally Cory Matthews writ real. Sporting a baseball cap and stubble.

I fight the urge to blurt out, “WHERE IN THE HELL IS TOPANGA?!”

And succeed.

We leave Ben Savage to validate his parking, then go to Pinkberry as a reward for spotting a celebrity. And so I can say that I went to that place that was in that viral pro-gay marriage video.

Not so long after I demolish my praline salted caramel yogurt, Andy spots Edith Flagg.

“Who?”

“The old woman from that reality show about selling houses.”

“Uh.”

“She’s worth a lot of money.”

“OH. Well, push her down that goddamned escalator.”

(Kidding! She had helpers. Dammit.)

(Sidenote: Then I read about what she and her family did during WWII and feel really dickish and horrible about the escalator comment.)

Soon enough, we pack it in and head back to the hotel. Rejuvenated with yogurt and celebrity sightings, we prep for the long trip back.

***

Which isn’t too bad.

Minus the sadness of the Las Vegas airport. (Meaning, watching people flush money down the toilet. Which, if I’m not mistaken, is an actual slot machine.)

And the running commentary of the mother with the fussy child.

You know, the one who just has to come to the back of the airplane so that her seatmate will stop being angry. Who’s fine not making her seatmate angry, but is perfectly content to keep the rest of us awake.

Including Flashy Grandma, who, bless her heart, keeps accidentally taking flash photos while scrolling through her digital camera, then yelling back to her friend Louise.

Coupled with FG’s antics and the turbulence, the baby-centric conversation booming over the jet engines behind my head nearly pushes me over the edge.

Chatty Mother to Dribbly, Screaming Lump: “YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE A SLEEPY GIRL!”

Then, to Macho, Straight (STRAIGHT!) Flight Attendant: “What’s your daughter’s name?”

MSFA: “Lyla.”

CM: “OH, we were going to name her Lyla. But she’s Clara. But we’re still not over Lyla.”

FG: *Photographic misfire, awakening nearby drunk couple with heads down on tray tables*

*Turbulence. Seatbelt sign.*

AG: “LOUISE!”

CM: “Do you have a name for your son?”

MFA: “Kalon.”

CM: “Caden?”

MSFA: “KALON. Like ‘talon.’ But with a ‘K.’ It’s Greek and Irish. So, like I was saying, the Concourse baby stroller is like the winnebago of strollers.”

Me: *Looks for sharp object. Finds random fortune cookie. Opens it for life-affirming advice: “An entertainment event in the near future will yield great rewards.” Destroys cookie.*

***

We land.

We drive home.

We collapse.

We talk about the great things ahead.

And we sleep.

And we wake up.

And we talk about the great things ahead.

March 24, 2013March 24, 2013

A New Chapter: Back There

Between intensely suggesting that my tax advisor reassess my taxes for the third time, and thinking about the conversation Andy and I had had the day before, I choked back tears.

But when my tax advisor came up with the same damningly high numbers that I owed in April, she and everyone in the office knew I was a little upset.

Still, she walked me through everything. Expressed her apologies.

And threw in a coupon.

But it made for a long walk home.

After all, I’d have to talk to Andy about this, and how it was going to affect what we’d decided to do.

***

After a horrible evening of talking things through, blankly staring at the television as The Office failed to make us laugh, we went to bed early with the weight of tax burdens coloring our formerly rose-colored outlook a dismal, impenetrable black.

But the next day, my parents reminded me why I’m so goddamned fortunate to have them.

And after I ugly cried and they told me not to freak out, Andy and I were able to breathe once again.

And shore up the crack that taxes had made in our resolve. And savings.

Soon enough, between family and friends offering their support and help, we were again reminded that we have a ridiculously amazing cheerleading squad. And can never express deeply enough how much “Go for it!” or “How can I help?” or “Here you go!” measures up when naysayers have plenty of negativity to direct at us.

So, we’ve decided to listen to our family and friends.

But, most importantly, to our hearts.

So.

We’re moving.

To Los Angeles.

***

Now.

Before you turn to your cubicle or cellmate and say, “They crazeh!” I’ll beat you to it and tell you, “You’re right!”

But if we’re not a little crazy or a little naive, we’ll never take the step. We’ll just languish in the “what ifs,” and will have to drink ourselves to sleep whenever we watch Revolutionary Road.

Speaking of which, we watched that amazingly good movie the night we decided to move. And you know what? It helped.

Because the next day when the tax shit hit the fan, there were lots of questions, lots of “Oh, we’re delusional. This will never happen.”

But before I whipped out a rubber hose and pump, and Andy started screaming, “She did it to herself! She did it to herself!” we kept the plan alive.

By laughing.

By crying.

By imagining that we’d still pursue it, even if we had a giant hurdle thrown in our way.

Because, throughout this process, tenacity is crucial.

Thankfully, we’re both ridiculously stubborn when it comes to folding under pressure.

Even though we know that starting over is absolutely, insanely difficult.

But we’ve each done it before.

And being doggedly determined to try rather than wonder can’t hurt.

***

So, it starts now.

Leaving toxic work environments in our wake.

Telling ourselves that we’re worth more, and can offer more, than the asshats think.

Living and pursuing lives we want.

Retracing our steps.

Learning from tumbles and tribulations.

Cherishing our victories.

And embracing our gay, man-infested destiny as we create a future.

All the way back there.

March 20, 2013March 21, 2013

A Gay, Man-infested Destiny: There and Back

You know how I was adamant that I was going to chronicle every bit of our cross country road trip in painful detail?

Epic fail.

Granted, some stuff has gone down since then.

Still.

In an attempt to make amends with my slighted conscience, I’ll provide a ridiculous synopsis of everything else after Oklahoma.

***

So, when we last left our heroes, we’d just left our friend Amanda in Oklahoma and were en route to Vegas, with stop offs in New Mexico and Arizona.

We passed a lot of abandoned farms.

Floored it past weird, Jesus-centric places.

And settled into the music, as alien landscapes whizzed by.

And then we passed into New Mexico.

With snow on the ground. *Facepalm*

Then we got lost in Albuquerque, because my “familiarity” with the city–having been there once before–landed us in a neighborhood of boarded-up houses and bail bond offices.

We disregarded all red lights, defaulted to our “Whole Foods” GPS input, and ended the day with super hot Mexican food at a local haunt near our non-sketchy hotel.

The next morning, we set our sights on Arizona, the Grand Canyon specifically. Because, even though it wasn’t on our official route, we figured it was sort of dumb to skip over something so monumental. Even if it might be cold.

For whatever reason, I assumed that, after Oklahoma, it was going to be, like, hot. But, no.

More snow. Hooray!

But we soldiered on.

Made it to the Grand Canyon.

Where I realized that (1) The money was worth it; (2) NEVER wear converse-like shoes at the Grand Canyon when it’s 20 degrees. Especially if you have a circulatory disease; and (3) I’m even more of an acrophobe than I thought.

The Grand Canyon is most definitely grand.

By the time we got back to the car, I couldn’t feel by hands, feet, nose, or lips. And we watched as the temperature dropped precipitously thereafter.

After a slight directional miscalculation, we got back on track.

And Andy occupied my attention as we passed over the Hoover Dam, so that I didn’t scream and cry about how we’d careen off to our deaths.

Before long, we saw the lights.

Chattered about what Vegas would surely be like.

Finally found our hotel.

Figured we’d get food poisoning from the horrible casino food.

Spent no money at the slot machines.

And witnessed horrific parenting at midnight.

***

After we realized it took approximately five hours to get coffee at the casino Starbucks, we left Vegas in our wake.

Even though my hair wasn’t done.

Sacrifices.

But we had one of the two key destinations immediately ahead: San Francisco.

So we prepped for another crazy-long day.

Instagram while driving! YAY! *Never do this*

And stopped at a weird rest area. Which smelled like a port-a-john on a subway.

I think that raven was waiting for us to die of the stench.

And then we encountered the first sign that we were closing in on California: a fruit checkpoint.

I panicked.

We had oranges in the bottom of our cooler.

We’d be sent to jail.

I’d be frisked.

I’d never see San Francisco.

So, as we slowly entered into a traffic line, we tried to formulate a plan.

“WHAT DO WE DO?! Throw the oranges out of the car now!”

“No. Just don’t tell them we have them.”

“They won’t believe me! We’re from out of state. The cooler is on the backseat! I’m southern!”

“Just don’t confess.”

With a few beads of sweat trickling between my eyebrows, I rolled the window down, greeted the guard, slathered my language with “y’all’s” and the twangiest Bama accent I could muster, and disavowed all knowledge of alien fruit.

She eyed the cooler on the backseat, and I reconsidered blurting out, “Don’t worry, it’s just hearts! Delicious hearts.”

We passed through, and I found the nearest gas station to dispose of our perfectly good oranges.

“Why are you doing this? We’re fine.”

But when Andy went inside, I pumped the gas, looked around, shielded the bag of oranges under my coat, and dumped them with little fanfare into the nearest trash receptacle. A morbidly obese child in a neighboring van stared at me, and I stared daggers back at him until he looked away.

And then we left.

***

The California countryside took my breath away. It looked like A Walk In the Clouds took a dump everywhere.

Every single time we looked around, we were struck by how vast and beautiful and oddly empty the landscape happened to be.

But soon, the windy roads gave way to freeways, and traffic picked up.

And we began feeling San Francisco closing in.

Then, boom. We got into downtown.

And, whoa.

We found out hotel.

And we screamed with joy.

When we got inside, the receptionist apologized that our room wasn’t ready, and asked if we’d be happy in an upgraded corner room with a view out toward Union Square.

A-MAZING view to downtown San Francisco.

“Why, yes. Yes, I think we can manage.”

After we got settled and Andy kept saying how amazingly dead-on my friend had been when she’d recommended this place, we listened to our stomachs.

So, we grabbed a cab, and headed to the one place we both knew we wanted to see.

The Castro. The perfect place to spend our first evening.

Had amazing drinks.

Ate ridiculously good food.

So delicious. And the food ain't bad, either. Ba dah bah!

And then made it back to the hotel, where we continued Andy’s tradition of watching Christmas movies, including Miracle on 34th Street (which, to his horror, I’d never seen).

Bringing the evening to a close with a classic.

Then, for the first time in several days, we were able to sleep in, and revel in the fact that we didn’t have to repack the car the next morning.

And could have a more sizable breakfast than Starbucks scones and coffee.

So, we spent our time traipsing around San Francisco, seeing plenty of great things.

Like its LGBT Center.

Its great neighborhoods.

Gay, old landmarks.

Amazing restaurants.

Its architecture.

And so, so much more.

Couldn't beat a rainbow in San Francisco. Much less the double rainbow we saw later that day.

After a bazillion photos and countless “selfie” style “portraits” of us at so many wonderful places–City Light Bookstore, Twin Peaks, throughout Chinatown, at the top of Lombard Street–we packed it in, and set our GPS for Los Angeles.

***

Now, as we entered LA, I fully prepared myself for the worst. Because so many people said it was horrible in comparison to San Francisco and San Diego.

So, I stupidly let that cloud my initial judgment, and contribute to a little grumpy mood. (Which wasn’t helped by the fact that our “Standard” digs seemed like a substandard Hot Topic explosion.)

But then we made it to a restaurant where the sangria flowed and things settled down.

And it didn’t hurt that our hotel valet ended up being a hot silver fox from North Carolina.

***

The next day, we found a Whole Foods, where I’m pretty sure I saw Jake Gyllenhaal.

Then, we started patrolling neighborhoods, driving through Beverly Hills, and getting lost in Koreatown.

Eventually, we started targeting antique shops, and got out in one neighborhood in West Hollywood to stretch our legs.

The architecture was amazing.

Which was why we were looking up when we ran into a group of people leaving a corner coffee shop.

And when I looked down to see whose coffee I nearly spilled, I settled on an oddly familiar face.

It was Sandra Oh.

After we passed through the crowd, muttering apologies as we went, we turned the corner and I exploded.

“OH MAH GAWD, THAT WAS SANDRA OH!”

“Who?”

“SANDRA OHhhhhhh.” As if yelling it louder was going to help.

I figured that if I did see any celebrity, I’d just be like, “Oh, there’s so-and-so. They’re shorter in real life.”

Instead, I started talking about moving to the neighborhood, becoming neighbors with Sandra Oh, and referring to her as Sandra Oh every single time we decided to do something together.

Like, when we’d host a backyard barbecue.

“Sandra Oh and I are going to get pineapple for the kabobs.”

We’d become best friends. And I’d laugh with her and say things like, “Oh, Sandra Oh. Pass the goddamned sangria.”

Andy tolerated my musings while we perused a used bookstore soon after our encounter of the Oh kind.

And then we were off again.

We spent the next few days walking around neighborhoods, going to antique shops, and snapping photos of potential digs should we end up on the west coast.

One of a billion photos of random apartment buildings.

And then settled into our hotel for Christmas Eve.

But then we realized that Les Miserables was opening Christmas Day.

We were in LA. On Christmas. When Les Miserables came out.

Of course we were going.

***

So, the next day, we got changed, figured out where to go, and planned a double feature of Les Mis and The Hobbit. After we paid our exorbitant fees for tickets and reserved our seats (people in LA are serious about this, y’all), we got some super cheap concessions and turned to go into the theater.

And that’s when I saw two familiar faces.

Brad Goreski, and his partner, writer Gary Janetti.

I nearly peed myself.

And freaked out to Andy as quietly as possible as we walked into the theater.

Then, I Facebooked about it.

And then Brad walked past me, and he was wearing sequinned shoes.

And I remembered from their TV show how important Les Mis was to their first date.

And I thought, “Wow.”

Just, wow.

Anyway, it was awesome.

As was Les Mis.

After the movie, we went to validate our parking, got turned around, and ended up back downstairs. And who happened to be standing right beside Andy–who, again, didn’t notice!–but Brad, Gary, and their entourage. Andy bent down to tie his shoe, and I told him, through clenched teeth, “That’s them.”

“What?”

“ThatzBradandGary.”

“Who?”

*Facepalm*

We got a few feet away before he realized what I was saying. And he worried the rest of the evening that he’d accidentally mooned them. And I thought, “Thank goodness I looked halfway decent.”

***

Between the time Les Mis ended and The Hobbit began, we ran to Malibu, walked along the shore, and took in the sunset.

And what a day it’d been.

By the time we got back, our stomachs were grumbling, but we had The Hobbit to see. (Contrary to popular opinion, one cannot survive off of Sour Patch Kids alone.)

So, as I nursed a food-induced migraine and wondered when in the hell the goddamned hobbit was going to get to the end of his journey, I dreamt about Chinese food.

Which we made a bee-line for immediately after the egregiously long movie ended.

So, at about 11:30 Christmas evening, we scored amazing takeout in Chinatown.

And barely spoke to one another as we inhaled it.

Reflected on the day.

And passed out.

***

And then the journey home began. I’d pepper this with more landscape shots and musings, but the bulk of the return journey consisted of us figuring out how to move out to California.

How much stuff we’d have to shed to do so.

How we’d made it across the country so quickly.

And how we already had to circle back.

We did make a few intentional stops, one being the Oklahoma City Memorial.

To write that it was sobering would be a vast understatement.

***

With the cold wind at our backs, we pushed back to NC from our very amazing, most excellent journey. And while we each had our own favorite moments, I found comfort in the fact that we experienced it all together.

Through it all, regardless of tiffs here and there, we made it.

There and back again.

January 1, 2013January 1, 2013

Learning Curves

I’ll just go ahead and write it. Put it out there. Feel the weight of a lackadaisical writing mantle be lifted off of me and onto the shoulders of some other, more resolute writerlyish person. Deep breath.

Using a limited vocabulary to convey just how life-changing a trip can be is, well, limiting.

(See?!)

Just kidding! I’ll never shut up, nor will I ever stop using words incorrectly.

So, here we go. The first (but definitely not last) post since the cross country road trip came to its conclusion Sunday night.

***

Like I was writing, a road trip of this scale can leave much more in its wake than an ear infection and six cavities. Because there’re certain things we learned along the way that’ll have long-lasting implications for every single thing we do from here on out.

Such as:

1. Never substitute anything for your favorite vodka. Dirty, dry martinis just aren’t the same without Grey Goose.

2. You should get drunk and watch The Muppet Show on mute in a trashy gay bar at least once. And appreciate how well their mouthing syncs with Rihanna’s music.

3. French toast will never be the same after eating at Olea’s in San Francisco.

4. When faded and tattered, Hampton Inn signage is incredibly disturbing.

5. When all else fails, and you have no idea of a city’s sketchiness factor, plug the local Whole Foods address into the GPS. You may have to fight over the last of the vegan gummy bears, but at least you won’t get knifed. And you might even see Jake Gyllenhaal.

6. If you have a visible tattoo, use it to your advantage in Bubba Land while doing your best to engage in overly butch behavior. (Yes, even in a line at a gas station Subway. Especially in a line at a gas station Subway.)

7. Celebrities are much shorter in real life. But they still sort of shine.

8. Coffee is a necessity. If trying to travel cheaply, just skip lunch. Your partner will thank you for it.
9. Always tip the silver fox valet. Well.

10. Los Angeles has a lot of charm if you’re willing to wade through some muck first.

11. Don’t ever discount a city or state without first visiting it. Almost every state has something amazing hidden away. Except Mississippi.

12. Only stop at Mississippi’s visitor’s center if you want to be offered apple cider laced with Jesus.

13. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is always a good default. Culinary safety blankets should never be underestimated.

14. If you want a primer on what’s wrong with America, spend approximately six minutes at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco.

15. Alabama’s red clay has restorative properties.

16. Traipse around the woods and talk about life. It’s incredibly freeing. Even if you’re not talking to anyone.

17. Daydreaming is the basis for action and change.

18. Frustration and borderline migraines will dispel after the first bite of well-cooked chow mein. Even at 11:00 PM. On Christmas.

19. Always carry an umbrella in San Francisco. And remember it may not always fit between construction scaffolding.

20. Strong drinks and antiquing should almost always be coupled.

21. Silence can be just as meaningful as conversation.

22. Brandi Carlile should be on every traveler’s playlist.

23. Wait for that overnighted fleece. You will reap the rewards your entire trip. Even if you have to admit that he was right.

24. Never eat at a Vegas casino. It’ll just make you sad inside. And your insides sad.

25. Sometimes, you just have to quiet that inner food critic and eat something because, as Andy says, “It’s warm. And you can chew it.”

26. The Grand Canyon will take your breathe away. (Or is that the 14 degree weather?)

27. A Post It that reads “Duvet covers & sheets are clean for your arrival” probably means exactly the opposite. And that a porno was just shot there.

28. The comfort of holding hands in silence cannot be overstated.

29. Deciding that you can’t grow anymore in a place you love means it’s time to move on. Not that you’ve failed.

30. Revel in the ambiguity, for it’s all that we know.

***

I know what you’re thinking. Chow mein, really?

Alright.

But at least a few of them are serious and slightly sentimental. (Or are you crying because you have a wicked New Year’s hangover? At least now you know Point 1 is valid. Booyah.)

So, while I’m downing medication for my agitated ear and sinuses, and Andy and I are setting our sights on the future, there’s plenty more to figure out.

One fork-full of chow mein at a time.

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