Winter is coming, and while most of my friends back east will go on and on about the snow piling up on their stoops and porches, I’ll save my complaints about the broken dreams piling up all over LA, getting in my way when I’m just trying to get a sweet potato latte before starting this next screenplay.
LA, while very sandal-oriented, is not for the lazy, weak, sensitive or those who never learned to hustle properly. I’ll make friends tonight at some bar, and Sunday they’ll be headed home on a greyhound or Craigslist rideshare. I have friends who’ve come to act who disappear just as quick as the first audition is over, or they become other things forgetting their reason for coming. “You sir are no actor,” I told one. “Your 9-5 has labeled you an insurance salesman.” And there’s nothing wrong with selling insurance, but you could do that in West Bumfuck, Alabama where you came from, and leave Los Angeles to the proactive.
Be what you came to be. Do what your family and friends who troll your social sites believe you do. Stop the people you need to speak to on their way to the restroom if that’s where you find them, and tell them how much it would behoove them to have a small chat with you. Times have changed since Gladys Knight sang “Midnight Train to Georgia.” You will be on a Greyhound with a crying baby, sitting next to a snoring fat man who stinks. Your lover will not leave with you because you were unable to handle the pressure that come along with the life you asked for. That lover will be at the club where you met them looking for someone with bigger dreams.
“I don’t like Los Angeles. The people are awful and terribly shallow, and everybody wants to be famous but nobody wants to play the game. I’m from New York. I will kill to get what I need.” – Lady Gaga