And you think I'm being catty? No, this is the LA I love. Along with the melon-pink sunsets, and the way the brown haze has a terracotta glow to it just above the hills, the way you can listen to the radios of the people driving next to you on the 101. Where you're not alone in loving Adolfo Guzman-Lopez, or where Larry Mantle is something you can discuss with your kids over dinner. The way you can have a yearning for an al pastor taco and you know exactly where to find that truck. The way that your friends don't know what mud is, and every hand you encounter is manicured with square, perfect nails in effortlessly chic shades. It's like, you just know.
I miss the shop girls with the Hermes bags. The perfect high school dads who are attorneys during the week, who wear Nike and Adidas to show they know casual, who shop at Supreme, because they're down, and drive Teslas and Priuses because, you know, Range Rovers are just not cool. I miss the Brentwood Country Mart, the moms who hang out at the Starbucks, the ayurvedic spas, the pho joints on Western, where you go to feel smug, because they're, you know, the real deal.
And the sunshine, and the kindness, and the warm smiles that may be vapid, but at least their hearts are opened, and their bellies filled with green juice.
Yeah, so, I'm jealous I didn't make that movie. That movie makes me feel like home. That movie makes me wanted to snuggle up on our old brown leather sofa with the weird homemade cushions I got in Del Mar when Minky was horse showing and I can't resist a home store, with my kids, in sweats, eating chopped salads from La Scala, and watch a bad rom com set in the city we love, with all its fakery. It's all for Hollywood, but we're winking at each other anyway, because we know it too, and we're in on the game. It's our genre. It's how we live, which just a sprinkling of a veneer of unreality, under sunny, blue skies, and the roar of motorbikes ridden by aspiring actors in their muscle shirts coming up from the canyon. It's pretend. It's make believe. But it's our make believe.
Addendum: A friend just put up an article on grief from Thrive, which I randomly clicked on. Here are the first two sentences:
Another way to say that you are grieving is that a part of you is stuck in a moment in time.
Sometimes the cause of the stuckness isn’t the grief itself, but the fact that you don’t even recognize that you’ve lost something and that you need to grieve.