As someone who has lived on both coasts and has given this much though I laughed out loud at the piece shared from a friend ( who has also lived in both places ) from The New Yorker. Of course it brings to mind Woody Allen’s great film Annie Hall!
Titled: N.Y.C. to L.A. to N.Y.C. to L.A., Ad Infinitum by the writer Cirocco Dunlap – it is so good – here is an excerpt:
When I realized that New York was a cesspit filled with the viscera of broken dreams, I decided that the time had come for me to move to beautiful, sunny Los Angeles. When I arrived in L.A. and realized that it was creatively dead, had a withered husk for a soul, and considered ombré the height of culture, I took the first plane back to New York. Of course, my plane landed in a sea of overstressed, overworked rat kings fornicating with cockroaches and three of my exes. So I bought a used Prius and drove cross-country straight to L.A., because in L.A. people go on hikes. On my first hike in L.A., I had to talk to someone who’d never read Joan Didion and who’d had—get this—plastic surgery. Before he could say “juice cleanse,” I had ridden a fixed-gear bicycle right back to the Big Apple.
My bike wouldn’t fit in my two-inch-wide urine-soaked apartment in Sunset Park, so I found someone to take over my lease and I rode a Segway all the way to Hollywood, eating local fruits and reciting positive affirmations as I rolled merrily along. At my first party in Los Angeles, I heard the word “agent” more than fifteen thousand times. (I tried to keep a tally, but my fingers started bleeding, so I stopped.) People went on “generals” and never returned. I knew I needed to get back to where the real people were, the people of substance and letters, who understood the Struggle.
Read the whole piece here
01/28/2016 | Posted by Eye Forward
Categories: Fashion
Tags: http://www.newyorker.com/
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