Cali-four-nigh-aye

I have no idea what the fuck they do down on the West Coast, but recently a few friends said they think I could make it in California. Pretty sure I'm having a mid-life crisis, so I'm considering it.

This is what I think of when I think of California (which for me is also the same as LA and whatever else is over there):

Weetzie Bat: a Very Important Book. Discovered in my middle school library, 70 delicious pages of bubble gum-punk rock-decaying glamour-hot and dusty-magical weird Shangra-LA. A weird little girl for weird little girls (by Francesca Lia Block).

Forest fires: climate change terrifies me

Sexy Eve Babitz essays: every Weetzie Bat graduate and hot girl with addiction tendencies will end up with Eve. Her intense love of LA-Hollywoodland makes me nostalgic for Americana I hate- this party girl philosopher had me googling how to get my license back even though I have to resist the urge to pop a Xanax at the mere thought of getting behind the wheel. Also she wrote : "I’ve been in love with people and ideas in several cities and learned that the lovers I’ve loved and the ideas I’ve embraced depended on where I was, how cold it was, and what I had to do to be able to stand it". Ain't that the truth.

(And Joan Didion, but to a lesser extent- she's just too serious, you can just tell her brow was furrowed the whole time she was clacking out those essays).

Those endless highways in LA that everyone complains about: I assume this is true. Re prior statement regarding driving. Despite being a bossy opinionated shrew, responsibility makes me break out in hives and I couldn’t handle being responsible for a car accident just because I zoned out… HOWEVER, the resulting air pollution and smog is kind of enticing, now that I quit smoking I need a new way to reduce my life-expectancy.

Plastic surgery: this is just a vain concern that I won’t be attractive by California standards (pretty sure won’t be hot in LA, but who knows, the kids keep dressing more and more androgynously). I’m European beautiful, not in that pedophilic white supremacist manosphere phenotype way- it’s just that when I go out with messy hair and no makeup, I get compared to Jane Birkin. Losing this will be a devastating blow to my inflated ego.

Serena Van Der Woodson (Blake Lively): yes I know she lives on the Upper East Side but Gossip Girl fucked up, that bitch was California personified.

Cigarettes: I refuse to buy into the idea that people are healthier in LA/Cali. I am 100% sure those green smoothies and $30 unseasoned-organic-super-food bowls are just a day-time performance to make them feel superior, and they smoke drunk cigarettes and do late night stoned drive-thru runs like the rest of us. Do not correct me if I'm wrong.

Brightly colored motels and dust: thank the aforementioned West Coast women who wrote those essays and stories that imprinted on me. Pretty sure these mythical motels have all been torn down by now. Actually, now that I think about it, I may be mixing this up with old postcards from Las Vegas and its alentours. Whatever, this is my imageboard.

The Beach Boys and Gidget: Culturally imposed associations I don't really care about. I care about beach culture- I was raised on free East Coast Surf magazines from the beach side burrito place and sat through countless surf documentaries (read clip after clip of fire waves) to get free weed from the guys who spent their summers life-guarding (it's a verb in Florida). But I heard the water is unpleasantly cold over there and I abhor discomfort.

Ozempic: no reason, it's just something everyone is talking about. I guess I get it, personally I don't have the self control for an eating disorder either and I'm don't particularly dream of longevity. (Have you read the news? Don't.).

Fake palm trees and flamingos: kitsch and camp. Nowhere feels campier. This association is probably related to the grainy photos and film stills I reblogged when I was 16.

Failed musicians: there's still something kind of sexy about shooting your shot over there. Trying to make it in NYC feels more try-hard pretentious. NYC transplants were the smartest or most talented in high school. LA transplants were just pretty people who skipped school to go to the beach and collected tardy-slips like trading cards. I won't expand further.

Dead musicians: you know who I mean.

1970s musicians: this overlaps with the two prior categories but conjures up supplementary images of the Strip back in the day and those cool bars where rock musicians in their late 20s picked up bra-less teenage girls. Oh, and lots of leather pants.

Photos of Jean Harlow wearing a big hat, lounging next to a swimming pool: self-explanatory.

Cocaine: this one should also be self-explanatory.

I have this image stuck in my mind of myself driving a big old bruiser-cruiser, ashing my cigarette in the dusty wind blowing through the windows, skinny tanned arms, bare feet and Freedom. Probably bullshit, but I can't stop thinking about it. Let’s see where the next mental break takes me. And for fucks sake, please let me enjoy cigarettes again. I deserve something.