HItting LA.
Nobody told Christopher Klimovski that you can’t love Los Angeles without a car. Thankfully, a bunch of Canadians drove him to distraction.
FUCKING LOS ANGELES. A city of nearly four million morning people. Everyone is so vibrant, f it, tan and proactive it unsettles me. I suppose my mild distaste sprouts from the many things I simply don’t understand about the city. For example, the layout. I’m on Fairfax Avenue, which has a high concentration of streetwear shops followed by kilometres of rundown businesses, a wig emporium, a boutique café, an abandoned parking lot and then just copy and paste this and repeat until the city limits. Their healthy fusions have transcended tasting terrible to tasting like absolutely nothing. “Yes, Sophia, I’ve tried the kale and lemon infused quinoa salad and it’s terrible,” is something I have to repeat more often than you’d expect.
The t hing t hat bothers me most about LA is t hat it’s simply unavoidable. All f lights leading to JFK must stop over at LAX and, time and time again, I would convince myself to spend a week in transition because this time it will be dif ferent. I forget t hat I have to walk 45 minutes to brunch. I wanted to catch a movie and t he closest cinema was a onehour-forty-f ive minute walk away, which I did because f ucked if I’m catching t he bus. The last time I caught a bus in LA a homeless man sneezed into my eyes. That wasn’t a general sneeze within my eye vicinity, he had nearly pressed his lips up to my eyes and sneezed with t he force of a hurricane. I was convinced I would go blind.
On this visit, I was staying at a cool little gayfriendly hostel in West Hollywood where, after overhearing my fellow bunkmates converse about how the pear is an under-appreciated fruit, I came to the conclusion that I had indeed made a mistake giving LA another shot.
The staff at the hostel were volunteers and were just as new to the area. I made sure to hang out with them. They had all made their own Common Mortal compadres, helping them to live frugally by offering freebies where allowed. I became Sheriff of Moochville, offering humorous travelling encounters for a free drink here and there. Despite being shown the lay of the land, there seemed to be a void. I just needed someone who could make me laugh and who could handle a beer or ten. Enter, stage left, the Canadians.
I had returned from lunch at a café where they charge $14 for a baguette with butter and rocket. Shoes off and dejectedly slung over my shoulder, I wandered into the smoking section to puff my life away and drink my Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy. I took a sip of the beer foam and surveyed the new group scattered among the chairs and tables, feverishly scribbling in journals. I was cautious in my approach, as I didn’t care to discuss neglected fruit. I sat at the furthest table and lit my cigarette. “Keeping a journal, then?” I asked the dark-headed Canadian, Sara. I was met with a smile and she explained they had made a pact to keep written documentation of their travels, however, partying had prevented them from updating it in over a week. Excellent. Light questions turned into lengthy answers. I discovered they were a group of Canadians (five in total) travelling the USA in a van, visiting major tourist attractions and the small niceties overlooked by many tourists. The conversation prompted the closing of journals as they were as curious to hear about my move to NYC as I was to hear about their escapades.
Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boys replaced the journals and we drank, laughed and discussed both the important and the inane. I had never come across a group of people so welcoming, kind and polite yet crass. It was just the combination I was looking for in friends who knew as much about this city as me. For the first time ever on the west coast, I tilted my chair ever so slightly and let the sun and
Yes, Sophia, I’ve tried the kale and lemon infused quinoa salad and it’s terrible.
conversation wash over me.
I was told by a DJ I had crossed paths with earlier that day that if I were able to bring “at least five homies” to his set that night, I would be gifted free entry and drink tickets: Common Mortal-dom on the left coast. The nightclub was in downtown LA. “What sort of place is it?” asked Evan. I tried, as I do, to dress up the club and to downplay its gay theme, not knowing what reaction it would illicit from these people I had just met. I told him it was known as A Club Called Rhonda.
“So, a gay night?” he prompted. “Sounds awesome. I’m down, what about you guys?’ Each of the Canadians, despite their f lagrant heterosexuality, welcomed the idea in such a warm and excited way. I couldn’t be happier. That is, until Evan threw in, “Let me just go back to our room and roll a few spliffs before we even think about heading off.” The conversation turned from drunken anticipation, to slightly off topic due to the circulating medicinal strength weed. We were discussing colour, the purpose of its existence, how orange seemed aggressive and… what if my orange is your green? It’s hard to explain sheer nonsense, but I was loving every minute.
We hailed a cab big enough to fit all of us, ignoring the maximum capacity and offering a karaoke-style sing-along for the driver’s (detriment) entertainment. The cabbie was a Ukrainian/Jewish mix who maintained a conversation with Thom, a Canadian Jew.
We got to the club a little lighter in the wallet and, unfazed, headed straight for the bar. We bought shots and chasers and, standing there, figured we should repeat the process immediately. As we brought the glasses together, Sara yelled, “Hail, Satan!” which each Canadian repeated in unison. I would ask at later points in the night whether they were, in fact, Satanists and the only answer I received that wasn’t slurred beyond comprehension was simply, “Because… hail, Satan dude.”
We danced, drank and I felt pimp. I had found a successful night out in a city that usually harbours disappointment (in my experiences). I was vibing with this girl dressed in sports luxe who swung her braids like Solange Knowles. I think I said something to that effect but the shots had moved from tequila to vodka so there’s a good chance that I was no longer speaking English. We all ended up outside, spotting straight gals to get the straight Canadian boys laid. The Canadian girls lit another spiff in the corner of the smokers’ area and laid on their accents extra thick when the bouncer told them to put it out. What charmers those girls were.
It became apparent on the dance f loor that the combination of all we had consumed was becoming a dangerous, volatile mix. The Canadians were keen to head home as they were driving out of LA the following day and in the drunken cab ride we offered each other superf luous compliments and promises to stay in touch. They had all decided that at some point over the coming months, they would make the journey from Toronto to NYC and we would repeat the shenanigans of that night, but on the east coast. Chapter two, if you will.
As the drive continued, everybody grew silent. I rolled down my window and half hung my head out, welcoming the breeze of the LA air wiping the cold sweat on my forehead. I opened my eyes and watched the abandoned car lots interplayed with the misplaced shops and smiled. It didn’t seem as frustrating to me anymore and I realised LA is a city that is made by the people you’re there with. I asked the cab driver if it were okay to smoke a cigarette in the back of his cab and took his mumbled response as a yes. As I lit up, I looked at the Canadians who made my time in LA special, something nobody had ever been able to do before. And it is because of them that tonight, I will hail Satan.
More: Find the author on Twitter @KhrisWarhol.