After nearly one and a half years as an LA resident, not a day goes by that I’m not blindsided and bewildered by this hypnotically large, chronically exhausting super-city.
Just as I have from Day 1, I still vacillate between enjoying LA and outright detesting it. What at first manifested in me as unbridled excitement has eroded into irritation. Where I once found fascination, I now find boredom.
But something comically excessive or altogether beautiful will smack me in the face and suddenly I feel it: a cool gust of breeze in my hair, the sun’s warmth on my face, and I’m on top of the world, master of my own destiny.
And then I see a man with a tallboy of Coors peeing into a garden, screaming, “Man, my dick hurts!” and the cycle renews.
Downtown LA, despite its dog shit reputation, remains my favorite neighborhood in the city. It’s not infinitely walkable like London, or affordable like Philadelphia. But in a city where cocktails by the beach cost a full hour’s minimum wage, and dirty highways are curbed by exploding hand sanitizer, I appreciate the freedom to adventure this grimy high-rise fiefdom by foot.
At its heart, DTLA comprises 12 square blocks of fun. When you’ve exhausted that finite radius, things get very bleak, very fast.
Walk too far north, a freeway stops you. Walk too far east, Skid Row envelops the streets. Too far south or west, and overpasses undermine you and the golden street lamps are replaced by the dancing shadows of literal dumpster fires.
Outside our little neighborhood, plenty of activities abound, but when it comes to the hours of standstill traffic that preclude them, I quote from the Irish parable: “I can’t be fucked.”
On date night, Los Angeles challenges us with the same old dilemma: visit the same three bars, five chain restaurants, and the park that closes at sunset in Downtown? Or brave a $60 Uber, hours of traffic, and eye-popping prices to explore this new city?
On NFL Sundays, Santa Monica’s Eagles Nest West taunts me on Instagram, but it’s 50 minutes to drive the 15 miles to drink amongst fellow birds fans. Our favorite coffee-and-hiking spot, Elysian Park, is only 13 minutes north by car, but if a Dodgers game is scheduled within the next millennium, insurmountable gridlock spreads down Chavez Ravine like a cough at daycare.
Faced with so many barriers to entry, it’s no wonder why we’ve taken to playing drinking games to bad Hallmark movies at home, hanging out with the cat, and gazing at the lights of the neighboring apartments as though they were stars.
With that said, Maddee and I recently enjoyed a rare successful evening-out which left me feeling slightly more optimistic about life in this colossal metropolis.
We caught Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window on 35mm at Downtown LA’s own Million Dollar Theater. A 1917 historic landmark generally closed to the public, it was opened for our amusement by a vigilante cinema group called the Secret Movie Club.
Most of the theaters downtown have fallen into disarray. Box offices sit chained shut beneath stained baroque masonry. Vintage marquees hang wordless, silenced by decades of neglect. To see a classic film from the Golden Age of Hollywood in one of LA’s first-ever movie palaces, a half-abandoned chapel of cinema, was equal parts entertaining and surreal.
History in LA is a funny subject. Southern California landmarks give me a feeling akin to what Europeans must feel upon stepping foot in Philadelphia’s Independence Hall.
“1753? That’s when my house was built.”
Likewise, seeing buildings from the early 1900s certified as historic makes me laugh. Philly’s Academy of Music, which opened its doors when Abraham Lincoln was still a prairie lawyer, could’ve cashed social security checks by the time LA’s theaters showed their first silent pictures (if only social security existed back then).
But history is relative, and part of the charm of the Million Dollar Theater was its half-abandonment. If, like the Academy of Music, it had operated seamlessly with only minor modern accoutrements, some of the history might’ve been lost on me.
Instead, the cracked linoleum tile, the weathered walls, and the singing springs of the cherry-red leather seats breathed vintage life into this monument to yester-century. And if the scenery didn’t set that stage, the rat that emerged sprinting between the aisles certainly helped.
The projector whirred audibly from the balcony above, flittering an image that bubbled and sparked — little timestamps like the many rings within an ancient tree. When the machine paused for a breather, Craig, the Secret Movie Club president, shared a friendly reminder before the projector coughed back to life.
“This building is from 1917, folks. Our projectionist is working extra hard tonight.”
Prior to the film, Craig took the stage in an oversized suit and thick-rimmed Garth glasses to address his hoard of hobbyists. He thanked those in the audience he recognized for catching other showings in their Hitchcock series, including a little old lady in a maroon coat who he praised for perfect attendance. Then he shared, like a lecturer hitting his stride, all manner of trivia about Hitchcock, the film, and the theater itself.
On our walk home that night, Maddee and I would be forced to snake through shivering queues of clubbers, dodging the screaming sports cars and snoring masses huddled beneath shuttered storefronts — stark reminders of the vices and unpleasantries of this City of Angels.
But for those golden hours beneath a shimmering silver screen, nestled in the cozy nooks of history, we were reminded of the other LA. The LA we imagined when we moved here. One universe within the spiraling, intertwined multitude of a city so young as to boast an “ancient palace” dated 1917.
Hearing the “oos” and “ahs” of diehard cinephiles while Craig spat facts from memory, I recognized myself to be within the rank of battle-tested film nerds. A warm euphoria passed through my veins. It was reassurance that, yes, genuine people do exist in a place like this. There is still fun to be found between its freeway gridlock, its Instagram influencers, and its bloodthirsty cover charges.
“Is anyone else here an LA native?” Craig asked, and nearly every hand in the theater went up. As I sat, squished into the leather with both hands sheathed beneath my coat, the realization hit me like a bag of 1917 bricks.
For all my bitching and moaning, a city is not defined by its soaring prices or its crumbling infrastructure, but by the many residents who call it home.
Right when I thought things couldn’t get better, Craig announced that we could go next door to the Grand Central Market and bring drinks in. I didn’t hear another word spoken before I leapt from my screeching seat and sprinted outside to grab us draft IPAs.
Finding myself locked out upon returning, a club member had to ditch the concession and let me back in. As he unlocked the theater door, beckoning me off that cold, grimy street, I feared retaliation.
Instead, he took one glance at my beers and grinned.
“Ohhh, yeah,” he said. “Beer was definitely the move.”
And just like that, I was part of the club.
Shouts out to…
Glove’s vet, for the hysterectomy.
The Chipotle call center, who gave me a free burrito.
Long Jawns winter lager, for keeping me warm this Thanksgiving.