Dont Mince Words

You know you are leaving Los Angeles when you can comfortably throw out your Thomas Guide, the non-GPS bible to getting around.  I knew I was leaving when the fire trucks arrived.

Your layoff lady of leisure is discontinuing her 61-week underemployment lifestyle.  My nationwide job search finds me relocating to Santa Barbara, California for a marketing position with a consumer electronics company. My seven years and a couple odd months in Los Angeles has been plagued with the usual California cliches:  low-speed chases in the neighborhood, workplace drug deals, and who-do-you-know business card trading.  Between the odd work experiences and the tragic dating scene, I would of smoked a 45cal if it weren’t for my friends.

Those same friends turned out to wish me well with martinis at Lola’s on a record-breaking 112-degree day in West Hollywood.  We were enjoying the nice central air when the electricity went out.  We assumed the production company in the back bar blew a circuit while filming.  We continued to drink by candlelight only to discover that the transformer behind the restaurant blew and was on fire.  In typical LA-fashion, we ignored the drama and continued to drink until we were asked to leave an hour later.

That’s the sum total metaphor of my Los Angeles experience:  with shit swirling everywhere, I chose to focus on my career and my love life.  I got no where.

It is time to evacuate.

As you get older, sometimes you change.  I’m shocked that some of my friends have become republicans or born again.  I’m happy to report that, other than my sagging boobs, I haven’t changed.

One of my unemployment projects has been ensuring all of my CDs have been ripped and added to iTunes.  Yes, even Morrissey.  The media was then going to be donated to my college radio station for a write off.

While I was going through my notebooks of CDs, I ran across some of my DJ days that my ex-boyfriend had digitized from very old 90-minute TDK cassette tapes.  I had a two-hour show at my school as well as at an all-boys college down the street that craved female talent.

I had fun listening and realized, with the exception of a few one-hit wonders, I had incredible indie/alternative musical taste, a bit of a sense of humor, and a slight accent.  Now, as I continue to listen to The Cult, Siouxsie & the Banshees, and Concrete Blonde, I can smile and know I was on to something and ahead of my time.

I shipped my notebooks back to school in a wine box sealed with Warhol-ized Jesus tape.  “I can’t wait to see what you have,” said the music director in an email.  Hopefully, he’ll see I have eclectic musical tastes and a warped sense of humor.

As of today, I’ve lived in Los Angeles seven years.  It’s not really something to celebrate more than mark the time in awe.  It has flown and yet it has stood still.  I spent the afternoon with a New Yorker that relocated three years ago.  She’s still adjusting, but mocks the place just like I do.  It’s can’t-put-your-finger-on-it weird here.  After a bottle of wine, we concluded we liked the weather.

Dating is still hard.  Finding work is harder.  I’ve got the seven-year itch.