LA Woman!

I've now been in LA for a full year. I'm not blonde (any more than before), or tan, or writing a screenplay. I've only spotted one celebrity, and that was last July. That's not counting Kevin Bacon's band, which I caught two minutes of while in the club for a different act -- he sucks.

Some stereotypes are perhaps true. I've watched the sun set over the Pacific, listened to hippies and homeless drumming on Venice Beach, and seen dolphins leaping out of the water off the coast of Malibu.

Then again, I spend the third Thursday of every month in a homebrew supply store's parking lot drinking homebrewed beer from quarter kegs, unlabeled bottles, and the occasional repurposed 7-Up 2-liter.

I've danced in a kitchen in Hollywood, eaten midnight chicken dinner at LA's oldest (best?) blues bar, sang a karaoke version of "Lady Marmalade" with half a dozen drunk female scientists, and visited one of the only bars in California where people still smoke.

I've met people who've never seen snow.

I've downed a wonderfully authentic $1 cow tongue taco, and a wonderfully inauthentic $1.39 hamburger-and-American-cheese taco. I've eaten fried chicken and syrupy waffles on the same plate. It turns out there's a Filipino cafeteria in my neighborhood, and the first noodles I tried in Koreatown made me cry. I've gone out of my way for a burrito from the University of Southern California's part of South Central. But I have not yet had a burrito in East LA or Chinese food in Monterey Park, let alone Hawaiian grub in Gardena or a single plate of Indian food anywhere.

I've passed canapes to television executives and taught a 6th grader the alphabet.

I've given a eulogy at NASA's Jet Propulsion Lab, wearing an angry red clip-on visitors pass that said, "Escort Required."

I've been a "hair model" at Vidal Sassoon in Beverly Hills, which entailed a 3-hour haircut from a hesitant student while listening to horrible 80s music.

I have, much to my surprise, made some kickass friends.

I've finally seen the Watts Towers, the multi-story folk art monstrosities built over three decades by a 4'10'' Italian lunatic. But I haven't been to the La Brea Tar Pits, the Getty, or any museum, really, let alone the really weird ones.

I've scrambled up rocks at Joshua Tree, up sand dunes, and around a dead volcano, but have yet to properly explore the woods, canyons, and mountains within an hour of my door.

I haven't even been to all the microbreweries yet.

So, I'm not bored, and I'm not done. And, though it looked for a few months like I might be, I'm not defeated.

God help me, I love LA.

One year down, four or five to go. Bring it.