I won't lie: part of me moved to Los Angeles because I have an illness: it's called "I-need-to-be-on-the-edge-ness-ingytis."
Apparently, there are innovators, early adapters, early majority, late majority, and boring/lazy people -- I mean "laggards" -- out there. Well, I try to hit that spot right between innovator and early adapter, and tell myself that I'd be a full-fledged innovator had I been born with a trust fund. If I have an addiction, it is for the new, the fresh, the original, the avant-garde, the revolutionary... the "cutting edge," as they say.
So I figure you can't go any closer to the edge than California. We're just one big earthquake away from falling OFF forgoodnessake.
But I'm starting to think the "edge" is disappearing. Well, maybe not disappearing altogether, but more... dissipating, scattering, dispersing. Of course I'm not speaking of a physical edge, but that progressive, mental, ideological edge that keeps humanity in motion. It's been widely accepted for a long time that the United States' coasts, and the cities of New York and Los Angeles in particular, set the stage for the future. But I'm just not buying it anymore.
Technology has blurred lines between the instigator and consumer to such a degree that it's nearly impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends. The internet, magazines, blogs, mega-coporations, MySpace, bookstore chains, email, and the ease of global travel have allowed for the instantaneous dissemination of not only information, but of passions, taste, and style. We export and import culture with the ease of a mouse click. We are rapidly becoming each other, and as our boundaries fade, progression glows from everywhere -- no longer relegated to the simplicity of geographical location.
You can plainly see it in music: where bands used to only be "from" major cities and markets, now we find that it doesn't really matter where one originates -- it only matters if you're good enough (and, probably, lucky enough). To an extent, the playing field has been leveled, in a profound, postmodern sense, and everyone is participating. You can also see it in universities, in churches, in coffeehouses...
Welcome to The New Edge: now playing everywhere.
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There are many things I love about LA. But some days, I fear for us. Some days, it seems like we are simply a haven for broken angels, where:
...love of art, fame, and money have become the same thing. I almost wonder if I can even separate them anymore.
...love of self has become paramount.
...love of networking has replaced love for people. All that matters is "What have you done for me?" "What could you do for me?" and, most importantly, "What have you done for me lately?" (as I simply cannot remember past the insecurities of my own last 24 hours).
...alone is the new together. Every individual must own a car and drive it everywhere. Alone. Going across the street? Drive. It is state law! You may own a cell phone and talk on it incessantly, but you may not have meaningful conversations. (That is also state law.)
...California is god. We will sacrifice every spare cent we make to live in a city that is almost exactly like every other city on the world, but with more traffic, and an unusually high concentration of businessartists. We will pay outlandish costs for taxes, milk, gas, rent, heat, water, and everyothergodforsakenthing you can buy, simply because our zip codes start with a "9."
...everything can be bought. Everything.
I think we best pray to God that, unlike fashions, mentalities do not spread from the left coast.
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Sometimes I hear people criticize a movie or a TV show for not being realistic. But the truth is, we don't really want realistic, do we? I mean, if we really wanted REAL real life, we'd set our lawn chairs outside the neighbors' house and watch them every night.
Hm.
No, I think want we really want are romanticized snapshots of what real life can be. We want those ideal moments when life is beautiful and good (or just more exciting). We want a glimpse out of the confines of our own lives, with our 40 hours of work and our 2 hour commute and our 5 minutes of bliss, into "that" -- that something else that is interesting and funny and magical and dramatic and adventurous.
Maybe what we're looking for is meaning. Maybe well-done TV shows and movies are just condensed, time-wise, to the point where it's easier to find purpose in them, and so we gladly lose ourselves for a couple hours for the fair trade of belonging. It does make sense, I suppose; our beautiful real life "moments" are often so spaced out, it's hard to connect the dots, to make stars into constellations.
Maybe we just want "friends," or for "everyone [to] love ME" (instead of just Raymond), or maybe we're even just looking for drama -- to live in "The OC" or to be a "Survivor" of something exciting.
Maybe filmmakers and TV writers are just packagers of purpose. If they're guilty of anything, perhaps it's creating some kind of thematic gravity that pulls us in and allows us to see life at its most simple and refined -- life that actually makes sense, most of the time.
Or maybe I'm a complete whack-a-doo who thinks too much.
I suppose it could be both.
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Ah, the car pool.
Now, I understand that "pool" has different meanings, but for me it just brings to mind an image of the old community swimming pool back home, lined with fading chipped baby-blue paint and car grills and headlights bobbing up through the water. The scaredy-cars are cowering near the edges, and a Honda Civic is doing a flip off the high-dive. If nothing else, it's entertaining.
I was driving this morning on a pretty major highway in Denver, going to meet a friend for breakfast. It's technically rush hour, and I hate traffic. I'm approaching a stretch of the highway with a car pool lane (See 'em swimming!? Ha! Cracks me up.), and I'm getting excited for the traffic to thin out, open up a bit -- you know, give me a little more elbow room, alleviate my claustro-roado-phobia. So I get to where the car pool lane starts and wait for all the cars to thankfully move the hell out of my lane.
But nobody moves.
It suddenly occurs to me that nobody is pooling. My next thought is, "Why would they?" I'm not, myself, currently, "pooling," and how many people do I know that actually would be able to go to work together? I start counting, and stop quickly because I can't think of anybody. Then I get sad, because the obvious implication is that every single person on the road in front of and behind me is alone in their car. I start wondering how much brighter their day would be if maybe they had a friend to ride with them on their way to work. Maybe home, too. I know I'd like it.
Being unemployed, I'm alone most all day, every day, at least during the day hours (because that's when everyone else works). I don't really like it, but what choice do I have? "None," I tell myself. And I'm not sure most of these people around me on the highway do, either.
But, you know, I bet our lives would seem a bit brighter if we could find a way to not be lonely.
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