My lucky family and I just spent the last week up in the mountains with some amazingly awesome friends and boy, oh girl! Nothing like a little bourbon and a few breaths of fresh air to make me realize that I have been living in the crusty carb of a dirty Graphix bong for the past nineteen years. Driving home from the beautiful, snow-covered peaks of Mammoth Mountain and twisting down into the Los Angeles basin was like diving headfirst into a clogged Arco Station toilet bowl without a swim cap or a prayer.
As the mountain views disappeared behind us and the temperatures sky-rocketed from the heavenly 70’s to the brutal three-digits of Hades at Christmas, the trees along the highway changed from a luscious, vibrant, erect green to a limp, sweaty, angry brown. It was as if the palms trees had given up all hope of that white sand, postcard existence they had been promised and decided to take up smoking unfiltered Pall Malls packed with recycled soot to help pass their filthy time away.
Los Angeles is often the victim of my unending ridicule, the morning-after hair to my one-night stand and the too-toned Elliptical butt of my off-colored jokes. I often complain about living in a place where a small, two-bedroom house resembling a soggy, discarded refrigerator box costs over a million dollars and every asshole that farts drives a leased, black Range Rover that runs on MTV catchphrases and Twitter bombs. More than once I have commented that the local locals and their local air are as thick and unappealing as a German Chocolate cake left on the hood of a car after a summer knife fight.
But after all the guffaws and all the giggling I am still standing in L.A. proper after many years of one-sided traffic jokes and C-list snickering, doing my biting best to give L.A. a horrendously hard time as I punch her in her freeway underpass and take her Prada wallet.
No one held an unlicensed gun to my head and made me stay and inhale brown breezes all these many moons. No one forced me to stand still and cough up smoggy bits of melted dreams and crinkled fame while trying my hardest to love the spray-tanned, crystal-encrusted, tramp-stamped dirty girl Los Angeles has become since enveloping me in her wedding-ready arms all those years ago.
So, I suppose La La and I are officially still an item but that doesn’t change the fact that it is extremely difficult to make this lopsided relationship work after a five-day fantasy tryst with a set of all natural, magnificently mammalian, perfectly proportioned, pointy-peaked mountains instead of the misshapen silicone sisters I call my local canyons.
Fake ones may look good to some but baby, I love me some real melons. And Mammoth? You are all cantaloupe, all the time.