To Live and Die in LA

I love and hate this town. Love it for all it has to offer, hate it because it has no city soul. No heart of the city. A town of drivers, hustling to whatever hot spot is on the radar. Aside from Santa Monica (which I love with reckless abandon), it is not a pedestrian town.

I have been here for a few hours and still haven't had an In and Out Burger. Criminal, that. I am here on business, but I am going to see the sister and niece. I am staying one block away from MGM (where the sister works), so the niece is going to spend the day at the hotel pool tomorrow while I am at, what are surely going to be, utterly useless meetings.

I had so much to say and have run out of steam. I had this whole train of thought about how good writers make it look easy. A few days ago, I attempted to review food, books and movies. They were terrible reviews - utterly devoid of substance. I read these types of reviews all the time and never really gave much thought to the creativity and skill necessary for writing such critiques. Even 'technical' writing such as restaurant reviews require a level of talent and skill that is often lost on the reader. Sometimes, probably more often than we realize, good writing is taken for granted.

I had a lot of thoughts about Owen Wilson, too. Suicide is one of those polarizing topics, where, again, probably more often than not, the folks that least understand that kind of despair have the strongest and most rigid and judgmental opinions on the topic. I found myself avoiding most coverage and discussion of it, as it positively pains me that his despair and problems are fodder for websites that I enjoy reading. Seeing comments calling him a coward and a pussy and worse? Makes me fucking hate humanity.

I don't think that I have entertained serious thoughts of suicide, but that is not to say that in very desperate hours, it has not creeped through my mind. To imagine if those desperate hours and thoughts were the subject of post quotas (and social fucking misfits needing to talk to someone - anyone) on the internet? Fuck, that pains me terribly. I have no judgment for Owen Wilson, just sympathy and well wishes, and something approximating hate for those who would, for a split second, claim to have any fucking understanding of his demons. I hope each and everyone of those holier than thou internet tough guys will one day find their inner most thoughts and problems the subject of public debate. Social skills. Go learn them. Get off your fucking computer, while you are at it. Your judgment is truly despicable. Miserable fucks.

Hell, I love a good trainwreck more than most. Britney sans pants and shaving her head? Initially comical, now kind of scary. Lindsey claiming those weren't her pants? Kind of ditto, but still mostly funny. I realize the hypocrisy here - those girls are probably one bad night away from considering the ultimate curtain call, and that reality is sobering (pun intended). I think I have approached media saturation when it comes to sensationalizing the emotional and mental breakdowns of folks I don't know and, in many cases, don't really care about or admire. I am burned out about knowing too much about these folks, especially where they themselves have courted media attention, and mostly, I am pigged out that there are hosts of "magazine" television shows devoted to this trip, while meanwhile, there are articles such as this, which are widely praised by the choir to which it preached, but should be fucking reported on every hour on the hour as the lede before the latest "Lindsey fucked this guy in rehab and all she got was a t-shirt" stories. Unfortunately, the attention span of the contemporary media consumer is fucking pathetic and even the most educated of us have been conditioned to sound bites.

Fuck, LA has this effect on me.