Why You’d Want to Live Here

Everyone has an opinion on California. The red states hate us because we have the most electoral votes and apparently we’re all granola-eating, vegan hippies who smoke pot.

The longest I’ve been vegan is two months.

But those same red-state dwellers? They love coming here on vacation. So, do they hate us because they ain’t us?

Possibly.

I have my own opinions on California—being a native of this seismic activity–plagued paradise.

There are three universes within the Golden State: San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego.
San Fran is crunchy and granola. Los Angeles has god-awful traffic and everyone there has an ego. San Diego has just the right mix of chill vibes, hustle, and superficiality.

What about the O.C.? That’s just L.A. junior.

We’re all in the same state, but we couldn’t be more different—except when it comes to the shared homelessness epidemic.

But for all the love I have for California, I’ll let Death Cab for Cutie explain how I really feel about the City of Angels… by way of a surprise opportunity that once landed in my lap.

Alexa, play “Why You’d Want to Live Here” by Death Cab for Cutie…

“And I can’t see why you’d want to live here.
Billboards reach past the tallest buildings.
We are not perfect but we sure do try.
As UV rays degradate our youth with time.”

I always feel out of place in L.A.—too laid back, too normal. But nothing made me feel more out of place than the day I drove to Burbank for a test shoot with Playboy.

Yes. That Playboy.
It’s always a shock to people because I don’t exactly fit the mold of a traditional Playboy Bunny. But yes, it happened.

Let’s start with the fact that no one in my life was thrilled about it.
My mom thought I was doing some sort of casting-couch porn thing.
My stepdad couldn’t fathom me being naked on camera.
And my boyfriend at the time?
“Meh. I’m stoned. Whatever.”

I was the only one thinking: “Hey, this could lead to other things. And if not? At least it’ll be a good story someday.”

Everyone else be damned—I drove my ass up to Burbank, sweating through 4.5 hours of summer traffic in a Jeep with no air conditioning. (Thanks to my ex-boyfriend’s broken-down Jeep and my own cursed VW Beetle, which I ditched a year later, thankfully.)

“And it’s a lovely summer’s day.
I can almost see a skyline through the thickening shroud of egos.
Is this the city of angels or demons?”

By the time I got there, I was flustered. My curls were too tight from hot rollers I left in too long. My makeup was melting from the heat. The poor security guy escorting me had to wait while I tried to freshen up and pretend like I didn’t just lose my dignity in bumper-to-bumper on the 405.

Then I saw the other two girls in the lounge, taking selfies on iPads for our model profiles.
I’m a 32D—not small, but not the cartoon version of Playboy either.
These girls? Bigger boobs. Blonder. Younger.

One was 19.
She asked me and the other girl, “Are you doing nude?”
I said, “Well, it is Playboy. I kind of expected some nudity involved. But I brought a bikini and lingerie in case they want those shots too.”

The other girl chimed in, “Um, I didn’t shave. So, no.”

It occurred to me that maybe they were too young to have ever accidentally stumbled across their dad’s Playboy stash. My friend’s dad growing up had them in the bathroom—for “reading” purposes, I’m sure. The lotion on the counter? Just in case your hands got dry.

Anyway… I had prepared my body for this moment—working out twice a day leading up to it.
But I was not prepared for how awkward it is to talk about yourself naked while being videotaped.

It’s all a blur now, but I think I babbled about loving football and how that made me a cool girlfriend. I probably said something about protesting that summer or being politically active. Whatever I said, it definitely came out shaky—because I was also trying not to fall in my 6-inch heels while doing the model spin.

Like…why should you expect me to walk and chew bubblegum at the same time?

“The vessel keeps pumping us through this entropic place.
In the belly of the beast that is Californ-I-A…”

After it was all over and I was getting dressed, my stepdad calls to give me his blessing.
Oh, NOW you’re cool with it?
After all the shaming and guilt?

I guess one of his friends helped him see that it might lead to other opportunities. He had a late “Come to Jesus” moment.

Needless to say… I didn’t get picked.

But I thought about all the hopefuls who come to L.A. with a one-way ticket or a Greyhound pass, trying to “make it” in a city built on outward appearances and polished façades.

I thought about how just a few hours in L.A. messed with my already fragile self-image.

“And I can’t see why you’d want to live here.
Billboards reach past the tallest buildings.
You can't swim in a town this shallow,
As you will most assuredly drown tomorrow…”

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Overlooking the 405 from the Getty Center. Photo by yours truly