Mar 08, 2014 09:28
I love Los Angeles. I have lived in LA for most of my life, and it wasn’t until I left for a few years that I realized how much civic pride I possess. There’s so much that’s wonderful about Los Angeles, and at its core, it really is a place where dreams are made manifest. Nightmares, too, as Kenneth Anger would point out, but that’s par for the course when one of your city’s primary exports is fantasy. The Los Angeles that I live in is a multicultural Elysium filled with amazing art, good food, decent theater, and lovely weather, and most importantly, some of the kindest, smartest, sweetest, and most talented people in the whole goddamn world.
I realize, though, that the LA I live in is just a tiny microcosm of a gargantuan metropolis, and once in a while, I’m reminded of why everyone else in the country thinks we’re assholes.
Last night, I attended a press screening for a film. We’re in talks to develop a scent line dedicated to the film, and the director was kind enough to get me into an early screening so I could take notes for the project. The screening room was small - fifty seats, I think? - and I was the first person to arrive. (Half an hour early. What a kook. Model pupil, that’s me.) I was handed a press kit when I checked in, and I made my way to a nice center seat whereupon I made myself comfortable and started reading through the press info. Other people filtered in slowly. The first two were journalists, and I listened to them make small talk with each other for a bit. It was odd: they were asking each other small talky questions, and it was evident that neither of them actually cared about the answers that the other one offered. Surreal.
People trickled in over the next half hour, but the theater never really filled up. A man comes in, and chats up a woman that was a seat away from me. I guess she had been holding a place for him. He was a little obnoxious from the start; there’s a peculiar affectation that I’m pretty sure is indigenous to both Los Angeles and NYC that just screams I Might Be Someone, But Even if I’m Not, I Want You to Know I Think I Am Very Important and Connected. It’s an odd sort of swagger. He turns to me, and, in a way that could have been taken as either smarmy or friendly, “Hi, I’m [redacted]. I’m your new movie buddy.”
I generally default to believing that people are being friendly, so I say, “Nice to meet you. I’m Beth.”
Then he laughs, looks at his ladyfriend, then looks back at me and says, “I’m just joking. I don’t even know who you are.”
So I say, “That’s ok. I’ve forgotten your name already.”
He announces to ladyfriend that he’s going to go off and “look for a nosh” before the film starts, and after he leaves, she awkwardly compliments me on my pedicure, presumably by way of apology. Once he gets back, I endure ten minutes of listening to name dropping, braggity bragging, and bloviating about parties he’s attended recently. As the lights dim, he says to no one in particular - with no self-awareness or irony whatsoever - “Dazzle me.”
I completely understand why the world thinks we’re assholes.