First of all, I need to apologize for my ridiculously long absence. I've been in Los Angeles for the past couple of weeks, visiting friends and helping my dad switch apartments. I'll return to the real world shortly.
Being in Los Angeles has been a real trip. My dad lives here, so at least I have a free place to stay with HD and I'm not paying for food or anything. But other than that, LA is a fucking nightmare. I'm a huge Lost fan, so I kept praying for the ending to the pilot episode, but I still touched down at LAX. Six hours after I landed, I already wanted to go home.
I actually lived here for work for a few months a while ago, and it was during that time that I realized that the difference between New York City and LA is monumental. It's not just the weather, or the time change- it's the way people dress, think, speak, act. I walk everywhere, and people here think that's weird. Sixty degrees for me is t-shirt weather, and people in LA think that requires a parka and boots. At least three times a week I've gotten a comment on my Brooklyn accent, which I know is present, but actually isn't as pronounced as people here think.
|THIS is how it's done.|
Actually, all of that is pretty amusing. It's the people I've met that make me want to puke. Aside from the few friends that I have here, the name-dropping and celebrity-whoring is so rampant that I constantly have the urge to throw up. Guys are always coming up to me in their stupid sunglasses and telling me they can make me famous. I'm sick of hearing who these clowns know and what they do. Take note, Asshole: just because you filmed your little brother riding his tricycle through your backyard twenty years ago does not make you a producer. The fact that I've managed not to laugh in any of these idiots' faces makes me much more of an actor than any of them.
The girls are pretty horrible, too. I've managed to befriend the three of them with real jobs- probably because they're not from LA- but most of them are total morons that moved here to win an Oscar, and when that failed, they just wound up doing Oscar for ten dollars an hour.
The entire time that I lived here, I was completely miserable. My job was a dead-end that I knew would lead nowhere, and I have absolutely no interest in the bullshit parties and club scenes that I was being thrown into. My family and friends were 3,000 miles away, my jet lag was always up my ass, and the people I met only talked about themselves, celebrities, or themselves and celebrities. I was over it in about three days, but miraculously, I lasted another few months without totally losing my shit. My boss, who luckily knew that he couldn't provide me with any suitable work, told me I could do freelance projects back East and let me go home. I was packed in two hours.
The first thing my friends did to welcome me back to this planet was take me out for New York City pizza. Being a native New Yorker, I have incredibly high standards for pizza. All pies must meet a certain criteria:
A) Thin crust (none of this deep-dish bullshit- what the hell is that? Eat me, Chicago.)
B) A little heavy on the cheese, but not so much so that it constitutes the title of "extra cheese"
c) Extra drippy with the oil- you must look like The Joker after you eat it
No toppings, either. Pizza must always be eaten plain. Pepperoni is OK, because that's a classic, and so is extra sauce or cheese, because those are used as ingredients. But that's it.
Also, none of this pussy-ass dabbing the oil off the pizza, especially if you're a guy. You may hold the slice at an angle, so the oil drips off, but any guy that wipes the oil off must immediately be beaten, or forced to wear a dress.
Also, the sign of a real pizza place is one that only has pizza and heroes- no pasta. I love pasta, but if you want ziti, go to an Italian restaurant. If you want pizza, go to a pizza place. Don't do both in one setting. It's not kosher.
The greatest pizza (possibly the greatest food) you will ever experience in your life is the original Ray's Pizza on West 11th and 6th in Greenwich Village. Anyone who eats it will denounce all other pizzas. Trust me. (The other Rays, while also magically delicious, are just cheap imitations.)
What Los Angeles is sorely lacking is a good pizza joint. All of their pizza is treated as a fucking gourmet meal. There's always like, nine toppings on it, and they're always fucking weird and scary, like goat cheese or mangos or some shit. This is wrong, and should not be tolerated.
|Who came up with this bullshit? They should be shawshanked.|
So, now I've got an intense craving for New York City, and I've still got a couple of weeks left here. Honestly, I'd rather be on Shutter Island, so if anyone wants to send a ferry to bring me back home, please do so. Email me and I'll send you the address here.