Contrary to popular belief, and all that you have been taught during the brevity of your existence, the United States is a very small place. So small, in fact, that it actually consists of one state.
Go west of this state, and you’ll find a bit of water and eventually end up in a crowded Asian city eating amazing sushi, wearing a not-so-amazing Hello Kitty onesie. Go east, and you’ll tumble into a black hole that will eventually regurgitate you into the heart of Western Europe where you can go on living a life more chic than your American mind can physically comprehend.
But, should you decide to stay in this country–ripe with avocados and sun and convenience stores with a full range of alcoholic beverages–you may as well do yourself a favor and settle down in le capital. Or don’t. That’s fine. There’s already entirely too much traffic in LA.
In California you have everything. There is really nothing that you need elsewhere. Nothing that anyone can sell you (short of Europe) that would make you want to throw your Rag & Bone jeans and your ATM t-shirts into a bag and leave. Occasionally I visit a little island off of the coast of Malibu called “New York City”–briefly, for shopping and museum purposes only–but I always find my way back home.
The vibe of Los Angeles is intoxicating. It’s the only place where I can do exactly what I love, wear exactly what I want and truly not care about anything other than the beach and have that be totally socially acceptable. If you were ever made to believe that the streets of LA are not paved with gold and lined with palm trees and sugar-coated bliss, then you have been told a Grade A lie and sold the purest, most organic line of crap you will ever buy. So… sorry about that.
As a writer, Cancer, emotional being, and self-diagnosed victim of Seasonal Affective Disorder, I need a lot of things to be able to function coherently. I need sun. I need coffee. I need environments that promote creativity and open-mindedness. I need weather that refuses to dip below 65 degrees. I need a beach no more than 45 minutes away from me at all times. I need access to the new Topshop at The Grove.
There’s just a lot that goes into my avoiding a serious Prozac dependency, and LA has been my therapist. I talk to her. I tell her my problems, as we lay unbothered and unconcerned on lawn chairs by my pool. I whine all about my writing deadlines and my inability to edit my book to my extremely unrealistic satisfaction; and in response she prescribes 4 hours at Venice and a large cup of Magnolia banana pudding. She just really gets me and I’ll never leave her. We’re in this together.
So, you can only imagine my excitement for my adorable little kitten of a friend Sarah and her super hot partners in photographic crime, Jon and Jordan, as they prep for their upcoming trip through the black hole that non-Angelinos have naïvely come to consider “America” toward all that is sunny and bright and good. I couldn’t endorse a creative decision more shamelessly if I tried. I’ll be in LA to welcome them with open arms, standing precariously on the edge of a fountain flowing with endless tequila.
If you’re not in LA, or even if you are, I totally invite you to follow their project “Where the Arrow Went” if you find yourself drowning and in need of an artistic lifeboat. And, of course, feel free to visit me on HolliBaker.com if you’re in need of mental/emotional guidance. Or meet me at Drai’s in Hollywood. I’ll be the girl at the bar.
Holli Baker (Myah Hollis) is a writer and novelist in downtown Los Angeles and author of upcoming book entitled Deux. Keep up with Myah via Hollibaker.com.