“Better.”
It’s a word we use often, but what does it mean?
I spent the last week in L.A. and Santa Monica, marking the first time in 26 years I’ve been to California. My first day there, a rumor spread throughout the hotel that Britney Spears—yes, the Britney Spears—was seen downstairs in the gym, using a treadmill, listening to an iPod. I guess this sort of thing is common when you’re visiting so close to Hollywood. Still, I wasn’t that interested in meeting her (which I didn’t). I mean, what was I going to do—make out with her? Tell her how much I, like, totally love her songs? No. If I was going to meet people in California, I wanted to meet people people—people who still had their original body parts. I wanted to see real live Californians. I wanted to see how they live. And while it turns out I didn’t have nearly enough time to do that (sad emoticon), I saw enough to at least walk away with a general impression of what California is all about.
Three things stick out in my mind.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped off the plane was that I was able to make it out of LAX airport without magically becoming an outspoken gay marriage advocate or proponent of socialized healthcare. This went against everything I’d ever heard about that bastion of liberalism, the Left Coast. Whereas I expected a warm, political climate in California, it turns out the folks there are just like the folks back east: They have opinions, all right, but they have to open their mouths to voice them. You know, like human beings. Their values don’t hang overhead. That cloud you see? Yeah, it’s just smog.
A second thing I noticed was that Californians have thin skin. Literally. It wasn’t a particularly warm week for the greater Los Angeles area. In fact, it was quite rainy and, I’m told, unusually cold. So one night, when I was getting ready for dinner, I decided to walk outside and check the weather. I saw a valet with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched over, coat zipped up to his mouth. “Excuse me,” I said. “Do you think I’ll need a jacket tonight?”
He gave a friendly laugh. “Yeah, it’s pretty cold,” he told me. “It’s supposed to go down to 55.”
55.
“Are you serious?” I said. “Where I come from, last week it was 9.”
He just stood there. Quiet. As if the thought alone caused a short bout of brain freeze. Poor soul.
I ended up bringing a sweatshirt to dinner—“just in case”—but I carried it on my arm. California wasn’t as warm as I had hoped for, but, for me, it was still short sleeve weather. Some people I passed on the street that evening wore knitted caps and scarves.
The third and final thing I noticed were the homeless. I saw quite a few homeless folks in California. Mostly in Santa Monica. It was sort of a shock. Why? Well, to be honest: Most of ‘em didn’t look homeless. This is much different than what I’m used to seeing in New York City. There, the homeless wear multiple layers of dark, tattered clothing. They carry giant trash bags. And they say things like, “Ignore me? I’ll ignore you,” as you pass them by. These people represent the depths of human destitution. In Santa Monica? Not so much.
I encountered one woman, for instance, who stood on a corner, rattling a cup, asking for change with all the desperation of Brad Pitt in an all-girls college. (FYI: I wrote that line before Pitt announced his split with Jennifer Aniston. Sorry if it lacks pizzazz now.) This woman, who I will call “Linda,” because she looked like a “Linda,” claimed to be homeless yet was well groomed, wore white sneaks, and sported a Mickey Mouse jean jacket. Now, I’m told the homeless in these parts look healthier—indeed, less homeless (if you can call it that)—because Californians care more, or take better care of them, or something. That may be. And if that’s what you say, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But from this outsider’s perspective, Linda seemed about as hungry as I am at the moment. And I’m not hungry at all. I just ate. So in other words, it was hard to believe she was homeless—and, in turn, it was hard to believe homelessness even existed in California.
But, in this way, she serves as a metaphor.
Linda was the first homeless person I saw in Santa Monica. Before long, I passed a few others just like her. At that point, I’d seen enough to make me believe California’s homeless aren’t as destitute as, say, New York’s. A day after crossing Linda’s path, however, I saw a homeless guy near the Staples Center—where the Lakers played, when they still had players—and far from combed hair and clean clothes, he was filling a jug in a fountain outside a building. This made me rethink what I thought about Linda. Maybe she didn’t look like a Linda after all. Maybe she looked like a Carla, or a Theresa. And maybe looks are deceiving. Maybe she really was a citizen of the streets.
I liked what I saw of California. But I certainly didn’t see all of it. I didn’t even see the two places I’d like to see most (San Diego and San Francisco). What I saw, though, was enough to know it’s impossible to know what California, or any place, is “all about.”
Once upon a time, when I leaned a bit Right, and still thought “Left” and “Right” meant something, I couldn’t imagine possibly liking—or even wanting to visit—the fabled Golden State. “I don’t care if it’s nice,” I would say. “It’s too liberal. I could never live there.” Well, who asked me to? No one. And yet I said it. And I suspect I’m not the only person who’s ever said something like this—not just about California, but other “too liberal” Blue States, “too conservative” Red States, and “too French” foreign countries. I’ve never been to Kansas. Nor have I been to Afghanistan. How can I say anything educated about them? I’m not sure I can.
As someone who spent most of his life in New Jersey, I’ve heard a thousand times how my homeland is “ugly,” or how it “smells.” Well, sure, if you’re an out-of-stater passing the factories up north on the Turnpike, it is ugly and it does smell. But there’s more to the state than just those factories. And most New Jerseyans hate that area as much as out-of-staters do. Or maybe they don’t. I haven’t met “most New Jerseyans.”
I will freely admit I am someone who makes generalizations (and if you’ve read my columns on Pennsylvanian drivers, you already know this). To say generalizations are a bad thing is much too general. They’re useful. You take someone like Britney Spears—it’s only natural I’d assume she’s as empty as her music. We encounter a lot of images and information these days; we’re a media-driven society. We make generalizations because we quite frankly don’t have time to process it all. Britney Spears may be brilliant, but, then, she may be as dumb as the Brad Pitt joke I made a few minutes ago. There are things I’d rather do with my time than find out. But that’s okay. I don’t owe her my fandom any more than she owes me meaningful songs. So be it. Good enough.
A guy I know from the West Coast insists it is “better” than the East. His preferences are knee-jerk in nature, but he’s entitled to them. The only thing that bothers me is he fails to realize they’re just preferences; he acts like every place else is worthless. People hold true to the things they already know. That’s fine. But since few of us will ever see the whole world, maybe waiting to visit a place before condemning it is a fair compromise. Who among us has seen every single city on both coasts? Let him speak first.
Having visited California, I can confirm it’s a place like any other—but only because no two places on Earth are exactly alike. I’d love to go back and see the rest of its cities, as well as its mountains, forests, and parks. I don’t think
By Jonathan David Morris
California’s better than the Northeast, but I don’t think the Northeast’s better than California, either. This “better” stuff means nothing to me. There is no “better.” Just “other.” It’s relative. People are idiots everywhere. To each his own.
That said, I will stand by the broad, sweeping assertion that Pennsylvanians can’t drive until the end of time. And after sitting in traffic on the 10 Freeway for an hour, trying to get to the L.A. Auto Show—I’m telling you California’s highways aren’t so hot themselves.
Jonathan David Morris is a political writer -- and sometimes satirist -- based in Pennsylvania. A strong believer in small government, JDM often takes aim at oppressive taxes, entitlements, and laws, writing about incompetence at the highest levels of culture and government. Catch his weekly ramblings at readjdm.com.