Greetings from the late-afternoon LobbyCon at Gallifrey One. Since I arrived I have taken three terrible cab rides, gotten called in for a casting in New York, and reveled in the glory that is In-and-Out Burger. Mostly, though, I am jet-lagged and keenly reminded how much I do not get L.A.
I feel bad about that. A lot of people I know are from L.A. Or love L.A. Or at least get L.A. But me? I’m horrified. I don’t know if it’s an actors phobia, or the disconnect of growing up somewhere where cars are just not on the menu, or an acute reaction to the aesthetic difference between a 19th-century city (New York) and a 20th-century one. But L.A. and I are seriously, seriously not on.
And it’s not just that I’m out here in airport land. I’ve been to other parts of L.A. I spent a few weeks in Beverly Hills about twelve years ago working on a commercial, and I’ve visited friends in Bel Air, but no matter what part of L.A. I’m in, I find it depressing, like some world I am locked out of — whether by appearance or desire or just a general affection for actual seasons.
L.A. is, however, a good place, I find, for my particular brand of melancholy, although we all could have, perhaps, done without the moment when I declared during our one not terrible (despite its bad 90s rock soundtrack) cab ride, that there was a certain unpleasant irony in being at a Doctor Who conference in the land of Wolfram & Hart and feeling forced by the urban landscape at hand to contemplate my own mortality. Although maybe that wasn’t L.A., maybe that was just me missing the feeling of being dressed as Captain Jack Harkness.
Of course, as I told someone on Facebook after the Gogo Inflight finally started working again after I complained copiously about it online, just because I’m not wearing the coat, doesn’t mean I don’t still bring the magic. Although, I’ve gotta say, the jet lag feels like it’s taking years off my TARDIS-induced immortality.