The Things You Own End Up Owning You.

Every weekend in L.A. is completely insane. I have no way to prepare for anything that goes down each weekend- all I know is that if it’s Friday in L.A., I’m going to come home with a plethora of intense, crazy, unpredictable stories. Here’s what ha-happened:

Friday night I first met up with a guy and his coworker whom I had never met. My friend Carly hooked me up with this guy Jesse because he and I went to the same schools (LSU and U of M) and we’re both from Memphis. So Jesse and his coworker, Chris, picked me up and we ate sushi down on Venice beach. It was incredibly nice to be around a boy who opened my doors and knew who Willie Herenton was (by the way, last week, Mayor Herenton made a public statement that the people of Memphis need to stop drinking that “hatorade.” How professional. I wonder if he has a speech writer come up with his very eloquent and deep speeches.). It was fun to make little remarks about streets in Baton Rouge and Memphis and to talk about things that nobody out here “gets.” It was refreshing.

After dinner, I came back to my apartment and headed out for a party that I had been notified about via e-mail a week ago. It was really far away from my house and I must have been on the freeway for 45 minutes before I got there (this was with no traffic. On a traffic day it would have taken four hours). I should preface this by saying that I met this delightful Persian girl at a pub crawl a few weekends prior, and she and I hit it off well, so I decided to attend this party at her parents’ house in hopes of meeting new people.

So, I approach this neighborhood and had to be cleared by the guard to confirm that I was on “THE LIST.” Huge wrought iron gates opened and I drove through a real neighborhood with a pavement street and I saw houses on lots that were several acres in diameter. This is highly unusual for Southern California. Most people rent or live in tiny little houses because real estate is bonkers out here. In fact, pretty much everyone I know lives in an apartment. The first time I’d been in an actual house since I moved to L.A. was last week when I went to my friend Brady’s crib. He lives with his parents. It was wonderful. I felt, for a second, like L.A. was REAL in some parts; like real people live in this city. It felt like that ideal state of "home." There were pictures of little boys in baseball uniforms everywhere. Floral print wallpaper. Wood paneling. Seafoam green tile and berber carpet. I felt like I was on the set of “Full House.” There were so many memories in that house, I wanted to move in. Back to my weekend, though.

As I walked into the foyer of this mansion, my head was under a crystal chandelier. I walked on immaculate, scratch-free wooden floors. Ornate sculptures lined the walkway and heavy oil paintings and dupioni silk curtains hung over gargantuan windows. Persian rugs were everywhere- the whole house was marble and granite. It was beautiful. The kitchen held a spread of stuffed grape leaves, pistachios, assorted pastas, and every alcoholic beverage imaginable. I’d never seen anything so incredible in all my life. I saw my girlfriend and said, “Dang, honey! Does your daddy deal drugs?!” She didn’t think that was funny. I did. I truly don't understand why people are so freaking serious all the time.

I was in the Great Gatsby for a moment. I was Nick Carraway for at least a few hours. Everything moved in slow motion. People laughed pretentiously. Somehow I couldn’t get into it. I kept trying to talk to people. The thing is, I’ve learned that most young people in L.A. only want to talk about money or how much they hate money, which is code for they love money but don't have any so they're bitter. This, in essence, is the topic of every conversation in which I engage in Los Angeles. Here's an example of what I mean:

Background: I had my nose pierced my senior year of college but took it out because I began teaching shortly after, and it was against our school policy to be normal in any way, shape, or form. A few weeks ago I walked into a place in Beverly Hills and bought a new nose stud impulsively. I’ve had it in for a few weeks. Maybe I refuse to get old. But anyway, when I was getting ready on Friday night, the diamond fell out while I was in the shower. So, I meet this guy at the party, and he says to me, “Oh, I love your little nose ring!” and I said, “Thanks. The diamond fell out.” AND THIS WAS HIS RESPONSE: “Well… It looks to me like you just need someone to buy you more diamonds.” Haha. Are you serious?! WHO SAYS THAT?! Then later that night, I walked out to his car with him and his friend to get some towels, and he made it very clear that HIS car was the brand spankin’ new BMW parked out front. Oh please. Where I'm from, it's just plain old bad manners to talk like that. It just is.

I watched a bunch of yuppies get smashed and make out and I heard the sounds of empty laughter for hours upon end. I watched drunk girls fall over their own feet and people's glassy eyes sink to half-mast. All night, this line kept rolling around in my head:

"They were careless people, Tom and Daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…"

It’s funny how life slows down when you’re completely clueless to social norms. This guy came up to me and introduced himself as “Daaah-mee-aaaaahn.” I laughed hysterically, thinking he was referencing that movie “A View from the Top,” when Mike Meyers says,

“You’re putting the wrong emPHAsis on the wrong syllAAAAble,”

but apparently, this was the guy’s name, and he was pretty pissed that I didn’t take him seriously. ALL NIGHT, events occured like this. One big fat faux pas after the next. I kept making people mad or hurting their feelings at first, but as they got drunker and drunker, they started yelling “HEY MEMPHIS!” to me every five seconds, and applauding as I’d “Crank that soulja boy” (poorly) or dance on the fireplace mantel. I thought about the movie "Houseguest" when Sinbad got all of the rich people drunk at the wine tasting, and at the end of the night, everybody was dancing and going buck wild.

I didn’t give a flying crap about what anybody thought. I knew it was too late to drive home through the winding curves and I was too tired to not make the best of it. I mingled with people who didn’t care to meet me and told them my name knowing that they wouldn’t remember it. I was dubbed "Memphis" and thought it ironic to be identified with the only place that I’ve always tried to escape. A lot of bad things happened there and it’s a place I normally wish I could just forget. Now it’s my nickname. Irony.

Now the drama.

In the middle of the night, when everyone was good and plastered, this boy approached me because clearly he was as out of place as I was. Everyone there knew at least three other people except for him and me. He started some meaningless chit-chat about how he and his girlfriend moved here from Pennsylvania, and bla bla bla. I wasn’t paying attention because I truly didn’t care. This is when the crap hit the fan. His girlfriend made her dramatic entrance into the kitchen just like when Carrie went bustin’ into prom, makes a huge scene, grabs her ugly-ass boyfriend by the arm, and announces (very loudly),

“I AM RESCUING you!”

Really? Because your dog-butt-face boyfriend just tried to talk to me for the past ten minutes. Tell me why I would approach a man whose woman clearly has him by the ‘nads. I prefer men who can stand solo, dear. I look over to some plastered dude and said, “Dang. That bitch is wired. Somebody get this ho A DRINK!” She and her boyfriend promptly exited the premises to go pass out upstairs. How ridiculous. If I was looking to be a homewrecka, I’d submit a tape to Jerry Springer. I told a shocked bystander, “I can’t help it that she’s homely and desperately needs highlights. If she’s that insecure she should just keep him locked in a cage at home.” Yeah, I know. I should keep those thoughts to myself. Stupid slut face.

I woke up the next morning at 7AM on an air mattress by myself in the mansion’s baby room. I bolted out of that house so fast, you’d think I was running from the cops. I grabbed my flip-flops and stumbled over thousands of drunk bodies. It was pretty much just like the scene in Atlanta in "Gone with the Wind" where all of the soldiers are lying around everywhere, but there wasn't any blood. All I wanted was to get out of there and get back to my Ikea-furnished apartment and off brand food products. As Tyler Durden so simply yet profoundly put it,

“The things you own end up owning you.”

I’m all about owning fun, flashy crap, but when you’re so into materialistic stuff that you can’t talk about anything else, it’s time to join a gardening club or learn to sew or freaking ANYTHING that will make you a little more well-rounded. I need to say that the girl who invited me was very cool. She wasn’t all fake and judgemental and bitchy like everyone else was, so ultimately, the person who LIVED in the mansion was actually very down-to-earth; but I interacted with so many assholes that night that all I wanted to do was get the crap out of there.

Saturday was a breath of fresh air. I met the most delightful girl ever. I knew her sister in Memphis, and she and I hung out on a whim. We laid out on Manhattan beach all day and we talked about normal things. We talked about struggling to find real people in L.A. We talked about how boys are idiots. We talked about drama and UT football and wonderfully down-to-earth things. We ate hamburgers, drank milkshakes, and then headed to Sharkees to watch the LSU/Auburn (awesome) game with Jesse and Chris. There's nothing better than hanging at a tiki bar with good, down-home people and watching a Tiger football game. Saturday was the perfect therapy after the previous night's hormone carwash.

Today my new friend Keely and I went to a wonderful church in Redondo Beach. We drove back down to Hermosa and walked on the sand. We ate brunch at Martha's right on the beach and talked about things that are going on in our lives.

I'm not sure how to end this blog. I guess that's it. If I ever wind up making a lot of money, please don't let me turn into one of those Hollywood deuche bags. The end.