Oscar night is the signature Southern California event, and although
I don't have time to watch the whole show I usually try to catch the
first eight or nine hours. I do love movies, and the combination of great
films with sunny scenes of beautiful people strolling around Los Angeles
always reminds me of my stint there in the late 80s, when I realized my
dream of working in special effects, and soon abandoned it so I could
get some sleep. For the next few weeks I'd like to write about my first
impressions of California, its people, its climate, and its tendency to
fling you out of bed at six in the morning.

On the whole, native Californians are wonderfully warm, happy, carefree
people. And why wouldn't they be? They live in California. But the
drawback to their earnestness is that they're completely immune to
sarcasm. Imagine how hard it would be to fathom a deliberately ironic
comment like, "I used to hate the violence on local news until I
became a serial killer," when you take everything at face value. "Do
you... really like the news or are you, um, joking?" they'll ask. "I'm
joking. I can't stand it," you'll say. "They blow everything I do out
of proportion." And they'll look at you like a deer in the headlights,
trying to unravel the complex English-like language you've been speaking.

They're not stupid. They just aren't used to being lied to all the
time, which is essentially what kidding is: saying things that are
patently false over and over with a straight face. Why anyone would
choose to do that, given the freedom to be completely open and honest
that California's culture affords, is beyond baffling to them. So as a
New Englander you have to make adjustments, either laughing loudly as
you deliver a punchline or peppering your speech with, "not literally
of course!" Happily the joke isn't spoiled; they're fully able to enjoy
the humor once it's been pointed out to them.

Now, in case you have the impression that I feel superior to anyone
let me state for the record that I'm about the least sophisticated guy
on the planet. If you met me in person you'd be convinced I fell off a
turnip truck and cracked my skull at a young age. As proof I need only
briefly describe my first few months in Southern California.

Looking for an apartment in an unfamiliar city is always a bit stressful,
all the more so when you're right out of college and can't afford much
more than the average American spends on donuts every month. Rat traps
you wouldn't have boarded your dog in on Day 1 begin to look positively
charming by Day 4. So on Day 6 I was quite happy to find an available rm
in a 3br apt in a nice-looking nbrhd for $400/mo--about three-quarters
of my starting salary at nearby Southern Star Productions.

I had lived in this apartment with two other guys for a good month
before someone informed me I'd moved to the biggest gay enclave in Los
Angeles. In my defense, the name West Hollywood sounded almost exactly
like Hollywood, and didn't raise any pink flags with me. I wasn't really
bothered by the news, but certain neighborhood eccentricities suddenly
made a lot more sense. It occurred to me that both my roommates might be
gay too. For one thing they ate fresh cake at every meal. For another,
the guy who owned the couch forbade me to put my feet on it. At the
time this seemed like conclusive evidence, but the fact is nowadays I
would gladly eat fresh cake at every meal if I were allowed, and half
the quality time I spend with my children is devoted to slapping their
grubby feet off my couch and fetching the vacuum.

The truth is, if you took away our wives most husbands could easily pass
for stereotypical gay men. We can not only name, but recognize on sight
over 150 different shades of white paint--Linen White, Atrium White,
Dove White, Decorator White, Brilliant White, Lancaster Whitewash,
Whindham Cream (say when), Super White, Navajo White, China White,
Bone White, etc. We cry every time the Iron Giant blows up. Secretly
we're huge Jane Austen fans, like to dance, and prefer pina coladas to
Guinness. We're like gay women in men's bodies or something.

Anyway, living with the cake eaters was affordable, which was the main
criterion then. After rent, student loan payments and a car payment I had
just enough money left over for gas and three cans of Campbell's Chunky
Vegetable Soup per day. The original Johnny Rocket's was a brand new
restaurant on Melrose Avenue across from Southern Star, and I marveled
at how my boss could afford to eat $7 hamburgers there, have her new
BMW detailed every Tuesday morning, and save enough quarters to do
her laundry on the weekends.

John Lengyel lives in Cohasset, an enclave of some sort south of Boston.
In our next episode, John finds an unopened twelve-pack of cheese burritos
in a dumpster near his apartment, and has his first celebrity encounter.