This weekend is yet another personal milestone for me, one I honestly never thought I would reach and of late prayed nearly every chance I got that it would not come to pass. It’s the 40th anniversary of my relocation to Los Angeles. Whee.
I’ll confess that the last weekend of 1985 was perhaps the best one of my life. And I was most definitely on a roll at that point. Two weeks earlier I had surreptiously been flown to Boston to interview with the soon-to-be relocating syndication division of Metromedia, who owned the station I watched more of as a kid than just about any, New York’s Channel 5, WNEW-TV. The person who headed research for that small sector of the company was pregnant and had decided along with her husband she was going to stay put in their hometown to raise their first child. They had an immediate opening for a replacement and I was at a point in my life where I couldn’t wait to get out of New York, ideally to California. I had spent some previous time in Los Angeles discovering the relatives I had to that point only heard about, the ones that were far more successful and–so they seemed– saner than the ones I grew up with back East. Additionally, my respective best friends from high school and college had preceded me in relocation and were, relative to their lives in New York, thriving. And Metromedia just happened to have a station and a production facility in Los Angeles that I had dreamed about working at ever since I saw what appeared to be a urinating statue in the background of an outdoor shot of the old game show TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES, and whose iconic “stairway to the stars” that adorned its rooftop was visible from the Hollywood Freeway for miles.
So for me, the move was not “if”, but “when”, so the friends who knew me best weren’t the least bit surprised when I quickly accepted their final of three offers that were made on the lovely Friday afternoon in Beantown. I was going to more than double my salary, which I considered a win, and best of all they would pay for my relocation flight and what little furniture I had. My colleagues at the company I was working for were more shocked, as they suspected little and, you may be surprised, I kept a somewhat low profile. But they were more than willing to take me out on the town all over Manhattan on my final night as a New York City resident, a blissful night of overindulgence and near-debauchery that I fondly remember to this day.
A longtime friend with access to a car offered to drive me and my folks to Kennedy Airport to see me off on Saturday morning, which I was especially grateful for on two hours’ sleep. Besides, knowing my folks wouldn’t have to worry about hailing a cab in their state of mixed happiness and confusion took one concern off my plate. As I later learned, my mom had been urged to make such a move of her own by a trusted relative when we first visited LA a few years back. She had recently left a deteriorating marriage of her own and did all she could to convince my mom to do the same. But Mom lacked the confidence and the self-respect she needed to take such a drastic step. So as she was want to do during her abbreviated life, she chose to vicariously live through others who had it. For once, that was me. The heartfelt farewell hug she have me, along with what I falsely assumed were tears of happiness, sustained me as I stumbled down the TWA jetway.
That’s how long ago this was. TWA not only existed, it was the preferred coast-to-coast carrier for media companies (all of those commercials they bought provided a LOT of paid employee travel, and this was the first of many I got from the company). And the Los Angeles I landed in was a lot different than the one that exists today. The 105 freeway was a massive construction project. LAX had only one level–the Tom Bradley International terminal had yet to be built; indeed Tom Bradley was the mayor. The Third Street Promenade was a spartan swatch of chain stores devoid of any music or trendy restaurants. The Metro line was still a dream. And while my closest cousin spoke fluent Spanish and knew every hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant in the city due to his life choices, most of the billboards in those areas were still exclusively in English.
Metromedia allowed me to rent a car for a month and directed me to a dealer they worked with in mid-city to pick it up. My cousin who drove me noticed it was very close to the house he grew up in. We took a side trip to his old neighborhood where he regaled me with stories about his own youth and how proud he was of me to have both the ability and the guts to leave behind what he saw was a world that he feared would ultimately drag me down into the same morass that my mom had wound up existing in. It was one of my proudest moments, too.
The car they gave me was an undersized and extremely underpowered Renault Alliance, a fact I quickly learned when I attempted to cross four lanes of the Hollywood Freeway within a mile when I on-ramped near the Hollywood Bowl. I had never entered a freeway from the left, let alone one as busy and fast-moving as the Hollywood Freeway was on a Sunday afternoon. The white-knuckling grip on the wheel I had as I pressed my foot on the accelerator in seeming vain as the almost endless sea of larger cars I needed to pass steamrolled past me left an impression that never faded for the rest of the month.
Eventually, I settled into a temporary residence in the Oakwood Apartments near Universal City, which I quickly learned was where studios put up talent making movies. I just happened to overlap with crews and bit players doing BACK TO THE FUTURE, which meant there were nightly hot tub parties starting around 9 and often not ending until shortly before dawn. Plenty of liquor and cocaine for anyone who asked. In my case, even at times who those who didn’t.
As it turned out, several other folks who Metromedia had relocated from Boston had already settled in, and as the newbie I was taken out almost every night for a month. We made liberal use of our expense accounts, frequenting such tourist traps as El Coyote, Yamashiro’s and the Polo Lounge. We would take two-hour group hikes by the nearby Hollywood sign and marvel at how amazing it was to experience 80 degrees and sunshine in spring. My contribution was an invite to the hot tub parties, and let’s just say my new colleagues took full advantage of ALL it had to offer and then some.
When I think about those days now, it’s now me that produces tears of what far too many would falsely conclude were tears of happiness. Those beloved cousins who embraced me and made my move endurable are gone; their kids far too consumed with their own lives to even return phone calls any more. It’s been years since I’ve even connected with any one of those Boston folks who changed my life so wonderfully. And Metromedia Square, later to become FOX Television Center and where I’d later return to–this time as an executive for a second stint in the building–was itself razed more than two decades ago. It’s now a non-descript high school.
I miss those days a lot, all the more so on milestone days like this. I miss the Los Angeles that I relocated to which has, as so many who have followed and preceded me here concur, become a shadow of the land of optimism and opportunity that it once was–especially since 2020. And with no expense account, it’s been decades since I’ve even set foot in the Polo Lounge or El Coyote, and no one’s offering to treat me any time soon.
I’m as ready to leave this city now as I was to leave New York four decades ago. I know darn well a better life and people who care await me somewhere else–most ideally Florida. I’d literally do anything to be able to make that happen. Every day that goes by where some other job possibility “goes in another direction”, or where an unforeseen expense prevents me from saving a penny means another day I’m stuck in what has turned into a purgatory of an existence. Definitely not what I foresaw 40 years ago. And definitely not where I want to be 40 years from now. OK, that’s far too blindly optimistic. Make that four years from now.
Wait, let me dab my tears. No, correction again. Make that four MONTHS from now.
Happy anniversary to me. Whee.
Until next time…