Anyone that knows me can attest to my longwinded banter. When it comes to talking, I am one aggressive chatter-box motherfucker. I have no filter and will say just about anything that comes to mind. Think in the same way that Jenna Jameson will put anything in her mouth, the same is true with what flows out from mine. Verbal diarrhea is a talent and by Oprah (God) am I gifted at this. That being said, I believe I've been holding out on most people around me when it comes to the truth. Not to say I've been lying, but I've found a way to side angle the truth and omit some of the impending doom and destruction my life has been subject to for some time now.
Los Angeles may have been a big part of my elective to use my fifth amendment rights, but in essence it was really me. I grew up in a world where I was trained to hide my secrets. Oprah forbid I share my truth - however dark and somber it may be - for fear of judgmental onlookers and disapproval of the surrounding community. It never made sense as a youngster, but it was the world I was born into and it never seemed like a choice. As an adult, somewhat in tune with my issues and eccentricities, it seems that the deeper I repress my truths the harder it is to escape back out the rabbit hole.
It all started in Los Angeles, the birthplace of materialism, cocaine, and syphilis. As anyone who's lived in this concrete jungle can tell you, status is mostly everything. Shortly after moving to Salem's Lot, I found myself working a luxury retail job on the coveted Rodeo Drive. When it comes to shopping and frivolous spending, Rodeo Drive is the cat's meow. Walk into any storefront on the block and you'll be met with pretension, vacant stares, and exuberant wealth. Obviously, I fit in just right! Within no time, I was clearing a six figure income and learning to turn my nose up at anyone below my financial bracket. Wealthy men with Black American Express Cards courted me often and shopping sprees from my commission checks occurred far too frequently. I became content in a life above my means, spending money far quicker than the checks rode in.
Everything seemed perfect - superficially at least. On the surface of things, I was living the dream and continued to crave more and more. Similar to Veruca Salt in 'Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory', I grew a feeling of entitlement, expecting handouts from the world around me. With every increasing commission check, it was never enough. It was as if I was a VeRaananica Salt, singing daily like a bratty spoiled mess: "I want the world. I want the whole world. I want to lock it all up in my pocket. It's my bar of chocolate. Give it to me now!" The only difference in my song was that I was living in the land of pretty and a chocolate bar seemed like unnecessary carbs. In my song, I craved the world to be like my own bag of Kale chips. If you've seen the movie, you know things didn't end up too well for Miss Salt. In the universe's great tale of irony, my bag of Kale chips eventually emptied and ended up in a trashcan off Sunset Blvd.
I left my lucrative position for another luxury opportunity with the empty promise of a matched salary. Needless to say, you can see where this is going. I went from making over six-figures to counting coins. After that job did not work out, it seemed like the world had been pulled out from under me like a beautiful Persian rug, now sopping in cat pee, in need of a good shaking and retirement to a trash can. Considering Los Angeles is very much the land of the Persians, I found this reference somewhat apropos.
Going from a high level of success to the last few years was quite the culture shock, leaving me with the same set of financial responsibilities but limited funds coming in to support the dream. I went from what felt like the top of the world to days without eating. My forced financial diet was the silver lining in the birthplace of anorexia. Being svelte like an African baby is an attributed goal of most people I've come to know in the land of the aspiring actor/model/porn-star. That being said, finding oneself without funds for a five dollar cup of coffee makes you look like an impoverished homeless person in Los Angeles. You may as well move to the Valley and crawl into a hole and die.
I began a year-long mission to shuffle money in order to pay my bills, often pulling multiple rabbits out of a hat. Selling my high-priced items and expensive jewelry helped the cause only so long. I interviewed regularly and attempted to regain stability by way of a job, but for whatever reason nothing seemed to stick. In all of my years working full-time as an adult, I have never run into as many issues as my recent existence. I grew humbled by my circumstances and attempted avenues I wouldn't have ever attempted prior. This magic act of money would rival the top magicians and entertainers of the world - Criss Angel excluded. I don't know what deal he made with the devil, but the fact that he's still got an audience is a testament to cockroaches. After a nuclear attack, cockroaches and Criss Angel will be the only germ-infested creatures remaining. So as I shuffled money and played the role of a skilled sorcerer, I found myself running into a wall, continuously. There's only so much one can do without a steady income and stability.
Falling from the great height I once knew, few people seemed trustworthy of my secrets. Most of my friends were planning weekend trips to Cabo and the South of France, while I was trying to keep my cell phone on. A daily status update on 'the Facebook' - as the kids call it - would include a friend's new Louis Vuitton bag or a brand new beamer, while I would scour the corners of my apartment for change. I took a car title loan out on my recently paid off convertible in order to pay my overpriced rent. Feeling stuck and captive within my world of responsibility, I felt like a vegetable when it came to change. I couldn't leave my apartment and downsize. I felt sure that things would improve. Much like Khloe Kardashian seems content without a Paternity test, I felt satisfied with the idea that I would be back on top in no time. Clearly denial does not suit either of us (allegedly...).
Missing one payment on my over-charged interest for the car title loan, I found myself without a car following a two hour hike up in Malibu. My car was towed on a Saturday, mid-hike, without any warning. Yep, my recently paid off car was then repossessed. My money-shuffling wasn't working as well as I planned. Perhaps my magic act was none too different from Criss Angel's.
All the while I was finishing my first book - a tale of creative non-fiction detailing the chaos that has been my life from childhood on up. Despite all the negative proceedings of my daily time, I became convinced that a book deal would happen the moment I completed my work and financial woes would be no more. Again, I may have been lacking some foresight. Clearly I had been, because my book deal is still yet to happen. Being in Los Angeles, I became convinced that success was a day away and I began to throw myself solely into my work. Finding a job became my back up plan - my plan B. This Plan B is not to be confused with the over the counter pill of the same name, most often taken after a night of reckless fun, which by the way is often a Plan A for many... I was convinced that greatness was a step away and I plugged away at Publishing houses and Literary Agencies upon completion.
Then the eviction notice presented itself at my front door. I was a month behind in rent and trying to move mountains, but it wasn't enough. With impending homeless status, I didn't know what to do next. I moved my Plan B to the forefront, but didn't find immediate success. I tried to hustle my way through my phone requesting assistance from anyone that could support with some help career-wise or financially. I've always been the type to give the shirt off my back for a friend and have often had people stay with me rent free over the years. The sad reality for me was far different, however. I found more doors closed in my face than an overly aggressive Mormon Missionary. When you're down, you see who's really there for you. Part of my issue, however, was the inevitable feeling of shame and embarrassment. I couldn't appeal to all of my friends out of fear of judgment and only spoke to a select few. This select few were clearly not the right group as my eviction followed through to a vacate from the premises.
After my long journey towards re-claimed success, I found myself walking on egg-shells internally. I had never been subject to a car repossession or an eviction and it seemed so far from where I came. Being sent to a high-end Jewish private school throughout my childhood (where learning never occurred), I never expected a day in my life where an eviction would be a reality. Feeling alone and desperate, I settled further into my own self-shame. "How is this happening?! What the fuck am I going to do?!" These questions fuddled my brain daily. I continued to set my ducks in a row and attempted to find stability, because I knew that whether or not I followed through with the eviction, I would need to work again one day and find stability.
Finding no visible solutions and maintaining a life of unemployment, I didn't know what was next. Then, out of nowhere, I found myself with an invitation to San Francisco for a week with a friend on business. He had invited me as a tag-along for the trip and, frankly, I had nothing better to do with my time. Sure I could have spent the week interviewing for jobs, but I was pretty jaded at the time and needed an escape from the city of beautiful people and extravagance.
Upon my arrival to Northern California, I took in every breath with a sigh of relief, feeling that this trip was exactly what I needed for my jaded soul. Walking through the streets, I felt a sense of inner satisfaction brought on by the kind nature of this city and open generosity of its occupants. Without any given word or experience, I felt at peace with myself just walking the streets of SF. Little tidbit: the people of SF or San Francisco do not take well to referring to their city as 'San Fran'. There is no tangible reason for this, but I learned it the hard way. Call it SF, San Francisco, or the City, but Oprah forbid you call this place 'San Fran'! So, as I walked the streets and soaked up the culture, I became overwhelmed with a feeling of less pressure. Within minutes of arriving, I no longer felt like I had to be published tomorrow to call myself a success or better yet, a writer. I was inspired by this city and began toying with the idea of a move up North. I love Los Angeles, but after 5 years and my current troubles, it felt like my time there was spent. Throughout the rest of the trip, I planned out logistics in my head and began seriously considering a move.
Upon my return to Los Angeles, I was served with a Notice to Vacate my home within the week. I was given less than five days to leave the home I had built for myself in over three years of residency. This was the impending doom that scared me all year long. This was my death sentence that kept me up at night, rattled with anxiety. I felt like Stephanie Tanner when 'Full House' was unexpectedly and suddenly canceled. "What was I going to do now? Meth?" But, as the West Hollywood Sheriff handed me my notice, a sense of resolve set in. My overwhelming apartment cased full of responsibility was being taken off my hands. Sure I would have more debt and an unfriendly credit rating, but no one had died. This was not the end of the world, but rather a push. As I closed the door, accepting my certified paperwork, I looked in the mirror and said: "San Fran it is!" This was, of course, before I knew it was forbidden to say anything other than SF or San Francisco. In that moment, I decided that I would attempt to sell as much as possible and condense my life down to two bags. Being an uptight Jew from the East Coast, I've often reveled in jealousy at the lives of hippies and vagabonds. "Why can't that be me?" And with that, I did it.
I showed up in San Francisco a week ago with less than a thousand dollars and my entire life cut down to an oversized suitcase and a backpack. Exercising a newfound trust in the universe, I am sure things will work out. Despite my drama and doom, everything always finds a way of working out. I always land on my feet, something I do not have in common with Jenna Jameson - a fan of laying on her back. So far, it's a struggle in reprogramming myself to a different side of life, but I couldn't be happier. There are hard days and there are better ones, but I made a choice and I'm experiencing life.
This new format for my blogging is set up to leave secrets at the door and exercise a level of transparency that's new to me. Bear with me here, but I want to share everything, without holding back. I will blog sporadically, but let's commit to at least three or four longwinded entries a month about my experiences and the crazy that tends to find me.
My trials and tribulations along this journey will be open forum for anyone reading to enjoy. And I hope you do.
xoxo.
R.
