The L.A. Rap Up – The Unrelenting Search For Cool Continues...

So I’m back from the West Coast, specifically the west side of Hollywood and I can happily report that Kordo has successfully made the transition from Dot gwanings to the more languid social climbs of L.A. Spending a week and half around various writers, actors and comedian-types, most of whom are either newish to scene or entrenched and on the come up, I can honestly say I’ve had my fill of the alternate lifestyle that fame-chasing encompasses.
When confronting those obstinate show business barriers, the fight and consequent transition from putting out work/finding work to being recognized for your talent to, ultimately, being compensated for said talent is a struggle known and shared intimately by Los Angelinos. It seems even the less glamorous Joe 9-to-5ers harbor pretensions of infiltrating the industry and you can’t go into a coffee shop in the vicinity of Hollywood without seeing a plethora of would-be screenwriters attempting to bang out their proverbial lottery ticket on an ibook.
While from a distance, it may seem like fame is the primary motivating force for the city (‘Did ya see anyone famous?’ is the most predictable of questions to anyone coming back from the L.A. experience), and maybe to the painfully naïve, the question of artistry and talent may eventually arise. But really, it doesn’t take long to figure out that, unsurprisingly, money is the supreme king-maker: the excess of wealth in L.A. is at times staggering. And that’s not to say having money even impresses out here – sure, it helps a bunch, but the most desired commodity is the ability to make money. That’s what differentiates the range of alphabetized celebrities and the behind-the-scenes move makers. Whether or not you are in front of a camera, if your projects make money you will always have a job, a reservation and a place on the VIP list.
While fame is a much cruder social determiner, even those at the top of the social heap are ever-cognizant of the next big thing.

Enter David Beckham.

Hollywood's newest power couple

Last weekend, while I was enjoying a more grass-roots form of live entertainment (alas, of the poleless variety), a surprising number of A-list types welcomed the arrival of Becks to L.A for his first game as an MLS player. It was a painfully anti-climatic beginning with his new club, the Galaxy, as scores of actors, media whores (I see you, Longoria – siding up to Posh in the VIP box, captive to the bittersweet irony of marrying a genuine star athlete who just happens to ply his trade in a media black hole. Probably makes that whole French-thing extra harder to deal with…) and forgotten 80’s British rockers witnessed the non-event that was the Saturday evening exhibition match against Chelsea (Real Salt Lake wasn’t available, apparently). Beleaguered, unknowing fans attempted to cheer through Beckham’s 12 minute performance of limited touches culminating with him falling victim to an unceremonious two-footed slide tackle by a young, unknown substitute who will be destined to never see first-side soccer for Chelsea this year.

When is marrying the Playoff MVP the social equivalent to marrying a Laker back-up? When he raps in French and plays in San Antonio

With the dubious introductory performance behind him, Tom Cruise and Will Smith hosted an invite-only soiree welcoming the English media darling the following night, attended by a group of celebrities who clearly have no clue of Becks previous on-field exploits, never-mind the imminent career back-slide he is destined to suffer through. So why would a faux-star soccer player be feted by the Hollywood elite? (granted, some members of the L.A. rap community, that in the British Press' estimation are probably quite hard, have been inexplicably less generous) What could possibly be the motivation fueling the social politics of this bizarre movement? We all know son is pretty. (hey, it’s a more compelling rationale than marrying a Spice Girl alone) More convincingly, there is going to be some natural curiosity even to the point of slight deference to anyone who has the immediate attention of the world media, not to mention England following his every move. But really, Beckham’s power lies in the wonderment of his quarter of a billion dollar contract, the overwhelming majority lying in a variety off field endorsements that takes cross-promotional, marketing-synergy to an unprecedented level. Becks' money-making potential has been validated by corporate America. Now everyone wants a piece by association (except maybe Tom Cruise, who might literally…uh…want a piece). You may think all the Lohans and pseudo-heiresses floating around the priciest of real estate may be devoid of any sort of worth other than what they are given (whether by mega rich family or movie studio, enablers come in many forms), but in L.A., they are indisputable money generators: even if its only for the sleazy or struggling club promoter trying to get some buzz. Beckham has now joined their ranks, albeit playing to the marketing fantasies of the taste-makers within big business. I guess it was only a matter of time before this happened (with the impending jail time looming, I'd love to know how Vegas would handicap this...).

Unfortunately, while there maybe some carry-over to the 'Beckham phenomenon' in the short-term, son is destined to be discarded on the scrap-heap of short-lived Hollywood trends like so much Goonies merchandise. This may sound harsh but this is the reality of the meritocracy of professional sports: unlike Hollywood where you can rise to the top for deading the bad guys real good or having an unfettered willingness to publicly display your killer rack. Beckham is the anti-Kobe: a really nice, relatively well-adjusted team player with no ability to dominate a game. Don’t expect to see Jack Nicholson out by Galaxy’s Carson stadium anytime soon…

"You can never be me...ask LeBron."

David Beckham will get over for now on the sheer exoticism he exudes to an unknowing audience. Sadly, the subtleties of his talent are clearly beyond said audience, and will no doubt provide more fuel to the anti-soccer agenda gleefully carried out by the Jim Romes of the mainstream sports media in the U.S. The fact Becks has been so eagerly co-signed by Hollywood will merely antagonize the aforementioned commentators, who will eagerly attribute the over-hype to some plot hatched by the manipulative liberal forces that run L.A.; the same shadowy figures that hypocritically drive the entertainment industry to produce moral-less trash for a viewing public at record profits while criticizing the government and its wars. You may have thought it was impossible to use soccer to villainize George Clooney, but Fox News sure didn’t.

Escape to L.A. - the first 36 hours.

So my quasi-spontaneous plans have finally reached fruition: I have upped and out of the GTA for a 10 day visit how the other side lives in Los Angeles. And by other side, I mean Kordo. And having a smooth-talking, industry cat as a host in a city hopelessly addicted to catering to every social whim bourne out of celebrity culture, definitely begs the promise of mayhem, despite the baby baller budget limitations and a lack of resmeblance to any current, working celebrity (if anybody wants to call Cuban Linx a celebrity, you'd be still telling lies to me...).
I will say the trip down was a remarkably smooth one, considering the nature of border crossing in general. My flight was out of Buffalo so I grabbed a room at a swarmy airport hotel so I would have somewhere to leave my car for the extended period (yes, they do that). So early Saturday morning I crossed into the States via Lewiston and had to deal with a young African-American immigration officer (where if she was standing about 80 feet to the left she just woulda been a black person in Canada) whose weave looked like it had stayed out too late. It couldn't have been a better look: for a brief moment in time, beige was unstoppable. I could of been an explosives expert with a penchant for transporting exotic fruits and animals - honey was not stressing me. I really feel that if black women were in charge of more things, my standard of life would be considerable higher. Ladies, work on that.
So after a very brief stay at a Best Western not run by Best Western, but in fact, a shadow faction only known to the public as the 'Shavani Group', I managed to get the women at the desk to stop asking me if I was rolling solo (I was waiting for her to ask me if I needed her to arrange for some 'company' but the offer never came...I can only imagine the Shavani Group rolls deep in the pimp game) and shuttled to the airport. The ultra grimey Buffalo airport. Filled to the brim with ugly people. I know it was very early, but it had to be the least attractive group of people I've ever been around in my life. And due to the fact that the airport 'shuts down' for a period in the morning, it quickly turns into the most hectic environment possible short of a war zone, with everyone being cued into these long, barely organized lines to get through security. This is what I imagined the Partition of India was like, if it was recreated with mostly white folks with no religous animosity towards each other. And just to top it off, an anonymous siren started wailing, with absolutely no explanation. In a weird way, it actually perked things up: distracted you from all the ugly people.
Security itself was like an annoying women; high maintenance with a stress on a superficial thoroughness. Shoes is a big thing now; apparently the threat of footware looms omninously for airport security. The Buffalo airport in particular has a new feature for its security detail - a futuristic walk-through metal detector made by GE that shoots several streams of undetermined gas at the person going through. Somebody should really check if Dick Cheney is on the board at GE, because clearly people are getting paid. There was a very random selction process run by Will I Am's twin over who would get blasted by the gas for the sake of keeping everyone safe, but it seemed to involve finding the oldest possible people wearing the loosest clothing. And every single time it's like they never saw it coming...
So the oasis that was the post-security pre-boarding area in the Buffalo airport was literally like a desirable VIP area in a dank club - everything was better on the inside. There was a stop over at Chicago, which is a relatively pleasant, expansive airport in itself, but the mood was significantly darkened by the constant reminder every 5 minutes over the PA of the terror alert status (for the record, it's at Orange. Is anybody still wondering if Bush won?). I managed to sleep through most of the flight to L.A. And that's that. Kordo and the boy Devo picked me up in a unripe Cherry red convertible Saab 900 with a tapedeck and I was quickly transported by to the early 90s. And then, shortly after, K's crib. Here are the first quick impressions of the city:

1. You absolutely must drive in L.A.
L.A. is a driver's city, laid out in segments over a large space. And maybe it's just because I was rolling in a convertible, but it feels as if the prospect for inter-car socializing is crazy tangible. At a longer stop light, it feels like a party could literally break out. Conversation is a norm. You need a car in L.A.

2. There are some fly ass rides out here.
It gets to the point where noticing BMWs or Porshes becomes moot. High end cars here are painfully common place.

3. Kordo lives deep in the hood. The batty-hood.
Kordo reps West Hollywood. His crib is in a complex that could actually be Melrose Place's gay lost twin. The main strip here makes Church street look watered down in its gayness - even the convenience stores are manned by teh ghey. Strangely, no dykes (maybe they just come out at night). But the area immediately around his spot couldn't be gayer. Let's put it this way: maybe 5 blocks away is a Fat Burger and a couple of girls holla'd at us from the sunroof of their strecth limo (The one girl actually said 'Hey sexys!' which was extremely considerate in her inclusiveness considering there were 3 of us. Deep down, I know Kordo still thinks she was talking about him repeatedly...). Back in the 'hood', 4 guys holla'd at us (!!!) wearing matching sunglasses (!) from a Navigator. There is so much gay here sometimes you can't tell at first - when I heard these dudes, I immediately turned to see which woman they were yelling at. Even on sight, it was only the 'gun clicking' motioning that clued me in. (and for the record, Kordo did think they were primarily yelling at him, if not exclusively).

4. The people, in general, are not ugly out here.
Truly from an average person perspective, this is the anti-Buffalo airport. And women make an event out here - rolling with mens can be a tougher look at times.

5. Everyone here wants to be in the 'industry'.
It may seem tired as so many people in L.A. are in the aspiring category, but at the end of the day, there's always at least a bare minimum acknowledgement to those who are trying to make it happen, successful or not. It's clearly a hustle and, like any hustle, a good front does wonders...it can be almost shocking witnessing the contrved nature of socializing out here but it doesn't make it any less real (even if the front is not).

6. With the above being said, there really are people out here who drive through Beverly Hills in their M5's reading scripts out loud to the bluetooth.
Really.

7. Beach dogs are the most well behaved domestic animal known to man.
And why shouldn't they be. They are the envy of all other dogs. Hell, I would feel lucky to come back in another life as an L.A. beach dog. The following is true for every breed except those stupid little pugs (and I didn't even get the worst of that little killer...).

So the first night has come and gone and we hit the local 'spot' (a 5 minute walk in a "straighter" direction from the crib) and I'll save the details for a recap of the nights out here. I'll leave it at there was much drinking, some pastel coloured cigerettes were involved, bottle service with a DJ scratching wildly on some CD-driven tables and some Mexican-American gull who let me briefly fall alseep in her lap. Ah, to rely on the kindness of strangers...

I'll throw out another update when some thangs get around to happening. It's been pretty nice so far and I'll do my best to make some stories happen. No real celebrity sightings yet (although Devo and Kordo saw Lloyd from Entourage eating dinner. And yes, Kordo swears Lloyd made eyes at him...) but that's whatever anyways. Although Kordo has informed me he got an invite via a second party to professional socialite and black dick admirer Kim Kardishian's private bash next weekend - the catch being he can't bring anymore men as they are trying to strictly regulate the number of balls at the event. I dunno how this will play out but I may have to introduce some evidence that would make me a more suitable guest for such an affair ('Yeah, he looks beige, but other parts of him are MUCH darker...so he's good then?").

Quick shout out to Martin for shearing me before I left (mucho gracias) and Laurie for the crazy story of his baptism into the world of porn. Crazy. Oh, Ateet and Don: go get em Wednesday.

Out from the Left Coast till the next story. Or as they say over here, 'episode'.