Lifestyles of the Broke and Anonymous Part 1.

This is the first article in a series about Los Angeles, California, and my time there as a struggling musician, my accidental movie career, and tips on how you, too, can survive the daunting task of leaving everything you know behind, and diving into what Tom Petty called, The Great Wide Open.

Twelve years ago, I moved out to L.A., or what I like to call, The Land of Broken Dreams.  I moved to the city of stars and guided tours, like so many others, to try my hand at becoming a rich and famous musician.  That didn’t happen.  I didn’t even score an Oscar or a Grammy out of the deal.  But I did learn a few things along the way about how to survive in a strange city, where friends are few and far between, and everyone is either trying to get something out of you, or over you, or in you.

1.       FIND A PLACE TO SLEEP

This is a tricky one, but it’s important.  We’ll start with it because it’s the first thing you need to do after stepping off the bus, plane, or train that brought you this magical place of panhandlers and pickpockets.  I was lucky enough to have someone waiting on me.  He had been out there for about six months and told me we had a place.  The night before I left my hometown of Huntsville, Alabama, nervously excited about boarding that Greyhound Bus the next morning, to leave everything behind, I talked to him on the phone.  Turned out he had secured us a place, all right.  It even had rooftop access with a great view of the city.  And it was true.  It did have a great view.  The place he had secured, and I use that term very lightly, was the rooftop.

                Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m as romantic as the next guy, willing to tough it out for The Dream.  Nothing come easy, right? And I was young enough to say, “Sounds awesome, man! See you when I get there!”  and hang up the phone, visions of Jim Morrison living on his rooftop in Venice, writing songs from the concert he heard in his head floating in mine.

Only, our rooftop was in Downtown, Los Angeles, not Venice, and not the free loving bohemia of Jim Morrison’s era.  Our trip was a little bit different than Morrison’s summer long LSD vision quest.

I didn’t know any of that at the time.  I didn’t know the difference between Downtown L.A. and Venice. Or Hollywood and Santa Monica.  It was all just L.A. to me.  Turns out, there’s thirteen cities that make up the greater Los Angeles area, and I was running away from a city with a population of less than a million people to become just another lost hopeful struggling in the streets of Lost Angels.

And, it was fun.  It was like we were getting away with something.  We’d sit on the rooftop and write songs on acoustic guitars, while people walked the streets below, or worked in the office spaces inside the building, oblivious to our own quest.  We were living the dream, baby!

The rooftop had elevator access. That’s how you got up there.  So, we could tell when someone was coming when the doors dinged open.  That was all the warning we had.  There wasn’t a lot of traffic up there though, and we had our bags stashed beneath the air conditioning unit, out of sight.  When someone did come up, that’s where we stashed ourselves, laying down flat beneath this giant HVAC unit, waiting for the interloper to finish their cigarette, or phone call.  Whatever it was that brought them up there.  

                We made the best of it, but this wasn’t a permanent solution.  Lucky for us, it was summer, and L.A. was going through its usual dry spell.  But people started to catch on.  It was a little suspicious, I guess, that anytime someone came up to the roof, there we were, two dirty guys strumming beat up guitars.  There’s one thing about homelessness.  You can smell it on someone.  Something about the desperation in the eyes and constant B.O. gives it away.

                Eventually, we got some money together, and got a band room.  If you go this route, here’s a few pointers.  First, it’s got to have 24-hour access, so you can come and go as you please.  Also, put a radio in there, and learn to sleep with music playing (this works especially well if you’re not really a musician) so when you’re in there at night, it sounds like you’re working.  And of course, make sure there’s a bathroom with a good faucet.  You got to be able to wash your feet in a situation like this.  Other body parts matter, too, but your feet, man, your feet! (more on this in a future installment)

                Another option, and probably a better one if you’re flying solo, is to get yourself a car or van.  Vans can be awkward, especially if you’re not used to the traffic of a big city.  But if you strap on your big boy pants (or big girl pants), a van will offer you the room and privacy you just can’t get sleeping in the backseat of the Kia hatchback you got off Craigslist.

                Next, scope out the neighborhoods.  Find a place to park that beast.  You’ll have to move it occasionally for the streetsweeper, but once you find a good location, you’re set for a while.  This isn’t the safest option, but life in the city ain’t never safe.

                Now, I just mentioned Craigslist. Craigslist is full of scammers and fake ads, but in a city like L.A., Craigslist is a vital tool.  If you have the dough-ray-me, you can squeeze yourself into a roommate situation, often without a credit check, or background check.  Lots of people rent out their couch, or section off their apartment with partitions and rent the space.  It’s not glamourous, but this is the real Hollywood.  Besides, if you had the money to get your own respectable place, you wouldn’t need any of this advice.

                My last suggestion for finding a place to sleep is to check out the hostels.  This only works before you get an L.A. license, so keep that in mind.  Also, thirty to forty bucks a day adds up quick.  While it’s nice to get a good shower now and then, I don’t recommend the hostels for any kind of long engagement. 

                So, if you have dreams of living in La-La-Land, and are hungry and desperate enough to make that leap, go for it.  Just know, it’s not going to be easy.  You have to want it, you have to work for it, and you have to suffer for it. 

                Unless you have the money to get into a nice $2500 a month apartment, plus deposit, and credit check.  In that case, can I crash on your couch?