Los Angeles, I love you
I tried to gather my thoughts in one place as best as I could
Hello dear friends. I apologize for my absence, but the last nine days here in LA have taken every ounce of energy from my body and mind. I did my best to compile the many thoughts and feelings I’ve been having below. Sorry they’re a bit stream-of-consciousness.
If you want to know what I’ve been up to and how I’ve been using the thousands of dollars in generous donations sent by friends and strangers alike, check out my Instagram. If you donated, a sincere and profound thank you. If you are still looking for places to donate, start with this list of GoFundMe’s, organized by what percent funded they are currently at — and thank you to Rachel Davies of
for compiling it.Fear not, normal Hot Tip will be back soon — and by “normal,” I do mean a publication that gives equal coverage to the rantings of a soon-to-be-inaugurated president who wants to “buy Greenland” as well as the best fresh take recipe for tiramisu.
A few quick tips this week: A ceasefire in Gaza is set to begin on Sunday. Biden says the TikTok ban will be Trump’s call. Carrie Underwood is performing at the inauguration and I’m requesting official redaction of the time I went to her concert in high school. Not attending: Michelle Obama.
Loose thoughts that have been passing through my mind and body all week.
I’ve been driving around LA for a week with my most treasured belongings in the trunk: my grandma’s candlesticks, my niece’s art, the teddy bear I’ve had my entire life (his name is Charlie after my first crush, Mighty Duck captain Charlie Conway), a beautiful backgammon board I inherited (I should learn how to play when this is all over), the ceramic dish my aunt made for me before she died of cancer, the photograph of my grandparents standing in front of their first car while my grandma was just visibly pregnant with my dad.
My passport is in my go bag—I’ve never had one of those before—along with a random assortment of clothes that were clean at the time I packed. Too many underwear, not enough pants. When I go to evacuate on Wednesday night, a fire has just popped up a few miles from me in Runyon Canyon. I see the blaze growing rapidly from my window, which is not a thing I’m used to. I quickly throw more loose items in tote bags in haphazard ways; a VHS tape of Singin’ In The Rain, some expensive-ish skincare, my copy of Fleabag: The Scriptures, a banana in case I get hungry?
I guess I should go now.
I’ll turn on my tiny-ass humidifier. That’ll help if the fires come my way, right?
The thing about LA is, you can always find someone to do something with at any time of the day, because we are all unemployed dreamers. Which is nice.
I’m driving around all week because the only way to stop from falling into a bottomless pit of despair is by being active and volunteering. Everyone is helping.
My favorite restaurants are feeding first responders and evacuees for free — day after day after day. Donation drop centers are turning people away until they can sort through the mountains of deodorants and toothpastes and sweatshirts they’ve already received, and volunteer sign-up sheets are full.
People talk a lot of smack about LA and Angelenos from afar; they say that we’re fake or vain or only live here so that we can see a Haim sister from time to time (and I do see them.)
But the people who say that just don’t know. The truth is, everyone here is eager — to make friends, to prove themselves, to work hard, to get across town in a decent amount of time.
And also, clearly, to help. To pack pads and tampons into individual baggies and to sweep up debris from streets and to text their friends and make sure they’re okay, physically and emotionally. To make sure that they know the winds are picking back up so don’t let your guard down yet, and also that Vidiots is showing movies for free in between free puppet shows for kids from from the Bob Baker Marionette Theater.
God, I love LA.
Wow, I think I just called myself an Angeleno. Is that allowed? How long must one have been here to say it? Does nearly four years count? I’m doing it anyway.
It’s strange, the lack of empathy for people who lived in the Palisades and lost everything. As if wealth or social stature or celebrity or any of those things mean you didn’t take pride in your home. That you didn’t earn it. That you can’t be sad that you lost all the cards your child made for you on every Mother’s Day, forever. That money or name recognition somehow make it okay that you don’t know where you’ll lay your head tonight.
People online are treating it like an “eat the rich” moment, I’m told. It’s gross.
I didn’t know much about the history of Altadena before the Eaton Fire. I didn’t know that it was a historically Black community, one of the first middle-class Black communities in America. Did you know Black families represent 21 percent of the Eaton Fire victims, even though they make up only 8 percent of LA?
I didn’t know any of that, until now. I wish I’d known it sooner.
I also didn’t know that State Farm could just decide it didn’t want to insure people’s homes anymore, since the risk was too high. What exactly is insurance for, then? Apparently having a home at all in California is the equivalent of a pre-existing condition.
Everyone here is grieving, and everyone here is tired.
My back hurts. My chest is tight. Is it dangerous air, or am I just on hour 98 of fight-or-flight? Can I fall sleep, is it safe, or are the winds too unpredictable? Will Watch Duty wake me up if need be? Where did Watch Duty come from? It seemed to spring up out of nowhere, which reinforces my occasional concern that we’re living in a simulation. I’d like to thank the people who made it either way.
It’s a weird mind fuck to have to use masks outside, now. When people have asked me to dinner or to hang out in the past week, I respond: sure, as long as it’s inside. It’s confusing for our brains, which had gotten pretty used to the opposite. Now we are all unsure of what dangerous particles could be in the air from burned homes and cars and refrigerators and gas tanks — but I also know at the same time I only really want to be here. So I order a new filter for my air purifier and some more masks.
My favorite thing to do in LA by myself is go for walks, and I’m not sure when it’ll be safe for me to do that again.
Outside has been my sanctuary since coming here, and I don’t like having to be afraid of it. I don’t like keeping a towel at the bottom of my door where there’s a tiny slit that air can get in through. I don’t like not checking on my plants as often as I usually do, lest the scary air get inside. I hope they don’t feel neglected.
Do you have any idea how much diapers cost? I had no idea, until this week. (It’s a lot.)
I never intended to love LA. I only came here because I knew I didn’t want to be in New York and if I wanted to be a comedy writer, I had only one other choice.
People warned me when I arrived: “It will take a while for you to feel comfortable here. You’ll probably feel isolated for a few months. Maybe a year or two. That’s normal.”
I think within six weeks I decided I’d never leave. The sunshine, the warmth, the ocean I go to once a year but appreciate knowing is nearby, the breakfast burritos (the breakfast burritos!!!), the fact that you can watch movies in the cemetery where Judy Garland is buried. It all got me.
Mostly, though, it’s the people. I got lucky with the timing — I arrived in a post-Covid-vaccine world where everyone was starved for human interaction and just wanted to be together. I made friends with my neighbors. We still have regular game nights. I’ve loaned them eggs, and they’ve brought me sugar. Have you ever heard of such a ridiculous thing outside of the confines of a laugh-tracked sitcom?
Can I marry a firefighter? Is there an app for that? Should I make one?
For some people, it’s a really long road ahead. I’m really lucky. I know that.
I’ve been lucky the whole time I’ve been here, really. I’ve formed some of the deepest, most meaningful friendships of my entire life here. In a city of constant rejection, the city has never rejected me. She’s made me feel at home. More than anywhere else I’ve lived, I think.
It’s not going to be the same here now, is it?
No, it isn’t. Not for a while, anyway.
But tomorrow the sun will rise and we’ll be a little bit afraid of the air quality but we’ll show up in droves for our neighbors, anyway. Because we love Los Angeles.
Some resources and funds worth donating to:
World Central Kitchen. The Los Angeles Fire Department. The Red Cross. Pasadena Humane Society. Wildlife Recovery Fund. Pasadena Job Center — where local day laborers are leading the charge to help their neighbors. The (growing) list of companies who are giving things away to fire victims for free. The GoFundMe directory for displaced Black families. The mutual aid directory for displaced Latine families. Mutual Aid Los Angeles volunteering spreadsheet. Altadena Girls, who are helping displaced teenage girls recover a sense of normalcy.
You are a priceless gem. Thank you for this beautiful tribute, essay, missive, opinion piece (it’s so much more than a word). Everyone should be following you.
Perfect newsletter, straight from your heart, thank you.