Home Sweet Sucks Home
I don’t like Glendale.
It feels like sacrilege to be on record about it. But I don’t like where I live. Probably the god awful heat that’s bringing it out of me at this moment. (Amazingly enough, it only got up to 91 today. I’ll have 107 to look forward to in weeks to come.)
I’m regularly bopping around Los Angeles. From Pasadena to West Hollywood, I’m all over the city and am happy as a clam wherever I go. But here in Glendale, I’m crabby about the heat, bitching about the construction across the street and bitter about the freeway noise.
Yes, the traffic in Los Angeles is bad, but why am I only screaming when I get to Glendale? You see, it’s my assertion that in Glendale, it’s not the traffic, it’s the drivers. What are they doing? And why won’t they move when they have the opportunity?
A whopping 54% of the population here in Glendale is foreign born. Stop and think a moment about that, will you? That means most of my community is deep set into their own culture, clinging primarily to themselves and those of their own nationality. For a white guy from Kentucky, Glendale is not a friendly place.
A couple of years ago when I was selling insurance, I had an appointment with a woman at a local café. When she learned I lived in Glendale, she about dropped her croissant.
You live in Glendale? How do you put up with all those Armenians.
Her question had me flummoxed given the woman’s name was Noushik Narakalajian.
Oh yes, she said, I’m Armenian. But my husband and I moved to Valencia. I can’t take Glendale. The people are awful. Just awful.
I used to tell the joke that going to the bank in Glendale was like standing in a bread line: old men scolding their grandchildren for their youth, women hunched over with grim, sour faces… and those were the bank tellers!
Mrs. Narakalajian’s words at the café were somewhat comforting. To hear myself single out a culture and make generalizations has me filled with shame. After all, I’m the guy who ranted against the racist comments of my ex-brother-in-law who regularly railed against African-Americans to his teenage boys, then chuckled proudly to himself. “Oh, come on! I’m just joking!”
If it weren’t for my great apartment and its proximity to work, I’d stop bitching and move to Valencia. Mrs. Narakalajian and I could enjoy golf lessons in our white bread suburban planned communities. We’d see each other at backyard barbeques and pat ourselves on the backs for our successful melting pot here in "Los Angeles!"
And once we’re each suitably buzzed, we’d go our separate ways, lock our doors and peek out from behind the blinds at the neighbors and bitch about how the community is going to hell.
It feels like sacrilege to be on record about it. But I don’t like where I live. Probably the god awful heat that’s bringing it out of me at this moment. (Amazingly enough, it only got up to 91 today. I’ll have 107 to look forward to in weeks to come.)
I’m regularly bopping around Los Angeles. From Pasadena to West Hollywood, I’m all over the city and am happy as a clam wherever I go. But here in Glendale, I’m crabby about the heat, bitching about the construction across the street and bitter about the freeway noise.
Yes, the traffic in Los Angeles is bad, but why am I only screaming when I get to Glendale? You see, it’s my assertion that in Glendale, it’s not the traffic, it’s the drivers. What are they doing? And why won’t they move when they have the opportunity?
A whopping 54% of the population here in Glendale is foreign born. Stop and think a moment about that, will you? That means most of my community is deep set into their own culture, clinging primarily to themselves and those of their own nationality. For a white guy from Kentucky, Glendale is not a friendly place.
A couple of years ago when I was selling insurance, I had an appointment with a woman at a local café. When she learned I lived in Glendale, she about dropped her croissant.
You live in Glendale? How do you put up with all those Armenians.
Her question had me flummoxed given the woman’s name was Noushik Narakalajian.
Oh yes, she said, I’m Armenian. But my husband and I moved to Valencia. I can’t take Glendale. The people are awful. Just awful.
I used to tell the joke that going to the bank in Glendale was like standing in a bread line: old men scolding their grandchildren for their youth, women hunched over with grim, sour faces… and those were the bank tellers!
Mrs. Narakalajian’s words at the café were somewhat comforting. To hear myself single out a culture and make generalizations has me filled with shame. After all, I’m the guy who ranted against the racist comments of my ex-brother-in-law who regularly railed against African-Americans to his teenage boys, then chuckled proudly to himself. “Oh, come on! I’m just joking!”
If it weren’t for my great apartment and its proximity to work, I’d stop bitching and move to Valencia. Mrs. Narakalajian and I could enjoy golf lessons in our white bread suburban planned communities. We’d see each other at backyard barbeques and pat ourselves on the backs for our successful melting pot here in "Los Angeles!"
And once we’re each suitably buzzed, we’d go our separate ways, lock our doors and peek out from behind the blinds at the neighbors and bitch about how the community is going to hell.
posted by "Harold" at 11:36 PM
1 Comments:
Whoa! glendale sounds a lot like Singapore...
I am probably just undergoing the 2nd phase of "culture shock" (unwarranted criticism of culture and people according to some expat guide I read)but it's hard to ignore how racist a lot of the locals can be...ugh!
Post a Comment
<< Home