So we meet again, and the Case for the Selfishness of LA Transplants

It's been awhile.
But it's definitely good to have you back.

I am grateful for having a beautiful, sparkling, full, private bath! It feels like ages since I've had one.
Yes, faithful blog readers, I've moved! Finally!
I've upgraded to a bigger bedroom, massive closet, and private bathroom. I've slept in my new apartment without first spraying on some bug repellent.

It's really the little things in life.

There is this one barking dog outside my window...but don't worry, I'm happier here.

The Case for the Selfishness of LA Transplants

You could say that I pride myself in my independence. It's practically dripping in terms of my decisions, speech, criticism, etc. I'm not married and I don't have kids - it's a selfish time. I'm a twentysomething professional looking to move up and rock out.

I know there are many that fall into that category - moved from their hometown to the city of Los Angeles (or, in my case, "beautiful downtown Burbank" - really? "beautiful"? I'll save that for another entry), leaving family and friends and all securities behind, bracing for hell or highwater in the almighty pursuit of the Hollywood dream. That dream being starry-eyed actors, writers, directors, agents, producers, managers, all-around rock stars to grace the front page of something or get the golden recognition of their names in some rolling credits which would be sufficient to get some wordplay back home in Boonietown, Pennsylvania. Doesn't mean that disappointment burns any less when it hits the ambitious, smart, and empowered independent type.
But I digress.

As a transplant, you're the expat. In a city filled with expats. Your life is here, your family's, way - over- there. To date I've had four friends and one family member visit - out of three immediate family members. I've also lived in LA for three years. Three years! Yeah. I know.

What aggravates me is the fact that two of my immediate family members - my brother and my father - have not made any semblance of any real effort to visit me since I've moved 3,000 miles west. I've clocked in probably four to six visits to them in that time. That's right - struggling Assistant stuff - spending time and money to go see my family, because it's worth it to me. But they don't do the same for me.

They talk (and talk) about me visiting them the next time, "When are you coming home ?" (Is this even a valid reference anymore, seven years after I've lived with them?)

My response is usually along the lines of: "When are you visiting me? You have not visited me once in three years. It's your turn."
Brother/Father/Mother shameless defending said Brother & Father:(when it's not the usual "I have work, no one else can cover me..." it's): "You should come home. More people will be able to see you."
Me: "No. They won't. Everyone is working and they're not taking any days off while I'm in town. I'm the only one who's been visiting and yes, taking off days from work."
Brother/Father/Mother: "Come on, you can come home, you can always visit family."
My response: "Well, I guess I just don't want to anymore."
Brother/Father/Mother: "That's just selfish."
Brother/Father/Mother: "Well then, everyone else has been selfish for three years. I'm going to be selfish now. It's your turn to visit me."
Father's usual response (sounding distant): "Maybe (which we both know means nunca), sometime, when I've retired..."

Fucking A.

Even when the perfect opportunity presents itself - my brother's excessively large remaining amount of vacation days, my father's once-in-a-lifetime occurrence of not having to work for two whole days - still they do not visit me here. They can't get out of their own skin and horribly trapped comfort level of being in their own neighborhood, in their own comfort zone, where they have control of their surroundings and know all there is to know about town. I'm the baby of the family whose left everything, it would be nice to know that at least there is SOME interest in seeing the life that I'm living.

So, selfishness on two counts - them, for not flying out to LA to visit (not even a freaking weekend! Two days, hombre!); and me, for wanting them to come visit me. Seriously? Is it that selfish of me? Is that selfishness? If so, then, so be it. Call me the selfish monster. I stand unashamed.

The most upsetting is probably what most recently occurred - that, given the opportunity to travel and visit his only daughter, my father didn't take it.

Ouch. My father's and brother's indifference. Makes for a writer's creative fodder for motifs and characterizations, I suppose. Ah, the emotional baggage which defines an artist.

A much longer post than I anticipated. This is gonna be a heavy issue on my personality palate, huh?

No, I'm not planning on flying back East for the holidays.