I first visited Los Angles while on medical leave during my time in the army. I wasn’t here for fun. Hell, I wasn’t here for anything other than to hit pause for a bit—give my body time to recover. But somewhere between the palm trees, the sunshine, and the kinda people who look like they just stepped off a movie set, I got hooked.
It wasn’t some slow burn. It was immediate. I knew right then that I wasn’t going to be able to walk away from this place.
Everything was a cliche, sure. The palm trees were real. The women? Stunning. The vibe? Like I had wandered onto some glamorized version of reality. Honestly, it felt like stepping into one of those old-school movie sets—except there wasn’t a director or a script telling anyone what to do. People just were, like they belonged here, like they were all part of this surreal dream.
Fast forward to when my time in the Army ended. I threw whatever I could fit into my little two-door Jeep, said goodbye to Texas, and made the long-ass drive from the middle of nowhere to the chaos of LA. If the city was a dream, it sure as hell wasn’t the sweet kind.
When I first arrived, the first thing I noticed? The city doesn’t stop. Ever. It moves at a pace that’s unpredictable, and trust me, you’ll never be able to keep up. There’s no rhythm here, no common beat everyone marches to. It’s like being dropped into a world where every person is doing their own thing—and no one gives a shit if it all connects. There’s no collective pulse, no shared sense of urgency.
Gone are the days of Texas’ slow drawl and “how’s your mama?” It’s every man, woman, and dog for themselves. Everyone’s a character, playing their part—but no one’s really in sync. It’s not friendly or unfriendly—it’s just… indifferent.
The place? It’s an unchoreographed jam session, full of talented players, all doing their own thing. It sounds messy, but it kind of works, too.
This city doesn’t care if you’re here or not. If you don’t find your place? Tough shit. But if you do? It’ll reward you in ways you can’t even imagine.