The Freak Factor

There are very few similarities between New York and Los Angeles. The vast difference between the who cities is what provoked my move West in the first place, and what eventually caused me to move back.

It took me 4 years to realize that I cannot run from something that is innately me. And what is innately me is being grumpy in the Winter. Hence, my new, cold digs.

But there do exist a few parallels that I can now see, having lived in both places.

For example:

Sidewalk urination. I’ve witnessed it on both coasts. And no, it wasn’t me!

Diversity. LA is generally tanner, but its rare that you ever see two of a kind in either city.

Fashion. I have a friend (Hi Robs!) who is terrified that she’s not a ‘hip’ enough dresser to make it in either town. Meanwhile, neither am I.

Clubs. Whether you’re clubbing in LA or clubbing in NYC, they all look the same from the inside. Dark.

Red Sox fans. There is no escape. Fortunately.

Hipsters. There is no escape. Unfortunately.

Tourists. Apparently, tourists heart LA as much as they heart NY.

But the number one similarity that I’m convinced doesn’t exist anywhere else in the US, is The Freak Factor.

My theory is that everyone is a little freaky – but not everyone waves the flag. In fact, most people don’t. But in New York City, as well as in Los Angeles, you are free to wave your florescent Freak Flag – and probably no one will notice. And if they do – they won’t care.

The Freak Factor is when being a freak, doesn’t make you a freak at all.

This dawned on me today as I darted out of my office, holding my purse over my crotch, hoping that the streets would be empty during the lunch rush. Its not what you think. I had a little Caesar dressing fight with a piece of lettuce today, and the lettuce won. Too bad for me, I had opted for the fuchsia colored skirt (I know – who wears fuchsia?), which, apparently LOVED Caesar dressing, because it sopped it up, and spread it out, and gave it a little ring around the outside for extra punch.

In a desperate attempt to save the fuchsia skirt, I drenched it in cold water. Before long, it looked as though I had sat in a puddle, backwards.

The timing of all this could not have been more perfect, as this was around 1pm, and I knew that Gertie would soon be watering our rug if I didn’t get home for our lunchtime walk. I could not wait to dry off. I could not ring myself out. I could not get out of the building without passing by our clients, who I didn’t necessarily want to assume that I was in need of a diaper. Sigh.

By the time I hit the pavement outside of my office, I wished to be dead. The streets were teeming with normal looking people who didn’t have stains or wet spots, or a potential bladder control problem. My Freak Flag was flapping in the warm, noontime breeze.

Then, ahead of me, I saw a man in a dress. He was a handsome man, in a pretty red number with spaghetti straps. He had on flats, and blush, and had some pretty impressive pecs. He was with a group of men in suits, giggling. He had lost a bet.

I then passed a woman wearing a unicorn t-shirt, a kid with a Mohawk, and someone in a Lobster costume.

And just like that, I forgot about my stain.

No one batted an eye at me. Nor did anyone bat an eye at them. No one batted any eyes at anyone.

And then it dawned on me: it’s the Freak Factor. There are people in New York who wear gold lame’ spandex outfits. There are people in New York who have purple hair, missing teeth and invisible friends. There are people in New York who wear capes, chaps, wet skirts, dry skirts, and no skirts. There are men in New York who wear dresses – even when they have not lost a bet.

And no one cares.

Therein, lies its greatest likeness to LA. In LA, people will walk down the street looking like Poison, circa 1988. In LA, people will wear bikini tops to the movies. In LA, people will rock breast implants, calf implants, body paint, butt piercings, red shoes, no shoes, and snowshoes on the beach.

The Freak Factor is bi-coastal. The only difference is time zone.

How lucky am I? I can be whatever, whomever, and however I want to be. I can dip my entire body into a vat of Caesar dressing and walk down the street if I’d like – and probably not be the biggest freak I pass. I can then fly to LA and do the same. This would make me stink, but it wouldn’t make me a freak. It would make me me…if I really loved salad dressing.

And that’s what I think is so wonderful about this place – and why I miss LA – it is impossible to judge someone for looking like a freak, because if you, yourself, look too normal – that makes you the odd man out.

Once home, I relieved Gertie, changed into a gray skirt and put on my crazy monkey underwear. Because I’ve got a Freak Flag, too…you just may not be able to see me waving it.