From LaLa Land to Loovul

After living in the land of Botox and Beemers for 30 years, my wife and I recently moved from L.A. (two letters, two syllables) to Louisville (ten letters, two syllables). The most common reaction I get from locals is, “Wow, talk about culture shock!”  as if LaLa Land has all the culture and Loovul has none; which is ridiculous, of course. I mean, the corn hole tournaments ALONE...

 

In fact, in the few months I’ve lived in the Derby City, there are countless things I’ve seen that I never once saw in L.A. – and I don’t just mean the obvious ones like Canada Geese and snowplows.  I’ve marveled at freeway traffic moving at the posted speed limit, gaped slack-jawed at parking spaces directly in front of busy restaurants, and been delightfully stunned by store clerks welcoming me to the city.  I’ve seen ground-level public murals untouched by graffiti, which are as rare as igloos in L.A.  I have been addressed as “sir” by several teenagers who weren’t trying to sell me anything, as in, “Yes, sir. It’s on the left just past ear X-tacy.”  My daughter was once reprimanded in L.A. for calling a junior high school teacher “sir,” as I had taught her. He thought she was mocking him, which gives you an idea of the gentility of the culture from which we escaped.

 

Of course, there are two time zones in Kentucky, which is illustrative of the fact that there are contrasting cultures. For example, when it’s 10 a.m. in Louisville, in Bowling Green it’s 1979.  I did a show at a club there (I’m debating whether to put “Whisky Dick’s” on my resume) where smoking is apparently mandatory.  In California, smokers are publicly vilified and banished to the fringes of society, like steroid users.  In much of Kentucky, smoking is still a time-honored tradition passed down through generations: “What are you, son, about eleven? ‘Bout time you man up, ain’t it?”

 

Lifestyle choices, statutes, social mores – the list of “Things I’ve Seen Here That I Never Saw In L.A.” is fascinating and practically endless. Christian gun shops. Praise Jesus and pass the hollow-points. There must be a Jewish gun shop somewhere in town, but apparently they don’t advertise.

 

Ironically, in the City of Angels there are far more Crips and Bloods than Boy Scouts and choir boys, so as soon as I got there I bought a gun. The nanny state put me through quite an ordeal – background check, waiting period, permit, license, blood test, colonoscopy, brain scan.  Okay, I’m exaggerating a tad, but it was laughable compared to buying a gun here, where they ask you one question: “Will that be cash or credit?” 

 

In fact, the average Californian would be dumbstruck by the array of personal freedoms that Kentuckians take for granted, but of which we are rightly proud. Here, on the very day you turn 21, you can take some of that birthday cash and be packing heat before your hangover has even worn off.  Then you can put that chrome-plated beauty in your saddlebag, get on your motorcycle with NO HELMET, light up a cigarette, DRIVE THROUGH a liquor store and grab a six-pack so you’ll have some bottles to blast away at, rumble into Indiana to the Fireworks Warehouse, pick up enough high explosives to level a mini-mall, head back across the bridge using your free hand to text your buddies where the party’s going to be, and you are locked and loaded for some serious hijinks, my friend. Not only will nobody stop you, but for stimulating the local economy, you might be voted Citizen of the Week. 

 

As a happy transplant, I am proud to say that if you want to kill yourself and have a roaring good time doing it, the Commonwealth of Kentucky will not stand in your way.  God Bless America.