The 10 Types of People Who Move to L.A.

It's only natural.

Complex Original

Image via Complex Original

For a city so universally maligned, Los Angeles sure has a healthy-sized population. Why is it then that hordes of people move to the very place that so many others claim to despise? Sure, people come for work, but L.A. isn’t a mega-slum where millions flock because they have no other options. San Diego’s a two-hour train ride away and has lower unemployment, nicer beaches, and better burritos. People move to L.A. for real, particular reasons—some of them valid, others not-so-much. But rather than explore why L.A. is not-so-secretly wonderful, let’s take a look at the folks who ignore all the terrible things they hear about the smoggy, vapid, soul trap and move their entire precious lives here anyway. Here are the 10 types of people who are crazy enough to move to the City of Angels. Perhaps you have some of their crazy in you too.

The Unsatisfied Overachiever

The cow-town starlet. The big fish in the small pond. You are fucking huge in Minneapolis. And there's a scene there. Oh, there's a good scene. You could go on for decades, celebrated by your community, surrounded by people who love and understand you and your multi-hyphenate talents... Or you could move to L.A. and start from zero. Why would you do that? Because it's all you can think about. Because those people who care about you just want to keep you for themselves, when the whole world should get a taste of your sweet sassy molassy. It could be argued these types are in L.A. for the wrong reasons, and indeed thousands of them make the sad exodus back to their small ponds every year. But they're also the ones who end up household names, so give this crowd a chance—their arrogance could be validated any day now.

The Handsome Cowboy

This Tom/Dick/Harry can't go to the Country Store down the road from his family ranch without every Jane/Jill/Julie in a 10 mile radius tailing his truck to get a peep. He didn't choose to be the local Adonis, but he once read in Boy's Life that pretty people get paid to be pretty in Hollywood. His ranch has a dry year so he moves to L.A. on a lark, where P.T. Anderson's Casting Director sees him at a bus stop and shoves him into stardom. He never suffers and loves L.A. because "everyone's so nice" and his infinity pool in the hills is "real neat."

The Runaway

This person has seen some shit and you don't want to hear about it. You think you do, but you don't. They ride trains without tickets. They own a knapsack—not for fashion, but for holding their life together. They already left Las Vegas. The beauty of L.A. for these types is that no one will know what they've been through and no one will care. That, and gambling's illegal so that should help keep them on an even keel for awhile. Anyone in L.A. who is stubbornly vague about their background ("just the Midwest, okay?!") has some runaway in them. And they're not just Americans: L.A. has the largest concentration of Mexicans outside of Mexico, Koreans outside of Korea, Samoans outside of Samoa... They're all running away from something (in these cases Mexico, Korea, and Samoa), and finding home in LA.

The Sunshine Maven

Perhaps the simplest brand of transplant, the Sunshine Maven is from the cold, is rightfully skeptical of Florida, and figures if any place is nice enough to be a tax attorney, it's probably L.A.. They live near Venice or Santa Monica, cheerfully blast Air Supply the whole traffic-ridden ride home, and eventually defect to Arizona after a particularly gray month of June gloom disillusions them. Ask them about the weather for a quick pick-me-up.

The Loner Artist

Some creative hermits don't feel truly isolated unless they're pressed against a massive city they can't identify with. The Loner Artist is drawn to the refuge of Highland Park, Atwater Village, and other yet-undiscovered pre-burgeoning neighborhoods. They pilfer thrift stores for the suede and ornamental stones of bygone eras. They either take public transit, ride vintage road bikes, or take immense pride in their smog-exempt death trap of a vehicle. But the real reason these musicians/artists/writers are all here is that when it's time to wriggle out of their cozy Eastside shells, they can show their work in a world-class venue/gallery/coffee shop and be home in time for the vegan maple flax cookies their roommate baked. May eventually move back to Brookland or Portlyn.

The Mechanic

This one's simple. If you're into working on cars, from scuffed Maseratis to sputtering Mazdas, L.A. is your Shangri-La. Come bask in its greasy glory.

The Industry Careerist

These life-is-but-a-gamers are the types who somehow don't feel awkward saying a commercial needs another black guy and then telling the best actor at the audition that he's a little too black for the part. They may not know much about art or culture, but they do know that Pacific Rim cost $190 million to make and some people bought super-dope houses with that money. They'd like a super-dope house too, please. Call them leeches, but they make the city tick, and some of them actually end up influencing global culture in positive ways. (Others just renew Honey Boo Boo for a fourth season.) C'est la guerre!

The Hip Hop Head

Hear Kendrick and Snoop shout "West Coast" and "L.B.C." enough times and you might start to Google map a thing or two. It may even sound like you should quit being a poser and move your whole life to Compton. Then one day you get back to your cheap-as-hell South Central 2-bedroom after a night of camping on Fairfax to buy limited-edition Jordans, gaze upon your starter cap collection, wondering if that bang was a Glock or an Impala backfiring, and think to yourself, "I finally made it."

The Big Fan

Some people just want to be close to the action. A good way of doing that in L.A. is to associate with lights or camera, post-production or business affairs, or a studio or a network. Unlike The Industry Careerist, The Big Fan comes to L.A. for the love of the show, the star, the buzz, and is happy just to work and live in close proximity to all that. Often they get jaded and turn to careerism over fandom. Then again, they might manage a Star Maps company, live in the Valley and feel the fame but maintain their sanity. It's all here for you fanboys and girls—just don't follow anyone home.

The Weirdo

Unlike The Unsatisfied Overachiever, literally no one in your hometown understands or supports you. "Why are you doing that dumb thing you do?" they ask rhetorically. But fear not, weirdo, because in L.A. someone will understand you. And then rent you rollerblades. And then an entire community called Venice will tacitly tolerate your public display of freakdom. So give that flag a twirl and see how you fare in the city that will put up with pretty much anything. Think of Los Angeles as a bizarro New York: In L.A., if you can't make it here, you can't make it anywhere.