To Live and Write in L.A.
The above are the paper remnants of my three day jaunt to L.A. The paper will pass into decay, the words, meaning, and purpose? Eternal.
One of the most vexing realities for writers is thinking he has come up with something new and it has been written before. "To live and write in L.A." came to me while I was in the middle of consuming my second cup of poured Ethiopian Coffee (caffeine is my co-author), as a play on the song by Wang-Chung, "To Live and Die in L.A." I also discovered that Tupac had a rap song also titled that. I think Wang-Chung was first. Both songs are really depressing, one in an angst-ridden white-boy way, the other in a ghetto raggedness beatdown.
I googled the phrase and it is the name of a website. There is genius being first. Not a case of premeditated plagiarism on my part because I had no knowledge of the site beforehand.
No new raps under the sun I suppose.
Got back from L.A. late last night, after a five hour delay in Dulles. Greyhound would have been quicker from D.C, to Harrisburg. I have been burned before by connecting flights to Harrisburg because it is a dinky airport and if the one flight gets delayed or cancelled, you are screwed. One horse back home.
Thus, I scheduled a day off today weeks ago to cushion the vagaries of flight to Central Pa. I think as long as I anticipate delays and plan for them, then it gives me peace to ride out the choppiness of it all. It is only when I expect the travel to go like clockwork where I get stressed. Kind of like, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me type of deal.
So, I chilled in Dulles. Drank a beer, tried to sleep unsuccessfully, observed a duo of women on our flight get schnockered and pissed on wine in the interim, talked with a Special Opps helicopter dude who did several overseas tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan (a man not to be messed with) and interacted with a Larry the Cable Guy sort of fella from the South who was funny in that redneck way, and an older gentleman who was a firefighter and a rancher and who had a wealth of wisdom. There were other parties but those were the main actors.
The Special Opps guy was keeping a close eye on an irate passenger who seemed going postal. He made an offhand comment that the Air Marshals might have to do their thing with him. I took that warning seriously from one who has instincts honed by war, Or, maybe, whose innocence and trust has been destroyed? Hard to tell from here...
Day One in L.A.
Landed in LAX and headed off to my hotel about 2 miles away. I wanted to reduce the likelihood of missing my flight back home so I stayed in a place close to LAX. That turned out to be a wise move. I was fairly close to where I needed to be, even though the traffic made the time to places 5X what it would have been without the congestion. I put less than 50 miles on the car's odometer but spent probably five hours in the car driving, stopping, and going. To live and drive in L.A. I didn't want my buddy to have to shuttle me around and given the traffic, a rental car was a must for me to meet-up.
Almost got creamed pulling out the the parking lot of the hotel the first day, which was probably my fault. I couldn't see above the headrest in the backseat of the rental car and had to adjust them down.
Before heading out, I went for a five mile run to the ocean and back in the rain. Passed all the Calis who were in the L.A. Fitness on their equipment. They must have thought me a nut. I am from Pa. Rain is a way of life here. It was a cool and refreshing run with some of the nastiest and steepest hills of all time.
Saw a hit and run where a person in a white car ran into another parked unoccupied white car. And then pulled away. Gee, they have dicks in L.A. too, or divas. Who apparently don't know how to drive in the rain. I got the license plate number and called the L.A. Police who didn't pick-up when I called the general number. Didn't think it warranted a 911 call, but is was still disconcerting that there was no answer at 4:00 PM.
After showering, we met close to the UCLA campus, I saw where Ray Bradbury had composed Fahrenheit 451, The lack of book reading in America is not because of burning, but of cold, apathetic, indifference. Zero degrees, the temperature at which books freeze.
I saw a telling picture of a crowd in the L.A. Times on Sunday morning attending the Stan Lee (of Marvel Comics) talk at the L.A. Times Book Festival where most of the attendees were captured reacting positively to something Lee had uttered, while a young woman in the foreground of the gathering was taking a selfie with one of those sticks, totally disengaged from the looks of it, from the talk.
We also peered into the room where the first email was ever sent, checked out the legendary Pauley Pavilion of the UCLA Basketball Dynasty, and took a leak in a tony neighborhood because I just couldn't hold it any longer. Also, saw part of a stupid farce of a play at the Geffen Theatre. No Death of a Salesman was this. More like Death of Meaning. We rolled at intermission.
Day Two in L.A.
Slept in until 4:30 AM (7:30 Pennsylvania Time). For about 5 hours of total sleep. Headed to Homeboy and Homegirl Industries/Cafe for breakfast and a cappuccino. Been reading a book called Tattoo of the Heart: The Power of Boundless Compassion which is a story of a former priest named "G" who runs several industries to employ youth trying to leave the gangs.
This shirt above reminded me that the deindustrialization of the U.S. and wrong-headed governmental policy that rewards indigence, has had a highly deleterious (not even the right word. Decimating more like) affect on the inner cities. The best cure for waywardness is the purpose and pride found in a job.
I typically shun giving money away to beggars. I think it is demeaning to both the giver and the givee. I will, however, spend my Benjamins to reward at-risk people for doing what they can to better themselves.
I debated taking and then posting this picture. I don't want Mario to feel like a poster child. But, instead, capture his dignity in bettering himself. Homeboy offers free tat removal for those who show that they are in it to win it and leave gangbanging behind. I bought about 50 dollars worth of media and a tee-shirt.
After chomping down breakfast from the Homegirl Cafe, I headed to USC. After parking, I started walking off in the wrong direction towards what started sounding like a revival as I drew closer. And guess what, it was. I headed the other way to the heathen book festival. There is meaning in there somewhere. I have frankly had my fill of the amped-out religiosity of rah-rah evangelical American consumerist Christianity. I will take books any day rather than a Christian Pep Rally.
At the bookfest, my buddy Todd--who is a writer extraordinaire--and I were approached by two women who asked if we were writers. Todd, from hardcore Fundie Pa. Dutch Central PA, has the Cali Writer/Artist look mastered. Me? I look like an ex-jock who enjoys beer a bit too much.
Here is Todd:
Todd has been a very good friend of mine for about two decades. We first met at a party of his at his house in Mt. Gretna which is like an oasis of art in the middle of Dutchyland. He had the same poster in his bedroom as I did of Dr. J. dunking and it was instant friendship from the start. Both of us are former ballers. Todd is pure Cali at this point of his life, at least in image, if not otherwise, although all of us carry our history with us. No matter where we go and do.
See what I mean about his look? I have to think that the two women were being gracious to ask us both if we were writers. I am the Moon to Todd's Sun. He is a best-selling author of books about screenwriting whereas I am a writer who has sold maybe five copies of my book in the last year. I have stuff to say but apparently others could care less if they hear and read it. So it goes. All men think they are special. Most of us are wrong. We have a God-given dignity and purpose, but it might be in scrubbing toilets,
The women approached us about Emerging Voices, a literary fellowship based in L.A., underwritten by PEN (www.penusa.org). In Arthur Miller's autobiography Timebends, he refers a lot to PEN.
"Our mission is to stimulate and maintain interest in the written word, to foster a vital literary culture, and to defend freedom of expression domestically and internationally."
There is a quote from his book that has stuck with me: "We are all loiterers at the station waiting for the train of redemption." Tempting to consider the fellowship but not in my future. I like my job and find fulfillment in it.
Last year, I watched the L.A. Festival of Book on CSPAN 2 whose tagline is "Television For Serious Readers" which is fairly oxymoronic. Being there in person, however, was much more fulfilling and three dimensional. Because there are many speakers at the same time, CSPAN can't record it all. But, BOOKTV is about the only good thing I can say about television outside of PBS and a smattering of other programming. Here I am with BOOKTV's host:
I am the world's biggest book loving policy wonk goofball bar none. So, this was a thrill. I know. LAME.
Most of the events we attended were Panel Conversations. Here is Jerry Stahl, who is a writer of renown (Co-Writes Maron), kind in the ilk of Hunter S. Thompson hell-raisers, who crawled back from the abyss, rather than blow his brains out and explode his remains in fireworks.
This was a discussion about memoir which I found interesting, yet pretty narcissistic. Memoir has a lot of "Me" in it and can become a mirror rather than a window to bigger themes. Writers have big egos, one has to. There is little chance that a literary voice who does not believe in his/her own writing will be taken seriously by anyone outside of his/her mother. Stahl only smiled once during speaking, and it was in reference to something about his mother. Otherwise, he had a jaded but bitterly funny vibe deadpan.
After the bookfest, we headed to Koreatown for some grub. No way I was going to miss the opportunity to eat out in L.A. with the indigenous Asian cuisine.
This was served cool outside of the egg and beef, really great. Healthy too.
Afterwards we hung out in Hollywood and Todd took me to a building, now a cafe, that used to be a recording studio. Todd is a great writer but also an amazing host. He relishes discovery of places that played a role in the culture. Here is where Hendrix, among others, recorded:
Todd played me a soundtrack of songs recorded there. It makes me wonder how a place with so many musical hits becomes a cafe along the lines of a glorified Starbucks. Maybe it is along the lines of video killing the radio star. Kinda sad...
Day Three in L.A.
Day two at the Bookfest started to wear on me a bit but it was still great. I was just worn down from going to bed at LA Time and waking up more on PA time.
Shucks, I was going to name my next book this:
Took a Selfie with the USC Trojan. No stick needed with my long arms. You make the call. Do I look like a Writer?
And a visit to Chinatown for din-din:
Don't be fooled. Although these dishes may look familiar, the taste surpasses the sugary greasy grossness one gets at the local Chinese slophouses all over the land.
Here is a picture of Ross Gay animatedly reading from his book of poetry in the rain to a sparse crowd:
His writing is really poignant and passionate. Poets are prophets, and like prophets, they often speak to those who can hear but not really listen. It was raining, he was enthusiastic, the audience MIA. He deserved better. Interesting fact: He is the older brother of the Principal of the High School where I work. I had a sneaking suspicion that he might be a presenter but I didn't confirm this until I looked through the newspaper of the schedule and saw his picture. Unfortunately, the graphic designer of the layout put his picture in the wrong place, giving the visual impression that he was presenting earlier at 3:30 rather than 5:00.
A lot of writers lack fire when they speak, Gay didn't.
Day Four in L.A.
Riding on the Hertz Bus back to LAX Terminal. The bus driver was great and the Staying Alive song playing loudly (much too loud for 5:00 AM) seemed to capture the visit to L.A. Rather than stay at home and live small, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone into the land of L.A. Staying Alive, indeed! The bus driver found his joy driving a bus...it was a good reminder that joy is a choice and not tied to one's station in life....
I am going to post my notes of the Bookfest here raw. Glean from it what you will:
LA TIMES FESTIVAL OF BOOKS
Joyce Carroll Oates. Writing comes after thinking. Writers verbalize experiences that others stay silent about. Have to go to your unconscious for your dreams but writing is very conscious and deliberate. Same personality but maybe a different writer. Challenges make us more complex. Audience question. Writing is hard. Infinitely postponable. Gravediggers Daughter. Based on Jewish grandmother. Stan Lee. Try to do the thing you like doing. Memoir: a transcendent art. St. Augustine redemption. Writers need to please: Swim to admiration. If you did the research, write the book. Wrote to hide the truth. Jerry Stahl. I am gentle in writing about those that I love. Throes of writing. By the time the book comes out, the damage has been done, so don't worrry about confidentiality. Lawyers think differently about this. Philosophies of memoir writing. Editors are good at being objective. Sarah Hepola. Alcohol depressed the lack of courage. Heroin made me forget there was no net. Jerry Stahl. Art is the lie that reveals the truth. Outrun your voices of fear. Loving every second that is going away. SUNDAY. Susan Orlean Talk # 1. Arson of LA Library is new book. Orchid Thief. Don't really know the world around me. The Floral Ghost. Finishing of flowers. Flower District in NYC. Here is NY. E.B. White. New Yorker. Pulled the trigger. The bullet went into the ether. The Wonder Killer. Google. Do you have the curiosity to ask the question. Encourage people to be curious. Craft. How did you get to be so good. Execution. Big obvious concepts. Not her gig. No narrative engine. She likes the story possibly untold. Grocery Store in Jackson Heights, Queens. Most ethically diverse neighborhood in US. Twitter was a water cooler for her. Take a break. LA feels expansive versus NY feeling hemmed in. Crybabies podcast. Talk 3: Jessica Jackley. Wonderful is to become more comfortable with questions. Leigh Ann Henion. Clair Bidwell Smith. Grief Counselor. Kids marvel over simple things. Listen real carefully to the poor about what they did and what they needed. Unis. Access to capital. www.kiva.org. Lent the money than give it to them. Surf. Cry. Eat. Divorced. The pursuit of opportunity without resources available on hand. The pursuit. Jessica Jackley. Clay, Water, Brick. Howard Stevenson. We travel to understand our home
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