The night is in this living room-cum-dining room, in the three low light bulbs above me at the dining room table, its depressed light barely making an effort to be bolder than the darkness. The light reaches as far as the bird cage nearest to the TV in the living room portion of this long room and then it gives up. It's about right for this hour, getting near 1 a.m.
The night is also at the community pool across from the patio, not yet open to the residents for the season. It's not quite that temperature that merits late-night hours for teenagers by the pool, in the pool, and in the spa. I wish the mallard duck that I've seen at the pool the past few nights was there tonight, but it's too cool out there for it. The water looks green now, from nature's sediment, leaves, dirt from duck feet, and certainly duck droppings as well. Whomever takes care of the pool will inevitably have to clean it again. It makes no sense that the lights inside the pool are on when no one's there. Well, no one physically, but mentally, since I'm thinking about it right now.
I know without doubt the night is at the houses I've seen near the foothills across from La Mesa Jr. High, where my dad works. It has always amazed me that people would want to live that far away from everyone else, in a cul-de-sac pushed up against a foothill, one that looks like the same as every other suburban tract in the Santa Clarita Valley. What one finds in Stevenson Ranch suburbia is the same anywhere else here. It's disappointing, considering the landscape, which should demand more from those that live in the shadows of mountains and hills and golden yellow flowers on hillsides. Even some of the trees seem to have given up.
I know it seems I'm rambling, but that's what this night feels like. I wonder what it would be like to look into the doors of the Pavilion's supermarket in Valencia, if not for living in Saugus. We lived in Valencia for a year, in one of the apartment complexes behind the Pavilion's shopping center, but I never thought to wander out at night and see what the inside of a darkened supermarket looks like. I think it's because I would have riled our dog Tigger, and our apartment door didn't have anything that could block him from going out. Not that he ever would, but to me, it was best not to disturb him late at night by doing something like that.
The parking lot in this neighborhood, and the one across the street, I like to think that during these hours, I own the cars and trucks parked there. I can't get into them, nor would I want to, but Toyotas and Hondas and Mazdas and Fords, and F-150s and every other kind of vehicle a formerly $400,000 homeowner can get, they're mine. The tires are mine, the windshields, the tailpipes, the colors. I'm not fond of cars anyway, but I just like that I can have them if I want. I don't want to drive them, but I like looking at them, imagining. It may seem strange to be proud of that when I don't like cars, but they're the first available things I can think of.
I wish my neighbors were more well-read. I wish I could find old issues of The New Yorker in their recycling bins. I wish boxes of books sat beside their garbage bins. There was one night while living in the apartment in Valencia where I was taking garbage out to the dumpster, and there was an abandoned chest of drawers against a wall of the dumpster area, in between the two dumpsters. I opened one of the drawers and found a wealth of books left in there, including one called "Little Green Men" by Christopher Buckley, which I still haven't read, despite moving with it to Saugus. There were others I picked up as well, such as "Closers: Great American Writers on the Art of Selling," which contains an excerpt from the novel "The Competitor" by Thomas Bontly. I've read that excerpt more times than anything else in the book so far, and it impressed me so that I bought the book from Amazon Marketplace. I still haven't read that one either, though I lean toward my literary priorities catapulting me elsewhere rather than harboring the thought that the book might not live up to the high standards set in that excerpt, which I don't.
Loving the night is a complete reversal between me and my sister. When I was little, I was always the one put to bed at an early hour. My dad kept my sister up well into the late hours when she was little and when she was growing up, it was hard to get her to go to bed because of that. Now she's the one who's in bed well before 11 and here I am at 1 a.m., writing this. It's not an unconscious rebellion against having been put to bed that early during those years. But I suppose to me, there's more life at night than there is during the day. There's the expected routines, not just with work, but in errands, food shopping, pumping gas into the car, trying to beat the light at the intersection before it turns red, sighing with a little bit of defeat as the garage door comes down on another day after you've parked inside. Not that I have any experience with the latter, but I imagine it may be commonplace among many. At night, there are shadows all over. The colors of tree leaves and bushes and curbs and streetlight poles during the day, become as dark as the blacktop of the street. There is a hint of what there was during the day, but now it's a landscape for the imagination. People can think sinister of their co-workers to loved ones and friends. People can imagine what they might say to those co-workers if they were witty enough and confident enough. I live in the night because that's where I believe the human soul truly lives. During the day, we try to live up to expectations we've set for ourselves for that day, and that others have set for us too. At night, we are by ourselves as we lay in bed, mulling over the day's events and thinking about what might happen the next day. We may talk to others about the day, but we are thinking only as one person. We may think of ourselves in those hours in relation to others, how certain actions we may plan to undertake might affect ones we care about, such as a car purchase or a possible new job, or anything that "responsibility" calls for. I don't have contempt for responsibility. I know there are elements of that which are crucial to our lives. I just have contempt for the vacuum bag that some keep themselves in because of that. Not all people, mind you, just those, say, in my neighborhood, maybe in your neighborhood. My next-door neighbor for example looks like he's been married for decades, and I know exactly what he does as soon as he gets home. Well, I don't know what he does when he's inside, but after a while, he and his wife go out to dinner, then they come home, then the TV goes on in the living room, at least until 11, and then lights out. I walk the dogs on the patio because of a boxed-in man-made landscape that's a decent simulation of Las Vegas terrain (where we plan to eventually move if the Clark County School District begins hiring teachers again), and they need to learn how to go on that terrain. From the patio, I can see the light on in my neighbor's living room and I know that that's when the TV is on. Almost exactly before 11, the light's off. Routine that can kill.
But I'm not one to embark on a crusade to try to break people out of their routines. So be it if they want to live their lives that way. I have my own and that's the only one that matters within my body. As would be appropriate at 1:22 a.m., I've lost the point I was rumored to be making. In fact, I'm not even sure there was one within the confines of the previous paragraph.
My favorite view of the night is from the side parking lot at the Wal-Mart on Kelly Johnson Parkway in this valley. Don't ask me to say where exactly that is because I don't know. I've not known for five years. I have a theory on how to get there, but not certainty. It's what comes from living where you don't care much about what's here. There hasn't been much reason to chance that. But anyway, the view is unfortunately blocked pretty well by a few tall trees which I don't think were there last year. Without them, you could get a totally clear view of Six Flags Magic Mountain, all the lights of the rollercoasters on. Of course if you're looking for a full, not-totally-straight-on view, then you'd have to walk down the parking lot a bit. My favorite view is not that, though, but all the buildings with lights on the sides, lights shining down on other parking lots, traffic lights seen far up mountains, clusters of houses, all kinds of stories that strike me with wonder. Anything interesting happening at one of the intersection? Any suitably crazy people crossing the street? Any new residents sitting stock-still in their apartments, trying to remember what brought them here? Anyone just standing outside wondering the same thing I'm thinking about?
When I was at The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of the Santa Clarita Valley, I thought about writing a column for the weekend Escape section about wanting to make chalk drawings on the long stretch of street that passes my neighborhood on the way to higher ground and higher elevation neighborhoods. Well, not chalk drawings. That's too small-scale. Alien planet landscapes, portraits, city scenes, a chalk drawing of a better street than ours, whatever. I can't actually draw, but just imagining it was always fun. I didn't write it because I was caught up in working on many other things at the paper, but I think it was more of a column than an actual desire. I sometimes stand on that street at night and just marvel at how quiet it is, how my neighbors and other parts of this suburban hick population (we are far enough away from the hub of this valley that I call where I am the backwoods of Santa Clarita, just like Santa Clarita is essentially the backwoods of Los Angeles, since most of the residents live here only because they don't want to live in L.A., but don't mind commuting every day) drive out in the morning, drive home in the afternoon, like pre-ordained permanent choreography. There are some good neighbors, the few that I've seen. One woman I talked to has lived in my neighborhood for 26 years and that's a relief since I'm always worried whenever the winds get heavy enough, especially the Santa Ana winds. It's one of the reasons I can't wait to move to Las Vegas where, despite the winds at times, at least I'd be living on flatlands, and looking at mountains, not living in them.
There was a big black guy I passed by once on the way back to the house after walking Kitty, and we said hello to one another, and I was pleased at his voice. A relaxed tone, almost like you could imagine him as a trumpeter in a jazz band or even as a soloist. He just had that air about him, like he also lived for these hours, where his inspiration was. No doubt he has a job far different from that, but his presence is one of the rare pleasures of the neighborhood, inspiration found that can help create a character for something. A play, maybe a novel, I don't know yet. I need to start writing more often first. That I know.
Maybe that's what the night is. Jumbled moments and jumbled souls, like this blog entry. It's not meant to always make sense. That's what the daytime is for. It's where Oprah reigns and so does traffic frustration. At night, there's the choice of late-night hosts, rustling through leftovers in the fridge, and sometimes just sitting in the living room, thinking. Or, like me, looking up again at the three dining room fan lights on low and wondering. Just wondering. Wondering about the happiness of my next-door neighbor just because he's next door. I doubt he thinks of me the same way, but it doesn't matter. Nothing will ever hinge on that. For me, these kinds of thoughts just happen. They're better at night.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Night Series: Finally, THE Night
I don't know yet where to put this day among my small collection of perfect days. Do I put it behind the Saturday about two or three years ago where my family and I, and my sister's friend, went to Boomer's Amusement Center in Fountain Valley, then to the Southern-style Po Folks restaurant in Burbank, and capped it all off with an inching-toward-late-night visit to Downtown Disney in Anaheim? Or does it go in front of December 7, 2007 when my mom, my sister and her friend went to the Spice Girls concert at the Staples Center in L.A.? On that day, I woke up at 3 p.m., which I used to not do, finding my Amazon.com order of "I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski: Life, The Big Lebowski, and What-Have-You" on the dining room table. Then, in the mailbox, my order from playscripts.com containing a collection of plays by Nina Shengold, who gives lively voice to weary waitresses and even bags and suitcases at a warehouse full of other luggage either abandoned by their owners or lost by various airlines. Following that, after my dad got home from work, we went to Boston Market for dinner, and finally into the mayhem that was two lanes of traffic approaching the Staples Center, also because Enrique Iglesias was performing next door at the Nokia Theatre. And then, the traffic seemed to disappear as if some invisible force had either chanted something or snapped unseen fingers. My dad and I went to a Staples nearby because he had to look for something, and then we drove around L.A., through Koreatown, and various other parts.
This day, which is rapidly becoming yesterday at three minutes to midnight, had in common the feeling of one activity gliding into another without any conflict with anything else. Strange, because there really wasn't as much going on as there was on the days just mentioned. What made this day perfect from the start was the weather. I went outside with Tigger, one of our dogs, to get the mail and the warmth outside seemed casual, like it was in no rush and didn't have any point to prove. Compare that to summer heat where it's blazing and one wonders what made it pissed off. I know it's science and the seasons and weather patterns, but it's also when you spent very brief foot time on concrete if you're near a pool. If you get out of the pool, you're quick about not dawdling. In that case, you just jump right back in.
I've also used this description in my Facebook profile: "Pleasantly warm." That's how it was. Not too warm to be stifling, not too hot to make you remain in your house until autumn. Plus, there was an omnipresent thin layer of cold that was like a put-upon kid in school asking a bully if he could move so the kid could get through, but soon giving up and just waiting. The cold during the day was never as demanding as it is now, where it feels like the freezer cases of a supermarket. Consider it then the easygoing meshing of two kinds of weather, which I hadn't seen until today. Usually when the sun was out on days before, the cold was the dominant force. But this time, both existed in tandem, though the sun had the slight edge today. And that was fine.
I went online after I got up, checked the usual websites such as Drudge Report, and my e-mail, and then, what else was there to do? I know I should have watched at least one movie today to review, but it didn't feel like that kind of day. Felt like a reading day, and that's what I did, with The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, a novel that I wish didn't have to end. There have been many times where I lose a little bit of faith in the English language, not because of anything that passes for reading online, but because of not feeling any confidence in my writing, which happens often. I opened this book and I found new meaning. That's not to say that I'll suddenly gain permanent confidence in my work, but at least I know the words are there and aren't always that imposing.
I love the end of daylight savings time, because it gets darker later and allows the evening to gradually come forth. The sun seems to go down a bit slower, looking out on a vast stretch of land, regretting the decision, but knowing it has to happen. The evening gets a bigger introduction that way. Silent fanfare.
My evening was rife with the usual business: Job listings to compile for that freelance writing newsletter, listening to the usual and always welcome Disney theme park music on Utilidors Audio Broadcasting (http://www.uabmagic.com/), and then more reading. Now, at 12:31 a.m., it's probably time for a movie. Definitely one to review, to follow a perfect day.
This day, which is rapidly becoming yesterday at three minutes to midnight, had in common the feeling of one activity gliding into another without any conflict with anything else. Strange, because there really wasn't as much going on as there was on the days just mentioned. What made this day perfect from the start was the weather. I went outside with Tigger, one of our dogs, to get the mail and the warmth outside seemed casual, like it was in no rush and didn't have any point to prove. Compare that to summer heat where it's blazing and one wonders what made it pissed off. I know it's science and the seasons and weather patterns, but it's also when you spent very brief foot time on concrete if you're near a pool. If you get out of the pool, you're quick about not dawdling. In that case, you just jump right back in.
I've also used this description in my Facebook profile: "Pleasantly warm." That's how it was. Not too warm to be stifling, not too hot to make you remain in your house until autumn. Plus, there was an omnipresent thin layer of cold that was like a put-upon kid in school asking a bully if he could move so the kid could get through, but soon giving up and just waiting. The cold during the day was never as demanding as it is now, where it feels like the freezer cases of a supermarket. Consider it then the easygoing meshing of two kinds of weather, which I hadn't seen until today. Usually when the sun was out on days before, the cold was the dominant force. But this time, both existed in tandem, though the sun had the slight edge today. And that was fine.
I went online after I got up, checked the usual websites such as Drudge Report, and my e-mail, and then, what else was there to do? I know I should have watched at least one movie today to review, but it didn't feel like that kind of day. Felt like a reading day, and that's what I did, with The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, a novel that I wish didn't have to end. There have been many times where I lose a little bit of faith in the English language, not because of anything that passes for reading online, but because of not feeling any confidence in my writing, which happens often. I opened this book and I found new meaning. That's not to say that I'll suddenly gain permanent confidence in my work, but at least I know the words are there and aren't always that imposing.
I love the end of daylight savings time, because it gets darker later and allows the evening to gradually come forth. The sun seems to go down a bit slower, looking out on a vast stretch of land, regretting the decision, but knowing it has to happen. The evening gets a bigger introduction that way. Silent fanfare.
My evening was rife with the usual business: Job listings to compile for that freelance writing newsletter, listening to the usual and always welcome Disney theme park music on Utilidors Audio Broadcasting (http://www.uabmagic.com/), and then more reading. Now, at 12:31 a.m., it's probably time for a movie. Definitely one to review, to follow a perfect day.
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Night Series: My Next-Door Neighbor's Wife's Windchimes
(I keep promising to begin my "Scraps of Literacy" series, and I must promise once again in order to afford a further delay. Reviews for Screen It, though they pay, suck any desire for writing out of me. I usually need about a day or so to recover from those. Now, you might ask, why would I say that when clearly, I'm writing here, and on another topic? Well, this new series came to me because I love everything the night offers me, provided there aren't coyotes too nearby or wildfires. A calm night like the one outside right now can get me extolling at length all that there at night that shapes my personal landscape. Those "Scraps of Literacy" will come soon, and this time, I promise with an intent to deliver the next time you see "Scraps of Literacy" in an entry)
My next-door neighbor's wife has a set of windchimes hanging from the wooden covering on her patio roof. It's the standard roof for all of the developments here, except she and her husband have their covering. This property, and the one across from us with the sidewalk to the pool and walls separating us, does not. Imagine it as a half-finished wood shop project with white-painted beams and rafters, but not all the rafters put into place, and none of the covering. Apparently, it was a decision by the home owners' association, though it stretches back farther than we've been here. This is what we've lived with, and it's fine, since I don't care much about this place. That's not to say I don't like it. I live here, there's a ceiling over me and a roof above that, and that's fine. But there's no feeling of a connection, and as expected from me, that's suitable for another entry. I have to update that list.
The windchimes are seen thusly: The longest rod is on the left, a shorter one is in the middle, and the shortest is on the right. I've no idea if there are anymore behind those. I don't know anything about windchimes beyond the nerve-wracking sounds they make (only nerve-wracking here, and that reason's coming), but I'm assuming that from my vantage point, the ball or disc that drags across the windchimes to make the sound rests in the middle. I don't know. I'm not going to get closer to my neighbor's patio than where I go on my own patio to walk my dogs (training for Las Vegas piddles, since the gravel on our patio is a fair approximation of the landscape there).
I hate her windchimes. When I'm in my bed and I hear them, I want to pull the covers further over me and try to sleep until the wind finally calms down. I'm not a native, and I can't handle those gusty winds. I've lived through five wildfire seasons. The first one saw ash raining down when we were living in an apartment in Valencia. In October of 2007, we were evacuated for thankfully only most of the day when there was concern that the Buckweed fire (started by a kid with matches) might reach us. It didn't, but it's not an ideal area to evacuate from, considering that there's only one road to use to exit, and many other developments within this area. I had never been so truly scared in my life, not even during hurricanes in Florida. But we got lucky in all the years we lived there because only the feeder bands of all of the storms struck us. Obviously, hurricanes have been more dangerous since we left, and there are other reasons I probably wouldn't move back to Florida (my home state, and I miss many parts of it), but I never felt this kind of fear.
Then there was last November, seeing fire on mountains and thick smoke in the sky. I didn't know how close these mountains were and from where I was standing on my patio, they looked like they might have been close enough. But the next day, my parents and I went out and we saw that these fires were on the mountains in Canyon Country. That far away, yet distance is relative in this valley. You can never be sure because of skewed vantage points like the one from my patio.
Each time, there were the Santa Ana winds, blowing and blowing, and making my neighbor's wife's windchimes sound louder and more determined, as if they had decided to suddenly play a symphony right there. I've always felt extremely uneasy whenever these winds are around. My stomach decides to grow a monster during that time, and I'm always hoping that nothing horrid happens, but always worried whenever I see on the news that something has flared up elsewhere. I wish that she'd get rid of those windchimes, but unfortunately, they also serve as a barometer as to how bad the winds are. It's the most complex relationship between a man and windchimes.
I want to move to Las Vegas already, and this is one of the reasons. Vegas is flat land and when the winds blow there, there's not as much to worry about. Plus, I'd be looking at mountains, not living in them. That's the other worry about living here when the Santa Anas are around. Vegas presents its own set of worries, I'm sure, but since I have no attachments to this valley, sentimental or otherwise, I'll be happy when it comes time to move. Particularly since I feel like Vegas is my home. It's everything I've wanted from humanity, that ability to relax without being so uptight about whether something is "morally right." It's hedonism in the desert. Unfortunately, it's not impervious to the shaky economy, but education is still needed there and that's where my dad comes in. I just hope they start hiring soon.
My next-door neighbor's wife has a set of windchimes hanging from the wooden covering on her patio roof. It's the standard roof for all of the developments here, except she and her husband have their covering. This property, and the one across from us with the sidewalk to the pool and walls separating us, does not. Imagine it as a half-finished wood shop project with white-painted beams and rafters, but not all the rafters put into place, and none of the covering. Apparently, it was a decision by the home owners' association, though it stretches back farther than we've been here. This is what we've lived with, and it's fine, since I don't care much about this place. That's not to say I don't like it. I live here, there's a ceiling over me and a roof above that, and that's fine. But there's no feeling of a connection, and as expected from me, that's suitable for another entry. I have to update that list.
The windchimes are seen thusly: The longest rod is on the left, a shorter one is in the middle, and the shortest is on the right. I've no idea if there are anymore behind those. I don't know anything about windchimes beyond the nerve-wracking sounds they make (only nerve-wracking here, and that reason's coming), but I'm assuming that from my vantage point, the ball or disc that drags across the windchimes to make the sound rests in the middle. I don't know. I'm not going to get closer to my neighbor's patio than where I go on my own patio to walk my dogs (training for Las Vegas piddles, since the gravel on our patio is a fair approximation of the landscape there).
I hate her windchimes. When I'm in my bed and I hear them, I want to pull the covers further over me and try to sleep until the wind finally calms down. I'm not a native, and I can't handle those gusty winds. I've lived through five wildfire seasons. The first one saw ash raining down when we were living in an apartment in Valencia. In October of 2007, we were evacuated for thankfully only most of the day when there was concern that the Buckweed fire (started by a kid with matches) might reach us. It didn't, but it's not an ideal area to evacuate from, considering that there's only one road to use to exit, and many other developments within this area. I had never been so truly scared in my life, not even during hurricanes in Florida. But we got lucky in all the years we lived there because only the feeder bands of all of the storms struck us. Obviously, hurricanes have been more dangerous since we left, and there are other reasons I probably wouldn't move back to Florida (my home state, and I miss many parts of it), but I never felt this kind of fear.
Then there was last November, seeing fire on mountains and thick smoke in the sky. I didn't know how close these mountains were and from where I was standing on my patio, they looked like they might have been close enough. But the next day, my parents and I went out and we saw that these fires were on the mountains in Canyon Country. That far away, yet distance is relative in this valley. You can never be sure because of skewed vantage points like the one from my patio.
Each time, there were the Santa Ana winds, blowing and blowing, and making my neighbor's wife's windchimes sound louder and more determined, as if they had decided to suddenly play a symphony right there. I've always felt extremely uneasy whenever these winds are around. My stomach decides to grow a monster during that time, and I'm always hoping that nothing horrid happens, but always worried whenever I see on the news that something has flared up elsewhere. I wish that she'd get rid of those windchimes, but unfortunately, they also serve as a barometer as to how bad the winds are. It's the most complex relationship between a man and windchimes.
I want to move to Las Vegas already, and this is one of the reasons. Vegas is flat land and when the winds blow there, there's not as much to worry about. Plus, I'd be looking at mountains, not living in them. That's the other worry about living here when the Santa Anas are around. Vegas presents its own set of worries, I'm sure, but since I have no attachments to this valley, sentimental or otherwise, I'll be happy when it comes time to move. Particularly since I feel like Vegas is my home. It's everything I've wanted from humanity, that ability to relax without being so uptight about whether something is "morally right." It's hedonism in the desert. Unfortunately, it's not impervious to the shaky economy, but education is still needed there and that's where my dad comes in. I just hope they start hiring soon.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Where are You, Admired Writer?
Where are you, John Rowell, the author of the gay short-story collection, "The Music of Your Life"? I grew so attached to your book after checking it out twice from my local library a few years ago, I bought it from Amazon, and I had hoped that with all that time passing, you would have set up at least a blog to keep the world apprised of any writing projects that may lead to seeing your name on a book cover again. All I have to go on is the interview you did for Barnes & Noble at the time of your book's release, and your own book recommendations, which I'm still using. Not that I mind basking often in the radiance of your personality throughout those stories, but I want something new. I want more of that personality, that elegance of voice, and that assured style. Come on, man, where are you? Perhaps you think keeping a blog is too vain, but you do have fans. Well, at least me. That's one I know of.
Speaking of fans, where are the others who like "Subways are for Sleeping" by Edmund G. Love? It's a multi-story chronicle of the homeless living ingeniously on the streets, the fire escapes, the flophouses, and the subways of New York City, and though Love has a straightforward writing style, his observations are fascinating. Not that I need a community to appreciate more the people profiled in this book, but I'm just curious. It's like whenever I watch "My Dinner with Andre"; I always wonder how many people in the world might be watching it at the same time.
I'll get to those "scraps of literacy" soon enough. It's just been one of those down weeks, and so was the week before this one. It stems from whenever I set out to write a movie review for Film Threat, that feeling of intimidation in writing for such a prestigious site, one that looks out for all indie filmmakers who want their work noticed somewhere. And it should be us, since the name has long been synonymous with giving independent filmmakers due attention, starting with the magazine years ago.
I always hope for the kind of review that comes from something in a film, some hook that lets the entire review spill forth without having to do any "real writing," that is, thinking hard about what to say. Plus I've become perhaps a bit too obsessive over making sure that the writing reads well, which isn't such a bad thing, but it started with my editor's observation that I use too many commas and not enough periods. I'm mindful of that now, but I fear reading over a piece too much, even after letting it sit for about a day, worried that any perceived freshness will be sucked right out of it. I don't know. Maybe it is that, maybe it isn't. Maybe I just need to write more and in turn, be less cautious and more fearless. Being cautious is good, but not so much that it threatens to choke off your creativity. I'll get it together again soon.
Speaking of fans, where are the others who like "Subways are for Sleeping" by Edmund G. Love? It's a multi-story chronicle of the homeless living ingeniously on the streets, the fire escapes, the flophouses, and the subways of New York City, and though Love has a straightforward writing style, his observations are fascinating. Not that I need a community to appreciate more the people profiled in this book, but I'm just curious. It's like whenever I watch "My Dinner with Andre"; I always wonder how many people in the world might be watching it at the same time.
I'll get to those "scraps of literacy" soon enough. It's just been one of those down weeks, and so was the week before this one. It stems from whenever I set out to write a movie review for Film Threat, that feeling of intimidation in writing for such a prestigious site, one that looks out for all indie filmmakers who want their work noticed somewhere. And it should be us, since the name has long been synonymous with giving independent filmmakers due attention, starting with the magazine years ago.
I always hope for the kind of review that comes from something in a film, some hook that lets the entire review spill forth without having to do any "real writing," that is, thinking hard about what to say. Plus I've become perhaps a bit too obsessive over making sure that the writing reads well, which isn't such a bad thing, but it started with my editor's observation that I use too many commas and not enough periods. I'm mindful of that now, but I fear reading over a piece too much, even after letting it sit for about a day, worried that any perceived freshness will be sucked right out of it. I don't know. Maybe it is that, maybe it isn't. Maybe I just need to write more and in turn, be less cautious and more fearless. Being cautious is good, but not so much that it threatens to choke off your creativity. I'll get it together again soon.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Circuit City Fingers-Crossed Sale: The Results Show
Copies of "Witness for the Prosecution"? I was already overconfident in thinking that there might be even one copy at the Stevenson Ranch Circuit City. But, as it turns out, I was also overconfident in thinking that there might be all four volumes of "Futurama" there, waiting for me.
Instead, I found a Chuck Norris movie. I don't remember the title. I also spotted Seinfeld: Season 9, Everybody Loves Raymond: Season 9, Grey's Anatomy: Season 4, about seven copies of "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," along with a stray copy or two sitting among the CDs that couldn't be sold, and what felt to me like miles and miles of empty shelves, too long and disappointing to walk, yet I did it four times on the off chance that I might have missed something, that what I wanted was perhaps sitting behind another DVD case. I looked behind some of the DVD cases on my third go round. Nothing. Yet there were other customers walking past me holding stacks of DVDs. Some of what they were holding, such as "Catch and Release," starring Jennifer Garner, made me think that they were buying just to buy. "Oh my god, look! A total bargain! I have to buy this. I want that feeling of having bought something at a severely discounted price. I can't live a day without that feeling."
Yes, I'm a little bitter. But Mom was right: They get all the good stuff out of the way before total liquidation, and what remains is what discerning movie buffs and music fans would never buy. Being a discerning movie buff, I wasn't interested in any of what they had. There was "Air Force One," but in fullscreen and I don't go for that. Had there been a copy of "The Hunt for Red October," I might have bought that, despite spending nearly a week with it for a review for Screen It (parent-oriented review, so all details about violence, profanity, and blood and gore are required in list form in different categories), but I really enjoyed it, especially that level of intelligence in a suspense film.
However, there were some good things about spending time at Circuit City not at all finding what I originally wanted. I read the back of a triple-disc pack of "Psycho II," "Psycho III," and "Psycho IV," and now I'm curious about them (Netflix for the first two, VHS copy from the library for the third), and I got new headphones. It was quite apparent I needed new ones because the black fabric over one of the ears had fallen to the side and in order to wear them comfortably, I had to stretch the fabric over that ear and put them on while holding down that bit of fabric so it would stay. Obviously new ones were necessary.
I found them, stereo headphones, they work well and with thicker fabric over the ears as opposed to the thinner ones before (now thrown out), I can turn the volume up on the computer a bit more and it won't be too loud. It's the only reliable item you can get there that you won't get stuck with, since they don't accept returns now. $9.99 at 30% off comes to about $6.99 plus tax, so I did ok with these. And I don't have to again go through the ritual described above. That reason alone is worth it.
I'll just hope for "The Noel Coward Collection" to eventually come down in price on Amazon, and....wait! $6.20 for "California Suite" on Deep Discount (http://www.deepdiscount.com/) instead of $9.95 on Amazon, with free shipping from Deep Discount instead of the price paid for shipping for orders under $25 on Amazon? With how large my wishlist is becoming, I may have to switch my allegiance. On some DVDs at least.
Instead, I found a Chuck Norris movie. I don't remember the title. I also spotted Seinfeld: Season 9, Everybody Loves Raymond: Season 9, Grey's Anatomy: Season 4, about seven copies of "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," along with a stray copy or two sitting among the CDs that couldn't be sold, and what felt to me like miles and miles of empty shelves, too long and disappointing to walk, yet I did it four times on the off chance that I might have missed something, that what I wanted was perhaps sitting behind another DVD case. I looked behind some of the DVD cases on my third go round. Nothing. Yet there were other customers walking past me holding stacks of DVDs. Some of what they were holding, such as "Catch and Release," starring Jennifer Garner, made me think that they were buying just to buy. "Oh my god, look! A total bargain! I have to buy this. I want that feeling of having bought something at a severely discounted price. I can't live a day without that feeling."
Yes, I'm a little bitter. But Mom was right: They get all the good stuff out of the way before total liquidation, and what remains is what discerning movie buffs and music fans would never buy. Being a discerning movie buff, I wasn't interested in any of what they had. There was "Air Force One," but in fullscreen and I don't go for that. Had there been a copy of "The Hunt for Red October," I might have bought that, despite spending nearly a week with it for a review for Screen It (parent-oriented review, so all details about violence, profanity, and blood and gore are required in list form in different categories), but I really enjoyed it, especially that level of intelligence in a suspense film.
However, there were some good things about spending time at Circuit City not at all finding what I originally wanted. I read the back of a triple-disc pack of "Psycho II," "Psycho III," and "Psycho IV," and now I'm curious about them (Netflix for the first two, VHS copy from the library for the third), and I got new headphones. It was quite apparent I needed new ones because the black fabric over one of the ears had fallen to the side and in order to wear them comfortably, I had to stretch the fabric over that ear and put them on while holding down that bit of fabric so it would stay. Obviously new ones were necessary.
I found them, stereo headphones, they work well and with thicker fabric over the ears as opposed to the thinner ones before (now thrown out), I can turn the volume up on the computer a bit more and it won't be too loud. It's the only reliable item you can get there that you won't get stuck with, since they don't accept returns now. $9.99 at 30% off comes to about $6.99 plus tax, so I did ok with these. And I don't have to again go through the ritual described above. That reason alone is worth it.
I'll just hope for "The Noel Coward Collection" to eventually come down in price on Amazon, and....wait! $6.20 for "California Suite" on Deep Discount (http://www.deepdiscount.com/) instead of $9.95 on Amazon, with free shipping from Deep Discount instead of the price paid for shipping for orders under $25 on Amazon? With how large my wishlist is becoming, I may have to switch my allegiance. On some DVDs at least.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Circuit City Fingers-Crossed Sale
Tomorrow, I will be the vulture picking at the carcass on the desert floor. I will hop around it, looking for those crevices where the most beneficial things lie. I will peck and peck, hoping to break down that which is hardest.
I'm going to Circuit City to see what's left of their merchandise. Earlier in the week, I heard that all DVDs are now 50% off and I have to go. I need to go. My growing wishlist (see "A Partial Wishlist") demands it.
I highly doubt they will have "The Noel Coward Collection" in stock, but what a joy it would be if they do. I wouldn't be disappointed if not, as I'm also looking for "Witness for the Prosecution," "California Suite," "The Thomas Crown Affair (1968)," and "Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie," which had been on sale on Amazon.com for $8.49 towards the end of December, but by the time I decided to order that and "My Blueberry Nights," it was already back to $14.99. "My Blueberry Nights" remained at $8.99, and I wasn't going to let that pass.
Because of the overwhelming appeal of DVDs sold at 50% off, I thought harder about what else I wanted. The four volumes of "Futurama" came to mind, especially because of those episodes airing on Cartoon Network, and being reminded of how continuously funny and literate they are. I'm not putting too much faith in them being available at this Circuit City in Stevenson Ranch, because they'd obviously be more popular than my desire for "Witness for the Prosecution" and the others, but they're on my list. Maybe I'll get that lucky.
Then I thought about "The Simpsons." I own the four seasons from the start, then a huge gap, as I also own season 9, which I requested, but I never requested 8, 7, 6 and 5. Or at least I thought I didn't.
For a few weeks in January, I decided that I wanted to Tivo "The Simpsons" every night. Before that, I watched it once in a great while. I still have old assignments from 1st grade and in one of them, inside clip art of a TV, I drew "The Simpsons" in crayon. Badly, but they're there, in overdone yellow. Maybe that triggered sudden daily viewings of "The Simpsons."
One episode I saw during those weeks was 'Round Springfield,' where Bart unknowingly eats the jagged metal prize in a box of Krusty-O's, ending up in the hospital. Lisa spots Bleeding Gums Murphy in another room, and Lisa doesn't know that Bleeding Gums is dying, since he doesn't let on about it. He dies and leaves Lisa his saxophone and she wants to find a way to honor him, which would be to have his sole record, "Sax on the Beach," played on a local radio station, if not for Comic Book Guy jacking up the price to $500 upon learning about Bleeding Gums' death. With the $500 Bart receives from a settlement over the metal in the Krusty-O's, he buys Lisa the album because she was the only one who believed him when he said he felt sick. She gives the record to the radio station DJ to play, and is handed a transistor radio so she can listen to the broadcast. It seems like it would get limited play, until a bolt of lightning from the dark sky electrifies the transmission tower, and all of Springfield hears Bleeding Gums' jazz. Then Bleeding Gums, appearing in a cloud, plays one last song with Lisa, which brings forth the most affecting version of Carole King's "Jazzman," performed by Yeardley Smith, who voices Lisa. I listened to it over and over from the Tivo, and then found it on YouTube.
So it would seem necessary to look for the season 6 DVDs which this episode is on, but I went on Amazon to look up season 6 and the Homer-head packaging looked familiar. I went into my room to take stock of the seasons of The Simpsons that I have and digging through the stacks I have in boxes on their sides that serve as shelves, I found that season. So that's $15 I've saved. And I know for sure I don't have "The Noel Coward Collection."
I've always liked Best Buy more than Circuit City anyway. Always felt that the former is more geared toward electronics and DVDs and CDs and appliances than the latter, which always felt like the stores were saying silently, "I know more than you'll ever know about what you like and if you have any questions, the employees are sure to look down on you and laugh in private later." I prefer the illusion that employees at these type of stores are willing to answer your questions, though I've not had any in years.
So tomorrow, I am a vulture. And I don't mind it, even though all sales are final. I doubt that possible copies of "Witness for the Prosecution" have been jostled around as much as DVDs current around some time in January.
I'm going to Circuit City to see what's left of their merchandise. Earlier in the week, I heard that all DVDs are now 50% off and I have to go. I need to go. My growing wishlist (see "A Partial Wishlist") demands it.
I highly doubt they will have "The Noel Coward Collection" in stock, but what a joy it would be if they do. I wouldn't be disappointed if not, as I'm also looking for "Witness for the Prosecution," "California Suite," "The Thomas Crown Affair (1968)," and "Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie," which had been on sale on Amazon.com for $8.49 towards the end of December, but by the time I decided to order that and "My Blueberry Nights," it was already back to $14.99. "My Blueberry Nights" remained at $8.99, and I wasn't going to let that pass.
Because of the overwhelming appeal of DVDs sold at 50% off, I thought harder about what else I wanted. The four volumes of "Futurama" came to mind, especially because of those episodes airing on Cartoon Network, and being reminded of how continuously funny and literate they are. I'm not putting too much faith in them being available at this Circuit City in Stevenson Ranch, because they'd obviously be more popular than my desire for "Witness for the Prosecution" and the others, but they're on my list. Maybe I'll get that lucky.
Then I thought about "The Simpsons." I own the four seasons from the start, then a huge gap, as I also own season 9, which I requested, but I never requested 8, 7, 6 and 5. Or at least I thought I didn't.
For a few weeks in January, I decided that I wanted to Tivo "The Simpsons" every night. Before that, I watched it once in a great while. I still have old assignments from 1st grade and in one of them, inside clip art of a TV, I drew "The Simpsons" in crayon. Badly, but they're there, in overdone yellow. Maybe that triggered sudden daily viewings of "The Simpsons."
One episode I saw during those weeks was 'Round Springfield,' where Bart unknowingly eats the jagged metal prize in a box of Krusty-O's, ending up in the hospital. Lisa spots Bleeding Gums Murphy in another room, and Lisa doesn't know that Bleeding Gums is dying, since he doesn't let on about it. He dies and leaves Lisa his saxophone and she wants to find a way to honor him, which would be to have his sole record, "Sax on the Beach," played on a local radio station, if not for Comic Book Guy jacking up the price to $500 upon learning about Bleeding Gums' death. With the $500 Bart receives from a settlement over the metal in the Krusty-O's, he buys Lisa the album because she was the only one who believed him when he said he felt sick. She gives the record to the radio station DJ to play, and is handed a transistor radio so she can listen to the broadcast. It seems like it would get limited play, until a bolt of lightning from the dark sky electrifies the transmission tower, and all of Springfield hears Bleeding Gums' jazz. Then Bleeding Gums, appearing in a cloud, plays one last song with Lisa, which brings forth the most affecting version of Carole King's "Jazzman," performed by Yeardley Smith, who voices Lisa. I listened to it over and over from the Tivo, and then found it on YouTube.
So it would seem necessary to look for the season 6 DVDs which this episode is on, but I went on Amazon to look up season 6 and the Homer-head packaging looked familiar. I went into my room to take stock of the seasons of The Simpsons that I have and digging through the stacks I have in boxes on their sides that serve as shelves, I found that season. So that's $15 I've saved. And I know for sure I don't have "The Noel Coward Collection."
I've always liked Best Buy more than Circuit City anyway. Always felt that the former is more geared toward electronics and DVDs and CDs and appliances than the latter, which always felt like the stores were saying silently, "I know more than you'll ever know about what you like and if you have any questions, the employees are sure to look down on you and laugh in private later." I prefer the illusion that employees at these type of stores are willing to answer your questions, though I've not had any in years.
So tomorrow, I am a vulture. And I don't mind it, even though all sales are final. I doubt that possible copies of "Witness for the Prosecution" have been jostled around as much as DVDs current around some time in January.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The View That Did It
Southern California is the land of predictable space. If ever you spot a rare parcel in Los Angeles or anywhere within the region, you might think, based on the size, that it could soon be a parking garage, a drive-thru convenience store, a Walgreen's, maybe even a strip mall, and you would be right. In fact, over a year ago, there was one in Valencia, which began at a corner on the left, and stretched to a barrier of trees far on the right. Obviously, with how measured it looked, it had to become a strip mall and indeed it did, a high-end strip mall with the pricey Bristol Farms supermarket as its anchor. There's no surprise to what could become reality here in retail and parking.
The first night my family and I were in Las Vegas, arriving a little after 9 p.m. after having endured what should have been documented widely as one hell of a desert traffic jam, I felt uneasy when I got out of the rented SUV after we had parked in front of our room. This didn't feel right. A concrete wall, and then a fence after that, and was it certain that shady figures didn't hang out here? It felt like Miami after-hours. But whereas there you can feel the darkness at times, that which you'd rather remain separated from, this darkness left you alone. It has no reason to bother you. Why should it cause trouble for people just looking to gamble? That wasn't quite what I was after at that moment, feeling heavily the sense of an abandoned area, even though we were just off the Strip and our hotel (sort of) was next to the Hooters Hotel and Casino, not far if you walked and not even a minute to get there if you drive.
Then next to the SUV, I shook off that worried feeling and looked around closer. This was the first time in years upon years that I felt unencumbered by strip malls and any shopping districts trying to make themselves part of the feeling of an area. I don't mind malls so much, nor some of the shopping centers surrounding them, but you start to notice quickly wherever you are that the mall looks so incongruous to where it is.
Maybe that's pushing it though. I don't think often about that anyway. The only way you know you're in Valencia in the Santa Clarita Valley is if you spot the shopping center with the Pavilion's supermarket and then the Valencia Town Center Mall another block up. That's the only distinction Valencia has in being Valencia. I think I was just looking for something unique about where I was; you know, outside of the gargantuan Las Vegas Strip close to us.
My first taste of the unique was in seeing planes take off from McCarran International Airport right from where I was standing. I had never been that close to an airport. Living in Casselberry near Orlando in Florida, my parents took me to Orlando International Airport to watch planes take off and land, but we still had to drive for a bit to get there. In Coral Springs and Pembroke Pines, we'd go to Fort Lauderdale International to watch the fighter jets and other aircraft take off from there for what was then the Shell Air and Sea Show, catering to the thousands on the beach. Yet, we still had to drive out to there, about 25 minutes or so, using the highway. Same thing with Los Angeles International: Time spent on freeways and we're there. There was never any airport close to me until this moment. And here I was, watching a 737 take off (even in darkness, I can figure out what plane is in the air), and I was so impressed by this. Comes the third trip to Vegas and we're driving along roads where we see planes on approach to McCarran, seemingly hovering right above us, as if they had the capabilities of helicopters, the closer ones extending their landing gear. I loved this and it's why I want to be there. Plus I've seen other photos from Vegas online showing 747s taking off from McCarran, so I'm set, as the 747 is my favorite aircraft. Doesn't matter which model. I like them all.
Being that Vegas is right in the desert, you don't have to go far to find what you want. No one would dare drive for a time to find, say, a pharmacy, or a blackjack table. If you want it, they got it right nearby. It ties into what I wrote early this morning about having focus in Las Vegas, and only being there because you know what you want. The landscape reflects it. It also leads into some welcome unpredictability, such as spotting a CVS Pharmacy along the Strip, as well as thousands of feet of a souvenir store with t-shirts and trinkets cheap enough to give to relatives and blow the rest of the money on slot machines and other games of generally failed chance. The New York-New York casino has this locked photo wall, I think near the slot machines, showing people who have won big, holding big checks. One of the people in the photos was holding a check for over $400,000. I want to be that person, but I've reconciled myself to the fact that it's never that easy anyway and you apparently have to gamble big to win big, and risk losing big in the process. The biggest amount I've won was $10 from a $0.25 slot machine at the MGM Grand on my first-ever night in Vegas. Spent $2 trying to win more and pocketed the other $8.
Even with finding what I never expected in Vegas, that's not what did it for me and made me feel like I was home. Not the generously short skirts the Caesar's Palace cocktail waitresses wear, not the barrage of billboards and video advertisements along the Strip that offer so many possibilities, and yet never account for the too-few hours in the day and especially the night; not even Mandalay Bay, where I wish I could live.
We were three miles from Hoover Dam, standing on a roadside, looking out at houses near Lake Mead. One had a fountain right on the driveway and I wanted that as my house. It had that sense of relaxation I wanted in a house. Then we drove up to the Hacienda Hotel and Casino and parked in their lot. Never expected to find a casino this far out, but considering tourists visiting Hoover Dam, it's logical, if not for how empty it was when we went in after the experience that made Las Vegas home for me.
Adjacent to the Hacienda is a mountainside that you can walk on. It has benches along the path where you can sit and remain stunned at the view. The deep blue waters of Lake Mead, smoother than you'd expect a lake to be. I looked out at this, at a tall, separate chunk of rock across from where we stood, and it felt like all the dreams I ever had in my life had combined to create this view. This is where I needed to be from then on. This is where my life could bloom better than in the staid Santa Clarita Valley.
I think about that view often, along with the belief that if you can't find inspiration in Las Vegas as any kind of writer or artist, then you'd better quit your craft. The stories are not only in the faces of the gamblers you'll find in the casinos. There's also those you can imagine walking along the edge of the road in the emptiest parts of Las Vegas, away from the Strip, as well as that view of Lake Mead. And then you tie your own life together with everything you see. And you become a new person, different from what you believed yourself to be. Never believe that nationally-held stigma about Las Vegas. Any city that can thrive in the desert is more noteworthy than a hundred Clevelands.
The first night my family and I were in Las Vegas, arriving a little after 9 p.m. after having endured what should have been documented widely as one hell of a desert traffic jam, I felt uneasy when I got out of the rented SUV after we had parked in front of our room. This didn't feel right. A concrete wall, and then a fence after that, and was it certain that shady figures didn't hang out here? It felt like Miami after-hours. But whereas there you can feel the darkness at times, that which you'd rather remain separated from, this darkness left you alone. It has no reason to bother you. Why should it cause trouble for people just looking to gamble? That wasn't quite what I was after at that moment, feeling heavily the sense of an abandoned area, even though we were just off the Strip and our hotel (sort of) was next to the Hooters Hotel and Casino, not far if you walked and not even a minute to get there if you drive.
Then next to the SUV, I shook off that worried feeling and looked around closer. This was the first time in years upon years that I felt unencumbered by strip malls and any shopping districts trying to make themselves part of the feeling of an area. I don't mind malls so much, nor some of the shopping centers surrounding them, but you start to notice quickly wherever you are that the mall looks so incongruous to where it is.
Maybe that's pushing it though. I don't think often about that anyway. The only way you know you're in Valencia in the Santa Clarita Valley is if you spot the shopping center with the Pavilion's supermarket and then the Valencia Town Center Mall another block up. That's the only distinction Valencia has in being Valencia. I think I was just looking for something unique about where I was; you know, outside of the gargantuan Las Vegas Strip close to us.
My first taste of the unique was in seeing planes take off from McCarran International Airport right from where I was standing. I had never been that close to an airport. Living in Casselberry near Orlando in Florida, my parents took me to Orlando International Airport to watch planes take off and land, but we still had to drive for a bit to get there. In Coral Springs and Pembroke Pines, we'd go to Fort Lauderdale International to watch the fighter jets and other aircraft take off from there for what was then the Shell Air and Sea Show, catering to the thousands on the beach. Yet, we still had to drive out to there, about 25 minutes or so, using the highway. Same thing with Los Angeles International: Time spent on freeways and we're there. There was never any airport close to me until this moment. And here I was, watching a 737 take off (even in darkness, I can figure out what plane is in the air), and I was so impressed by this. Comes the third trip to Vegas and we're driving along roads where we see planes on approach to McCarran, seemingly hovering right above us, as if they had the capabilities of helicopters, the closer ones extending their landing gear. I loved this and it's why I want to be there. Plus I've seen other photos from Vegas online showing 747s taking off from McCarran, so I'm set, as the 747 is my favorite aircraft. Doesn't matter which model. I like them all.
Being that Vegas is right in the desert, you don't have to go far to find what you want. No one would dare drive for a time to find, say, a pharmacy, or a blackjack table. If you want it, they got it right nearby. It ties into what I wrote early this morning about having focus in Las Vegas, and only being there because you know what you want. The landscape reflects it. It also leads into some welcome unpredictability, such as spotting a CVS Pharmacy along the Strip, as well as thousands of feet of a souvenir store with t-shirts and trinkets cheap enough to give to relatives and blow the rest of the money on slot machines and other games of generally failed chance. The New York-New York casino has this locked photo wall, I think near the slot machines, showing people who have won big, holding big checks. One of the people in the photos was holding a check for over $400,000. I want to be that person, but I've reconciled myself to the fact that it's never that easy anyway and you apparently have to gamble big to win big, and risk losing big in the process. The biggest amount I've won was $10 from a $0.25 slot machine at the MGM Grand on my first-ever night in Vegas. Spent $2 trying to win more and pocketed the other $8.
Even with finding what I never expected in Vegas, that's not what did it for me and made me feel like I was home. Not the generously short skirts the Caesar's Palace cocktail waitresses wear, not the barrage of billboards and video advertisements along the Strip that offer so many possibilities, and yet never account for the too-few hours in the day and especially the night; not even Mandalay Bay, where I wish I could live.
We were three miles from Hoover Dam, standing on a roadside, looking out at houses near Lake Mead. One had a fountain right on the driveway and I wanted that as my house. It had that sense of relaxation I wanted in a house. Then we drove up to the Hacienda Hotel and Casino and parked in their lot. Never expected to find a casino this far out, but considering tourists visiting Hoover Dam, it's logical, if not for how empty it was when we went in after the experience that made Las Vegas home for me.
Adjacent to the Hacienda is a mountainside that you can walk on. It has benches along the path where you can sit and remain stunned at the view. The deep blue waters of Lake Mead, smoother than you'd expect a lake to be. I looked out at this, at a tall, separate chunk of rock across from where we stood, and it felt like all the dreams I ever had in my life had combined to create this view. This is where I needed to be from then on. This is where my life could bloom better than in the staid Santa Clarita Valley.
I think about that view often, along with the belief that if you can't find inspiration in Las Vegas as any kind of writer or artist, then you'd better quit your craft. The stories are not only in the faces of the gamblers you'll find in the casinos. There's also those you can imagine walking along the edge of the road in the emptiest parts of Las Vegas, away from the Strip, as well as that view of Lake Mead. And then you tie your own life together with everything you see. And you become a new person, different from what you believed yourself to be. Never believe that nationally-held stigma about Las Vegas. Any city that can thrive in the desert is more noteworthy than a hundred Clevelands.
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