Where is David Henry Hwang?

It's 2:30 a.m. (yesterday morning), and I'm sitting on the floor near my dad's chair at the dining room table, checking what books I want to return to the library in order to pick up some of the books on hold for me. To return 30 in order to pick up all the holds would be impossible. I always have that futile hope that somehow, in a week, before picking up the next round of holds, I can read everything I decided to keep.

The books form a half moon in front of me. With my favorite click pen in my right hand, a blue ink Pentel R.S.V.P., and my eight-page library card printout in my left hand, I make sure Bright Sided by Barbara Ehrenreich is next to Architecture of the Old South: South Carolina, a hefty coffee-table book that I checked out to get a sense of home for others, ahead of the maybe-in-a-few-months possibility of finally regaining a real home, this time in Boulder City, Nevada. Last time was when I was a kindergartner in Casselberry, Florida. My elementary school, Stirling Park, was actually in the neighborhood.

I look over at the playwrights I intend to return. Tennessee Williams ("American Blues: Five Short Plays") is at the top of a small stack. Christopher Durang ("Baby with the Bathwater and Laughing Wild: Two Plays") is below him, followed by Terrence McNally ("Frankie and Johnny in the Clair De Lune"), Arthur Miller ("Danger, Memory!: Two Plays"), Ellen Byron ("Graceland and Asleep on the Wind: Two Short Plays") , Robert Anderson ("You Know I Can't Hear You When the Water's Running"), and Edward Albee ("Counting the Ways and Listening: Two Plays"). Michael McClure ("The Beard") sits in front of these noteworthy names. He's small-looking enough in size that I don't want to lose him when he goes into my tote bag. When my father had a week-long spring break two weeks ago, we went to San Manuel Indian Bingo and Casino during the week, and I got a few ideas within this setting for either a play or two one-act plays, involving only two characters. I intended to read these to learn about the form, as all of these playwrights had written exactly what I was looking for. But other writers got in the way, as well as myself, finishing my first book and sending the results to my writing partner. Since then, he e-mailed me back, saying that he's "extremely proud" of what I've "put forth." It's a huge relief. It took a year. Actually, a little over 365 days was all I had. It's a lot shorter as a deadline, though I suspect forthcoming ages will cut it even closer than that.

I put checkmarks next to these writers on my library card printout. I always reach the limit of 50 items. I count the books in front of me. 17. Eric Puchner ("Model Home") makes 17. As said before, other writers got in the way. My reading desires vary wildly each week. Plus, with returning to writing reviews for Screen It, I need to figure out what my priorities are in books. Being that I strive for at least 99% accuracy in my reviews, I try to get dialogue exact when applicable, gunfire described completely, including what character shot what weapon and at whom, and profanity. My first film back will be Goodfellas. You can imagine how much time that may take. It's for parents, however (with the only slant in each review being the section reserved for the standard movie review, called "Our Take"), and they should have the most information possible. Plus, I get paid for this and I want to do the best job possible. I also have to begin the process of financial aid and signing up for classes online from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University. My future career lies in aviation, definitely at an airport. I'm not sure exactly what I want to do yet, but I have a few ideas.

I shouldn't have 17 books to return, though. I should have 18. Where is number 18? Where is David Henry Hwang ("FOB and Other Plays")? I walk over to the stack I have within a winding faux-marble stand that exists to hold some of our dogs' toys and other things. I use one shelf for my books. I look at the nine-count stack that's there, and I can't find Mr. Hwang. I go to my room to look at where I kept a few of these playwrights, figuring that if they were in my room, I'd be quick about getting to know them. He's not there. There's that book about presidential history, and on the bottom of that stack, that large book of cartoons by Roz Chast, but Mr. Hwang had not decided to spend time near my copy of Around the World in 80 Days which would have been adjacent to him.

I go back to the living room, back to the books still on the floor. I upend the playwrights I've already collected, hoping that I merely overlooked him. I look on the dining room table, where I've placed books I checked out the previous week, and am now only beginning to get to know. He's not there either. I begin to worry about having to pay for Mr. Hwang taking up residence in my house. I also worry about if I might have accidentally left him behind at the library the previous week. Did one of the librarians find him and put him back in my box after scanning his barcode and finding out that he had already been checked out to me? When I walk into the library, will one of them tell me that they found him and here he is?

I go back to my room. I look at the books in the stack nearest to the head of my bed. Cory Doctorow is waiting with Makers, Michael Dobbs wants to tell me all about the delightfully nefarious politician Francis Urquhart, and believes three books ("House of Cards," "To Play the King," and "The Final Cut") should be sufficient enough for the task. There's other writers waiting, such as John Kiriakou ("The Reluctant Spy: My Secret Life in the CIA's War on Terror"), but none of them know of Hwang, and he's not in that stack either.

I begin to wonder: Is Mr. Hwang miffed that I didn't have time for him? Is he hiding out of spite? Is he so eager for me to get to know him that he's hoping I don't find him so that I only go to the library with 17 books, and therefore can only pick up 17 of my holds? He's not due back at the library yet anyway, but I need to let in Elif Batuman. I've waited long enough for her to arrive with her obsession over Russian literature ("The Possessed"). Besides putting other writers on hold on my card, I check every day on what writers wait for me to pick them up, and four people were always ahead of me on her dance card. That number didn't move in my favor for weeks. Now she arrived, and I wanted to know what she knew and loved about Russian literature.

I go back to the stack sitting on a shelf of that stand. Bottom to top. Noel Coward is at the bottom with his diaries. At the top, a bunch of writers are clustered together with much to say about Mark Twain in The Mark Twain Anthology. Below that is something dark. I can't see it very well because the living room light shines into my parents' bedroom, and I can't use it. The dining room light remains on its lowest setting overnight so they can sleep soundly. That's the deal we made about two months ago, unless I really need the living room light, but I don't.

The darkness below The Mark Twain Anthology becomes what I call "hallelujah light." Even though the light's not physically there, I feel it brightening. I found Mr. Hwang. It's a relief vastly different from passing a math test despite no confidence in the studying having done any good. I don't mean any disrespect toward Mr. Hwang. I want his help soon in understanding how a two-person play works, the possible ways of writing it, the necessary beats to keep an audience interested.

With him accounted for, I fill my tote bag. He's second from the top. I can't promise him that I'll ask to have him back right away, since I have to begin my education with Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, and refamiliarize myself with the routine of writing reviews for Screen It. But despite the work involved in both, I think he'll be back with me soon enough, teaching me what he thinks I should know.

Here I Am, A Nearly-Published Author

It's been less than 12 hours since I finished adding more details to one of my sentences in my Paul Lynde essay. It's 1:10 a.m., and at 2:04 p.m. yesterday, that marked the completion of my share of my first book. I'm done. It's over. Well, all over but the possible editing. We'll see what my writing partner determines about my essays. My Judy Garland essay is 12 pages, and though he said some of it should be trimmed, I honestly can't see what to take out. It's not because of my writing that I say that, but because I've put in every possible thing important to learning about Judy Garland's life if a few of my readers haven't already. Do I take out the process of reaching the start of filming on The Wizard of Oz? Does the start of her career at MGM not matter? Of course it does. As I see it, all details in that essay matter.

But for now, before I begin that part of the process of this book, before thinking about what to write in my blurb (the one detailing the author's origins, living space location, and previous accomplishments, if any), and what photo I should use for my little square, or take a new one, I'm sitting here wondering how the hell I did all this. There were many times I wanted to quit writing this book, such as when I spent last July 4th evening sitting at the dining room table, reading Gerrold Frank's Judy Garland biography, watching the fireworks on CBS from there. I told my Mom many times that I didn't want to do this anymore, and she told me I needed to push ahead because this kind of opportunity, where I was simply made a co-author, with publication guaranteed, would probably not happen again. At 26 years old, this is my first book.

I also remember not long after I accepted Phil's offer to be co-author, being at the Ontario Mills Mall, sitting on a squarish metal bench at a Skechers store while Mom, Dad, and Meridith were looking around, silently freaking out over all there was to do for this book. All the books to check out of the library (I think 20-25 is the final count. I'll pinpoint it more accurately in a few days when I look over all my notes again to see), all the websites to visit, all the experts to find to have them speculate on what these actors might have done with their careers and their lives had they not died. I'd never done this before. I had only written, at most, 1,100 words in movie reviews. Screen It does take up a lot more words than that in every review, but that's online, and I was, and still am, comfortable enough with the format.

A review for Film Threat maybe reaches the top of page 2 in Word, and a few lines down. That's it. I knew, in my all-over worry, that each essay would have to be more pages than that.

I remember one night early in the project when I was reading a biography about the silent film comedian Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, and I was so frustrated with having to read and take notes at the same time (I'm a speed reader. I've been reading since I was two years old), that I couldn't possibly continue without something to distract me and yet allow me to keep on working at it. From my local library, which was then Valencia, I had checked out The Prince of Tides on DVD. You already know which one got more attention. I never saw it, but had seen Yentl and The Mirror Has Two Faces, Barbara Streisand's other directorial efforts. I couldn't work while I was watching it. All throughout the film, I was stunned by her artistic sensibilities. She's truly an artist behind the camera, in shepherding performances, deciding on cinematography, and picking out those locations which best embody the story. I wish she would direct more movies. Three are not enough.

I'm not sure what book I was reading and taking notes on (Maybe it was Mabel: Hollywood's First I-Don't-Care Girl by Betty Harper Fussell, about silent film comedienne Mabel Normand), but another time, boredom set in heavily again, and I rewatched, over and over, my favorite scenes in Angels in America, which I bought from Marshalls for $6. A treasured bargain, and I also picked up Truman for $3. I particularly like the scenes between Mary Louise-Parker and Justin Kirk in that Cocteauesque room with the red curtains.

I remember not doing anything for this project last December, nursing an addiction to Farmville and Cafe World on Facebook. I didn't play them all day, since there were books I wanted to read, and certainly not all night, because I had, and still have, the freelance writing newsletter to work on, but it took up a goodly amount of time. It was partly that I didn't feel like working on the book, but also because of a total lack of confidence. It was never, "Can I really do this?" It was always, "I don't think I can do this." There were many nights for months when I laid in bed, staring up at my ceiling fan, feeling that acute stress over all the essays I still had to write, the people I still had not interviewed, the facts that seemed hard to arrange into a readable order. In early February, I was thinking about how the hell I was supposed to read about '40s actress Carole Landis in preparation to write an essay about her, while overseeing these other 19 essays. The book I bought from Amazon, Carole Landis: A Tragic Life in Hollywood by E.J. Fleming, was $35.95, and it was so badly written, without any editing to guide it. Fleming made the same point three times in the same paragraph, and I didn't like having to slog through so many facts pressed together. There was no detailed context, no real description. Based on all the research the book contained, I saw Fleming's passion, but I couldn't see myself spending more time reading this book just to get plenty of notes to turn into an essay. By e-mail, Fleming was agreeable to speculation about what Landis might have done in her life, but I couldn't take it. Plus, at that point, the deadline for the book had been March 15 (Phil then moved it to April 1, and finally, April 15, tomorrow). I had written only six essays, with 13 more to go. I e-mailed Phil, told him about the book and that I couldn't do a proper job with this essay, and asked him to take it. For me, that meant 19 essays instead of 20, but 19 is better when you're interested in the many figures you're researching. And despite the price of the book, I pitched it into the recycling bin. Not that I have that kind of money regularly, and I know I could probably have given it to the Salvation Army store location near me, but I didn't want that book in my room anymore. But I did get to claim it on my taxes as an expense. At least I got something good for my trouble.

I know that year I spent on the book is gone. It's strange, though, that I can't feel now all the little things that bothered me during the research and the writing. Now it's like sitting serenely on a deep green hill, a slight, pleasant breeze around me, and the sun beginning to set. I didn't expect trumpets to blare when I finished writing my share of this book, or a ticker tape parade to happen. The world keeps moving. The traffic is still worse. Some of the prices at my local supermarkets are still too high. It's important to know that, because I can, and should, write anything I want. I'm already thinking about what I want to write next, and I think I have an idea for another book, but I'm not sure if there will be enough material to merit a book. I plan to do some research over the next two months to see if there is. And even though I won't have a publisher this easily again, I want to try it on my own. In January, I'll have one book to my name. That's a fine start.

It Feels Better This Time. It Swims in the Background.

Maybe I can have Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, M&Ms, Dr. Pepper, Cheez-Its, butter pecan ice cream, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, fettucine alfredo, pizza, and all other kinds of happily fattening things once in a great while now. But I don't feel like I want it anymore. Last night, we had leftover stuffed cabbage and salad. Mom, Dad and Meridith poured extra-virgin olive oil and red wine vinaigrette on their salads. I left mine dry. Those might be the least of dressings to put on salads, least fattening, least calories, but I don't want to chance it until I've done more research on my own about what dressings might be low in nearly everything. I don't want it to be tasteless, but I also don't want to add more pounds to my body than I already have, which is already enough to try to shrink off.

Yes, I've gone on another diet, though it's more like a free floating one, at least in guidelines. I know now to eat when I get up, be it late morning or mid-afternoon, but that's the only solid rule I've set for myself. I don't have much bread anymore, and I've upped the fruits and vegetables. Most importantly, I've begun exercising again, though for now, it's walking, and so far, Dad, Meridith and I have gone from the house to the park that's about, well, I'd say 0.4 miles. There and back, 0.8. Every day. On days we can't, which aren't many, at least not right now, we go for a lot more distance to make up for that lost day.

On the first night I vowed not to rummage through the fridge during the night, it was hard. Again, I remembered all that was in there, from the cream cheese to the peanut butter to the yogurts and some leftovers, including some leftover lamb, which I devoured on my second first night, the following night. On my third first night, following that, I did it. My brain was still insisting on going to the fridge and loading up the bulging skin tank, but it wasn't as vocal. The next night, a little less. Last night, nothing. Oh I do still think about the fridge's contents, but now it's only in relation to my needing more oranges, possibly more pears (I think I got a bad Bartlett the other day, not at all juicy, and it tasted like office cardboard), and I'm thinking about also venturing into apples. Now, it should be understood that I'm not turning into a vegetarian. That's not my intent. The stuffed cabbage had beef in it, with rice embedded in the meat, so I'm not giving that up, especially with thinking about chicken. More chicken. No more fried chicken. Being at KFC last week, having that Variety Big Box Meal with the breast, the Crispy Strip, the popcorn chicken, the coleslaw, mashed potatoes with gravy, the biscuit, and the big-ass 32 oz. drink, that was the final time. Roast chicken sounds good to me now. And I know what has to happen. I have to give up the skin. Before this diet, the skin was the first thing I ate off of any chicken. It was especially nice as extra crispy from KFC. I don't feel any pang of regret from having to do this. In fact, we went to Caruso's II Italian Restaurant toward Saturday evening, and split an antipasto salad and one of their giant pizzas. Two slices remained on the serving tray. A few weeks before this, I would have grabbed one of those slices. I didn't this time. I let it go, it was brought home, and it's probably gone now. I haven't looked closely in the fridge as I have before.

I'm still aware of the diet every day. I have to be. I have to be reasonable now in what I eat. The big test will be the lunch buffet at San Manuel Indian Bingo and Casino one day this week, but I don't think I'll be piling on 20 plates (that's what it seemed like) on the first walk-around, as I did at the Carnival World Buffet at Rio in Las Vegas. My sister writes down in a notebook everything she eats, along with a calorie count, so that's good. Some of it matches what I eat, and it's helpful. I do feel like I'm losing some weight. My chin's gotten smaller, my feet don't hurt as much after long walks, and fortunately, my, yes, love handles are starting to get smaller again, and will stay that way. I'll make sure of it. It's a proper start.

California, Part....What, 14? 23?

Today was my sister's 21st birthday. She passed the last toll booth before full legality. She can drink, though like me, like our parents, she's not into it. She and my mom no longer have to walk the periphery of a casino just because she's underage. The next time we go to Vegas, we can all sit together at a row of slot machines if we want. She can watch some of the action at the blackjack and craps tables, she can watch the spinning roulette wheel a lot more closely than she could in the many times we've been to Las Vegas. Her gift was a three-year subscription to Food Network Magazine, introduced by the latest issue on newsstands, which we bought for her a few days ago, wrapped by Mom. There were also SweeTarts, which she loves, put into a plastic container that formerly held cotton candy. Dinner was at Hooters in Burbank, and, I have to admit, black women look more astounding than white women in those outfits. One of our waitresses was a trainee, working alongside her tutor, and my god, I couldn't stop looking. I did it subtly of course, but wow. It wasn't a matter of her filling the outfit nicely, but just bringing more smooth, totally confident beauty to it than any others I've seen before in it.

I've been frustrated with Southern California for nearly the entire six and a half years we've lived here. And after we got home from Vegas about a week and two days ago, I saw that compared to Boulder City (where we might live when it comes time, because the houses have character and there's wide, wide spaces that make it feel like a vacation every single day), the Santa Clarita Valley is basically crushed together. Houses nearly on top of each other; no room between businesses. In Golden Valley (which is commonly known here as "Ghetto Valley," yet is still part of this valley), there's a McDonald's with this incredible view of just the mountains, just the houses, and at night, so many lights, yet it all seems artful. Well, it used to have that view. The last time we went, there was a gas station being built next to it, blocking out that view, and I'm sure that gas station is open by now.

In Boulder City, my family and I looked out at Lake Mead from the side of a curving road, standing behind a guardrail, overlooking houses below us, and I felt like I was home. I could breathe easier, hell, I could breathe. That was enough. The air was so clean, and my Mom felt far less pain in her legs than she does back in the valley. My dad talked to either the town's Chamber of Commerce or someone somewhat related to that, and they said that they will not allow Clark County to bring in gaming. No casinos. The closest casino you'll find is right before the sign indicating that Hoover Dam is getting closer. It's the Hacienda Hotel and Casino and it sits on its own plot of land, nowhere near any houses. We've been there before, though not recently, and there's a walkable cliff a few hundred yards away, where the view is like all the dreams I've ever had combining to create that view.

I bring this up because of an important realization that came to me while we were going to Hooters, one that had eluded me all this time. I'm sure there are many who like the different regions of California, seeing each as an adventure, with so much to be explored. I hate it. I understand the appeal, and I loved stopping at John Steinbeck's house, and in Hollister at Casa de Fruta, and that tour at Hearst Castle. But as we passed under the sign for Burbank, I looked at many of the other city names that passed by on those signs and I realized that I can't stand being a tourist in every single area. We went to Chinatown some weeks ago, after going to Philippe's for lunch. I was a tourist, despite being a resident of California. We drove past IKEA and Borders in Burbank to get to the section of the parking garage across from IKEA that was closest to the entrance to Hooters. I saw the entrance to the mall as we made a right turn. I felt like a tourist.

I don't want to feel like a tourist anymore. I don't want all these locations to be homogenized, but I want there to be some kind of connection. In Florida, as a native, I got that. We'd go to Downtown Fort Lauderdale, and it didn't feel like a new foreign land. There was the science museum, the small hotels across from the sand of the beach, the Main Library branch of the Broward County Library system, and a small park. We'd go to Miami Beach and I still felt like a resident of the entire state, not just one section. Am I a resident of California, Part 14, or California, Part 23? I'm not sure.

In Southern Nevada, I get that feeling of being a resident in one state, with everything around me relating to what the state is. There's gambling, there's a vast desert landscape, there's Carson City where the legislature is and it's so removed from the majority of the population in Clark County. We went to Henderson and yes, it was gigantic, and yes, there was cookie-cutter housing which I've never liked, but I knew where I was, not just by name. I felt like I could navigate the streets easily. Henderson and Boulder City are connected by Las Vegas, but at least they connect to something. These different cities of Southern California, separated by all these freeways, seem like frayed wires splayed out on a sidewalk, each sparking in its own way, but never destined to intertwine. I want that intertwined feeling. I know I can get it in Southern Nevada. I need space, as I get in Boulder City, but I also need to feel like a resident of a state, not just the resident of a section of the state, despite paying the various taxes involved with the state. Maybe that's why I've been frustrated during many of the years we've lived here, why I've never had a genuine feeling of contentment. I need things to be as close as they can possibly get, while also remaining far apart enough to let the landscape have its turn to be seen, without all those insane freeways. I-95 in Florida. That was it to get to Fort Lauderdale. There's a little more involved in getting back to Las Vegas from Boulder City, but at least it feels like there's as little to be done as driving I-95. And I can't wait for that, full time.

Always, Always.

I'm not reticent about Las Vegas. I know it's home. It's only four hours from here, and crossing that state line into Nevada, it's a good feeling that crawls in and never wants to find a way out. I see part of the Strip up ahead as we approach, and I know I belong. I feel like I'm as commonplace there as the black Luxor pyramid, especially at night with that extremely bright beam of white light. I always wonder if anyone knows we're coming. Not Bob, the manager of America's Best Value Inn on Tropicana Avenue, where we've stayed all the times we've been in Vegas. The security people, I guess, those who man the cameras, those pit bosses who walk the casino floors. I'm not that much of a risk, and I'm sure to them, I'm invisible, a nothing tourist, and I'm glad to be that for now. I can't wait to be more as a resident, hopefully in the months to come. But I always wonder if they get some kind of inkling that I'm coming. The slot machines certainly know. No luck with those on the last trip.

It's not ego, mind you. It's more like seeking a feeling of connection, which I already have with ABVI. I never had that here in Southern California. In 2003, our starting point was the Airtel Plaza Hotel in Van Nuys, across from Van Nuys Executive Airport, which I enjoyed for watching the private planes take off and land. When my parents went back for more job interviews for my dad about two months later, they stayed there. Yet, we don't visit it often. The last time we passed by it was to get to Fry's Electronics, the one with the Alice in Wonderland theming, I think. We've never pulled into that parking lot. I don't regret it, but I know that when we do move to Las Vegas, we'll probably stop by ABVI once in a while. We know that's where we started. And we know it'll be there. Yes, Airtel is still there, but it doesn't have that quiet, welcoming feeling to it. I suppose, in a way, I have more of a connection to ABVI, especially recently (a year and four months ago) because of the basketball hoop that my sister and I found on the property. We don't play often. Just bad shots that make it into the hoop once in a while. But to do that in the shadow of the MGM Grand, next to Hooters Casino Hotel, seeing the Luxor pyramid right there, the Tropicana, and a tiny bit of the facade of New York, New York, you truly can't get that anywhere else. And that's what I've loved about it. It's cheap, it's easy, no big frills, and it's our home base for now.

But I've got that feeling now that I know will be eliminated once we get nearer to the Strip after driving a while past Primm. It's funny, because if I know that the feeling will be gone, it shouldn't be there. I don't know. Maybe it's anxiety about boarding our dogs Tigger and Kitty while we're away for the weekend, even though it seems they'll be in good hands. Or maybe it's just an excuse.

I want things to change. I truly do. There is nothing left in the Santa Clarita Valley to benefit us, not that there has been in a long time. I don't feel any kinship with this valley. I don't like airheadedness, I don't like impoliteness, I don't like snobs who haven't earned the station they think they're at in life. It has all of that. I think it's partly the anxiety of having to move again. I want to. But I remember the work involved when we moved from South Florida to Southern California, throwing out what we didn't need, spending all night lugging garbage bag after garbage bag to the two communal Dumpsters in our neighborhood, packing, and those five days on the road, which were good five days to see what I never knew before, such as the two days it took to get through Texas. It's that upheaval, you know? I know it has to happen. Some can live with it, some are travel writers, some are wandering souls who find a home immediately in a new place and can find it again two, three weeks later somewhere else. But I'm not. It's been a nomadic existence for all these years. We moved many times in Florida and I'm glad that it was within the same state, but there were always those different feelings to be found in each place. Sure, it was good for my writing, but I've always wanted to put my roots down deep and not move ever again. I guess I'm just hoping for some kind of guarantee that this will truly be the last time we do this, because I feel at home in Las Vegas. I know this is my place. I love how people are constantly seeking things to enjoy. I love all the restaurant options, the old ladies forever at the slot machines, the architecture of the casinos that's so incongruous with the hot, flat, brownish desert landscape, but it still feels so right. On our second trip to Las Vegas, after crossing into Nevada, we saw a riverboat-shaped casino. On our third trip, the most recent one, it was gone. No more business to be had in that location, I'm sure, but that is amazing! A riverboat that simply disappeared from the desert. Yeah, yeah, I know the actual logic, what actually happened, but there is sheer poetry in it that I can't imagine anywhere else in the country.

That feeling, it's a little dread, some little questions. Will we make it this time? Will something happen for us that'll bring us closer to living there? We're leaving on Friday morning, likely arriving at about 3 p.m., depending on the traffic. On Saturday afternoon, my dad's taking a Nevada law exam that'll make his Nevada teaching license official. That's the centerpiece of the trip.

I want it more and more every time. I want to wake up and know that where I am is where I belong, that I don't have to fear moving again. I hope it comes soon. Maybe it's that uncertainty I feel, wondering when it's finally going to happen, disappointed that this trip won't be the time for it. Maybe longing for that time. But another funny thing is how Las Vegas is full of transience. People go there, but they don't stay long. Tourists all along the Strip. Yet, this is where I want my fixed point to be. I like a whirl of people around me. All the traits I can pick out if I decide to write a novel (not about Las Vegas, I'm sure), all the things there is to see. That's fine with me. But I hope it'll become more permanent soon.

(I know this entry is a tangle of words, a mess, jumping from one place to another and not grabbing onto a solid point. But I needed to do it like this, just this once. I'm nearly done writing my share of the book and it's at that point where the frustration is less, but the worry still remains in the editing. I needed to break loose, if only for a few minutes.)

The Weaker Half of the Serpent

The weaker half of the serpent is flailing about, trying to find the grasp it used to have on me, but it is now completely lost, only brushing against me every few seconds. I have only one more essay to write and then I delve into the rewrites, which are much easier because I get to play around with the sentences, use my trusted Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus when necessary, and finally have a little fun with this project. The fun actually begins with the final essay, about Paul Lynde. I interviewed Michael Airington on the phone, fully intending to use the essay to profile his one-man show and interject when necessary with further facts about Lynde, and that intention remains strong because Airington was a joy to talk to. I even told my parents to pick up the phone, and had Airington talk to them as Lynde. Mom said it was like Lynde came back. Out of the three books I bought for this project, "Center Square: The Paul Lynde Story" by Steve Wilson and Joe Florenski is the only one left, and the only one I'll be proud to skim through as I go through my notes while writing the essay, making sure dates and TV show titles are correct.

As it turns out, I managed to slice the serpent in half after I was done with my essay on Judy Garland, which was actually harder than the one on Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle. Arbuckle was a silent film comedian, well before the studio system began. Garland was pulled through that hurricane, and had the concert tours and the TV shows, and the personal problems, and all of it wore me out when I finally finished writing it at 4:30 yesterday morning. Come to think of it, the Marilyn Monroe essay was easier too. And now, after my family and I move to Las Vegas, I can hang up my two framed Chris Consani prints of Monroe, James Dean, Elvis Presley and Humphrey Bogart without any regrets.

I have my Heath Ledger essay open right now. Two days ago, I found that I hadn't written any speculation about what he might have done in his career had he not died. It was a little intimidating then, but now that I'm down to one more essay to write, this is starting to get easier. Naturally, I'll still be insecure about what I write, but I have my notes, I have the article from L.A. Weekly about Ledger joining the Masses artist group, so I should be good.

I need to get all this done before March 12th, when my family and I go to Las Vegas. I want this to be a real vacation, truly away from everything.

I Drove All Night to Arrive at a New Day

In April 2003, on an American Airlines 757 to Los Angeles from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, I watched "Brown Sugar," which had some actors worth watching, but it felt like it would never end. There was also the pilot episode of "Still Standing," starring Mark Addy and Jami Gertz. I think there was an episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond," too, but I mainly remember the silence throughout the aircraft, and toward the end of the flight, all the overheard monitors showing the music video for "I Drove All Night" by Celine Dion. It would just be something to remember occasionally during an idle evening, but never to dwell on. Earlier today, I dwelled.

Adding to a full Saturday (the library, to pick up a new tsunami of books waiting for me; eating at Wing Stop; some hours spent at Sam's Club, where I bought the paperback edition of the wonderful, wonderful The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, and immediately handed it to my aspiring-chef sister as required reading), our Sunday included seeing Celine: Through the Eyes of the World, an affecting, at-times powerful documentary about the delightfully divaless Celine Dion's world tour, begun after she finished her run at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. The film began with her singing "I Drove All Night," and I realized: This is a major sign.

My family's flight neared Los Angeles with that song playing. And now, here I was in a theater at Edwards Valencia 12, six and a half years later, six and a half years older, remembering the newspaper I worked at for two years, remembering how I was at first fascinated with the valley, and the two most interesting people I met at the start (one, a backpacker who had stayed in Las Vegas for a time beforehand; the other an aging cleaning woman who could tell where each plane in the sky was headed), remembering all the taxing times I've had here, and all those days where I just relaxed, ignored everything there could possibly be to worry about. Overall, I've tolerated this valley. I've simply lived here. No real emotion toward it, no zealous support toward anything within it. So when it comes time for my family and I to leave Southern California and move to Las Vegas, I won't have any regrets. I won't want to stay for any reason.

This may be the year that we will finally get there. It's appropriate that I should hear "I Drove All Night" here in Southern California. I've heard it once or twice again before this, but not to the extent that I was actively paying attention to it as I was in the movie theater, as I was on that flight. That, to me, shows that Dad may be called soon for something there. On March 12th, we have to be in Vegas so he can take a law exam related to him becoming fully certified to teach business education in Nevada, but I think it will become more than that in the coming months. Something good may finally break through. We've waited enough years already, but this feels like the year. Finality may finally come.