I've been thinking about this all day, but am first reminded of what Bill Murray's Don Johnston said to the kid who may have been his son in Broken Flowers:
"Well, the past is gone, I know that. The future isn't here yet, whatever it's going to be. So, all there is, is this. The present. That's it."
This morning, I sent a long e-mail to Sara, a good friend in Florida this morning about plans possibly afoot to move to Las Vegas. It's been going on for at least four years now, but the rumblings are stronger than before.
I told her about my love for Las Vegas, the history, that the Las Vegas we know was started by the Jewish mafia (Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel), and though I don't condone how they worked, it's a point of personal pride for me. I love that the history is still there, and that you can feel it all around you. Boulder City was begun by the federal government to house workers building the Hoover Dam. No drinking was allowed and neither was gambling. That's still in the city charter, still active today. There are no bars in Boulder City, no gambling establishments.
The Santa Clarita Valley closes every night towards 9 p.m. It gets emptier and emptier, and is the same for parts of Los Angeles if you're not into the party scene. Las Vegas just keeps going, 24 hours a day, and you can step off and back on whenever you want. I love that I have that option and though I'll never adopt a nocturnal lifestyle ever again, that the choice is there makes me even more enamored of the city.
But throughout the day, I wondered: If we hadn't moved throughout Florida so many times, if I had had roots somewhere there, would I love Las Vegas as much as I do now? Would I have even known about Las Vegas? Would I have had a snap opinion about it like most people do without ever having been there? Vegas is wildest indoors, never outdoors. Amidst all the lights, the Bellagio waterworks, the famous volcano, there is a silence of sorts, the kind that encourages you to find whatever you'd like to do, to make the night yours. It does not move as fast as people think it does. You move fast throughout it. The city doesn't. It does provide that sense of reckless abandon with all the options available, but ultimately, it's your choice.
I don't really know. I came up with possible futures for dead actors in What If They Lived?, but I can't figure out who I would have been if I had continued living in Florida. It's not a lamentation, just an observation.
In that e-mail to Sara, I said:
"Living in Florida for all those years [19 years, from my birth to a year in at Broward Community College], I was fine. I loved it. I loved going to Walt Disney World every weekend when I lived in Casselberry [I was a tyke, mostly in a stroller at the parks], and I surely didn't mind Coral Springs and Pembroke Pines, because they still contained what I love about Florida, that even in condos and gated communities, the spirit of the state still exists in little crevices, such as the small waterway near the condo in Coral Springs that had tangles of tree branches, and sticks all around, and at Grand Palms in Pembroke Pines, you could just stand out on that golf course as the night took over, and enjoy such a vast panorama of stars with very few lights around you, so you could get the entire view."
History classes in school had Ponce de Leon, the Fountain of Youth, and what's referenced and striven for in Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides is actually my state's history. Have you ever been to St. Augustine and seen the Fort Matanzas National Monument? Did you know that Andrew Jackson was the military governor of Florida for nine months?
I want roots somewhere, finally. I feel like Nevada is where I belong. But I know that because of Florida, because of everything I saw, because of those history classes at Walt Disney World, I was imbued with a sense of exploration that has served me well, that gave me an insatiable curiosity. Every time I go to a casino in Las Vegas, on the Strip, I am impressed with the designs I see. I look around everywhere, in every corner, up at the ceiling, at all the details that were put into these places.
I think if I still lived in Florida, I wouldn't have known anything about Las Vegas. In 11th grade, an acquaintance was moving there and I thought to myself, "Las Vegas....isn't that in the middle of nowhere?" I thought it was a desolate outpost. Dad had been courted by the Clark County School District years ago, but he and Mom had the same concern, about round-the-clock schooling which would mean Dad wouldn't have gotten home from work until 10 p.m. Now, seven years in Santa Clarita, Mom wishes we had taken that chance. We could have worked out the logistics.
However, you can't change what has already been cemented. And I realize that I won't know what might have been had we remained in Florida. That's ok. I do know that I gained a sense of intellectual freedom in Florida. I was given so much, not only with Walt Disney World and St. Augustine and those history classes, but also my 11th grade English teacher, Roberta Little, who gave me Julius Caesar, A Raisin in the Sun, A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner, and The Glass Menagerie, which became my favorite play. Because of all this, when my family and I first went to Las Vegas, I went without any assumptions, without any beliefs of what it might be based on what I had heard. My only worry was when we pulled into the parking space in front of our room at the America's Best Value Inn on Tropicana Avenue, and the atmosphere felt immediately lonely, that I wondered what in the hell we were doing here. But after a few moments in the room to get settled and to put Tigger into his cage (We brought him with us because there was no one reliable at the time in Santa Clarita, and the Best Value Inn allowed pets) and turn on the TV for him, we went to the Strip and I felt better. Yes, this was for me. This freedom to do whatever you wanted, whatever you could find that appealed to you. I liked this a lot. There is no social fear here, no worry about what your neighbors might think, which isn't what life should be. I don't have it, but I can imagine other tourists shocked at the same thing that I love.
Wherever you live at the start of your life should begin to prep you for the rest of your life, to teach you things that can carry you through whatever might happen. Florida did that for me, and it's because of everything I learned and everything I experienced there that keeps me psyched about Las Vegas, that'll keep me excited when I live there. I'll handle the summer heat. Florida taught me that, too.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Smart Thinking
Tourism publications in Los Angeles aren't known for writing that makes you want to visit every attraction in the area before going back home to Ohio, Japan, Pennsylvania, or wherever you might be from. I suppose they do what's expected of them. Those who look inside each magazine find attractions that may interest them and they pursue them. Of course, there are also sturdy paper advertisements lining the wall to the right of the entrance to the Kodak Theatre shops on the ground floor which serve the same purpose.
I wish the writing was better, though. This stuff is copywriting at its most basic. You have to get people to want to visit these different places. You can't guarantee that their experience will be everything they could have ever dreamed it to be, but you have to set them off on that course, the one that puts money into the Starline Movie Stars' Homes Tour, for example, or the guided tour of the Kodak Theatre. Considering that Los Angeles is home to countless writers, so many with scripts in a drawer, waiting to become famous and with a power close to God, shouldn't there be more writers for these publications? Aren't there people who can put a few excited words together who love these places every single day, people who can go just enough below the surface to attract tourists? That's what Hollywood & Highland and other tourist-centered areas thrive on, so they should do better. I know that when people come here, they're not here to read, but a few words to get the gist of a place and to promote it well enough should always be present. These areas don't have the visual advantage of Las Vegas, so they do have to work harder at it, and that should include writing.
There is one publication I picked up yesterday at the Visitors' Center near the Kodak Theatre entrance, called L.A. The Place: Los Angeles County's Visitor Guide. There's coupons and information on attractions, shopping, and where to eat, but there is one thing included that is indicative of the area, that this city does sleep for the most part: TV listings.
It's listed on the front cover, and this is very smart. This is a monthly guide, and considering that a majority of the hotels and motels to stay at probably don't have DirecTV or any satellite service, they have TV listings for 6:30 p.m. to 12 a.m. each day in May. You won't find this in Las Vegas because that's a 24-hour culture. You pick your time to step off for a while, but that city keeps moving. TV is necessary for the tourists that stay somewhere at night. Those streets are truly empty. The Santa Clarita Valley, my area, starts closing up close to 9 p.m. each night, no matter what day it is.
Thinking about it more, maybe these tourism publications have it right, since there's also a majority of photos in each one. Maybe that's all they need. It works for their purpose and whoever wants to go to Legoland and Universal Studios and Disneyland and Six Flags Magic Mountain will get there. And then these magazines have done their job.
I wish the writing was better, though. This stuff is copywriting at its most basic. You have to get people to want to visit these different places. You can't guarantee that their experience will be everything they could have ever dreamed it to be, but you have to set them off on that course, the one that puts money into the Starline Movie Stars' Homes Tour, for example, or the guided tour of the Kodak Theatre. Considering that Los Angeles is home to countless writers, so many with scripts in a drawer, waiting to become famous and with a power close to God, shouldn't there be more writers for these publications? Aren't there people who can put a few excited words together who love these places every single day, people who can go just enough below the surface to attract tourists? That's what Hollywood & Highland and other tourist-centered areas thrive on, so they should do better. I know that when people come here, they're not here to read, but a few words to get the gist of a place and to promote it well enough should always be present. These areas don't have the visual advantage of Las Vegas, so they do have to work harder at it, and that should include writing.
There is one publication I picked up yesterday at the Visitors' Center near the Kodak Theatre entrance, called L.A. The Place: Los Angeles County's Visitor Guide. There's coupons and information on attractions, shopping, and where to eat, but there is one thing included that is indicative of the area, that this city does sleep for the most part: TV listings.
It's listed on the front cover, and this is very smart. This is a monthly guide, and considering that a majority of the hotels and motels to stay at probably don't have DirecTV or any satellite service, they have TV listings for 6:30 p.m. to 12 a.m. each day in May. You won't find this in Las Vegas because that's a 24-hour culture. You pick your time to step off for a while, but that city keeps moving. TV is necessary for the tourists that stay somewhere at night. Those streets are truly empty. The Santa Clarita Valley, my area, starts closing up close to 9 p.m. each night, no matter what day it is.
Thinking about it more, maybe these tourism publications have it right, since there's also a majority of photos in each one. Maybe that's all they need. It works for their purpose and whoever wants to go to Legoland and Universal Studios and Disneyland and Six Flags Magic Mountain will get there. And then these magazines have done their job.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The Older Years
Facing away from the handprints and footprints at Grauman's Chinese Theatre, I see a billboard atop a building to my left across the street, a huge poster for Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas. I am awed by this place, the history that I perceive to be here, the concentrated roar of Hollywood tour buses, touting glimpses of the stars' homes, the people dressed up as various movie characters on the sidewalk, taking photos, taking tips.
That was April 2003. It's now May 2011. If we're still here in late August, we'll have lived in Southern California for eight years. But we have changed. And I have changed. Those handprints and footprints were fascinating back then. All those people were there, those silent film stars, those abrasive wits like Bette Davis, and I think Buster Keaton is somewhere there, too. Charlie Chaplin, if not.
Meridith and I went to see them again today, the first time since that first time. We're more mild toward it now. It's there, but for us, it's just there. It's a part of this landscape that has been with us for all these years. But there is a markedly interesting difference: Meridith took a few photos of the stars that had been installed in the years after we saw this. That first time, she took photos with a disposable camera. This time, a cell phone camera. I asked her if we had had cell phones back then, and she told me that only Mom and Dad had them.
The billboard atop that building this time was of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow for, of course, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. Back then, the El Capitan Theatre was just a glimpse on the way to where we could board a van for one of those stars' homes tours. Today, we went to see On Stranger Tides at El Capitan, and while the organist played what sounded like every single song in Disney's history, Meridith figured out how many times she and I had been here, both together and separately. There was the Little Mermaid sing-a-long, the same for Mary Poppins, and there was The Jungle Book, and now this. That was four for me. Meridith reminded me of a fifth for her: Ratatouille. She had gone to that with Mom. So five for her. If we're still here in September, it may be a fifth time for me and a sixth time for her, since they're showing The Lion King in 3D.
That day in 2003, I think we also went to the Hollywood & Highland Center, to see the Hollywood sign from a distance on the fourth floor. This time on the fourth floor, our purpose was Soul Daddy, the restaurant concept on America's Next Great Restaurant, which became the winner of the show and opened three locations: One in Manhattan, one at Mall of America in Minneapolis, and one at the Hollywood & Highland Center, on the fourth floor. Meridith watched that show religiously, since Bobby Flay was the host and one of the judges, and he's her favorite chef. Over those weeks the show aired, she thought that the grilled cheese concept, Meltworks, might win, but then figured, after Meltworks was eliminated, that Soul Daddy would probably make it, and she was right.
It is good. Really good. The focus is on healthier southern food, and I'm sure because of the startup costs, most of the sides are cold, except for the cheese grits, and the braised kale. Mom had roasted pork, with sweet potato salad and green bean salad. Meridith and I had the same thing, baked herb chicken, but she had wild rice salad and green salad, while I had sweet potato salad and cheese grits. I love grits, probably on an equal par with books. I subsist partly on Quaker Instant Grits. There's not a real prominent taste of corn in there. There's corn grit, as you'd expect, but a taste that would be close to cornbread, no. This had that taste. This was truly a different kind for me. The cheese taste offered itself up meekly, but never shouted. I was fascinated at that near-cornbread taste, though. Meridith thought I should have gotten two side orders of grits (since the meal comes with two sides), but I wanted to try the sweet potato salad, too, which was also excellent. Dad had the country style ribs with cabbage slaw, but I don't remember his second side. It might also have been cabbage slaw, since he's big on cole slaw.
Amidst our joint reflection on all those years, looking back at our younger selves, remembering what rubes we were when we came to Hollywood too and were taken by everything around us (It's not so much that it's a sham, because in some aspects it is, but just that when you live relatively nearby (as nearby as you can get via various freeways), it becomes more and more surreal. A lot of it is a Dali painting come to life, and forgive me, because that's the only kind of surrealism that comes to mind right now), I also got a look at my possible future. Not a flash forward where I see exactly what I will become, but something to consider.
Toward the end of eating at Soul Daddy, I looked out the floor-to-ceiling window across from our table in the back and saw a blonde-haired, bright-eyed woman (late 20s, maybe) with her baby at a table just outside that window. There was a stroller, she had in front of her what she was eating, there were things on the table for the baby, and that was it. Single mother. That's what it looked like to me, anyway. A husband or boyfriend might have been along later, but I go by what I saw at that moment.
She didn't look worn down by the baby. It seemed like this baby had strengthened her, given her a strong resolve to make life worth living in so many ways.
I feel like I've tangled myself up in my words. I don't mean that she didn't have that resolve before the baby. I don't know. But there was an energy I felt from her, even with that window separating us.
The baby looked at me, the mother looked down at the baby and then at me, and she smiled at me. I thought it was because the baby had looked at me, but when the mother looked back again and smiled, the baby wasn't looking at me.
I'm definitely not ready for a baby. I know that for sure. But over the past year, after getting out of, and far, far away from, my anxiety brought on by all that weight, I've thought that I'm most happy among my books. I'm excited each day by what I choose to read. I'm continually enthused by my research for my next three books. What else would I need?
It turns out that I wouldn't mind a smile like that often coming from someone like that woman. It didn't look like there was any doubt in her eyes, and it certainly didn't look like a polite smile designed to deflect me from looking at her further. It's the kind of feeling that can carry you aloft for a long time.
I didn't feel an urge to talk to her, but as we walked away, back to the elevator to head down to the cupcake place on the ground floor of the Kodak Theatre area, I kept sneaking glances at her. And I thought, and I thought, and I thought.
I keep thinking that pursuing this might be a lot of work, that I'd have less time to read, less time to do what makes me everything that I am. Seems like an idiot notion, though. To connect with someone with the same interests, who's as equally passionate about their life as I am about mine? Why wouldn't I want to have that balloon feeling all the time?
I'm going to do this. I haven't been serious about this before, but I want to find someone. I'm 27, and I've only dated in 7th grade. Never through the rest of middle school, never in high school, and never during most of my 20s. There wasn't anything that stopped me; I just never went for it.
I don't know if it's some part of human nature that's spurring me on, but I don't care. I want to explore. I know it can be difficult, frustrating, whatever, but I'm the only one of me that I have, the only one in this body. I want to see for myself. If anything, that kind of smile would be nice to see every day.
That was April 2003. It's now May 2011. If we're still here in late August, we'll have lived in Southern California for eight years. But we have changed. And I have changed. Those handprints and footprints were fascinating back then. All those people were there, those silent film stars, those abrasive wits like Bette Davis, and I think Buster Keaton is somewhere there, too. Charlie Chaplin, if not.
Meridith and I went to see them again today, the first time since that first time. We're more mild toward it now. It's there, but for us, it's just there. It's a part of this landscape that has been with us for all these years. But there is a markedly interesting difference: Meridith took a few photos of the stars that had been installed in the years after we saw this. That first time, she took photos with a disposable camera. This time, a cell phone camera. I asked her if we had had cell phones back then, and she told me that only Mom and Dad had them.
The billboard atop that building this time was of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow for, of course, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides. Back then, the El Capitan Theatre was just a glimpse on the way to where we could board a van for one of those stars' homes tours. Today, we went to see On Stranger Tides at El Capitan, and while the organist played what sounded like every single song in Disney's history, Meridith figured out how many times she and I had been here, both together and separately. There was the Little Mermaid sing-a-long, the same for Mary Poppins, and there was The Jungle Book, and now this. That was four for me. Meridith reminded me of a fifth for her: Ratatouille. She had gone to that with Mom. So five for her. If we're still here in September, it may be a fifth time for me and a sixth time for her, since they're showing The Lion King in 3D.
That day in 2003, I think we also went to the Hollywood & Highland Center, to see the Hollywood sign from a distance on the fourth floor. This time on the fourth floor, our purpose was Soul Daddy, the restaurant concept on America's Next Great Restaurant, which became the winner of the show and opened three locations: One in Manhattan, one at Mall of America in Minneapolis, and one at the Hollywood & Highland Center, on the fourth floor. Meridith watched that show religiously, since Bobby Flay was the host and one of the judges, and he's her favorite chef. Over those weeks the show aired, she thought that the grilled cheese concept, Meltworks, might win, but then figured, after Meltworks was eliminated, that Soul Daddy would probably make it, and she was right.
It is good. Really good. The focus is on healthier southern food, and I'm sure because of the startup costs, most of the sides are cold, except for the cheese grits, and the braised kale. Mom had roasted pork, with sweet potato salad and green bean salad. Meridith and I had the same thing, baked herb chicken, but she had wild rice salad and green salad, while I had sweet potato salad and cheese grits. I love grits, probably on an equal par with books. I subsist partly on Quaker Instant Grits. There's not a real prominent taste of corn in there. There's corn grit, as you'd expect, but a taste that would be close to cornbread, no. This had that taste. This was truly a different kind for me. The cheese taste offered itself up meekly, but never shouted. I was fascinated at that near-cornbread taste, though. Meridith thought I should have gotten two side orders of grits (since the meal comes with two sides), but I wanted to try the sweet potato salad, too, which was also excellent. Dad had the country style ribs with cabbage slaw, but I don't remember his second side. It might also have been cabbage slaw, since he's big on cole slaw.
Amidst our joint reflection on all those years, looking back at our younger selves, remembering what rubes we were when we came to Hollywood too and were taken by everything around us (It's not so much that it's a sham, because in some aspects it is, but just that when you live relatively nearby (as nearby as you can get via various freeways), it becomes more and more surreal. A lot of it is a Dali painting come to life, and forgive me, because that's the only kind of surrealism that comes to mind right now), I also got a look at my possible future. Not a flash forward where I see exactly what I will become, but something to consider.
Toward the end of eating at Soul Daddy, I looked out the floor-to-ceiling window across from our table in the back and saw a blonde-haired, bright-eyed woman (late 20s, maybe) with her baby at a table just outside that window. There was a stroller, she had in front of her what she was eating, there were things on the table for the baby, and that was it. Single mother. That's what it looked like to me, anyway. A husband or boyfriend might have been along later, but I go by what I saw at that moment.
She didn't look worn down by the baby. It seemed like this baby had strengthened her, given her a strong resolve to make life worth living in so many ways.
I feel like I've tangled myself up in my words. I don't mean that she didn't have that resolve before the baby. I don't know. But there was an energy I felt from her, even with that window separating us.
The baby looked at me, the mother looked down at the baby and then at me, and she smiled at me. I thought it was because the baby had looked at me, but when the mother looked back again and smiled, the baby wasn't looking at me.
I'm definitely not ready for a baby. I know that for sure. But over the past year, after getting out of, and far, far away from, my anxiety brought on by all that weight, I've thought that I'm most happy among my books. I'm excited each day by what I choose to read. I'm continually enthused by my research for my next three books. What else would I need?
It turns out that I wouldn't mind a smile like that often coming from someone like that woman. It didn't look like there was any doubt in her eyes, and it certainly didn't look like a polite smile designed to deflect me from looking at her further. It's the kind of feeling that can carry you aloft for a long time.
I didn't feel an urge to talk to her, but as we walked away, back to the elevator to head down to the cupcake place on the ground floor of the Kodak Theatre area, I kept sneaking glances at her. And I thought, and I thought, and I thought.
I keep thinking that pursuing this might be a lot of work, that I'd have less time to read, less time to do what makes me everything that I am. Seems like an idiot notion, though. To connect with someone with the same interests, who's as equally passionate about their life as I am about mine? Why wouldn't I want to have that balloon feeling all the time?
I'm going to do this. I haven't been serious about this before, but I want to find someone. I'm 27, and I've only dated in 7th grade. Never through the rest of middle school, never in high school, and never during most of my 20s. There wasn't anything that stopped me; I just never went for it.
I don't know if it's some part of human nature that's spurring me on, but I don't care. I want to explore. I know it can be difficult, frustrating, whatever, but I'm the only one of me that I have, the only one in this body. I want to see for myself. If anything, that kind of smile would be nice to see every day.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Plans for The Rapture
Reading The Last Campaign: How Harry Truman Won the 1948 Election by Zachary Karabell yesterday, I began planning my Saturday. I suddenly had a yen to watch Swing Vote for the probably 5,007th time. Then would come the usual stop at the newsstand for The Wall Street Journal Weekend and then the library, as usual.
I went to the Fandango website last night to see what the status was of the showings of Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides at Edwards Valencia 12. Meridith and I want to see it, but we figured on waiting until its second weekend in theaters for the crowds to thin out a bit.
I woke up a little before 8 this morning, and found Mom on the El Capitan Theatre website, the theater owned by Disney in Hollywood, which had just had a marathon of all four Pirates of the Caribbean movies. And I remembered that Dad had had a desire to go to the Diabetes Expo being held at the Los Angeles Convention Center on Saturday. When I first heard about it, I didn't mind going. Gets me out of the valley and all I need with me is a book and I'm good.
Mom had the right idea, though. Of course, she would go with Dad, but why should Meridith and I wait to see Pirates? And at the 1 p.m. showing tomorrow, the day of The Rapture, in which I hope to suddenly become the proud owner of a Mercedes wherever I can find one after the believers have ascended, there were two available seats at the right side of the ground level of the theater at the ends of rows J and K, one behind the other. That works for me and Meridith.
And since general admission seats are in the balcony, these seats include popcorn and a drink, but hopefully a themed popcorn bucket rather than the standard El Capitan one.
And last night, Meridith finished the now-only season of "America's Next Great Restaurant" and found that not only are one of the three locations of Soul Daddy, the winner of the show, in Los Angeles, but it's inside the Hollywood & Highland Center, right across the street from El Capitan. So we'll go next door before or after the movie to see the generally overpriced souvenirs and then to Hollywood & Highland. She told me they have cheese grits as a side, and it would be a nice break from the Quaker Instant kind I always have.
I don't think the end of the world would affect Hollywood much, though. It's pretty much a godless place, but I say that because the Big Bang Theory t-shirts offered at the souvenir shops in the area are too expensive. I want another Sheldon shirt, but not for $25. I was a rube when I visited the area in April 2003, but I wasn't that much of a rube.
I went to the Fandango website last night to see what the status was of the showings of Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides at Edwards Valencia 12. Meridith and I want to see it, but we figured on waiting until its second weekend in theaters for the crowds to thin out a bit.
I woke up a little before 8 this morning, and found Mom on the El Capitan Theatre website, the theater owned by Disney in Hollywood, which had just had a marathon of all four Pirates of the Caribbean movies. And I remembered that Dad had had a desire to go to the Diabetes Expo being held at the Los Angeles Convention Center on Saturday. When I first heard about it, I didn't mind going. Gets me out of the valley and all I need with me is a book and I'm good.
Mom had the right idea, though. Of course, she would go with Dad, but why should Meridith and I wait to see Pirates? And at the 1 p.m. showing tomorrow, the day of The Rapture, in which I hope to suddenly become the proud owner of a Mercedes wherever I can find one after the believers have ascended, there were two available seats at the right side of the ground level of the theater at the ends of rows J and K, one behind the other. That works for me and Meridith.
And since general admission seats are in the balcony, these seats include popcorn and a drink, but hopefully a themed popcorn bucket rather than the standard El Capitan one.
And last night, Meridith finished the now-only season of "America's Next Great Restaurant" and found that not only are one of the three locations of Soul Daddy, the winner of the show, in Los Angeles, but it's inside the Hollywood & Highland Center, right across the street from El Capitan. So we'll go next door before or after the movie to see the generally overpriced souvenirs and then to Hollywood & Highland. She told me they have cheese grits as a side, and it would be a nice break from the Quaker Instant kind I always have.
I don't think the end of the world would affect Hollywood much, though. It's pretty much a godless place, but I say that because the Big Bang Theory t-shirts offered at the souvenir shops in the area are too expensive. I want another Sheldon shirt, but not for $25. I was a rube when I visited the area in April 2003, but I wasn't that much of a rube.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
A Universal Beauty
It's 1994. Bill Clinton has passed a year in the White House. I keep playing Sheryl Crow's "Tuesday Night Music Club" over and over, and it becomes my favorite album ever. In that summer, I become fascinated by the concept of a double feature, when the South Florida Sun-Sentinel has an ad in the Lifestyle section that says, "Come for Angels in the Outfield, stay for The Lion King." I've never seen restrooms so crowded in between films at the GCC Coral Square Cinema 8 in Coral Springs.
Somewhere in that year, April or May, I'm at Universal Studios Orlando with my family; a one-day visit. It's the day after my part in a bowling tournament, the reason we're in Orlando from Coral Springs, 4 hours south. I didn't rank high enough for the next round, so here I am, at a better deal, since the most fun I got out of that tournament was the big arcade at that alley, causing me to nearly miss my turn twice. I love bowling, but that was one instance of boredom.
We traverse pretty much the entire park. E.T.: The Ride. The Funtastic World of Hanna-Barbera. Kongfrontation. Nickelodeon Studios, where we sit down to watch them tape three opening challenges on "Legends of the Hidden Temple" for separate episodes.
At one point during the day, someone comes up to us and asks if we want to take part in a survey, what turns out to be a taste test of juices with the labels covered up. I notice that one of them is Ocean Spray, but that matters nothing to me, not with what I've seen.
An apparition.
A temporary vision.
A brunette about my age (10) who knows just what I like, even though she doesn't know me.
Mature. Even at that age, I like 'em that way, and it must stem from reading since I was 2. Nothing that I read in those books brought on this preference, but considering that my 3rd grade teacher once called my parents in for a conference because I was reading on a level far above my classmates with some John Grisham novels I brought to class to read, I expect a bit more.
I wish I remembered our conversation. I wish I remembered exactly what she looked like, beyond the long hair and those brown eyes that seemed curious but didn't want to ask the questions outright. I know, it sounds a little silly, but you come upon something like this in a theme park, just like that, and you wonder how on earth it managed to happen on that day, in that spot.
Of course, the severe disadvantage for me was not prying a bit more, like trying to extract a phone number or something to keep in touch. Saw her briefly, talked a bit, and that was it. Of course, this was at a time when I thought every girl I was attracted to would be unforgettable, like years later my memories of them would still haunt me. And then, you get older, and those preconceived notions become disposable notions.
But right then, wow. I don't remember if I asked her where she came from, to compare the distance between that and Coral Springs, but I wanted her with me for the rest of the day. No chance, though, since it was time to go.
I do recall that in line for Kongfrontation, there was a girl named Bridget in line behind me, and we had a longer conversation than the one I had with that taste test goddess. Bridget was a little more bubbly, excitable, but that didn't work for me. Like that brunette, I prefer mystery, time to explore in conversation what a person is, what they like, what they don't like, what they want in life. Now that stems from books and also having written my own, which required exploring facets of the lives of so many actors from nothing. I had to start from nothing and find the books and read them and get out of them what I needed. That works for me with women, too. I don't want to know everything right away, but just some trait, some manner of speaking that makes me want more.
Somewhere in that year, April or May, I'm at Universal Studios Orlando with my family; a one-day visit. It's the day after my part in a bowling tournament, the reason we're in Orlando from Coral Springs, 4 hours south. I didn't rank high enough for the next round, so here I am, at a better deal, since the most fun I got out of that tournament was the big arcade at that alley, causing me to nearly miss my turn twice. I love bowling, but that was one instance of boredom.
We traverse pretty much the entire park. E.T.: The Ride. The Funtastic World of Hanna-Barbera. Kongfrontation. Nickelodeon Studios, where we sit down to watch them tape three opening challenges on "Legends of the Hidden Temple" for separate episodes.
At one point during the day, someone comes up to us and asks if we want to take part in a survey, what turns out to be a taste test of juices with the labels covered up. I notice that one of them is Ocean Spray, but that matters nothing to me, not with what I've seen.
An apparition.
A temporary vision.
A brunette about my age (10) who knows just what I like, even though she doesn't know me.
Mature. Even at that age, I like 'em that way, and it must stem from reading since I was 2. Nothing that I read in those books brought on this preference, but considering that my 3rd grade teacher once called my parents in for a conference because I was reading on a level far above my classmates with some John Grisham novels I brought to class to read, I expect a bit more.
I wish I remembered our conversation. I wish I remembered exactly what she looked like, beyond the long hair and those brown eyes that seemed curious but didn't want to ask the questions outright. I know, it sounds a little silly, but you come upon something like this in a theme park, just like that, and you wonder how on earth it managed to happen on that day, in that spot.
Of course, the severe disadvantage for me was not prying a bit more, like trying to extract a phone number or something to keep in touch. Saw her briefly, talked a bit, and that was it. Of course, this was at a time when I thought every girl I was attracted to would be unforgettable, like years later my memories of them would still haunt me. And then, you get older, and those preconceived notions become disposable notions.
But right then, wow. I don't remember if I asked her where she came from, to compare the distance between that and Coral Springs, but I wanted her with me for the rest of the day. No chance, though, since it was time to go.
I do recall that in line for Kongfrontation, there was a girl named Bridget in line behind me, and we had a longer conversation than the one I had with that taste test goddess. Bridget was a little more bubbly, excitable, but that didn't work for me. Like that brunette, I prefer mystery, time to explore in conversation what a person is, what they like, what they don't like, what they want in life. Now that stems from books and also having written my own, which required exploring facets of the lives of so many actors from nothing. I had to start from nothing and find the books and read them and get out of them what I needed. That works for me with women, too. I don't want to know everything right away, but just some trait, some manner of speaking that makes me want more.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
No More Novels on DailyLit
Yesterday, I finished reading Paranoia by Joseph Finder. According to my Goodreads profile (http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/270540-rory, which you can also find in my links list under "Look! I read good!"), I started it on December 7 of last year.
It never takes me that long to read a book. But in this case, I read it through DailyLit (www.dailylit.com), which gives you a page a day via e-mail or a little longer, if you choose.
I chose Paranoia because it was a surprise to see a relatively recent book on there (well recent in paperback form, as that was published in 2006. It was first published in 2004), offered whole. You'd expect that with the novels of Charles Dickens, being in the public domain and all, but there that one was, full-length.
The plot sounded interesting, forced small-scale corporate espionage, and Finder is quite a writer, making every technical aspect easy to understand. He's not one of those aloof thriller writers who expect you to climb to Mount Olympus to even be able to understand what you're reading. He's like a friend telling you a story about something that happened. Your friend is going to make sure you know every detail, and that's what Finder does here.
In that span of time, between December and now, I bought all of Finder's books in paperback for cheap. I want to explore every other thriller he's written. I haven't started those yet (I also did the same with Tessa Hadley, after I read a short story of hers in The New Yorker, and just like with Finder, I haven't started reading her novels yet either), but I will get to his second book, The Russia Club soon (There was no reasonably priced copy of his first book, Red Carpet).
I liked getting a page a day from DailyLit (or rather a few compressed into one, since the mass market paperback edition is 448 pages, and there were 170 e-mails from DailyLit for it), but towards the end, I got impatient. I wanted to know how it all shook out, so yesterday, on "161 out of 170", I kept going. I clicked on the option of "Get the next installment right now," and I finished it.
I've done this before. On DailyLit, I read Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom by Cory Doctorow the same way, except I read it in one sitting. And then I did it again a few months later, craving it again. And then I bought the book from Amazon. I expect that's what Joseph Finder also hopes for in having Paranoia available for free, and that's exactly what he got from me. But I don't like doing this often. I prefer the real thing, real covers, real pages. I could never read Dickens like this. In fact, in the years before DailyLit, when I was doing a book report in middle school, I found A Tale of Two Cities available online, and I read it all online. That's not the way for me. Never do I want technology to take over how I read. For music, fine. An mp3 player was a godsend, because I don't have to cart around my entire CD collection on a road trip as I used to. And my mp3 player is always with me whenever I go out. I can understand that. But I will never, never, never, never get a Kindle. Give me stacks numbering into the hundreds. Give me that aging, yellowing smell of a book that perhaps has been read by so many across so many years and is now owned by me. I could never get the same pleasure of downloading a title to a Kindle as I do when I search for a particular book on abebooks.com and can compare prices and figure out what's the best seller to get it from. That happened last night with On the Volcano by James Nelson. I'm a huge fan of his The Trouble with Gumballs, and his son Jeff informed me that not only is he still alive, but he's still writing, and On the Volcano was recently published.
I appreciate having found The Trouble with Gumballs while searching for books about vending machines on the County of Los Angeles library website, but I wasn't going to do the same with this one. I wasn't going to wait. And abebooks.com had plenty of copies. So it's on its way to me.
However, I am going to wait for Nelson's The Poor Person's Guide to Great Cheap Wines and Everybody's Guide to Great Wines under $5 to get to me from whichever library will send it. I don't drink wine, but I do love good writing about anything. It's why I sometimes read the wine column in The Wall Street Journal Weekend.
This entry has really wandered, so I'll get back to the point: No more novels on DailyLit. During the middle portion of Paranoia, I could wait, and I was fortunate to discover Finder's other books, but that kind of discovery doesn't happen that often on DailyLit. The last time was Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom a few years ago, and as mentioned, that ended up the same way. But I'll stick with my discoveries in print. I'll get that feeling right then and there that I should have a book in my collection, and that doesn't happen often either, but when it does, it's a feeling that the word "euphoria" can't contain.
I'll stick with poems and quotes-of-the-day on DailyLit. Shorter and less time.
It never takes me that long to read a book. But in this case, I read it through DailyLit (www.dailylit.com), which gives you a page a day via e-mail or a little longer, if you choose.
I chose Paranoia because it was a surprise to see a relatively recent book on there (well recent in paperback form, as that was published in 2006. It was first published in 2004), offered whole. You'd expect that with the novels of Charles Dickens, being in the public domain and all, but there that one was, full-length.
The plot sounded interesting, forced small-scale corporate espionage, and Finder is quite a writer, making every technical aspect easy to understand. He's not one of those aloof thriller writers who expect you to climb to Mount Olympus to even be able to understand what you're reading. He's like a friend telling you a story about something that happened. Your friend is going to make sure you know every detail, and that's what Finder does here.
In that span of time, between December and now, I bought all of Finder's books in paperback for cheap. I want to explore every other thriller he's written. I haven't started those yet (I also did the same with Tessa Hadley, after I read a short story of hers in The New Yorker, and just like with Finder, I haven't started reading her novels yet either), but I will get to his second book, The Russia Club soon (There was no reasonably priced copy of his first book, Red Carpet).
I liked getting a page a day from DailyLit (or rather a few compressed into one, since the mass market paperback edition is 448 pages, and there were 170 e-mails from DailyLit for it), but towards the end, I got impatient. I wanted to know how it all shook out, so yesterday, on "161 out of 170", I kept going. I clicked on the option of "Get the next installment right now," and I finished it.
I've done this before. On DailyLit, I read Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom by Cory Doctorow the same way, except I read it in one sitting. And then I did it again a few months later, craving it again. And then I bought the book from Amazon. I expect that's what Joseph Finder also hopes for in having Paranoia available for free, and that's exactly what he got from me. But I don't like doing this often. I prefer the real thing, real covers, real pages. I could never read Dickens like this. In fact, in the years before DailyLit, when I was doing a book report in middle school, I found A Tale of Two Cities available online, and I read it all online. That's not the way for me. Never do I want technology to take over how I read. For music, fine. An mp3 player was a godsend, because I don't have to cart around my entire CD collection on a road trip as I used to. And my mp3 player is always with me whenever I go out. I can understand that. But I will never, never, never, never get a Kindle. Give me stacks numbering into the hundreds. Give me that aging, yellowing smell of a book that perhaps has been read by so many across so many years and is now owned by me. I could never get the same pleasure of downloading a title to a Kindle as I do when I search for a particular book on abebooks.com and can compare prices and figure out what's the best seller to get it from. That happened last night with On the Volcano by James Nelson. I'm a huge fan of his The Trouble with Gumballs, and his son Jeff informed me that not only is he still alive, but he's still writing, and On the Volcano was recently published.
I appreciate having found The Trouble with Gumballs while searching for books about vending machines on the County of Los Angeles library website, but I wasn't going to do the same with this one. I wasn't going to wait. And abebooks.com had plenty of copies. So it's on its way to me.
However, I am going to wait for Nelson's The Poor Person's Guide to Great Cheap Wines and Everybody's Guide to Great Wines under $5 to get to me from whichever library will send it. I don't drink wine, but I do love good writing about anything. It's why I sometimes read the wine column in The Wall Street Journal Weekend.
This entry has really wandered, so I'll get back to the point: No more novels on DailyLit. During the middle portion of Paranoia, I could wait, and I was fortunate to discover Finder's other books, but that kind of discovery doesn't happen that often on DailyLit. The last time was Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom a few years ago, and as mentioned, that ended up the same way. But I'll stick with my discoveries in print. I'll get that feeling right then and there that I should have a book in my collection, and that doesn't happen often either, but when it does, it's a feeling that the word "euphoria" can't contain.
I'll stick with poems and quotes-of-the-day on DailyLit. Shorter and less time.
Night Moves
Last night was one of those nights in which I slept in sections. It doesn't happen often, thankfully, but I drift off, wake up, drift off, wake up. It doesn't happen five minutes later, but probably an hour or two, and always a dream involved. I was surprised that no dream involved the taping of the third- and second-to-last Oprah Winfrey shows last night, which I followed closely on The Hollywood Reporter website via a reporter who had a live chat blog going while the episodes were being taped at the United Center in Chicago. Both episodes are called "Surpise Oprah! A Farewell Spectacular" (They air on Monday, May 23 and Tuesday, May 24) and it seemed like nearly all of Hollywood was there. Tom Hanks, Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes, Beyonce, Queen Latifah, Jamie Foxx, Dakota Fanning, Usher, Kristin Chenoweth, Aretha Franklin, Will Smith, Jada Pinkett Smith (the latter two hosted the second episode, while Tom Hanks hosted the first, apparently), Stevie Wonder, Alicia Keys, and many other names I've forgotten. The two episodes were producers' choice. Oprah didn't know anything about what was going to happen. The NBA agreed to push back the next Finals game (Bulls vs. Heat) for this. That's power over many decades.
I know the different parts of the night. I figured that when I woke up the first time, it was 1 a.m. The next time was 3. The third time was probably getting closer to 6, since the heat clicked on and soon enough, Tigger came to my bed, licked me and got in. I never look at the clock and I'm never overly concerned about being awake during the night. I just shift and drift right back off.
It also rained during the night. Not a "Holy-crap-why didn't-I-build-an-ark" downpour, but just a steady rain that there's always too little of here in Southern California, but that's expected with the desert atmosphere, though rare in May. Usually the heat ratchets up around this time and doesn't stop until the end of summer. I'm all for rain as late as we can get it.
That's pretty much all I have.
I know the different parts of the night. I figured that when I woke up the first time, it was 1 a.m. The next time was 3. The third time was probably getting closer to 6, since the heat clicked on and soon enough, Tigger came to my bed, licked me and got in. I never look at the clock and I'm never overly concerned about being awake during the night. I just shift and drift right back off.
It also rained during the night. Not a "Holy-crap-why didn't-I-build-an-ark" downpour, but just a steady rain that there's always too little of here in Southern California, but that's expected with the desert atmosphere, though rare in May. Usually the heat ratchets up around this time and doesn't stop until the end of summer. I'm all for rain as late as we can get it.
That's pretty much all I have.
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