Getting It Back?

Work is always a little difficult when not having been at it for a stretch of a week, as it was today. The extensive walking took a bit of time to get used to, my feet hurt a bit from standing in one spot for 20 minutes straight (Keeping watch on the kids buying snacks at brunch from the kitchen staff), but it wasn't from weight. Just getting reaccustomed.

The highlight of my day wasn't being paid for what I love to do or a day without any calls to pick up kids from classrooms. It was at Walmart, when Meridith exchanged a shirt she had bought for one of the same design, a smaller size.

The girl who was helping her at the returns and exchanges counter had gone to high school with Meridith, and I had seen her when we got in line. She looked like the kind who always plans something mischievous, a playful look about her. I was entranced. And then, when Meridith was signing whatever's necessary for an exchange, the girl looked at me and gave a slight smile. But it didn't seem like a polite smile. It looked like there was something else in it, something that told me that she noticed that I was looking and she liked it, and my heart felt like it had turned into a starburst and was radiating so much light.

Meridith told me that she texts this girl occasionally, and I asked her to text her for me, not necessarily asking if she's single, but to express my interest of talking to her. But the impenetrable problem is that we're eventually moving. Why is it that the nice things only come when we're getting ready to leave? The same thing happened in Florida many times over. Where we lived was nice, such as Casselberry when I was a tyke, but things got even better when we were leaving.

The funny thing is that in theory, I always thought that I'd be satisfied with books and writing. I thought that'd be enough, especially considering how much I read in a week. But looking at this girl, feeling like my heart had become a new source of electricity that could lower our monthly bill, I guess I'm getting back my interest. Not that I lost it entirely after breaking up with Lisa, but it was muted. And now it's back. I didn't feel uncertain when I asked Meridith to text her. And I was distracted at the checkout line when Meridith was handing me a bag to put in the cart and I didn't even notice because I was looking at the return and exchanges counter, hoping to spot her again.

Nothing may result from this, and I don't want to lead this girl on, but I do want to get to know her in some fashion. She looked fascinating. I wonder if she's an avid reader. She kind of looked it.

(Update at 9:27 p.m.: Meridith told me that the girl's name is Nina. Seems like I'm a fan of short names and I never knew it.)

Work, Glorious Work!

I don't like to make an entry this short, but I must out of excitement and the need for sleep in order to do my job properly. Yes, I am back at La Mesa tomorrow as a substitute campus supervisor. John, the head campus supervisor, is out sick, which means Alex, normally 9:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., gets John's hours of 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., and I get Alex's hours.

Always nice to have another paycheck coming in, and I'm hoping this lasts throughout the week. I would like more, please.

Just Like Ollivanders in the First Harry Potter Movie

Mid-Saturday evening and once again dissatisfied with the bargain books on offer near the DVDs in the electronics section at Walmart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, I walked back to where Mom, Dad and Meridith were, near the chips-and-crackers aisles, but stopped upon seeing that on all the flatscreen TVs, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was playing, specifically the scene where Harry seeks a wand with the help of Mr. Ollivander (John Hurt). He tries out two that cause some damage, and then he holds one that is clearly it. Light builds up behind him, a slight wind blows around him. He feels its power; it was obviously made for him.

That's how I felt toward midnight last night, having had enough of the TV and the computer in the living room, much more in favor of reading in my room. At first, I thought I'd attach my mp3 player to my radio and listen to that while reading, but Trucker: A Portrait of the last American Cowboy (as it's titled) by Jane Stern requires complete silence in order to know the roads, the personalities, the lives of the truckers profiled in this best and most definitive book on the American trucking industry, from its history to the present-day '70s, as this was published in 1975. Stern wrote this book solo, and her husband, Michael Stern, took the lively black-and-white photos featured in the pages.

It's not hard to find books that take you on vast adventures, but rare is the one that makes one particular industry utterly fascinating. Stern harbors no judgment on how these truckers live. What would seem to be an unkind word toward them is merely stating how the trucker feels. Stern doesn't couch her words in some grander scheme of life. This is how these men (and few women) live and work. It's just like you and me, living according to our beliefs, our loves, our passions, and our quirks.

This is my wand. It's different from the books that have previously inspired me, that have made me want to write like that. With those, there was a surface feeling of it. I remember those books, I remember what makes me want to write in those styles, but Trucker has burrowed deeper into me. Stern just gets to it. Here are these lives. See who they are. That's it. It's language created not only by extensive research, but actually traveling with many of these truckers, spending a lot of time at truck stops and at the other places truckers frequent. You're right there with them.

The Heavenly Saturday Haul

This afternoon, Dad came through the front door with a long arm of packages from the mailman (along with the mail), using his chin to make sure the stack didn't fly out in all directions. It turned out that between two packages, he had been carrying well over 1,400 pages. And all of what he was carrying was for me.

Earlier this week, I had a yen to reread the Tales of the City books by Armistead Maupin, but I didn't want to pay for each one, cheap as they can be found at abebooks.com. The two omnibuses, 28 Barbary Lane and Back to Barbary Lane would have to do. They came today, big and thick, and I can't wait. Well, I am excited, but they have been waiting, because other priorities took hold.

There was also Leave Me Alone, I'm Reading by Maureen Corrigan, which I'm reading right now. And A Cook's Tour and The Nasty Bits by Anthony Bourdain, which will follow. But Trucker by Jane Stern, published in 1975, may come before them. The full title is Trucker: A Portrait of the last American Cowboy, and I'm really curious about this one. This was before Jane and Michael Stern became known for traveling the entire U.S. in search of great food.

Also in the haul was Lake Wobegon Days by Garrison Keillor (I listened to a few broadcasts of A Prairie Home Companion last year, and those stories from Lake Wobegon have always stuck, so I wanted to see what those stories were like in print), Seconds of Pleasure by Neil LaBute, and Proof of Heaven by Mary Curran Hackett.

I rushed through those last two titles because of a book that was immediately more important to me than any of the others. It's why Lost in Translation by Nicole Mones, her first novel, remains still at page 46. It's Trust Me: A Memoir by George Kennedy. That George Kennedy. The George Kennedy whose Joe Patroni in the Airport movies made me even more enthusiastic about aviation after I had turned 11 and was deeply into it. It was because of Patroni that I had begun to seriously consider a career in aviation, maybe in the Air Force (The first job I thought of was a mechanic for Air Force One), maybe as an NTSB investigator.

Those considerations are long gone in favor of hopefully a full-time career as a middle school campus supervisor so I can have plenty of time to read and write, which I need in order to write the so-far seven books and many, many plays I have in mind. But Patroni remains, that unending love for aviation, that vastly intelligent troubleshooting mind that knew exactly what was necessary at the crucial moment.

I had hoped that Kennedy would devote many pages to his role in those movies, but there was only less than a page about them, and yet I wasn't disappointed because what he had given me was something I'd absolutely never known about him, and a piece of trivia that fits in with all the movie trivia I love. I love those stray facts that are utterly fascinating, what's worth repeating because you can't quite believe that it was possible, and yet it happened.

First, from page 107, the first paragraph of what Kennedy offers:

"In the four Airport movies, I played a guy named Joe Patroni. Over the years, more people have told me stories about him (and what he did and said) than about anyone else. I was coming back from New York to LA in a jumbo, and it was pretty quiet. There was a bing-bong and a voice: "This is your captain speaking. Everything is fine, and we'll be a little early. Should anything go wrong, however, Joe Patroni is sitting with you, and we'll get him up here." I got a round of applause, and in my head I genuflected in the direction of Lloyd Nolan. He was right."

Kennedy describes Patroni perfectly. He is a guy. An average guy, with immense talent. He'll get along with anyone, but does not like anyone that does wrong by him, such as the pilot with a sneering sort of attitude in Airport who says that nothing can be done about the stuck 707 until the chief pilot for Trans Global is contacted. Burt Lancaster, as airport manager Mel Bakersfeld, tells the pilot that they can't wait, that the plane is blocking a runway and they need to do whatever they have to to get this plane out of the snow. "Joe here is licensed to taxi, so he'll take over," says Bakersfeld. And that's exactly right. Joe will get it done and he'll make sure to get it done right.

The bit about Lloyd Nolan is about what Nolan, one of Kennedy's childhood heroes, told him on the set of Airport, about admirers that will come to tell him about their favorite movie of his and describe what they loved about it and how it touched them, and to always pay attention to that. Nolan says, "Ours is a business of 'touching' people, and sometimes they tell you in such unexpected ways you just don't know what to do or say . . . but when you recall it, years later, it'll warm you all over again. People can really 'touch' back."

This next paragraph is partly what I never knew about Kennedy until now, and a remarkable piece of movie trivia, especially since the Concorde remains one of my favorite aircraft, even in retirement:

"I took flying lessons during the film and got my license on time, and later, multi-engine and instrument upgrades. I owned a lot of planes, single and twin, but the Cessna 182 was my favorite, and the Beech A36 is a close second. In the last Airport, I got to taxi the Concorde from the copilot's seat at Le Bourget in Paris. Quite a thrill. Universal rented it for forty thousand dollars an hour."

Kennedy not only played Joe Patroni, he was Joe Patroni in a sense. And I never expected that being part of the budget for The Concorde: Airport '79. Certainly the Concorde was used to a great extent (And as it turns out, the Concorde used in the movie was the one that crashed in 2000, killing everyone on board), but I thought that perhaps the budget for the original Airport had been higher. I do wonder for how many hours the Concorde was used at that rental fee. I wonder, and I think there's something there for me to explore further, what with how many times I watched all four Airport movies all throughout my teens.

I started reading Trust Me after I organized the other books, and finished it about an hour ago. When I really want to read something, I don't wait. And this was worth it, especially because it was as genial as Kennedy was as Joe Patroni and in other roles as well.

I hope the rest of the weekend will be equally worthwhile, especially with all these books around.

Find Me Another Job...

Find me another job in which you have to do nothing more the previous evening than make lunch and check that you have in your tote bag the book(s) you want to bring with you for before your shift starts and lunchtime.

Find me another job in which the beginning of the work day starts with such overwhelming peace at 9:30, a little over an hour before the real supervision begins.

Find me another job in which you can walk the empty grounds, making sure everything's ok, while thinking about the purpose and the structure of the book you want to write.

Find me another job in which it's at times cold enough (right now) that there's an office for people of your position that you can sit in, rest for a bit, and, yes, read, finishing the novel you so love during the penultimate class period of the day. (That was The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones, which has inspired me to seek out more about the history of Chinese cuisine and to read loads of Chinese literature and poetry, and about Chinese history.)

Find me another job in which it can be so quiet during the day that you only pick up one call, from the gym to the office, for someone to be picked up to go home.

Find me another job in which it's cold enough and windy enough that you don't feel like walking to the gym, and so you drive the golf cart there and to the office. And you get paid for it.

Find me another job in which you watch a trickle of humanity rush past the open gates to leave the campus after the bell rings, followed by large crowds that walk around people standing around, like water trying to get around a clog, before those twos-and-threes-and-foursomes walk away and the crowd continues its departure more forcefully.

Find me another job in which the crowd has left, some standing near the curb, some sitting on a wall overlooking the parking lot, waiting to be picked up, and you stand there, amazed yet again that it all builds to a crescendo and fades just as quickly.

Find me another job in which the last minutes of your workday pass so quietly that you wonder how you could have even thought about working in journalism or at an airport years ago.

You can't. I can't. That's why I'm a substitute campus supervisor at La Mesa Junior High and proud of it. I love it so dearly that it's what I hope to do, full time, after I become a resident of Henderson, Nevada. This is the ideal job for me, and I do it well. But most importantly, I'm happy with it. What better reason to have a job?

My Summer 1998 Movie Season

Reading The Gross by Peter Bart all day today, about the summer 1998 movie season that changed how Hollywood goes about its business, I was thrust into memories of my own experiences during that summer, in the section in which Bart, the now-former editor-in-chief of Daily Variety, analyzes the box office take from week to week.

Reading "WEEK FIVE Monday, June 8," I remembered wanting to see The Truman Show, because I was a huge fan of Jim Carrey. In 1995, at Regal Sawgrass 23, right against the Sawgrass Mills mall in Sunrise, Florida, I saw Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls, and liked it better than the first one. I knew that Jim Carrey would not be the slapstick comedian he was there, but I was prepared, curious to see what he could do as a dramatic actor. And, seeing it at Regal Sawgrass 23, three years later, he was incredible in it, helped along greatly by preeminent director Peter Weir and the screenplay by Andrew Niccol, which gradually showed the cracks in Truman Burbank's manufactured world. I was stunned at the end, knowing I had seen a truly great movie. I still believe that.

However, that experience doesn't compare to the opportunity I got later that summer, in August. An aviation enthusiast since 11 years old, I was 14 when I had the chance to go to a weeklong summer camp at Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach. I would be among like-minded enthusiasts who all had an eye toward a career somewhere in the industry, two as pilots. In fact, Philip, one of my campmates, was going to start classes there after the summer camp was over.

I loved it. I remember the nights that Russell, Evan, Philip, and a few other names I've forgotten discussed all aspects of aviation, poring over navigation maps, talking about our favorite aircraft. One of our campmates had flown in on the Boeing 777 and we were all envious. We sat in classes and learned about the basics of aircraft and of flying, and we flew from the Daytona Beach airport to a small grass strip in DeLand, two roomates to a plane, along with an instructor, switching places on the way back. I got the route on the way back, but permitted to fly only for a few minutes, not the entire time.

In the Student Center across the street from the dorms, I remember being introduced to Semisonic when Philip played the first bars of "Closing Time" on the piano in the rotunda. There was a significant echo in that space and it made those bars all the more haunting, and that memory lasted me for years, until the beginning of "Clocks" by Coldplay.

One of my fondest memories was on Friday, August 14. I remember the date specifically because in The Gross, in "WEEK FIFTEEN Monday, August 17", Bart mentions that the box office take for Halloween: H20 dropped 48 percent, and I still have the binder from that summer camp, including the activities scheduled for each day. On that day, one of our campmates was leaving, having chosen the half-week package, and we had a luncheon for his departure, and then in the evening, after dinner, we went with our RA to the Daytona Beach boardwalk.

This was after long, late nights we all spent discussing various facets of aviation. We had energy, but not a consistent supply. Or at least I didn't.

I don't remember what the movie theater was called in that area, but according to Fandango, there's one called R/C Ocean Walk Movies. Certainly if this is indeed the theater I'm thinking of, it had to be a lot smaller and more reserved back then. We were there to see a movie, the choices for us being Halloween: H20 and Saving Private Ryan. I had never seen any of the Halloween movies, still haven't, but I didn't mind what it was. I just loved being part of a group that loved what I loved, and I thought I was the only one, since neither Mom, Dad nor Meridith were interested in aviation.

We didn't seem like the types who would go for Halloween: H20, so Saving Private Ryan it was. And one of our campmates sprung for the tickets for all of us, so he got to call shotgun for the final days whenever we went somewhere in the van.

The movie wasn't until 10 p.m., however, so we spent a few hours wandering the boardwalk. Not a typical walk, though. We acted like we were air traffic controllers and pilots, giving our location, requesting clearance, taking off from runways, and on approach to airports. I was in the best company. Couple that with Daytona Beach itself, walking along the shoreline, and there was a deep beauty in the world that night.

We went back to the movie theater, and got seats next to each other. I remember the opening sequence, all battle, all gruesome violence, but everything else was sporadic or not at all. I got as far as the scene where the men are talking in the bombed-out church and the next thing I remember, the credits were rolling. I had fallen asleep, and not only that, but my campmates told me that I had been snoring and had to be poked a few times. I wasn't embarassed. Better them, who cared enough to try to keep me quiet, than someone potentially pissed off at the noise.

Reading those particular sections, and what the studios had put into these movies for the summer, I wasn't as interested in the behind-the-scenes details then as I am now. I didn't know anything about how Hollywood worked. There were all those figures in Hollywood worried about how their movies would fare, how much profit they could expect, and there I was, 14 years old, in a movie theater in Sunrise, seeing The Truman Show, and at that Daytona Beach theater, which was the furthest you could get from Hollywood. It didn't seem like the kind of theater that those who compile box office statistics would call often to get the per-screen total. It was the next year that I would begin writing movie reviews and learn so much about Hollywood itself that it seemed like as soon as I understand what I thought was everything, there was still more. And here I am now, hoping to use this knowledge to my advantage. My favorite movie experiences include that night, when I didn't know anything about Hollywood, and I sometimes prefer that now, but not being a film critic anymore, I'm happiest studying Hollywood in the 1930s because nothing can change what happened then. It's concrete, whereas the business of Hollywood today is always fluid. There's a feeling of comfortable security in that.

Can I Write Books Like This Forever?

I couldn't be lazy when What If They Lived? was handed to me, when I was given a general deadline for when my half of the book had to be completed and sent to Phil by e-mail so he could put it in the manuscript. As soon as I agreed to it, the research began. Every single day was given over to getting as much information I could about the actors I was writing about, but expediting it so I could give equal close attention to the writing, which was most important with it being my first book.

Today, I began research for my second book, centered on aspects of 1930s Hollywood. It took me weeks to get to this point. Not for time spent figuring out what books to read for this, what other resources I need to be sure I have all the information I need, but for sheer laziness. I'd think about starting the research over one weekend, and that weekend would pass because there were other books I wanted to read more. It's not that I don't want to write this book; I really do because it fits right into all the time I spent as a teenager reading every movie book I could find, thick biographies about directors (Directors are my favorite Hollywood personalities to read about), tours through the histories of the various studios back in the 1930s, and the odd biography of an actor. I loved looking at behind-the-scenes photos in these books, and I was always staggered by the long shelves of movie books at the Main branch of the Broward County Library system in downtown Fort Lauderdale on those occasional visits. I wanted to either take all those books home, or live in that library for a few weeks to eat up everything in sight on those shelves.

Perhaps the laziness was well-deserved. After all, I had been at work on What If They Lived? up to about a month and a half before its publication date, checking the proofs, making sure that what had been blessedly rewritten by Phil (because I severely overwrote a few introductions out of sheer nervousness over this being my first book) hewed to how I wanted it to read, and making sure that all of it read well besides. What If They Lived? was released in March, and at the time I was thinking that maybe I should start researching for my second book, it was mid-to-late October, getting comfortably into late October. So nearly 7 months had elapsed in between.

But I also have a personal goal: I want to be published again by the time I turn 30. That means I have a cushion of a few months right now before my 28th birthday on March 21, and then two years left after that. No more time to waste.

I began with The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West, which I remembered checking out once from the Valencia library, and I ordered it alongside other books that popped out at me, including one about the creation of Universal Pictures, another about all of the movie studios back in the 1930s, and a biography of Louis B. Mayer by Scott Eyman. There are others besides these, but they'll remain others.

The Day of the Locust was useful for the atmosphere I'm seeking for my book, getting the feeling down pat of these studios hard at work with their various assembly lines, as movies were made back then. I got many paragraphs of that, as the main character, Tod, weaves through a few productions filming on the lot. It matches what I'm hoping I can do in my own work.

I finished that earlier this evening, and am now reading The Gross by Peter Bart, which would seem to be an unusual choice considering that I'm focusing on the 1930s, but it gives me a structure to study. The way Bart wrote this book, flitting about from movie to movie in each chapter, is possibly how I want to write mine. Also, I get solid background on the workings of the industry circa late 1997 to 1998, and can contrast that to the industry in the 1930s as I read those books. I know the basics, I know the styles of each studio back in the 1930s, but it gives me more to mull over as I figure out where I'm going with this book.

Most importantly, I feel comfortable with this. I did a lot of research for What If They Lived?, that deadline gradually getting closer, and I was snippy to my parents and sister at times, but without that experience, I wouldn't be here, having learned what research entails, how to go about it, what works for me as I work. I'm not as nervous now. What If They Lived? is out in the world, and all I can do for myself and hopefully for my future writing career is just to keep reading, and just keep writing and see what sticks, and most importantly, write what I'm passionate about, which is why I have four books in mind after I finish this one.

I don't have a publisher for this one, so that will be a challenge, but one I'm ready for because the challenge the first time was writing a book, especially writing 10 pages and more compared to the mere sometimes-1,500 words I wrote for each Film Threat review. Screen It helped a lot with that too, making me write more than I was accustomed to, and I appreciate that I was pushed like that. It had to happen some time.

And I love not having a deadline of sorts, at least not a publisher's deadline. Of course I say that because two years and a handful of months feels like a lot of time to me. There's still an immense amount of work to be done, though. I'm enjoying it, so that's a start, especially the opportunity to read these books, to not have to write one word until I'm certain that I have everything I need, every source, every record, every piece that will be fitted into this book. This will also be the first time I'll make an outline. I didn't have to for What If They Lived?, because I was told what each essay had to contain.

I hated outlines in school because it never felt like they led to anything useful. I didn't need them for study aids, because I could understand whatever historical period we were studying without "A" being this, and "A-1" talking about this, and "B" referencing this, and, ugh, it just felt like bureaucracy inside a classroom. This time, the outline will lead somewhere, to more of what I'm happiest doing in my life. Plus, I feel so relaxed, so excited to see what these books contain for me to use for my own (with proper credit in a bibliography, of course, and credit after quotes when necessary). All I need soon enough is a full-time job that lets me keep doing all this. If I can read and write steadily for the rest of my life, then I've lived my life well.