Walken Will Be Walken

I'm reading For My Eyes Only, John Glen's memoir about his career and especially as director of all the '80s Bond movies, and I love this piece about Christopher Walken ("A View to a Kill"):

"The only problem I had working with Christopher was his habit of wandering off while we were on location. I'd turn my back for a moment, only to discover that he'd gone for a walk somewhere. I ended up giving one of the junior assistant directors the sole responsibility of keeping an eye on Christopher and making sure he was around when I needed him for a shot. This became something of a game for Christopher and as soon as this guy was distracted for a second, he'd nip off in the other direction."

New DVD Reviews

These five new DVD reviews sparked little passion in me, although I liked George Gently for its approach to mysteries, especially being set in late 1960s Northern England. An actual period piece for mysteries, striving to be accurate. I'm psyched about the series set for Mighty Morphin Power Rangers which spans the Original Series to Lost Galaxy. That may be where my passion lies, examining my childhood from my current perspective. I'm expecting that one soon.

Fortunately, it's the search for what gets me excited about DVDs that keeps me going, as well as interest in what I review, and all these DVDs were interesting, especially the camerawork in Foreign Parts:

Patriocracy

Joe + Belle

The Story of the Costume Drama

George Gently: Series 4

Fixation

Washington: Behind Closed Doors

Foreign Parts

Genetic Chile

Mr. Belvedere Rings the Bell

As It Was Before It Goes to Someone Else

The carpet next to and behind my TV turned from white, with all that accumulated dust, to green yesterday. My makeshift box bookshelves are no longer bookshelves, but rather boxes with books in them, boxes that are still surprisingly sturdy after eight years. 20+ bags filled with books, stuffed animals, and other things are sitting outside at our front door walkway, waiting to be picked up by Vietnam Veterans of America, which has a local branch here. They said they'd pick up as much as we have, and so not only is it the best way to clear all this out, but we're doing a mitzvah at the same time.

This place is looking like it was when we moved in, before someone else buys it. It's surprising to see my room so organized now, but I didn't bother until now because I never cared about this place. In Las Vegas, I'll care enough about our new home to keep my room organized, because I know I'll be home.

Besides all this, and still more cleaning to do by the end of the week, I'm motivated to finish reading all the issues of Henderson Press up to the latest. I still have the print edition my parents brought back from their recent trip, but I'll read the rest online. Looking at the website, I have 26 issues left. It's grown to 24 pages, but still good for many quick reads.

And a few days ago, Dad had a question that I was quick to answer: If I could go anywhere in Southern California once more before we move, where would I want to go? I answered, "The Buena Park Downtown mall and Downtown Disney in Anaheim." Those were two of the only cities that truly felt like cities to me in this region, full of personality and never ignoring their own history. I want to go to both once more, also because Buena Park Downtown will be a research trip for me since I want to get a feel for the atmosphere again, as a few scenes in one of my future novels takes place there.

That's been it. Still lots to do to get to where I know I'll write more than I ever have.

A Comfy Goodreads Account Leads to Questions about Personal Space in My Life

Since 10th grade at Valencia High in 2005, Meridith has filled a quarter of a notebook with titles of books she wants to read. Most of them she crossed out because she wasn't interested in them anymore, but she's always added to it and checked off those she already read.

In our progress toward moving, which now includes cleaning out this place to make it look palace-like so one of our two realtors can come back next week to take photos to post online, Meridith was looking through her notebook, seeing which titles she read lately, which ones she's still interested in, and which ones she wanted to cross out. Watching her do this for a moment, I had an idea: How about a Goodreads account? I've had one since 2007 and it's served me well all this time, given that my to-read list on the site now holds over 4,000 titles, which would be impossible to write down in a notebook, though that's not the reason I signed up for an account five years ago. I wanted to keep steady track of my books and I know that I read a lot in a given week, so here was a site in which I could look up all the books I have, put them in my account, make different shelves of different names, and figure out what I want to read next based on what's in my to-read list and what Goodreads recommends through its mostly-stagnant recommendation program, which perhaps doesn't work for me now because I've read and rated 640 books, and perhaps Goodreads thinks I've got a handle on this now and don't need the recommendation program anymore. Perhaps I don't, but it's still fun to look through.

Meridith agreed to the idea and I helped her sign up for an account and gave her a tour of what the site offers and how she can organize her books. She rated a great number of Meg Cabot's books, made sure she became a fan of her and Hilary Duff on the site (their pages include blog entries linked from their official websites, so Meridith will also see that in her feed when she logs in), and put the books she wants to read into her to-read list. After she was done, her account showed that she had rated 107 books, she's currently reading The Last Chinese Chef by Nicole Mones (one of my favorite novels which is part of my permanent collection), and has 175 books in her to-read list, along with 26 in her "my favorite books so far" list and 26 in her "owned list." Only one book, Sundays at Tiffanys by James Patterson, is not part of her "owned" list but is in her "my favorite books so far" list.

After we finished setting up her account at 1:30 this morning, I told Meridith how much I envy her. I've had my account for five years, have added a monsterload of books, and last year, I turned my regular account into a Goodreads Author Profile, owing to my first book, What If They Lived?. I can't turn back to the sheer simplicity of Meridith's new account. I want whatever publicity I can get for my first book and for myself and my writing as I work on my next books and hopefully have them published in the years to come. My account is an endless rock concert of books, whereas Meridith's is a small shelf in the corner of a comfy room, with a recliner in front of it, and a tableside lamp or a bigger lamp next to it. Sometimes I wish I could have her account, but I need it the way it is. I've read a lot since I was two years old, and I'm happy to finally be the full-time voracious reader I've always wanted to be, but the utter peace of Meridith's Goodreads account gives me pause, makes me think about what I want in my life.

I think back to that visit to Legoland in Carlsbad, after which we drove to Hash House a Go Go on 5th Avenue in San Diego, and parked in a nearly empty lot a few blocks away, putting a few dollars into the slot that corresponded to our space in the bank of slots next to the sidewalk. Walking to Hash House a Go Go, the blinds of a window in a bungalow were open and I saw this tight little room with bookshelves full up, a tall lamp in one corner of the room, and a puffed-up large red leather easy chair in front of it. I wanted to live in that room right then and there. I wanted a room like that and I wanted it to feel as comfortable as that one looked.

Now I have that chance. Mom told me and Meridith that we need a bullhorn and GPS to find our way in our new home. It's half bigger than this place, with four bedrooms and two bathrooms. Since where we're living is all rentals, the cost is obviously much lower, and the plan to have Meridith and I share a room if it had been an apartment has been chucked aside. We'll have our own rooms, and this is where deep consideration comes in for me. I want bookshelves, real bookshelves, not the boxes I've had to use as bookshelves for the past eight years. So I'll see what's available in Las Vegas. I'll also finally be able to hang up my pictures, including prints of two Chris Consani paintings: Classic Interlude and Java Dreams.

I still have to research what kind of bed I want in my room, since we're not moving with the mattress I have on the floor, and I don't want to end up sleeping on the floor for a few days, as it will have to be on the first night. I want to make sure, though, that the overall feeling of my room is just like Meridith's Goodreads account, just as peaceful, and which can also double as gentle writing space. Depending on how big my room is, I may get a recliner later on, but not right away since I need to earn some money first. Bills will not be a problem since they're going to be split between the four of us, as has been arranged even years before this move.

Looking at photos of our new home that were sent to us by the manager of this property, there's a small backyard area that I can't wait to use. I can put a lawn chair out there and read for hours on the weekend if I want. I will devour everything that Las Vegas offers, but I want to live my life with as much peace as possible each day. I think any stress that might horn in will just roll off me because I'm battle-hardened from my nine years here, from writing for the former Canyon Call newspaper at College of the Canyons, from writing for The Signal, from all the times before that we've moved. Las Vegas will be my home, and I will treat it accordingly. A small, reserved life ironically lived large. I like the thought of that.

Loving Words

I love words. I love what they can do. I love that through a vast collection of them totaling anywhere from 100 to 200 or more pages, I can visit the Supreme Court, I can spend time in New Mexico, I can learn about various rooms in the White House, I can learn about the men who occupied those rooms. I love the comfort and stability words bring, as important to me as how walking through the College of the Canyons campus in my two years every late Friday afternoon helped me maintain my stability in my confusion about what Santa Clarita was, what it all meant, some inkling about what it was supposed to be. I love that through words, I have learned more and more about the history of Las Vegas, my future home city, seeing in my mind those streets that I'll soon drive, discovering what they were long before they were those streets, what was on them, what they replaced over time.

I love how I can sit on the couch for just an afternoon, read an entire novel, and felt that I've been somewhere entirely different, living a life I'll never live myself, but which I want to know. I love how with words I feel a kinship with writers who inspire me, writers that I want to emulate and yet establish my own style, and writers whose books make me want to do the best I can as I set out to write my own. I love that through words, I have learned more about the Airport series than Universal ever offered through its two-disc DVD set in 2004, a set I still proudly own. I love that I've learned so much about Jennings Lang, executive producer on the three sequels, just from reading old articles in family scrapbooks. I know that if it was possible to meet him (he died in 1996), I would have really liked him, since we both push for what we want, and both talk a mile a minute. My co-author can attest to that, after meeting him two weeks ago (more on that in a forthcoming entry).

I love that yesterday, I finished reading Supreme Conflict: The Inside Story of the Struggle for Control of the United States Supreme Court by Jan Crawford Greenburg, and it made me think of the biography I have of retired justice David Hackett Souter by Tinsley E. Yarbrough that I've tried reading many times before, but never made it through. It's not that it's bad (Souter is one of my favorite justices, mainly because of his quiet personal life, which included having to move a new, more expansive home after he found that his family's farmhouse (owned by his late parents) could not structurally support his book collection), but just that it was never the right time to get into it. Reading more about Souter in Supreme Conflict and figuring that those details are in this biography since Greenburg mentions it at the beginning of her notes section in the back, I want to see what else this biography holds for me to learn.

I love that because of words, I'm telling you all this right here. There are so many of them to use, and I chose all these. And after this, I'm going to go back to that Souter biography, probably finish it today, and see what I want to read next. There's so many choices, and I'm never intimidated by that. I love it. All because of words.

No One's Coming, But They Keep Trying

There we were today, the three of us waiting in our trusty, aging PT Cruiser while Dad went inside La Mesa Junior High to his classroom to print something he needed to send in the mail to a potential principal in Las Vegas. He parked horizontally across two spaces, getting us as close as possible to the view we had always liked, a view previously unobstructed by the slanting solar panels that provide a kind of roof over every parking space in the employee lot. The view is still as expansive, but now there's shade. It's a bowl-shaped jumble of houses and brush and roads and huge, circular, tan-colored water storage tanks, giving further evidence that this valley can be nothing more than the gloomy suburb of Los Angeles it has always been. However, it's never felt to me like a suburb because is a suburb really supposed to be 30 miles away from the city that feeds it? A suburb is supposed to be on the outskirts, sure, but not that far out, not when it requires a freeway or two to get there.

Mom and Meridith looked out at the view, but I merely glanced at it and then stared at what I could see of the school, the entrance to the office, the entrance to the Multi Purpose Room (MPR, as it's called by the administration over the walkie-talkies whenever they needed a custodian to open it), an entrance to the gym, the entrance to the custodians' office, the main gate leading into and out of the school, the only way the students can get in.

I always did the job I was hired to do there and I'm proud of that. I was a vigilant, careful campus supervisor, but that's not what was on my mind as I looked at those sections of totally empty campus, the only car in the lot besides ours belonging to the tech guy who fixes the computers and other technology around the school. Only when a campus is this empty do the ghosts come out, the ghosts of its history, wanting to be noticed, to be remembered. I know they're there and I can always feel them, but I wonder who they are. I looked at the doors to that particular entrance into the gym and wondered if there was some student who made a half-court shot on that basketball court inside and decided he wanted to be an athlete. I looked at the doors to the MPR, which inside has a small stage, and wondered if a student had ever stood on that stage, looked out, and thought of all the stories he or she could tell through their actions and emotions, and decided that they wanted to be an actor. I thought about the library, which I always liked, and wondered if a student ever read widely of those books, inspired enough to try writing on their own. Are those kids out there in the world now? Was it possible that La Mesa Junior High had produced such students? This isn't the kind of school whose alumni would want to have a reunion, since the students always struck me as having their own small groups, but never an overall camaraderie conducive to the spirit of the school. Students come, they learn, they go home.

Is there a history about this school that goes back years before we arrived in Santa Clarita? I think it's there somehow, but isn't allowed to bloom because of its location in a valley that always rushes headlong into the future and never slows down enough to consider what it is and where it has been. It's regrettable, but I hope there's some student, some future writer, who maybe sees more, much more than I ever could. Because when I walked around the school while I was a campus supervisor, when the kids were in class, the ghosts of its history called out then too. What did they want me to know? What were they trying to point me toward? Across from one of the special education classrooms, there's a large window that, behind it, has shelves with all kinds of artwork on them, such as pottery, clay figures, photographs, small paintings, and I always wondered who these students were, where they were at that point in their lives. Did they create those pieces, take those photos, paint those paintings because they genuinely felt something that they really wanted to express, or were they just doing it in order to get a passing grade on the assignment? I imagine it was a balance of both.

I know that these ghosts would not guide me to what they want me to know. I would have to figure it out for myself, if I was interested enough in this valley, if I wanted to try to make more out of it than it currently is, than it probably always will be. Besides my job, the only use I ever got out of the entire campus was that one building across from the office, a take on adobe architecture that inspired me to just stand far enough back on it to see the top as well, and imagine that I was in New Mexico. I'm grateful to it for that, for giving me those few moments when the kids were in class and I could do that. I want to travel throughout New Mexico so badly, and this was my way of going there briefly, at least for now.

But what of its history besides gradually aging buildings? There are many, many middle schools in this valley and what makes one different from the other anyway? They all take in students and then a few years later push them out into high school. The names of the middle schools don't lend themselves to much history: Sierra Vista, Placerita, Rancho Pico, Castaic, Canyon. I do wonder if those names were chosen as a reflection of the valley or just what real estate forces came up with when they built and built and built. The only real history of the schools is in one of the districts being called the William S. Hart Union School District, but I doubt anyone really thinks about William S. Hart anymore. It's just not the valley for it.

But the ghosts will keep calling, keep wailing, keep hoping for someone to come along to notice them, to acknowledge them, to see that they were there before, that they did many things in this valley. They'll still be at La Mesa, they'll still be in my neighborhood, and in fact, I still sense those ghosts whenever I roll the garbage and recycling bins to the curb every Monday evening and back every Tuesday evening. I look at those hillsides and wonder if there were any cowboys back then. Did this valley ever have an adventurous spirit? I want to think that it did, but my first visit here, in April 2003, was on one of the rainiest days this valley has apparently ever had, very cold, and with pinprick rain. No life at all in this valley, and not only because of the rain. I should think a lively city would show it, even through the rain. Something interesting, something to look at, something to think about and see that, yeah, this something is so very much a part of this city or valley that it's impossible to imagine it without it. I didn't get that feeling there. I should have known.

But I leave without animosity, because to dwell on it is to waste more time that I can use in my new home. Someone else may sense those ghosts of history and do something for them, or the history, whatever it may be, will just keep on fading. It's as hard the 106-degree heat today, but that's the way it goes here. I mildly hope for it, but I don't count on it. I'm glad to have felt those ghosts, especially in Buena Park, Anaheim, Ventura, and San Juan Capistrano, where I know history will always be safe and acknowledged. But Santa Clarita has been a prime example of the kind of living I can't stand. I need history around me, I need to know what happened before I got there, and also long before, and I could never find that path into it here. Those ghosts will keep trying, though. I'm sure of it.

Meeting a Great Man Again

This afternoon at Chipotle, located almost directly across from Edwards Valencia 12, I leaned against the single railing in front of the registers, waiting for my still-cooking large chicken and cheese quesadilla with extra cheese, while Mom and Meridith already had their burrito bowls, and Dad had his salad of lettuce, beef, and a little bit of sour cream. He's not much for Mexican food.

I stared at the woman putting toppings on burritos and burrito salads for people ordering, trying to will her to check on my quesadilla. I vaguely heard people tell the woman what they wanted, and then my hearing faded up and I heard "Rory? Rory?" I looked to my right, and it was Sy Richardson with whom I had seen Larry Crowne last year at Edwards Valencia 12, which he had been in with Tom Hanks, but only briefly in the opening scene, the rest of his scenes deleted. He played a clerk answering Larry's call for a price check. I hadn't seen him since then, but I had seen his guest-starring role on a recent episode of Rizzoli & Isles, which I had never seen before, and Tivo'd only his scene. He was really good, and proved yet again that he's a consummate actor, each role different. You couldn't tell in that appearance that he was the coroner on Pushing Daisies.

We shook hands, I asked him how he was doing, then complimented him on his performance on Rizzoli & Isles, and asked him how he had felt being on one of his favorite shows. He said to me, "I felt like a kid in a candy store." He's saying this to me, but in my head, I'm thinking, "I'vegottogetMeridithI'vegottogetMeridithI'vegottogetMeridith!" Sy and his ever-beautiful wife are inching toward the registers, getting ready to pay, and I told Sy that I'd be right back.

I ran to the table and said hurriedly to Meridith, "Come with me!" We walked back to the register, I tapped Sy on the arm, and he turned, and I said to Meridith, "He played the coroner on Pushing Daisies!" They shook hands and I think Meridith was just surprised. Mind you, she had met Chi McBride ("Emerson Cod") and Bryan Fuller (the creator of Pushing Daisies) at the Paley Center event at the Cinerama Dome a few years ago of a screening of the final three episodes, but I had raved about Sy so much and she was just amazed that there he was on TV, and on the DVDs I have, and there he is, warm-hearted and gracious as ever. He asked Meridith if we were going to the movies too, and she said no, we were just having lunch with our parents. He said he was going to see The Amazing Spider-Man.

Sy seeing Larry Crowne was obvious, but thinking about it now, him seeing The Amazing Spider-Man with his wife, I can tell he really loves movies. He's the genuine definition of a working actor. He goes where the work is. I asked him what he was doing next and he said that he's going to Louisiana for a month to be in August Wilson's Fences. I just looked at the date on my first entry about Sy, and that was July 8, 2011. It's July 5, 2012, and there he was, going back to Louisiana.

We parted, since I got my quesadilla and it was time to eat, and he and his wife went to sit outside for their lunch. After a few minutes of arranging the salsas and the guacamole and Meridith folding down the top of the paper bag of tortilla chips, I realized after all my talking about what had just happened that I hadn't gotten my iced tea yet. I went up to the dispenser and there was Sy's wife, getting a few napkins and some plastic forks and spoons. I said to her that I told my sister the other day that Pushing Daisies should have lasted for eight seasons. She said to me that they really loved being part of that show, and I told her of Bryan Fuller's next projects, that of Hannibal, about Hannibal Lecter before he was imprisoned, and Mockingbird Lane, a remake of The Munsters for NBC. I also said to her that I hope Bryan Fuller remembers her husband, at least for a guest role on one of these shows, definitely The Munsters since he'd fit easily in that style again, considering his role on Pushing Daisies.

We parted again, I got my iced tea, and sat back down.

Lunch over later, we collected all our trash, got up to leave, and I was glad to see that Sy still at the table outside. I walked over to him, he saw me and said, "Have a nice afternoon," and we shook hands again. I said to him, "If ever you're in Vegas, you let me know." He said he would, and that was that. Unlike much of what I've experienced in Santa Clarita, I know he means it. This is his home base, but he's not of this valley. He goes where the work is, he travels for it, and he's always interested in it. He's a real mensch. I hope he visits Las Vegas because I would love to show him around my hometown. I didn't ask him if he's ever been there, but even if he has, it would be an honor to spend time with him there.

He was on my mind the rest of the day, and well into tonight, because of his news that he was going to Louisiana to be in Fences. I found out from his Facebook page that it's going to be at the Shreveport Little Theatre. I couldn't stop thinking about how he's probably studying the text, learning his lines, thinking about how he's going to play it, and eventually he'll be working with a cast and director and learning more from them, because an actor never stops learning. But above all, it made me realize that it's time to get off my butt and finally write the books and novels and plays I want to write. It's time for me to work as a writer like he does as an actor. Oh I'm working on that book about the Airport movies, but I need to do more. I need to do research for my books and novels, though the Vegas-centered ones will wait until I get there, have access to those libraries, and become fully acclimated to the area, which won't take long, but I need to know where past casinos were and drive to those locations, where current casinos sit, to see for myself. Same with Fremont Street, since one of my Vegas novels takes place in that general area.

Sy goes where the work is and so should I. Sure it's all in my mind for now, save for research I've done so far and some paragraphs I've written, and so I need to mine that more. Get it all out and see where it takes me.

Funny how I coincidentally met up with him again the day before I go to the media preview for Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom at Six Flags Magic Mountain. One great day before another potentially great day.

Sy also indirectly reminded me that I need to stay in better touch with the people I really like. That includes him and a few other friends, including one who contacted me today after a year. That was too long.

I didn't know I needed a few moments with a great man, but now that I've had them, I'm a new man. Time to get to work and follow through, not just do a little bit and go back to reading. Thank you, Sy!