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.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
A Random Assortment of My Life
There's been nothing going on to merit a full entry on its own, at least not until later Friday or Saturday, because on Friday morning, my co-author on my book about the making of the Airport movies has invited me along to the media opening of Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom, a 400-foot freefall ride clamped to both sides of the Superman: Escape from Krypton tower at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Ever since leaving San Diego and his job at a magazine there, and moving back to Venice, he's reconnected with publications he's worked for, and that includes an amusement park magazine that assigned him to write a profile of this new ride. He has a comp media pass for this that can get him and one other person in, and that's me. He has the ulterior motive of us finally meeting face to face and being able to talk more about the book than we have in past weeks since he's been busy with other writing assignments and working with a '70s actress on her memoirs. Plus, he may still have the Lang family scrapbooks that he's keeping safe for actress/singer Monica Lewis while she moves to a new house. She was married to Universal film executive Jennings Lang who was the executive-in-charge on Airport (he watched the dailies and made sure everything was going ok, but with a producer like Ross Hunter, he had nothing to be concerned about), and then produced the sequels. Lang died in 1996, and according to my co-author, the scrapbooks potentially contain a lot of information that only I might be looking for. He's already pulled out what he wants for the book, but wants me to have a look as well. He goes for an overall view. I want to go in deep. We're a perfect match in that way, also because of his connection to the Lang family, having worked with Lewis on her memoir, which was published in May of last year.
So I get free admission into Magic Mountain, and it's going to be my Third Farewell Tour. I want to go to all the spots I've liked, including Pistachio Park, and maybe, just maybe, up the Sky Tower to the now unfortunately empty floor, freed of all its historical artifacts, which were the one thing that distinguished Magic Mountain from the rest of the Santa Clarita Valley, that acknowledgement of its history. However, it has the benefit of being set apart from the rest of the valley by its location to the extent that you don't feel like you're in Santa Clarita. But that history was still important.
Nevertheless, this is the perfect opportunity to say goodbye to Magic Mountain, to silently give my thanks for the many times it sustained me, helped me keep my sanity in this valley. Plus, I've never been to any media event like this, so why not have a totally different experience at Magic Mountain than what I usually had?
- Next item on my list in Notepad of things to write about is my latest DVD reviews, or at least my DVD reviews since May 31. I can't believe it's been that long since I've posted anything about them. I liked my reviews of seasons 3 and 4 of That '70s Show, and I finally sorted out my feelings about Tyler Perry in my review of his Good Deeds. He would be better if he doesn't push so hard, and there's one scene in Good Deeds that shows a potentially great future for him as a filmmaker. So here's the many I've done since my review of Episodes:
Zero Bridge
Law & Order: Criminal Intent: The Seventh Year
Love is On the Air
Trial & Retribution: Set 5
That '70s Show: Season Three
That '70s Show: Season Four
Miss Minoes
Margaret
Designing Women: The Final Season
PTown Diaries
Tyler Perry's Good Deeds
The Fairy
Father Dowling Mysteries: The Second Season
- In my reading of all the issues of The Henderson Press, I'm on Vol. 3, No. 3, January 19-25, 2012, I'm happy to say that I can amend my opinion of the weekly newspaper. Editor Carla J. Zvonec has finally stepped back from writing every single article in order to actually manage the paper, and not only are her editorials well-written, but finally the Henderson Press has focus and passion for the area again. There are outstanding reporters in Buford Davis, Guy Dawson, and Brian Sodoma, and the level of silly writing that used to plague these pages has dropped dramatically. Unlike Don Logay at his worst, these reporters realize that the paper is about the city, not about them. I liked Logay for his passion for Lake Las Vegas, but I hated how he was so obviously marketing it instead of just reporting it. The writing is much sharper and the profiles of various people in business and businesses themselves do more than just point out that they're there. These reporters are finally finding out that there's a lot of interesting stories in these businesses.
After Mom and Dad came back from Las Vegas and gave me all the publications I wanted to read (including that week's issue of Las Vegas Weekly, a few issues of Las Vegas Seven, and Friday's edition of the Review-Journal), I found the latest edition of the Henderson Press and was very happy. Henderson won't be my home, but I know I'll visit often and I'm confident of always being well-informed because of the Henderson Press. They've finally reached a zenith from which I hope they never come down.
- Today, in honor of Independence Day, Turner Classic Movies showed 1776, one of my favorite musicals. As I watched yet again the business and arguments of the Second Continental Congress, I came up with an idea that could either be a biography if I can find enough information, or certainly a novel. So much has been written about John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and others in that Congress, but there's been very little written about one of those figures. A novel set around that debate on independence from this man's perspective could be interesting. I know that the debate probably wasn't what it looked like in 1776 (For example, Richard Henry Lee said to John Hancock that he had to decline a spot on the committee to draft a Declaration of Independence because he was asked to serve as governor of Virginia. In reality, his wife was ill), but it would still be something to see it all from this one perspective I want to pursue. I've gotta start writing some of these novels so I can keep my list manageable.
- Around where we're going to live in Las Vegas, there's nine Wienerschnitzels, five Sonics, a Walmart, a Vons supermarket, a 7-11, a Smith's supermarket, the Whitney library branch, and I'm sure I'm forgetting a few other things. Everything's accessible, and it's far back enough from the Strip to feel separate from it yet make you want to go as often as you can.
1776 is the only movie I've watched in full in a while. I'm favoring books more and more now and sticking to it. In the past three days alone, I've read five books, including The Age of Miracles by Karen Walker Thompson and Zombie Spaceship Wasteland by Patton Oswalt. When will Patton Oswalt write another book? He's got another career in this if he wants it and I want more from him. Also, read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. Don't even ask "What? Why?!". Just do it. It may very well be the best book of this year and many previous years, even though it was published this year.
So I get free admission into Magic Mountain, and it's going to be my Third Farewell Tour. I want to go to all the spots I've liked, including Pistachio Park, and maybe, just maybe, up the Sky Tower to the now unfortunately empty floor, freed of all its historical artifacts, which were the one thing that distinguished Magic Mountain from the rest of the Santa Clarita Valley, that acknowledgement of its history. However, it has the benefit of being set apart from the rest of the valley by its location to the extent that you don't feel like you're in Santa Clarita. But that history was still important.
Nevertheless, this is the perfect opportunity to say goodbye to Magic Mountain, to silently give my thanks for the many times it sustained me, helped me keep my sanity in this valley. Plus, I've never been to any media event like this, so why not have a totally different experience at Magic Mountain than what I usually had?
- Next item on my list in Notepad of things to write about is my latest DVD reviews, or at least my DVD reviews since May 31. I can't believe it's been that long since I've posted anything about them. I liked my reviews of seasons 3 and 4 of That '70s Show, and I finally sorted out my feelings about Tyler Perry in my review of his Good Deeds. He would be better if he doesn't push so hard, and there's one scene in Good Deeds that shows a potentially great future for him as a filmmaker. So here's the many I've done since my review of Episodes:
Zero Bridge
Law & Order: Criminal Intent: The Seventh Year
Love is On the Air
Trial & Retribution: Set 5
That '70s Show: Season Three
That '70s Show: Season Four
Miss Minoes
Margaret
Designing Women: The Final Season
PTown Diaries
Tyler Perry's Good Deeds
The Fairy
Father Dowling Mysteries: The Second Season
- In my reading of all the issues of The Henderson Press, I'm on Vol. 3, No. 3, January 19-25, 2012, I'm happy to say that I can amend my opinion of the weekly newspaper. Editor Carla J. Zvonec has finally stepped back from writing every single article in order to actually manage the paper, and not only are her editorials well-written, but finally the Henderson Press has focus and passion for the area again. There are outstanding reporters in Buford Davis, Guy Dawson, and Brian Sodoma, and the level of silly writing that used to plague these pages has dropped dramatically. Unlike Don Logay at his worst, these reporters realize that the paper is about the city, not about them. I liked Logay for his passion for Lake Las Vegas, but I hated how he was so obviously marketing it instead of just reporting it. The writing is much sharper and the profiles of various people in business and businesses themselves do more than just point out that they're there. These reporters are finally finding out that there's a lot of interesting stories in these businesses.
After Mom and Dad came back from Las Vegas and gave me all the publications I wanted to read (including that week's issue of Las Vegas Weekly, a few issues of Las Vegas Seven, and Friday's edition of the Review-Journal), I found the latest edition of the Henderson Press and was very happy. Henderson won't be my home, but I know I'll visit often and I'm confident of always being well-informed because of the Henderson Press. They've finally reached a zenith from which I hope they never come down.
- Today, in honor of Independence Day, Turner Classic Movies showed 1776, one of my favorite musicals. As I watched yet again the business and arguments of the Second Continental Congress, I came up with an idea that could either be a biography if I can find enough information, or certainly a novel. So much has been written about John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and others in that Congress, but there's been very little written about one of those figures. A novel set around that debate on independence from this man's perspective could be interesting. I know that the debate probably wasn't what it looked like in 1776 (For example, Richard Henry Lee said to John Hancock that he had to decline a spot on the committee to draft a Declaration of Independence because he was asked to serve as governor of Virginia. In reality, his wife was ill), but it would still be something to see it all from this one perspective I want to pursue. I've gotta start writing some of these novels so I can keep my list manageable.
- Around where we're going to live in Las Vegas, there's nine Wienerschnitzels, five Sonics, a Walmart, a Vons supermarket, a 7-11, a Smith's supermarket, the Whitney library branch, and I'm sure I'm forgetting a few other things. Everything's accessible, and it's far back enough from the Strip to feel separate from it yet make you want to go as often as you can.
1776 is the only movie I've watched in full in a while. I'm favoring books more and more now and sticking to it. In the past three days alone, I've read five books, including The Age of Miracles by Karen Walker Thompson and Zombie Spaceship Wasteland by Patton Oswalt. When will Patton Oswalt write another book? He's got another career in this if he wants it and I want more from him. Also, read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. Don't even ask "What? Why?!". Just do it. It may very well be the best book of this year and many previous years, even though it was published this year.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
I Couldn't Believe It Until It Was True
Over the past five years, Dad has occasionally recounted stories of people he's met through his work at La Mesa and other residents of Santa Clarita who say that they have lived in this valley all their lives and have never lived. If Dad was to be believed, these people did all their errands in Santa Clarita, did not go to Los Angeles for anything, or Ventura, or Burbank, or Anaheim, or any other part of the Southern California region. I don't know if that stands for vacations as well, them never going on vacations to anywhere in the U.S. or internationally, but I've never pressed for that kind of information since it never really interested me. Plus, that sounded impossible. This valley offers little enough as it is. If they lived in Ventura or San Juan Capistrano or Anaheim, I could see them never leaving where they're living for anything. But Santa Clarita? To do anything interesting here, you have to leave, or at least go to Six Flags Magic Mountain for the day, which is separate enough from the valley in presentation and what it offers to not feel like part of this valley.
Last Thursday, at the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway that overlooks Magic Mountain from the parking lot, a significantly heavyset, balding guy in his 60s, who mopped sweat from his forehead at one point, even though the store was air-conditioned, took the same turn as I did round a corner of the store and the aisle narrowed between us. I let him go first, and then we got into a conversation about the day, then about freeways, and then into his history. He lived in New York City in the late '50s and early '60s, then moved to Santa Clarita in '68 or '69, back when roads would dead-end, long before the valley looked like it does now. It was all farmland. He's lived here since then, doesn't like how rude kids are here, hates Las Vegas (he still believes that it's partly run by the Mafia), and asked me if I was seriously going to buy the pair of Rustler jeans I was holding onto, a light blue pair that I favor more than the dark blue pair I have now, but which I still wear because it's not ripped, and I don't like to spend money on jeans unless I have to. This time I had to, to replace one pair that doesn't fit me, that I thought fit me when I bought it long ago. It's not a matter of weighing more than I did then, just that I miscalculated. So I have this new pair (I told the guy, just laughing it off, that I wasn't thinking of buying it, to deflect him from his subtly derisive question), and I'll look for another when we go to the Walmart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive. One more pair will do it and then I'll have three and that will be enough.
Anyway, during the story of his arrival in Santa Clarita, this guy told me that he finds it a waste to go to Downtown Los Angeles to a show because of all the traffic that surrounds the Staples Center and the Ahmanson Theatre. He continued talking, and I responded with nods of understanding and vocal acknowledgments, but in my mind, I was thinking, "You can't be serious! Oh my god, Dad was right! These people, previously fictional to me, do exist!" I didn't think much of the guy, because he seemed too bitter to me to be able to live life comfortably (Yeah, there's crap in life, but it's not all bad. It's all in how you live it and how you meet the circumstances you face), but here was proof that somehow, some way, people make their lives here. Now I believe it.
I consider it to be the valley further separating from me and vice versa. It's giving me information and truth I don't think I ever would have discovered if I stayed here. It's a farewell gift to me. Besides, as soon as I get to Las Vegas, I'll forget it all anyway, so there's no harm in it revealing such truths.
Last Thursday, at the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway that overlooks Magic Mountain from the parking lot, a significantly heavyset, balding guy in his 60s, who mopped sweat from his forehead at one point, even though the store was air-conditioned, took the same turn as I did round a corner of the store and the aisle narrowed between us. I let him go first, and then we got into a conversation about the day, then about freeways, and then into his history. He lived in New York City in the late '50s and early '60s, then moved to Santa Clarita in '68 or '69, back when roads would dead-end, long before the valley looked like it does now. It was all farmland. He's lived here since then, doesn't like how rude kids are here, hates Las Vegas (he still believes that it's partly run by the Mafia), and asked me if I was seriously going to buy the pair of Rustler jeans I was holding onto, a light blue pair that I favor more than the dark blue pair I have now, but which I still wear because it's not ripped, and I don't like to spend money on jeans unless I have to. This time I had to, to replace one pair that doesn't fit me, that I thought fit me when I bought it long ago. It's not a matter of weighing more than I did then, just that I miscalculated. So I have this new pair (I told the guy, just laughing it off, that I wasn't thinking of buying it, to deflect him from his subtly derisive question), and I'll look for another when we go to the Walmart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive. One more pair will do it and then I'll have three and that will be enough.
Anyway, during the story of his arrival in Santa Clarita, this guy told me that he finds it a waste to go to Downtown Los Angeles to a show because of all the traffic that surrounds the Staples Center and the Ahmanson Theatre. He continued talking, and I responded with nods of understanding and vocal acknowledgments, but in my mind, I was thinking, "You can't be serious! Oh my god, Dad was right! These people, previously fictional to me, do exist!" I didn't think much of the guy, because he seemed too bitter to me to be able to live life comfortably (Yeah, there's crap in life, but it's not all bad. It's all in how you live it and how you meet the circumstances you face), but here was proof that somehow, some way, people make their lives here. Now I believe it.
I consider it to be the valley further separating from me and vice versa. It's giving me information and truth I don't think I ever would have discovered if I stayed here. It's a farewell gift to me. Besides, as soon as I get to Las Vegas, I'll forget it all anyway, so there's no harm in it revealing such truths.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The Second Farewell Tour
Last Friday afternoon, with Mom and Dad still in Vegas, having a full day of looking at other apartments and mobile home parks just in case (they found where we're going to live, but just wanted to look at possible backups that we hopefully don't have to use. I'll elaborate some other time), the extensive changes I saw at College of the Canyons didn't surprise me as much as total ignorance of history yet again, which I know is to be expected from the Santa Clarita Valley, but this time, it was truly breathtaking.
During the First Farewell Tour, I decided on that Wednesday that we should have a Second Farewell Tour, to our old apartment in Valencia, and to College of the Canyons to see what has changed since Meridith and I went there as students, my time there further back than hers. Then a walk around the mall, not so much a Farewell Tour since we've been there many times already, but rather as a reminder of the better life to come in Las Vegas with better malls, not just a repository for Hot Topic and Forever 21.
The apartment, situated behind a shopping center that includes Pavilions supermarket and Peet's Coffee and Tea, was the same as the last time we went, a few months prior. It's a revolving-door apartment. No one stays for very long. It's either a starter, or just temporary digs until fully deciding what to do. For us, unfortunately, it was a starter. If we had stayed there for all these nearly eight years, I still wouldn't have liked Santa Clarita, but it wouldn't have been as bad to me as it is. It was peaceful, the one place in Valencia where you could truly clear your head of all the noise and make your own oasis, filling it with whatever you wanted. You want only music and books? You can have it. You want to spend all your free hours at the pool behind, but connected to, the clubhouse? It's yours.
I remember a second-floor neighbor who had his fish tank balanced on the ledge of his patio, plugged into the socket out there. I don't know how he maintained that balance, but he must have had some serious confidence. Very little probably worried him.
In that apartment complex, you always meet people very briefly, but the few impressions you get are nothing of the shallowness that pervades the rest of the valley. People are just trying to make their way through the day, hoping to live it how they want. The clubhouse staff, those in the rental office mainly, were really the only shallow-looking ones. Nothing much to them. But that was it. You could go to Stevenson Ranch, you could go to other parts of Valencia, you could go to whatever parts of L.A. you wanted, see the mindlessness, come back and know that your apartment would not be bombarded by all of that. It was truly home for a time. Not a home I could have seen myself in for the rest of my life, but suitable for when we were there. We should have stayed there longer and not moved into pretty much total isolation in Saugus.
After stopping at Jamba Juice, and then the post office to drop off my check to the IRS, Meridith and I walked to College of the Canyons. No bus needed like the one we took from Saugus to that Pavilions shopping center. I wanted to show Meridith the route I sometimes walked, though it was from the bus transfer station to COC, yet we walked through that transfer station on our way. Meridith always waited for the bus because she was loaded down with textbooks, binders, and her knife kit for her cooking classes. She'd never seen that rising and falling set of sidewalks like the ones we walked, like the ones I walked all those years ago.
Getting to the campus, I saw the sober-gray parking lot signs that hadn't been there when I was there. Comparing my time there to Meridith's time, my COC was bare bones. My cafeteria at the back of the Student Center had long tables tucked into corners, my favorite being one in the way back of the cafeteria, on the far right, if you're standing at the entrance. Instead of doing my math homework, I'd read many books, but mostly Subways are for Sleeping by Edmund G. Love whenever I got a copy from either the Hawthorne or Norwalk branch of the County of Los Angeles library system through my Valencia branch.
Those tables are gone, replaced by one small circular table with bluish armchairs around it, and one at the other end of the same arrangement. I think there were long tables on the main cafeteria floor as well, or maybe not, but now there's a lot more circular tables with black chairs around it. The kitchen areas were closed, including the Subway stand (that's closed until the start of the fall semester since they don't make significant money during the summer, being that those areas are only open until noon or 1 p.m. during the summer), but I noticed that the Subway stand was moved from the start of the area to the end, facing the cafeteria, and where it previously had been now has beverage refrigerators lining that wall. I don't know how COC manages to do it, but that wall looked solid, just like many other walls I saw.
After the cafeteria, Meridith took me over to Hasley Hall, where she had attended one or two classes, and which had never been there when I was there. Not completely there. It was just beginning construction when I was there. But now, this washed-out gray building with automatic glass doors that slide apart when you approach them, a burbling small waterfall on the ground floor, and the film department now having its own theater there, I first wondered where in the hell the school had gotten all the money for this building, and then was impressed with what they had done. They have turned education there into even more of a sanctuary. People can study whatever COC offers in complete peace. The classrooms are most impressive, wide and without the usual stigma of costly education. I'll bet this is exactly why fees have gone up and up time and again, which makes me glad I graduated long ago. Plus, the former journalism department has a cluster of rooms there too, although the in-print Canyon Call was disbanded and now COC has Cougar News Online, which to me is vastly disappointing because newbie journalists should have the pleasure of seeing their name and their words in print. I know that the industry is veering from that, but on a community college campus, journalism students need that. I have all five weeks of my time as interim editor of The Signal's weekend Escape section in print. It wouldn't be the same to me online. I can flip through those pages, know why I put in what I put in, what I was also doing when I wrote my own articles for the section, and what I was already thinking about for the next week. These are my memories in print.
Knowing that here was the journalism department on the second floor of Hasley Hall, and there was the film department on the first floor, what happened to the building formerly known as the M building, now known as Mentry Hall? (That's another thing: They gave actual names to these buildings, no doubt based on how much money those names donated, but it was simpler to just have letters. The buildings don't change much on the outside just because they're given names.)
We went to the second floor of the building because that's where the screening room was for the film department. It's still there, but the door was locked, so I couldn't see if anything had changed, though I doubt it. No reason for it to change.
My biggest shock was on the first floor of Mentry Hall, where the former newsroom of the Canyon Call was. The door was open, and right in front of me, a white wall. The glass case displaying old cameras was nice to see, and obviously a clue into what this part of the building now was. When we walked in, two darkrooms were to our left. To our right, what used to be the offices for journalism advisors Jim Ruebsamen and Lila Littlejohn (who has worked as the editor-in-chief at The Signal and now the City Editor, I think), are now either still faculty offices or conference rooms. But next to those rooms were just solid wall. They had torn out that newsroom and now there's only walls. How did they do it so fast? Is there anything still within those walls or is it truly solid wall?
Oh, but that's not all. We went up to the second floor of Towsley Hall, and where I used to take that door across from one of the elevators into a hallway to go to my English class, there's only two classrooms in that now-small section of space, one across from the other. That's it. Where did the other classrooms go? And again, how fast did they tear them down? Because that being solid wall, nothing behind it can remain.
I'm not against that kind of widespread change. The College of the Canyons I knew is not the College of the Canyons my sister knew, and that's not the College of the Canyons current students know. I can live with that, just like how Walt Disney World today is not the Walt Disney World I knew. But at least in that case, there are fans and Disney historians who know what came before, who have memorabilia related to those times, who know what the parks looked like before various changes in different years. I know that I can't expect the same because this is Santa Clarita after all, but COC could use a historian in much the same way. Did someone at least take photos of those hallways now gone? Does the library keep such records? I don't know and I don't think I ever will know, nor do I want to because it's not my place. I hope there are, though, because I remember, and I'm sure not staying here.
Across from the extensively grassy Honor Grove area, where students laze about and where graduation ceremonies are held at the end of terms, and under Towsley Hall, Meridith and I stood at an automat-type vending machine in which you press either the left or right arrow buttons and the racks spin, revealing sandwiches, Red Bulls, ramen cups, burritos, plastic spoons and forks. You find what you want, line the plastic door up to where you want it, put in your money, slide that door open and take out what you want. I asked Meridith to take a photo of it:
I don't remember if this vending machine was around when I was at COC, but it looks old enough to have been there during my time. I never went into that area much, so I wouldn't have noticed anyway. But it seems like the only constant you can find at COC now are the vending machines. Sure they took out the candy vending machine with M&Ms and Snickers and Reese's, and so much other good candy in California's Quest for Better Health (not a name of any program, but that's the attitude of it), but that's just one machine. The others I knew are still there.
The library is all I'm really grateful for at COC because it sustained me in the weeks after we moved to Santa Clarita, when I was trying to figure out what all this was and where I could fit into it if we had to live there. I found a bit of that fitting in at The Signal, but not enough to really feel like I was part of something good. Granted, I gained necessary experience that I could use for what I want to pursue next as a writer, but that wasn't quite enough. At the library, I had all those books, all those novelists to pull down and read, and it was different from going to the Valencia library because it wasn't as public. It was just me and those books. Mine to figure out what I wanted. I could sit on the floor with one long bookcase looming in front of me and one behind me and never have to get up for anyone passing by.
Alas, the library was closed by the time we got to COC (It closes at noon during the summer and we got there after 1 p.m.), but that was ok. It's not my library anymore; it belongs to others. This campus hasn't been mine in so long, but I can still see those ghosts, knowing that that wall used to be the Canyon Call newsroom, knowing that those two classrooms used to be a hallway to English department classrooms.
It's different at the mall. On our walk to COC, we passed by construction of a pool behind the Gold's Gym building, which used to be Borders. I couldn't imagine where there would be room for a pool, but a no-longer-used loading dock is a good place to have it. A Gold's Gym across from Wolf Creek Restaurant & Brewing Co., and near the Edwards Valencia 12 movie theater is still odd to me, but these changes don't really matter. Businesses will take up space wherever they can find it. Thank god for Chipotle, though. That was the best quesadilla I have had in a very long time, much less greasy than Chronic Tacos makes them.
Facing Las Vegas, I won't miss anything in Santa Clarita. But if I was to miss anything about this valley, COC doesn't rank very highly, not even for sentimental reasons with the library. An education haven, sure. A quiet campus at which to study. And at the now-COC Performing Arts Center (it had a few other names over the years), I saw Frank Ferrante as Groucho Marx in a one-man show, and Hal Holbrook as Mark Twain in a one-man show. I sure won't forget those. But there is nothing at that campus that I will pine for, because the UNLV campus has it beat. It's huge, and even if you just drive around, you can still get lost if you don't have a general idea of where you're going. You have to pay attention to those signs around the campus. I still haven't seen the library, though I want to, I want to tap into any historical archives they have there, I want to play at the arcade there, I want to look around in that bookstore again, and I know I'm going to have a lot of fun there, even though I'm not a student. They welcome everyone, no matter why you're there.
During the First Farewell Tour, I decided on that Wednesday that we should have a Second Farewell Tour, to our old apartment in Valencia, and to College of the Canyons to see what has changed since Meridith and I went there as students, my time there further back than hers. Then a walk around the mall, not so much a Farewell Tour since we've been there many times already, but rather as a reminder of the better life to come in Las Vegas with better malls, not just a repository for Hot Topic and Forever 21.
The apartment, situated behind a shopping center that includes Pavilions supermarket and Peet's Coffee and Tea, was the same as the last time we went, a few months prior. It's a revolving-door apartment. No one stays for very long. It's either a starter, or just temporary digs until fully deciding what to do. For us, unfortunately, it was a starter. If we had stayed there for all these nearly eight years, I still wouldn't have liked Santa Clarita, but it wouldn't have been as bad to me as it is. It was peaceful, the one place in Valencia where you could truly clear your head of all the noise and make your own oasis, filling it with whatever you wanted. You want only music and books? You can have it. You want to spend all your free hours at the pool behind, but connected to, the clubhouse? It's yours.
I remember a second-floor neighbor who had his fish tank balanced on the ledge of his patio, plugged into the socket out there. I don't know how he maintained that balance, but he must have had some serious confidence. Very little probably worried him.
In that apartment complex, you always meet people very briefly, but the few impressions you get are nothing of the shallowness that pervades the rest of the valley. People are just trying to make their way through the day, hoping to live it how they want. The clubhouse staff, those in the rental office mainly, were really the only shallow-looking ones. Nothing much to them. But that was it. You could go to Stevenson Ranch, you could go to other parts of Valencia, you could go to whatever parts of L.A. you wanted, see the mindlessness, come back and know that your apartment would not be bombarded by all of that. It was truly home for a time. Not a home I could have seen myself in for the rest of my life, but suitable for when we were there. We should have stayed there longer and not moved into pretty much total isolation in Saugus.
After stopping at Jamba Juice, and then the post office to drop off my check to the IRS, Meridith and I walked to College of the Canyons. No bus needed like the one we took from Saugus to that Pavilions shopping center. I wanted to show Meridith the route I sometimes walked, though it was from the bus transfer station to COC, yet we walked through that transfer station on our way. Meridith always waited for the bus because she was loaded down with textbooks, binders, and her knife kit for her cooking classes. She'd never seen that rising and falling set of sidewalks like the ones we walked, like the ones I walked all those years ago.
Getting to the campus, I saw the sober-gray parking lot signs that hadn't been there when I was there. Comparing my time there to Meridith's time, my COC was bare bones. My cafeteria at the back of the Student Center had long tables tucked into corners, my favorite being one in the way back of the cafeteria, on the far right, if you're standing at the entrance. Instead of doing my math homework, I'd read many books, but mostly Subways are for Sleeping by Edmund G. Love whenever I got a copy from either the Hawthorne or Norwalk branch of the County of Los Angeles library system through my Valencia branch.
Those tables are gone, replaced by one small circular table with bluish armchairs around it, and one at the other end of the same arrangement. I think there were long tables on the main cafeteria floor as well, or maybe not, but now there's a lot more circular tables with black chairs around it. The kitchen areas were closed, including the Subway stand (that's closed until the start of the fall semester since they don't make significant money during the summer, being that those areas are only open until noon or 1 p.m. during the summer), but I noticed that the Subway stand was moved from the start of the area to the end, facing the cafeteria, and where it previously had been now has beverage refrigerators lining that wall. I don't know how COC manages to do it, but that wall looked solid, just like many other walls I saw.
After the cafeteria, Meridith took me over to Hasley Hall, where she had attended one or two classes, and which had never been there when I was there. Not completely there. It was just beginning construction when I was there. But now, this washed-out gray building with automatic glass doors that slide apart when you approach them, a burbling small waterfall on the ground floor, and the film department now having its own theater there, I first wondered where in the hell the school had gotten all the money for this building, and then was impressed with what they had done. They have turned education there into even more of a sanctuary. People can study whatever COC offers in complete peace. The classrooms are most impressive, wide and without the usual stigma of costly education. I'll bet this is exactly why fees have gone up and up time and again, which makes me glad I graduated long ago. Plus, the former journalism department has a cluster of rooms there too, although the in-print Canyon Call was disbanded and now COC has Cougar News Online, which to me is vastly disappointing because newbie journalists should have the pleasure of seeing their name and their words in print. I know that the industry is veering from that, but on a community college campus, journalism students need that. I have all five weeks of my time as interim editor of The Signal's weekend Escape section in print. It wouldn't be the same to me online. I can flip through those pages, know why I put in what I put in, what I was also doing when I wrote my own articles for the section, and what I was already thinking about for the next week. These are my memories in print.
Knowing that here was the journalism department on the second floor of Hasley Hall, and there was the film department on the first floor, what happened to the building formerly known as the M building, now known as Mentry Hall? (That's another thing: They gave actual names to these buildings, no doubt based on how much money those names donated, but it was simpler to just have letters. The buildings don't change much on the outside just because they're given names.)
We went to the second floor of the building because that's where the screening room was for the film department. It's still there, but the door was locked, so I couldn't see if anything had changed, though I doubt it. No reason for it to change.
My biggest shock was on the first floor of Mentry Hall, where the former newsroom of the Canyon Call was. The door was open, and right in front of me, a white wall. The glass case displaying old cameras was nice to see, and obviously a clue into what this part of the building now was. When we walked in, two darkrooms were to our left. To our right, what used to be the offices for journalism advisors Jim Ruebsamen and Lila Littlejohn (who has worked as the editor-in-chief at The Signal and now the City Editor, I think), are now either still faculty offices or conference rooms. But next to those rooms were just solid wall. They had torn out that newsroom and now there's only walls. How did they do it so fast? Is there anything still within those walls or is it truly solid wall?
Oh, but that's not all. We went up to the second floor of Towsley Hall, and where I used to take that door across from one of the elevators into a hallway to go to my English class, there's only two classrooms in that now-small section of space, one across from the other. That's it. Where did the other classrooms go? And again, how fast did they tear them down? Because that being solid wall, nothing behind it can remain.
I'm not against that kind of widespread change. The College of the Canyons I knew is not the College of the Canyons my sister knew, and that's not the College of the Canyons current students know. I can live with that, just like how Walt Disney World today is not the Walt Disney World I knew. But at least in that case, there are fans and Disney historians who know what came before, who have memorabilia related to those times, who know what the parks looked like before various changes in different years. I know that I can't expect the same because this is Santa Clarita after all, but COC could use a historian in much the same way. Did someone at least take photos of those hallways now gone? Does the library keep such records? I don't know and I don't think I ever will know, nor do I want to because it's not my place. I hope there are, though, because I remember, and I'm sure not staying here.
Across from the extensively grassy Honor Grove area, where students laze about and where graduation ceremonies are held at the end of terms, and under Towsley Hall, Meridith and I stood at an automat-type vending machine in which you press either the left or right arrow buttons and the racks spin, revealing sandwiches, Red Bulls, ramen cups, burritos, plastic spoons and forks. You find what you want, line the plastic door up to where you want it, put in your money, slide that door open and take out what you want. I asked Meridith to take a photo of it:
I don't remember if this vending machine was around when I was at COC, but it looks old enough to have been there during my time. I never went into that area much, so I wouldn't have noticed anyway. But it seems like the only constant you can find at COC now are the vending machines. Sure they took out the candy vending machine with M&Ms and Snickers and Reese's, and so much other good candy in California's Quest for Better Health (not a name of any program, but that's the attitude of it), but that's just one machine. The others I knew are still there.
The library is all I'm really grateful for at COC because it sustained me in the weeks after we moved to Santa Clarita, when I was trying to figure out what all this was and where I could fit into it if we had to live there. I found a bit of that fitting in at The Signal, but not enough to really feel like I was part of something good. Granted, I gained necessary experience that I could use for what I want to pursue next as a writer, but that wasn't quite enough. At the library, I had all those books, all those novelists to pull down and read, and it was different from going to the Valencia library because it wasn't as public. It was just me and those books. Mine to figure out what I wanted. I could sit on the floor with one long bookcase looming in front of me and one behind me and never have to get up for anyone passing by.
Alas, the library was closed by the time we got to COC (It closes at noon during the summer and we got there after 1 p.m.), but that was ok. It's not my library anymore; it belongs to others. This campus hasn't been mine in so long, but I can still see those ghosts, knowing that that wall used to be the Canyon Call newsroom, knowing that those two classrooms used to be a hallway to English department classrooms.
It's different at the mall. On our walk to COC, we passed by construction of a pool behind the Gold's Gym building, which used to be Borders. I couldn't imagine where there would be room for a pool, but a no-longer-used loading dock is a good place to have it. A Gold's Gym across from Wolf Creek Restaurant & Brewing Co., and near the Edwards Valencia 12 movie theater is still odd to me, but these changes don't really matter. Businesses will take up space wherever they can find it. Thank god for Chipotle, though. That was the best quesadilla I have had in a very long time, much less greasy than Chronic Tacos makes them.
Facing Las Vegas, I won't miss anything in Santa Clarita. But if I was to miss anything about this valley, COC doesn't rank very highly, not even for sentimental reasons with the library. An education haven, sure. A quiet campus at which to study. And at the now-COC Performing Arts Center (it had a few other names over the years), I saw Frank Ferrante as Groucho Marx in a one-man show, and Hal Holbrook as Mark Twain in a one-man show. I sure won't forget those. But there is nothing at that campus that I will pine for, because the UNLV campus has it beat. It's huge, and even if you just drive around, you can still get lost if you don't have a general idea of where you're going. You have to pay attention to those signs around the campus. I still haven't seen the library, though I want to, I want to tap into any historical archives they have there, I want to play at the arcade there, I want to look around in that bookstore again, and I know I'm going to have a lot of fun there, even though I'm not a student. They welcome everyone, no matter why you're there.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Letting Me Go Easy
The Santa Clarita Valley and I have always been at odds, as has been well-documented. But last night, we agreed on a permanent truce, triggered by a simple act.
I've never believed that there are any truly good people living here, just vapid, shallow people, with the great exception of former Signal columnist and weekend Escape editor John Boston, who was my mentor at the newspaper for a time, who showed me through his methods of writing and editing how to feel truly free in one's work, to explore anything, and to write about it too. He was just one person, though. What about the rest of the valley, which to me has never had heart, never compassion, never any indication that it cares?
I could say that tonight was just coincidence, but I like to believe that it was the valley's doing, offering the end of our always-fractured relationship. The Showtime series Episodes turned me from an unfortunate resident back into a very happy tourist, but I also needed to emotionally disconnect from this valley. And I have.
Throughout the evening, I heard splashes and little-kid voices from the community pool that the right side of our large patio overlooks. Also some adult voices, but mainly the shouts of those kids. As nighttime officially arrived with a near-to-8 p.m. darkness, I heard a thump on our patio, across from our kitchen window facing the "neighbor" across from us (not really a neighbor in that sense, just the standard definition of one who simply lives across from you). I opened the door that leads to the patio and heard the little boy of the group tell his grandfather that he wanted to draw things, be an animator, and his grandfather jokingly replied, "Are you going to make enough money to take care of your grandfather?" These kids sounded like the most well-behaved group that ever visited the pool in the nearly seven years we've lived in this place.
I turned on the patio lights and found a new, green tennis ball on the ground. I picked it up and wondered where it came from: Was a nearby neighbor too overzealous with throwing the tennis ball a short distance to their dog? Then I realized that it must have come from the kids because it sounded like they were also playing on the path that leads from the pool area to the pool gate, which passes right by the high wall of our patio. So they threw it, and it landed there.
I debated whether to keep it, give it to Kitty, but she loves her orange tennis balls. I had no use for it because I don't play tennis and the basketball in my room is my ball of choice. I walked over to that wall and threw the ball back down the path toward the pool area. I heard one of the kids exclaim, "Someone threw it back!" and in unison, whether two or three kids, I heard "Thank you!" I called back, "No problem!", and went back inside.
Living in Santa Clarita for nearly eight years and experiencing other parts of Southern California, you learn a lot about who people are, how to tell right away whether they'll help you or harm you in some way, what they want from you, and if they're sincere. I am grateful to this region to have learned all that without having to play poker to learn, but hated all the baggage that came with it, all that I had to endure.
This was nice. This felt to me like the valley's truce. And it came after learning that Dad's job interview went well, that Mom and Dad may very well have found our home in Las Vegas. All I'll say so far is that it's in Las Vegas. They'll probably look at more developments tomorrow to have a backup plan just in case, but if this works out, we'll be residents of Las Vegas. There are enough stores nearby to please Mom, so we have the basics in food shopping and anything else we might need; it's eight miles from the Strip, and Mom told us that you can't see it from inside this development, but when you pull out, there it is: My desert dream. I've also learned about my potential home library branch, and received the happy news that my beloved Pinball Hall of Fame is only four miles from there.
Perhaps the valley knows before I do that we'll be leaving very soon. I hope so. I'm still not happy that we spent all these years here, but what happened last night makes me reconcile the fact that that time is gone and now it's time to make up for it, quicker than I ever imagined. Because there will not only be a lot to make me quickly forget about the unhappy experiences I've had here in Santa Clarita, but I'll be so busy with research for books and novels I want to write about Las Vegas that it may be like I've never known anything else but Las Vegas, save for our happy years in Casselberry, Florida up to 1992, of which I see Las Vegas as a continuation after a very long interruption.
From Santa Clarita, I take only my detailed education in how to read people. And I'm grateful that it let me go easy. My heart, mind, and soul are already in Las Vegas, and my body is just waiting to get there.
I've never believed that there are any truly good people living here, just vapid, shallow people, with the great exception of former Signal columnist and weekend Escape editor John Boston, who was my mentor at the newspaper for a time, who showed me through his methods of writing and editing how to feel truly free in one's work, to explore anything, and to write about it too. He was just one person, though. What about the rest of the valley, which to me has never had heart, never compassion, never any indication that it cares?
I could say that tonight was just coincidence, but I like to believe that it was the valley's doing, offering the end of our always-fractured relationship. The Showtime series Episodes turned me from an unfortunate resident back into a very happy tourist, but I also needed to emotionally disconnect from this valley. And I have.
Throughout the evening, I heard splashes and little-kid voices from the community pool that the right side of our large patio overlooks. Also some adult voices, but mainly the shouts of those kids. As nighttime officially arrived with a near-to-8 p.m. darkness, I heard a thump on our patio, across from our kitchen window facing the "neighbor" across from us (not really a neighbor in that sense, just the standard definition of one who simply lives across from you). I opened the door that leads to the patio and heard the little boy of the group tell his grandfather that he wanted to draw things, be an animator, and his grandfather jokingly replied, "Are you going to make enough money to take care of your grandfather?" These kids sounded like the most well-behaved group that ever visited the pool in the nearly seven years we've lived in this place.
I turned on the patio lights and found a new, green tennis ball on the ground. I picked it up and wondered where it came from: Was a nearby neighbor too overzealous with throwing the tennis ball a short distance to their dog? Then I realized that it must have come from the kids because it sounded like they were also playing on the path that leads from the pool area to the pool gate, which passes right by the high wall of our patio. So they threw it, and it landed there.
I debated whether to keep it, give it to Kitty, but she loves her orange tennis balls. I had no use for it because I don't play tennis and the basketball in my room is my ball of choice. I walked over to that wall and threw the ball back down the path toward the pool area. I heard one of the kids exclaim, "Someone threw it back!" and in unison, whether two or three kids, I heard "Thank you!" I called back, "No problem!", and went back inside.
Living in Santa Clarita for nearly eight years and experiencing other parts of Southern California, you learn a lot about who people are, how to tell right away whether they'll help you or harm you in some way, what they want from you, and if they're sincere. I am grateful to this region to have learned all that without having to play poker to learn, but hated all the baggage that came with it, all that I had to endure.
This was nice. This felt to me like the valley's truce. And it came after learning that Dad's job interview went well, that Mom and Dad may very well have found our home in Las Vegas. All I'll say so far is that it's in Las Vegas. They'll probably look at more developments tomorrow to have a backup plan just in case, but if this works out, we'll be residents of Las Vegas. There are enough stores nearby to please Mom, so we have the basics in food shopping and anything else we might need; it's eight miles from the Strip, and Mom told us that you can't see it from inside this development, but when you pull out, there it is: My desert dream. I've also learned about my potential home library branch, and received the happy news that my beloved Pinball Hall of Fame is only four miles from there.
Perhaps the valley knows before I do that we'll be leaving very soon. I hope so. I'm still not happy that we spent all these years here, but what happened last night makes me reconcile the fact that that time is gone and now it's time to make up for it, quicker than I ever imagined. Because there will not only be a lot to make me quickly forget about the unhappy experiences I've had here in Santa Clarita, but I'll be so busy with research for books and novels I want to write about Las Vegas that it may be like I've never known anything else but Las Vegas, save for our happy years in Casselberry, Florida up to 1992, of which I see Las Vegas as a continuation after a very long interruption.
From Santa Clarita, I take only my detailed education in how to read people. And I'm grateful that it let me go easy. My heart, mind, and soul are already in Las Vegas, and my body is just waiting to get there.
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