When we moved to the Santa Clarita Valley, 30 miles north of Los Angeles, in mid-August 2003, and after I enrolled at College of the Canyons in Valencia, I wanted to find out everything I could about Los Angeles. Living in South Florida, I thought it was on the other side of the universe. And now here I was, so near to it.
I knew about the freeways leading into it, and the smoggy skyline, and the commuter trains that lurched into historical Union Station in downtown Los Angeles. I knew that Hollywood was omnipresent there, that the Dodgers had a stadium mostly full of devoted fans, that you could find a lot of things in Los Angeles, maybe what you wanted, maybe what you never expected to find in a city. Back then, I didn't know what that was. I knew that I wanted to get to know Los Angeles, and get a feel for it that I could be comfortable with, and so I spent a lot of time in the library at College of the Canyons (I spent a lot of time there anyway because of all the books), looking for books that could help me get accustomed to and understand Los Angeles.
Two books I remember above all the others were "Another City", an anthology edited by David L. Ulin, and the other, "Writing Los Angeles", an 870+-page anthology, was also edited by him. I could have delved into the history of Los Angeles, finding the stories there that explained how a desert became such a vast city. I could have learned about Cesar Chavez and the orange groves, and the 1940s filtered through Los Angeles. But as a writer, I was looking for impressions. How did people feel in the city? How did they live? Why did they live there? I needed literature, I needed words put together in such a way that they could only come from minds that had taken in so much that needed to go back out in paragraphs and exclamations and frustrations and love and hate and perplexity. Los Angeles does bring out all of that in a person.
But just as soon as I decided to go searching for some kind of meaning to make Los Angeles easier to understand for me, I was swept up by other things. Classes, for one, to get my AA degree. A few-years-long stint at The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of the Santa Clarita Valley (and really the only newspaper), that led to me being interim editor of their weekend Escape section for five weeks. And then the kind of internal dizziness that comes with not quite knowing what to do after leaving a newspaper, before regrouping and deciding to write a book and then seeing that book published.
Now it's 7 years later. And I got to thinking about Los Angeles again. But not in that intrepid explorer way. I've lived here 7 years. I've been to Los Angeles many times. I've been inside the Walt Disney Concert Hall, but not anywhere near the stage. I saw "Jersey Boys" at the Ahmanson Theatre and was fascinated by the experience of live theater, that what we were seeing at that moment was the only way it could be seen. The next performance could be different in some spots and some members of the audience might react differently. I've been to Philippe's for those samples of heaven they call french dip sandwiches.
Yeah, I know. Tourist destinations. Add on wandering through Union Station, and visiting Olvera Street, and I might as well be a tourist who simply got lost and never got out of Los Angeles. But all of that I think is still part of Los Angeles. I've been to a few other areas, too, such as near Hollywood & Vine, parked next to an apartment complex that feels so much like Hollywood, I wondered how many self-proclaimed screenwriters lived there. I remember knowing Chad Peter, a good independent filmmaker, who runs NP2K.com, and going with him one night to 20th Century Fox where he was interviewing someone in the office of producer Ralph Winter. There were comic books on a glass table in that office, because Winter was looking to produce "The Fantastic Four" as a feature film. I remember the assistant at a desk outside the office had a screenplay in a drawer. I spotted it. Whether hers or something related to work, I'm not sure, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was hers.
Granted, in my time here, I haven't covered all of Los Angeles, and I certainly don't know it as well as someone who's been here much longer than me, or even a native. But remember the movie "Collateral" with Tom Cruise and Jamie Foxx? That's accurate. That is Los Angeles at night. It feels like that. Even on the freeway, seeing the skyline lit up in the distance at night, that same feeling is there. It's a little desolate, like you're not sure why you're here, or why you feel so lonely at that moment. But the feeling passes and you go on to wherever your bedroom is.
I think Los Angeles has passed from what was presented in Steve Martin's "L.A. Story", but the feelings are still there. That beauty he captures on the freeway through director Mick Jackson, he's got it right. It can seem beautiful in the strangest way. You wouldn't expect headlights on one side and taillights on the other side to have an artistic bent, but Martin and Jackson capture it completely and accurately. I don't think Los Angeles is as silly as Martin makes it at times, but that's just him and his love for the city. He knows the foibles, and the unintentional comedy all around, but he respects it. It gives Los Angeles a unique flavor he's always loved.
As for me, waiting along with the rest of my family to see if we're going to move to Nevada any time soon, to jobs in the Las Vegas area, I'm not really sure what I'm looking for in Los Angeles now. I haven't been there in a long time, and I'm not looking for Los Angeles to pay me back for any kind of trouble I might have encountered. I can't remember any kind of trouble I might have had there. I don't think I had any, beyond listening to my mom's intense dislike of the city. I don't love it, but I'm also not one to defend it either. It is what it is and you either find what you're looking for there or you don't. It's like any other city, but then again, it's not. It has public transportation, libraries, a city council, and everything you can expect in food and hospitals and clothing stores and bookstores and supermarkets and...and...and....
I don't truly know what makes Los Angeles unique. I don't think I've been there enough times to get a concrete impression of that. Oh wait, I do have one example, and it was after we had been to some awards ceremony held by the Stock Market Game, which my dad uses in his classroom. This was held at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, and outside, there were all the office buildings lit up, lights on every floors, some movement, but not much.
I've never been to New York City, and living in Florida, which is all flatland, I've never seen buildings up close like this. Sure there's many in Fort Lauderdale, but in South Florida, I lived in Coral Springs and then Pembroke Pines. It was always daytime when we went to Fort Lauderdale for the Main library branch of the Broward County Library, or to the science museum there. And those instances of being out at night, that was for Miami Beach.
There is a kind of uneasy silence when you're looking up at those buildings in Los Angeles. You think about the people still inside working, those who are just about to leave, those who have left for the night and will return in the morning. Most of the day's business is done, but what business are those people doing in there that's necessary right at that moment? And I'm not talking about janitors and cleaning crews. That's expected. But is it some kind of business transaction that's being laid out for the next day or loose ends being brought together and tied tightly? I always wondered. I've never wanted to work in one of those buildings, but still I wonder.
So what am I looking for in Los Angeles now? 7 years ago, I was looking for some solid meaning that could withstand whatever forces shape the city now, some kind of spirit within it that remains true, even when it seems like it couldn't be less true. But now? I don't know. Last week, I browsed the Library of America website (http://www.loa.org/). Occasionally, I'd eye the sale page (http://www.loa.org/sale), and look at the clearance sale items, especially "Writing Los Angeles." Yet the pull for that title wasn't as great as it is now. All those times before, I'd read the details of the book, impressed that you could get 880 pages for just $9.95.
I decided to order it. And I received it today in a big box with room enough for the book, wrapped in plastic, and cushioned by that air bubble packaging that you rip apart either with your fingers, or deflate it with the slice of scissors. I'm still not entirely sure what I want from Los Angeles now. I think all this search for meaning began because I had never known such a vast metropolis like Los Angeles. Fort Lauderdale was large to me, but it was wholly accessible. Nothing intimidating about it. Maybe Los Angeles intimidates me a little bit. Maybe there's something I'm looking for there that I can't quite place yet. I do know that I'm looking for a piece of it to take with me. And it would seem like I already have that piece with "This Book Will Save Your Life" by A.M. Homes. I think that's what started my wondering about Los Angeles again, since that book is set squarely in Los Angeles and ends with a surreal wildfire apocalypse that includes the Ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier rolling into the ocean during an earthquake. I read it a few years ago, and ordered it off of abebooks.com a few weeks ago, determining that it needed to be in my collection, alongside all my Bukowski books, "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro, "Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom" by Cory Doctorow, and others special to me.
With this book now, maybe I'm looking for something to describe my slightly-removed experience from Los Angeles. I know that Los Angeles doesn't belong to me, since I've not been to it all that often. But yet I still feel its presence these 30 miles away, even as isolated as the Santa Clarita Valley feels from pretty much anything. At the mountaintop Getty Center, you can see the Los Angeles skyline. There's still that connection. I don't know what kind of connection I expected to have with Los Angeles. I remember before we moved that I heard about the commuter train that goes from Santa Clarita to Los Angeles, and in my naivete, I thought that the train got near enough to one of the libraries in Los Angeles, and I was excited for the opportunity to go every weekend. That was when I thought everything in Los Angeles was so close together and therefore easily accessible.
It's not as if I'm going to regret not finding the answer once we leave Southern California for Nevada. There is no one answer. There's hundreds of answers. Maybe not even answers, but just experiences that lead to more questions. I'm not looking for some kind of peace with Los Angeles. I've never had anything against Los Angeles. And I'm not looking for a shiny bow to easily wrap everything up. There's nothing to compartmentalize, nothing to tuck away neatly in a square of space amidst other full squares. I've never felt that close to Los Angeles, so I've no ode to give it before I eventually leave. Maybe I'm just looking, like a lot of people do everywhere in Los Angeles. And maybe I'll find what I'm looking for in this book, maybe I won't. A quote of some kind that puts my experience into a proper perspective? An observation that connects me to that writer by dint of what we both experienced that we thought we couldn't describe? I don't know. I've got 880 pages to find out, since I never read that book all that closely when I found it at the COC library. I just skimmed.
But I do know one thing. If this entry has seemed spread out and disjointed to you, well, that's Los Angeles.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
I've Been 27 for a Day. What's Next?
A few things change for a birthday. My mom, who's usually on the computer by the time I wake up, usually after 8, let me have it after I finished breakfast yesterday. I don't mind not getting on right away, and in fact, I don't really have an aching need to get on right away, since I'm not at that point of beginning to write one of my books. Still researching.
Lunch was a great surprise. Meridith made a plate of her incredible deviled eggs, and with a container of Dannon Greek Yogurt (Blueberry), I was ok with seeing my diet go straight to hell. That's fine for this week, since it also includes whatever my sister chooses for her birthday dinner tomorrow, and one day of the weekend spent at Ventura Harbor Village, and Andria's, which has the best clam chowder I've ever had. Mom asked if there was anywhere special I wanted to go, and I thought of Universal CityWalk, but there's nothing really there that attracts me, nothing that I haven't seen the last time we went. Then I thought of the Getty Center, and I went to their website, but no current exhibits spark anything in me like when we saw the food-centered photography and those panoramic photos of parts of New York City.
Meridith came up with the genius idea of something for both of us, something that we both really like, and that something is Ventura Harbor Village. It's so peaceful, taking you away from everything that could possibly be bothering you. Since nothing is bothering me and I intend to keep it that way, I fill that extra space with pure pleasure, and Ventura Harbor Village has got a lot of it on hand for me. Not just Andria's, but the arcade on the same property, with a few pinball machines, including "The Simpsons", and the shops all around that sell trinkets that feel so organic to each store. Maybe some were made in China and shipped to those stores, but not all of them.
I waited until Dad and Meridith got home from work to open my hefty gift. I opened the card first, which was a pop-up drive-in movie theater, with cars that had vanity plates such as "I-8-Cake", and the screen had a popcorn box, hot dog, and a piece of cake, and when you pull the tab on the side, back and forth, they move. I love that my parents know me so well, that even with movies being of less importance to me now than they used to be, I still love things like that. But being that books have taken a much more central position in my life, I'm hoping for a book-related card next year. That was an appropriate card, though, considering that my first book was mostly movie-related.
And then I opened the gift. I knew about it, but I was still surprised. It was a stack of bibles written by Neil Simon. Four volumes of all of his plays. This is the writing I worship, such as right at the beginning of "The Odd Couple", in which one of Oscar's friends is frustrated with how slow another is shuffling the cards, and says to him, "Tell me, Mr. Maverick, is this your first time on the riverboat?"
These books will be worn down by heavy use before time. I flipped through random pages, read random lines, and I laughed each time. I don't intend to try to emulate Neil Simon when I begin writing my own plays. In fact, yesterday, I got an idea for a one-man play about the end of power. Political power. I know there's a lot of that in the history of Richard Nixon, but I want to do something different, and the research I'm doing about the history of these presidents as men is a great opportunity to also do research for this possible play. When I read Neil Simon's works, I look for how he implements his unique brand of comedy, his sense of rhythm, his attention to his characters. And I learn from that, much like I'll learn from the one-character and two-character plays I intend to read to get a sense of that form to apply to my own sensibilities.
My birthday dinner was perfect: Cheese quesadillas at Chronic Tacos. And as I sat at that table, while Mom, Dad and Meridith were still eating, I felt completely serene, which I hadn't felt in quite a while. That's not to say I haven't been happy, but more that I wasn't sure what to do next, at least before beginning the research for these two books. But now I not only knew what to do in my writing life, but also how I wanted to do it, and the pleasures that are to come in the many books I intend to read for research. Right now, I'm reading "An Object of Beauty" by Steve Martin, which I started yesterday after finishing "Baltimore Blues" by Laura Lippman. Since that wasn't a work day for me, "An Object of Beauty" carries over from then, but when I finish it, I'm going to pull out one of the dozens of books I have on hand for this project and get serious about this. After all, I've now got a day less than three years to see one of my books published by the time I'm 30.
My birthday cake was more than I had ever expected. I had only expected a banana bread loaf, as the recipe indicated, the one that I had printed out for Meridith. But as with her deviled eggs, she made this one a masterpiece: A banana loaf cake with the walnuts I had picked out for it nestled inside. As it cooled after she took it out of the oven last Sunday, the middle sunk, but that didn't matter to me. She and Mom had put strawberry slices in the middle along with a sprinkle of confectioners' sugar. My sister and I are of the same school of thought: It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be. However it exists, we appreciate it. That's how we do.
The evening was pretty quiet. Not a whole lot to do in this valley, and it was already getting late. I had to put together the freelance writing job newsletter I always do on weeknights, and we watched "Jeopardy!" and "Wheel of Fortune", just like any other night. And I like those nights. I don't need extravagancy. Saturday or Sunday at Ventura Harbor Village is enough for me.
Tomorrow is Meridith's birthday. Mom and Dad get a one-day break in between. I was going to get her purple bubble wrap, since she loves it (both purple and bubble wrap), but I'd forgotten to research who sells it and for how much. So I'm thinking that besides the book I bought her ("Knives at Dawn: America's Quest for Culinary Glory at the Legendary Bocuse d'Or Competition" by Andrew Friedman), I'll cover Adam Lambert's "Glamnation" CD/DVD set that came out today that she really, really wants. And I'll think about purple bubble wrap for her birthday next year, but actually remember to get it.
So now I'm 27. The major changes in me have come from the weight loss and not so much from gaining another year. 27 feels like a comfortable middle, like when you sit in the middle of a slightly sunken couch that has become more comfortable from years of continual use. You open a book, and it's like your own tropical beach, your own stateroom on board an opulent, immaculate cruise ship, a kind of a view that only you know about.
I don't plan to just cruise through 27. I have a lot to do. But I don't have a lot to worry about. Yes, it would be ideal to be brought in as a substitute campus supervisor, but as I've heard it from Dad, when a regular campus supervisor takes a day off, they have to take that day as a furlough day, which means they don't get paid, and a substitute campus supervisor can't be called in. So the staff is just left one person short for that day.
It bothers me, because I'd like the money that comes from that day's work, but it doesn't consume me. I read, I write. I do everything I've always wanted to do. So I'm good. And I know that one day, there'll be a good career to come along to keep me in good financial stead while I write. Either as a campus supervisor, or something in books. That's all I want.
I'm only thinking about 30 in relation to my goal. I'll consider it more when I get there. 27 feels nice, more stable than 26, another layer of maturity added on from what I learned from being 26. Like rings in a tree stump.
So now it's time to see what I can do with 27. And I hope it'll be a lot.
Lunch was a great surprise. Meridith made a plate of her incredible deviled eggs, and with a container of Dannon Greek Yogurt (Blueberry), I was ok with seeing my diet go straight to hell. That's fine for this week, since it also includes whatever my sister chooses for her birthday dinner tomorrow, and one day of the weekend spent at Ventura Harbor Village, and Andria's, which has the best clam chowder I've ever had. Mom asked if there was anywhere special I wanted to go, and I thought of Universal CityWalk, but there's nothing really there that attracts me, nothing that I haven't seen the last time we went. Then I thought of the Getty Center, and I went to their website, but no current exhibits spark anything in me like when we saw the food-centered photography and those panoramic photos of parts of New York City.
Meridith came up with the genius idea of something for both of us, something that we both really like, and that something is Ventura Harbor Village. It's so peaceful, taking you away from everything that could possibly be bothering you. Since nothing is bothering me and I intend to keep it that way, I fill that extra space with pure pleasure, and Ventura Harbor Village has got a lot of it on hand for me. Not just Andria's, but the arcade on the same property, with a few pinball machines, including "The Simpsons", and the shops all around that sell trinkets that feel so organic to each store. Maybe some were made in China and shipped to those stores, but not all of them.
I waited until Dad and Meridith got home from work to open my hefty gift. I opened the card first, which was a pop-up drive-in movie theater, with cars that had vanity plates such as "I-8-Cake", and the screen had a popcorn box, hot dog, and a piece of cake, and when you pull the tab on the side, back and forth, they move. I love that my parents know me so well, that even with movies being of less importance to me now than they used to be, I still love things like that. But being that books have taken a much more central position in my life, I'm hoping for a book-related card next year. That was an appropriate card, though, considering that my first book was mostly movie-related.
And then I opened the gift. I knew about it, but I was still surprised. It was a stack of bibles written by Neil Simon. Four volumes of all of his plays. This is the writing I worship, such as right at the beginning of "The Odd Couple", in which one of Oscar's friends is frustrated with how slow another is shuffling the cards, and says to him, "Tell me, Mr. Maverick, is this your first time on the riverboat?"
These books will be worn down by heavy use before time. I flipped through random pages, read random lines, and I laughed each time. I don't intend to try to emulate Neil Simon when I begin writing my own plays. In fact, yesterday, I got an idea for a one-man play about the end of power. Political power. I know there's a lot of that in the history of Richard Nixon, but I want to do something different, and the research I'm doing about the history of these presidents as men is a great opportunity to also do research for this possible play. When I read Neil Simon's works, I look for how he implements his unique brand of comedy, his sense of rhythm, his attention to his characters. And I learn from that, much like I'll learn from the one-character and two-character plays I intend to read to get a sense of that form to apply to my own sensibilities.
My birthday dinner was perfect: Cheese quesadillas at Chronic Tacos. And as I sat at that table, while Mom, Dad and Meridith were still eating, I felt completely serene, which I hadn't felt in quite a while. That's not to say I haven't been happy, but more that I wasn't sure what to do next, at least before beginning the research for these two books. But now I not only knew what to do in my writing life, but also how I wanted to do it, and the pleasures that are to come in the many books I intend to read for research. Right now, I'm reading "An Object of Beauty" by Steve Martin, which I started yesterday after finishing "Baltimore Blues" by Laura Lippman. Since that wasn't a work day for me, "An Object of Beauty" carries over from then, but when I finish it, I'm going to pull out one of the dozens of books I have on hand for this project and get serious about this. After all, I've now got a day less than three years to see one of my books published by the time I'm 30.
My birthday cake was more than I had ever expected. I had only expected a banana bread loaf, as the recipe indicated, the one that I had printed out for Meridith. But as with her deviled eggs, she made this one a masterpiece: A banana loaf cake with the walnuts I had picked out for it nestled inside. As it cooled after she took it out of the oven last Sunday, the middle sunk, but that didn't matter to me. She and Mom had put strawberry slices in the middle along with a sprinkle of confectioners' sugar. My sister and I are of the same school of thought: It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be. However it exists, we appreciate it. That's how we do.
The evening was pretty quiet. Not a whole lot to do in this valley, and it was already getting late. I had to put together the freelance writing job newsletter I always do on weeknights, and we watched "Jeopardy!" and "Wheel of Fortune", just like any other night. And I like those nights. I don't need extravagancy. Saturday or Sunday at Ventura Harbor Village is enough for me.
Tomorrow is Meridith's birthday. Mom and Dad get a one-day break in between. I was going to get her purple bubble wrap, since she loves it (both purple and bubble wrap), but I'd forgotten to research who sells it and for how much. So I'm thinking that besides the book I bought her ("Knives at Dawn: America's Quest for Culinary Glory at the Legendary Bocuse d'Or Competition" by Andrew Friedman), I'll cover Adam Lambert's "Glamnation" CD/DVD set that came out today that she really, really wants. And I'll think about purple bubble wrap for her birthday next year, but actually remember to get it.
So now I'm 27. The major changes in me have come from the weight loss and not so much from gaining another year. 27 feels like a comfortable middle, like when you sit in the middle of a slightly sunken couch that has become more comfortable from years of continual use. You open a book, and it's like your own tropical beach, your own stateroom on board an opulent, immaculate cruise ship, a kind of a view that only you know about.
I don't plan to just cruise through 27. I have a lot to do. But I don't have a lot to worry about. Yes, it would be ideal to be brought in as a substitute campus supervisor, but as I've heard it from Dad, when a regular campus supervisor takes a day off, they have to take that day as a furlough day, which means they don't get paid, and a substitute campus supervisor can't be called in. So the staff is just left one person short for that day.
It bothers me, because I'd like the money that comes from that day's work, but it doesn't consume me. I read, I write. I do everything I've always wanted to do. So I'm good. And I know that one day, there'll be a good career to come along to keep me in good financial stead while I write. Either as a campus supervisor, or something in books. That's all I want.
I'm only thinking about 30 in relation to my goal. I'll consider it more when I get there. 27 feels nice, more stable than 26, another layer of maturity added on from what I learned from being 26. Like rings in a tree stump.
So now it's time to see what I can do with 27. And I hope it'll be a lot.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
My Card for the Royal Family
I can't think of a gift to send to the royal family on the occasion of the wedding, but I'm writing a very nice card: "Thanks for America. Hope you don't want it back."
Three Years Left Tomorrow
Tomorrow, I turn 27. And therefore, I'll have three years to publish at least one book by the time I turn 30. "What If They Lived?" was an impressive feat at 26, but I want to do it again. And hopefully again, and again, and again.
I have my novel, and I have my book about the presidents' reading habits. One of those two must be in print by then. I've embraced the challenge in the research thus far, I know the challenges still to come, and though whichever I'm done with first won't be a free ride like "What If They Lived?" was, I'm prepared to do all the hard work that comes with seeking to get a book published.
Today, I rest and read. Tomorrow, I celebrate another year of life to enjoy. Tuesday, the day before my sister's birthday (yep, a one-day gap, though we're five years apart, with her born in 1989), I get back to work. I will not waste one day of these next three years. Having a book published is really addictive. I'd like to get that feeling again.
I have my novel, and I have my book about the presidents' reading habits. One of those two must be in print by then. I've embraced the challenge in the research thus far, I know the challenges still to come, and though whichever I'm done with first won't be a free ride like "What If They Lived?" was, I'm prepared to do all the hard work that comes with seeking to get a book published.
Today, I rest and read. Tomorrow, I celebrate another year of life to enjoy. Tuesday, the day before my sister's birthday (yep, a one-day gap, though we're five years apart, with her born in 1989), I get back to work. I will not waste one day of these next three years. Having a book published is really addictive. I'd like to get that feeling again.
Friday, March 18, 2011
A Different Casselberry. Or Was That Always Casselberry?
Living in Casselberry, Florida from the late '80s to the early '90s, when I was beginning to develop the soft, creamy center that is now me (Translation: I was 5 in 1989), the neighborhood you lived in was generally the only neighborhood you really knew. Passing signs for different streets, you'd notice the names, but you'd be thinking more about what there was to do when you got home.
I remember our house (235 Warbler Lane), the big tree in our front yard that I fell out of once, the basketball hoop next to the driveway, the tangerine tree at the left side of our house that died during a bitterly cold winter, the salamanders in the patio, the large backyard that led to a small lake, and the space shuttle launches we'd see while standing in the backyard.
I received a Media Mail package today from Onestopmediashop, a seller on Amazon, located where? Casselberry, Florida. 1783 Laurel Brook Loop. Fast service, and the "Angels in America" 2-disc set arrived tightly sealed and exactly as advertised. But Laurel Brook Loop? When did this happen? We lived in the Deer Run development, and surely there were other developments around us, but what would compel someone to name an area Laurel Brook Loop? How much has the area expanded since we last visited in 2003? I'm not shocked. I never expected the place to remain as it was when I lived there, just as I don't expect Walt Disney World to remain the same (and it hasn't, though I am disappointed at the useless soundtrack they have now for the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, which needlessly advertises the attractions in Tomorrowland, because not only can we see them, but I'm sure those in Tomorrowland probably walked around and saw everything before getting on the TTA, because you go on there for a break. Of course there are the exceptions like me, with it being one of my favorite attractions, who could have ridden it all day), but who comes up with that name? Are there laurels? Is there a brook?
I know the names shouldn't be taken literally. In fact, I don't remember seeing warblers around when we lived there. But even if an area expands, as I'm sure my old neighborhood has, there should be a name that can bind closely with what it represents, not something as disparate as "Laurel Brook Loop." I've no doubt it is a loop, and it's creative on the end, instead of "Laurel Brook Cul-de-Sac." But there are very few names in Florida anymore that retain a spirit of the state. Lake Okeechobee thankfully still has its name (though it wasn't the original name, as it was also called Macaco and Mayaimi, the latter of which became Miami, and more suitable for another part of the state), but that's not enough. I admit that there may not be many pleasing features around the land being built upon to merit a poetic name. But just try something. I know that these builders probably don't care much about what name is attached to these areas, so long as the houses are built and people buy. I get that. But in the hopefully ever-present desire to appeal to people in order to turn a profit, why not see if there's any poets that need a job? Riffle through literary journals. Comb college campuses and see what teachers there have had works published.
Warbler Lane was nice. For me, it was a happy home, and I'm always reminded also of going to Walt Disney World every weekend, and sometimes during the week just for dinner. In fact, I think that may be why I eventually became a writer, because I had so much imagination all around me. But these companies, whoever they are, should strive for names that connect, names that could mean more than just "That way home."
Hell, hire me. I'll think of something.
I remember our house (235 Warbler Lane), the big tree in our front yard that I fell out of once, the basketball hoop next to the driveway, the tangerine tree at the left side of our house that died during a bitterly cold winter, the salamanders in the patio, the large backyard that led to a small lake, and the space shuttle launches we'd see while standing in the backyard.
I received a Media Mail package today from Onestopmediashop, a seller on Amazon, located where? Casselberry, Florida. 1783 Laurel Brook Loop. Fast service, and the "Angels in America" 2-disc set arrived tightly sealed and exactly as advertised. But Laurel Brook Loop? When did this happen? We lived in the Deer Run development, and surely there were other developments around us, but what would compel someone to name an area Laurel Brook Loop? How much has the area expanded since we last visited in 2003? I'm not shocked. I never expected the place to remain as it was when I lived there, just as I don't expect Walt Disney World to remain the same (and it hasn't, though I am disappointed at the useless soundtrack they have now for the Tomorrowland Transit Authority, which needlessly advertises the attractions in Tomorrowland, because not only can we see them, but I'm sure those in Tomorrowland probably walked around and saw everything before getting on the TTA, because you go on there for a break. Of course there are the exceptions like me, with it being one of my favorite attractions, who could have ridden it all day), but who comes up with that name? Are there laurels? Is there a brook?
I know the names shouldn't be taken literally. In fact, I don't remember seeing warblers around when we lived there. But even if an area expands, as I'm sure my old neighborhood has, there should be a name that can bind closely with what it represents, not something as disparate as "Laurel Brook Loop." I've no doubt it is a loop, and it's creative on the end, instead of "Laurel Brook Cul-de-Sac." But there are very few names in Florida anymore that retain a spirit of the state. Lake Okeechobee thankfully still has its name (though it wasn't the original name, as it was also called Macaco and Mayaimi, the latter of which became Miami, and more suitable for another part of the state), but that's not enough. I admit that there may not be many pleasing features around the land being built upon to merit a poetic name. But just try something. I know that these builders probably don't care much about what name is attached to these areas, so long as the houses are built and people buy. I get that. But in the hopefully ever-present desire to appeal to people in order to turn a profit, why not see if there's any poets that need a job? Riffle through literary journals. Comb college campuses and see what teachers there have had works published.
Warbler Lane was nice. For me, it was a happy home, and I'm always reminded also of going to Walt Disney World every weekend, and sometimes during the week just for dinner. In fact, I think that may be why I eventually became a writer, because I had so much imagination all around me. But these companies, whoever they are, should strive for names that connect, names that could mean more than just "That way home."
Hell, hire me. I'll think of something.
Baker, California
Michael Buble was the amiable subordinate to Kelly Ripa on "Live with Regis & Kelly" this morning. My mom has this stuff on while she's on the computer next to the TV in the living room (which is where I camp out for the rest of the day when I'm doing book-related research, or on the couch when I'm not and prefer to while away the hours reading).
If that music thing doesn't work out for Buble, he'd make an excellent permanent co-host with Ripa when the endlessly kvetching Regis finally leaves. They have a friendly, playful rapport that I don't think would ever be tiring. And ever since she learned that she'll have the top job once the anachronistic carcass mutters his way out the door, she's gotten a lot smarter. She's more engaging, more engaged, and I spend a lot less time wishing bad things on her in my head.
And still my mind wanders. I can't focus entirely on that show. I had "Best Food Writing 2010" in front of me, putting bookmark after bookmark into the beginning pages of these absorbing writings, to look up those writers later, and I watched "Live with Kelly and Buble", and I thought not about the people that are devoted to these morning shows, but rather about Baker. Baker, California. A part of the Mojave Desert that does not need Regis & Kelly for morning entertainment. It has its own.
Always halfway to Las Vegas, this is where we stop. This is where we get out of the car, outside the gas-station-cum-food-court, and look for something to eat. This is where you'll find a Big Boy restaurant with the big statue of the kid in the red-and-white checkered overalls. There's also the Mad Greek. And it's where you'll pass by a store selling "alien jerky", doing a double-take before you inevitably pull back around and park in its lot, which includes a car off to the side with an alien family inside. This doesn't look like a place where they'd shoot aliens with high-tech weaponry for jerky. Maybe in some unseen shacks somewhere nearby. But not here. They've got all kinds of jerky in that place, all with a relatively hefty price, but the novelty is why you're there. You're also there for the samples they have on hand, and to look at the t-shirts advertising the "Area 51 Casino" and other shirts with many Men in Black on them. The jerky is worth it. Buy a bag or two. You'll find a flavor that suits you. All smoky, one of the many reasons to travel this country and perhaps the world. I don't know about the latter, since I'm happy in this country.
I always forget the name of the gas station. It's right on the building when we walk in, but given enough distance between the time we last went to Las Vegas and now, I don't remember it. I do remember the claw machine when we walk in, and a gumball machine that has $20 bills tucked into those clear egg cases, among gumballs. I remember the rack with various tourist advertisements and publications, and they always have copies of the weekend publication that the Las Vegas Review-Journal has, with reviews of the show of the week and other writings about what's going on in Las Vegas.
Some people are here to get gas to continue on, some are here to eat, to use the bathroom, or just to get a drink. I'm here to see what's being sold that I don't find near home. I spot all the usual snacks that are easy in a car: Potato chips, pretzels, nuts, and a lot of sodas behind glass doors. What interests me most are the books on racks, novelty books, some trying to get close to Uncle John's Bathroom Reader series, but not quite getting there. There are word-find books for kids, coloring books, some toys, some foam airplanes. Magnets, of course. In fact, the magnet I got the last time we went there on the way back from Las Vegas has a sweating donkey, a thermometer, and the words, "My Ass is Sweating in Baker." My kind of humor and an oversized magnet, compared to the others being sold.
So why would I think of Baker while watching Kelly & Buble? It was a little after 9 a.m. I'm on the couch reading "Best Food Writing 2010." My mom is on the computer. This is our morning. And I love my morning, but I sometimes wonder about other mornings, like the morning in Baker. The bearded guy behind the counter I saw last time: Does he still work there? Does he work the morning shift sometimes? Where does he live? What led him to this job? Is there another job he really wants?
I also think about the people behind the counters of those small versions of A&W, TCBY, Pizza Hut, and Subway. 75 pounds ago, I always went for A&W. A burger and fries and a root beer float, and a few of my sister's fried cheese curds. The next time we go to Vegas, I'm choosing from Subway. Even on what I'd consider kind-of sort-of a vacation (Because it's also work, being that we still want to move there), I still have to watch what I eat. This isn't like that first time in Vegas anymore when I had three steaks in three days. I loved the experience, but I don't need those experiences again. Not for the sake of my health.
I like this rest stop. It knows what it is and it lives up to its purpose. There's nothing it tries to do that doesn't match with what it is. You want to eat, get gas, piss, they've got everything for all of that. The people behind the counters are most interesting. They know this desert better than I ever will. And yet again, my curiosity pokes me hard, making me wonder how those people got here. In summer, forget the desert. But otherwise, if the resources suit you, if there's everything you need, the desert looks peaceful enough to live in. But I wonder if any of those souls at the counters are wanderers. Are they looking for anything? Or are they just wandering because that's who they are? How long have they worked at these jobs? I also think about the person who checks in on these locations, how often A&W keeps tabs on this Baker location, and the same for Subway.
And then we get in the car, pull out of that lot, and that gas station is way behind us. We've passed the world's largest thermometer, and we're on that road to Las Vegas. I'm looking ahead to the billboards advertising Vegas shows and attractions. I'm looking ahead to our room at America's Best Value Inn on Tropicana Avenue, hauling in the luggage, and decompressing from the drive, and, about half an hour to 45 minutes later, getting back in the car and quickly reacquainting ourselves with the area. But in the back of my mind, Baker is still there. It's always been there. It's where I keep my curiosity, right next to the soda dispensers. And sometimes it jumps down from there, and turns that book rack, wondering about those authors, if they ever think about where their books ended up, such as here. What a good place to be.
(God Bless Google!: The Grewal Travel Center. The gas is provided by Valero. And A&W.)
If that music thing doesn't work out for Buble, he'd make an excellent permanent co-host with Ripa when the endlessly kvetching Regis finally leaves. They have a friendly, playful rapport that I don't think would ever be tiring. And ever since she learned that she'll have the top job once the anachronistic carcass mutters his way out the door, she's gotten a lot smarter. She's more engaging, more engaged, and I spend a lot less time wishing bad things on her in my head.
And still my mind wanders. I can't focus entirely on that show. I had "Best Food Writing 2010" in front of me, putting bookmark after bookmark into the beginning pages of these absorbing writings, to look up those writers later, and I watched "Live with Kelly and Buble", and I thought not about the people that are devoted to these morning shows, but rather about Baker. Baker, California. A part of the Mojave Desert that does not need Regis & Kelly for morning entertainment. It has its own.
Always halfway to Las Vegas, this is where we stop. This is where we get out of the car, outside the gas-station-cum-food-court, and look for something to eat. This is where you'll find a Big Boy restaurant with the big statue of the kid in the red-and-white checkered overalls. There's also the Mad Greek. And it's where you'll pass by a store selling "alien jerky", doing a double-take before you inevitably pull back around and park in its lot, which includes a car off to the side with an alien family inside. This doesn't look like a place where they'd shoot aliens with high-tech weaponry for jerky. Maybe in some unseen shacks somewhere nearby. But not here. They've got all kinds of jerky in that place, all with a relatively hefty price, but the novelty is why you're there. You're also there for the samples they have on hand, and to look at the t-shirts advertising the "Area 51 Casino" and other shirts with many Men in Black on them. The jerky is worth it. Buy a bag or two. You'll find a flavor that suits you. All smoky, one of the many reasons to travel this country and perhaps the world. I don't know about the latter, since I'm happy in this country.
I always forget the name of the gas station. It's right on the building when we walk in, but given enough distance between the time we last went to Las Vegas and now, I don't remember it. I do remember the claw machine when we walk in, and a gumball machine that has $20 bills tucked into those clear egg cases, among gumballs. I remember the rack with various tourist advertisements and publications, and they always have copies of the weekend publication that the Las Vegas Review-Journal has, with reviews of the show of the week and other writings about what's going on in Las Vegas.
Some people are here to get gas to continue on, some are here to eat, to use the bathroom, or just to get a drink. I'm here to see what's being sold that I don't find near home. I spot all the usual snacks that are easy in a car: Potato chips, pretzels, nuts, and a lot of sodas behind glass doors. What interests me most are the books on racks, novelty books, some trying to get close to Uncle John's Bathroom Reader series, but not quite getting there. There are word-find books for kids, coloring books, some toys, some foam airplanes. Magnets, of course. In fact, the magnet I got the last time we went there on the way back from Las Vegas has a sweating donkey, a thermometer, and the words, "My Ass is Sweating in Baker." My kind of humor and an oversized magnet, compared to the others being sold.
So why would I think of Baker while watching Kelly & Buble? It was a little after 9 a.m. I'm on the couch reading "Best Food Writing 2010." My mom is on the computer. This is our morning. And I love my morning, but I sometimes wonder about other mornings, like the morning in Baker. The bearded guy behind the counter I saw last time: Does he still work there? Does he work the morning shift sometimes? Where does he live? What led him to this job? Is there another job he really wants?
I also think about the people behind the counters of those small versions of A&W, TCBY, Pizza Hut, and Subway. 75 pounds ago, I always went for A&W. A burger and fries and a root beer float, and a few of my sister's fried cheese curds. The next time we go to Vegas, I'm choosing from Subway. Even on what I'd consider kind-of sort-of a vacation (Because it's also work, being that we still want to move there), I still have to watch what I eat. This isn't like that first time in Vegas anymore when I had three steaks in three days. I loved the experience, but I don't need those experiences again. Not for the sake of my health.
I like this rest stop. It knows what it is and it lives up to its purpose. There's nothing it tries to do that doesn't match with what it is. You want to eat, get gas, piss, they've got everything for all of that. The people behind the counters are most interesting. They know this desert better than I ever will. And yet again, my curiosity pokes me hard, making me wonder how those people got here. In summer, forget the desert. But otherwise, if the resources suit you, if there's everything you need, the desert looks peaceful enough to live in. But I wonder if any of those souls at the counters are wanderers. Are they looking for anything? Or are they just wandering because that's who they are? How long have they worked at these jobs? I also think about the person who checks in on these locations, how often A&W keeps tabs on this Baker location, and the same for Subway.
And then we get in the car, pull out of that lot, and that gas station is way behind us. We've passed the world's largest thermometer, and we're on that road to Las Vegas. I'm looking ahead to the billboards advertising Vegas shows and attractions. I'm looking ahead to our room at America's Best Value Inn on Tropicana Avenue, hauling in the luggage, and decompressing from the drive, and, about half an hour to 45 minutes later, getting back in the car and quickly reacquainting ourselves with the area. But in the back of my mind, Baker is still there. It's always been there. It's where I keep my curiosity, right next to the soda dispensers. And sometimes it jumps down from there, and turns that book rack, wondering about those authors, if they ever think about where their books ended up, such as here. What a good place to be.
(God Bless Google!: The Grewal Travel Center. The gas is provided by Valero. And A&W.)
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Food Writing as Research
Until this morning, I didn't think I was reading food writing for any other reason than just being influenced by my sister, a budding chef who believes that all she does for her deviled eggs is combine such ingredients as cooked egg yolks, mayonnaise, paprika, and whatever else she puts in it. She's too modest. It's not only the ingredients, but also what the person puts into it. She's got talent that I hope propels her to the highest echelons of cooking and food appreciation.
Her influence began with me watching more and more cooking shows, and finding a favorite chef in Nigella Lawson. It's not only how sexy she is (She can order me around with a spatula any time), but how sensual she is about food, the passion she has for it on television and in her books. It almost feels uncomfortably voyeuristic when she's cooking, but I love it. I live that same kind of passion with books.
I also began watching "America's Test Kitchen", "Cook's Country from America's Test Kitchen", and the occasional out-of-the-way cooking show. Not the Neelys or Paula Deen, but just episodes of shows about regional foods, about how various foods are made ("Unwrapped" especially. It's like Marc Summers has been with me throughout my entire life, because I watched him all the time on "Double Dare" and "What Would You Do?" when I was a kid), and some food competitions, but not many.
I thought I had checked out "Best Food Writing 2000", as well as the 2005 and 2010 editions from my library because I was just following what I had done with those shows. I just wanted to read about food.
Not so.
When I read a chapter in "Best Food Writing 2000" of a selection from "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain, I felt like I was being violently slapped around while reading it. But instead of running away, I wanted to drop to my knees and thank Bourdain so much for doing that to me.
I can't write like that. I don't have the temperament that's ultimately required for it. But I know that in my novel, which is partly a love letter to literary journalism, I want it to feel like that at times. The rush of the movements of a kitchen that Bourdain writes about, I want some of my paragraphs to feel like that in describing, I don't know, maybe a rollercoaster or the near end of a long day spent at a theme park, or maybe if I decide to, a carnival-like midway section with all those games. I ordered a copy of "Kitchen Confidential" from abebooks.com last night because I want to read the entire thing. And I put Bourdain's three other books on hold as well.
I know now that I'm also reading these "Best Food Writing" books and soon enough the five "Cornbread Nation" books (which celebrate the best of Southern food writing) for detail, for how these writers describe their experiences with food. A lot of that novel is going to be detailed like that. I want to get in close, to have a reader feel everything going on, especially with the strange slant I have planned. I know how I want my novel to begin, and while I'm not entirely sold on what I wrote yesterday, I know it's the tone I want. I don't know how I want this story to unfold yet, but I've got time. Research breeds ideas. And just like the Bourdain revelation, I'm sure there's more to come in these books.
I don't need my small legal pads yet to jot down necessary information while I read, since I haven't yet reached those particular books. But this research is so much fun! And that's my first and only consideration whenever I start a writing project: It has to be fun. The writing will inevitably be difficult, but I know that it will be fun.
Her influence began with me watching more and more cooking shows, and finding a favorite chef in Nigella Lawson. It's not only how sexy she is (She can order me around with a spatula any time), but how sensual she is about food, the passion she has for it on television and in her books. It almost feels uncomfortably voyeuristic when she's cooking, but I love it. I live that same kind of passion with books.
I also began watching "America's Test Kitchen", "Cook's Country from America's Test Kitchen", and the occasional out-of-the-way cooking show. Not the Neelys or Paula Deen, but just episodes of shows about regional foods, about how various foods are made ("Unwrapped" especially. It's like Marc Summers has been with me throughout my entire life, because I watched him all the time on "Double Dare" and "What Would You Do?" when I was a kid), and some food competitions, but not many.
I thought I had checked out "Best Food Writing 2000", as well as the 2005 and 2010 editions from my library because I was just following what I had done with those shows. I just wanted to read about food.
Not so.
When I read a chapter in "Best Food Writing 2000" of a selection from "Kitchen Confidential" by Anthony Bourdain, I felt like I was being violently slapped around while reading it. But instead of running away, I wanted to drop to my knees and thank Bourdain so much for doing that to me.
I can't write like that. I don't have the temperament that's ultimately required for it. But I know that in my novel, which is partly a love letter to literary journalism, I want it to feel like that at times. The rush of the movements of a kitchen that Bourdain writes about, I want some of my paragraphs to feel like that in describing, I don't know, maybe a rollercoaster or the near end of a long day spent at a theme park, or maybe if I decide to, a carnival-like midway section with all those games. I ordered a copy of "Kitchen Confidential" from abebooks.com last night because I want to read the entire thing. And I put Bourdain's three other books on hold as well.
I know now that I'm also reading these "Best Food Writing" books and soon enough the five "Cornbread Nation" books (which celebrate the best of Southern food writing) for detail, for how these writers describe their experiences with food. A lot of that novel is going to be detailed like that. I want to get in close, to have a reader feel everything going on, especially with the strange slant I have planned. I know how I want my novel to begin, and while I'm not entirely sold on what I wrote yesterday, I know it's the tone I want. I don't know how I want this story to unfold yet, but I've got time. Research breeds ideas. And just like the Bourdain revelation, I'm sure there's more to come in these books.
I don't need my small legal pads yet to jot down necessary information while I read, since I haven't yet reached those particular books. But this research is so much fun! And that's my first and only consideration whenever I start a writing project: It has to be fun. The writing will inevitably be difficult, but I know that it will be fun.
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