West Hollywood Book Festival 2012

   It was going to be another scorcher, so  I visited the WesHo Book Festival early.  I was parked at the Blue Whale well before the event opened.
     The weather did not disappoint and, by the time I crawled back to my car, flattening my body like a flounder against the meager shade of nearby buildings in the noonday sun, I thought I might expire along the way. This, despite the fact I was "packing".
     Yes, that's right, gentle readers, I was armed-- with bottles of ice cold water and even my trusty pink spritz bottle, which gets a lot of laughs of derision, followed by, "Would you please give me a spritz of that?"
     My self-proclaimed mission was to "scheck it out", as my favorite disappeared comedian, Jesus Salazar, used to say, so that I could be a better volunteer for the much-anticipated, future, better-than-any-other-book-festival-or-fair San Gabriel Valley Literary Festival slated for Valentine's Weekend 2013 (February 15-17).  How was that for a swift, seamless plug?
     Stalwart but free of actual warts, I stalked the booths and the panels, casting a discerning eye and keen ear over all involved.  I was impressed with the stories that were being told, the poetry being read aloud, the rapt audiences and the merchandise being offered by various publishers and vendors.
     I snuck past my own Sisters in Crime, L.A. Chapter.  Coward that I am, I was afraid they might call me to fill in while hardworking volunteers in the stuffy white tent hiked back to the library for a pee-pee break.  It was already hot, I was already awilt and I can be lame, sometimes.

     I listened to one brilliant panel, Threats of Violence, which featured Gar Anthony Haywood, Jack O'Haloran, Dick Lochte and moderated by Tom Nolan.  T'was a good thing Nolan drew out Haywood and Lochte first, because once O'Halloran opened his mouth, we were all,  audience and panelists alike, glued to his stories of the rich, famous and infamous.
     Nothing, absolutely nothing, can compete with personal stories about dead mobsters, political families, athletes and movie stars.  By O'Halloran's reckoning, there are probably seven people alive in American today, who know the inside scoop on things like the Kennedy assassination, what really happened to Marilyn, RFK and the likes of Jack Ruby. One has the sense Mr.O'Halloran is a guy to have on one's side.
     There was one humorous moment.  Tom asked the authors on his panel if they enjoyed the act of writing.  Gar and Dick said, yes, they liked writing, though a lot of blood, tears and sweat were needed to bring forth their opera magna.
     Not Jack.  He was unhesitatingly enthusiastic about the process.  This, mere moments after he explained to us that he worked with a co-author, someone he had personally selected for his mastery of plot, character, form and style.  Did anyone say peep?  No.
  I was advised to keep my shut, too, but I say, "Horsefeathers.  It's too late for me to die young."

Endeavor Waves Good-Bye

     Riding my bike up a street that I always take, a gaggle of people ran out of the door of their office building and all looked at me, waving and cheering and giving the thumbs up sign.  Odd, I usually don't get accolades for biking up this street.  A man bounced out of his front door beside me and then the coin dropped-- they're applauding Endeavor.

     I looked over my right shoulder and there she was, that Boeing 747 with the baby strapped to her back. They were escorted by two fighter jets that looked like tiny toys, flying silver minnows in the noontime sun.  Mother and child floated through the air-- huge, simple, white, and regal.
     My chest gave an unexpected spasm, my throat squinched shut and tears flowed from my eyes.  It was not only seeing Endeavor clinging to that huge jet on her last piggy back ride.  It was knowing they represented the America in which I grew.  The America with a space program and noble ideas about exploring the universe.  Was it political even then?  Sure.  We wanted to beat our old foes, the Russians, to the moon and beyond.  We wanted to dominate, we wanted and needed to win the space race, in order to preserve truth, dignity and the American way.  I'm glad that today multinational astronauts work together as they explore space.  I like a sense of earth space community.
     Still, the space shuttle program represents a time of enthusiasm and discovery which parallels a time like that in my little life.  I was in Orlando, Florida, standing with scores of people in the porte cochère of our hotel, the Hyatt Regency Grand Cypress, on January 28, 1986, as Challenger left the earth.  My cousin from Germany, our respective toddlers, the dog and I delayed our embarkation on a cross-country journey to California in a Ford Aerostar van to watch the launch in awe, as Challenger rose, magnificent and powerful, into the sky.  But something went terribly wrong.  The sound and sight of people shocked into screaming and running back and forth from the hotel to the landscaped berms beyond the valet parking area in psychic pain, is etched in my memory.  My mind did not want to accept the truth.  I had a moment of denial.  

     I turned to my husband and asked, "Maybe they did something special, a surprise?"  He shook his head and looked down.  "No," he said, "this is a tragedy."  A pall of heaviness settled on us.  It was a bad omen for starting a road trip of nearly 2500 miles.
     After our shock and long delayed departure, my cousin and I started across America.  We had adventures.  We had setbacks.  We forgot the dog at a rest stop in West Texas, realized it, turned back and found her snuffling around some cacti in the desert near the Highway #10 onramp. We scooped her up and stuffed her into the back of the van.  She, unaware that she had almost been a tasty coyote niblet, abandoned like a child in a forest in a Grimm's nightmare fairy tale, wagged her body in joy and licked the faces of our giggling children.
     When I saw Endeavor yesterday, my tears flowed, not just for America, but also for my life, bracketed between 1986 and now-- difficult, great, up, down.  Had I known in 1986 what would face not only America and the space program but also me, I would have probably retired to a bed in a sanitarium, staying inside the lines of an Archie and Jughead coloring book.
     But that's not how it works.  We take life on life's terms and do the best we can.  We take America and do with her the best we can.  We love her, that's the bottom line.  If there is doubt, see something like Endeavor passing overhead. She should float by more often.

Of Wedding, Funerals and Old Time Ice Cream Parlors

     I've broken a cardinal rule of blogging by not posting in the last three weeks.  There is a rhythm and a balance to blogging, just like dancing or riding a bike.  You know how good I am at riding a bike.

L'Hirondelle on the Royal Road in San Juan Capo

     So I was at home threatening the dog, when I were called away to a garden wedding in San Juan Capistrano.  I booked a room at the closest, most economical motel, so that I might enjoy a mini-vacation.  Only after I made the rez did I read the Yelp reviews [note to self: mistake], wherein each reviewer posted a variation of, "This is the worst sh__hole I've ever stayed in.  The only good thing is that it's next door to In 'n' Out."
     It wasn't that bad.  I slept through the freeway sounds, drab decor and the train whistle 5x in the night.  From my window, I watched the patrons of said In 'n' Out enjoy their burgers and fries with the zeal and reverence many people reserve for religious parades and self-flagellation.  I enjoyed L'Hirondelle, the Mozart Café, the Los Rios historic district and the wedding, spiced with paella, dancing and karaoke.

     I came home, I packed and left the next day for an unexpected funeral up north.  Expected or no, funerals are downers.  This was no exception.  My cousin, Chuck, was a fine man, a loving husband, a caring father, and cut down in the prime of his life.  We were and are all very blue at his passing.

     I looked at my cousins, our first time together in several decades, and realized this is how it's going to be-- we'll see each other on the funeral circuit.  The new generation may offer some weddings we can attend in the future, but, so far, nothing.

     On my way home, I stopped in Hanford to meet with Sunny Frazier, my acquisitions editor at Oak Tree Press.  As we had done once before this past spring, we met for a quick bite at Superior Dairy.  When I first saw it in March, I knew it had to be a Huell Howser haunt.
     "Oh yes," said Sunny, "he's filmed every square inch of this place several times."

Home of  giant portions of frozen confections

     How's this for kismet?  While skimming dozens of posts about Superior Dairy in an attempt to juice up this blog, I found a Huffpost article about National Ice Cream Cone Day, and guess what day that is?

Amanda Dollman servin' up a sundae

     That's right.  It's TODAY.  Go out and do your patriotic duty.  Go get yourself a brain freeze with sprinkles on top.

Nuttin' Honey!

It’s Wednesday, my day to post a blog and I got nuttin’.  Nuttin’, honey.  How can I top last week’s blog?  It’s not every day the universe gives you a giant pink dildo about which to write.  

Without meaning to, I turned some Jehovah’s Witnesses away from my door a few moments ago.  Two slow walking old ladies in long broom skirts, hoping to sweep my soul to a forever where I am resurrected in my perfect body (FINALLY!) and I get to romp eternally in a perfect meadow on a perfect, reconstituted earth.  

I thought I heard a knock at the door but the dog didn’t bark.  I opened my upstairs bathroom window, shouted down, “Can I help you?” No response.  Later, the dog gave a tiny growl.  I looked out my living room window and saw them shuffling away from my property, looking dejected.  Probably nothing a good pink dildo wouldn’t cure.

My two British exchange students arrived yesterday.  They are beautiful, friendly and shorts-clad, with perfect white teeth.  They should meet my son.  One is an American Studies  and Film major, the other, more quiet and introspective, is an English literature major.  They are both adorable and helpful.  I hope my sons are as adorable and helpful when they travel abroad, representing not only America but their family of origin.

*Late Breaking News*

As I rode my bike yesterday afternoon, I caught this gorgeous, full arched double rainbow.  If you want to hear something funny, go to my Facebook page and click on "Youtube- Double Rainbow."  It has nothing to do with my rainbow, but I guarantee you'll laugh out loud.

Also-- drum roll, please--  the winner of the $10 Starbucks card is Anonymous.  Now she can say she is a prize-winning writer.  I know, I know, Anonymous-- you have already won many other writing prizes.  

Second place:  Brandon Kelly  

Honorable Mention:  Alexis Silver, Sunny Frazier and Analia M (for Murder)

Thank you to those who participated.  It was a lot of fun.

The ___ is out of the Bag

“What’s in that black plastic bag under the bamboo, out front, on the sidewalk?” I wondered, as I pulled up to the house.

 Sure, this was where I often left a pink bag for the Disabled American Vets or set out unneeded crap with notes that said, “Free to good home.”  Today, at over 100°, I was not going out front to grab that bag and throw it in the trash.  I slinked from the car to cool and quiet woman cave.

Days went by in which I hid in the house, avoiding triple digit temps.  If I came home after an unavoidable errand to Sprouts or CVS, I might notice the black bag still under the bamboo, as I pulled into the driveway.  It was forgotten as I raced from my air-conditioned car to my air-conditioned house.

Yesterday, I was walking my sprinkler guy to his truck and, as he drove away, I noticed the black bag.  I approached it.  I had misgivings, yet there were no flies nor ants.  No coyotes, raccoons nor opossums had messed with it.  I screwed up my courage and tugged at one of the handles.  The bag was light.  I pulled it closer.  I peered into the darkness.

What was inside?  Brace yourselves-- 

it was the world’s biggest dildo.  Proud, pink and wrinkly, with fake plastic skin, it lay there, resplendent in its girth and length.  
       My first instinct was to throw it away.  Then I decided to keep it for a future found object art project.  It looked brand new.

I had all the usual questions one has after finding a huge dildo in front of one’s property.  Why me?  Did this belong to a neighbor?  Was someone hiding it there, hoping to retrieve it later?  If so, when?  How long can one trust a black-bagged dildo to remain on the street?

This morning, I remembered I write mysteries.  Had someone left a secret message for me inside the dildo’s shaft?  I hurried to the garage, retrieved the dildo and unscrewed the cap.  Only a piece of cardboard and instructions for use.  No batteries, either. 
      Most sex shops throw in a set of batteries with a new dildo.  Don’t ask me how I know.  Did a kid need some batteries, so he took them, and threw the rest of his mom’s purchase on the street? I was afraid my house had been marked, like maybe I was a stop on the underground dildo railroad.

My son, Joseph, opined that the bamboo was a natural place to throw an unwanted dildo from a car.  Really?  I didn't have the courage to ask.  The young know things, I guess.  "So how about them Dodgers?" I asked.

Confusionpalooza

Natalie Morales, Scott Creley and me at Poetrypalooza

Times of transition flummox me.  I crave escape into a decompression chamber to adjust to change, but that’s not the way life works.

Alan went back to Playa on Sunday and back to work on Monday.  Summer is officially over for us.  My elder son came in for a brief visit from New York and left again.  I found an old friend on Facebook, incomunicado for 21 years.  We met at a jazz club last night, over a beer, for a catch-up chat.  He lives a half mile from my mom's.  He was the free-spirited, artist, hippie, U of Cal type.  He’s a long time business and home owner.  Why do people always surprise you?

I fell off my bike yesterday with skidding sideways flare, as though I were sliding into home.  All the articles I carry with me in my baskets-- water, Gatorade, sun tan oil, a spritzer, my purse-- and accessories from the bike flew across the asphalt and fanned around the downed bike and rider.  It looked like a physics experiment.  

Here was the top half of my bell, resting on the dotted white line in the center of the street.  There were two AAA batteries, come to rest in the murky depths of the slime-green puddle.  The third battery was twenty feet away, on the sidewalk, next to an oil barrel.  My right side didn’t feel so good as I gathered my scattered belongings.

Yesterday, I could still deal.  I picked up my mom and younger son for lunch on the westside with the NY visitor son.  I faked it through the ueberlong walk-about in the giant Trader Joe’s on Culver Boulevard, a delightful excursion for my mom.  I faked it through calamari at Colombo’s last night and the drive back home at 1AM.  

Today, I feel sore and wince with every breath.  My ribs are a mess.  The right side of my body looks like it went through a giant grater.  Who knew my body could produce such lumpy expressions of cerulean blue and purple pink winter fjord sunsets? 

I wanted to blog about Poetrypalooza but John Brantingham beat me to it.  You can go read his blog (johnbrantingham.blogspot.com) for all the networking he is doing.  Think to yourself: ditto for Marta.  I wanted to blog about the Perseids and my moonless ride to Mt. Baldy in pursuit of meteors.  I wanted to do many things today and tomorrow, but the gods of good writing said, "No!"  My destiny is to stay home, finish my rewrites and hand them in to Sunny Frazier, my ueberpatient acquisitions editor at Oak Tree Press.

Olympic Bold

Is it just me or is America getting its ass kicked at the Olympics?  Didn’t it used to be a tight competition between the Russians, the Americans, the East Germans and the Rumanians?  Some African nations always outran us, outtracked and outfielded us, but we could be assured we would take a lot of Olympic Gold in other areas.  Today things are different.  As of this writing, China has 13 gold medals and we have 9.

Do the Olympics reflect real life?  Are they a litmus test of world politics?  Do they have any social or political relevance?  Are they something just old people watch?  I haven’t asked my sons, but I bet they’re not watching the Olympics. 

As a kid, I enjoyed the Winter Olympics.  Odd-- I had the notion I would one day grow up to be a world champion ski jumper.  It was only logical, since I was growing up in the shadow of the Southwest Museum in sunny Southern California.  

I had seen snow a few times in Big Bear and I could point to Norway on a map.   I reckoned that qualified me.  There was something about the downhill speed, the great soaring freedom in the air, high above the pines, and the eventual landing on bended knee on packed powder that had me in its thrall.  

In adulthood, I made it to Oslo and saw Holmenkollen ski jump up close and personal.  Scary.  The top of it stretched into the sky at a perverse angle. The sailing-off place was many stories above the ground.  It might work for Rocky the Flying Squirrel, but not for me.  What the hell had I been thinking, safe in my living room, in front of the TV in my flannel p.j.’s with my cat cradled in my arms?

So far, the best part of these Olympics has been the opening ceremonies.  Didn’t director Danny Boyle do a fine job, exploiting the multi-century star quality of England, both in the arts and popular culture, and turning it into a big-screen, cinematic culturefest that translated quite well onto the small screen?  

The English are peculiar yet lovable.  They can come off as haughty and full of themselves.  They live on a tiny island and consider the rest of the world “foreigners”.  I doubt they are the toffee-nosing, politically correct mealy mouths we have become.  It’s most likely still a British-centric universe to them.  

These are the people who brought us spotted dick, dowager hump and the card game, bridge.  They also brought us the Beatles, Monty Python, New Wave music and James Bond.  I love their quirky originality. Maybe it comes of geographic isolation.  Maybe it comes from the opposite-- the fresh  blood delivered by the many colonials who have returned to Mother Britain.  It looks like England is the new Great Melting Pot.  We’re already cooked.