This blog has taken me a few days to start and I’m not sure why. I tell myself I’m recuperating from the trip. Taking it easy for a few days. But that’s not exactly right. A lot of it has to do with laziness, sure, but a lot of it has to do with the west coast itself.
While I was out there I spent a lot of time thinking about how differently I would write if I grew up in Cali. If I would write at all. And I think, had I been born on the other coast but still wrote I would be softer. I’m not entirely sure why I think that but it’s a feeling I can’t quite get away from. It’s a haunting, gnawing kind of thing, nipping at the pads of my soul. And I think I’ve taken the last few days to re-solidify. To harden again. I am dense I like that I am. My core is heavy and fixed and I like that it is. And, truth be told, I’ve been a little worried the last 48 hours or so that the Pacific sun melted me a little.
I’m fully aware that it could just be that when a body goes on holiday, and essentially I did, people see what they want to see and very little else. And the monotony and stress, the grind and grit of everyday life gets to float away for a few days, our tired eyes become fresh, our worldview gets a polish and that’s gonna feel good. Of course it is. Or maybe the weather was just too damn perfect, I don’t know, but I felt almost mushy for a good majority of my time out there.
I’ll give you an example. Santa Monica. We drove down to Santa Monica our second night in town which was really our first because Delta airlines stole a whole day from me. A whole friggin’ day.
I only get 365 of those a year, and, if I’m real lucky I might get 50 more years here, and Delta took a whole one day and replaced it with delays, rude employees, company line bullshit and, most of all, screaming babies. And if there’s anything I hate more than babies it’s babies who won’t just shut the fuck up.
It’s at this point that I’d like to say, “Fuck Delta†and I encourage all the heroes out there to make this something of a mantra for our generation. What it lacks in flavor it more than makes up for in the sheer weight of honesty. Fuck Delta.
Anyway, so we drove down Hollywood Blvd, took a left on Fairfax (which we actually found this time) through the Sunset Strip and along, of all things, the Santa Monica Blvd where we caught the PCH to the beach. And it was something, let me tell you.
I’d never seen the Pacific Ocean before, not in person, and while it’s fair to say that it very closely resembled the Atlantic in as much as it was large and watery, it was still clearly the Pacific which kicked ass. It is, as it turns out, a very cold marine, at least in November, but I rolled up my pants and I played in the thing nonetheless. I couldn’t feel my feet after only a minute or so and, of course, if I’d been that cold sitting around in my house I would have bitched and moaned for hours but in the ocean I just played, like a high nine year old I just played and I was, without doubt, as care free as I have felt in years. No joke, years. And I smiled so easily, so effortlessly that, had the water on the sand not formed such a lovely mirror I probably wouldn’t have even known it was happening.
After a while spent frolicking in the ocean (and I didn’t even know I knew how to frolick) and on the beach we walked up to the Santa Monica Pier, which I had been instructed to visit by my lovely sister-friend.
And here comes the really melty, mushy shit. On the pier and on the beach and everywhere I looked on that night, beside that sea, I saw people falling in love. Kissing, cuddling, holding hands. And it was clear in an extra sensory sort of way that these were not weathered couples; these people were not in love, they were actively and surely falling. And they were, in no uncertain terms, not letting go. But I wasn’t annoyed by the public affection, and I wasn’t jealous, I was happy for them. Happy for people I’d never met. Which is really fucked up because while I’m glad when my friends are happy, I also don’t really care that much, you know. I’m glad, sure, but in that, “oh, good for you but it’s doing nothing for me†kind of way.
But not here. I was happy. For them.
And I was a little remorseful, too. I tried to remember what it felt like to fall in love and for the life of me I couldn’t do it. It’s only happened once and it was a long time ago and I can’t even remember what I had for lunch today so there’s no chance of recall here. I couldn’t remember but I knew that I wanted to. I remembered enough to know I liked it.
And for a moment I missed that girl maybe more than I ever have. Not the girl she has become. I remain friends with the lady in question, or friendly at least, but I don’t miss her. Not really. But the seventeen year old I met in a video store, what I wouldn’t have given in that moment, on that beach, beside that sea to be 19 and kissing her again. A few years of my life, my left hand, that shit would be nothing compared to what I would have thrown away to have her with me on the sand. And as I thought about that I thought, “Holy shit, I’ve been here for one day and I’m already a pansy.â€
I don’t know if I would write if I grew up out there and even today if I moved to the west side of America I don’t know if I would write well, but I can guarantee you all that if I lived out there I would at this moment be in love with someone. It was infectious. Viral. Visceral.
But if I’m in love with a girl, an LA girl, no less, I don’t know if I can write. I don’t know if I can be mushy and effective at once. And if I don’t write I can’t serve the world at all. It’s not a chance I’m willing to take at the moment.
I had a blast in California, but more and more it’s made me see that I need to be far denser than LA, it seems, will allow. So short of being offered a gig writing Studio 60 I think I shall remain an East Coaster.
But I’ll drop a few more details on you before getting to the big one that I’m sure most who care, care about most.
I’m all about the wordplay.
We did the tourist thing. I strolled along the walk of fame, for four hours I walked Hollywood Blvd almost entirely without looking up. And the stars were neat, man. And in that silly, soft kind of way I started to think about where my star will someday be. I hope I land one near Bogie, you know. Or maybe Aaron Sorkin whenever he gets his. LA is good for daydreams, I’ll say that. I’ve never wanted to be a star nearly so much as I wanted to be important, you know, relevant and especially, what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh yeah, “good.†I’ve always said I only want enough fame that I don’t have to wait for a table at a restaurant, but the sidewalk stars really did captivate me right up until I found out that friggin’ Ryan Seacrest has one.
What?
The?
Fuck?
Whatever the case, we snapped some pics. Me with Bruce Lee,
me with Bogart,
two of my most favorite cats of all time. Obviously those pictures aren’t right-side-up so much as they’re not. I’m much too lazy to fix that at the moment, though.
We also stopped off at the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theatre
where I discovered that my hands are almost EXACTLY the same size as Bogies.
Evan and Trav seemed to think it was clear upon hearing this that I am Bogart reincarnated and I fully support this line of thought.
I learned, also, that Steven Segal is A LOT bigger than me. Though I remain convinced that even half drunk I could kick the shit out of him.
On the way back to the hotel that day I found the greatest, most appropriate sign EVER and took this pic.
I don’t know who put it up, but saying it’s spot on isn’t nearly accurate enough to describe that thing and I think it needs no other explanation.
Later that night, early the next morning, really, we drove Mulholland which was every bit as awe inspiring as I might have believed. Maybe more so. The roads are in terrible shape up in the hills though, and with all that money floating around I found that more than a little odd.
While up there we saw a couple of baby wolves running around in the street and, yes, that is just exactly as crazy-cute as you think it is. Unfortunately they ran off before we got a shot of them.
We did a bunch of other stuff, too, but those are the highlights of that day.
The day after was all about The Man. Kevin Smith. The cat who, as I’ve said, made me want to make movies.
We drove to Westwood to his store “The Stash†as it’s called, and picked up our tickets. We tooled around Beverly Hills where my lovely assistant serenaded me for the 900th time with the line “Beverly Hills, that’s where I WANNA BE.â€
To her that shit seemed to never get old.
To her.
We then flitted about the city a little more before going to the theatre where we were to see the premiere of An Evening With Kevin Smith 2, Evening Harder.
It was a hot day and I was wearing the long-sleeves that Xoph daddy brought to me from Ecuador so the first thing I did upon getting in was pay 14 dollars for 2 beers. LA lost a lot of charm right then and there. But good-ness it was a fine bottle of Newcastle.
The theatre situation was set up in a screwy way to be sure and we couldn’t find two seats in the main theatre so we ended up on the FAR too smokey smoking deck which was really nothing more than a small room with the windows open. We sat for a few minutes getting to know some of the other cats at the show and, a few beats after we sat down a man leaned over to a gentlemen next to us, held out a cigarette smoked to the band and asked, “Can I give this to you?†He asked because the ashtrays were several people away and difficult to reach. He was, of course, Kevin Smith.
And holy shit, man. That was cool.
He, Kevin, hung out for the rest of the movie, oscillating between mingling with and being assaulted by fans and friends. And later on he gave us a very intimate Q&A for almost an hour, I guess.
It was most hip.
After it was all said and done, for lack of opportunity or lack of balls, I don’t know, certainly not for lack of alcohol, I still hadn’t accomplished my mission. I had barely spoken to the man. I figured this was pretty much my only shot, now. So I caught up to him in the main foyer, I introduced myself, I shook his hand, I shook like a leaf who was asking a girl to prom for the first time and, at some point, I presented him with a copy of For Catherine and asked him to watch it.
He couldn’t have been any cooler or any kinder about it all, promised he would, “It might be a little while, though†he said, and I believed him. He asked a few questions about the movie, and about how to get in touch with me. As I mentioned in my last blog he was genuine and interested and interesting and I shook hands with a hero of mine and took off. And I was giddy.
My bank account is pissed at me, but I flew 3000 miles across the country just to speak with a dude and I tell you now it was absolutely one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.
We all need heroes, whether people deserved to be deified or not, to be planted on a pedestal despite pooping and peeing the same as all of us is a different matter entirely, we need people to look up to, to mentor us regardless of whether they know what they’re doing. And ambition is good. So go out there, guys. Seriously. Get your asses out of the house and find someone or something that means something to you and go after it balls to the wall. And if it doesn’t work out, grab a Gatorade (Gatorade is fucking awesome) and try again. As I’ve always said, better a remarkable failure than a mundane success.
I don’t want to get out of bed every day just to fight to get back in it. I don’t want to consider “getting through the day†a challenge. Hell, I don’t want to just, “get through the day†I don’t want a normal life. I have no use for ruts or monotony or mundane anything. Do you?
It was undeniably a bold move making For Catherine in the first place. And I love my movie. It was bold to fly to LA to chat with a hero in an overcoat, and I loved it.
I don’t fall in love easily; I’m much too dense for that, but I am smitten with the prospect of tomorrow, I adore the chance to live with meaning. And that’s not only a love I can deal with; it’s a love I can write with. It is a love I can write for.
And should Mr. Smith himself happen upon this site I want to thank you once again for all you’ve done for me, the things you’ve known you were doing and the things you didn’t. As I say in the credits (cretiz) Thank you for making me believe I can do this and for doing it better than everyone else. I hope to hear from you soon.
And to all you great cats and kittens who read this blog every time I get around to updating it, and there are A LOT of you, and to everyone who’s bought the movie and shared the movie and said such nice things about the movie, thank you for everything. The best words in the history of the world (not that I’ve written those yet) don’t mean very much if no one hears them. You are each very dear to me and I hope to meet you all some day.
Get a beverage of your choice and do something huge for yourself and your world.
E
What the hell am I doing drinking in LA?
