Posts Tagged ‘Memories’

So, I’m been meditating on/contemplating slowly and casually researching a more long term project in a different medium. As with many of my projects these days, some of it has to do with Chicago. A city, presence, and history that looms rather large in my mind the further and further I travel from it. I would love to infuse more Los Angeles into my work. I absolutely love the feel and rhythm of the city. But, for now, Chicago holds court for the most part. It gets the podium when it wants. Lots hours and miles and years traveled there. So there’s raw material aplenty and much of it is too beguiling to just ignore. As I’ve started to do more and more, in the early stages of research and circling something in my head, I tend to collect photos.

I’ve discussed how much I absolutely love and am drawn to the still photograph. How it represents a diving board for my imagination, one rooted in reality. A hair trigger to a story or a scene or an emotion that often spins into something else. So, today, rather than do some work or read, as I told myself I would do on what is probably my last day of vacation in a long, long time, I instead meander through the stacks and stacks of photo streams on Flickr, searching for images of Wicker Park, the neighborhood I lived in for nearly fifteen years in Chicago. Wicker Park has its history and I won’t quite get into here, yet. I’m sure I’ll wade into that hot button topic (in the years that I lived there, Wicker Park became ground zero/an international case study for the effects, both positive and negative, of Urban Gentrification) at some point when I do begin work on this project. (To be clear, it’s not a TV or Film project, so it’s clock is strictly my clock, so who knows when exactly that will be.) Simply what I mean to say before I roll out the photos is that in seeing these streets, where I not only lived, but also worked for so long. Spending my time locked up in this one stretch of Chicago, maybe one half of a square mile at best, twenty-four seven, at all hours of the day and night. That I’m struck by the grittiness of Chicago, compared with Los Angeles. That’s not to say L.A. doesn’t have it’s truly rough parts. Maybe it’s the constant sun, or the way the landscape breaks – whatever it is, L.A. doesn’t strike me as so compact and constructed and old. It doesn’t have the same rawness I see in these photos. Anyways. Here is Wicker Park, circa early 21st Century, about three years past the apex of the gentrification battle.

That's the Six Corners, formed by the intersection of Milwaukee, North, and Damen Ave. It's the heart of Westown, which is Wicker Park, Bucktown, and the Ukrainian Village. The road, North Ave, on the left, is a border between Bucktown and Wicker Park. I lived and worked within two-three blocks of this intersection for nearly a decade. That's downtown in the distance behind the Flat Iron Building.

The Coyote Building which is where the previous picture was taken from. The neighborhood's internationally acclaimed art walk takes its name from this building. The art walk is simply known as "Around The Coyote."

This is taken of the corners from the Flat Iron building. It also captures the Chicago, I recall most - overcast, rainy.

The main alleyway, off of Damen Ave. I can tell this is taken right at the mouth of the alley, which means if you look at the previous photo and locate the North Community Bank sign, next to the Blue Line El Platform, the photographer was just around the corner from there, a quarter of a block. I lived in an apartment that was two buildings down on the right and another one that was five buildings down on the left.

The Damen Ave El stop, which I lived several doors down, right across the park when I first moved to the neighborhood. Three stops and you're in the Loop. This is directly opposite the mouth of the alley in the photo above.

Outside the Double Door, a rock club next to the mouth of the alley. The Rolling Stones played here. Among many other big, small, unknown and friends bands. It's called Double Door because it has this door on Damen and another door on Milwaukee, just around the corner. That's big June, the longtime doorman. Whenever he was working I had an all-access pass. I used to raid there ice machine when ours down the street at Nick's would break down in the summer.

Some folks hanging on Milwaukee Ave, a couple of doors down from the corners. Looks like just outside Earwax Cafe.

This is inside Earwax Cafe. I knew Nick the own, through my fellow Wicker Park Ex-Pat, Brett. Earwax started out as a used CD/eclectic video rental/cafe/hangout spot. Fifteen years later is would evolve into an eclectic cafe with a progressive menu written up favorably in the NY TImes Sunday Section. Which was pretty cool to see.

Night time in the six corners. There are somewhere, or were, in the order of fifty or so bars, taverns, clubs, and dives - some of which saty open until 2 a.m., others until 4 a.m. in a fifteen block radius (if that) around the corners. This looks like an early week night. Pretty slow. I worked right in the heart of this for most of my doorman/bartending career.

Heilman Cold Beer signs. They're all over the place. Along with Pabst. Many, because of the Polish Heritage of the neighborhood, don't say "Cold Beer" they say "Zimne Piwo" which is cold beer in polish. Don't let the door hit you in the dupa on the way out!

The Pontiac Cafe, after my time there, which was the most infamous of bars and dives that I tended bar at. This is also the bar where I had my last drink. Served by Johnny Angel, who also got me sober. How do you like that for irony? In my time, we didn't have that plank/boundary thing - that was city mandated after it was discovered Buddy, the owner, didn't have the proper permits for it. in my day anything that was concrete was patio, so the patio was twice that area. Man, this place....It still defies words (not in a good way.) It's closed now. Which is as it should be. This is one building over, and on the other side of the El Tracks, from the Double Door picture above

Inside the Pontiac Cafe, at the corner of the bar, which was the place that you wanted to be. Guess who is standing, just to the left here? That's right. That's me. Beardless. Looking sharp. Must've been on my way out to dinner or something. It's almost ten years ago. I've definitely stopped drinking and all that, based on the people around me. I'm talking to Gina Black of The Blacks, a country-punk band and a Pontiac waitress. Crazy isn't it? I found this photo by accident on Flickr. I was startled to notice myself standing there. Seems like forever and a day.

Took the day, blissfully, off. There will be more than enough to do in the weeks ahead. I know it’s been light posting, but, well, you know it’s been a rather unique week that’s taken me a little bit away from the day to day routines.

As promised, here are the photos that I have of graduation:

On the outside are Cynthia and JJ from the writing group and my friend Megan is next to me. Those two sweet looking blondes are two of the raunchiest comedy writers you will meet. That's including all the comedy writer's I came to know at Second City. Material that, while hilarious, would make a hardened sailor blush and gasp.

Taken by my Dad, who shows a hidden talent for frame composition most directors would kill for.

For the record!

Meanwhile, waiting for the call to line-up I was capturing the moment with my iphone:

JJ. again, and friend Jason Molloy on the left.

The Playwrights! There are only three per year, so they tend to hang with the Screenwriters or MFA Actors. Jacob Bursten-Stern on the left and Adam Simon on the right. Jacob is the playwright I'll be relocating to a more affordable living situation with, and Adam's from Chicago. So they're good guys.

Good Lord, what have I done now?!?!?!

JJ, on the left, and Jason, on the right, just chillin'.

JJ, Jason and Cynthia. Three/Fifths of the 431.

The 431 (a.k.a. the writing group.) From L to R: Me, Cynthia, JJ, Ed, and Jason.

My friend Meghan, looking thoughtful

Then back to the event, and my Dad’s photos. Which are, in my opinion, much better than mine. (Good Job, Dad!)

The approach. As the saying goes: "There is no turning back now." That's my writing partner behind me with his hands raised to his family, who were the best cheering section by far on the day, in terms of volume and dedication. Well done Latshaws!

Moments from donning the mantel "Master of Fine Art."

There we are, waiting to be called up.

Crossing to shake Dean Terri Schwartz's (Producer, Sister Act) hand after being called.

Descending the fabled stairs at Dickson Court, a newly conferred M.F.A.

Stunned, elated, and exhausted, searching for my seat. Wondering, already, if I should get my M.F.A. in Playwriting to deter the inevitable.

The Graduate with his Father and Mother. Not sure about that look on my face. Shock, possibly?

There you have it! Enjoy.

…as a UCLA graduate student. Next stop? The real world and a career of some kind.

Been thinking of the wonderful souls who lifted me up along the way, most of all the years I spent bound and determined to fall. I am truly blessed soul who travels this world in the company of some fierce supporters, who couldn’t have helped me anymore than they have in my winding road to this beautiful point in my life. My gratitude to each and every one of you knows no bounds.

My folks are visiting for the first time since I moved out. We toured North Campus today, had lunch in W L.A. at John O’Groats, stopped by Urth Caffe in Beverly Hills for a late afternoon coffee drink, and then out to Santa Monica and Il Fornaio for dinner. It was a good day. Action packed, but good. UCLA’s campus size really seemed to blow them away, plus it was a beautiful day and there’s nothing quite like that campus on one of those postcard perfect afternoons. It’s some serious pretty.

To be honest, I’m seriously frazzled and can’t believe tomorrow is tomorrow and not a big ole day of rest. I think we should run Graduation like the NBA finals and put four or five days in between events. At least.

With that, I will bow out. One more parting thought, tuck it in your breast pocket so it stays close to your heart.

This week two very different, but equally dear, close, old friends of mine lost a parent, unexpectedly. Both were not terribly young or as healthy as they could be, but were young enough for each death to be a bit of a tragic surprise.

I share this in hopes that if you’re the praying kind, you’ll say a prayer for both. They’re largely on their own in dealing with all the arrangements and that’s a task I couldn’t imagine.

But also, as a gentle reminder, in life we all know there are many beginnings and endings, but we don’t always see either coming. So, if your near someone you love, as I know many of my UCLA friends reading this are this weekend, take a minute to cherish their presence and hold that memory of cherishing them for those days when you won’t be able to.

My heart and prayers go out to both souls of the dearly departed, and to their two wonderful children who grieve their sudden departure.

Thanks for listening to me vent yesterday. I always appreciate the ear.

One thing that pops up in the experience is just how much, yet again, there’s such an obvious benefit to having a writing partner, or at the very least a tight knit community to plug into after an experience. So much of this business are moments like last night, or better versions of them. You would think it’s all writing, at home alone. Sadly, not true. Most of the time it is all about the strange, and always emotionally taxing dance of development that must happen before anything else does; well, that as well as endless, frustrating days – no, weeks – of waiting. If I were on my own and had no one to bounce these experiences off of, it would take days, and far too much emotional energy, to work through them on my own. Sure, it’s possible. But I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Seriously.

Okay, enough shop talk. Tomorrow, my dear friends Brett and Jennifer are leaving for a surprise Paris trip to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. Mazeltov, both of you. Have the trip of your lives. Thank God Brett came looking for me at the Pontiac all those years ago! It’s wonderful to see one small, seemingly inconsequential event, in concert with a fantastic orchestra of events big and small, blossom into the beautiful family you have today.

That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Go hug someone you love. Let them know how special they are to you. Then do something nice for the both of you. It’s always worth it.

Oh, wait. forgot two things:

I promised a picture of Dave. He’s a tough one to take pictures of, so this is an older one from his owner. But it really captures Dave in all his Daveness. Love this dog. So easy going!

And of course, Dennis Hopper passed today. He had been, as we all knew, quite sick. Still sad, though. Here’s the post I wrote on it, awhile ago, AMERICAN RACONTEUR, if you’re so inclined.

Literally, most all of my day was laundry. Not exactly how I would’ve preferred to spend the day, but one has to do what one has to do to keep the basics rolling along. I also did some serious grocery shopping. I know, stop the presses, crazy stuff. I have to admit that I absolutely hate to do laundry and if I’m flush with cash will go the fluff and fold, drop-off route. Yup, that’s how much I dislike having to do it. Something about the amount of time it takes and the whole rigamarole of sorting it, and folding it, etc… My Uncle is a laundry champ. Seriously, he should have a high end laundromat. Even in the drop-off world I have never experienced a fold that is as smooth and as symmetrically perfect as the fold that he can do – and fast, too. It’s simply amazing and, while it’s not the reason I jet over to Scottsdale when I get a moment to do something fun for myself, it’s a nice perk of the visit! I think if he could open a joint that does a professional fold like that – as a special service “Wash your clothes, then we’ll fold  ’em for a price.” – with some comfortable chairs and a few good movies playing on screens throughout, or sporting events when they’re on, maybe some lamps instead of the overhead florescent and newsstand in back with a few good paperbacks, we could clean up.

One good thing comes out of laundry day, though. Sure, having clean clothes is always nice. I’m not gonna argue with you there. To be honest, Laundry day was late this time around thanks to the writing bender at the start of the week. That’s okay, though. When your writing like that, in all honesty, your in your PJ’s for a couple of days, so your buying yourself some time. Of course, if you make a snack run or a coffee run, you end up in the Starbucks in your PJs, but that’s the price you pay. This time, that wasn’t a consideration. I was hunkered down, with a full run of supplies. (Which reminds me of a bartender in Chicago who used to come in for his day shift, ’cause he would work the night before on the door until 5 or 6 in the morning then open at noon, in his PJ’s, every saturday. It became his signature after awhile.) Anyways, this has been a looong tangent to get to the one good thing that comes from laundry day and that’s fresh sheets, just washed. Sure you’ve got the back-up sets in the linen closet and all that jazz, but there’s something truly special about sheets that have just been washed that day. I don’t know what it is, but it’s magical. Always a better night of sleep. When Nikki and I were still together at the Winchester apartment in Chicago, there were four apartments and we shared a washer/dryer in the hallway, so it was almost like you had a washer/dryer. Always the night before a birthday, or Christmas, or Thanksgiving, one of us would make sure to wash the sheets and all that. It was always a small little thing to do on the night before a birthday for your significant other, or to both do before a holiday. Tonight, I will have laundry day sheets and, actually, when I turn out the lights and am drifting off to sleep it will make the day’s effort all worthwhile.

Of course it’s common sense, but repeating it never hurts – Mom, thanks for putting up with me. From those first nine months until now, I’m sure you could’ve never imagined that it would go quite like it has, which has been an adventure to say the least! I wouldn’t be here without you, in so many ways, so thank you for me. I hope you know just how much I love you. I can’t wait to show you L.A. when you come for graduation.

I also think it merits a mention – thank you to my two sisters, Caroline and Claire, who are fantastic moms themselves and probably got more practice than they anticipated when I showed up on April 1oth, 1971. (Yes, I know. It opening day and everyone was headed to Busch Stadium. Until I interrupted it all.)

Then there is Grandma Pedrolie, a.k.a Nanna, who is no longer with us sadly, who was my greatest pen pal ever. Especially in San Francisco, when I was truly on my own for the first time in my life. I still carry those letter with me and can hear her voice every time I read them. I always cherished our correspondence, so very much. And of course, my mother’s mother, Mimi, who also had a profound hand in shaping who I am. Some of the best parts of me come from that woman, who I think is a saint. I wish I could still head to “summer camp” for a couple of weeks, play rummy tile, see a show at the Muny, and go to the swimming hole.

Then lastly to my wonderful Aunt Ginger, who besides being the best Aunt in the world, has also been like my west coast Mom and dear, dear friend, since I’ve been hear in school, going through so many changes and striving to reach such a difficult dream. I’ve been beyond fortunate to be able to escape to Scottsdale so I can spend time recuperating and relaxing with Aunt Ginger and Big Daddy. Of course, I couldn’t close without mentioning my cousins, Aunt Ginger’s daughters, Paige, Polly, and Megan – all married now with their own families, all wonderful Moms as well, who have watched over me in San Francisco and now here in L.A., cheering me on, and making sure, even in Chicago when Polly was there, that I didn’t completely lose my way.

You see, that’s one of the wonderful things about being the youngest. Especially when it’s by so many years. Your whole family watches you grow up. It can be a little overwhelming when your in the thick of it, but when your an adult you finally gain some perspective and you can gaze back over the years and see how they’ve all had a hand in raising you, supporting you, and loving you into who you are today. That’s an incredible gift. Not everyone gets that kind of treatment. It just so happens, in our family, there are a lot more women than men. So, the list is deep for “mothers” that I’d like to say HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY to and let them know I love them for all they’ve given me.

God Bless….

Some of you may have read Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers. In it he lays out The Ten Thousand Hour Rule, which basically states that success at something requires consistent practice. Notably, at least, twenty hours a week for ten years. Essentially that the constant doing of a craft or a skill will in fact make you better at it over time. He uses a fun quote from The Beatles, to succinctly present the idea:

“In Hamburg, we had to play for eight hours.”

What’s not said in that quote is another part of it, which is The Beatles had to play (I believe) six days a week. They practically lived with their instruments in their hands, playing as a unit, actually similar to the military in a lot of ways, drilling over and over until they act and react extremely well as one in most any situation. This also made them all extremely proficient musicians (aside from talent, which was evident in the group, as in all groups, in varying degrees. Let’s not beat around the bush. Ringo was adept, but their were much better drummers than him out there at the time.) This popped into my mind for two reasons today.

The first is that I’ve been reading one of the biographies of The Band, Levon Helm’s bio This Wheel’s On Fire. The Band, in my humble opinion, has been criminally under appreciated throughout the years. They were a truly unique group whose collective story spans the earliest days of Rock N’ Roll and Electric Blues, as well as the Counter-Culture of the late 60′s, while serving as the bridge for Bob Dylan to leave the folk scene and go electric. That’s a lot of key American Pop Music history right there to live through. This group of five men could command over twenty-seven different instruments expertly (they were all multi-instrumentalists.) They featured three part harmonies in their vocal work that they cribbed from baptist gospel styles of the late 50s.

What’s brought me to the Ten Thousand Hour Rule with The Band is because of the section I just finished, their early years as The Hawks or Levon and the Hawks. The Band came together over a period of a few years between Arkansas and the souther roadhouse circuit as well as the Toronto/Western Canada Dance Hall circuit in the employ of Ronnie Hawkins, an early Rock N’ Roll/Rockabilly pioneer. They were all in their teens when they started – some as young as fifteen. Most of them were small town or farm boys, who’d grown up playing music with extended family for entertainment. As the Hawks, backing Ronnie Hawkins and then on their own, up to backing Bob Dylan and becoming The Band, these five men rode in Cadillacs for six years all through the south and Canada, playing six to seven nights a week, several sets a night, rehearsing after shows until the break of dawn to work in new material. That is some serious dedication and work. They had fun, but they had to play to eat. This created, again, extremely proficient craftsman who could play in almost any musical style, on a dime, behind anyone. From Sonny Boy Williamson and his harmonica, to Bob Dylan and his novelistic folk-rock. All those hours playing together built and refined their individual and group skill.

Secondly, because of my writing (naturally), which I’ve been at for nearly twenty-five years (yikes!) in one way or another, in one genre or another. And what all that time at a keyboard, with my seat in a chair, or scribbling in notebooks has done for my sense of the craft – it’s given me a sense of confidence, a toolbox of solutions when it’s not going so well, it’s given me  true muscle memory (figuratively in my imagination) so I know where to reach for words or inspiration, how to dig for them when I need to dig for them and so on. Secondly, I’ve been thinking of the Ten Thousand Hour Rule, and more importantly, in regards to music and playing the guitar, which I’ve done since sixth grade or so.

Now, I will be the first to admit that I love music, love it, and have always pined to be a musician of some sort. I even dabbled in it in college. But, I’ll also be the first to admit that I don’t really have what it takes. That I don’t just don’t have that spark, that “it” that separates pros from super fans. Mainly, I blame my ears, which seem to not have that pitch/tone radar that really good players have. Now, this is not for a lack of playing and playing and playing. Constantly, almost in high school and college and afterwards even. I’ve slowed a bit, but that’s okay. It comes and it goes. Regardless, in reference to the “rule” I have seen my skill level with the instrument trudge from largely incompetent, to reasonably skilled/won’t embarrass himself and can play with others if need be. Heck, I’ve entertained a few folks by accident. I guess that’s what I’ve been more keyed in on – this second experience with the “rule” where a true spark or passion with that extra kick doesn’t exist to carry you through the hard climb of ten thousand hours of getting it wrong, of hitting walls and then breaking through, of repetition of the basics until they’re coded in your DNA. It’s made me understand the importance of “doing” when I want to become better at any skill.

Do you have anything – a hobby, a passion –  which has taught you this lesson in life, or given you this unexpected gift?

Somewhere in here, a fella’s gotta write, right? Please?

I used to think have an assistant was a little ridiculous, a true indulgence. That has all changed. If I had the money, right now, I would employ two of them. And a Driver and a Chef. Without a second thought. I need that time back if it’s gonna be like this! (Okay, I’m being a little facetious – but only a little.)

More so, I think, and this is like a record that skips – it’s the homework that causes the tension. Because that’s on it’s on timetable and that timetable is largely inflexible. Everything else is a discussion or negotiation. Contrary to popular believe, most deadlines are not set in stone. Of course, you don’t want to go around ignoring them or anything and constantly blowing them, but they’re not so hard and fast as you might think.

Today’s meetings? The first one in the corner office on the eighth floor of a huge skyscraper on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood (the upscale section of Sunset) went quite well – as in excellent. We talked for two hours. Many questions were asked on both sides of the coin. Answers were given. It was a frank, encouraging, and exciting conversation. I think the meeting really set a high water mark. There were a lot of possibilities presented in this meeting. Ones that really seemed to fit our diverse interests as writers and creative professionals.

The second one was brutal. Like, two minutes in, it was pretty clear, there was nothing happening at the table. No sparks, no synching up, no synergy. This meeting barely topped out at forty minutes, often veered off track from the business side of things and the creative, into personal details that weren’t pertinent to the discussion, at all. To be honest, I’m impressed that both sides hung in their past the ten minute mark. It was that rough. I say that feeling that they felt the same way. C’est La Vie! It happens. No need to dwell.

Then I drove down to the South Bay and had a wonderful dinner at Houston’s with my brother, Chris, who was in town (actually had to haul all over Los Angeles County today) for a variety of business meetings. It was great to see Chris and catch up, one on one. We don’t get to see each other very often. It was great to hear about his son, Joe, who I had put a picture up and shares the same birthday with me. Chris and I are separated by a bit in age – he the oldest, me the youngest. I never really stopped to think about this, but Chris was saddled with me when he was in high school. We shared a room on Elm in St. Louis. I was barely walking, still prone to nightmares, and really difficult to be around at that age (I mean epically difficult to be around.) That must’ve been a joy for Chris – saddled with the crazed toddler/small child. I was just finishing Kindergarten when we moved to Minnesota. He stayed behind to finish high school (his senior year) and then off to college and the Marines. Anyways, having Joe, born on the same day as me, must’ve seemed like deja vu  for Chris. I don’t know. Maybe not. But it is rather fateful that Joe and I would share the same birthday, exactly thirty years apart.

We also talked shows and movies. Chris and I have a lot of the same tastes. That is no accident. I was deeply influenced by Chris in those years, both musically, as well as in  film and television. The Coppola and Scorcese fandom has root in my brother’s influence. I remember watching the first episode of Cheers with him. I remember watching Hill Street Blues, Soap (which Mom hated), Barney Miller – the list goes on and on. He was a writer, too. A journalist in College, before the Marine Corps. He was pretty good, too. Most everyone in my family read a lot, but the concept of writing for me probably has some connection to Chris.

Anyways, we talked about The Wire a bit. I would’ve never watched it, had Chris hounded me for a few years to check it out. He was (and is right) – best show ever. All in all it was an excellent way to end a long, but pretty fruitful day.

Kind of feels like I’ve reached a bit of breather here. Might very well be the end of the rushing around part of the week. I am going to take it easy for part of tomorrow and Saturday, for sure.

Eight weeks left in the MFA journey. I’m holding steady at 3.98 G.P.A. Not that it really matters in Grad School, but I’m proud. I…ahem…wasn’t at my academic best at Marquette University. So, beyond actually getting into UCLA, holding my ground in that first Crit Studies class (where I got my one and only A-,) along with the few tough Producing classes I had here and there, I feel pretty good heading into this eight-week victory lap .

By my tally, Jason and I really did a pretty good job handling the sudden twists and turns during what was a fairly turbulent professional week. We moved with resolution and arrive at the end of the week in pretty good shape, going forward, if I do say so myself. We made the call on Monday. Met with a strong Film Production company, who’s Director of Development loves us. He really wants to option Clipped, throwing around big names across the board. The head of the company, who’s the final say, is reading the script. We’ll know within the weekend where we stand. We conferenced called with the lawyer today to discuss strategy on seeking representation and, briefly, the status of BOSS (actually, barely the status of BOSS.) Jason was calling in from the beach, in a wet suit (how very L.A.!) and I actually stepped out of a class, pacing in a quiet courtyard by Northern Lights, one of North Campus’ coffee shop. The big time former agent/current manager who’s sheperding BOSS for P.H.’s company wants to meet with Jason and I immediately, for possible representation. We also set a meeting with another management company, through the referral of a good friend who’s a staffed writer on a network show. We got word another network show is actively seeking staff writers, so we reached out to the director of development who loves us, to see if he could help. Turns out he knows people on the show and will inquire on our behalf tomorrow. The lawyer is setting us up at a few of the big Agencies, possibly as early as next week. So, we’ll start the tour and see about true representation.

I think that’s a good week, swimming with the sharks, don’t you? I’ll take it.

Honestly, I can’t begin to relate to those reading the long nights, in the middle of the winter, locking up the bar and counting down the drawer – all alone.  The place would be so completely still and quiet. My body? Sore and tired from the long night standing and serving drinks; maybe seventy-five bucks to put in my pocket before the long, cold walk home. Sometimes down the middle of the street, the neighborhood where I lived with Nikki (miss you, Button. ) When I got home, Nikki would be asleep on the couch, the television still on. I’d check my email in the cramped office and inevitably, some nights when it really seemed like I was just spinning my wheels in life, I’d draw up the UCLA web page and read the course list for the MFA, or I might look at Columbia University, NYU, or Northwestern and I would try and imagine life there, living the life I yearned, for as long as I could remember, to live. I could barely paint a picture in my mind’s eye of what it would be like, what it would feel like. It all seemed so very impossible, so very far away, so unattainable. My stubborn, titanic desire to be there – to experience that life – seemingly some cruel joke visited upon me, possibly for all my youthful transgressions.

Yet, here I am. In fact, I’m not only here – I’m making my way. I’m in the deep end of the ocean and navigating the tides. From here it’s all icing on the cake. And for that, I can never express my true gratitude enough.

Good Night.

It’s Easter. It’s Spring. Some great things might be happening. I’m in the yearly reflective mood. So, instead of just pictures this week, I thought I’d try something a little different. Something I’ve been meaning to do for some time now….

This is one of the first poems that I wrote, which I truly felt good about – as did my english/creative writing teacher Mrs. Aslanian, which is probably why it stuck with me. I had been writing for almost a year at this point. Mad scribbling on paper, all the time – at least that’s how I remember it. I was writing poetry, or beginning, too. I think I tried, for a week, to write a novel. And there was, at some point, a really terrible musical, complete with book, about a rock band. What sparked the poetry? Good question. Not real sure. Might’ve been e.e. cummings and Allen Ginsburg, both of whom I was exposed to in Military School, oddly enough, by a teacher (Mr. Weber in eighth grade english my first year there in the middle school. He was exactly – both in looks, dress, and manner, like Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society. I mean exactly.) I still recall the first time I read Allen Ginsberg’s HOWL. It was a life changing moment. (“I saw the best minds of my generation…”)

I digress. I’ve carried this poem with me for twenty-five years, now. That amazes me, yet also gives me some pause. That’s a big number, isn’t it? It’s always inspired me. It’s always done what I wanted it to do – to evoke a mood, to capture the snapshot of the flavor  in a place and time that existed in my mind. This poem has remained in my “set list” when I’ve done a reading, or when I consider self-publishing a book of poems. I haven’t written any verse in awhile, a long, long while. I’m still rehabbing that part of my heart and imagination from the reckless years, when most of the good stuff was written, while I tried to out run my own life.

Maybe, I’ll do more of these occasionally. What do you think? Hope I’m not being too self-indulgent….Well, enjoy, hopefully.