Unconventional Modus Operandi

            “ Move it you insufferable jackass,” I howled out the window of my car, affectionately known as the Duchess, as I sped past a hotrod red Prius that was driving ten under the limit with their blinker still on. Finally able to pass I pushed in the clutch, shifted into fourth gear, and took off… tearing west on Warner Avenue in Huntington Beach, California. The coast was just coming into sight and with it, CA -1… better known as the Pacific Coast Highway. The sight of the ocean and beach sent battery acid surging through my veins, prompting me to drive even faster. I caught a glimpse of the speedometer needle rapidly turning clockwise as the car stormed forward like a crack-headed warthog.

            “We seem to be moving faster than usual,” said Charles, my perpetual partner in crime and literary associate. He was in the passenger seat, pictures with a disposable camera; his subject matter did not seem to make sense as he continually photographed the interior of the car, billboards, street signs, and even other drivers. Charles wearing a bright green Acapulco shirt adorned with toucans, reflective lens sunglasses, and a red-plumed Roman Legionnaire helmet… plastic of course.

            “I need to get out of the car,” I replied through gritted teeth. We had been in the Duchess for almost five hours after an abrupt daytrip to San Diego simply for a really good burger. On the way back, we fell victim to the miserable, time-snatching demon known as the 405. What should have taken an hour had multiplied five times over and my patience and sanity was running precariously low.

            “Look over there. We could stop and look at patio furniture for a while.”

            “I swear I’ll kick you out of the car!”

            “That could be fun too,” Charles said as he took a picture of the rearview mirror.

            We blew past stoplights, catching more than our fair share of yellows, and eventually made the turnoff for the PCH. The curvaceous entry road gave what, in my mind, a suggested speed of 25 miles an hour. But that of course is for amateurs: Charles and I were on a mission and were well versed in the extreme art of non-conventional literary exploits and endeavors. So I took the turn at 45, bombarding us with G-force and causing the wheels to screech like alcoholic banshees, before straightening and shooting out and onto the PCH like that old proverbial bat outta hell. After all, we were heading towards a little slice of Mecca to the eccentric and tropically minded, a place honoring Hawaiian shirts, excessive rum consumption, and pure Americana: Don the Beachcomber’s.

            “You seem unnecessarily stressed,” Charles said as he reached down and began rummaging through a black leather doctor’s bag at his feet. “Personally, I suggest you let go of all that pent-up aggression.” From the bag he pulled out a silver cocktail tumbler, various nip bottles, and a Red Bull. He poured various amounts from the bottles into the shaker, gave it a once over, then poured some into the top. “In my professional opinion, I think this should help.”

            “It says something about me,” I said as I took the top, “that my designated medical advisor is someone wearing a Roman Legionnaire helmet. Cheers.” I downed the bizarre concoction and tossed the top back to Charles. He made another for himself.

            “You never know when the Gauls are going to attack.”

            “I have a feeling we’re pretty safe in southern California.”

            “See,” he said after taking his shot, “that’s the same thought the natives had and look where they are now. One minute you’re mesmerized by your little slice of Shangri La, the next your drinking yourself to sleep in the middle of the desert.”

            “Not quite the typical American dream, eh?”

            “An understatement indeed.” Charles took a picture of the stick shift then looked up at the GPS attached to the windshield. “Look at that. We’re almost there.”

            “Do you think they have mai tais available in IV form?”

            “It can be arranged.”

            We abruptly pulled off the PCH and rolled up to a Hawaiian style lodge just as the sun began to pass out into the Pacific. Tiki torches burned and palm fronds swayed in the gently increasing breeze as I parked the car in the front lot. We got out of the car and stretched, our joints long since stiff, grabbed our effects and sauntered towards the entrance.

            The interior of Don’s was like a luau on hallucinogens, with plastic palm trees sprouting from the walls, artificial waterfalls pouring from unseen sources, and Easter Island sized tiki statutes lording over the room. Though I couldn’t be sure, I was convinced there were fog machines producing a thin veil of smoke to add to the theatrics.

            “Sweet Jesus,” I said, peering over the rim of my aviators, “I didn’t expect to go bushwhacking in a bar. If you see Tarzan, tell him he still owes me $50 from that Broncos game.”

            “They should have lemurs here,” Charles said, furiously clicking away with his disposable camera.

            “Now how can you justify that?”

            “What?”

            “It’s a health violation! I don’t think people want to be abruptly assaulted from above by screeching lemurs while trying to eat. And besides, it’s unethical to have wild simians running amok in the joint.”

            “They let us in.”

            “You might have a point there,” I said, nodding my head in agreement. I took off my straw fedora and fanned myself with it. “Come on… I think the bar is this way.”

            We wound our way through the innards of Don the Beachcomber’s, trekking through fake jungle flora, until we reached the bar. The Dagger Bar was a long, narrow room filled with the iconic fanfare of the tiki culture. The bar was on the other side of the room and spanned nearly the entire length of the room: a bamboo awning had been constructed over it to suggest a cabin. On the wall adjacent to the restaurant, booths had been ornately carved, also covered by palm fronts, and in the middle of the room there were a handful of tables. Charles and I moved up to the bar and took the two stools closest to the exit, as was habit.

            “Now that is a nice touch,” Charles said from behind his camera.

            “What’s that?”

            “Look there,” he replied, pointing. A little black and white tv had been screwed to the wall in the upper corner of the bar and they were playing episodes of ‘Gilligan’s Island.’

            “That is a nice touch indeed,” I agreed, nodding my approval. I then noticed a large, flat screen television on the wall to my left, which was airing the NHL playoffs between the New Jersey Devils and New York Rangers. “That’s more like it. Nothing more out of place than watching hockey at a beachside tiki bar.”

            “Afternoon fellas.” We both turned and came face to face with the bartender. A woman easily in her 50’s yet still maintaining an alluring figure, she was wearing exceptionally tight jeans and a black AC/DC tank top. Her coffee colored hair fell loosely down over her bronzed shoulders.

            “Afternoon,” I said with a nod, taking off my hat.

            “Howdy,” Charles said while taking her picture.

            “What can I get for you,” she asked, completely unfazed by our unusual introductions. I assumed she had seen her fair share of crazy working in a joint like this.

            “I’ll take a zombie,” said Charles. He was then out of his seat, wandering around the bar taking photographs. Two couples, perched in one of the booths and in the middle of eating, seemed aggravated when Charles began taking pictures of them. I noticed the bartender watching him with a quizzical look.

            “I’ll just have a mai tai. Have to keep it old fashioned, after all.” I smiled and adjusted my sunglasses. Despite the bar being quite dark, I kept them on all the same.

            “A zombie and a mai tai,” she repeated, looking back and forth between Charles and me. “You’re not going to start photographing the place too, are you?”

            “That would be unnecessary, ma’am. It’s not my job.” I smiled but the bartender seemed to be expecting more of a response. Realizing it wasn’t coming, she went about making our drinks. I turned my attention to the hockey game: from inside my Nantucket red sports jacket, I produced my little black notebook and began taking notes on the bar and, occasionally, the game.

            Charles returned exactly as the bartender arrived with our drinks.

            “One zombie, one mai tai,” she said, placing our respective drinks before us. “Enjoy boys. My name’s Jo, so just holler if y’need anything.” I could tell by her drawl that she definitely was not a local.

            “Dear lord thank you,” I said after taking a large gulp from my cocktail. “Another five minutes and I would have driven the car into the ocean.”

            “You’d never do that to the Duchess,” Charles retorted, eating the pineapple garnish from his drink.

            “Good point. I guess I’d have figured out another way to take us out without hurting the car.”

            “Wait, what? Why me? What did I ever do?”

            “This whole calamity was your idea,” I remind him, raising my eyebrows accusingly.  “If you remember, I just wanted to go to the beach then do some work. We are somewhat behind on the script after all. “

            “Not to mention the fact we haven’t even started the treatment for the season,” added Charles, solemnly nodding his head.

            “Wait a minute… that gives me an idea.” I sat forward and waved towards the bartender.

            “Ready for another one already,” Jo asked, either impressed or disgusted.

            “Well no, not really,” I fumbled, “I was hoping you could keep us on separate checks.”

            “Yeah that’s no problem, darlin’,” She started to move away.

            “Ehhh… while you’re here, I think I’ll take you up on that second round. I’ll be finished in a minute.” I grinned as the bartender shook her head and walked off.

            “What was that about,” Charles asked as he fished in his backpack for another camera.

            “I need the receipt.”

            “Why?”
            “So I can write this off as a business meeting, of course.”

            “I don’t know if this counts as a business meeting,” said Charles as he wound the new camera.

            “That so,” I retorted. “What do you think about the script?”
            “I think it needs work.”

            “There, we talked business!” Just then Jo arrived with the new mai tai.

            An hour and a half later, we were still perched at the bar. Charles had managed to photograph nearly every square inch of the bar and had moved into the main dining room. I was keeping myself busy by scribbling down ideas and occasionally yelling obscenities at the hockey game.

            “You doing alright over here,” Jo asked as she sauntered up behind the bar.

            “I’m good for the moment, but I can’t speak for Ansel Adams.”

            “So you two visiting from out of town?”

            “In a manner of speaking,” I replied, closing my notebook. “That degenerate is in from New York, visiting me. I live up in that cacophonic urban stain known as Los Angeles.”

            “Isn’t that a lovely description,” Jo said, cocking her head to one side as if trying to get a grasp on me.

            “Professional hazard.”

            “I beg pardon?”

            “Never mind,” I replied, waving it off.

            “What is it you do, exactly,” Jo asked. She clearly wasn’t going to be deterred.

            “We’re writers,” Charles said, once again wearing the Legionnaire helmet. Everyone in the bar, including Jo, stared at him in complete confusion.

            “Writers?”

            “Yes ma’am,” I chimed. I raised my glass and took a hearty sip then flashed a grin in her direction.

            “What are you, travel writers?”

            “If by travel writers, you mean we go a lot of places and write? Then yes,” Charles said.

            “But we don’t actually write about the places, if that’s what you mean,” I clarified. Jo looked vexed.

            “I’m confused,” she said, shaking her head as if that would make this all coherent. “Who do you work for?”

            “Work for?” Charles and I looked at each other, completely confused.

            “Yeah, like are you journalists or studio writers or something?”

            “We work for ourselves,” I said with a shrug.

            “Then you’re novelists.” Jo seemed satisfied with this deduction.

            “Not entirely,” Charles quickly said.

            “Okay… I’m really confused here now, boys. Evidently I don’t get it.”

            “It’s pretty simple,” Charles said, clearing his throat. “We’re writers. It’s what we do. We write, head out on misadventures, explore, and stuff like that. Nobody pays us to do it. Not yet, at least.”

            “But if no one is paying you to do it, then why bother?”

            “Because it’s the only thing that makes sense, Jo.” I sit up, finish my cocktail, and slide the glass to her. “There’s so much to see and do out there… somebody’s gotta do it and then write about it so others can live vicariously through words.”

            “You’re out of your gourds,” Jo said, shaking her head… this time in frustration. She grabbed my empty glass and walked down the bar to assist some other customers. Charles resumed his photographic exploits, disappearing once more, and I took out my notebook and began writing. I had gotten a bit of inspiration in our conversation with Jo and I didn’t want to forget it.

            “Hey,” Charles said, about ten minutes later. He was now, inexplicably, wearing a blue lei. “We should get moving.”

            “Why’s that? We don’t have anything to do and I don’t feel like hitting more traffic.” I stretched my arms and put my straw fedora back on. “This morning we said we’d work tonight when we got back.”

            “Change of plans. We have something to do tonight.”

            “And that is, pray tell?”

            “A Mexican burlesque indoor carnival.” Charles looked ready to start bouncing at the concept of such a weird event. “Think of the ridiculous shit we’ll see! So many things to photograph!”

            “I’m not going to some weird burlesque carnival,” I grunted. “Besides how do you combine burlesque with a carnival… indoors?”

            “We have the chance!”

            “No way,” I protested. “No, we should head back, pick up grub on the way, and do some serious work on the script.”

            “We can do it later,” Charles insisted. He wasn’t giving up easily, which meant this could indeed be an odd event. “And besides, I left out the best part.”

            “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

            “They also have Mexican wrestling with midgets!”

            “Get the checks.”

            Fifteen minutes later, we were speeding north on the 405. The Duchess was roaring like a drunken Siberian tiger, weaving in and out of the incomprehensible LA traffic. Once more into the breach,” I thought to myself as I split a pair of minivans before looping around a Mustang. We were at least 40 minutes away from Los Angeles, but the night was still young: the sky still glowed with that azure hue that comes just after sunset. Who knew what sort of misadventures we’d fall into that night? I was certain they would be both abundant and excessively depraved. But more than anything, I knew they’d be a hell of a story to tell…

Refuge in Denial

“Christ… how does it always end up like this,” I ask myself as I spin a martini glass between my thumb and index finger. I sigh, slouching my shoulders and slumping further down into the half-moon booth. The off-color pale green leather groans like a senile greeter at Wal-Mart, its decrepit material subtly reeking of long dormant cigarette smoke and bleach.

I drop my elbows on the table, zoning out in the dimly lit, dismal glory of the Tonga Hut as Debbie Reynolds inexplicably resonates from unseen sources; the gurgling of perpetual waterfalls sound like the bar has become incontinent.

The Tonga Hut is a rare place, a dying breed of Americana that is being replaced by overpriced watering holes too hip to be a dive, yet divey enough to be cool: blank, characterless rooms full of faceless names and designer labels. But not the Hut. Here, time dissipates in the bizarre neon lighting and reality fades into naught but the over persistence of incessant cell phones. This is a haven for those looking to neglect, reflect, and simply kill time until the next thing comes around.

“God I should be working,” I murmur to no one in particular. After a generous sip of this tiki cocktail, I turn my attention to the distraction of other customers. What better way to distract myself from that nefariously abhorrent monstrosity known as writers’ block than inundating myself in the weird, surrounding myself with an eclectic medley of characters, and drowning myself in Polynesian cocktails?

This just keeps getting weirder.

I look up to the low-hang ceiling as ‘Viva Las Vegas’ now drowns out the explosive silence in my mind. And there in lies my problem… the catalyst that drove me from my apartment in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. Apparently I’m blocked: shooting snake eyes, pullin’ a dead man’s hand, coming up empty. I sling back the remainder of my cocktail and head to the bar for another.

Yeah… just another rat running its course in this misanthropic pulp-novel known as life, I think as I leisurely move through the bar. I’m so distracted by my own introspective narration that I fail to be amazed at how many people are drinking at a tiki bar at 1:32 on a Saturday afternoon. Out of detached curiosity I start looking around the bar as I move to the bar with the speed of a zombie. A group of college students are attempting to play darts, though it seems no one fully understands the game: a charming little redhead, in skin tight black jeans and a Chicago Bears t-shirt, walks up to the line… dart in one hand, mai tai in the other. She wobbles ever so slightly, her aim not so true in the all-encompassing haze of rum.

            The bartender is already waiting for me when I get to the counter, anticipating a new round.

            “What took you so long with that one,” she asks, hands on her hips and a daring look in her eye.

            “I got distracted,” I reply with a shrug.

            “So I see. Haven’t written a word today, have you Strat?”

            “Ehhh shut up, Meg,” I say, putting my empty glass on the bar counter and sliding it towards her. She catches it like a pro. “It’s a slow day and I’m celebrating that fact. Now could I get another drink, please?”

            “I’ll make you one, something special, if you get your ass back to work!”

            “I’m content sitting in the booth watching the soon-to-be debacle of this darts game.”

            “Well too bad,” Meg says. She leans forward and gives me a solid right jab to the shoulder. “Now your usual spot just opened up. So go plant yourself, get out that little notebook of yours, and do your damn thing already!”

            “Why Meg… I didn’t know you cared.” I start walking towards the opposite end of the bar where, sure enough, my preferred bar stool is now vacant.

            “I don’t,” she calls back as she fills a hurricane glass with ice. “I just don’t feel like listening to you moan about not writing in an hour!” She winks as I take my seat, pulling my Moleskine notebook from my back pocket. I open the little book, pull a pen from my right pocket, and start scratching away. Before I get completely absorbed a loaded hurricane glass slides to a halt right in front of me. It’s filled with a bluish-green concoction and garnished with the staple of maraschino cherry and pineapple slice. I sniff the glass and almost fall backwards out of my seat: there’s enough alcohol in this thing to put Rip Torn AND Mel Gibson into a coma.

            “Jesus in jogging pants, Meg,” I say, my eyes still watering from my odious experience. “Are you trying to kill me?”

            “Quit your bitching and drink it,” she retorts gruffly. “You’re always complaining the drinks don’t have enough kick so I improvised!” Meg, the beautifully sardonic bar maiden in her mid 40’s, pulls out the clip holding up her untamable wavy black hair. While holding the clip with her teeth, she wrestles her hair back up into the closest semblance of a bun she could make and then replaced the clip.

            I smile, nodding my appreciation, then turn my attention back to my notebook.

            What the Hell does it even mean to write? The truth is monumentally unexciting. Words are the only things we have to make sense of the world, and the only appropriate method to express my personal disinterest and dissatisfaction at the state of all things. So I scribble gibberish, hoping to highlight my general distaste of the reality before me.

            Really, it’s anything but romantic. This breeds an anonymous frustration that gives way to doubt, squalor, and self-loathing that inevitably ends in a cascade of insanity, a litany of forgotten loves, and an unending typhoon of booze and irrationality.

            However, at the very same time, there is no greater feeling. The world is but a plaything to the imagination, and everyone I’ve ever known takes the stage as actors in my running opera. The ecstasy of reshaping reality in a pseudo-godlike complex can’t be measured. And let’s face it… the hours are pretty great.

            I take tentative, cautious sip of the atomic cocktail and after I swallow, I’m convinced I can feel the back of my eyes vibrating. I take a deep, trying to wrangle in my rapidly scrambling sanity and I close my notebook. No sense pushing my luck right now. So I sit, secretly avoiding the devildrink custom made for me and watching the ruckus and frenzy of a Saturday afternoon in a tiki bar. The collegiate types continue their inebriated conquest of the dartboard, but none of them appear capable of stability.

            I wonder if I could make it back to New York, I ponder, content and developing a punch-drunk grin. There’s got to be a better way than this…

            …And this is the moment I realize one of my inherent flaws, the problem that continuously drives me onward and ever away from the places I’ve known as home. My problem is I’m a fucking writer who can’t stand being unknown but can’t get out of my own damn way!

            “Excuse me,” a mellifluous, dainty voice sounds behind me. Naturally I assume it’s a greeting meant for someone else so I ignore it and linger in my introspective nightmare. But I can’t ignore the delicate fingertips that come to rest on my left arm. I turn in place, coming face to face with an adorable little hipster chick, her skin the color of a faded penny and her chestnut hair falling lightly over her face, obscuring one empathetic azure eye.

            “Hey,” I grunt, eyebrows raised in a non-verbalized question. She’s wrapped in a green gypsy skirt and wearing a black Ramones t-shirt.

            “Is this seat taken,” she asks, gesturing to the open stool to my left.

            “It’s all yours,” I blather as I pull out the stool for her while shuffling my seat aside. We exchange that awkward smile people share when being polite and I return to my drink and work. I vaguely notice that she orders a drink. I can’t help myself: I start writing this absolutely absurd soliloquy that dangles between psychotic humor and pure nonsense.

            “What are you writing?” My head goes upright like a prairie dog’s and it takes me a millisecond to recall my newfound neighbor.

            “Not much really,” I reply, shutting the book and turning to face this unintentional barroom temptress. “Observations on futility, rants about mistakes, a general eulogy to common sense. The usual things.”

            “Oh, so just a puff piece,” she says with a playful grin. She toys with the straw from her cocktail, nibbling on the end and interrogating me with her eyes.

            “I’m an aspiring blurb writer for book jackets,” I reply, “but if everything goes well, I’ll start writing for the IKEA catalogue.”

            “A man of ambition,” she struggles to say amongst a fit of laughter. “Glad to know we still have some genuine dreamers left in the world.”

            “I prefer vivid, pharmaceutically-induced hallucinations these days.” She laughs again, her nose crinkling as she does. It is a powerful smile: every ounce of her is in every single laugh. I raise my glass and take a ship; she mimics the gesture.

            “Sooo,” she says after a moment of that silence that drives most people bat shit crazy, “what were you really working on?”

            “Nothing, really. Just some thoughts.”

            “Can I read something?” She pleads, conning me into compliance.

            “Suit yourself,” I reply. I hand her the notebook and lean back, taking a larger sip from my venomous drink than I had planned. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her open the book and rifle through pages. She stops, scans the page, and seems content.

            “Just another night lost in the battle,” she says, her striking blue eyes scanning the lines as she reads.

            “Wait a minute,” I cut her off. “I said you could read it. Not aloud: I’d have to charge these people!”

            “First off,” she counters without hesitation, “you said I could read it. You didn’t specify how I read it. And I want to read it aloud… I want to hear it. And second, where’s your sense of altruism?”

            “I think I traded it for a pack of guitar strings in 2008.”

            “Shush,” she scolds, staring me down. She returns her gaze to the page.

            “My apartment was screaming at me, accusations of inadequacy and madness flying like bullets in Baghdad. And yet I find even less solace in the night than I’m accustomed to. New York nights were a perpetual carnival, delving into the madness and bizarre… suited only for the most uniquely deranged. Here, amidst the ‘angels’, it’s naught but an exercise in soci-masochism as us peons watch the beautifully cancerous golden people indulge in their narcissism and gluttony. There is no solace to be found in an LA bar- instead, the hunt focuses on career opportunities and nepotistic endeavors. Everyone claims to know someone, simply to elevate their perceived status.

            Charlatans, hookers, whores, and thieves: that is the quality of citizen in this Mojave pseudo-oasis. There is no liberation or redemption to be found in these unsynchronized streets: the naively ambitious and voraciously cruel are the microbes that thrive here.

            So why the fuck am I here? Admittedly it’s a question I’ve been asking myself for two years. Two years spent in exile in paradise.”

            Silence recaptures the space between us when she finishes reading. Though silent her eyes continue to scan the page, no doubt rereading that wonderfully pessimistic, clinically cynical ran. I scratch my neck and take another sip of my drink, finally acclimated to its virulence. After a few endless moments, she closes the book and holds it before her, her eyes focused on a place that doesn’t exist in the bar. She finally turns and looks at me: she stares right into my eyes, her head occasionally tilting as if she were deep in thought.

            “So what do you think,” I say, breaking the quiet, “do I have a career in greeting cards?’

            “You think like a cynic,” she replies, her tone serious and steady. “You have a swagger that suggests you don’t give a fuck about much of anything, and your casual apathy is pretty well honed.”

            “I had an affinity for it in summer camp,” I facetiously offer. “I think I got a badge for one of them. Wait, no… that’s boy scouts. Forget that last part.”

            “But it’s all an act, isn’t?”

            “Say what now?”

            “You’ve got that rough edge to you, sure,” she says, placing her hand on my forearm. I notice for the first time her fingers are covered with rings and her wrist was laden with thin silver bracelets. A good old fashion neo-hippie chick. “But that’s not the full story. You write like you’re nothing but gravel and ash, but deep down inside… you’re an innocent, sweet person. Admit it.”

            “And what makes you think this nonsense,” I ask, a smartass till the end.

            “You have sad, honest eyes,” she replies simply. She takes a sip of her tropical cocktail, her eyebrow raised and focus entirely on me. I grin and chuckle, taking a sip of my own.

            “It’s a theory,” I say with a shrug.

            “Just a theory? Hmmm.” She leans forward, slumping her elbow on the bar and begins to play with her hair. “What’s your name?”

            “Stratton.”

            “That’s quite a name there.”

            “It’s a family name,” I counter.

            “It is a strong name.”

            “Thanks?” She raises her glass, so I raise mine and we toast without a word. “And you are, by the way?”

            “My name is Sarah.” She smiles coyly, an unpredictable light shining in her eyes.

            “It’s a pleasure.” This time I instigate a toast, and we follow the same routine. I finish my drink and check my watch.

            “Somewhere to be,” Sarah asks.

            “Not particularly. Just force of habit, I guess.”

            “I guess it happens.” She takes her drink and downs it in an impressive display. She reaches down and pulls up a tattered canvas shoulder bag and begins to excavate. Sarah eventually finds a wallet and lays a $10 bill on the counter. “Thanks Meg,” she calls out as she stands. She then turns to me. “It was nice meeting you, Stratton.”

            “The pleasure was irrefutably mine, Sarah,” I say as I take her tiny, fragile hand and shake it. She stares at me for a moment, her hand still clasping mine, before she heads towards the back door. But she stops after only a few steps. “Do you wanna get out of here? I live close by… we could have a drink, hang.”

            “Seems like the thing to do.” I stand up and stretch my back.

            “Good.” She smiles and walks out into the waning light of day.

            “Hey Meg,” I call out, moving towards the exit, “put it on my tab?”

            “No problem,” Meg calls back.

            I start down the small, narrow hallway towards the rear exit. The backdoor is open and sunlight is storming in, unrelenting. I’m almost at the door when I hear Meg calling me back.

            I hurry up to the bar and say, “what’s wrong, Meg?”

            “Forgetting something, sweetie?” She’s holding me notebook and has a judgmental look on her face.

            “You’re a lifesaver Meg,” I say as I reach for it. Before I can take it, she smacks me in the forehead with it.

            “Tell me something I don’t know. And for God’s sake keep a hold of your notebook. This is more important that that one is,” she says, nodding her head towards the exit.

            “I think I understand,” I reply, genuinely listening to her. “I’ll be careful.”

            Meg nodded, content with my sincerity, and handed me back the notebook. She then was off, servicing the needs of the locals and boozehounds seeking haven from the day. I lingered for a moment, staring at my notebook and believing Meg’s words. I chuckle to myself and head towards the exit, ready to step out into the world again…

My State of the Union

            When I first started this blog I set out with a very simple expectation. It wasn’t to pontificate or expound upon the virtuous endeavors of being an artist, which I’ll have you know is the most noxious form of self-flattery since those media lampreys known as the Kardashians began roaming the earth. It also was never my intention to build myself up into some literary purist… fighting the good fight in the rising tide of superfluous and trite books about vampire teens, bipolar werewolves, or whatever the hell else is popular these days. Sure, I have nothing but contempt for several of the authors and their works that are popular today. But hey, those on top are always the most envied and reviled.

            No… the whole point of this exercise was to open the curtains on my own personal experience as a writer. And though most of my posts thus far have been short story prose pieces highlighting emotional and psychological aspects of this endeavor… I think it’s important that every now and then, I take a moment to analyze and summarize what’s happening in my life and my career. After all, this is as much a record for me as a glimpse for the reader.

           

            The idea for ‘Lost on the Page, Drowning in Words’ was one given to me by my close friend and comrade, Jay. We had met up for drinks on a Friday night, both frustrated and annoyed with our current circumstances. The two of us were stuck in jobs we hated, living in a city that we really didn’t want to be in, and trapped in the memory of the past. These factors, for me, had led to a creative and emotional stagnation. I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t depressed, I wasn’t even anxious. Instead, I was caught it a feeling of stasis: a numbing shroud had been tossed over me, limiting my visions of the future and quieting the neural disquiet that fuels my writing drive. Peace and quiet and complacency are the toxins to my personal creativity… and I had fallen into that very gumption trap.

            It was while I was expressing this feeling that Jay proposed the idea of ‘Lost on the Page…”.

            “Why don’t you start a blog,” he suggested after we killed a round of shots. “Write about being a writer, you know? Make it an in-depth look at your methods, your thought process, all that stuff. And if anything, do it to keep yourself writing while you’re stuck.”

            I toyed with the idea for days, considering the pros and cons of chronicling this epically frustrating and yet intrinsically rewarding game. In the end, the deciding factor was that, as Jay had said, I was stuck and this would get me moving out of the muck. Thus, this online opus was born.

            That brings me to today. Honestly, not much has changed since I began working on this: I still have yet to publish a book, I haven’t yet gotten an agent, and I’m still pretty annoyed with my situation right now. But, to see something positive… I have started writing again on a daily basis. Currently I’m working on a new book, which is an unofficial follow-up to my previous two manuscripts. For now, it’s entitled “Hell ‘n’ Hollywood” and it’s about… yup, you guessed it, a demon escaping Hell and coming to Los Angeles. If anything, I guess it’s a pop-cultural satire laden with mytho-folkloric references. That’s the main reason why I call it a follow-up, as my last two books are also mytho-folkloric/supernatural comedies.

            My last book, “Workplace Depression”, was a lot of fun to write and the story seemed to develop by itself. “Hell ‘n’ Hollywood” has done the same, and yet I can’t seem to get into the same groove I did with ‘Workplace.’ There were several days where I went on a frenzy, writing 20-30 pages over a 12 hour period. With “Hell ‘n’ Hollywood” it’s been much slower. This could possibly derive from the fact that the narrative is much more complex than the last book. In this one, I switch between 1^st person present tense to 3^rd person past tense, with interjections of 3^rd person present and 1^st person past. Essentially, it’s all over the damn map. But once it all comes together, I’m pretty sure it’ll be entertaining… unique if nothing else.

            Other than the book, I have a lot of other literary pursuits on the table. Aside from trying to update this blog three times a week, we’re rapidly entering the submission period for literary publications. Several years ago, when I was still VERY green at this whole writing/attempting-to-be-published game, I tried to have a few pieces picked up by magazines. They were sophomoric and predictable… nothing particularly remarkable about them.

            Now, however, I’ve definitely matured as a writer and grown into myself. I know what I want to say and, for the most part, I know how to say it. I recently made the acquaintance of a young woman in the publishing industry who happens to be a friend of a friend. She gave me a great piece of advice on trying to get published: the more accolades and recognition you have, the more appealing you are to agencies and publishers. So I’ve decided to submit to as many online literary publications as I can stand over the next few months. I’m even going to dust off the old poetry/prose notebooks for a wide net of possibilities. I can only hope that I can get a few pieces picked up and distributed so I can build my brand, as the nefarious “THEY” say.

           

            For some time now, I have also been working collaboratively with my good friend and usual partner in crime Charles. We met through a mutual friend and, over the years, have had many discussions on writing until, one day… we were working on the same bloody project! We both are bit unpredictable and prefer the odd and unusual life as opposed to walking the median. As to which of us is the more deranged, that’s still up in the air I think.

            Our first project, which started out as a single novel, has escalated exponentially. After we started work on the book, we also decided to write a pilot screenplay and a treatment for a whole damn season of the show. The only hitch was that we changed things in the screenplay… so I, as the designated scribe of the book, had to go back and alter the manuscript to match. But then Charles, in an attempt to drive me closer to the edge of insanity, suggested we expand the book from one to five. It took me several hours of psychotic wailing and heavy drinking to cope, but ended up agreeing with him.

            I took a brief hiatus this summer, heading back east for much needed vacation with family and friends. With me back in Los Angeles and getting into the rhythm again… we’ll be starting up on that again. I look forward to doing so because our collaborative work is pretty goddamn weird, depraved, and entertaining.

            From the original idea, we’ve spider webbed out. There are now a whole lot of damn projects we have on the docket, and we seem to keep raising the bar on craziness and comedy. Hopefully one of us goons can get some notoriety so we can start bringing these damn books to the masses!

            This has been a very strange year up till now. It has been an ever-spinning wheel of ups and downs, great moments of jubilation and hours of discouraged helplessness. Events occurred which blindsided me, shaking my world and moving me into doubt and uncertainty. My longing to return to my home city has grown fierce these past months, as is my need to be amongst the people who inspire me most. But it was in the darkest of night where I realized that I wouldn’t quit. To quote one of my favorites, Ernest Hemingway, “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” I keep up the fight because I refuse to live the life less ordinary.

I know this is not an easy game to play: publication these days is incredibly difficult to attain and everyone and their mothers claim to be a writer. But there is also hope. While I will never buy a Nook or Kindle or such, the digital age has, to some effect, sidestepped the gatekeepers in publishing and opened the door to we the anonymous. “Shallow men believe in luck. Strong men believe in cause and effect.” I thank Ralph Waldo Emerson for that quote because I truly believe it. I’m done being patient, waiting for my luck to change and give me a shot. No, I need to take hold and assert myself to my fullest extend. I need to break my back toiling to get by, only to come home and sit at my desk and get back to work every damned day. After all, who needs sleep?

So that is where I stand. At a crossroads, maybe… in the middle of nowhere, absolutely. But I also stand resolute. And I know, urging forward and always trying to get better and make more, I am not alone. I am lucky enough to have incredible people standing beside me… shoulder to shoulder. I’m blessed with an amazing family that has always been there (and whom I partially blame for my literary disposition!). Though they are an unusual group, they are truly miraculous in their love, support, and patience. I also have idiosyncratic mad-geniuses, waiting to change the world, at the other end of a phone for late night banter about writing and politics and sports. The crazy saints who are willing to scour the night and every visible bar for the meaning of it all or simply just a good time.

These are the stories that I see every day. The flashes and glimpses of the world before me, the remarkable people I’ve encountered and the images and moments that just cannot be accurately captured in words. I write so that we can remember, and be remembered in turn. I write because life itself is a story. And though we cannot see the ending, we all add our own chapters to the narrative…

Dichotomy

            It’s late… sometime after 3am. The streets of Los Angeles have gone quiet, abandoned by the flocks of gregarious and quixotic hipsters as they fled towards homes and apartments. Now only a few individuals remain… shadowy, vague, and seemingly lost in the abysmal night. I see strain and longing in their eyes as I slowly trudge south, heading to pick up my car. There is an inherent loneliness in this city of angels: it lingers and lurks beneath the surface, masked by the excessive glamour and indulgence of its denizens. But now, in the quiet stillness… the voice of isolation whispers from the sidewalks.

            I think back to the night and can’t stop the grin that creases across my face. It was an unusual night to say the least… one full of mayhem and nostalgia. It has been so long since I’ve had a night like this, I almost forget what they’re like…

            I was cooking dinner when my phone rang. I grabbed if off my kitchen table and looked at the screen: I was more than surprised by the caller.

            “Hello,” I said, with the inflection of a question.

            “Yooo, buddy,” the voice on the other end replied. It was Geordie, an old and close friend whom I’d lost touch with over the last few years. “How are you, man?”

            “I’m good, Geordie… same as always. How about you?”

            “Everything’s good, man. Just super busy.”

            “I can relate.”

            “Listen,” Geordie said after a momentary pause, “I’m in LA for an assignment. I got here a couple of days ago but I’ve just been so damn busy. But I definitely wanted to get together and catch up. It’s been way too long.”

            “Absolutely,” I replied. “You’re right about that. When are you in town till?”

            “I’m actually flying out tomorrow afternoon. I’m heading home for a week on Sunday.”

            “On the move as always, I see.”

            “Yeah,” he said with a laugh. “So I know it’s last minute, but what are you up to tonight?”

            “There’s a birthday party I’ve got to swing by later tonight, but I’m free for a while. Maybe we can grab a drink or something?”

            “Sounds good,” Geordie said. “I’m staying with a childhood friend of mine. Let me give you the address…”

            I pass only a handful of people in the whole thirty minutes it takes to reach my car. As I walk down Crescent Heights, I can see my car from a distance: it is, after all, the only car still parked on the street. I start moving a little faster, eager to get home, but I can’t help notice the stillness. It’s a seemingly unnatural tranquility: a city is an organism, a creature that survives through motion and activity. These abandoned streets are like the petrified remains of an animal… once active and alive, now frozen in its transience.

            I slide into my car and close the door, taking comfort in the familiar comfort. With the key I bring her to life: I sit for a few moments, listening to the subtle rumblings of the engine. Finally ready to move, I put the car in gear and start heading north.

            I like driving in Los Angeles at this hour. For reasons I can’t fathom, the population of Los Angeles seems hell-bent on vehicular mayhem and destruction. There are no rules of the road here. No… this is thunderdome.

            I met Geordie an hour after we spoke. His friend Aude, someone he had known since childhood, actually lived fairly close to my apartment. Though I had heard her name for years, it was the first time we’d met. I was also introduced to Sarah, a mutual friend of theirs. And, as if these circumstances were not crazy enough, another mutual friend named Adam was also in from New York. Finally, we were joined by Forrest… a friend of mine from Boston and another childhood friend to Geordie.

            We were at Aude’s apartment, reminiscing and reacquainting over cocktails. Music radiated from the radio and two dogs were scampering around. As the wine flowed and the conversation flowered, I couldn’t help but remember days past. Once we’d had our fill of drink, we headed out. I listened as our party walked north on Crescent Heights, amazed at the levity and nonchalance permeating through the group. This was a reunion of old friends, reunited by chance in a foreign city and reveling in the momentary intermission from the mundane…

            My street is completely quiet, every window of every apartment darkened… the inhabitants long in the embrace of sleep. The abrupt barking of a dog a few blocks away is comparable to a shotgun blast in this silence. I pull my car past the gate and snake my way behind the building, eventually parking. I can’t help but notice the scuff of my sneakers on the pavement as I walk through the building courtyard: it echoes, lingering like a paper cut.

            I step into my apartment and toss my keys on the little end table by the door. After pouring myself a glass of red wine, pull out my notebook and begin leafing through the pages. It’s not long before I find what I’m looking for… freshly inked words, a byproduct of the night. I need to write, to expound on my thoughts, but I don’t feel like working right now. As the night creeps towards its end, I just need to think... to reflect on events that have passed and things that have yet to pass.

            I head to my living room and grab something from the bottom shelf of my bookcase. It’s one of my few prized possessions… a 1933 Smith and Corona typewriter my mom gave to me years ago. After dusting off the keys and checking the ink ribbon, I start typing. The metallic clicking of the keys is hypnotic, like a metronome keeping time.

            After dinner, I followed the group to a bar on Sunset… a subterranean joint called the Den. With faded wood paneling and a music set list of classic rock, it was my type of joint. We managed to weave our way through the rapidly thickening crowd and cordon off our own little territory. Then, as is customary with reunions… whiskey shots.

            A while passed with drinks, dialogue, and a general sense of jubilation. I took advantage of a gap in the conversation to move up to the bar and grab another round. When I got back Forrest, Geordie, and Adam were nowhere to be seen while Sarah and Aude were in the middle of what appeared to be a serious conversation. So I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my little black notebook. Leaning against a narrow counter top I began scribbling away… my thoughts and spontaneous consciousness streaming down on the page. This had always been my way of understanding the world… of analyzing and cataloguing the events that unfolded in my life.

            “You still do that, huh?” I turned my head to see Geordie standing beside me.

            “Old habits,” I replied, flipping the book close and returning it to my jacket. “Plus it makes things a hell of a lot easier to remember down the road.”

            “If it’s about remembering, why not just take a photograph?”

            “That’s your line of work, Geordie. Mine is of the written variety.”

            “I guess you’re right,” Geordie said with a laugh. He leaned against the bar top and looked out over the crowd. It was a sea of decadence: dolled up and pristine women, who poured themselves into cocktail dresses and clogged their skin with makeup, roamed daintily… pursued by hyper-stylized men in designer clothing and fashionable trend. These are the people who strive for possession and fame in a desperate attempt to seize eternity. Los Angeles, I realized then, is the city of the proto-humans. To be anything but perfect in this town is a signal of defeat and failure… the white flag of shame and mortality.

            “This is some place,” Geordie said, causing me to snap back from my introspection.

            “You can say that again.”

            “I’m really surprised by how… formal everyone looks. Look at the women, dude. They’re all dressed in their finest.”

            “In LA, people dress up even to drink at a dive,” I said with a shrug. I’d grown jaded by the commonplace façade present here.

            “That’s weird, man. I could never live in a place like this. It’s just too much.”

            “Trust me, I know what you mean.”

            “Do you like living out here,” Geordie asked after a sip of his beer.

            “Sort of,” I replied, shrugging yet again. “I can’t say I love it, because… well, I don’t. There are a lot of things about living out here that drive me absolutely insane. But on the other hand, it’s nice playing golf and going the beach every weekend of the year. And by beach I mean pristine, scenic beaches… not like Rockaway. “

            “I don’t think anyone could blame you for liking that.”

            “Nah, probably not. But I miss it back east: I miss the lifestyle, I miss all of the people I knew.”

            “Can I ask you a question,” he asked after a moment.

            “Shoot.”

            “What’s the deal with Cali, man? Were you planning on moving out here? Because it all seemed really abrupt when you left.”

            “Nope,” I replied, taking a sip of my cocktail. “I had absolutely no intention of moving out here. I got back from my road trip, spent a week on the Cape with my family, then spent like a week in New York looking for apartments. I was looking for a one bedroom, but I could only afford places out in like Queens. I didn’t find anything I liked and I really didn’t want to live that far out. So I called up my cousin in LA, asked if I could visit, looked for places while there, and found one. And the next month I moved out.”

            “Wow… that’s crazy, dude. You just up and moved without a plan.”

            “Yeah… talk about the ultimate act of spontaneity. But that’s me: impulsive till the end.”

            “Don’t lose that, man,” Geordie said, patting me on the shoulder. “And just so you know, New York hasn’t been quite the same without you.”

            “Appreciated, my friend.” I looked around the crowd for a couple of moments, taking in the bacchanalia of the night. “It has been far too long, hasn’t it?”

            “That is has.”

            “Here’s to not losing touch,” I said as I raised my glass.

            “Amen, rasta,” Geordie cheerfully replied, clinking his bottle off the rocks glass. We then each drank long and generous sips, draining our respective containers. “Alright, let’s refill.”

            “Sounds like a plan.”

            “Hey, how about a shot?”

            “Dear lord…”

            It’s nearly dawn. The sky outside has turned cobalt, rising out of the darkness of black and with each passing minute I can see more and more out on the street. I finish typing, my fingers aching and my brow sore from furrowing while in thought. I’m amazed at the stack of papers beside me, covered from top to bottom with an endless stream of words. This is my catharsis to the crucibles of my life.

            I stand and stretch my back: the wooden dining room chairs from IKEA offer little comfort on the lower back and I’ve been sitting for hours. After grabbing some coffee I put on my Bruins hoodie, slide on my boat shoes, and step outside into the waking dawn. Standing alone on the street, watching as the sun struggles to breach the horizon, I think back past the night to times before. I think back to a life I once had, and a life I still covet and hold as the high water mark. New York, I realize, was more than just a city to me. New York was a state of mind and a testament to struggle. It was my cultural covenant to the art of words… one which contained boons and banes. Strife, conflict, misery… synthesized seamlessly with joy, enthusiasm, creativity, and a powerful determination to push forward.

            I think back to the people along the way… the crazed, licentious, mischievous, unpredictable lunatic saints who gave me more than just inspiration and ideas. They were foundations… the pillars that supported me as I dabbled, honed, and refined my craft. Friends who offered an open invitation to live on their couch, comrades who bought the drinks when things were down, and compatriots who also fought their own personal battles to achieve their intentions.

            I can’t help but smile in a bittersweet manner while thinking about them. But I also have an epiphany: all of the trials and tribulations, the victories and defeats, the pains and pleasures are made inconsequential if this is where the road ends. If I get lost in nostalgia, desperately clinging to the past and never taking the tenuous steps forward… it was all for nothing.

            Feeling a resolve that has been gone from me for some time, I chuckle as I turn and walk back in. I need to get some sleep I realize as I lock the door and kill the lights. After all, there’s always more to write…