LIMITED LIABILITY - NIXON & BASEBALL

Here in America, one of the things we are really good at is limiting our liability. We're very well schooled in dodging the blame, passing the buck and sticking our heads in the sand. (How do we breathe in there?)

I do it, too. Sometimes you just have to. There are times when it doesn't make a lot of sense to take the rap for something beyond your control. And pretty much all the time it does make sense to take the shot for the things you've caused to happen.

Last Sunday, gave me pause to ponder these matters.

I went to a minor league ballgame with some friends. We were hoping to catch a glimpse of Ari Yoshida, the 18-year-old, Japanese woman knuckleballer who recently became just the second woman to ever play professional baseball. After a year in the pros in Japan, she was signed by the Chico Outlaws of the Golden Baseball League - an independent minor league.

Of the six dates that the Outlaws were going to be nearby - playing the Orange County Flyers - my friends and I were able to attend four of them. So we formulated a plan. We would buy tickets to all four games - the best seats in the house were only eleven bucks - and each morning we'd check to see if she was going to pitch that evening.

The plan sounded good on paper. Last Saturday we discovered that she was not scheduled to pitch any of the games we had tickets for. But we decided to go the next day anyhow - maybe they'd bring her in in relief.

For a variety of reasons, the five of us drove down to Orange County in three cars. I drove alone, leaving early in anticipation of bad traffic on Interstate 5. Oddly enough, there wasn't any traffic. I got there an hour early. There was a sign pointing the way to the nearby Richard M. Nixon Library, Birthplace and Grave, and I thought to myself, 'I'd like to go make sure for myself that he really is dead.' So I went.Unfortunately, by the time I got there the place was closed. It does seem unlikely that I could have ascertained whether or not he was dead, anyhow. For guys like Nixon, they ought to put video cameras in the grave with them so that people can reassure themselves that the stake hasn't come out of their heart and they really are moldering in their graves. (Kind of like the video feed from the well head at the BP oil leak.)

They did have, however, what I think might be the helicopter that took him away from the White House for the last time. You know the picture -- him on the steps, a big confused grin on his face, both hands raised inexplicably giving the V for Victory sign with his fingers.As I drove away, I thought to myself, 'Hey, wait a minute, they let him keep the helicopter. What the hell's with that?'

They let him keep a whole lot of other stuff, too. He should have been tossed in jail. Any one of the rest of us would have been if we'd pulled a tenth of the same crap that he did. But he wasn't. He should have lost his pension. He didn't. He should have lived out the rest of his wretched, despicable life in absolute disgrace. Instead, he was largely rehabilitated, future presidents and other world leaders took him seriously, listened to him, took counsel from him. When he died, they attended his funeral and said nice things about him.

Talk about limited liability! That's the sort of limited liability that shouldn't be limited. The President of the United States, more than maybe anybody else, ought to be held responsible for his (so far it's only been "his" so I'm not going to bother being politically correct here - but it goes for you, too, any future female president) actions.

So then I drove to the ballpark. I could suck back a brew, dine on a dog and enjoy a ballgame and forget about Richard Nixon.

We were soon annoyed by the discovery that we were not destined to see our 18-year-old Japanese knuckleballing, second woman ever in professional baseball. Not only did the Outlaws not bring Ari Yoshida in as a relief pitcher, they didn't even bring her with them on their road trip. We caught not so much as a glimpse of her in the dugout. She was home in Chico, presumably listening to her iPod, which is what she said she likes to do in an interview I read with her.

Well, it was a nice night and it was baseball. Things could be worse. Minor league baseball is almost always fun. The Flyers’ mascot was named Coal Train and though he looked like a rat, we were told he was a coyote. In spite of being a coyote, the public address system regularly let loose loud wolf howls that no doubt terrorized neighboring children in bed, interspersed with Homer Simpson exclaiming, “Beeeerr!” and odder yet, canned applause. There was a “Beverage Batter of the Game.” A hapless opposing team player who whenever he came to bat, if he struck out there’d be two dollar beers for the rest of that inning.

Early in the game, my friend Stephanie read the back of her ticket - she hasn't been to a lot of ballgames - and was somewhat amused to read:

Disclaimer Warning – The holder assumes all risk and danger incidental to the game of baseball and promotional events associated therewith, whether occuring prior to, during, or subsequent to the actual playing of the game including, without limitation, the danger of being injured by thrown bats, thrown or batted balls or other objects or promotional items entering the stands or other areas. Additionally, upon entering the stadium, the ticket holder assumes all risk and danger associated with any act of God or terrorism, which may occur while in the stadium. The holder specifically agrees that the Golden Baseball League, the Participating Clubs, their respective owners, officers, directors, employees, agents, players, and other related individuals, are not liable for injuries or loss resulting from such causes.

It seemed vaguely funny at the time. Maybe there's a disclaimer like that on the back of the bible on which the President takes the oath of office.

At the end of the game - the Outlaws won. The baseball highlight was the very odd pitching motion of the Chico team's relief pitcher.

HAPPY BELATED BASTILLE DAY -- GIVE 'EM THE CHOP

I once shook the hand of, and had about 30 seconds of conversation with, Prince Charles. It was at a reception in Hong Kong. He had the perfect handshake; trained, no doubt, from birth. I have never seen a suit fit anyone so perfectly, or hair so expertly coiffed. One of his retainers? footmen? aides? whispered in his ear as he shook my hand and he asked about the magazine I was publishing. In his oh so correctly modulated voice he commiserated with me: "Magazine publishing is a frightfully difficult business, don't you find?"

Well, I did find. My magazine went bust about a year after that. Not that he'd know. If he ever decided to publish anything, turning a profit wouldn't be one of his concerns.

Now don't get me wrong, His Royal Highness The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales and Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, Prince and Great Steward of Scotland, Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Great Master and First and Principal Knight Grand Cross of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Member of the Order of Merit, Knight of the Order of Australia, Companion of the Queen's Service Order, Honorary Member of the Saskatchewan Order of Merit, Chief Grand Commander of the Order of Logohu, Member of Her Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, Canadian Forces Decoration, Aide-de-Camp to Her Majesty, seemed a nice enough fellow. And he was nothing, if not polite.

But I say, OFF WITH HIS HEAD!

And I say that with regard to all royals, everywhere, every last one of them no matter how well mannered or well intentioned or how beloved or how involved in pomp and circumstance and uninvolved in the daily affairs of their realm.

That would set the right example. So, a belated Happy Bastille Day to you all.

MY, SADLY, ANNUAL RANT ABOUT THE DODGERS

"Sadly," because it comes as no surprise and I really ought to know better.

Last night I went to what will almost certainly be my only regular season* Dodgers game at Dodger Stadium. They were playing the St. Louis Cardinals, my long time second favorite team in baseball, and while I was hoping to see the Dodgers win (which they did) I was also hoping to see Albert Pujols - the greatest active player in baseball - hit a homerun (which he didn't.)

*"Regular season" because if the Dodgers somehow get into the World Series, I might just be dumb enough to fork over the enormous sum of cash that would no doubt be required to obtain a ticket to one of those games.

Back to the rant.

Last night's ballgame cost $339.10 for three people.

Admittedly, the biggest part of that cost was my decision to, for once and since it will be the only game I attend this regular season, buy good - not great, but good - seats. The seats were in the next to last row of the loge section - which because of the casual slope of Dodger Stadium is pretty far back from the field - about halfway up the baseline from home to first.

Here's the breakdown of what it cost:

$210 - 3 Loge section seats.
$15 - parking.
$21.50 - "convenience" fees for buying tickets and parking online.
$4.35 - "order processing" online.
$39 - 3 16 ounce cans of Tecate beer.
$28.75 - 5 Super Dodger Dogs.
$6.75 - 1 Polish sausage.
$5 - 1 bag of peanuts.
$3.75 - 1 small Diet Coke.
$5 - 1 bottle of water.

(If I had bought the cheapest possible tickets - $12 (upper deck "nosebleed seats") - and everything else was the same, it still would have cost $165.10 for the three of us. That's a lot cheaper, but it's still pretty high priced entertainment for most families.)

Here's what we got:

The Dodgers trounced the Cards, 12 to 4, which was somewhat gratifying, although I much prefer close, exciting, low-scoring games. (There were, however, some great plays.)

The crowd, of course, loves Manny Ramirez. Me? Not so much. The guy can hit, there's no denying that. But if you take away some of the hits that get past him - because he's a crummy fielder - and subtract those from his batting average, he isn't all that impressive.

My favorite Dodger is Casey Blake. The guy is a fantastic third baseman, and hell - he even psychologically-engineered a game winning balk a few games back. That's my kind of baseball. But he didn't play last night.

The Super Dodger Dog I ate was far better than a regular Dodger Dog (which I think is awful.) The Polish I ate was awful, if I had had anything much resembling lunch I probably wouldn't have finished it. The Tecate was Tecate, the water tasted like water, the peantus were pretty good. We did lose an inning standing in one of the ludicrously slow moving concession lines even though it wasn't all that long of a line.

The weather was nice, temperature comfortable, the early evening part of the game when you could also admire the pastoral (well, for Los Angeles) setting of the ballpark, the company of my friends, the knowledgeable comments of the old guy (even older than me) sitting next to me, were all lovely. If it was half the price I'd happily do it more often. If it was a third of the price, more often than that.

But the Dodgers have to pay the high price of Manny and his crappy fielding. And the McCourts have their idiotic spoiled-rich-folk divorce to get through and I've given the Dodgers more than enough of my money for this season.

I will, however, be heading out to Rancho Cucamonga for a whole lot more Quakes games, where the best seat in the house is twelve bucks and the concessions are reasonably priced and generally tastier than at Dodger Stadium, and the play, while not of big league quality, is enthusiastic and the crowd even more so.

WHY I LOVE MY READERS, EVEN WHEN THEY DON'T LOVE ME

Paul F, one of my readers, recently emailed me:

"I just finished Shanghied and I now have an excellent reason to stay out of the S aisle at the library. Horrible, horrible book."

Thank you, Paul. In all honesty, I mean that.

You finished the book. It must have grabbed your attention and held on to it, unless you're some sort of masochist. I, for one, can't finish books that don't hold my attention in some way or another. Life's too short and there are too many books I still want to read before I die and I don't read all that fast.

The book got a strong response from you. The worst possible thing that anyone can ever say about any of my books is along the lines of, "meh, so what?" If you thought that SHANGHAIED was horrible enough to bother writing and telling me so, I must have done something right.

The thing is, as much as I would love cashing the checks that would come from writing books that everybody, universally loves, I would soon become bored writing those books.

One of the main reasons I write is to challenge myself intellectually and creatively. I like to challenge my readers, too. I don't want all of you to love all of my books. I'd feel like I was failing to accomplish what I want to do as a writer, if that was the case.

Now don't get me wrong. I am pleased as punch that most of the reviews of all of my books have been positive; many of them positively glowing. And yes, my ego does enjoy being stroked by fan letters and starred reviews. When a reader came up to me at an event and told me that the copy of GRAVE IMPORTS they brought along with them on a trip to Cambodia made their trip a whole lot better, I just about swooned with delight.

But I like the bad reviews, too. I especially like intelligent, well-reasoned bad reviews. I've learned from some of them. (Perhaps if the majority of my reviews were bad, I wouldn't be so calm about it.)

Now Paul didn't tell me why he thought SHANGHAIED was a, "Horrible, horrible book." I wish that he had. But simply knowing that he actually finished it inspite of itself, and that it provoked a strong reaction from him, is enough to make me happy.

Here's what I wrote back:

Sorry you feel that way. I’m surprised you finished it. Still, I never wanted to write books that everybody likes. I like writing books that get strong reactions from their readers, and Shanghaied has certainly got plenty of those – both good and bad.

Thanks for reading it in any event, and for letting me know what you thought.

Best,

Eric

Hmmmm, I hope that response didn't make him mad.

And, to finish off this post with some pics, here's a couple from a walk I recently took, following a route laid out in my friend Charles Fleming's new book, which I highly recommend: SECRET STAIRS: A Walking Guide to the Historic Staircases of Los Angeles. (That link is to Skylight Books, Charles' and my neighborhood bookstore and a truly splendid place.) If you must order it from Amazon instead (better to order it from Skylight), here's that link.



And, I also recently attended the launch party for the latest anthology of short fiction, MURDER IN LA LA LAND, put out by the Los Angeles Chapter of Sisters in Crime, of which I am a proud member (and director of the Speakers Bureau.) I was also one of the editors of the anthology.

WHAT'S A WRITER TO DO?

Summer looms and it's looking to be a long one. Pretty much every single summer for the past five years I've had a new book coming out. I'd pile into my car for a road trip to promote that book. I'd roll up seven, eight, nine, even ten thousand miles - visit friends, eat great food that was bad for me, listen to too much talk radio, wonder at roadside attractions. Some people would ask me how I could stand to do it. Those people don't know me very well. It was fun, a lot of fun.

I can also tell you that it wasn't cost effective. But it was my summer vacation, and since when does a summer vacation have to be cost effective anyhow?

But this year I can't come up with a good excuse to do it again. And I'm kind of depressed about that.

I've written a new book, CENTRAL AVENUE. It's the first in what I hope to be a trilogy. At the moment, though, it's pounding the pavement of New York City trying to find a new agent who can sell it.

I've got my old books, but they are fast on their way to being out of print. I want to make them available for e-reader download (one of them, WRONG SIDE OF THE WALL, already is) but I need to formally get the rights to them reverted to me before I can.

The thing is, if a writer has even the slightest hope of making something vaguely resembling a career out of writing books, they've got to keep themselves in the reading public's eyes as much as possible; new book or not.

I could get arrested for something that will make the papers. But why waste that when I don't have a new book out? By the time the new book is out I'll be old news. Same for being a People Magazine level homewrecker. "Angelina Leaves Brad for Little Known Crimewriter!" But the tabloids, and maybe Angelina, are fickle enough that it is best to keep that in reserve for when it will do me the most good. (Not that it wouldn't be fun in the meantime.)

So I'm just doing what I can. That's to say, showing up at libraries and book events and other such things as often as possible. Maybe I'll show up somewhere near you one of these days, even without a new book to peddle.

Here's some of where I've been lately:

L.A. Times Festival of Books. I helped set up the Sisters in Crime booth, starting at 6am on Saturday and helped work at the booth from then until 6:30 that night, then again the next day from around 9am to 2:30. I also signed books at the SinC booth and at The Mystery Bookstore Booth. Part of the time I got to sit next to my pal Dianne Emley, who does have a new book coming out in about a week.
I ate truly fantastic sandwiches and went to the swell Men's Room at Pal Cabron in Huntington Park, one of my favorite L.A. neighborhoods. (Is everyone on Facebook?)
I moderated and was a panelist on a panel put on by Sisters in Crime, L.A. (of which I am currently the Speakers Bureau Director) at the Burbank Library. It was called "Murder Abroad" and was about crime books set in exotic locales. The Burbank Library always gets pretty good attendance at panels, especially considering that they are often on Saturday afternoons when the weather is good.And, I was on a panel about agents - a subject dear to my heart since I am currently hunting for a new one - at the Sisters in Crime meeting in early May.

Then I went to Tucson where some of the cacti were in bloom and there was a new, gigantic, world class Asian supermarket. It was my father's birthday and I neglected to do anything whatsoever to further my career.

Then last weekend it was San Diego by train - just because it is one of the only easy to get to by train from Los Angeles destinations. Take it from me, the blurry photo (damn cameras on cellphones) is of one of the all time great street performers. (He's in the Gaslamp District with some degree of frequency - check him out.) What looks like two dwarf sailors dancing with each other, is him in a bizzare suit with his hands and feet in pairs of boots.
Then there was a statue outside of the downtown branch of the Museum of Contemporary Art - which had wonderful, very well thought out, thought-provoking exhibitions - which seems to me to be a Native American version of the "He ain't heavy, father, he's my brother," statue at Boys Town in Nebraska.
May 22, from 5 to 7pm at The Mystery Bookstore in Westwood Village, is the launch party for the new Sisters in Crime anthology of short fiction. I was one of the editors. I'll be there. And I'll be at a large number of events and signings throughout June and July to help promote the book as well. (Hmmm, I guess I do sort of have a new book out this summer after all.) You should be able to find an event somewhere near you by going to the SinCLA website.

Anyhow, I'm going to do my part to make sure you don't forget me until CENTRAL AVENUE comes out. You do your part, too.

SETON RICE SAYS, WE HAVE WINNERS!

Near as I can tell, there was a tie between Alison Janssen - the oh so very fine, whipsmart, editor of Tyrus Books, and the editor of the four Ray Sharp books published by Bleak House; and Ellen Clair Lamb - the ever so marvellous, witty, entertaining and informative woman behind AnswerGirl.

Steve Ulfelder, a fine, fast fellow and crimewriter in his own right, got the Rice, right, and seems to expect half a book for his troubles. I've offered to email him half of one of my books. That seems fair, doesn't it?

STILL NO NEW ME - UPPING THE STAKES

No one's got it yet, even using anagram generators. Sheesh. Okay, so if I were, say, James Patterson, I know there'd be thousands, maybe tens of thousands of entries to my little contest. But I'm not.

So, I'm upping the stakes. The new prize is not only a signed copy of any one of my books, but I will personally take the winner out to lunch at my favorite Shanghai xiao long bao dumpling place as well. (If you don't live in L.A., you'll have to get yourself to L.A. to accept that part of the prize.)

So there, maybe that will generate some more entries. Oh yeah, and here's another sort of hint: it could be an anagram of my entire name - Eric Laurence Stone - or it could be an anagram of any two of the component names of my entire name. And, even a further hint: it sounds like a plausible real name. So there.

NAME THE NEW ME - A CONTEST

I was recently asked, by an agent I was speaking with, whether or not I'd be willing to use a pseudonym to sell future books. In particular, books that are not part of the Ray Sharp - now the Wen Lei Yue - series.

It's not that my books are box office poison. Well, not exactly. I, like several other authors I know, do fall into the dreaded category of "great reviews - mediocre to lousy sales." That's not exactly a category with much curb appeal for publishers.

Publishers want "great reviews - great sales." They're even happy with just plain "great sales" no matter what the reviews. They are, after all, in business to make money. Most publishers would rather take a chance on a new writer, than try to break out an established writer with a less than stellar sales record. Especially if it's in a new genre, or with a new series, or something like that.

I happen to like my name. I'm proud of what I write and want to be able to write it under my own name. But then, I'm not so proud that I'm willing to miss out on publishing opportunities.

Thus the pseudonym.

It won't do to simply open a phonebook at random, plunk down a fingertip and there you've got it. Among other things, I don't even have any phonebooks anymore. I've tossed them all out. I use my computer for that.

I want a pseudonym that rolls easily off the tongue. I want one without too many syllables. I want one that no one else is using and that isn't too close to some other author's name. (No Harry Melville or Marcy Twain for me.) And I want one that I can still get the domain name for, preferably a dot com.

So I've come up with one. I'm not going to tell you what it is. I'm going to let you guess.

The first person who guesses correctly wins their choice of a signed hardback copy of any of my books. I'll even give you a hint, a big hint: it's an anagram of my name. My whole legal name, by the way, is Eric Laurence Stone. It might be an anagram of all of that, or of any parts of that. That's for you to guess.

I like the pseudonym. But once one of you guesses what it is and wins this contest, there will be a new, standing offer. If anyone out there comes up with a pseudonym for me that I like better and that meets the criteria I stated earlier in this post - and I will be the sole, subjective judge of that - you will win a complete set of all five of my, so far, published books, in hardcover, signed by me.

Good luck.

VOICES FROM THE SUBLIME TO THE RIDICULOUS AND BACK AGAIN

I don't know what got into me, but this afternoon I turned on C-Span and started watching some of the "debate" about the healthcare reform bill. It is not a debate, in spite of them calling it that. It's 435 assholes (every single one of whom, by the way, enjoys government provided healthcare) posturing for the people who fund their campaigns.

All of them have already made up their minds about how they plan to vote. There is not one of them who will have, or is open to having, their mind changed by this final "debate." All it is, is their last chance to get on the record before the bill is voted on, so that they can tell the other assholes who mostly finance their re-election campaigns that they tried to stop or tried to pass the bill.

I could only stomach so much of that.

Luckily, I remembered that it's getting late in the baseball spring training season and that on a Sunday, there might be a Dodger game being televised. There is. Suddenly I switched from the noxious panderings of our elected representatives, to the soothing, intelligent, witty, informative dulcet tones of Vin Scully. He is starting his 61st year broadcasting Dodger games. I've been listening to him for most of those years.

Vin Scully reminds me of all that's right with the world. He comforts me in times of sorrow and despair and frustration. I credit him with teaching me a great deal of the English I speak and write.

Oh Vinny, if only all those Congressional-fucktards would yield the floor to you, we'd all be better off for it.

My day was saved. I hope you find some way of salvaging yours, too.

Oh, and one last thing: the other day I saw a protest sign held up at a Tea Party Rally. It read: "Don't let the government take over Congress." Ya gotta love these people sometimes. Really, if Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert had come up with that, people would have criticized them for going too far and making up stuff that was unbelievably over the top stupid. I do so love it when people do the best job of satirizing themselves.

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THE GOOD BROKE LIFE IN SUNNY SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

In the winter, when my mom was a kid growing up in Los Angeles, sometimes she'd take the train up to the snow in the morning and go sledding. Then she'd head back into the city around lunch time, hopping off the train at one stop to pick some oranges from the trees along the tracks. She'd take the train out to the beach and there were days when she'd go swimming. Other days, it might be just a little too cold for that, but she'd sit, pushing her bare feet through the sand, watching the waves, eventually the sunset.

She'd do all that, well, just because she could.

You can't do that by train anymore, but you can still do it by car. Easily. There are some very good reasons why California was the primary destination of internal migration in the U.S. for more than a hundred years. And why it has been the primary destination for overseas immigrants, from all over the world, for the past 20 or so years.

People often ask me if I miss living in Asia. And I do. There is something about the perspective you get of the rest of the world, and of the U.S. from outside the U.S. that is very seductive. There are a whole host of other things about life as an expatriate that are also very seductive.

But for just plain variety, diversity, depth and breadth of culture and the arts and food and nearly everything else, I think I could make a pretty good case for the Greater Los Angeles Area being the greatest place on the planet.

Not to rub it in, but today is March 1, 2010. It is 70 degrees outside. There is plenty of snow on the mountains about an hour to 1-1/2 hours away. The sky is sunny and blue and if you're not reliant on government funding or a good job for what you do, well, the living is easy. (The State is essentially broke. Un- and under- employment is horrifying.)

And no matter what, I'm not going to starve. Here's what I picked from my backyard this afternoon:Standard, Key and Thai limes (and Thai lime leaves which are very useful), Mandarin and Naval oranges (there's a third type as well, but it looks like it needs another week or two to ripen), Standard and Meyer lemons, Chilies pequin, rosemary, mint and flat leaf parsley.

Okay, so there's no protein. For that I might have to shoot a raccoon or trap a squirrel or something. One of my neighbors has chickens, and turkeys for that matter. But Sunset Boulevard's only a ten minute walk down the hill and there's a great Cuban restaurant with garlicky roast pork.

Yep, it's the good life in Sunny Southern Cal, even when we're broke.

"THE MEDIA" OWES US AN APOLOGY

NOT TIGER WOODS. I just tried watching his public mea culpa and I had to turn it off. If he wants, he can go ahead and apologize to his wife, his family, his business partners who have lost some money. But me? I don't need to hear it.

Now sure, on a fantasy level what I would hope to hear Tiger say, backed up heartily by his wife, is something along the lines of: "You guys have it so wrong. Elin and I have an open relationship. We think monogamy is ludicrous and goes against everything in our biology. So leave us alone."

But, well, a very wise old friend of mine used to say: "You can hope in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up faster." So I'm not expecting something like that, not from anyone, not ever. It's a shame, really. Think of how much grief the country would have been spared if Bill and Hillary had gone on TV and said something like that.

(I have no idea whether or not any of these people have open relationships, but the reality is that - especially in couples where one or the other or both people are rich, powerful, famous, or heartbreakingly beautiful or handsome - they really should have considered it for their own good. They might as well give in to the reality that monogamy isn't very likely between them, and be honest about it.)

Okay, so barring my fantasy scenario, what I really want to hear from the next "caught" celebrity is: "It's none of your fucking business. Get off of my lawn."

There are a large host of pretty damn important issues staring us in the face every morning when we wake up: unemployment, healthcare, education (or lack of it, or lack of funding for it), corruption, government gridlock, a couple of wars, future-threatening deficits, whether or not the Dodgers are going to have good enough starting pitching this year... All of which are inadequately reported by media outlets that would rather deal with the simplicities of who Tiger Woods is sticking his dick into, than the complexities of the real world that actually have an impact on our daily lives.

It's the media I'm mad at, not Tiger Woods. I don't really care about Tiger Woods. I only care in that the newspapers I read, the websites I visit, the radio and TV shows I listen to and watch, are filled with him and his stupid, boring apology, rather than with anything that informs me about the stuff that actually affects me.

Okay, so now that that's off my chest, I'm going to talk about writing. I'm a writer, after all.

I just had an interesting interaction with the person who constitutes what little I've got in the way of a writing group. (Follow this link to read what she has to say about this matter, but finish reading mine first, okay?)

Sometimes we trade our works in progress back and forth for comment and criticism. It can come in very handy. She pulled me back from a cliff I was about to jump off of in my latest book - CENTRAL AVENUE.

But we work very differently. She is a diligent, detailed outliner. I'm not. I don't outline at all, I just sit down and start writing and see where it goes.

A couple of days ago she sent me the outline of her latest book. She wanted to know what I thought. What I thought was that I liked it, but it might be stronger if she changed the gender of one of the major characters in the book.

She said, maybe that makes sense, but it would mean she would have to totally rethink, rework and generally rewrite the entire book and almost everything in it. That thought did not make her happy.

I, not being accustomed to the huge amount of labor that some people put into working out their outlines - and being something of an ignorant boor from time to time - responded with something that she felt belittled her concern over the massive task I had just suggested to her. I said something along the lines of: it shouldn't be too much work, the basic plot is still there and you haven't written the book yet, just the outline.

Okay, so perhaps I can be a bit insensitive sometimes. But that is the way I saw it. I piece together my books as they come, word by word, line by line, scene by scene, and in my mind, when I type that very first word, all it means is that anything can happen next. If at some point I need to take something in a different direction, I just do it as I get to it.

But, it should come as no surprise to me that not everyone writes the way I do. Nor should they. Every writer needs to find their own way to write, the way that works best for them.

I don't know whether or not she is going to take my suggestion to heart, or tell me to shove it up my ass from whence it came. That's up to her. She'll write the book she wants, in the way she wants, and knowing her it will end up being a very good book.

And what have I taken from this? Yet another kick in the butt telling me that not just the end, but the means of getting to that end need to be taken into account on a regular, and individualized, basis.

THE JOY OF EXHIBITIONISM

As any long term reader of my blog knows, I love tattoo expos. As a photographer, my favorite subject has always been people. A lot of people are shy about having their picture taken. Not, however, at tattoo expos. That's part of the enjoyment of the experience for people in attendance.

Sometimes I feel a little guilty as I don't have any tattoos of my own. As I've mentioned before, I've got commitment issues; I just can't decide what tattoo I'd like to live with for the rest of my life. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate other people's ink. I do, a lot.

Here's some pictures from the human exhibition I was at yesterday:







And then, like any good exhibition anywhere, there were people promoting and selling things that in their minds were associated, but in this case weren't tattoos. For instance; in support of the ballot measure to legalize pot:

And, well, simply expressing their love of vaginas:

COUGARS, NAZIS, TICKS - OH MY!

Not to rub it in, but today was a fairly typical Los Angeles January day: temperature in the mid to upper 70s, views from the ocean out to the snow capped San Gabriels in the east (taller than any mountains east of the Rockies), a slight breeze. You get the picture. And if you don't, here's one:


The thing that makes Los Angeles, in my mind, the greatest city on the planet, is its diversity. I can probably list several hundred things that one can find here in this one place, that you'd have to go to a few dozen other cities to come across.

Does New York have mountain lions? Maybe in the Bronx zoo it does.

I set out today with a group of friends to go on a hike. We passed the gate on the fire road in Rustic Canyon - part of Pacific Palisades - and took note of the things to watch out for: mountain lions, rattlesnakes (in summer), brushfires, flash floods, ticks. Yes, we were comfortably within the confines of what is arguably the largest, most populous urban area in the United States (taking into account all the counties that make up the Greater Los Angeles area) and yet we were venturing into a potentially deadly wilderness.

Central Park? Hah, that's for panzies!

Our destination was the ruins of a Nazi commune, deep in the Santa Monica Mountains.

Yep, that's right, Nazis. And they bought their 50 acres of land from Will Rogers - who was decidedly not a Nazi sympathizer. Back in the 1930s they spent four million dollars (nearly $65 million today) building their own little self-sufficient slice of the Third Reich, in which they planned to wait for the glorious victory of Germany over the rest of the world.

Luckily for all of us, it didn't turn out that way. Not long after Pearl Harbor they were raided, kicked off the land, tossed into jail and that was the end of that. During the 1950s the area was reportedly used as an artists colony. Andrew Wyeth, Henry Miller and possibly Christopher Isherwood were supposed residents at one point or another. Now it's all just falling apart, waiting to be bulldozed eventually to be part of a big park.

To get to it, you walk down 500 some odd steps after hiking for a little while. To get back to civilization from it, you walk up either 511 or 512 steps - the counts were evenly split. My left knee is now killing me. But at least we lost not one member of our intrepid party to malevolent wildlife, or nazis.

Here's some pics:

PICS FROM THE PORCH

I woke up far too early on this the last day of 2009. I was somewhat compensated, however, by the view from the bedroom window of the moon setting over the Hollywood Hills. Groggily, I went for my camera:

EVERYONE ELSE IS DOING IT, SO WHY NOT ME?

THIS YEAR'S SUMMATION:

I don't like Top Ten lists. For one, I usually have more or less than that to go on the list. For two, I tend to see most things in a bewildering array of shades of gray. For three, I break things down into an enormous number of concise categories. (Not just "books." Not even just "mysteries." Not even "mysteries," "thrillers," "literary fiction," "non-fiction," etc. I'd have to have dozens of Top Ten lists and I don't have the time, or the inclination.) For four, some of my favorite things came out prior to this past year and I just now got around to them.

So here's some stuff I liked this year. (Don't worry, to maintain my somewhat cranky reputation I'll get to some stuff I didn't like, below.)

Among the books I especially liked, loved even, were:

INTO THE BEAUTIFUL NORTH, Luis Alberto Urrea. It was fun, allegorical, magnificently written, smart as all get out, political, sexual, social and about nearly anything and everything worth giving a damn about. The beautiful, but not sappy, side of the human condition.

BEIJING COMA, Ma Jian. One of the most depressing, disturbing, fantastically written novels I have ever read. It is awfully hard to think anything kindly about China after reading this book. It is about the ugly, brutal, avaricious side of the human condition. Dostoevsky would have been proud to have written it.

THE KINDLY ONES, Jonathan Littell. Okay, another depressing novel. And really gross and hard to read in places, too. The fictional argument for Hannah Arendt's "Banality of Evil." Makes you think about things you probably don't want to think about.

MIRRORS, Eduardo Galeano. A history of the world through snippets of biography, memoir and quotes from people who are real, mythological and no one knows for sure. Wildly entertaining, easy to read, and thought-provoking.

A SHORT HISTORY OF NEARLY EVERYTHING, Bill Bryson. Extremely amusing and informative. Intelligent science for us non-scientists.

I tend to avoid too much pimping of my friends' books, even though I buy and read all of them, or as many as I can. I'm sure to forget someone. Sometimes I might not like a friend's book (as they might not like mine) and so I don't feel like I can be honest. And, well, at this point I know too many fellow writers. I have a hard enough time keeping up with my own blather on this blog.

But, that said, I do want to add my voice to the growing chorus that is singing the praises of the first novel by Sophie Littlefield, A BAD DAY FOR SORRY. It is one very damn fine read from a writer who I know works harder at her craft than many of the rest of us; certainly more than myself. I'm looking forward to her future books.

I liked some movies this year, too, but for the most part I think it was a lousy year for movies, so I'm having a tough time remembering them. Not that many appealed to me, so I didn't see as many as usual. Among the ones I do recall are:

THE HURT LOCKER. About as suspensful and riveting a movie as I have ever seen. I got so wound up watching it that I felt like I had to do stretches and take deep breaths when I got out of the theater.

THE HANGOVER. It was funny - even the second time. (I saw it again at Thanksgiving with my family.) And I find so few comedies actually funny, that that was enough. But it was smart, too, and somewhat sabotaged it's genre - which I appreciated.

That's about it, at least that I can recall. I tried jarring my memory by looking at the current rash of Top Ten lists online, but I just didn't see much that I loved at the movies this year.

On the other hand, this is the year that I finally decided television is capable of being a whole lot better than movies. I think this is because of the medium itself. Most movies are anywhere from 90 to 130 minutes long. That has nothing at all to do with artistic or storytelling decisions. It has to do with the fact that in the past movie theaters were set up to best handle films that involved a certain number of reels of film, and that they also need to squeeze in a certain number of showings per day to make a profit. (And overpriced popcorn and sodas, of course.) That severely limits the amount of character and plot development any movie can engage in. In some cases, it's a good thing. Too many movies are already too long.

But I have come to see movies as the equivalent of short stories - no matter how big their scope. While television series can stretch out, much like a novel. Perhaps that is a reason why the best movies adapted from previously published works, tend, with a few exceptions, to come from short stories, rather than novels.

I read, and enjoy, and write, more novels than short stories. So here's some of the television series that I have most unabashedly enjoyed in the past year:

BREAKING BAD. As dark, complex, bleak and yet at times funny as anything I have ever read or seen.

MAD MEN. Ditto, but also about the very human struggle against the brain-numbing responsibilities of daily and family life.

BIG LOVE. Sexual and religious politics to the max. A Shakespearean drama that has the ability to make me squirm.

UGLY BETTY. I dunno, I just like it. I think it's smart, funny, charming, touching and sometimes makes some pretty good points.

THE BIG BANG THEORY. The only half-hour sitcom I have ever liked this much. Very smart, very funny, politically incorrect. If laughing really is good for you, this show is medicine for me.

Okay, I could go on and on and on if I wanted: music, websites, restaurants, art shows, etc. But enough's enough.

Here's a short, incomplete list - in no particular order - of some (domestic only) things I didn't like this year:

Republicans
Democrats
The Supreme Court
Big financial institutions
Many unions
Glen Beck
Keith Olbermann
All TV "news"
Sherlock Holmes - the movie.
Bored To Death - tv series.
American Airlines
About 77.8 percent of what I see on Twitter
Celebrity obsession
Bob Dylan's Xmas album
"Reality TV" (other than Top Chef, which I have a weakness for.)
A Prairie Home Companion
The NY Yankees

There's plenty more where those came from, but it's time to wrap up this year end wrap up.

I hope, as I always hope, that next year is better. Although on the whole, for me at least, this year's been pretty good.

STRIPLESS IN LAS VEGAS

Not exactly, not really. I stayed on the Strip at the Wynn Encore. I walked up and down the Strip numerous times. It's excellent exercise - two miles from the Encore to the MGM Grand if you stick to the sidewalk (2.6 miles to the Mandalay Bay), somewhere between 2-1/2 to 3 miles to the MGM if you detour in and out of casinos and shopping malls, etc.

And, even if you don't gamble, go to shows or get driven by touts to strip clubs - none of which I bothered with - there is still a lot to see along the Las Vegas Strip.

Foremost is, of course, the people. It is very fun people watching. It's also international. I gave up counting at overhearing 16 different languages - at least the ones I recognized.

There is also some amusing, and now even some truly great, architecture. Parts of the new City Center development - some five years and $8.5 billion in the making - opened this week, and I gotta admit I loved it. Here's some photographic arguments (click on the photo if you want to see it bigger) for why:The two, yellow-checkered buildings really do look like they tilt away from each other and at an angle to everything else. It's disconcerting and fun. The multi-angled building in front is the shopping center. (Interior pictures below.)
A Henry Moore sculpture just outside one of the entrances to the shopping mall.
Bird chairs just outside the shopping mall.


Interiors and fountain/sculptures.The ice melts and refreezes, the water swirls and gurgles.

There is, of course, the more traditional, bizarre architecture to be found along the Strip, both inside the hotels and out:

There's art, too. In the Paris Hotel and Casino I saw a very fun exhibit of cover art from Harlequin Romance Novels. And Paris is also home to the world's largest equine mural - painted by my uncle, Fred Stone:
And in Mandalay Bay, right across from Michael Mina's Stripsteak - order the off-the-menu Angus Ribeye Cap, it is one of the best steaks in the world - is more art (not, however, by my Uncle Fred):
There does seem to be something about the Las Vegas Strip that brings out the religious side of commerce:

But all is not lost. Bettie Page apparently has her own store right next door to True Religion:
Some of the greatest art in Las Vegas is neon. The Neon Museum is one of the great things to see in the city. (The museum itself is being built. At the moment you have to take a tour of the "boneyard" - a dumping ground for old neon signs. It is well worth it, a true highlight of any visit to Las Vegas. Click anywhere on these sentences to link to their website.
They are very strict about publishing pictures taken in the boneyard - even on blogs. But here's some pictures of neon signs in downtown Las Vegas, where some of the best are to be found:



Okay, so it is the Holiday Season. I suppose I'll sign off with some Christmas Cheer - Las Vegas style:

Well, maybe not. I don't want to upset those of you who know me to be the grinch that I am. On Christmas Day my tradition is Chinese food and a movie matinee. Here's a picture taken from Las Vegas' surprisingly large and interesting Chinatown, followed by the sort of thing that most people who know me well associate with me and Christmas:


Happy New Year. I can get behind that.