Blog Migration

Finally made the move from Blogger to WordPress. (It was time.)

Find it here:

Observe2Enthuse.wordpress.com

Randalism

Vandalism intrigues me. Individuals insinuating themselves into your field of view, announcing their point of view to stir something up inside you. It is a claim upon the land, sometimes implicitly. I find some of these advertisements to be humorous, and others I find extremely shocking. Sometimes, they're unreadable (but they still affect you as the viewer). The act of tagging says, "I'm here, you better get used to it."

~

Last week I had to clean up some vandalism outside of the building where I work. I used some really strong paint stripper to remove the tags - it worked perfectly. When the work was complete, I felt good. I'd cleaned up the facade and that was that.

The next day, ALL of the tags were back in the same places.

Ownership is a fallacy

often quietly employed

and agreed upon.

But, in fact,

these spaces are shared.

Some recent examples (including one of my own).

~

"What is this you call property? It cannot be the earth, 

for the land is our mother, nourishing all her children, 

beasts, birds, fish and all men. 

The woods, the streams, everything on it 

belongs to everybody 

and is for the use of all. 

 How can one man say it belongs only to him?" 

 -Massasoit

~

Draw your own conclusions.

Emerging Voices

On Sunday, July Seventh, I attended a seminar (of sorts) held by author-panelists associated with the PEN center USA organization. The panelists were all successful writers sharing a bit about themselves, but mostly they sought to elaborate on a PEN Fellowship offered but once a year. Emerging Voices is the name of that fellowship, given only to talented writers who need help breaking into the business. The meeting was held here at Skylight Books in Los Feliz.

There were many presenters, most of them unfamiliar to me, authors of all genres from poetry to creative nonfiction to children's books. To name a few: Jillian Lauren (Some Girls), Sacha A. Howells (Juggernott, a work in process), Cecil Castellucci (the adventures of Cecil Seaskull), Maria Amparo Escandon (Gonzalez & Daughter Trucking Co.), Diana Wagman (Spontaneous). Libby Flores (contributor to The Rattling Wall) is the current Program Director of Emerging Voices, and she served as moderator for the event.

I arrived early to get a sense of the people and the space. In quiet moments I heard the muzak of Skylight Books, The Smiths. After finding a good seat, I instantly saw how insular this literary group behaved. There were plenty of guests filtering into the place, but only the people in the very front of the room - the famous and the semi-famous - were shaking hands, commiserating. The rest of us listened to Morrissey's soft voice. Eventually, the Program Director walked up to the podium in salutation.

The initial presentation was succinct and clear: if you want to know what it takes to become an Emerging Voice, just listen closely to the success stories of our former fellows. I could tell everyone here wanted to apply (me included), and there was a nervous silence whenever any of the presenters spoke. I looked down at the literature provided. I could see myself mentored by a Mark Salzman or a Ben Loory, as I'm sure many of the other angsty males in the room could. I recognized one of my UCLA professors, Harryette Mullen, as well. (Perhaps it's a stretch to think she would mentor me.)

I was rapt by the presentation, practically paralyzed. The lucky awardees of the fellowship would benefit from an ongoing mentorship with an author, as well as master classes, voice instruction for public readings, and other free courses through UCLA extension. It also came with a $1000 stipend. Perhaps most impressive, fellows would attend evenings with other prominent authors - sometimes in the author's very own homes! It sounded like a dream.

What were the criteria, you may ask? Two things, really. The first: in order for a fellowship applicant to be considered, s/he must be an exceptional writer (obviously). Perhaps it is a good time to mention that the girl to guy ratio of the room was about eight to one, draw your own conclusion. The second criteria was more vague than you might think. An applicant must prove a "lack of access" to the tools necessary to join the ranks of the literary elite.

This lack of access was a bit puzzling. Sure, I could imagine that some of the current fellows had a genuine need for the Emerging Voices Fellowship. But not all of them. There were older, more stable applicants with careers. Some seemed to be pretty established and in good shape, if you will. And some of them were already published before they applied. Lack of access seemed to be a pretty loose term.

~

Following the presentation, several audience members participated in the Q & A session. Their questions were all very similar. Everyone wanted to know the secrets of these gatekeepers of the fellowship; everyone wanted to know how to get a leg-up on the competition. Questions like: "Are there writers of particular genres that are more commonly selected than others?" or "Is the lack of access more important, or the ability to write well?" Every questioner sounded like they were asking their professors for hints on the test at the end of the quarter. 

I asked a question, but just a simple one. I wanted to know where one might attend the upcoming public readings. I figured they weren't going to give out any tips to applicants; I wanted to know where I could see these authors again, if only to get to know them better at a later date.

After the talks, the audience disintegrated and the schmoozing ensued. Everyone aggregated around the author closest to their genre, talking in high-pitched tones (if only to be aurally memorable, should they meet again). I did it too - how could I not? One of the fellows from this year was Tommy Moore: his genre was definitely a match for my style of writing. We spoke for a bit over a beer.

I stayed long enough to stay present in the minds of the writers, but I left before it got uncomfortable. As I departed, I couldn't help but think again about the "lack of access." Do I lack access? I believe I do, but I'm sure there are others that lack access more than myself. I believe I am a capable writer and I most certainly will apply, if only to challenge myself to get in.

On my way out the door of Skylight Books, I saw two famous authors: David Francis (Stray Dog Winter) and the abovementioned Diana Wagman (The Care and Feeding of Exotic Pets). I snapped a picture.

I belong with these folks, I thought. Fellow or no, I could just feel that this was my cadre, my tribe.

But then, as I walked further away from Skylight Books, I could not help but think of how I am different, how I do lack access. There I was, walking to the bus stop. I figure everyone in that bookstore must have driven in a car to get there. Perhaps someone at the event lived in Los Feliz, walking from their apartment down the street. I, on the other hand, had to ride a bus for three hours in total. 

In that, I was alone.

 

But then again, when I got to the bus stop, I remembered that I was not alone.

Draw your own conclusions.

Let's go to the City of Los Angeles Department of Building and Safety!

Today I went to the City of Los Angeles Department of Building and Safety in Downtown Los Angeles. This draconian bureau holds - or withholds - many treasures for contractors. My employer, Tim, invited me to explore the myriad levels of this steel and glass castle. We had to acquire three items from their vaults: a business license, a stamp of approval for the blueprints of a bathroom remodel, and a building permit.

First, we had to find a parking place for the truck. The city streets we all metered; no spaces were available anyway. The parking garage charged $2.75 for every fifteen minutes, up to a maximum of $27.50.

"Wow! That's pricey," I said.

"I already know we'll be paying twenty-seven dollars," Tim replied. "Just watch."

***

It was 11:25 a.m. when we parked. There was one elevator from the garage to the lobby; another from the lobby to the fourth floor, which was where we would go to find all of our building needs met.

"It's not on this floor," Tim said, walking fast toward the stairs.

"What's not?" I asked.

"We have to go to the third floor to renew my business license first." It's good I was with Tim: I would have been stuck waiting in line to talk with the person at the information desk. I looked at the clock when we reached the bottom of the staircase - it was already 11:45.

This is Enos. He is in charge of providing legitimate contractors with business licenses. Three times he told us to sit down, but there weren't any chairs. "This is why I have these signs - take a seat." Tim and I just stood there. Enos was the first and only capable bureaucrat that we met today. He explained to a father and daughter that they needed to go upstairs to the cashier and then come back. Enos told another man "everything's fine, we just gotta fix that wrong address." He was very good at his job, helping us in no time. It was about Noon when we were off to the cashier.

The first time we went to the cashier there were ten people in line. When we arrived at the front, Tim swiped his card for the balance. We looked again at the bankcard: Enos had pointed out that they misspelled Tim's name - it had read "Tomothy." We had a good chuckle.

We returned to Enos to get the license, and that was our first victory.

***

Back on the fourth floor, we now had to get a number from the information desk, number 36. We then would wait for our number to be called. That took about twenty five minutes. The whole time, Tim was guessing which person would be handling the business plans and wondering whether or not they would give us approval: "Would it be the Latino guy? Or one of the two Asian girls? Maybe the Indian guy? I am hoping for that bearded guy."

"You mean 'young Santa'?" I replied.

We had another chuckle. It would be our last.

The skinny girl called "number thirty-six" and we sat down in front of her desk. Tim had told me earlier that he didn't want her to handle the plans. He could tell she was just out of college, and would probably just try to block us from getting the blueprints approved. Sure enough, she did. THEY ALL DID.

"Where is the closet in this bedroom?" she asked. "All bedrooms must have a closet."

Thinking quickly, Tim said, "The room is being repurposed - that's just a typo." She seemed ready to complete the transaction when - suddenly - a handsome young man walked up behind us and got her undivided attention.

"You haven't answered your cell," the handsome youth said, smiling. She smiled back. Then she looked at us.

"I have to double check to make sure that you are approved for building in this part of Los Angeles," she said. "I will put your number back into the system, and we'll call you in a moment." And it was time to wait again.

Curiously, the young man sat right down where we had been sitting, right in front of her desk. He had no number and she immediately started to help him with his building plans. They were smiling and laughing - flirting. I caught a picture of them in the act.

After we had waited another twenty minutes - it was well after One o'clock now - she called over to us.

"Haven't they called your number yet?"

"No," I said.

"Weren't you number thirty-three?" the young girl asked.

"Nope!" I said, sorta loudly, perturbed. "We're thirty-six."

"Oh!" she replied. "Well, go over to the information desk - you'll have to get a new number. Once you have a new number in the system, we will call you momentarily."

***

The other Asian called our number this time.

"Eighty-eight!"

Tim and I walked over to where she was seated. She looked over the building plans, and then she said: "the plot plans need to be on this sheet."

"Oh, really?" Tim said.

"Yes," she replied. "You can go down to the parking structure to get a copy of the plot plan. When you come back, we'll enter your number into the system again." The parking structure? What the fuck?

"I'll do it," I said, as I grabbed the plans and ran down the stairs to get a copy made.

***

Sure enough, there was a copy room in the parking garage. Tim came in to meet me.

"It's $3.82 for an eight-by-ten copy," I said, a bit astounded at the price.

"I'll give her a tip," Tim said sarcastically, leaving four dollars on the table.

***

Once we returned, they were calling our number in short order.

"Eighty-eight!"

Second Asian girl. She once again looked over the plans, and then she said: "are you the owner?"

"No. I'm the contractor." Tim didn't seem that annoyed, really.

"You can't get a permit for this property unless you have the 'grant deed'," she said.

"Let me call the owner." And Tim was on his phone straightaway.

"Actually, I don't have time," the young girl said. "I have to go to another department. We'll call your number."

***

"Number eighty-eight." It was the Indian guy now. His name was Amkit.

Looking over the plans, he had a great deal of questions about the roof jacks. Amkit was stalling. It was well after Two o'clock now. Finally, he informed us that we could take the blueprint to "Planning Express" - what a misnomer - absolutely nothing about this place was "express"!

"She said we need a grant deed," Tim said.

"Contractors don't need a grant deed to pull a permit," Amkit replied nonchalantly. Don't these people know how to do their jobs? I thought to myself.

***

At Planning Express, Mindy told us that we were not allowed to build in that part of Los Angeles because it is a "Historic Preservation Overlay Zone."

"That's only if we do exterior work," Tim said. "This is a bathroom remodel."

"Oh." The woman typed furiously, walked over to a printer entitled "BOBA FETT," and toyed with it for a few more minutes. Mindy looked to a colleague nearby and said, "I'm just gonna use Skywalker instead, Boba's been acting up all day." It was not funny.

And finally we had permission for a permit. "Go to the cashier, once you purchase the permit, get another number and then you can get the plans approved."

***

As we waited in the cashier line for the cashier the second time, I noticed a payment sign.

Under the heading for Credit Cards: Discover had been struckthrough, and the letters E-B-T were inscribed after it. EBT? Foodstamps? This place is ludicrous!

***

New number: five-hundred-who-the-fuck-cares. It's Three o'clock.

We get called by yet another department: Plan Check. They look at the plans for *literally* thirty seconds and then tell you for your number to get called. AGAIN.

***

"Number Five-Hundred-And-Something-Something."

(That's how I remember it.)

It was Amkit again. He looked over the plans with his Latino pal, and they asked more questions to kill time. The brought up the roof jacks again, asked about weight-bearing walls, and piled on the general bullshit.

Meanwhile to our right, a woman swooped in at another desk and flirted with a younger male bureaucrat. No number, no problem! If I learned one thing today, it's that sex appeal goes a long, long way in this hellhole.

Finally Amkit acquiesced. That meant that we had to stand in the cashier line ONE MORE TIME to pay for the plans to get stamped.

***

3:30. Theo helped us the final time. Our final hurdle: Tim didn't have a tax ID.

"Why do I need a tax ID? I'm not a business owner," Tim said, now furious.

"It's asking for a tax ID," Theo said, referring to the computer.

"What, do you mean a business license number?"

"Well, it says Business ID number..." Theo trailed off.

"That's not a tax ID - here's my Business License." Tim flung the document at him, and then turned to me. "Chris, remember this: A republican is a democrat that had to apply for a building permit." He was not smiling.

***

On our way out, I snapped one last picture of a piece of artwork depicting some beautiful architecture on the wall. The second placard from the right reads:

PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH.
YOUR ATTENTION TO THE ARTWORK IS APPRECIATED.

Something about the phrasing of it struck me. Nothing about this place made me feel appreciated. In fact, the only objects appreciating here were the contents of the city vaults. At the very least, we left at Four o'clock with the items we intended to procure, but not without a few battle scars.

Needless to say, we ended up paying the full $27.50 on our way out of the parking garage.

Draw your own conclusions.

Public Disservice Announcement

A few days ago on a busy bus, a woman decided to talk to her friend on the phone about how terrible the commute was. She was boisterous, and many people on the bus were disturbed by her rantings. Ordinarily, I wouldn't just post a video of an annoying person. She was so flamboyantly loud, but initially I tried to shrug off my feelings about her rudeness.

When I got off the bus to board the next one, she followed, and she was still complaining. Once I had found a seat on the new bus, she sat down right next to me, proceeding to complain a little more.

Aptly perturbed by her public tirade, I then decided to videotape her.

Draw your own conclusions.

Deus ex machina

A few weeks ago while riding the bus, a woman began to shout about the end of the world. She spoke to a crucifix around her neck, and loudly accused everyone in the nation of depravity. Her vehemence was palpable; everyone around was uncomfortable. Clearly, she believed she was the voice of God, no longer issuing a warning about the danger of leading a sinful life - she claimed everyone was headed for hell.

The woman said that all would come before her throne and see her face before she sent them off to burn. She stated that we would then see our "creator" (i.e. Satan in the guise of Obama). Her mannerisms were at times seething and at others, quite vociferous. All in all, it was shocking to watch.

Enter the harbinger...

(Please forgive the ambient bus noise)

Draw your own conclusion.

Friends without benefits

Just an ordinary game at a Denny's. It's a dollar per chance to hook a stuffed animal with the claw. Everyone knows this game is for suckas. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that you could put in $20: then the game allows you to play until you win. 

Twenty dollars?! 

Who's got that kinda money to spend on a shitty-ass poorly-stuffed Smurf?

I examined the machine again, and found an even better observation. 

Check out this picture:

Better make sure your friends are licensed. 

You never know: their credentials may have been faked.

Draw your own conclusions.