Thursday, March 14, 2013



Temecula, CA – Hello Sports Fans, sorry for the delay in relating the Memoirs book signing at Stories in Echo Park but I needed some time to decompress. Two movies and some spring cleaning have my trolley back on track after my strangest visit yet to LA and Orange counties. This trip required my skills honed from my mystic adventures to know that I was still on track for the Songs of Bilitis, a play that in all likelihood, will never be seen in Temecula, which was my other motivation to see it.

My spring cleaning revealed all my original notes and dates for all the Madlins music shows including a mint condition Strike Twelve flyer advertising them at the Mall and a signed copy of the 2004 Valley News article first reporting the Madlins shows a year after they started. After the weirdness I experienced, finding these other old ‘memoirs’ grounded me back again.

The first omen of strangeness was the lie told by Punxsutawney Phil Sowerby, the King of the Groundhogs, who promised an ‘early spring’. Given the blistery LA weather of the ‘author signing’ out back on the patio made it a no Nurse night. The gift of the night turned out to be a useful metal book display stand from store host, Alex.
Being also an election night in LA possibly dampened crowd turnout but in all honesty, my book event hardly made a whisper in a town where an echo is the bottom rung of notice. Still, I signed two Memoirs books and as ‘2’ is my number I knew the night wasn’t a bust. What I hadn’t figured out yet was how much seeing ‘numbers’ would play in me reaching my final rendezvous.
Leaving the book signing with my mole to the ‘big scoop’ hinted at in some of last year’s wintertime reports, the rest of the night was spent taking in a movie. Now you might ask how is a movie ‘being a reporter’ unless you are reviewing the movie, which I’m not?
In Hollywood, it is all about the smooze. This story I’m courting is big, really big, BIG big, so I am putting in the smooze time. Smooze time is kicking it together with someone who can further your aims on their dime, most times. I got back to my LA couch late. Next day it was back down to The Good Life after swinging through to have sufficient party favors for the Author Signing after party. I put a Memoirs book onto the display stand I got from Stories. After I said ‘Hi’ to Hannah, a former Murrieta girl, and her boss, store mgr. Luna, I met back up with my Hollywood smooze buddy at Scoops, the ice cream shop I had recommended to him. It was another smooze night.
The day of the play started out with a slight tilt. My LA host left before I had a chance to get his phone charger to charge my phone. I had only 3 bars to last through the day. Still I made my train down to Santa Ana with no problems, sitting across from a young Asian man counting his wad of twenties and arranging a meet-up via cell phone. He didn’t notice me and I tried not to notice him. He left the train and I breathed a sigh of relief. From my Memoirs, I know a drug deal when I see it, but it wasn’t my drug deal.
With the usual bustle to traveling, getting/giving directions to fellow travelers, I made my way to the appointed Santa Ana meeting with my Orange County friend, a former roommate, in tow. We both got a free meal/lunch and with the exception of learning that the train station in Orange was closest to my meeting destination, we rolled on to my next stop in cavalier fashion, having plenty of time and no set schedule to meet.
The business meeting with Hector went well and we talked about the upcoming artists event at his store on 4/20, a Saturday. The art history and the GCS part of it including the downtown Art Walk I learned as I toured the store. For Santa Ana in the month of April, there will be two Art Walks. I plan to be at the second, wink, cough, and a nod.  
Arriving back at the train station with enough time to toast a farewell on the platform, and with the train time of 4:32 PM underlined, I boarded the 4:23 PM as my last [witch] wife’s dyslexia chose that time to kick in on me. Two stops later I exited the train at Anaheim Canyon. Frantically deciding on a plan after some advice from a single fellow passenger who, thinking back, appeared there after I sat on the platform stairs to smoke a bowl while I gathered my wits, I headed over to catch a number 38 bus to my first leg on returning to LA.
As I jay-walked across the busy highway, the bus I needed rounded the bend. Rather than run toward the bus to flag it down, I went the other way in an effort to beat the bus to the next bus stop. For a while, like when Homer attempts to jump Springfield Gorge, it appeared that I was going to make it; until the bus swooshed past me to a stop a short block ahead, but out of yelling distance for an out of breath journalist. I waited the fifteen minutes for the next 38 bus [38 is a number of significance for me].
Leaving the transfer point from the 38 bus to wait for the 43 bus, I watched a lone passenger cross for the northbound as I crossed the street for the southbound. By this time I was dimly aware of my path being ‘jinxed’ magically. Though I did have a friend to call as a backup, my stuff was up in LA as was the play. The real question was would I try to make the play or just return to LA for the night? The one answer was to not stop or take anything else for granted.
This thought hit me and I asked the south bound bus driver if I were headed to the Fullerton station and he replied, “No.” Once again I had gone in the wrong direction. However, since the bus I was waiting for was the number ‘43’ I knew I was where I should be. The reason for this trial was something I pondered as I waited for the 43 bus going in the opposite direction.
Reaching the station which was full of passengers waiting to board, I glanced at the schedule to see what train this was. It did go to LA straight through but it wasn’t the train I had a ticket for. I melted into the crowd and boarded when the oncoming train stopped. Though I used my ‘luck’ to avoid detection, I rolled back into Union Station with sweaty armpits, quickly tapping to catch a subway and transfer to the 10 bus.
Having only glanced at the online map for the theatre location in relation to the number 10 bus route, I walked down several blocks after checking the side street address for the corresponding number block and finding it to be the exact range as the theatre.
Finding the shadowy non-descript doorway along Beverly Blvd just west of Alvarado, which itself runs at an angle slant, I stepped in and picked up my ticket at ‘Will Call’, entering the play only fifteen minutes late. I breathed a small sigh of relief as I got to my seat and stared at the nude woman onstage.

(To be continued…)

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