Live from Hollywood, Pt. 2

I'm still not used to the time change.

According to my laptop clock, it's 1:16 a.m. back in Philly. It feels like 1:16 a.m. But it's only 10:16 here in Hollywood; the Bride and Brood are asleep, and I'm sitting up doing some writing, thinking about today.

Which was a great day.

It started out at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood, where I had a blast hanging out and signing copies of Severance Package. (And some comics and earlier novels, too.) And by hanging out, I really mean hanging out, a bunch of us sitting around a table, with me going on how about how I became a writer, my process, comics vs. novels, what I'm working on now. It was like a family dinner, only with siblings who really seemed to give a shit about what you were saying. Great, great fun. Thanks to Charlotte from Iowa, Adam the Keychain, Alex the Intern, Brett the Director, David the Brother-in-Law, Alan "The L.A. Connection" Cranis, and later, Christa Faust, Stephen Blackmoore and his lovely Inkgrrl. Among the strange topics bandied about: dental vs. genital surgery, Grauman's Chinese Theater, and a children's book about the Black Dahlia (The Lil' Dahlia: A Primer for Young Ladies). Hands off! Faust and I have dibs.

Then it was time to reward the Brood for their patience while I signed books and acted like a geek. First stop: the Petersen Automotive Museum (6060 Wilshire Boulevard, at Fairfax) which comes with the highest Secret Dead Blog Stamp of Approval (TM). Not that I'm a car junkie; I can't tell a friggin' Prius from a Lotus. But the exhibit backdrops are like jumping into a goddamned time tunnel. One step, you're in a 1930s auto insurance office; another step, you're in a 1950s suburban garage. Genius. Plus, there's at least one Steve McQueen car on display at all times. (Big thanks to Brett the Director for recommending this joint.)

The next stop was supposed to be the American Girl shop for my lovely daughter, who's hooked on American Girl like Hunter S. Thompson on Chivas Regal. But the American Girl people up and closed the motherfucker down at 2 p.m. today for a movie premiere... granted, about an American Girl character named Kitt Kitteredge, or Myra Breckinridge, or something like that... but come on! Two p.m.? With no warning ? What kind of heartless bastards enjoy stomping their hob-nailed boots into the tender hearts of young girls?

We escaped the madhouse that is the Grove, had dinner in Studio City, then did the Mulholland Drive thing, from Laurel Canyon to the 101 terminus. Beautiful and scary at the same time. We stopped at the overlook, which offers an amazing view of Universal and Burbank, but the whole time I was freaking out about one of my kids losing their minds and running off the edge of the stone observation platform... and the possibility of me, losing my mind and diving after them. That's how parenthood fucks you up. Back in the old days... the childless days... all I had to worry about was just me losing my mind and jumping from a platform or tall building. Now it's double the worry.

I also picked up a very nice pile of books today: Don Winslow's The Dawn Patrol and Brian and Bonnie Olso's Trailing Philip Marlowe at the Mystery Bookstore, then Charles Bukowski's Post Office and John Fante's Ask the Dust and The Road to Los Angeles at a Barnes and Noble in that insane Grove joint. (See, Ray? I do listen to you. It just takes me a while.)

And now it's 1:43 Philly time, 10:43 Hollywood time, and time to wrap this up.