The Extermination of Copy Editors

By Matt DiVenere

Copy editors, the silent defenders of the written word, are under attack from multiple fronts and there is nothing they can do to defend themselves.

Was that too dramatic of an opening? Not even close.

When you look at the current state of journalism, copy editors should be the bell of the ball.  Instead, industry giants are rendering copy editors useless—pawns in an unfair game with the deck stacked incredibly against them.

We have been given one of two reasons why this is all unfolding: an industry shift toward more video content and a “lack of readership.” You’ve seen the internal memos being leaked that explain the company’s commitment to “staying with the times” and “responding to our viewers.”

However, the decision to move away from journalism happened a long time ago. It happened very subtly at first. But now that click-bait and video content runs the village, those who seek the written word have become labeled the village idiots.

Although this trend has gone on for much longer than it seems, it’s only come to fruition thanks to the slew of layoffs and restructuring in some of the largest media companies in the world. But there is one group of brave men and women who are standing up for themselves in the only way they know best: through the written word.

If you’re not following what is happening at The New York Times, you should. Not for the reason why you think, however. Yes, it is devastating what is happening to those copy editors. Staff cuts, workload increases, and an overall lack of respect being shown to them make an already thankless job nearly impossible to do.

“ What happens when our entire society needs information, but has no idea where to go?”

I cannot imagine a world where we will question the reporters at the newspaper of record, because that would terrify me. And it should terrify you, too. Where do you turn once your most trusted source becomes null and void? What happens when you have no one to turn to for the truth? For objectivity? What happens when our entire society needs information, but has no idea where to go?

Are you going to believe everything you find on the Internet? Will you believe nothing at all and make up your own narrative as to what is really going on?

Both scenarios are dangerous. Unfortunately, both scenarios are happening right now. We have our political parties labeling news organizations as “fake news” and are more concerned about which way they are politically leaning than what is actually being told. This has sent such a shockwave through the American people to the point where it is now part of the everyday conversation. Instead of trusting a news source and the job it has done vetting the story, the first response is always politically based.

It is the responsibility of a news organization to deliver the facts of the story and to allow its readers the opportunity to start a dialogue and form their own opinions on the matters at hand. It is one of the pillars of journalism in this country. And the facts need to be 100 percent correct, every single time. No exceptions.

By eliminating copy editors and by pinning reporters into a click-bait corner, we are stripping them of their power. We cannot continue down this path. We need to empower them. We need to support them.

So bravo to the brave copy editors at The New York Times. Your stand doesn’t fall on deaf ears. It should be echoed to the masses. Keep fighting.

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Blame Ricky Bobby for CNN’s Retracted Story

By Matt DiVenere

Can we all admit that CNN has had a rough few months? The culmination of it all is the “resignation” of three CNN journalists because of a retracted and inaccurate article on hedge-fund manager Anthony Scaramucci and his alleged relationship with a Russian investment fund that was being investigated by the Senate.

Here’s the problem: Every news outlet would jump at the bit for this story. And, according to The New York Times, that’s exactly what CNN did by publishing this article—they jumped despite the network’s standards team concerns. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for this meeting and who made the final decision to publish it.

Not too long ago (in a galaxy far, far away), when there was a retraction because of an inaccurate article, there were specific people in the workflow that the newspaper could point to. Yes, this error fell on these strong, veteran reporters and they paid the ultimate price for it.

“Forget “fake news.” This is the Ricky Bobby generation. If you ain’t first, you’re last.”

But let’s look at the bigger issue at work here. In today’s media landscape, news needs to be broken fast. It needs to be sent out before the ink dries. Well, the Internet ink at least. And when that story is broken, it gets repeated across hundreds of websites and on countless hours of network television.

This isn’t the first time a reporter has gotten a story wrong, and it certainly will not be the last. This need for speed mentality allows for crucial steps to be skipped, sped-up, or done just for show with any suggested changes or results ignored.

Now, I say this without any knowledge on what exactly happened behind the scenes at CNN, but there has to be accountability across the entire industry for articles like this. Especially now when you have the President of the United States spending (clearly) an abundant amount of time and (possibly) resources tracking network journalists’ every move.

Forget “fake news.” This is the Ricky Bobby generation. If you ain’t first, you’re last.

Journalists have always been competitive in nature. It’s just a part of the culture. Throw that competitive streak into a society that thrives on viral news, and you are bound to see people stretch their means to “win.” It’s a broken system and the only way it’s headed is down.

“Everything the job has stood for is being dragged through the mud. It’s time to win back our integrity and to boot out anyone who thinks otherwise.”

What’s worse is we need this system more than ever. We need it to be fixed, fast. But who will do it? Who can do it?

This is where the story becomes a tragedy for me. If you look at the younger generation of journalists, how will they be taught to succeed? Will the ultimate goal for future journalists be page views and notoriety? Will it be breaking meaningful, well-sourced news or is the race going to be the only driving force in the industry?

There are no easy answers. There’s no overnight fix. This will take a movement and it has to start from within. The scale is tipping against journalists every second. Everything the job has stood for is being dragged through the mud. It’s time to win back our integrity and to boot out anyone who thinks otherwise. It’s time.

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Northern Exposure: Three Weeks in Toronto

By Alexander Brown

It’s three weeks ago, mid-May in Toronto. The temperature is pleasant. Still sweater-weather for some, but I’m in shorts and a t-shirt. I’m in the midst of being cycled off Escitalopram and Bubropion, and an unexpected side effect has caused my body temperature to rise 10 degrees. Any additional layers and I’d have looked like I’d spent the morning sweating it out at a methadone clinic.

My new, mid-tier Nikon DSLR is draped across my good eye, when my bad eye, the one that required an eye-patch when I was young, spots the shape of what appears to be a middle-aged woman moving towards me with purpose.

“Do you have permission to take that?”

My normal, overly polite Canadian courtesies failed me. The preceding 24 hours had been tough. A real Bad Day.

“Didn’t know I needed it.”

“Well you do, people are here to study and you’re making them uncomfortable.”

I looked around the reference library’s atrium and couldn’t match eyes with a single solitary soul.

“Are you sure about that?” Again, a Bad Day had happened.

“You need permission!” She was getting angrier, probably understandably so. “What are these photos even for?”

She liked it even less when I told her I didn’t know.

On the way out the door I stopped at security and asked for permission. They made me fill out a form. Once it was complete a sleepy security guard stamped his permission in dull blank ink and told me to keep it on me as long as I was taking photos. I handed it right back to him and told him I already had.

“So why did you fill it out?” He asked.

“I don’t know.”

***

A week passes and I’m getting a bit better. My body temperature has slid back into an acceptable range and all I have to contend with is the odd electric shock in my head. The honest-to-goodness accepted medical term for this phenomenon is known as “brain zaps.” They only happen about twice a day. I’m still weary from the Bad Day, but there’s a growing distance to the proceedings.

I’m taking even more photos. I circumnavigate Toronto and parts of Southern Ontario like Magellan himself. I don’t always get the aperture settings right. I’m learning, though. Getting a bit better. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.

***

Two weeks pass and I’m in the country. The lightning strikes are gone. I take photos of plants, trees, and the sky. There’s very little to do, but no permission forms required.

On cloudless nights I can see the Bad Day has drifted even farther away, its lights only occasionally visible on the horizon. 

***

It’s three weeks later and I’m here, and again I’m thinking about that woman. She had told me I needed permission. She wanted to know what these photos were for. Why I was taking them.

I couldn’t tell her she was right, that I did need permission, or how I was there because the Bad Day had been my fault; that the camera in my hand had arrived knowing that day would come and that I needed it more than she could ever know.

And maybe she would have understood: she of the inclination to make a beeline across a crowded atrium just because she cared enough to do so. She’d had Bad Days. Probably even Worse Days.

I could have told her everything, but I wasn’t ready.

I took these photos instead.

And as it turns out, I think some of them are pretty good.    

The Writer's Bone Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: The Ballad of Hassel and Kylo

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: HTTAN, And Other Love Stories.
Currently Listening To: “DAMN.” Kendrick Lamar
Currently Reading: 100 Love Sonnets, Pablo Neruda

No, really, don't call it a comeback. It's me. Still living in Los Angeles with no hope of changing that anytime soon. I was also advised against "Flo-writah," and I guess I put too much value into that opinion, but I'm here nonetheless.

What's happened in the last eight months you ask? Oh, you didn't ask...

Buckle-in, I'm going to tell you anyway.

Act 1

With what seemed to look like my last two weeks in Los Angeles, my hope for finding an inexpensive place to live was rapidly escaping. I had come across a couple of apartments within my price range (and 3 percent of those were not crack houses!). The problem I encountered often was this ludicrous belief that in order to rent a place, you had to also put down a deposit equivalent to two white tigers and a blood diamond.

I don't get it...and I don't think I ever will. With a week to go, a place opened up, a bit outside of my price range, but fuck it, I had already ordered the blood diamond and didn't want any negative feedback on my eBay account.

Oh, I forgot to mention I also got something to try and warm my cold dead heart. His name is Kylo. He has big ears, a bigger heart, and he likes to party. Here's a picture.

And yes that's a Hawaiian shirt.

He's a fan of Bark-a-Ritaville. Get it...

Act 2

My place was slowly coming along and becoming my own. Kylo was settling in, getting along (somewhat) with the cat. I was surviving and this city wasn't going to take that away from me. Scratch that, I mean this city was going to try its very best to take it all away from me like a studio that's no longer happy with the seventeenth draft of "Giraffic Park," starring Amy’s recently birthed calf Tajiri. (Production on hold.)

At the end of 2016, Kylo got sick and so did my computer. I made the mistake of thinking a seven- to eight-month old puppy wouldn't be curious about a garbage bag and its melted chocolate contents at the bottom. I was wrong, but luckily he recovered and I still had my blood diamond. Not for long though. One computer logic board failure later and poof! I had trouble picking up my computer from repair because of my lack of funds (the blood diamond market is very saturated), and this in turn caused me to miss an important deadline.

Goodbye, HBO. Oh, hello, rent...

“Life has a weird way of bringing you back down from the clouds.”

Act 3

So, by this point 2017 had gotten off to a dreadful start, but I kept my head up. I kept working and soon enough I found myself up for a promotion at work. A promotion I had applied to and been turned away twice before. But this time it was different. I was prepared and I knew the role. I had been living it.

Life has a weird way of bringing you back down from the clouds. As Leo (Leonardo DiCaprio, to strangers) would tell you...amazing work doesn't always pay off. And like Leo prior to 2016, my work was overlooked and I was turned away once again. It's just the way life goes.

Maybe I'm not meant to succeed, maybe I'm the person pushing the people around me to succeed. Maybe I'm a better “Best Supporting Actor” than a lead. I do somewhat feel like the perpetual silver medal. Everyone's back up plan. But, hey, let's keep this going. Can't quit now. And if I am going to the worthy sidekick, I’ll be the Christoph Waltz of second bananas.

I wish the circumstances were different, but for now, I am glad to be writing again. But at least my high maintenance roommate lightens up the mood when I need it! 

The Writer’s Bone Essays Archive

Thanksgiving 2016: The Kid in the Pernicious Penny Loafers

(Photo credit: Anthony Quintano)

By Gary Almeter

Years from now, when I’m facing the firing squad, I will remember that distant evening when my wife and I walked to the Upper West Side to observe balloons inflate.

I will recall on that unseasonably warm November evening—Thanksgiving Eve 1999 to be precise—that we headed out from our East 81st Street apartment and walked through Central Park to the Museum of Natural History.

We were newlyweds, having been married four months prior, and this was our first Thanksgiving in Manhattan. We found the entrance to the designated viewing path and, along with about four zillion others, watched as giant polyurethane Peanuts characters, the Honey Nut Cheerios bee, Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Betty Boop get filled with helium.

Thousands of people, from every direction and with neuroses from every page of the DSM-IV, merged into the designated viewing path (hereafter “DVP”) at its origin, like human tributaries toward a giant festive river. The DVP meandered through and among the helium inflation process for all of the balloons that were to float down Broadway the following day.  

While in the DVP, meandering with my wife amidst the autumnal reverie, I was kicked in the head by a boy riding atop his father’s shoulders. I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just impossible to sit on top of your father’s shoulders and not have your feet head level with the person in front of you.

I was soon kicked again and turned around to look the offenders in the eye. The boy was about 3 or 4 years old, a little too big for piggyback rides, but, in light of the circumstances and our surroundings, was not completely out of the realm of acceptable human behaviors. The boy was wearing penny loafers, argyle socks, brown cords, sweater, and a puffy vest. His old man was dressed similarly, but with a shirt, tie, and blazer. They both looked me in the eye and said nothing.

I turned back around, however, I began to eavesdrop on them. The boy’s name was “Larken” and the father would say it twice every time he said it. For example, “Look over there, Larken, it’s Tommy Pickles from ‘Rugrats,’ Larken,” and, “Oh my gosh, Larken, it’s the Cat in the Hat, Larken.” These were all exclamations more than mere observations, as though each balloon was being inflated exclusively for Larken’s benefit and enjoyment. 

After Larken kicked me in the head again, I turned around to confront him. The conversation went like this: 

Me to Larken: “Larken, please stop kicking me in the head.”

Larken’s father (dumbfounded, as though no one in the history of Larken’s short stupid life had ever suggested he was anything but flawless): “Larken isn’t doing it on purpose.” 

Me to Larken's father: “Be that as it may, Larken still needs to stop.” 

Larken’s father: “Be that as it may, I can’t make his feet not touch you, buddy.”

Me to father: “Yes, you can.”

Father to me: “I actually can’t, buddy.”

Me to Larken: “Quit it, Larken.”

It was then that my brand new wife pulled me away from the conflict. I think she and Larken’s father, and probably Larken himself, knew that I could have kicked Larken’s ass. I would have too. Thanksgiving or no Thanksgiving, 4 years old or 40 years old, I don’t give a fuck. Anyway, we scurried through the DVP and away from Larken and his father. We probably missed the best balloons. 

This event stays with me. I think about that kid with greater frequency than is probably healthy. I don’t do chin ups while listening to Iron Maiden with the hope and expectation of one day exacting my revenge on Larken, but I do think about it nonetheless. Every Thanksgiving Eve, in fact. (Along with the blessings, my children, the good Lord above, the cornucopia, and the blessings again, and the joyfulness, and the turkey.) 

Larken is about 21 years old today. Where is he? Does he go to an Ivy League school? Why do I assume he’s attending an Ivy League school? Where does he live? Where did he live in November 1999? Did he and his mother take the train into the city to meet his father after work? If so, from where? Connecticut? Pelham Manor? Larchmont? Manhasset? Some other gilded zip code?

I thought about him shortly after Sept. 11, 2001. Did he lose anyone he loved? If so, who? Was he scared? Ambivalent? Does he play sports? Lacrosse? Squash? Baseball? Does he still wear penny loafers? Does family still visit the DVP on Thanksgiving Eve to watch the balloons being inflated (and kick other unsuspecting patrons in the head I’m sure)?

What the hell kind of name is Larken, anyway? If I Googled and researched the scant information I have on Larken, would I be able to locate him? Do his parents love him? Does he have siblings? Is he loved? When did he lose his virginity? Is he gay? Straight? Bisexual? Out?  Transgendered? Is he a birther? An anti-vaxxer? A vegan? 

I am learning that I have a very low tolerance for people who were born on third base. I have zero tolerance for people who were born on third and think they hit a triple, but I do reserve some tolerance for those merely born on third. I assume Larken was born on third base—a safe assumption in light of the fact he was wearing penny loafers and had a smartly dressed father who looked at me with eyes that registered nary a thought, hint of analysis, or a modicum of a possibility that he would ever apologize.

How corrosive is this lack of tolerance? I’m starting to wonder, especially in light of recent electoral events that put on display kids of a famous father who genuinely think that they are superior (genetically and intellectually) to other people. That really bothers me. More succinctly, it is an injustice. I was in New York City teaching kids, many of them sons and daughters of undocumented workers who took the Subway over an hour each way to and from school, went home and took care of their siblings, and did their laundry and cooked their own meals while the parents worked. The third base kids likely would not last a day doing all that. 

When I was little, my family had a plaque featuring an old Native American proverb hanging on our kitchen wall. It said: “Grant that I may not criticize my neighbor until I have walked a mile in his moccasins.”

This hung near the heating register, over which we stood on winter mornings to get warm, so it was the subject of a great deal of analysis. We asked questions like:   

• “Mom, if you walk a mile in the neighbor’s moccasins then do you have to walk back to give the moccasins back to the neighbor?”
• “What if you and your neighbor have different sized feet?” 
• “Who wears moccasins in Buffalo in January?” 
• “What if it’s raining and you ruin the neighbor’s moccasins?”  

Later, while teaching English in New York, I taught To Kill a Mockingbird and highlighted the passage, “You never really know a man until you understand things from his point of view, until you climb in his skin and walk around in it.” 

I don’t hate Larken. I don’t think I do anyway. I don’t know for certain that he is an asshole, but the warning signs were there in November 1999. It’s not his fault his parents named him Larken, bought him penny loafers and a puffy vest for toddlers, and didn’t demand he stop kicking people in the head.

But I have never walked a mile in his moccasins or his steel toe penny loafers of torment. While the Native American proverb is silent as to penny loafers, it would seem that it might be applicable. Luckily, for all of us, empathy is a learned skill. 

Essays Archive

Iron Ass: What It Takes to Keep the Writing Dream Alive

By Daniel Ford

Author and journalist Tom Shroder gave a fitting description to his Pulitzer Prize-winning grandfather MacKinley Kantor during our recent podcast interview: “He just had this iron will and a steel butt.”

Shroder’s The Most Famous Writer Who Ever Lived features a wonderful story about Kantor doggedly typing out a novel during a stormy sea voyage with one hand while his other held down his typewriter. I’ll echo Shroder’s own reaction to the tale by saying, “Jesus.” Odds are I’ve looked at least 50 tweets since I started this piece, and I’m on solid ground.

I typically don’t give a lot of thought to why I’m a writer. It’s just what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. The impulse to put words to paper is the first thing I think about when my caffeine-deprived brain wakes up in the morning. And if I don’t do enough writing during the day (which is often the case, sadly), then it’s the last thing I feel guilty about when I finally pass out well past my bedtime. The iron will Shroder mentioned allows me to keep at it, even when the steel butt isn’t quite willing or able.   

As often happens when you sit down with an old friend you haven’t seen in more than a decade, you learn things about yourself that prompt you to reflect on your life through a different lens. Stephanie Schaefer and I were in Nashville recently, and we had the opportunity to share a few cocktails with someone I knew from high school. He couldn’t get over the fact I was still a writer. He complimented my work, as well as Writer’s Bone’s success, and I was self-deprecating to the point I thought Steph’s eyes were going to lodge in the back of her head. He mentioned that he always wanted to write a novel and that he couldn’t get past the first chapter of anything he started.

Even with him puffing me up, I couldn’t help but think of all the notes cluttering my Moleskin notebook, and the typed pages featured red cross-outs and dejected notes in the margin. My unfinished work outweighs my published/finished work by several oil barges. During my trip to Nashville I came up with an idea that has Sean Tuohy salivating, yet, it sits in my text messages like an unwanted pile of week-old McNuggets.

I do feel proud of stories like “343” and “Cherry on Top,” but I view them more as next steps in my evolution as an author. I’ve conditioned my mind to think about what’s next rather than what’s been. Otherwise, I’d get bogged down in all the ideas that have slipped out of my mind, and all the tossing and turning that occurs while trying to tune out (or tune into) characters that demand their stories told. So it’s less an iron will and more of an anxiety-filled compulsion whose rewards (not monetary, of course) are so intoxicating that you could never imagine stepping off the literary roller coaster ride you’re strapped into.

Look, for all of the above reasons, writing is an insane profession that you have to be half-crazy to want to aspire to be in it. The following passage from Hassel Velasco’s “To Live And Write In L.A.” series is about love, but it could easily refer to writing:

You could also beg for mercy, and let life put you out of your misery before love sinks its razor sharp claws deep into you. I had been avoiding this scenario for as long as I could, but I found myself entering the arena again, yes, naked and unarmed, locking eyes with the beast and hoping it wanted to devour me as much as I wanted it to. However, I learned that there's no use in living a life without love, there's no point in living if you're not willing to be vulnerable and be eaten alive. You don't really live until you're ready to die.

(By the way, Hassel, that series ends when we say it ends. Vive la “To Live and Write In L.A.!”)

The other day, author Nicole Blades offered up sensational advice to aspiring authors, which serves as the perfect ending to this rambling start to what I hope will be a continuing essay series:

“Find your voice and rock with that.”

And so I shall.

The Writer’s Bone Essays Archives

A Mother's Notebook: Inspiring the Next Generation of Writers and Readers

Photo courtesy of Jimmie

By Catherine Kearns

When I was younger, I enjoyed buying school supplies. It wasn’t because I wanted the coolest folder or newest backpack (I used the same red JanSport for years). The fact was I loved knowing that the notebook I was holding would become part of me for the next eight months. It would contain all the new ideas and theories I would learn over the course of the school year. These pages would be filled with my own handwriting. I could look back on these pages and be reminded of the time I spent in class, the memories that were made, and the lessons that were taught. Granted, some pages would be filled with doodles and quotes, or be ripped out and used as notes (I always hated the small pieces of paper that got left behind after ripping out a page—small imperfection in an otherwise neat notebook), but mostly that notebook would reflect who I was.

One could tell what kind of student I was just by glancing at the pages. My handwriting was neat and seldom would you find a mistake hidden in the words (I was not against rewriting an entire page for one spelling mistake). I took copious notes, even in classes that took their lessons straight from the textbook. I used highlighters while studying and made random comments in the margins. I was a student who enjoyed the lines of my notebook and took great pride in filling those pages with what I thought was most important.

Well, I haven’t bought a notebook in about 10 years. Damn…that makes me feel so old.

Anyway, this year I found myself buying my son his first notebook for kindergarten. When he was born people constantly told me that the time will fly by—that before I know it he will be all grown up and ready for the world without me. And, in the hopes of not sounding clique, it’s truly hard to believe that this moment in his life has arrived.

He will no longer sit with me at lunchtime or help me around the house as I scramble to keep things in order. I won’t hear, “Excuse me, Mom,” or “Mom, can you help me?” a million times a day. The bathroom sink will remain dry because he will not be there to soak the entire thing every time he washes his hands. His brothers will have to learn to entertain themselves without his constant rules and guidelines (my oldest is very much like me). But the hardest thing to accept is that part of me will be leaving the house every day, and I will have to survive without it seven hours every day.

I will constantly be wondering: Is he having fun? Did he eat his lunch? Is he listening to the teacher? Did he remember to wash his hands?  What is he learning? Did he forget his lunch box again? Questions I am sure that he will answer when he gets home—or he will just respond “good” to everything and act like nothing has changed for either one of us. But I will need to wait till pickup to find out these riveting tales. Let’s not forget the fact that he is five and chances are the stories will be filled with holes or exaggerated drama, which means I am still missing out. Not cool.

And then I am reminded—he will have a notebook that he will carry with him all year, allowing me to venture into his world and watch him grow. Of course, he wanted the coolest "Star Wars" notebook available (can’t have a school year without Kylo Ren and some badass Stormtroopers) but either way, this notebook will help fill in those hours when we are apart.

I will be able to watch his penmanship improve. Read sentences and thoughts he created without having to ask me what he should write. There will be drawings depicting his imagination and doodles that only make sense to him and his friends. His notebook will show me what kind of boy he is becoming, because, let’s be honest, he is no longer a baby. I will know just from looking at the pages what areas he still needs my help in and which ones he has figured out all on his own.

The pages will be his own. He will be the author and I will become the dedicated audience waiting patiently for the next chapter to begin. Let’s do this Connor…I will forever be your most dedicated reader.

The Writer’s Bone Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: And In The End...

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: “Sessions”
Currently Listening To: “Tell All Your Friends,” Taking Back Sunday
Currently Reading: Killing Yourself To Live, Chuck Klosterman

And In The End...

I've avoided writing about this next topic for a while, as it's one I don't necessarily think people like reading about. To this point, I had substantial evidence that the topic didn't exist, or it just wasn't for me. In the first season of “Mad Men,” Don Draper describes love as something ad-men created in the 1960s to sell pantyhose, and for the longest time, I believed it. Los Angeles didn't do much to flip the theory on its head.

It wasn’t until recently that I met someone who proved Don Draper wrong. She changed the way I thought about the dreaded subject. I started falling for her, and I knew I was in trouble. The hardest part about falling in love is putting your entire being in this vulnerable chariot, handing over the reigns of your heart to someone, and trusting them not to crash said chariot into the walls of the Coliseum.

You see, I find becoming lovestruck and being in a relationship is a lot like fighting in the ancient Roman arena. Life, for the sake of this piece portrayed by the Roman hierarchy, puts you in the Coliseum against your will because you have no say as to whom you fall for or how you do it. You're forcibly placed in this battle, often naked and unarmed, with other suitors as you fight to escape with your life. Love strips you bare; it’s the beast tearing you apart as the crowd cheers every attack. If you're lucky, you succumb to this terror, you let the beast have at your very being, and you indulge in the pain of every bite.

You could also beg for mercy, and let life put you out of your misery before love sinks its razor sharp claws deep into you. I had been avoiding this scenario for as long as I could, but I found myself entering the arena again, yes, naked and unarmed, locking eyes with the beast and hoping it wanted to devour me as much as I wanted it to. However, I learned that there's no use in living a life without love, there's no point in living if you're not willing to be vulnerable and be eaten alive. You don't really live until you're ready to die.

So, with this city as a canvas, we painted a beautiful piece over some time. I began to think things could change and began thinking about this city differently. Things looked brighter and Los Angeles somehow seemed smaller. Chuck Klosterman once wrote:

"We all have the potential to fall in love a thousand times in our lifetime. It's easy. The first girl I ever loved was someone I knew in sixth grade. Her name was Missy; we talked about horses. The last girl I love will be someone I haven't even met yet, probably. They all count. But there are certain people you love who do something else; they define how you classify what love is supposed to feel like. These are the most important people in your life, and you’ll meet maybe four or five of these people over the span of 80 years. But there’s still one more tier to all this; there is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these loveable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable. The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else."

And fortunately, or unfortunately, for me, I found her. I found that person to redefine and challenge everything I've ever thought about on the subject. To put it a different way, I found this one bowl of chicken pot pie, which happens to be the best chicken pot pie I've ever had. And regardless how many different chicken pot pies I have, every single one will compare to this one, and every single one will fall terribly short.

So why write this now? I don't have an answer for that other than my need to put into writing this experience. We reached the end of an amazing road, but before we parted ways I had one last great Ted Mosby like idea. If you knew you were getting your leg chopped off tomorrow, would you spend your last day being sad or would you take your leg out for one last spin, do things that you otherwise wouldn't do?

The answer was pretty simple for the both of us. We went to a movie, we went bowling, we took one last trip to Disneyland, and then later in the night struggled to say goodbye to each other. I held her in my arms knowing this was likely the last time I'd do it. I held her hands and let her know how important she is to, not just me, but also the world. Saying goodbye is not my forte, and who knows how long this emptiness will last.

As for this city... As for Los Angeles…

This seems to be the cherry on top of the ice cream that was my life here. With a lease coming to an end and my inability to find a new place, it's maybe a good time to bid the City of Angels a fond farewell and head home. Maybe it's time to start a new chapter in my life.

And to the person who changed everything, if you happen to be reading this, nothing will change how I feel about you. You are by far one of the most amazing human beings I've ever met and you have an incredible life ahead of you. I hope you can find what you're looking for and I hope you're happy. I hope things turn out for the better and I hope I someday read about the wonderful things you're doing and the people's lives you'll impact. You deserve the world and I hope you get it.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

Maybe The Beatles were wrong about that one…

As for me, I don't know if this is my last post from Los Angeles. “To Live And Write in Florida” doesn't have the same ring to it. Is “Flo-Writah” taken?

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Alexander Hamilton on Wheat

By Hassel Velasco

Currently working on: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently listening to: “Hamilton,” Original Broadway Recording
Currently reading: Alexander Hamilton, Ron Chernow

Alexander Hamilton on Wheat

"Hey man, who would you say is your favorite Founding Father?"

That was a question I was asked on the Fourth of July by my "Sandwich Artist" at Subway. Immediately after picking my sandwich, the choice to pick a favorite Founding Father was inherently more difficult than the choice between wheat and Italian bread. At first my response was:

"Can I have a footlong carved turkey on wheat?"

But as he began crafting my sandwich I really began to think and quickly responded,

"Well, it has to be James Madison. The Father of the Constitution."

He seemed to acknowledge my response and thought about it before answering,

"Did you want this toasted?"

"Sure... “ I said. “Thomas Jefferson was the principal author of the Declaration Of Independence"

"So that's a yes on the toasted?"

Since January I've been on a whirlwind ride of emotions listening to “Hamilton,” the Broadway musical written by Lin-Manuel Miranda. The more I listened to the hip-hop-induced tale of our independence, the more I found myself compelled to read the biography that set this crazy idea in motion. I picked up the book about a month ago, but just recently started reading it as a result of my new friendship with the sandwich artisan.

There aren't many people in the world who would think of turning the West Indies-born Founding Father’s life into a musical as a result of reading Chernow’s bio; let alone use hip hop and R&B influences to tell the story. Miranda has managed to do something every middle and high school social studies teacher has tried to do but miserably failed. He managed to grasp an audience that would otherwise shrug at the thought of learning about our own history. He made it modern. He allowed the sounds of America now, to tell the story of America back then. And let's face it, the bars every character "spits" are as, the kids would say, "straight fire emoji."

Miranda just finished his run as Alexander Hamilton in the show, and tickets for his final performance surpassed $20,000 on StubHub (a small price to pay to watch someone make history by re-telling history). LMM (we're on that friendship level where he doesn't know who I am and I don't know him personally but I still like to call him that), I want to personally thank you for doing something to expand this country's knowledge of its own; I want to thank you for doing it in such a creative way, a way that only a creative genius like you can. But most of all, I'd like to thank you for showing an aspiring Hispanic writer that success is achievable through hard work, perseverance, creativity, and mad rhymes. From the bottom of a theater kid/history geek's heart, I thank you.

So as I continued reading and thinking about the question my "subrista" asked, I felt I had a new answer. Alexander Hamilton is the Founding Father I would most like to be, and therefore, my favorite Founding Father. He was the first Secretary of the Treasury, established the national bank, authored a large portion of the Federalist Papers, died in an old fashioned duel, and spat mad rhymes. Move over James Madison, Hamilton just took your place at the top.

So with my newfound favorite, I went back in to see my friend, the one who set this thought train into motion.

"Alexander Hamilton!" I shouted in rejoice.

The blank stare on his face indicated he wasn't as excited and/or forgot who I was and what he had asked me.

"What can I get started for you?"

I looked at him, hurt and forgotten.

"Actually, I already ate I just came in to tell you who my favorite... You know what, let me just get a footlong carved turkey on wheat flatbread."

He begins the sandwich.

"Did you know Alexander Hamilton died 212 years ago today?" I asked.

Another blank stare.

"Yeah, pepper-jack cheese is fine," I said.

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Turning Sorkinese

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening To: “Unlearn Everything,” Sharp/Shock
Currently Reading: Sex, Drugs, And Cocoa Puffs by Chuck Klosterman

Turning Sorkinese

This town has a funny way of making you interact with the outside world. Maybe it's the proximity to the glamour of Hollywood or maybe it's the way everyone here makes you feel antiquated and uncool. All I know is that I didn't start to collect vinyl records until I moved out here. I didn't start growing this massive beard until I moved out here. I never had a bartender take 17-and-a-half minutes to make my drink until I moved here. I never tried to write like someone else until Los Angeles, this stupid, beautiful, hot-mess of a city.

As I reach the end of the tunnel on this Beatles project, I can't help but think it's quite possibly the best thing I've written. And I know, who is this pretentious asshole talking about how good his writing is? I get it, I'm not Quentin Tarantino directing “Inglorious Basterds” and saying, "this just might be my masterpiece." After almost a year of work, research, writing, re-writing, more research, crying, another re-write, and procrastination, I can finally say I'm 70 percent of the way finished. But then I started re-watching “The Newsroom” and the completion percentage now finds itself in the low teens.

One of the outstanding effects...affects...effects…screw it. One of the outstanding results of my move to Los Angeles has been my inability to be content with my writing. I personally have written more than 25 screenplays, and rewritten them more times than the human mind is able to comprehend, and most of them currently reside in a folder on my desktop labeled "incomplete."

Some of the best advice I've received regarding my Weinstein-esque plan to take over Hollywood has been just that, to associate your potential blockbuster project to an already successful and familiar one. Hence you the reader (or in this case the studio) would know what you're getting yourself into from the beginning. See Weinstein, Harvey.

The best feedback you'll receive as a writer is to make something more something-esque, and, trust me, take that feedback. It's way better than getting the "it's interesting" response.

So how does this pertain to my Beatles project? After the outlining and writing roughly 30 pages, I was given the feedback to make it more Sorkin-esque. Let me tell you, it's been tough. The problem with trying to assimilate something to a Sorkin screenplay is that Sorkin, like no one else, can write the fuck out of dialogue. It's incredible. And it's the reason why my 70% completion became 18% after re-watching “The Newsroom.” Seriously, go watch the pilot. I'll wait.

73 minutes later...

See! The dialogue is fluid, it's fast, it's funny. It's Sorkin. Not convinced? Need more proof? Watch the pilot episode for “The West Wing.” I'll wait...

45 minutes later...

Enough said! And if you're keeping track, my completion percentage is now in the negatives.

By all means, I would never compromise my individuality to conform to any type of specific writing or writer, and neither should you. But let's be realistic, unless you have a trust fund to dip into, you'll need some cash to fund your future artsy masterpiece. And how will you be getting that cash short of robbing a bank? You got it! By writing your next Michael Bay-esque explosion-fest. Until then, make your writing less Velasco-esque and more successful-esque.

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Fahrenheit 117

Photo courtesy of Fabio Rossi

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening To: “Nellyville,” Nelly.
Currently Reading: One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Fahrenheit 117

Being from Florida, I'm no stranger to warm weather. I'm no stranger to humidity either. I'm not even a stranger to an alligator dragging a small child into a lake. I recently came across a picture of a crane chasing a child, and the caption read, "Florida is pretty much a real game of Jumanji." I couldn't agree more. Florida is not that bad (okay, it's not the worst), but there is one thing I never experienced in Florida, 117-degree weather.

Oh, Los Angeles. I enjoy the consistency in your weather. I enjoy the 329 days of summer, and the 36 days the other seasons get to share. But sometimes, your actual summer feels like the inside of an oven past the preheat stage.

One hundred and seventeen degrees is no joke. Early last week, the forecast for Sunday and Monday seemed like the forecast for the surface of the sun. A high of 102 on Sunday, and 108 on Monday. The following is a recollection/survival guide to heat waves in the City of Angels.

First thing’s first: Upon moving to Los Angeles, get an apartment with central air conditioning. Spend that extra dough. It'll help you stay sane during the summer heat waves. And if you can't get an apartment with central AC, look for an apartment with an AC window unit that works. No AC is technically an option if you'd like to suffer from a heat stroke. I don't know, maybe you're into that.

Secondly, during these hotter than hell days, try activities that'll keep you indoors for the most part (unless you don't have AC). On Sunday, I thought it'd be a good idea to head down to Anaheim and go to Disneyland. *Aggressively shakes head* It wasn't. At 9 a.m. the temperature was above 90 degrees and I had forgotten my sunblock. Sunburnt Hassel could now be a spokesperson for SPF safety.

I've heard about people going hiking and going to the beach on Sunday. I can't begin to talk about how bad an idea that is. Actually, scratch that, hiking is always a bad idea. The beach is a possibility because the Pacific Ocean tends to be colder than your unaffectionate stepfather. Dipping into the ocean is probably very refreshing. I might need to try that next time.

Even when you're indoors and enjoying the air conditioning, sometimes Mother Nature likes to throw a fast one and kill your modern technology. The AC at my place of work broke on Monday around midday. It was 117 degrees outside and 96 degrees indoors. Everyone became delirious, and my only option was to play Nelly's “Hot In Herre” on repeat for about an hour and a half. My apologies to my co-workers. It must have felt like being kicked in the groin.

Lastly, enjoy it. It's the small price you have to pay for living in Southern California. It's not a blizzard, it's not a hurricane, and it’s not an earthquake. It's just dry heat. Sure, Florida has gators, humidity, and the inane inability to prosecute someone for murder, but it's my home state. You know what they say, better dead in California than alive in Florida. All of my Florida friends will love reading that.

So to recap:

Step 1: Air conditioning

Step 2: Stay indoors

Step 3: Stay out of Florida ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

To everyone in Florida: Love you guys, be back soon.

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: Chasing the Sunset

Photo credit: David Marland

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening To: “E. Von Dahl Killed The Locals,” The Matches
Currently Reading: Diary Of An Oxygen Thief, Anonymous

Chasing the Sunset

After a week away, I'm back writing another piece for this essay series. I had written seven different entries last week but was unhappy with the results. So I did what any responsible writer does. I erased all of them, drank a couple more pints of Guinness, procrastinated, and went back to sleep.

This past Saturday, I attended a concert by a band I had shrugged off 10 years prior. Back then I was a 20-year-old kid who hadn't missed a Vans Warped Tour since 2004. I remember hearing about a band called The Matches, a pop-punk band from the Bay Area. I remember listening to their first album and not thinking much of it. In retrospect, I feel I crossed off a lot of bands back then just based on what would make me look cooler. So anything my friends weren't into, I wasn't into by association.

Saturday started of like your normal Saturday in L.A. A 7 a.m. call time for a Web series I got cast in. One of my favorite things about working on a set is watching people walk around and, ultimately, watch their entire life stop in order to get a better look at what's going on. People will slow their cars down to a crawl just to get a glimpse of what's being filmed. It's surprising to me that people are not used to it in the film capital of the world. Considering the episode being filmed was mainly centered on a big fight, the cast kicked ass and we finished a couple of hours early.

Later that night, I stopped by a bar called The Monty, and was immediately drawn in by the giant buffalo head in the wall. I proceeded to have a couple of pints before heading into the concert hall. (Note to music lovers: check out a band called Sharp Shock, a great three-piece punk band reminiscent of late ‘70's punk rock.)

The Matches' performance that evening left a resounding, "Why the fuck did you not listen to them before?" thought in my head. I found myself questioning the choices I made 10 years ago. What other things did I pass on that might be worth a second glance? Are anchovies really a good thing on pizza? (Update: they are still disgusting.) How about books? Maybe Atlas Shrugged isn't that bad. (Update: it's fucking terrible. Read the first five pages, gave up, and almost made my best Bradley Cooper “Silver Linings” impression by throwing the book through my fucking window.) How about the beach? I hated the beach a decade ago. (Update: with the right company, it isn't so bad.)

On Monday, I decided I wanted to watch the sun set into the Pacific. Although I've been in California for three years, I've never witnessed the sun tuck itself into the ocean. Accompanied by a good contender for best human, I decided to go to El Matador State Beach and wait for the sunset. It's taken me 30 years to realize how much I love reading a book on the beach, something I would have definitely would have shunned years ago.

We very quickly realized we had an issue. El Matador State Beach faces slightly southwest. The sun was setting a bit north of where we were, so with a half hour to go, we decided to get in the car and find a spot where the sun would potentially bathe in the frigid Pacific waters. We began driving north on the Pacific Coast Highway. As we drove around the mountains that hugged the shoreline, we realized we were getting closer. I was getting excited, things that seemed stupid, dumb, not worth my time as a younger men, were all things I enjoyed doing now. I even had an idea for a book: Chasing the Sunset. (Editor’s note: Copyright protection does not extend to titles, so you’re good!)

Around the next mountain, we found the sun and its final, daily descent. One more thing to knock off the to-do list!  Five minutes to sunset, here we go, just one more turn.

Wait, is that a naval base?

Is the sun setting on top of it?

Who puts a naval base way out here?!

Where did the ocean go???!!!

Son of a bi…

Essays Archive

To Live And Write In L.A.: A Day In The Life

By Hassel Velasco

Currently Working On: Untitled Beatles Project
Currently Listening to: The Beatles, “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band”
Currently Reading: The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions: The Official Story of the Abbey Road Years 1962-1970, Mark Lewisohn

A Day In The Life

Recently, I was asked what my favorite Beatles song was. I didn't have an answer. I couldn't even narrow it down. Moments later, I was asked what my favorite Beatles album was and I had an even bigger issue picking just one. I did what any sane person would do. I created a Beatles playlist that ended up being about 118 tracks long. I had to find out which song out of the 200-plus songs The Beatles ever recorded was my favorite. I had to pick an album. It was no longer acceptable to answer these questions with an "I don't know" or ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.

So I took the long weekend to drive to some of my favorite Los Angeles spots and try to figure out this conundrum like any of the other Silver Lake/Los Feliz-inhabiting hipster hopefuls.

I started on Sunday because Saturday was taken up by work (bleh). I began with what I consider my least favorite Beatles album, “Yellow Submarine,” on my way to Iliad bookshop in North Hollywood. It's ironic that it’s my least favorite considering I have a yellow submarine tattooed on my right forearm, but hidden in this album is one of my favorite songs. See the list below.

Next, I took the short drive over to Republic Of Pie, a pie/coffee shop in North Hollywood. Here I sat and listened to some of the earlier Beatles albums (“Please Please Me,” “With The Beatles,” “A Hard Day's Night,” “Beatles for Sale,” “Rubber Soul,” “Help”) while enjoying the most bomb-ass slice of banana cream pie. The covers recorded by The Beatles in their earlier records, like the banana cream pie, are also bomb-ass. The songs are great time capsules for the music that influenced the quartet. Full disclosure, I listened to as much of these albums as I could because I couldn't stay at a pie place for long without consuming massive amounts of pie, which would lead to potential heart failure. Moving on.

The drive to The Last Bookstore in Downtown Los Angeles, like any drive in the city, featured long and time-consuming traffic measuring more than 10 miles. It’s worth it because the bookstore is one of my favorite places in Los Angeles. I can easily spend an entire day lost in its maze of books. Although parking is limited to whatever you can find in the area, it’s by far the best book destination in the city. (Pro tip: use the restroom before you get here. There is no restroom in the store, and public restrooms in Downtown Los Angeles are pretty much non-existent.)

I listened to the entirety of “The White Album” while book browsing. It's unfair to compare the earlier Beatles records with the band's later work. As revolutionary as The Beatles early records were, the foursome become a completely different monster once they halted all touring. “The White Album” is a testament to The Beatles extensible, but different, musical talents, and thus the beginning of the end.

I finished Sunday night with a drink at a bar called The Griffin in Los Feliz. A mythical venue, The Griffin was one of the first bars I visited when I moved out here. You can frequently see it as the exterior shot of the bar the characters of “New Girl” frequent. It's on the way to this bar that I came to the realization that “Let It Be” may possibly be my least favorite album. I drove home that night listening to “Revolver,” which is, in my opinion, the turning point in the band’s recording process.

On Monday, I decided to frequent my usual spots. After some errands in the Northridge area of the Valley, I drove to The Americana, a shopping center with my favorite Barnes and Noble. I began listening to “Abbey Road” on my way there and continued once I was nestled into a corner of the third-floor patio. I think “Abbey Road” is to The Beatles what Quentin Tarantino believes “Inglorious Basterds” to be...a masterpiece. How George Martin managed to keep John and Paul from killing each other is beyond me, but the result is an album that I can listen to from beginning to end without skipping a single song.

Finally, I ended my Monday night by having my traditional dinner of two Guinness pints at a bar in Van Nuys called Ireland 32's. It’s an Irish dive bar with live music almost every night. After finishing “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band” it was time to narrow things down. Working on this Beatles project has me focused on the pre-“Revolver” Beatles, so I haven't ventured out passed that album in quite some time. After listening to and evaluating the music as well as certain go-to spots around Los Angeles, I find myself associating these albums to these particular spots. I also painfully managed to narrow down that playlist to 20 songs.

Where You Once Belonged

Iliad Bookshop = “Yellow Submarine”

• Underrated, filled with a couple of good surprises.

Republic Of Pie = Pre-“Revolver” Albums

• Very good, can't have enough, but too much can potentially lead to a heart condition.

The Last Book Store = “The White Album”

• A maze of talent and individuality you can get lost in. Can't take a bathroom break in-between.

The Griffin = “Revolver”

• A turning point; a familiar, yet refreshing, take.

The Americana = “Abbey Road”

• Lots of flashing lights, so much going on, but you can't help but get lost in its melody and charm.

Ireland's 32 = “Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band”

• I get by with a little help from my friends. (Guinness, Jameson, etc)

Top 20 Favorite Beatles Songs

• “I Saw Her Standing There”
• “Tomorrow Never Knows”
• “Hey Bulldog”
• “Here Comes The Sun”
• “Don't Pass Me By”
• “The Ballad Of John And Yoko”
• “Happiness Is A Warm Gun”
• “I Want You (She's So Heavy)”
• “Something”
• “I've Just Seen A Face”
• “Because”
• “Within You, Without You”
• “Paperback Writer”
• “Rollover Beethoven”
• “Dizzy Miss Lizzy”
• “I Should Have Known Better”
• “Helter Skelter”
• “Dear Prudence”
• “Strawberry Fields Forever”
• “Blackbird”

Top 3 Albums

• “Abbey Road”
• “The White Album”
• “Revolver”

Essays Archive

How I Found My Sanity (and My Coffee Cup) in the Written Word

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By Catherine Kearns

Where is my damn coffee cup? This question crosses my mind about five times per day. Today, after having searched all the obvious places I normally leave it (microwave, laundry room, and on top of the bathroom hutch) I decided to check the kitchen cabinet. And what do you know…my coffee cup sits clean and safely in its designated space. At times like this, where I completely forgot not only washing the cup but drinking the contents that once swished inside, I can only smile at myself and be glad I found the cup at all.

A little over a year ago I decided to quit my job and become a stay-at-home mother. Before, most of my daily concerns centered on performance goals and budget completions—I used to be a yield analyst for a digital company in New York City—but now, I spend my days with three amazing boys who call me “Mom.” And because of this rather recent change, my daily struggles have shifted and I find myself dealing with misplaced coffee cups, trying to remember whether or not I brushed my teeth, and leaving wet clothes in the washer (which forces me to wash them again in an ongoing vicious cycle). 

When I was working I had time to read books on my commute and perhaps even jot down a few lines for a short story on slower days. I have a degree in journalism and, like most graduates, started a career that had nothing to do with writing (somehow I became a numbers person), so these small moments of literary freedom felt refreshing. For me, the written word has the power to balance out my sanity. It opens my eyes to other words (I read mostly fiction) and allows me to see myself clearly whenever my fingers grace the keyboard.

Now, I read mostly picture books and write notes to my son’s Pre-K teacher. My subway commute has been replaced by trips in the mini-van as I take my kids to school, doctor appointments, playdates, and family events. Please know that I do not say this with disdain but with great love—leaving my job was the best decision I’ve ever made. My family is my world and my children have brought a whole new meaning to my life. 

But I have realized something during my transition into a full-time mother—my desire to write has not left me. Yes, my time is more limited but we all have excuses. What I write may mean nothing to some and a world to others and I accept that. There is a good chance that the words I string together are complete crap and make sense only to me, but, again, this is okay. Writing is not about impressing others or inspiring a revolution. It is about personal growth, expression, and clarity.

So no more excuses; I’m going to write. I will write for me. For my children. For my sanity.  

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