One Hell of a Pitch

Okay, so once I mention "my book" to friends, they immediately want to know what it's about - mostly because I didn't really tell anyone besides my co-author that I was writing it. I suppose I just wanted to make sure the whole thing was really going to happen before I got my friends and family all excited about it... but since the project is moving forward - I thought I'd share a rough transcript of what I pitched to those literary agents last weekend, which I hope will suffice as a good answer the oft-posed question above. If not, feel free to send me follow up questions... although, if you do, don't be surprised if you end up getting mentioned in a subsequent piece (you've been warned).

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Hi, my name's Glenn, and I've got a funny book - but first let me tell you a little about me:

I'm an Annapolis man; a Stanford-trained L.A. lawyer who spent three years moonlighting as a cheerleader for the Clippers. I have a membership to tanning salon, a celebrity gym and a grocery co-op. I'm your prototypical L.A. guy - a do-er.

I've written a book with Jen.

Jen is a big city girl-next-door. A San Francisco high-rise desk jockey, who's funnier than she is flashy. She can most often be seen on the sidelines watching it all go by. She's the consummate observer.

We like to refer to ourselves as Generation C - a generation of kids who came of age between the 80's, which thought were ridiculous but had good music, and the 90's which we thought should ditch the flannel and get a decent bath. We're a generation without a voice - misfits, if you will. But if you ask any of us, individually, we've all got something to say.

We met at the nation's top citizen journalism website (www.broowaha.com) where we are both top writers, amassing over 150,000 individual article views between us.

We call it "Smart Mouths: Generation C tells it like it is from both sides of the gender coin"

We took on ten topics - from sex and dating to religion and politics; each expressing our own independent point of view and then, in writing, commenting on the other's. It reads more like a conversation than a collection, and much like talking with anyone from Gen C, it's sharp, blunt and pointed, but it's also funny. That's how we communicate best, getting our point across with humor.

In the end, we found that although being a part of this generation can at times seem very intellectually lonely, and as though we are adrift between the well-defined Generation X and Generation Y, we have a collective voice and identity of our own - and that's really what the book is about.

(Coming to a bookstore near you!)

Well met, and too soon forgotten

I almost forgot to mention... okay, I did actually forget to mention... My mea culpa follows.

Amidst my weekend romp through SF - I connected up with a good friend from law school who's living and practicing in The City. This is extraordinary for a number of reasons:

First and foremost, I don't have a lot of friends from law school. The transition from public school and public service to private school was one that I wasn't quite ready for. Nothing can really prepare for the slap in the face that is being the public school kid in a room full of kids born to privilege and promise. "Oh you're doing Spring Break in Vietnam? That's great! Me? Oh, I'm going to go out for a few drinks... on consecutive nights." I didn't take it well. But, amidst countless dozens of people who I hope to never, ever see again - there were some truly spectacular people that I'm lucky to have spent that time with. Brett is amongst these precious few.

Second, I'm not a San Francisco type of guy - this is something you'll no doubt read or have read more of if you follow my ramblings with any regularity. The fact that I've located friends in a place like SF surprises even me. I prefer to think of Brett as an LA guy who's trapped in SF because of a good job opportunity... I'm sure he won't agree.

So this is Brett. And what's amazing about Brett is that if you ever meet him - you'll have no idea that there is a river of funny and interesting prose running through his brain. He's not really a quiet guy, per se - it's just that he sometimes keeps the company of very loud and gregarious sorts (i.e. me) and it makes him seem that way. But, over the course of a few too many cocktails at the Big 4 (at the Huntington Hotel), I believe that I've finally convinced him to share his musings with the world at large - in what I believe will be a forthcoming blog. It will be good... trust me. Brett's been an "inside man" for some pretty crazy adventures - and you will want to read about them.

Perhaps he'll even respond to this post with the title and web address so you can just click on over... only time will tell.

Point being, I forgot to mention - in a forum that is alleged to announce the more significant incidents in my life - a very significant reunion. My apologies to Brett and to you all.

We Built This City...

So, this past weekend, I spent three days in San Francisco, which I have often described as the "greatest weekend city in the world" and it did not disappoint. The trip was a bit of a last-minute affair - since I'd only really "planned" it a week ago. A new friend, also a writer, was headed off to the San Francisco Writers Conference (http://www.sfwriters.org/), and had a room at the Intercontinental Mark Hopkins. Well, the offer of finally being able to get serious about my book project combined with the prospect of spending Valentine's Day at the most romantic hotel (and hotel bar) that I know of proved impossible to resist.

The Conference

There's no doubt that writing is a lonely thing. The experience itself is really best accomplished when alone - but it can also make the distance between the words on your screen and the words in the books on the bookshelves seem impassible. So, being amongst a room full of writers was extraordinarily inspiring. All at once, it seemed as though I might just be able to get my book published after all. All this creativity and resolve in the same place was impressive.

Of course, there's no doubt from the look of the crowd that these are people who spend a significant amount of time by themselves. Which is not to say that it was a particularly unattractive crowd, but the fact that it was a writer's convention would have been immediately obvious to any passers-by without ever having to read any of the posted signs. As in most situations, I was feeling a little bit of an odd-man-out, but under the circumstances, the feeling was more welcome this time than most others.

By the end of the conference I had accomplished two very exciting things:

1. I resolved to begin writing a memoir - which I won't say too much more about here, but it is a project that I'm very excited to begin. There was a fantastic workshop on memoirs - and I've always, always wanted to tell my story. But, more importantly,

2. I had pitched my book to four different literary agents, and all four of them asked me to send them a book proposal and a sample of the book. I am going to put the book pitch in a subsequent blog entry - so stay tuned!

The Hotel

The Top of the Mark is the consummate San Francisco bar. I don't even like San Francisco, and I love this bar. The Intercontinental Mark Hopkins Hotel is a beautiful historic hotel on the very corner of Nob Hill - and at its very top floor sits this ignominious night spot. There are windows all the way around - with a view of the city that makes it feel as though you're in the middle of a postcard. They have one hundred different martinis on their drink menu, and all patrons are seated (i.e. if they don't have a table for you, you're not getting into the bar). In the middle of the place is a small dance floor where a live jazz quintet plays everything from standards, to ballads to very cheeky covers of songs you thought you'd only hear at weddings and barmitzvahs. But the best part of all is that everyone gets dressed up. That's right, a regular night spot where there's no one wearing jeans.

To spend a Valentines Day night at a place was just about the best V-day that I can recall. It was one of those nights when one is tremendously glad to be a grown-up and to be to truthfully enjoy the sublime beauty of such a place on such a night.

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I could go on and on... especially about the Hot & Sour soup at the House of Nanking and the world's greatest buffet (located, surprisingly at an Irish pub/piano bar) - but I imagine that it suffices to simply say that it was one hell of a weekend.

Entitled to the Sunshine

People who are not from Los Angeles seem to always get that look on their face when we Angelenos complain about winter weather below 50 degrees as though we've just simultaneously admitted to running a dog fighting ring, masterminding a billion dollar ponzi scheme and secretly volunteering for the Palin 2012 campaign. Its like they imagine that Los Angeles, is a lot like where they live, except it's summer all the time. Which is precisely what the California tourism people would like them to believe. And if that were the case, their disgust would be perfectly justified. But, rest assured, in a 158,302 square mile testament to the validity of economics, we Californians are paying (in any number of ways) for year-round sunshine, and on those few occasions that our sunshine state (sorry, Florida) doesn't deliver, it's just like someone left out one of the scoops of ice cream in your Dairy Queen banana split (a reference for you red-staters). You'd paid for three, and dammit, it's three you want - no matter what lesser desserts the surrounding patrons ordered.

Look, it's fine if the folks living in the great frozen middle of our nation want to look at winter like some sort of American rite of passage - but there are some folks willing to pay to not have to deal with snow chains, snotsicles and temperatures that can actually kill you. But rest assured, we are paying for the privilege. Let's just take for example, Indianapolis, IN - a legitimate American big city. The cost of living in Los Angeles, is 52.2% higher than in Indy. Which means that if you were making $100,000 a year in Indy, and you took that "great job" to LA - you'd have in excess of $38K less dispoable income per year. Of course, the high temperature in Indy next Monday is going to be 33 degrees - and in LA, it'll be 67 (and we'll still be pissed about that). If you paid $40,000 for year round sunshine, how would you feel about a week of rain?

And it's not just cash we're paying to live in LA. We lost $6 billion in 2002 in productivity in Southern California due to traffic (and believe it, it's gotten a lot worse since then). What the rest of the country (not counting NYC) refers to as a "traffic jam" we, here in LA, call "empty roads." It's not uncommon to average about 15mph or less during rush hour. Which may not sound so bad, until you realize that the average LA commuter has to travel 15 miles (each way) to and and from work. So, if you believe the common idiom that "time is money" - we're paying again, and paying big.

In a recent survey, Los Angeles finished third amongst America's rudest cities - behind NYC and Boston (which is really no surprise). So, amongst all the sunny, the normal dispositions are anything but. Ask anyone who's lived here - people in LA don't make friends, they network. It's like a prison colony for sociopaths, just with nicer restaurants and more expensive drinks. Who knew that sunshine attracted assholes?

Finally, real estate. I mean, the "dream" of owning a single-family home in LA is the same as they dream of being a millionaire. No, I don't mean because they're the dreams of the same people here - because they're actually the same dream. Think about what kind of house a million dollars buys in your town. Now divide the square footage in that house by a factor of four, put it in a bad part of town, cut the size of the lot down to an eighth of an acre, eliminate the pool, the multiple car garage, the landscaping, and increase the age of the building by thirty years, and you'll have your "million dollar home" in sunny Los Angeles.

With all this paying - you're damned right we want it sunny. All the damned time. Because we paid our money, and we want all three scoops of our 80 degree happiness.

Hothead

I have a temper. I really do. Despite no less than seventeen years of formal academics, countless classroom and practical hours of leadership and ethics training, and a good bit of life experience, I'm still prone to popping my top at times. On balance I feel like its the only way that any rational, caring intellectual can to respond to a world that's becoming ever stupider and ever less-ashamed of it. Case-in-point, I almost got into a fight at a Super Bowl viewing party.

The relative wisdom of going to watch the Super Bowl at a place where there will be many drunk and rowdy strangers aside - I was in downtown Los Angeles at the ESPN Zone last Sunday nonetheless. I was there with some friends, and we had gotten there early to get a good table (and maybe have a few drinks in advance of kickoff). Most of the room, including the majority of the group I was seated with was rooting for Arizona, although if any of you are familiar with the average Pittsburgh Steeler fan, you know it only takes a few of them to make a scene.... and a few of them there were. Two of which were particularly noticable (and by "noticable" I, of course, mean mind-numbingly annoying). We'll call them Sticks and Stupid.

Sticks was an African American woman who looked like she purchased the majority of her Steelers gear (and, as luck would have it, her haircut) some time in the early nineties. She was tall and lanky, and had a habit of walking around the room when she became particularly enamored with the progress of the game. Of course, her obviously marginal understanding of football made this difficult to watch. She'd begin these informal parades and their preemptive loud clapping after moments which were not particularly Steeler-positive, and seemed oblivious to the fact that she was in a room full of people rooting for the other team. Even the people at her own table (who I would only loosely refer to as "friends") encouraged her to be a little less cantankerous - as they were becoming vicariously embarrassed.

Stupid was the kind of jerk-off that I usually associate with Steeler fan-dom. He was the kind of guy who is seriously flirting with middle age and had the body to show for it. He, of course, had a Steelers jersey on, and was presdisposed to standing up in the front and center of the room and waving his arms about - shouting and pointing at other patrons. He looked as though to closest he'd ever been to Pittsburgh was looking it up on Google Maps, and about as hard as a good, solid pile of cashmere. But he liked to get things stirred up, and felt compelled notify all the Cardinal fans in the room that we were not "real" fans because we weren't wearing Cardinal colors. As if the douchebaggery that is wearing a football jersey out in public when you're not a football player is some sort of rite-of-passage than validates one's overzealous support of a pro sports franchise in a city you've never even been to. Although, I'm sure that even if I was wearing a Cardinals jersey, I'd have heard it from this guy because my jersey wasn't "authentic" enough, or because I couldn't name the starting lineup from the 1987 squad.

Well, by halftime, I'd had about enough of listening and watching Sticks and Stupid, and couldn't keep the ire than was bubbling inside me inside any longer. I yelled at them to sit down and to shut up. Of course, if you know these sort of people, this is precisely the sort of behavior that will guarantee that they will not do any such thing (as my attractive companion pointed out to me afterwards). Having inspired their continued mindless rambling, Stupid felt compelled to involve a few other Steeler supporters in his response to my requests. That's when it all got a little out of hand.

There was a table full of buzz cut and generally rough-looking young hispanic men (with one woman) wearing Steeler jerseys who I had previously not noticed - as they were enjoying the game along with the rest of us. But Stupid pointed out to them that I was a Cardinals fan who had lost my temper, and they were just the sort of kids to jump into what could be a good fight. I tried not to include them in my ranting, but their particularly slight and young leader took to cursing and making obscene gestures at me. Now, I keep a pretty current list in my head of people that I will take shit from, and people that I will not. For example, the large man in the booth behind us, who looked like he went at about 6'4", 275 and maybe 7% body fat, was someone that I would definitely take shit from. But, the punk ass kid who looked like he couldn't even locate Pittsburgh on a map was most assuredly on my "Not to take shit from" list - and I was already pretty fed up.

So, I let him have it, and at the apex of it, he came towards my table. I stood up to face him, and the adrenaline began to course through me. But, as he came around the corner, one of his friends grabbed him and security was close to follow. I sat down, and a warm hand on my leg began to help me come down off of it.

Security had a talk with the offending table, and true to form, Stupid tried to weigh in and let them know that the whole thing was my fault. Security then came to have a talk with me and let me know that if I did anything of the sort again, I'd be referred to LAPD (who had also arrived by then) who intended to keep anyone who got into any sort of fight, overnight. Well, that was enough for me. As much as I deeply wanted to let that kid know that it takes more than three big friends and a big mouth to be a tough guy - I certainly didn't want to avail myself of the LAPD's hospitality. I remained sitting for the balance of the game - and even tried to buy his table a round of drinks, which they refused.

I have to admit, I was worried about walking out of that place and back to the train station with a friend who, while awesome, was a little too little and a lot too female to really be much help if things went sideways. But fate intervened. The only female in the offending group got into it with some other female fans, and as that little skirmish escalated, things finally did boil over, and before you know it, people were being led out of the building in handcuffs. That's right, arrested at a Super Bowl viewing party at the ESPN Zone. Go Steelers. Of course, pursuant to the cosmic injustice that even allows these sorts of people to keep breathing, Sticks and Stupid were not in the detained group - I guess inciting and general idiocy were lower priorities than the assualt and battery than had just taken place.

In the end, the whole thing was a bit surreal, and certainly an interesting story to tell - but also a valuable couple of lessons learned:

1. A year after spine surgery, I've finally recaptured enough of my old self to feel like I'd be perfectly fine getting into a tussle.

2. Stupid people will not listen to you - that's how they got so stupid in the first place.

3. There's not much that's quite as awesome as someone who will try and keep you from making a mistake, and even after you've made a complete ass of yourself, tell you that they totally understand, and that it's totally ok with them.

I'll take that over my team winning the Super Bowl, anytime.