Gone Writing

I have to finish a story for Razorcake tonight. Will return to posting tomorrow. In the meantime, check out the photos (by me) of the Beach Boys Monument next to the 105 freeway that stands upon the former hours of the Wilsons.

Let's Recap

AOL's Headlines for Morons boasts "Quake Scares Californians: People Flee Los Angeles Buildings, 'That Was One of the Worst Ones.'" So now, when you start getting phone calls and emails from your frantic friends and family outside of the state, you know why.

It started at about a quarter to noon. I was at ye olde day job when the building started swaying. I figured I would work through it, felt like nothing more than tiny tremble, but the swaying grew rockier, started to feel more like airplane turbulence, so I finally got up and walked over to the doorway. Then my co-workers started calling their families, only to realize that their cellphones weren't working. I tried mine. Nope, couldn't call cellphones or landlines from my phone. Couldn't text message other cellphones but, for some weird reason, could text messages to Twitter.

Then I did what every other good desk monkey does in times like these. I logged on to MySpace. At least ten of my friends had just posted about the earthquake. Okay, so we have confirmation that it happened. I tried to check Caltech's site, but couldn't load the page. Then my friend Robbin posted the magnitude and that it was somewhere around Pomona. Ivan posted a roll of zingers like:

"Al-Qaeda showed off their earthquake machine today"

I posted that my cellphone was down and a slew of friends messaged to say that theirs weren't working either. Apparently, everyone was okay, but at a loss on how to live life without a cellphone.

I called home from a landline to see how my parents were doing and to check on my record collection (I really need to mount those cases to the wall). Everything was fine, but my mom was concerned because my brother was in Ontario, right next to the epicenter, taking the California Bar Exam.

I saw that a friend of mine in Ontario was online, so I figured it couldn't be catastrophic. Emailed him to ask how he was doing, asked about how Ontario was holding up, etc. He was fine and told me to tell my mom that my bro should be okay too.

My brother called my mom during his break and was laughing about the whole thing. He told her that he kept writing, on account of this shaker being nothing compared to the Northridge earthquake that ravaged our neighborhood and scarred us for life years ago, but then he noticed that there was a light fixture swinging above his head. He ducked.

You know who's native whenever an earthquake happens. We start to crack jokes and take stabs at the magnitude of quake. As long as it's under six, it's not that bad, we'll tell you. Stuff may fall, there might be a few scrapes and cuts, but at least the roofs aren't caving in this time.

And we're all awake in ways that we normally aren't on weekdays. We are no longer sighing through your typical on-the-street conversation.

"How are you?"

"Okay, and you?"

"Fine. What are you up to?"

"Nothing much, just working. How 'bout you?"

"Same, just working."

Now, we actually had something to discuss.

"Damn, did you feel that? What were you doing? Everything okay now? It wasn't that bad, it was more of a roller than a jolt."

At around 1:30, the string of MySpace posts had ceased. Our cellphones were now functioning properly. At work, the we began answering calls that had nothing to do with the earthquake, went back to scheduling appointments and sending out letters. Everything was back to normal.

It was just another earthquake

Counting Words

For Issue #45 of Outburn, I interviewed The Gaslight Anthem.  I have my copy, but I'm not sure if it's in stores yet.  Look for Underoath on the cover.

The thing about writing anything is that you're given a finite amount of space to try and contextualize the seemingly infinite array of ideas that can be conveyed in one conversation with a person.  You might thing that this changes with a Q/A piece, as the format more or less takes the narrative issues out of the hands of the journalist and places them in the care of the interviewee (I say more or less because the journalist is still responsible for the questions and therefore guides the narrative).  However, your typical interview that doesn't suck is going to extend to at least 3,000 words (roughly a half-hour of tape), oftentimes it will be 5,000-6,000 or more.  Now, a lot of the word space will consist of awkward trains of thought and chit-chat, but at least half of it (considering this is a good interview) will spark thoughts of, hey, this is really freakin' cool, fans will love to hear about this.  Still, though, you're dealing with way more than 1,000 words and chances are the word count is somewhere between 800 and 1200 and that's including an introduction that will probably run about 300 words.

So, unless your interview is an abysmal mess of yes or no questions and one line answers, the chances of much more than 1/4 of your interview actually making it into the story is slim.  As a writer, you learn to deal with it.  First you go through and take out the tangents that are repetitive and/or make no sense.  Then you get into the whole "baby killing" process, where you have to decide which chunks get cut regardless of how much attachment you feel to the segment.  You have to keep everything in line, follow the major theme that ran through the interview, get all the nuts and bolts into the piece and keep it cohesive.  After all, if you hit points A, B, C and D and then jump back to B before heading to E, swooping towards H and then backtracking to F and G, the reader is going to get lost.

All that is to say is that I did a hell of a lot of editing before turning in this story.  In fact, I think it took more time for me to cut and past the original transcript into a new document than it did to transcribe the original 40 minute or so, overseas phone call.  And there was a lot in the conversation that I found quite intriguing.  Once I'm sure that the magazine is out and you can read the final product, I might post a few of the edited bits here. 

Celebrities: We're Just Like Them

Sometimes, we like to boldly make an inconspicuous exit.





Sometimes, we like to tell the paps to fuck off.



Sometimes, we accept the photos as part our lives.



Sometimes, we like to turn the tables on the paps and sneak up on them.



And, sometimes, even the pets get in on the action.





All photos by Liz Ohanesian except for the photo of Liz Ohanesian (top). That one was taken by her dear friend Tony LB.

Hey, Water Moccasin

Carlos is the one who coined the nickname Water Moccasin for my friend Megan. If you follow club photo websites, you might understand the moniker. If not, I won't be getting into it right now.

Megan is a photographer par excellence. And for a very short time, Megan the Water Moccasin and I were collaborators, our misadventures having been documented in The Rockit, Razorcake and a handful of other publications. Then she moved, essentially leaving me alone in L.A. to try and figure out how to shoot photos inside a club without using the flash.

Today, while I was stuck in traffic on the 101, I received a text message from Megan. She was at Warped Tour, somewhere in the New Jersey area where it was already after 5 p.m. She wrote briefly about vomit, bad fashion and $5 lemonades, our favorite topics of discussion for the summer festival season. I returned the text, stating that I wish I could be there. She returned that message with the same.

I never really collaborated with people on projects, mostly because I hadn't really come into contact with anyone who had the same vision I did. Then Megan and I began working together. I think that what made our partnership successful was that we both treated every concert as though it were a war zone. It didn't matter if we were in a dive-y bar, heinous Hollywood club or festival grounds, we treated every assignment as if it were the most important story in the world at that moment. Everything surrounding that concert-- the smell of unwashed metal heads, the puddles of unidentifiable substances on the ground, etc.-- became part of the stories. We prided ourselves on really getting into the environment surrounding the event (only hanging out in the VIP long enough to edit photos, catch up on notes and use the bathrooms), even if that meant that we often came home covered in filth and blowing black snot for the next few days.

Then there was the fact that plain old weird stuff happened to us on assignment. She got stuck babysitting the children of sunburned drunks at Ozzfest and I almost got kicked out of Coachella. Oh, and let us not forget the riot at San Diego Street Scene. (I would post links, but none of these stories are online.)

Thanks to geography, we haven't worked together since Coachella, 2007. I think this needs to change soon. Got any ideas, Water Moccasin?

Krumpalong Lizzie*

This post is inspired by Baseck's dancers, seen here live at the Cocaine, 2/23/08.

Baseck has these dancers, Nina and Marlon. They are, from what I have been told, professional dancers who perform with him when they have the chance. They dress in wild costumes, like the ones above or these feather-filled bunny suits from the same show.



And then they perform super-pro hip-hop moves set to the 160+ beats per minute pumping out from Baseck's turntable/gameboy apparatus. It's absolutely inspiring, so inspiring that I decided that I was going to relearn to dance.

As it turns out, my gym offers a free hip-hop class once a week. Last week, I decided to try it.

I went into the class figuring that it would be a challenge, but I might be able to handle it. After all, I did study dance throughout my childhood and adolescence. Back then, though, the closest we got to a "hip-hop" class in the Valley were jazz routines choreographed to Beastie Boys' songs (my first recital, when I was nine, involved "Brass Monkey"). On top of that, I haven't taken any dance class since freshman year of college and was not really certain what the verb "krump" means.

Needless to say, I sucked. I couldn't remember much after the first eight-count. I kept wanting to plie when I should be doing this krumping thing and spent half the time I was wondering when were going to grand jete.

And then there were the issues of stamina. Essentially, I don't have much. Less than half-way through the class, my throat grew raw from dehydration. The persistent ache in my right shoulder went away, but that was only because my entire body wanted to collapse. I wondered what would happen if I passed out in the middle of a spin. Would someone figure out which key chain was mine? Would they be able to scan the membership tag on my key ring and find out who I am? Would they be able contact someone who could tell the ambulance where to take me?

Mon dieu, what kind of hell have I created for myself?

I somehow got through the class and was still able to meet up with Carlos at Roberto's later that evening. The next morning though, there was nothing but sharp jabs of pain shooting through muscles that clearly hadn't been in use since 1996. That lasted for three full days.

And because I am nuts, because I love the aftermath of failure, I took another class tonight. Yes, I still suck, but not as badly. This time around, I actually remembered the moves for the entire routine. Well, sort of. My throat was still sore and I still feared collapsing in a pool of my own vomit, but I couldn't stop the dance. Now, I'm fairly certain I can define the word "krump." Whether or not I can perform the act of crumping without looking like an asshole is another thing. We'll save that for next week.

*edited because krump is spelled with a K, not a C

Shopping Without Dignity

I haven't been to Mervyn's since the late 1980s, when I would tag along with my mom to try to score a pair of brightly colored Chucks, but I went today because there was a sale and a cute pair of high-heeled, patent leather oxford-style shoes were supposed to be available for $21 or $22. Naturally, the shoes weren't there.

I mentioned the excursion to Carlos when we were on the phone.

"Did going to Mervyn's depress you?" he asked.

I paused, almost in shock. "How did you know?"

Carlos then told me about how Mervyn's is just a plain-old depressing store and some guys were discussing this on the radio yesterday.

"The funny thing is, I was talking to my mom a few minutes ago and I told her that I know now exactly why the store is going bankrupt," I added.

Outside of cheap bras and Hello Kitty pajamas in adult sizes, there is little joy to be found in Mervyn's. At the very least, there is nothing worthwhile about the Northridge outpost.

Everything about the store reminded me of the JC Penney catalog outlet that once existed at the Fallbrook poor-excuse-for-a-mall-- the oppressive design, lackluster displays and complete disrespect for the merchandise held by both the employees and the customers. I worked at the outlet when I was 19 and lasted just over a month. There was a lot to dislike about the job, not the least of which was a sweaty department manager who looked like Martin Mull in a brown suit and yelled at me for pausing from another round of restocking the t-shirt pile to help a customer. The breaking point at that job, though, was when I was refiling cheap, ladies blouses and noticed a haphazardly wrapped, shit-filled diaper lodged between two items. This, I kid you not, was the day after one of my coworkers had to clean a sanitary napkin out of a dressing room. Now my coworker might have been able to block that moment out of her mind, but I couldn't. I quit the next day.

I could imagine a situation like that at Mervyn's. The cash registers were obscured by massive piles of wrinkled clothing and sales people were few and far between (it took a while to actually find a competent person to ring up my purchase). Then there were the customers. There is no return rack, let alone an attendant, in the dressing room, so people just toss unwanted items on the ground (including bikini bottoms, which is another issue altogether). Out in the ladies department, I saw one woman drive her kid's stroller into a rack of clothes, knock over some shirts and continue on without so much as a glance back at the mess she made.

Walking through the store, I tried to convince myself that I should be okay with this. I shouldn't be such a snob. I shouldn't expect clean stores and passable service. But it just didn't feel right. I dropped into a slouch and scurried out of the store.

There's nothing wrong with shopping on the cheap. My entire wardrobe is culled from thrift stores, Target and sale racks, not because it's cool, but because it's what I can afford. But this was different. At Target, you can but a dress for $20, probably less than the same thing would cost at Mervyn's, and not feel like your poor because the store is clean and well organized, the displays are eye-catching and there is always someone around to help if necessary. Mervyn's is just one big reminder that you can't afford Macy's, let alone Barney's. It's a store without any dignity.

Glowstick Nation

A few weeks ago, I was at Anime Expo for reasons you should be reading soon. At the end of the first night, I walked outside and noticed a group of maybe six guys and one girl dancing with glowsticks. They were spread out across a 20 foot radius with a small boom box in the center of the haphazard geometric formation.

I talked to Bryce from glowsticking.com, who seemed to be something of a ringleader, and asked why glowsticks and anime? He said it just seems to work. Anime fans are often ravers. Ravers are often into anime. We chatted for a bit and he told me about the tutorial he and his friends were doing the following day. I wasn't able to make it. I did, however, get some pictures.







Then there was this guy Phil, who let me shoot the following video.



Of course, it wasn't until after I got home that I realized that I should have changed the settings to get that freaky, trailer look. On Saturday, I played around with my camera at an AX dance party.



I'll get the hang of the glowstick thing eventually.

Bucket Day @ The Cocaine, 7/19/08

If you go to enough noisy shows in L.A., then you probably recognize the dude with the fez. His name is Monkey Bucket and, in addition to being an ardent supporter of DIY L.A., he promotes shows, generally monthly and in connection with The Cocaine's Saturday night events at Second Street Jazz in Little Tokyo.

This weekend was Monkey Bucket's birthday bash and the kids dressed in their finest homemade Harajuku outfits-- puffy, Lolita-style dresses, mismatched layers of post-raver craziness. I felt quite plain in my girly Pete Doherty outfit when I noticed someone adjusting a pink tutu as we stood on the sidewalk.



As it turned out, the person in the tutu was Jellowaste, whose set we unfortunately missed on account of our own tardiness. The non-tutu wearing dude in the photo is Hal, a photographer with whom we became acquainted that night. Hal tipped us off to Second Street Jazz's house specialty, the Dirty Whore. It is, essentially, a White Russian, but made with horchata and sprinkled with cinnamon. It tastes like rice pudding. Yum.



You know things are going to get out of control when the artist set to perform starts to walk across the tables lining the club while holding a microphone that caught ever bit of feedback available in the venue. Even though I knew next-to-nothing about Kawaiietly Please before this night, I immediately gathered that this would be a memorable performance. And anytime an artist proceeds to invoke a silly string riot highlighted by ample use of chocolate as fake blood and doesn't get kicked out of the club in the middle of the performance, it will be a night that no one will soon forget.

I decided to edge towards the middle of the crowd and shoot some video.



This, of course, led to a glob of "blood" striking my eye (smelled good, felt awful) and sprinkling my sweater. But, as the bartender and I soon learned, club soda really does remove tiny stains.

But the question remained, how do you follow a set like that? If you're end.user, then you just make everyone dance hard, fast and to a beat that is nothing like a four-four. Carlos played along to the beat in the back of the club.



More photos on Flickr.

And the Universe Didn't Collapse

So, there's this dude we know. He's basically and L.A. punk legend and he has a distinct look-- furry hat, long hair, etc. Then there's this other dude who actually looks a lot like him-- same size, similar hair, similar furry hat. And for the past ten years or so, we keep seeing the other dude, the one we don't know, at clubs and thinking it's the guy we do know, except when we look closely, we realize that Other Dude is wearing sunglasses and beads, so he's probably not Dude We Know.

We have often wondered what would happen if Dude We Know and Other Dude were at the same club, at the same time. Would the universe collapse? Would life as we know it cease to exist?

Last Sunday, we were hanging out at Roberto's and we saw Dude We Know. We were standing in line to get records signed when we saw him on the other side of the room. Then we saw Other Dude walk into the room. Our eyes grew bulbous. Other Dude walked straight across the club floor, headed to the corner where Dude We Know was crouched and sat down. Then the two began commiserating for five minutes or so.

It was really happening.

And so we waited, waited for something to happen. Nothing did. Then we realized that the meeting of two lookalikes is not necessarily a sign of impending doom.

The New Generation of Autumns Fans

My cousin is thirteen years younger than I am. I remember the day she was born because my mom had told me when she picked up my friends an I from an afternoon of theater-hopping R-rated movies at the Peppertree Theater. I was kind of excited because that meant that I would have a little cousin to whom I could teach the ins-and-outs of music geekiness.

My sister and I babysat her when we were teenagers. I remember us saying that we would never actually take her anywhere because she was so much younger than us that we didn't want anyone asking if she was one of our kids. So we would hang around the house-- either ours or our grandparents-- and I would always play Siouxsie for her. By the time she was five, she would walk in on holidays and say, "Lizzie, can you play some Siouxsie?"

I thought maybe my cousin would turn into a mini-goth, but she's actually pretty normal looking. She does, however, have good taste in music, despite being from a generation that thinks it's actually cool for people over the age of ten to listen to music that began on the Disney Channel.

So, today, we were at our grandma's house and she says to me, "Hey, have you heard of this band called The Autumns?"

I totally freaked out. Have I heard of The Autumns? So, I told her about how when I was maybe a year or two older than her, I first heard the band and lost my mind. I told her how my friends Robbin, Brian and I would go and see the band over and over and over again, how we were all working at Coven 13 and our enthusiasm helped get the band booked at the club. And then I told her how I've interviewed them several times and how they're plain old awesome.

Turns out she really likes the band too.

By the end of the 1990s, the L.A. music kind of sucked. I'm just being honest here. It was, on the whole, a lot of second-rate indie rock. And then there were The Autumns who were weirder and louder than most of the people we had grown accustomed to seeing on the stages of our fair city. They were our pride and joy and, to this day, remain a must-see around town (although they play infrequently right now). To hear that my college-bound cousin, who was just a little girl when I was listening to The Angel Pool for days on end, is now getting into the band gives me hope that maybe good music is not a thing of the past.

The above video is from one of The Rockit showcases we did last year. The show, I believe, coincided with a story I did for the publication and (full disclosure, I suppose), I helped book the party. Norton Wisdom is the guy painting in the background.