"The reason for putting myself through this weekly wringer is knowing that you might pick up a copy of L.A. Weekly
and read this small contribution. More than that, I hope that you might
even like it. I am not one of those "I don't care what you think about
what I do" types. I would much rather you like what I do than not like
it or not care. "I am desperate for your attention and approval!" is
what I have been saying to audiences all over the world from the stage
for many years. They laugh, but I am not joking.
I try to write this weekly piece as an ongoing conversation. Any
editor worth his weight in salt might call this rambling! However, my
attempt is to make a genuine connection with you and Los Angeles. This
is why, whenever possible, I try to reference L.A. localities, venues,
intersections, etc. As much of a stucco-coated sprawl as L.A. is, I am
trying to pull it all in a little closer somehow. That which separates
us is, for the most part, a scam. Isolation is not necessarily safety,
and stagnation definitely isn't stability.
When I go to shows or to the grocery store, etc., and meet cool
people I share this city with, I know that it is this interaction, this
breakdown of barriers, that is precisely the ass-kicking that fear so
sorely requires. When someone tells me they dug the thing I wrote, I
absolutely beam. That I did something that you liked is so cool. This is
the main motivation for the 1,000-word-a-week jam session I send in to
the editor.
I have been living in Los Angeles for more than 30 years. I never
really felt it was a place to call home, just a place to work, leave and
return to without any emotional tie. I chalked that up to the place
being an artificially hydrated, baked patch of earth, full of
fly-by-nighters. But I realized I was one of the aforementioned, and the
only way to improve my evaluation of the place was to contribute.
Writing for the L.A. Weekly has furthered that effort. I have the publication and you to thank for that."
Awwwwww.