LATFOB: A Sweat Drenched Retrospective

Let's just dispense with the formalities first: It was miserably fucking hot on Saturday. I live in a desert that frequently reaches well into the 120s during the summer and by about, oh, 9:30 Saturday morning I was already bemoaning the need to look at least passably professional for my duties as Big Time Famous Author by virtue of wearing the requisite outfit preferred by today's 30something author men: jeans, some kind of brownish shoe, shirt of either polo or buttoned variety, along with a messenger bag slung over shoulder containing, you know, early drafts of your next great novel, a dozen sharpies and a book of earnest poetry. I would have much preferred to be wearing the other favored outfit of today's west coast man authors of 30something age: shorts, t-shirt, flip-flops, messenger bag. By about 9:48am I smelled like I'd jogged to UCLA from La Quinta alongside a pack of nutria. It was fucking miserable.

That being said, it was, as usual, a lovely time. Here's how it broke down by the day:

Friday: Friday is the official kick off of the LA Times Festival of Books (heretofore known as LATFOB) with the annual Book Prizes and the Book Prizes after party. As usual, I took my brother Lee as my date (because he's tender and passionate and usually buys me a flank steak sandwich at the restaurant across the street from the Mystery Bookstore prior to their annual pre-LATFOB get together). We sat next to my friends Tara Ison (a fellow Book Prize loser..a vaunted community), Mary Yukari Waters and Mark Sarvas (along with is lovely wife) and pondered several things as the prizes unfolded:

1. We were all pretty certain that Gay Talese was dead prior to him walking out to host the awards.

2. Several of the finalists for awards seemed like excellent potential mates for Mary Yukari Waters, particularly one fellow who won an award who looked vaguely like Mr. Spock.

3. The Book Prizes are really quite a lavish spectacle -- it's pretty much like going to the Oscars with a bunch of book dorks who make really interesting, funny, and engaging acceptance speeches.

After, we headed over to the party where gossip was the food of choice -- well, alongside the yummy Korean BBQ and the chocolate fountain (where I encountered several members of the crack UCLA Extension Writers' Program team...uh...how to say...wasted...fucked up...unlikely to make it to their booth on time Saturday morning...but in a good, literary way, of course) -- and where every person with a glass of wine made a point of spilling it on Lee.

Saturday: As noted, it was hotter than fuck out, but that didn't dissuade 150,000 people from showing up bright and early to attend the festival, which would have been great if they hadn't been so fucking sweaty. Nevertheless, I managed to make it to my 10am panel with Susan Straight, Brock Clarke, Sylvia Brownrigg and Tara Ison, which was a sell out and a great time. I really like moderating panels because I'm genuinely interested in the things other writers have to say and also because I hate attending panels where the moderators aren't, which makes being on a panel and being in the audience a torturous exercise. So, I like to moderate a panel in such a way that it would be a panel I'd like to see. Thus, I rolled out the word "bukakke" almost immediately after Tara attempted to make a point about...something...where she was searching for an appropriate metaphor about...something...and so I just kind of said, "Like bukakke?" to which Tara just kind of nodded, like, yeah, bukakke, precisely. (When asked later by an audience member what bukakke meant, Brock responded that it was an "ancient Japanese jism ritual," which seemed to satisfy that questioner...) It's always great fun doing a panel with Susan because she is always so smart and interesting and insightful and has a wonderful look of horror on her face whenever I cross that line into, you know, abject obscenity.

After the panel, we headed to the green room, which is pretty much made from the very fabric of awesome. Why? Because you're sitting there, eating a sandwich, and over the loudspeaker you hear "Will TC Boyle and Jane Smiley please report to the patio?" and you think, How did I get here? But mostly because they have pretty yummy food, it's air conditioned, quite large, and filled with every author you've ever heard of and many you haven't and everyone is so nice. I tried to find someone to have an odd conversation with but had to be satisfied with learning that Lee had inadvertently offended someone -- it was a mix up of names, hilariously, as it happens, that I'd recount here if it wouldn't involve Lee being hideously embarrassed and then the person he really meant to talk shit about would probably start emailing me, too -- before making an ill advised trip down the hall of torture that is the Janss steps (whenever I walk up and down these fucking things I think about that scene in Galaxy Quest where Tim Allen and Sigourney Weaver encounter a series of odd killing machines in the bowels of the space ship that serve no larger purpose but to possibly kill, and Weaver says, "This episode was poorly written!') during the heat of the day. Lee and I stopped off to visiting our cousin Danny's birthday party on the lawn before knocking around the booths down below. I made my way to the Akashic booth to sign some copies of Las Vegas Noir and to marvel at how Johnny Temple can look so cool while sweating like a hobo and I just look all frumpy and Jewish. Note to self: lose weight, get cool, found a press. I then walked back up Janss, found Susan Straight and her daughter and her daughter's friend and assured them all that I knew how to get to a panel Laila Lalami was moderating (and which featured one of my favorite writers, Tony Earley). About three hours and 10 pounds later, by which point even Susan was calling me a fucktard and letting me know what a fellow named Uncle Frosty was going to do to me for my lack of navigational abilities (or was thinking it, anyway) we finally found Korn Hall, approximately two miles from where I thought it was and about fifty paces from where we started out.

We spent the next hour drying in the AC and giggling and then, for the love of god, I walked down those god awful steps AGAIN, only to walk back up them, AGAIN, by which point I was generally aware of the smell of my own groin. But then I got to sit with Tony Earley back in the green room, along with my OV Books editor goddess Stacy Beirlein, talking about 80s music, the hall of fame credentials of Steve McNair and people we all mutually dislike. So that was nice.

Sunday: Sunday was The Day of the Siblings as all four of us had events this afternoon, and which also meant I'd have to do things in order to prove to my sister Linda that anything is possible if you have dangling thing around your neck with your name on it.

First objective: Speak to Aimee Mann.

This would have been easier if I'd just tagged along with my friend Steve Almond when he went to host the show Aimee was doing with Joe Henry at Royce, but I was busy eating french toast in the green room, so when she arrived back in the green room herself and Linda started acting like it was 1987 and getting all, you know, hush hush keep it down down, I walked over and said hello to Aimee and Joe (because we're pretty tight now, I just call 'em Aimee and Joe), chatted with them briefly and then moved on to, uh, more french toast. Linda was suitably impressed.

Second objective: Have a conversation with Steve Garvey.

The funny thing here is that Steve Garvey actually lives in my neighborhood here in the desert, but I'm not going to go up to him at Ralph's and be like, Yo, nice forearms! But on equal ground at the Book Festival, I figured, you know, he wouldn't think I was too much of a dork. Problem was, I didn't see him until nearly the end of the day, but was able to corner him for this exclusive interview as he walked past me:

Me: Hey Steve.

Steve: Hey Tod.

(I'd like to think he's a big fan or remembers the Kato incident...but I think he just looked at my name tag...but whatever...we hit it off...)

Where my ego failed me, however, was when I was in the food line alongside Karen and Linda and a person I do a, uh, unflattering imitation of happened to be standing right in front of me.

Linda: Why don't you do your imitation now?

Me: Why don't you shut up?

Linda: Maybe he'd appreciate it.

Me: (twisting my name tag around) I'm going to guess he'd find it transcendent, but unfunny.

I managed to avoid getting my ass kicked by said man of books, which was good since I had a panel with Rob Roberge, Mark Haskell Smith and Chris Goffard that afternoon, which was also great fun. We managed to not piss off any fans of cat mysteries, so that was nice, and Rob didn't tell anyone that they "parroted morons" so that was also nice, since I saw him do that once on a panel, too, but Mark did get an audience member angry because he didn't answer a question sufficiently to her understanding (she was taking notes, which we all found frightening) and Chris, being the only Pulitzer nominee on the panel happily managed not to scream "You, Goldberg, are an idiot. I was up for a Pulitzer and now, now, this? Fuck you all, fuck you too death!"

Later, after the book festival people finally kicked me out of the green room, I went to dinner with Rob Roberge, Steve Almond, Stacy Beirlein and, seemingly, the entire Internet -- Pinky, Callie and Sarah -- which made me a little nervous, since it's possible every word I said would make it onto a blog. Luckily, I was totally, totally on my best behavior, speaking only of books I haven't actually read, people I like but still hold in contempt, and giving out life advice ("When in doubt, assign blame.").

Other things I did this weekend:

Tried to make it to panels for friends and former students, but, you know, it was really quite hot out.

Wondered what the fuck is up with authors from the east who wear suits to this event -- don't they realize this is LA?

Pondered ways to go up to people I'd maybe given not so great reviews to, but who I genuinely wanted to meet since we have mutual friends and they seem like nice humans, albeit ones whose books I didn't entirely like, before ultimately deciding, you know, fuck it. If the shoe were on the other foot -- and god knows, there a lot of shoes in my metaphorical closet -- I probably wouldn't want that person coming up to me.

Signed more than one copy of this Sunday's Parade for fans, which makes me think it's time to stop writing about Parade.

Told someone that there was a new Akashic anthology coming out called San Dimas Noir, and the fucktard actually believed me.

Answered a lot of questions about the word fucktard.

Sang the Ruby's Diner birthday song in order to get a dove bar.

Talked to a lot of people who thought I was  Lee. No one ever thinks I'm Karen.

Screamed "My name is my name!" and realized that being Marlo would be awesome.

Pondered the enduring popularity of Julie Andrews. She is like Elvis a this thing.

Pondered just what Timmy from Lassie has to say in his memoir

Thought about how much time it must take to actually set up the LATFOB and marveled at how it runs like a perfect machine. It is, without a doubt, the best literary event in America and is run flawlessly by the LA Times -- from the panels to the stages to the aforementioned green room -- to the point that as an author you really have nothing to worry about while you're there, since you're treated like a super star all weekend long. It really is truly amazing. So big ups to Maret Orliss, Ann Binney and the rest of the festival team who make it all such a pleasure.

Comments

[Mary]

Can anyone use the word fucktard or just BTFA-types with messenger bags? I would like to use it - on average 20 times a day.

[fbomber]

That does sound like fun.

Unfortunately, for those of us who aren't speaking or moderating panels, the LATFOB is just circulating the lamest carnival ever with 150,000 sweating book nerds.

I've actually got a rather long diatribe about how the Festival of Books is diametrically opposite of everything that is great about Books themselves.

Starting with that books are in my house, and books do not try to sell me shit I don't want, and I don't have to buy tickets weeks in advance to read books from my favorite authors.

But this blog is Tod's space for long diatribes, and I don't want to step on any toes.

In any event, the lesson is clear. I need to become a big time famous author, or moderate panels of same to justify returning to that nightmare circus of the printed word.

[Tanya]

Hi Tod,

I'm sorry I didn't get to see you either day this weekend. I tried to get your Sun. p.m. panel as an author escort, but they needed me earlier (noon) and I couldn't get back in time. :(

"After, we headed over to the party where gossip was the food of choice -- well, alongside the yummy Korean BBQ and the chocolate fountain (where I encountered several members of the crack UCLA Extension Writers' Program team...uh...how to say...wasted...fucked up...unlikely to make it to their booth on time Saturday morning...but in a good, literary way, of course)" - I'm pleased to say that I caught up with said members of the WP team Saturday morning looking none the worse for wear. :)

fbomber, it's much more fun to work the FOB as a volunteer as opposed to just wandering around spending WAY too much money - even if it is on books. :)

[Jane]

I hope you don't quit writing about Parade. There's too much good material, and it would go to waste without your reviews.