The Gilbert is around the corner from the Wilshire Country Club. I stay at the Gilbert when I have to. Although I hate Los Angeles. This place with it’s fetish for concrete soaks up the sun, and the starring performance is a radiant heat that pulsates inside your eyes. I am here to do some work on my in-process next book. I can park my dirt bike around the corner of the hotel. I can check on it from my room’s window. I ache. I smell like the road. I have to throw out the jeans. They look like rats have gnawed on them. I want to make a drug deal.

Before the meet and greet, I walked around the sidewalk of Mama Shelter. I did not see any cops.

We stood around pin ball, intently studying Francisco’s plays. We do this with pool, too. I do like holding a pool cue. One guy at a time, we staggered at five minute intervals. Up to the room we had rented just for this. No one knew where I was staying. The Gilbert does not attract attention.

I’ve sent Sandra Dijkstra some of my manuscript, but I am very wary of literary agents in California. It is not my scene. I get NYC. I play to it. Real publishing and real agencies. And real money. I am more Oceanside than Del Mar. But I am Manhattan more than Oceanside. I tried living here once. I got this great job working with at-risk teenagers in a psychiatric university setting. The adolescents were mainly from Palm Springs because their parents were filthy rich (they had health insurance). I got to shoot the shit with kids. It’s kinda what I do.

But living in Southern California was like walking through a place where there, indeed, was no there there. I know people love Southern California. I know people think that part of the world is all glitter show-biz. Another cultural illusion. West Hollywood is not my scene. For one thing, the drugs are as generic as the concrete. It’s the 7-11 of pharmaceuticals. The weed is astronomical. The only people who can smoke it are billionaires. Illegal weed is just as good as legal weed (I suspect it’s the same weed) but it’s a lot cheaper. Illegal weed has runners and they can come to me at the Gilbert. Drugs are convenient.

Publishing is not what it used to be. Today, it’s more like a cottage industry making widgets. I think I sent my work to the wrong agent. But I had to try because I had to assess if the thing — was real. Book publishing in California is not unlike buying bubblegum on a credit card. The drug deal went down without a niche. I am not a good person. No one will remember me from publishing. My sins are in the past.

Right.

Agents and editors never forget. I have to restrain myself from blowing weed smoke up some California ass.