As I’ve noted elsewhere in this series, it’s possible that my chronology is wrong and I first visited Los Angeles before my first trip to Saint Louis. In truth, one could technically say that the first time I was in L A happened before my trip to Tokyo. You see, we broke up the long flight from Baltimore to Tokyo with an overnight stay in the City of Angels. More accurately, we used the hospitality of a friend of my father’s to have an overnight stay in Beverly Hills and did the same on our return. But since those were merely stopovers with no stops either to or from the airport, I don’t think it’s appropriate to classify them as visits.
You as a reader won’t be aware of the fact that I took a bit of a writing break between the time I finished my research and early drafts of the chapter titled “Humans arrive in Missouri” and the time I started this post but I did. You see, I’ve made several trips to Los Angeles and have some quite pleasant memories of my time there. On the other hand, Los Angeles accounts for some of my worst travel memories and this, as much as any, might be the reason I delayed writing this post.
The best and the worst of times.
One figure stands at the center of the best and worst memories of my several visits to Los Angeles – my nephew Brian. I think my first L A trip with Brian as the focal point would have been in 1995 to see him receive his MFA in Screenwriting from the American Film Institute.
[Photo from A F I.]
I remember sitting outside for the ceremony on AFI’s campus and having the opportunity not merely to proudly watch as he received his degree but to interact with some of his fellow graduates, future collaborators, and a number of Hollywood notables including the commencement speaker, Debbie Allen. This was one of the best of times.
I don’t remember why I was on the west coast again about three years later but I do remember staying with Brian in his apartment in (I think) West Hollywood. I might have gone out simply to spend a long weekend with him.
On this particular day, probably a Friday, Brian had gone to work and I’d decided to walk the mile and a half or two miles from his flat to the La Brea Tar Pits and the nearby LA County Museum. So far, so good. I don’t recall the specific exhibit I saw but on my return, as I walked through the neighborhood a few blocks from Brian’s place, I was mugged at gunpoint. A young fellow jumped out of an SUV, put a gun in my ribs and demanded my wallet which I handed over without hesitating. With his fist wrapped around the handle of the gun, he swatted my jaw and ran back to the waiting vehicle. Fortunately, that was the worst experience from that time. On the other hand, I managed to turn it into an amusing anecdote long after my return to work that Monday.
You see, I went into the office and was moving around like a person much older than I was. Because I’m typically energetic, my colleagues noticed my extraordinarily stiff gait. I told them that it had been a long weekend and that I had been mugged on Friday. No one seemed interested in any additional details – perhaps they thought it would be too painful a tale to recount – and most wished me well and stepped away. They never gave me the chance to tell them that my soreness arose from playing several hours of flag football with Brian and his friends that Saturday and I simply wasn’t fit enough in my mid forties to contend with the energy of a group of 20 somethings for that long and with that level of intensity. Since they didn’t ask, I didn’t tell. I let them think I’d had the crap beaten out of me.
I’m certain I was in LA on the west coast swing of my three year baseball stadiums tour between the 1998 mugging and the next best time in 2007. I’m skipping this because, much like the baseball trip that took me through Saint Louis, this leg of the baseball tour involved lots of driving, lots of baseball, and very little else. However, on my 2007 trip I joined Brian and other family members
for the premiere of a documentary film The 11th Hour that Brian co-produced with Leonardo DiCaprio. Although Brian was always professional in his approach and almost universally drew respect, praise, and friendships as a result of his work, I think that of the 20 or so films he produced or co-produced, this may have been the one into which he poured the most of his energy and passion.
In early September 2012 I made one more trip to Los Angeles but one utterly without joy. This trip was to attend the funeral of my 41 year old nephew who had committed suicide on August 29 of that year. Nicole Hansen wrote this remembrance of Brian for The Nation. This was the worst day.
And I think that’s all I’ll say about Los Angeles and me.