Former newspaper nemesis Howard Owens has decided to move on from the sweaty confines of Bakersfield proper. And not quietly so. He went public and announced his transition from Bakersfield to Rochester, New York on howardowens.com.
What's this? My former blog sparring partner has jumped into another ring?
Why would I announce such?
Maybe the blogosphere in Bakersfield has been just a little different since his ousting from his high-and-mighty VP chair at the Bakersfield Californian. He was let go. But why? Does Howard even know? The subtleties in his posts are intriguing as I always wonder, What does Howard really mean? His love for the media industry that shines through his blog might just begin to suffer since he will be the director of Internet Publishing at Gatehouse Media, a conglomerate operating 450 small dailies, weeklies and shoppers.
There's an interesting history between myself and Howard. We once eyed each other over burgers at Jerry's Pizza: blogger meets News Media Internet Pimp VP. We left the pizza-a-go-go with guns drawn—though no shots were fired—yet eventually we had some skirmishes online that I think were tantamount to a small town blog war.
Has the dust really settled, Howard?
Howard drove his yellow pony Mustang and parked it right in front of the Californian building and waited outside for me to arrive. I felt like a reckless teenager as I saw him standing in the shade. He looked like he was about to spray paint "howardowens.com" on the side of the newspaper building. Would I have stopped him or just snapped a photo?
"Want to get a coffee?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. He left his yellow pony right there in front of the Californian building, a big yellow pustule on the street that I half expected to be cleansed by the time we got back.
Suddenly I stuck my hand in my pocket to see if I had any money. It's never any good to ask someone for coffee and then have to borrow five bucks. Just ask Monty Byrom. I pulled out about fifteen.
"I hope you're buying. All I have is a dollar," Howard said.
"Don't worry. I got it."
At Dagny's we didn't get coffee at all. He got a black iced tea and I got my usual strawberry smoothie. This was an important meeting. I was tempted to ask for a whipped cream topping. I held back.
We sat near a window and talked about Howard's transition. We discussed the video revolution on the Internet and youtube.com. I mentioned a possible post-modern travel blog project with shozu.com. We spoke dark tales of Bakersfield Lords and of dualistic shadows of people who may still run the city's high powers. I shared my strange "Gay snuff tape" story where an old professor back in the 1980s insisted I do a paper on "gay snuff tapes". If that wasn't admitting that the Lords have a videotape, I don't know what was. Howard shared his own very interesting barbershop tale, and an eye-opening Air Force vignette. We talked about his new job and responsibilities and what life would be like in Rochester, away from family, but closer to baseball. "It's very positive after being ousted," I said.
"We might still be looking at each other with mutual distrust"
"Hey, maybe it's better this way."
Yeah, life's better without so much drama.
But is the blog?
Although I poke fun at the newspaper, I listen to Howard when he gives me advice about how the newspaper industry is run. He makes valid points; his most recent about why Internet content appears missing from the Californian's database. "Archiving is one of the biggest issues affecting newspapers today. Especially when newspapers have to turn to vendors for their archiving. In a perfect world, it would all be permalinks."
Yet I still can't find Bakersfield.com archived articles on the plagiarism scandal that smashed the Bakersfield print media giant last year. Nothing. Google, or the search engine on Bakersfield.com. I suppose I could go ask the paper, and they might say so look at microfilm. But I want the instant gratification of looking on the Internet. Besides, wasn't the plagiarism scandal newsworthy? They did write about it… and they were good articles… but where are they? I'm too lazy to go ask the Californian, and even though many folks over there read this blog, I doubt if they will comment. I think they're too afraid I'm a prowling blogger, ready to pounce on them, the same way a local artist was paranoid I was going to pounce on Camille Gavin.
Maybe Black Dog is the real blogger to worry about. He's scandalous. Just kidding.
Into Dagny's walked the daughter of Ginger Moorhouse. I think Howard mentioned her name was Ginny. When I saw her I instantly wondered if she or another relative would one day be primped to run the family-owned Bakersfield Californian.
Howard stood up warmly shook her hand. She eyeballed me a couple of times as they spoke. Did she recognize me? Was she wondering if we were going to team up and go postal?
As we left I said hello to James Ratliff from the band The Indians. He sat having a drink and was reading about "reason in writing". Such a philosopher is young James the musician and student…Howard made a slight joke about there being "no reason in writing" to James as we headed out the door.
While Howard headed to his yellow pony and I wandered next to him, headed back to my day job, I joked, "I wonder if your car was keyed."
We laughed.
I had just arrived home from work when one of my boys received a phone call that there had been an explosion one street over. I didn't have time to even grab a camera. chingpea had a camera phone and we were off to the scene to see what tragedy had struck our immediate community.
A crowd gathers on the corner of Maple Street and Oleander
It seems anything can happen in the Oleander area: a novel about the creepy old Fritts mansion, stories about a possibly unsafe water park, a house fire, a mugging by 15-20 kids attacking 3 boys after a football game, strange break-ins, and now a mysterious explosion striking Maple Street children, killing two of them.
News crew interview...
A police officer arrives to rope off the area
A relative of the homeowner comes up the street
Roped off...
Were they playing with ammunition that got dumped into a fire/barbecue pit? That's what was told to me by the supposed brother of the man who owns the house where the explosion took place. He had come up the street, holding the hand of a crying woman who walked a bike. He appeared in shock. When they neared she was clearly distraught. He explained to me the panic in the home, the violence of the situation and that he didn't know if his brother would be arrested. After I spoke with him, he and the woman wandered south on Oleander...
A man in shock stands next to a distraught woman right before I interview him
The media were on the east and west ends of the street
A family in shock
I then rushed home and uploaded a quick story onto this site and bakotopia.com. The images were trapped in cyberspace until late this evening.
What is he searching for near the roof of a house?
Tonight I went back to the scene to see lights had been set up in the street. Matildakay brought her camera but waited in her car while I walked down Maple Street. Fire engines, police vehicles lined the street while groups of law enforcement stood in nearby yards. A ladder from a large fire engine stretched to the house. What were they searching for? And why did they need a ladder? One firemen stood on the ladder and looked like a shadow amongst the trees. He shined a flashlight in my direction, after which I snapped a photo of his silhouette.
As I walked away, a news van drove onto Maple Street. The driver stared down the road and eventually turned around and drove off...
*Note: an early story claiming one child died was taken offline by the local paper. Another story appeared at a new web location. And suddenly at 11:56 PM, around 10 bottle rockets started going off on Forrest St., nearby to the Maple St. location of the explosion. Was that meant to rattle the cops, the families, or...?
5:20PM (images on the way)
I live one street over from an apparent explosion on Maple Street in the Oleander area in which several kids were hurt. Several of us entered the scene to see ambulances and fire engines on Maple Street. Two ambulances wheeled out in a hurry onto Oleander, while a man in a white T-shirt searched for his brother, a man allegedly in the house during the explosion…
“I can’t find my brother,” he said. “He was in the house during the explosion. I don’t know what he’s going to do or if they’re going to arrest him… one of the kids threw a round into a pit. There was shrapnel everywhere. I think it must have been a forty. Two of the kids died. One of them was a girl who died. She was hit in the chest. Some of the ages were 9 and 11…I have to go find my brother.”
Was what he said accurate? I don’t know. Details haven’t fully emerged.
I talked briefly with Felix Adamo of the local newspaper, who asked questions of the nearby media in the area… he indicated that he didn’t hear about anyone dying. I told him about the guy in the white T-shirt. “Thanks for the tip,” he said.
As we left the scene, three girls headed up the street, one wearing a red shirt with the words “R.I.P Eric Vick” scrawled in black ink.
In the workshop, Writing the region: travel writing and beyond, I listened to Malcolm Margolin talk about a travel narrative created in the likeness of old Japanese journey scrolls/. "You won't find them at Barnes & Noble," he said.
The pirate of Heyday listens to his colleagues talk about travel writing
Malcolm reads about room 239
Matildakay is awarded a scholarship certificate for the Mary Wong Lee Memorial Scholarship
As Enrique Fuentes, Queen of the Downtown Fur would say: "Show it off because you can!"
Roxene Lee and Karene Conlin take a picture with their award recipient, Matildakay
Concerto anyone?
Connie Fulmer wins the Yosemite Writers Conference Novel Contest
A touching moment, I was overwhelmed with joy just standing nearby
THE SWAMI who wrote Love on a Rotten Day and Born on a Rotten Day
Night fire...
Sheree Petree works magic... wala!
Cindy Wathen watches her husband jam to the Beatles
T. Jefferson Parker signs his new book, The Fallen
As the Keynote speaker, T. Jefferson Parker told an incredible tale of how he was discovered... too much to tell in this brief photo essay. Let's just say he sold a book on a napkin...
T. Jefferson Parker and Cindy Wathen...
Musician/novelist Christopher Allen Poe and... oops, what is her name? Christopher, help...
At the end of the conference there was still time to chill and talk books
*Carole Sargent is pictured here with Matildakay (facing camera)...
Matildakay reports:
A great literary weekend
What's your type?
The Mary Wong Lee Memorial Scholarship
Malcolm Margolin is Posh
Hanging out with the Pirates of Yosemite and setting the record straight
Kill Your Darlings
N.L. on Paperback Writer reports:
A Writer in Yosemite: Part One
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Two
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Three
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Four
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Five
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Six
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Seven
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Eight
Pirates peer at a scalawag's blog...
You might ask, “What’s it like being a literary pirate?” To some folks I’m just a blogger with a big spoon, stirring as I make my way across the golden Tules and foggy valley grasslands. To others maybe I’m more of a swashbuckling pirate of literary shenanigans, lopping off suspenders and watching drawers comically drop around ankles as I go.
After all, it was Malcolm who looked at me, red wine swishing around the very whites of his eyeballs, and said, “My reputation is in your hands…”
Come now, pirates are entertainers, and we all entertained so well at the Yosemite Writers Conference. There we were: writers, bloggers, a web developer for literary web sites, novelists, a literary consultant, and even a renowned California publisher legend in Malcolm Margolin—a pirate in a commercial sea, yet so loved that even his vessel was allowed to dock in Yosemite. I think his boat was allowed so that a strange pirate beggar like myself could Jolly Roger my way, waving alongside, and happily thumb my nose at the very sleek cruise ship of publishing, that I, well… want to publish the likes of me.
But forget about all that. When you’re with pirates, you practically forget your own name. It’s like when a fight’s about to break out in a schoolyard. Doesn’t matter that everyone has someplace better to go. Everyone sticks around to watch the pummeling of the combatants and then gives their two cents: “Dude, I would have raked her head over the asphalt, then tied her hair to her shoelaces…” Admit it, you once gawked.
(I’m telling you, if I grew up in Central Valley farmland like chingpea, I would have stayed for the animal bloodlust too).
Those of us at the pirate table were very into the conversation. Matildakay got called a Goth. I drew swords against a writer who politely sidestepped. And then there was the big Berkeley pirate battle that rocked our ship of rebel-hearted fools. Malcolm sat across from a rapscallion named Laurie—she was dept at lawyer-speak—and in a moment of cleansing her life from literary rejection, launched into an anti-Berkeley tirade that had even the polite Malcolm raising his voice. Two literary agents sitting at the next table seemed to enjoy the fracas as voices raised to the point that nearby redcoats almost made the entire table walk the plank.
A pirate battle begins... notice the agents in the background
No, not an imitation of a famous painting, but hands in finger-pointing stances
More pirates and Cinema of the Lords on the puter... are you a filmmaker?
The true mystery of room 239 surrounded this plate of cheese
And then the next day, for a few moments I had to turn off the pirate swagger. Gone was my argumentative nature and pirate flag waiving; gone was my thought that I was a great American novelist wrapped in a world where I might see success. I was now just another writer in a crowd of a million writers, and I was checking in with a couple of literary agents to see if my work had enough gusto to interest the commercial world of publishing.
My first meeting was with Irene Webb, one of the most prominent film representation and literary agents in her field. I entered a room with small tables. The room itself seemed a bit stale. I don’t know, what was I expecting, flowers?
A volunteer in the pitch room
Erin Hosier and Irene Webb: two cattlemen rounding up the literary herd
Agents sat talking to prospects while a volunteer organized schedules. I caught a glimpse of Erin Hosier of The Gernert Company and Irene Webb talking and soon made my way to an outside table. Next to the table sat Bonnie Hearn Hill talking with a novelist who I think writes Christian romance stories (I might be wrong on that one). As Irene walked up Bonnie said, “You’ll like Irene, she’s very nice.”
Irene smiled while I just tried to break the tension. “Bonnie winked,” I said.
I sat down and pulled out a stack of thirteen ideas, some finished, some not. “Some of these ideas are OK,” Irene said. Is that good? After we talked for a few minutes she asked which stories I thought were most important.
“That’s a tough question,” I admitted. Aren’t they all? Oh man… That put me on the spot. Eventually we discussed some books I thought were important.
Irene Webb ponders my stories...
“Send me a few chapters,” she said. Was this a good sign? Does this mean she was interested? She must be or she wouldn’t have asked, right? Later, Cindy Wathen said, “Nick, you need to be more positive.”
Gulp. She’s right.
My next meeting was with Erin Hosier. Erin is interesting to look at and to speak with. She’s a bit dark in dress, though fashionably so. She’s hip. She likes quirky, decidedly dark fiction. I write decidedly dark fiction, I told myself 150 times before sitting at her table. Go figure; I never actually said out loud to her that I write decidedly dark fiction.
What I did talk about was my Paperback Writer blog, my novels, and about one of my novels that really grabbed her attention. “Send me a few chapters,” she said.
I got up from the table, shook her hand, snapped another photo, mumbled it was sexy and made my way out into the Tenaya Lodge hallway, wondering if I had just made headway in my literary career. She did say to send a few chapters, right?
Erin Hosier ponders our brief meeting...
In fact, that’s that Malcolm ended up telling me about one of my books. “Send me a few chapters,” he said.
The pirate consultant ended up saying, “I’m passing this book onto an editor who I know… after I finish reading it…”
So that was good too. Four opportunities. Four leads. Four doorways. Four windows. And it’s all because I never give up on my dreams and goals no matter what people have said to me. Sure, pirates have dreams, just sometimes rebellious ones. Doesn’t make us bad people, just maybe indicates to others that we don’t bathe enough.
Driving home from the conference I kept rethinking the weekend. Was every writer from the conference rethinking the weekend? What could I have said differently? How could I have better spoken with agents and writers about who I am and what I write about? As I passed endless farmland and a strange golden grass-covered area, I swore I could hear Malcolm’s voice saying over and over, “My reputation is in your hands…” while I imagined red wine and goldfish still swishing around the very whites of his eyeballs.
Matildakay reports:
A great literary weekend
What's your type?
The Mary Wong Lee Memorial Scholarship
Malcolm Margolin is Posh
Hanging out with the Pirates of Yosemite and setting the record straight
Kill Your Darlings
N.L. on Paperback Writer reports:
A Writer in Yosemite: Part One
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Two
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Three
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Four
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Five
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Six
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Seven
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Eight
The Yosemite Writers Conference was filled with interesting faces, committed writers, instant friendships and more... here are a few images from part one of my photo essay:
Heyday Books had a table at the event. I've read Blithe Tomato. I'll start the Filipino memoir, Oracles within a few days.
Malcolm Margolin of Heyday Books sets up a table with some of his company's finest literature, history, memoirs and more...
Master of Ceremonies talks to THE SWAMI (Hazel Dixon-Cooper).
Delicious morning fruit energized me each morning at Tenaya Lodge
Bonnie Hearn Hill's book If It Bleeds...
A crowd of writers readies for the conference workshops and panels
Executive Director Cindy Wathen
The first panel of the conference: (Right to Left) Kristen Godsey, Andrea "The Bulldog" Brown, Doris Booth, Anne Hawkins and Stacey Barney
Be afraid. Be very afraid...
Kristin Godsey caught deep in thought
Novelist Connie L. Fulmer was a pleasant voice to greet throughout the weekend. She had a great victory at the conference for a novel she wrote...
Scholarship winner Matildakay at Jackalopes...
A high-powered lunch with Bonnie Hearn Hill (far left) and her agent Laura Dail...
Literary Agent Irene Webb gave one of the most informative and interesting speeches of the day as she spoke on writing for Hollywood. Her anecdotes kept the class amused, on the edge of their seats, and informed as to Hollywood writer realities...
Bonnie Hearn Hill is as witty and funny as a writer gets. She even gave me a hard time
In Bonnie's workshop on advanced writing tips
A writer next to me takes notes...
Stinky feet? I promised not to tell...
CAUGHT SLEEPING!!!
Malcolm Margolin of Heyday Books at the pavilion...
Cindy Wathen and Malcolm Margolin make small talk as only a writer and such an intriguing man of the world could...
Christopher Allen Poe reads an excerpt from his novel. He's also in the band, Insect out of Sacramento.
Matildakay reports:
A great literary weekend
What's your type?
The Mary Wong Lee Memorial Scholarship
Malcolm Margolin is Posh
Hanging out with the Pirates of Yosemite and setting the record straight
Kill Your Darlings
N.L. on Paperback Writer reports:
A Writer in Yosemite: Part One
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Two
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Three
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Four
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Five
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Six
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Seven
A Writer in Yosemite: Part Eight
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