Category: WWdN in Exile

When I was in my late teens and early twenties (you know, those years where you’re invincible and know everything?) my friend Dave and were crazy about the LA Weekly. We’d pick it up every Thursday, and then sit in his house or my apartment, listening to records (actual, vinyl records) and reading it cover to cover. I think it’s safe to say that the Weekly’s voice and editorial point of view in the early 90s was a significant influence on me.

A couple of months ago, my former editor at the Suicide Girls Newswire became the editor of the Weekly’s blogs, and she asked me if I’d come and write for her again.

I was really excited at the prospect of writing for a publication that I’d been reading for over 15 years, but as soon as I accepted the job, the performance anxiety kicked in. I got really nervous about writing for a new audience, especially one that I know nothing about (if I could hop in a time machine and go back to 1991, I’d be all set, but currently? I’m kind of shooting in the dark.) It’s intimidating, like finally getting to play for a team you’ve watched your entire life, and I’ll admit to being really overwhelmed by the whole thing. When I worked on my column yesterday, rewriting it for the millionth time, I realized that, for the first time in a long time, I was afraid to suck.

It was a lot of work, and I’m not entirely sure I struck the notes I wanted to strike, but my first column just went live a little bit ago. It’s called Crosstown Traffic, and it’s about Los Angeles as a microcosm of 21st century America:

I’m an Angeleno by birth, rather than by choice (a bit of a rarity, it seems). I grew up in the Valley, I worked in Hollywood (in both the geographical and mythical sense) for most of my life, and I’ve driven at least ten miles on our freeways for every resident in the county, most of them sitting in traffic on the 10 during rush hour.

Two things are certain when you live in Los Angeles: you’re going to deal with people who can’t drive in the rain, and you will meet people who have come here from all over the country. Some of them are chasing a dream, some of them are running away from a nightmare. Some are here to get discovered, some are here to disappear. And, sooner or later, all of them are going to be between me and where I want to go. When I’m late. On a Friday. Sitting on the 10 during rush hour. Well, at least if it’s raining they’ll know how to drive.

Speaking as a third-generation Angeleno, I’m glad they’re here, because I think we’d live in a pretty boring city otherwise.

My column will appear every Tuesday morning. If you think it doesn’t suck, I’d be extremely grateful if you’d tell your friends about it, link it, and do all that stuff that makes my bosses happy, and glad they hired me.

(I’m stealing a move from John Scalzi and closing comments on this post, to encourage comments over my post at the Weekly.)

I’ve struggled to put some eloquent words together all day, and I just can’t make them work, so I’m just going to take the three that were important to me and put them down now: thank you, veterans.

(via DRGBLZ)

Anne and I took Nolan out to Glendale tonight for this art thing he likes to do. After we dropped him off, Anne said, “Hey, I want to have a dinner date with my husband.”

Bonus, unexpected dinner dates are always awesome, so I didn’t even put up token resistance, and we had an awesome meal together while Nolan did his thing a few blocks away.

When we were finished, Nolan met us in the parking garage, and wanted to drive home. He’s had his permit for about 5 weeks, and though he’s a very competent and careful driver, we were both a little nervous about letting him drive on the freeway at night.

“You’ve never driven on the freeway at night,” Anne said. “Maybe we should just take side streets.”

“But the freeway is much faster, and we have Family Guy on TiVo at home,” Nolan said.

“We’re concerned that you don’t have a lot of nighttime freeway driving experience,” she said, invoking the dreaded Royal We.

He put his hand on my shoulder and quite seriously said, “Wil, how am I going to get that experience if I don’t drive on the freeway at night?”

I looked at Anne. “He has a point,” I said.

I felt like The Old Man, the keys to my car a Red Rider Carbine Action Range Model Air Rifle With A Compass In The Stock And This Thing That Tells Time.

“Okay, just be careful,” Anne said. I can’t be certain, but I think I heard her add, “just don’t shoot your eye out.”

A few minutes later, as we drove down the freeway, I sat quietly and gently nudged Nolan with driving reminders. He’s really quite good, and I didn’t have to point out too many things to him, but on one ramp, one of those spiffy milk carton-looking Scions sped up and cut in front of us without using a turn indicator.

“You’ve got to watch for drivers like that,” I said, “and remember my fundamental rule of driving, which is . . .? “

Nolan scrunched up his face like he was thinking, and said, “Don’t be a dick?”

“That’s my fundamental rule for life,” I said. “My fundamental rule for driving is –“

“Oh, everyone on the road is an idiot, and they’re actively trying to kill you.” He said.

“That’s the one,” I said.

“I got it,” he said.

“But, you know, you can use them both,” I said.

“Okay, Wil,” he said, patiently. “I got it.”

“If you need them,” I added.

“I’m trying to drive here, Wil.” He said.

“Sorry.”