In Illinois I carried an umbrella to protect against rain; in California, to shield myself from the sun. In the land of short shorts and flip-flops I remained entirely covered in black clothing. Several people stopped me on the street to compliment my style and ask if I’m from New York.
This was very odd as strangers only talk to me if they want directions. I started to wonder what had changed.
I didn’t tell my mother about the memoir until the day before the tour started, when I sent email telling her that she should not read it, tell the family about it, or come to any of the events.
This advice was offered out of sensitivity to the potentially catastrophic reaction of the surviving relatives. Imagine my surprise then to find my mother, her sister, and assorted cousins were all going to meet up in Los Angeles when I was there. Then imagine me walking into a hotel room and finding them holding copies of the book.
I figured that the book would not alienate me from my parents; I am after all an only child and therefore hard to shake. But I didn’t know how my mother would feel, or if she would understand that the work is a tribute to her strength. I was relieved and surprised at her reaction: she seemed to like the book. Or at least, she didn’t rage at me.
Many amusing things happened in Los Angeles, not least a trip to Disneyland with my family, during which my mother told me all sorts of things about my early life and illness that I had forgotten. If anyone winced at the details in the book… I can assure you that the reality was much worse.
One of my cousins turned up for the bookstore reading, and at a critical moment I stopped and asked her to verify the veracity of the story. She gleefully told the crowd that it was all true.
During the festival I stood in the Akashic booth hustling my book for hours and at one point Jerry Stahl stopped to chat and buy a copy. I predicted that Byron would ask if he is more attractive in person than the Ben Stiller movie version so I tried to pay attention; the answer is yes.
I met so many other writers I can’t even make an adequate list but here are a few highlights: Nina Revoyr, Jervey Tervalon, Gary Phillips, and Ron Kovic, who is also more interesting in person than as portrayed in film.
One night I found myself at Chateau Marmont with a gaggle of writers, musicians, and assorted lovelies, which as usual kicked off an existential crisis. Why, you might ask? It is not entirely clear, but in those situations that would have been beyond the imagination of my younger self, I often feel… sad.
Another night we went to a party for The Nation at Arianna Huffington’s house. I watched hordes of people dancing attendance on Gore Vidal, who looked distinctly unamused.
I observed another famous writer screaming at his teenage daughter, but I’m not naming names.
The thing that impressed me the most was a glimpse of the Huffington garage as we waited for the valet to bring our car around. Even the rich and famous have utility shelves and old mattresses.
Los Angeles was the start of a deeply unexpected response on the part of various people from my past: the book, strangely, has served as a point of reconciliation.
Of course, I do not wish to be reconciled with lots of these people. The basic rule of thumb for anyone wondering if they should get in touch: if I’ve ever punched you in the face, don’t bother.