My father-in-law, who lives in Los Angeles, always says that we can stay at his house whenever we like. I’m sure he meant all three of us, not just me. With AWP being in LA this year, I considered it. Being the contributing editor I am, I reached out to the great Tobias Carroll, all powerful editor, to see if I could use Vol. 1 Brooklyn as an excuse to get a press pass to skip registration fees, and in exchange, I’d do coverage of AWP for the site.
AWP said no to the press pass, but I decided I should go for the experience at least once, plus, I don’t have to pay for lodging or rental since it’s in LA, plus plus, I have a story coming out in Rose Books Reader by Rose Books. And it is technically being released at AWP (unless you preordered it, then you already have it), thrice plus, I start querying my collection next month, I should probably meet more people.
So I worked overtime on Christmas Day, New Years Day, and Presidents Day to cover expenses for my upcoming trip.
After getting registered I let my father-in-law know I’m taking him up on his offer to let me stay at his place. There was a delay in his reply, but when he did respond he let me know that coincidentally he and his wife were gonna fly out to NC on those same dates, and that I could have the house. I didn’t read into that at all at the time. Instead I was like Wow! I thought, How convenient!
I asked Tobias if there was a certain angle on AWP he’d like for the site.
He responded with, “cover whatever”.
Oh, you got it buddy!
*
03/22/2025
Raleigh-Durham International Airport, Terminal 2.
9:41 AM (EST).
I’d love to start off my coverage of AWP 2025 being authentically gonzo and give a description of the weather, the smell, and the sounds, but I’m a little busy passive aggressively arguing with the customer service associate for Delta Airlines by acting shocked in disbelief that I have to pay an overweight bag fee.
“But I’m Sky Priority,” I whine.
“Sky Priority makes your first checked bag free. You only get the weight increase if you fly business class.”
“But I’m…Sky Priority…”
At the kiosk next to me, a guy is using three different keys to open three different padlocks on what I think is the hardshell case for the most expensive guitar in the world.
When he flipped the lid open it looked like a disassembled long barrel 50 caliber sniper rifle with three spare mags (all empty) and two prop stands for the elongated cannon.
I assume he is active duty military in street clothes because he was not charged a fee.
I take the hit for $100 on my credit card and while going through TSA Precheck start a chat with Delta Airlines help desk on my phone.
While I am not entitled to special treatment, I do know most times if there has been a policy change (say, the weight limit for Sky Priority members going from 70 lbs. to 50 lbs.) you can say you never heard that was happening, and they’ll waive it one time.
Worth a shot, LA is gonna be expensive.
In concourse D, I check the help desk chat and see Delta has refunded my fee. Huzzah. A good omen to start the trip.
When I get to my gate, the same lady who checked my luggage and gave me the fee was there scanning boarding passes. This wouldn’t seem as eerie to me if I hadn’t finished Severance season two last night. I’m hoping that Los Angeles will rectify my sorrows of time wasted watching ten hours of what was essentially a meeting that should have been an email.
The guy who was checking his guns at the Delta Airlines kiosk earlier ended up sitting next to me during pre-boarding.
I ask him what was in the case.
I say my dad was in the military for 22 years (which is true) and that he likes to know what people are taking with them when on assignment (which is a lie, he does not care about that at all).
Turns out, what I thought was some sniper bazooka was actually an M4 (an AR-15 with a fully automatic setting), a Glock 9mm pistol, and an ArcView sight.
I tell him about how I used to do research for the Department of Defense.
We agree that anything involving government funding is highly inefficient, and exchanged experiences where we saw this to be true.
I run out of stuff to talk about, and luckily, over the speakers, they announce any parents accompanying small children or active duty military are now welcome to board.
We shook hands and he left.
Boeing 737.
Seat 20F, emergency exit row.
10:47 AM (EST).
After having a child my anxiety of dying before my wife and I get old together, and watching our son grow up, has made flying a little hard for me.
To help with this, I try to choose a window seat, because having sole dominion over the window shutter gives me the illusion that I have control over something.
I downloaded the 8-hour track titled “5Hz soothing theta waves with sounds of rain and thunder”. But when the inevitable need to pee arose, I could no longer listen to the sound of rain. So I read a story about how shitty of a dad Rupert Murdoch is and immediately felt less guilty about going on this trip. In comparison to him, I’m outstanding.
Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport.
Terminal B.
11:50 AM (EST).
My connecting flight is at Gate A1.
I love Atlanta.
My wife and I go whenever we can.
Even just being in the airport you are likely to see examples of the most sophisticated, rare, and curious examples of independent fashion. White fleece zip-up turtlenecks adorned with embroidered patterns of lavender flowers. Weightless translucent pink rain jackets made of stitch reinforced tissue paper. Don’t forget the mainstream; there is Gucci everywhere.
But it is an international hub. Which means you also get the refuse of airline travel.
Like crunchy dreadlock having European-American women with liver-failure gold tans. You don’t have to look at their faces to know it’s them. If you see Chacos or Birkenstocks paired with an upper ankle tattoo that is floral or psuedotribal psychedelia in theme, there’s a good chance you’ve found one.
God help you if one is seated next to you, probably on their way back to Colorado from their fifth Phish concert this year, and they ask you if they can have a sip of your water. Even though there’s free water on the flight. But you agree because you suck at setting boundaries. An iridescent film will mark the lip of your Nalgene bottle. The water inside will smell different. Did you know lips can have body odor?
Yes, this did happen to me. And yes, I threw the water bottle away.
I walk to Concourse A and get in line for Chic-fil-a because I am hungry and don’t want to spend a lot of money and have don’t have the patience to make a socio-political statement based on where I do and do not buy my deep fried chicken sandwiches. I understand the choice to abstain from their waffle fries though, and I respect that. When traveling with my family or friends I am excited to be adventurous about my cuisine, but when moving solo, it’s all about cost and efficiency. I am a machine that needs fuel and it doesn’t really matter how I feel about it.
This is also the first trip I’ve taken since quitting drinking.
I used to schedule layovers to give myself time to get sloshed up and stop by the smoking lounge next to Gate A3, before hopping in the next pressurized soaring metal tube. Rum and cokes usually, because the sugar, spices, and alcohol create a euphoria that is exacerbated by the cabin pressure. Then take my Adderall to knock out some really bad writing.
Instead, now I spend 20 minutes going from shop to shop looking for Sour Patch Kids Watermelons. For anyone that cares, the only place that sells them is the shop next to Gate A28.
Candy in hand, I head towards my gate two hours early. I pass Gate A3, and see that my former love is gone…
It seems ATL banned smoking entirely from their premises in 2020, which includes the designated smoking areas in the terminals. I’m not saying that Covid-19 may have been God’s response to this, but we can’t rule anything out.
Oh, Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport smoking lounge, how I long for you, still. Thank you for all the respite in my twenties. I will never forget you.
I pop a 4mg Nicorette Fruit Chill flavored piece of gum in and start my vacation early by trying not to look at pictures of my kid.
Whenever I do anything for myself, there’s this conflict in my chest where I’m torn between 1) wanting to set an example that becoming a parent doesn’t mean you have to lose your sense of self and stop pursuing the things you love, and 2) every dollar I spend is technically a dollar I’m not saving towards his future.
So again I ask myself, why exactly am I going to AWP?
When my answers don’t seem like a justifiable reason for the time and money I’m going to spend, I shovel candy into my mouth and turn my podcast so loud it’s uncomfortable.
Los Angeles International Airport.
Baggage Claim.
3:30 PM (PDT).
It smells like weed.
Could be a contact high or I turned my podcast up so loud to drown out my guilt that I actually hurt my ears and that’s why they’re ringing so relentlessly. We’re gonna go with the former, for now.
*
03/24/2025
Rancho Palos Verdes, CA.
9:43 AM (PDT).
My father-in-law and his wife are gone when I wake up.
They’re going to hang out with their grandson in North Carolina while I’m not there.
Which I’m trying not to read into…
I reject their normal instant coffee because I am a snob. I only like the Sky Priority’s of coffee, if you will.
No matter how cool and hip a café can seem you wouldn’t believe how many places can fuck up an espresso tonic. And I got lucky on the first café I tried. Shout out to Miscellaneous Coffee of Palos Verdes, kudos, you nailed it. The ratio of the Yuzu infusion is perfect.
Here’s my one critique of Los Angeles so far: It’s too sunny.
For visitors, instead of saying that it’s too expensive and there’s no way they can afford it, the generic excuse for not wanting to live in Los Angeles is that they love seasons.
I don’t “love seasons”, but I appreciate gloomy weather. Not everyday. There’s a quota of sadness that has to exist and on days where the sky is the color of a cookie sheet, that’s nature absorbing some of the sadness like a sponge and taking some of the weight of existence for us for that day.
Here, 63 degrees, sunny, zero percent chance of rain, zero percent humidity. No surprises, no resistance; the second I wake up there’s an expectation that I’m supposed to have a good day.
How about no?
Cannabis being legalized here was probably a necessity to drown out the pervasive intrusion of mental kicks to the psychic tailbone to get out and try to achieve something. I mean look how nice it is outside.
In protest, I shall drive to Arcadia to get lunch with my brother-in-law, then stop by a shop in Torrance to pick up some film for my camera, then come back to PV to sit down stone cold sober, blinds drawn, and do absolutely nothing.
If the weather will not do it for me, I shall become my own resistance.
*
03/26/25
Rancho Palos Verdes, CA.
8:30 AM (PDT).
Last night I went to watch Marc Maron at Largo for $26, and John Mulaney dropped in to try out some new jokes. I was front row. I’m starting to really like this place. Lots of good omens.
Before the show I had a conversation with a woman who was suffering from severe short term memory loss due to an injury last year. Mid sentence she would just stop, and I’d have to walk her back to where she was in the story. She was as pleasant as the guy with guns back at RDU. She used to work in the planning and urban development department for the City of Los Angeles. A long time democrat, she also agreed the way government had it’s inefficiencies, and moved slowly by design. But I could barely hear her. The full feeling in my ears wasn’t getting any better since I got off the plane, but now I could tell it was getting progressively worse.
I went bed hoping I would sleep it off.
This morning I woke up to my ears being fully shut and ringing. I made my morning pilgrimage to get my Yuzu espresso tonic, then walked on further to the CVS to get ear wax candles, magnesium bath flakes, generic brand Flonase, and air-activated heat pads.
The combination of these are sure to bring my inner ears back into equilibrium.
As I exit to the CVS parking lot X. Luma texts me. He tells me that he’s moved to Brooklyn. Then he asks, “Are you going to AWP?”
And I tell him yes, then ask if he knows how to get my ears to pop.
“Chew gum,” he texts.
I’m glad he reminded me. I have to get down to the LA Convention Center to get my conference badge at the registration check in. Then I’ll come back and fix my ears and finish the Prelude to AWP for Tobias.
It seems I have the power to wish my preferred weather into existence. Because it’s extremely cloudy today. The 59 degree chill makes my ears hurt. I have to say, I miss the sun.
Sorry everybody. Guess I brought the gloom with me.
I drive down 110 for an hour and I find the parking fee for the West Hall parking garage is $27, so I turn around and scout.
I find a one-hour parking spot near a 110 overpass off Pico Boulevard.
One hour.
It’s 12:01 PM.
Can’t be getting parking tickets in my father-in-law’s car. I helped sire a grandchild, but that only does so much. That will put me out of his good graces.
Searching for the entrance, I get sidetracked when I realize that this used to be the Staples Center. I walk up beside that famous hubba I saw Geoff Rowley, Ragdoll, Eric Koston, Chris Cole, and so many others throw their bodies down for three seconds of footage.
I glance at my watch and it’s 12:11 PM. Balls of Christ.
After walking up and pulling on doors that didn’t open I find the main entrance to the convention center and get in line, which starts right at the top of the escalator steps and curves into a nearby conference area.
Maybe I should tell them I’m Sky Priority.
A representative of the festival reminds me to have my barcode ready and then she says, “I wih wah wuh wah wuh wuh.”
“I’m sorry. Pardon?”
Luckily I read her lips and gathered that she was complimenting my sunglasses.
My tinnitus is raging worse than it had been all day. And now I can’t hear anything. Which according to Alison Stine means I’m disabled, and could technically go into the ADA line. But she also said that AWP should provide childcare and because they don’t that makes AWP sexist. Which, by that definition, technically makes Coachella and the Transnational Feminist Solidarity Conference are sexist as well. That’s beside the point. I agree more could be done for childcare, but like the lady with short-term memory loss at Largo said last night, “change is so slow, but it has to be”.
I stick it out in the main line. The swarm of hundreds of separate conversations make me feel nauseous as they converge into one blur that peaks quickly in random locations like the surface of the ocean.
I keep my sunglasses on and white-knuckle my messenger bag while I look at the floor and shuffle, trying very hard not to vomit or look at my watch. I try to think of anything else.
First thought that appears: why am I here, really?
Yes, I promised Tobias I would write something.
Yes, I start querying a new project next month and I want it to have a real chance.
Yes, I have a piece in a new and exciting anthology alongside writers I respect deeply.
But I think I’m here to connect. Even if it’s by osmosis.
Since giving up hooch I’m not as outgoing but I enjoy the presence of others who are in pursuit of something honest. As a writer, I find these types of artists more often in the books that come out of independent small presses.
I spend so much time alone burrowing into my own thoughts that I forget that it’s not normal. It’s good to be with one another, even for just a few days.
In a way, I know these dudes (which is not gender specific, example: Dylan Krieger’s poetry is rad, she’s one cool dude). Not in a parasocial way, but when I read a writer that has come into their voice, sometimes I can see a flash of the writer’s heart. And I feel a sense of solidarity. That’s good work.
To drop stupid money and leave my son and wife for 10 days is hard for me in general. I do not feel at home when they aren’t in arms reach. Plus, after 10 days, he’ll be an entirely different kid.
But to comingle with artist I enjoy reading—like, Aaron Burch, Michael Chang, Brian Allen Ellis, Tex Gresham, Chelsea Hodson, KKUURRTT, Dylan Krieger, Jon Lindsey, Kevin Maloney, Lexi Kent-Monning, Geoff Rickly, D. T. Robbins (who I still owe an interview), Allie Rowbottom, Sam Sax, Kyle Seibel (who still owes me the rest of his interview), Adam Voith, and so many others I can’t recall right now, and others I’m excited to hear for the first time—even to just listen to them read, makes me feel alright about leaving home for a few days. It’s like giving up booze, what bad could come from it?
All this sentimentality splits as the ringing in my left ear winds up into a higher pitch. Ice pick sharp. The same way it felt when I perforated my ear drum 10 years ago. And I’m fully back in my body.
I’m being told I’m next in line.
Kudos to AWP.
There was a zig-zag queue eight rows deep, and a line that stretched the entire lobby before you even got to that.
I got in line at 12:15 PM and was walking out with my tote bag and badge by 12:45 PM.
That’s sure as shit quicker than the Delta Airlines bag check.
Overweight fee my ass.
After a soft hustle to the car, I see no ticket on the windshield. An omen, not of good luck, but good timing. I absorb the win and type in “Chipotle Rolling Hills” into Google Maps.
I’m going to have to miss the Malarky Books event tonight. I gotta go fix my ears and finish the Prelude.
Because tomorrow, the madness begins.
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