At the Rose Books table on Thursday Chelsea Hodson let me know of a reading Archway Editions was holding on Friday night. And I’ve wanted to see Geoff Rickly read.
Google Maps has its shit together today. I went up Crenshaw then left, then up, then left, then up, did that six more times like tacking a sailboat to Sepulveda. And on to 110, to the 10, another vortex, then Sunset Boulevard.
Parking lots behind the Stories Books & Café are cut in half due to a farmer’s market. I drive one block over to Echo Park and see a parking garage with no lifting yellow bars guarding the entry or exit. There is a fold out sign on the way in that read NO EVENT PARKING.
I drive up the ramp and park, feeling lucky, almost too lucky. I exit out the opposite of the garage and the door slams behind me and locks.
I double-back after walking the wrong way and end up taking a longer route where I realize the parking garage is connected to a huge church across from Echo Park, where many unhoused congregate.
Once inside Stories, I pick up a copy of Molly by Blake Butler because I have reached a window where I can read him again. The guy at the register looks mad at me when he sees what I’m buying. I have to read Blake’s stuff in doses. He makes quite an impression on me. Mainly because while I’m reading any of his work I get this feeling that says, “I think something bad is gonna happen.” or “Am I doing something wrong?” Which is the best thing a book can do, in my opinion. I find a spot at the very back of the back patio near a fenced wall that leads to the alley. I open my new book, and per usual, I’m totally sucked in to his work.
The event slowly fills up with a certain kind of people I’ve always had issues putting a title on. I’ll say it like this. The kind of people at this reading feel like the type you really have to impress to be granted a genuine conversation with them. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Because that’s the energy I come to readings with. Sure, I’ll go support a friend, but outside of that, I’m looking for someone to make an impression on me. I want to be impressed. I am rooting for you; I want you to be impressive.
If I’d planned better I would have worn my Hogwarts robes and brought my wand because apparently I was at a gathering of the coven.
I once made love to a witch. I didn’t know she was at the time. She had an apartment in the Pearl District in Portland and after we were done I looked at the arrangement of figurines and candles next to us on the floor. She explained that it was an altar and we had apparently consecrated some covenant with cum. And when I asked her if she should have asked me if that was okay beforehand, she started laughing, and after that night I never saw her again. The only reason why I mention that story is so you understand that I know witches when I see them. And there are a lot here.
Black on black on black on black. Dresses that flow with the sorrow of stake burnings gone by. Medieval emo with a hint of beach goth. With the occasional (I counted two) sexualized schoolgirl skirts with red bowties on the head. But I’m down with the dark lord and as a Virgo, I just need someone to explain what’s going on clearly (preferably before we start) and then I’m on board. The only thing that’s starting to harsh my witchy mellow is there’s a guy that just walked in with a cigarette behind his ear, unironically. Meaning he took a cigarette out of it’s pack and was like “I know exactly where to put this.” And then like Kenickie from Grease, parks it behind his ear and felt he had done the right thing.
The first reader to come up is wearing a black flowy dress and reads a short poem that I liked. She has a high degree of confidence, which makes me eager to hear more. The second poem starts and around the time she says something to the effect of “press my tongue to a pillowy fortress” or something, a voice from the other side of the fence in the alley yells, “Cunnilingus!”
The poet attempts to continue but then again, the disembodied voice goes, “Cunnilingus!”
And the poet’s eyes flick up toward the direction of the sound and that’s when it was clear this was not some planted call-and-response routine, this was someone being disruptive.
I’m not going to say the guy sounded sober, but I don’t like to assume people are addicts, could be a mental health issue. So let’s just say the guy was sick, in some fashion or another.
To be fair, Sick Guy technically understood the conceit of the poem. It did sound a lot like she was referring to cunnilingus in the poem.
The poet did her best to continue but Sick Guy shouts the following:
“I’ve been protecting this spot all day. Man…I protected her phone. I didn’t even take it…If I was a bad guy I would have taken it.”
The people running the event hop on the mic and say we’re gonna take a short break. Then there is a collective oh! behind me. And then I see the figure of Sick Guy, shirtless on the ground while the weakest looking man in the world holds him in a headlock.
I think it’s important to convey this to you clearly. This is a book reading, with skinny, hipster-adjacent, typically gentle men. Not the type to engage in violence willingly. But LA must be different, man. Because this rail thin bearded man with glasses didn’t even lose his beanie after tackling this guy.
Sick Guy keeps calling out for “Sapphire” claiming she was cool with him being here.
Someone in a deep voice says, “I threw your shit over there.”
The witch standing beside my chair says, “That’s some Aries shit.” Then looks at me directly and says, “I told you; it’s an eclipse.”
And I was like, “Have we met?”
Sick Guy continues to yell obscenities, until it dies down.
At this point it’s 8:37 p.m. and I’m texting Kyle Seibel like, “Are you still at Stowaway? This reading isn’t really my vibe.”
Another collective oh! comes from the alley behind the fence and there are now six people standing around Sick Guy who is laying on the ground with his arms up like he’s trying to block bright light from his eyes.
I see one antsy guy tap Sick Guy’s ribcage with the tip of his sneakers lightly, and that’s when I knew I was gonna leave.
I’ve had this instinct appear in me over the past few years, I don’t fully understand it yet, but it shows up in places where I would usually engage to get a nice hit of adrenaline. And the new instinct says, “Just leave.” Some weird circular infinite loop logic where after you’re a parent you as a new parent finally heed your parent’s advice.
Kyle texts me back, “It’s popping off here. All good vibes.”
While everyone else is looking irritated by the interruption, Geoff Rickly is looking on concerned for Sick Guy. Geoff has a really calm disposition, as a frontman, I always expect these dudes to be boisterous and aggressive. And every time I’ve conducted interviews with lead singers they’re usually the most tender souls. I stand up and touch his shoulder, introduce myself and say that I’m about to leave, but I hope he has a good set, and I’ll see him at the party on Saturday.
Sick Guy continues to wail while unzipping his pants, “I’m going to Bam Margera’s house in three days, go fuck yourselves!”
He has a geometric back tattoo that looks like the symbol for water. I can’t really tell because he’s tilting back to make his piss stream into a tighter arc while yelling, “I’m really pissing on it!”
And by “it” Sick Guy means his own bags.
“I’m Siller Silas’ true heir! You have no idea who you’re fucking with!”
I’m stomping toward the parking garage and see the enormous black gate that encloses the whole deck for the first time is halfway closed. I pick my pace up as Sick Guy’s voice continues to echo in the dark.
“You have no idea what’s about to happen!”
And when I cross the street into the parking garage of the church, I hear Sick Guy give a banshee screech and run towards some people. I step into the stairwell and get inside my car, and it’s quiet.
*
I descend the stairs of Stowaway in Downtown LA and the loudest Samba band in the world playing. I step into the Rio Room and see someone on the microphone reading from their phone. Between songs I can slightly hear the person read, “the shower drain collected the hairs like a mother.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have left the other reading. Maybe I misread my instinct.
With most readings there is a pattern, it sucks to say, but it’s true.
Usually something like:
I do this. I do this. I do this.
Then so-and-so asks, “Did you do that?”
I say, “Yes.”
We get in your car. We drive on the freeway. We pass things. I see things we pass.
Passing these things reminds when we passed other things that were similar at a different time when we were in your car.
I ask, “Do you this and this and this and this and this?”
And you say, “I don’t know.”
And since it’s impolite to attempt to gouge out my own eyes in public, I just clap when they’re done.
I text Bud Smith and ask him what makes a good reading, he mentions the importance of first selecting a piece befitting a reading and the correct type of performance accompanying it for the reading as a whole to work.
And this is why Kyle Seibel is exceptional.
Kyle stands staring at the microphone like a boxer eyeing his opponent. With his mustache and sharp jawline, like if Hemmingway had a good sense of humor.
He is effective in shutting a whole room up and confronting them with his intensity, and is able, almost instantly, to wrangle every single person in the room’s attention. The reason why this works is because the content of his stories typically have to do with everyday people doing everyday things, and what he is attempting to convey boils down to, like Sam Pink, “Are you all not seeing this?”
Drawing the attention down beneath the surface of the mundane, in a way, saying, “Hey you assholes, look. Don’t you see the divine is in everything?”
It wasn’t until he was done that I could hear the Samba music again.
I’m not saying all writers need to be theatrical, or loud, but it’s nice when a reader understands the piece they’re reading is a performance and they adjust accordingly. Example: Kevin Maloney read a piece about falling in love with an AI program and it worked perfectly because he remained monotone which accompanied the content of the story just right, and when the narrator is starting to become heartbroken it added to the absurdity, which made it funny. Well done.
For those who were there at the Rio Room, I don’t need to go into detail about Omar King, who closed out the reading. That will be a secret only those who were lucky enough to see him read get to have.
All I’ll say is, I was impressed.
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