i rock the second rung
◊ Updating from Los Angeles and the JACC convention, where things are going at least moderately groovily. I doubt that's the correct adverbial form of "groovy," but I couldn't find it in my AP style book, so screw it. I'm updating from Reza's laptop here in the hotel room while Ron and Dean crash out before dinner. Sadly, I don�t get to see what gets Reza off, smut-wise, because I'm way too tired to start digging for porn on this thing.
The drive up wasn�t so bad, minus the bits where Dean and I set out two hours late, almost ran out of gas, almost ran out of oil, hit massive traffic getting off the 405 onto 101 and got lost in downtown Los Angeles.
We did manage to stalk a Korean delivery van through industrial-strength traffic, getting close enough to steal the soul of the penguin graphic on its side with my trusty Olympus. If we�d had enough time to hit the tantalizingly close In-n-Out Burger on the way, the seven-hour drive would�ve been worth it.
Yesterday's on-the-spot critical review went well: a bunch of us watched a short film that would've been sheer genius if John Waters had made it, but instead it was just stilted and tacky in a bad way instead. We churned out reviews in the lab on a minimal time budget. Luke's convinced my review is brilliant, and I agree.
I figure that if I'm in a major hotel crammed with rabid young reporters, they've probably gotten my name off the press pass I drew for myself in ballpoint pen and looked me up to see what kind of competition I am. Might as well scare them, right? And scared they'll be, as soon as they google this "Hunter S. Thompson" character.
Of course, I've had five hours of sleep in all since Wednesday, so my confidence could mean about as much as the odd swirls of light and trails of cigarette smoke I thought I saw coming from the top of someone�s head during the last workshop.
Things aren�t going brilliantly; a classmate and I invested a whole lot of time and energy on getting notes and a photo for a contest, only to find when we got back that we�d missed registration and had done all that work for nothing.
I did get a killer horchata, a cowboy hat and a bunch of good photos. I may write up the story I had even though I can�t submit it. It�s really a shame: my story would�ve been a great antidote to the ones written by the other writers. I saw too many of them holding up note pads and pestering bored hot dog vendors with questions like �And how to people treat the homeless around here? Are there any problems with that?" and sounding very, very sincere.
Found me a cowboy hat. Next thing I gotta do is curl the sides of the brim to make it less hick and more punk rock.
We asked this guy where he got his hat and he said if we came back in a couple hours he could walk us to the store.
The vendors sold mostly tourist crap and different �Chicano power" shirts. It was a decidedly strange blend of themes.
Once I finished getting my heart broken about losing a story I loved, things got better. I went to a workshop hosted by print-design rock star Tim Harrower. At the award dinner for mail-in entries, I was distracted from an informal competition at our table involving throwing hard candies into a coffee cup balanced on Luke's head long enough to find out I'd won a second-place award for an opinions story. Things are looking good: I have fresh, new ideas for next quarter�s paper and a sturdy plaque that I can use for bonking reporters on the head when they're being difficult.