Tommy Lasorda is chasing me. I am sprinting down a dim
cement corridor on the field level of Dodger Stadium, framed
overhead by freshly painted Dodger blue sewage pipes. Lasorda,
who isn’t wearing shoes, is barking expletives at me
and trying to button his stark white uniform pants as he runs.
At this moment, it hits me: writing is fierce. It isn’t
a quiet office with a cup of chamomile tea and golden retriever
sleeping by the fireplace. It isn’t a contemplative stare
out the window at Starbucks. It’s this:
- I have interviewed people while they were naked.
- I have had the blood of another human being on my notepad.
- My life has been threatened.
- A man once stopped speaking to me in mid-sentence because
the stitches he was getting – in his eye! – distracted
him from the point he was making.
- I have done my job in strip clubs that reek of septum-searing
perfume, coffee shops crawling with cockroaches, military
bases in the middle of the desert, sweat-steamed locker rooms,
burger stands in bad neighborhoods, unkempt Hollywood dressing
rooms, and outdoors in both single- and triple-digit temperatures.
And I love it. It’s who I am.
My writing career began as a stringer for the Simi Valley
Enterprise (now the Ventura County Star) when
I was a senior in high school. On a whim, I called the sports
editor and asked if he could use some help. I had no clips,
no experience, no moxie whatsoever, but he said yes (Thanks,
Loren). The paper couldn’t pay me for the stories I
wrote, but they occasionally let me tag along to pro sporting
events on a press pass. The first such experience led to
the aforementioned footrace with Lasorda (which they never
knew about).
After college, I took a job as prep sports editor for the Antelope
Valley Press, the primary source of information for
the Mojave Desert. Lived 300 yards from the San Andreas Fault.
Began writing on a freelance basis to counter the monotony
of researching stories about promising, local high school
athletes having babies or going to juvee. Wrote my first
magazine cover story.
Moved to Orange County and was introduced to the sordid world
of advertising. Started using the term “where the rubber
meets the road.” Proposed the idea to have a golf gear
manufacturer put its logo on the antiseptic-scented discs used
in urinals (industry term: urinal burger). Wrote about non-dairy
creamer, satellite receivers, concept cars and Realtors® (who
demanded that I capitalize the word and attach a ® to the
end of it) (and far be it from me to argue style with a crew
as savvy and sophisticated as the real estate nation).
After six years in advertising, I was hit by shrapnel from
the dot-com bomb. Got laid off. Freelanced exclusively for
a year. Returned to Cubicleville. Rode the train to downtown
L.A. for four months. Found a better gig behind closer to home
at a giant, lumbering health care company. Currently living
happily ever after.
