Blogging was light this weekend, because I soaked up the beautiful SoCal sunshine (minus the heat last weekend at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. You can see details of the Festival (and photos) on my cousin Lee's blog.
I spent Saturday at a birthday picnic for myself on the lawn of the UCLA campus, with the Festival going on around me. (I didn't leave the picnic to go to any festival activities; that would seem rude when people are there to celebrate my birthday). Several folks, known and unknown, showed up for cake and Junior's sandwiches. Among them were Lee's brother, Tod, and Tod's wife Wendy. Lee himself didn't show up (a busy schedule and back pain); but oddly enough, Lee and Tod's friend Sarah Weinman spent some time with us -- totally independent of Lee or Tod. She was a friend of a friend of a friend . . . .
Today we hit a couple of panels (one on humor, featuring Tod and two other writers whose last names begin with "G"; and another on Victorian Age fiction, vintage and modern); dropped some bucks on books; and ate a fairly subpar orange-chicken bowl.
The ranks of the booksellers were thinned somewhat (no Borders or Barnes & Noble), but the crowds seemed as large as ever. I chalk both up to the economy. After all, the Festival was free.
Showing posts with label Festival of Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Festival of Books. Show all posts
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Monday, April 30, 2007
Dreamy Sundays
I had the strangest dream on Sunday.
I was back at UCLA, walking into a lecture hall at Young Hall. I was late. The class was in progress.
Except, instead of a professor, there were a bunch of pundits sitting at the table in the front of the classroom. And sitting among them, speaking as if he were their leader, was my cousin, Tod Goldberg.
As I walked down the aisle, Tod worked me into his opening remarks. He directed everyone's attention to me.
Then, after the lecture, he took me to this table just below Janss Steps. There, they sold me a literary journal with a cover story by Tod. The story was written from the viewpoint of a possibly psychotic young man who opened a Starbucks franchise in his home.
Oh. Wait.
That was the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books
I was back at UCLA, walking into a lecture hall at Young Hall. I was late. The class was in progress.
Except, instead of a professor, there were a bunch of pundits sitting at the table in the front of the classroom. And sitting among them, speaking as if he were their leader, was my cousin, Tod Goldberg.
As I walked down the aisle, Tod worked me into his opening remarks. He directed everyone's attention to me.
Then, after the lecture, he took me to this table just below Janss Steps. There, they sold me a literary journal with a cover story by Tod. The story was written from the viewpoint of a possibly psychotic young man who opened a Starbucks franchise in his home.
Oh. Wait.
That was the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books
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