FRANKENSTEIN’S MONSTER IN LAGUNA BEACH
After 10 straight hours of pagination, last minute re-writes and recording 28 poems on an iPhone memo app, I was desperate for a break. My mind was a hollow echo of the sound of my own voice, droning on and on and on. In one case I got Amy, the publisher to read for me, to hear what THE DARK CLOUD would sound like with a feminine voice reading it. The instinct was correct,a feminine voice does counterpoint the content. Where can I get a woman in New York? Where can I get a woman to willfully read my poem aloud in a recording studio owned by Saul Ruben whilst surrounded by world class jazz musicians improvising around the words? Where in NYC can I get a woman to do all that for no or very little money?
Maybe Times Square or a commuter train.
I need to keep my ears peeled for the right voice.
But this was Orange County where automobiles have displaced homo sapiens as the dominent species.
And nobody walks, ever, period. Unless it’s on the beach or a nature trail.
So I asked Amy, the publisher, *my* publisher, if we could take a break and head to the beach for a beer or two and an investigation into Laguna Beach society.
“I’m sorry, honey (my publisher calls me *honey*!), but I’ve got at least another 4 hours to do here. Tell you what, how about if I drop you off in Laguna Beach on your own and you can call me when you want to be picked up”.
Igor Goldkind, Laguna Beach, on his own, with his reputation?
Was this woman completely insane? Did she not know my reputation for wreaking havoc everywhere I go? Had she not heard about the smoking moral crater I had left where Oxford had been? This woman wanted to release me into the virgin wilderness of OC wine bars and over tanned vapidity without as much as a chaperone. She was completely mad; no wonder she was publishing me.
But my quest for diversion from the sound of my own voice and release from the too perfectly affluent surroundings I had found myself in (pool, jacuzzi and gym included; and this wasn’t even a hotel!), got the better of me and I said a quick prayer for the fine citizens of Laguna Beach who were about to encounter their collective moral damnation . . . . .
(TO BE CONTINUED. Stay tuned to read about Igor’s encounter with the Orange Women; his attempt to spontaneously organize a bus boys union while sipping a vodka martini; his reading of poetry to a homeless writer named Mike; and his making young Chicana girls laugh by pretending to be a prat (or at least I was trying to pretend!) We won’t mention the Taco Bell incident; best to let sleeping dogs snore.