Well, kinda.  The writer Academy Awards, which is even cooler. Rilla was one of my first writing teachers.  I got to take a college class for high school credit my senior year (because my mom worked at the college.)

Here are some of Rilla’s books:

www.rillaaskew.com

So, that was thirteen years ago…I didn’t even know I wanted to be a writer at that point, just that I could write.  But over the years I kept up with Rilla…she would send me notes of encouragement, and I’d call her if I had a bad writing workshop.  I admire Rilla so much.  She’s a brilliant writer, with guts and confidence, but without pretension.  For Rilla, it is about the work.

And, of course, she’s an Okie!

When Rilla heard about my book, she was really proud.  And just so happens that she was getting a huge award from the Academy of Arts and Letters, and had an extra ticket.  What could I do?  The Academy Awards for Writers!  I had no choice but to immediately book a flight on my almost maxed out credit card (so worth it)! While I love/have a sick fascination for Hollywood celebrities…writers are my real rockstars.   So here was the scene:

And here is a close-up of Rilla and Tracy Letts, who won the Pulitzer for August:  Osage County (one of the best plays I’ve ever seen):

Tracy Letts is an Okie too!

But here’s the thing about the Writer Academy Awards…I get that most writers are not known for being social creatures…I mean, we spend half our time sitting alone in front of a computer or notepad.  But that said, these Academy Awards felt so damn somber.  I’m not saying they need statuettes or musical numbers (though I’d love both those things), but I think they need to sex it up a little next year.  I mean, the highlight is some lady doing a solo on the harp organ.  I’m not kidding.  Thank god there were technical difficulties with the organ this year. So when Rilla got her award, I decided I had to yell for her.  Note:  As soon as I yell, I duck with the camera because everyone looks at me like I’m crazy.  Of course, after that everyone hooted/cheered/whistled when their friends got awards.  ’Cause I am a trendsetter.

Then I got to go to the fancy after party, and I felt like hot shit getting to drink free booze and mingle with famous writers.  I met Denis Johnson (whose stories I teach), TC Boyle, Tracy Letts, etc., and if was fucking surreal. Here is TC Boyle, who was really cool, and sorta looks like a REAL rockstar…and I had this great moment with him…we met when I applied (and didn’t get in) to the USC Program in Creative Writing:

ME: Remember me…blah blah blah…we met at USC…blah blah…I didn’t get in.

BOYLE:  Man.  Sorry.  I don’t pick who gets in.

ME: That’s okay…I’m getting a book published by Simon & Schuster. (High Before Homeroom…I know, I couldn’t help myself)

BOYLE: Oh, man.  (he laughs and shakes his head, like I shoulda gotten in…yup, I loved it, whether he meant it or not)

ME: (I have a lot of guts when I drink) Well, I mean, the least you could do is give me a blurb for my book jacket, right?

BOYLE: Yeah, I guess I can do that.  Bring it by my office.

I will, but I’m not countin’ on anything…there was A LOT of wine there, and, I mean, really, what was he gonna say when I asked?). Then I met his son, who is 18 and adorable, and his agent, who is 25 and way too hot to be an agent.

Anyway, here is Rilla and me at the party:

I know, she’s way too hot to be a writer.  And she was wearing cowboy boots!

At one point, Rilla told me she saw a renaissance for Oklahoma artists in the near future.  Judging by her and Letts at the award ceremony, maybe she’s right.  We have a lot to say, Okies. (I’m talking to you Steve Sanders and Emily Johnson)

3 am at the Bodega, watch us get busted:

Visiting NYC, one of my favorite places in the universe.  I always stay with Emily when I come here.  We are grown-ups, I know.  She has a real, important job at the Guggenheim.  She has interns.  I teach college.

But, inevitably, we have to revert to high school behavior for at least one day.  RE: Us in pajamas at the Cabana Inn, OKC, 1995.

This is what we did today.

Went to Union Square and met this cool guy dressed as a dog who sells t-shirts. Later, I learned his secret passion:

He gave me a discount for a plug, but honestly, his stuff is great.  Hilarious.  I love clothes with a sense of humor. His website is called:

www.spicycupcakes.com

all his stuff – totes, shirts, clothing are of recycled material, and the dog-man plants a tree for every purchase.  And they really do SELL CUPCAKES.

Then Emily stole a kiwi from the salad bar:

And explained why the system owed her a kiwi while we waited for our orders:

and then we met James (he will have his own section in Melrose Place on Crack at a later date) on a break from a shoot (he’s a makeup artist):

And we took pictures of ties:

Then we hung out at the Figaro in the West Village  and Emily tried to take my “book jacket photo.”

NOTE:  I don’t get “book jacket photos.”  You’re supposed to look serious, right?  Deep and intellectual.  Umm, well, I’m not sure I can pull that off.  PS  note the  I Support The War On Tyra t-shirt I bought from a guy dressed as a dog in Union Square

and here is my author photo:

And the best part?  Did I mention it was Fleet Week?:

I don’t know why these straight soldiers came to the West Village, of all places, but we were perfectly happen to entertain them.  Y’know, support the troops and all.

This guy just got promoted:

Then my friend Lindsay came.  She’s an great writer, and will get her own blog entry at a later date.  And this is the best picture ever taken in the history of the world:

my favorite guy is that one peeking in from the left

Lindsay looks so freaking adorable.  Honestly, though, I don’t remember meeting half these guys (we drank a lot.)  They were really sweet and fun, though.  And they are a lot more liberal than some would expect.  When I asked them, most said they had no problem with women serving in combat or gays in the military.  The thing is…I really believe, whether you support the war or not, you should support our troops.  ’

okay, done with that little speech.  Back to silly, drunken behavior.

We went to the TopShop (which just opened…maybe we built it up in our heads too much, ’cause it was kinda a let down.)  I did get some great pics, though:

and then we got reprimanded for taking drunken pictures in the TopShop, and so we left.

Then we went home and passed out.

THE END

The Hollyhood Starbucks is open daily from 5 am to 11 pm.  And there are people who practically live there.  I don’t know every Barista, but I know Omar.  In fact, Omar is pretty unforgettable.  Omar is young, and he’s got a complicated love life, and he’s hilarious.  He tells long drawn out stories that usually start, “So I was really messed up last night, and somehow I ended up _________”   (on the beach, in some hot chick’s TransAm on the Pasadena Freeway, in a hotel off the Boulevard.  All of the above.)

One day, I’ll get one of Omar’s stories for this website…hear that, Omar?

Basically, I love Omar because he reminds me how great it was to be 20 years old.  And how glad I am that I’m not 20 years old anymore.

Omar and another Barista show me their tats.

Note:  I am currently obsessed with tats.  I can’t tell you why…yet.  But it is pretty good.  And yes, it involves ME getting a tat.  But there is more to it than that (that is a Hollyhood teaser)

Omar: I got a new tat.

Me: Tell me about it.

Omar: What do you wanna hear about my new tattoo?

Me: Did it hurt?

Omar: Uh, actually it didn’t hurt.  I was more, like, falling asleep.

Me: Were you drunk?

Omar: No, I was sober.  Sober and MAD.

Me: Because of a girl?

Omar: I just wanted to get a tattoo so badly. (this does not answer the question…and it kinda does)

Other Barista: (walking up) You should see mine.

Me: What’s yours?  (he starts taking off his shirt) That’s right.  Take it off.  Wait, let me take a picture.

Other Barista: Well, I gotta bunch.

Me: That’s so gorgeous.  Why’d you get that?  Beautiful…I love the roses.  (turns over his arm) Oh my god!  Oh! (wow, you only fully comprehend how silly you sound when you transcribe yourself.  I really said that.)

Other Barista: My mom’s favorite place was Disneyland.  And my mom passed away.

Me: What was her favorite ride?

Other Barista: Space Mountain.

Me: Mine is It’s a Small World After All.

Omar: That’s like fifteen minutes long. (Omar nonchalantly wanders away)

Yeah, I’d love to tell you I only support small local coffee shops that recycle and make their brews with organically grown beans grown by poor native peoples…but that would be a lie.  I frequent the Starbucks.  In fact, I wrote my whole novel at Starbucks (buy my book, High Before Homeroom, Simon & Schuster, 2009).  I wrote it at a Starbucks in Kentucky, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, New York City, and Arkansas (thank god they finally got one!)

Starbucks is reassuring.  It is always the same no matter where you go.  Starbucks is the same in Oklahoma as it is in Dublin, you just use a different currency.  There is something I love about that stability, especially since I often feel my life is out of control.

Here’s some Starbucks secret lingo:  Starbucks wants their clients to consider it their third place.  There’s home, work, and Starbucks.  Throw “third place” at an Barista sometime and see their reaction.

My favorite Starbucks IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE is a block away from Melrose Place On Crack, right smack in the center of the Hollyhood.  I go there at least once a day, usually two or three times.  I know all the employees.  I know their drama.  I knew when one of them got fired,and why, and how everyone felt about it.  I am on best behavior when the district manager comes in to visit. I got the call from my agent that my book would published while  in my Starbucks.  Of course, I screamed. Everyone was so excited.  One of my favorite Baristas walked from behind the bar and hugged me.  Another Barista, an aspiring musician, said it inspired him to keep going.

Truth be told:  I’m in the Starbucks right now.

All my Starbucks friends know about this website and my book.  And many of them are aspiring.  This is Hollywood, after all.

So I want you to meet them.