My mom and I now have a tradition of attending the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books annually. We nerd out and reserve tickets to panels the day they go on sale. It's our version of Coachella. We've enjoyed seeing well-known people speak, such as Betty White, John Cusack, and Michael Ian Black. We've learned of the origins of Go the Fuck to Sleep. We've had conversations with Merrill Markoe, Chris Erskine, and Kristen Hersh. We've trekked all over UCLA and USC, and I now have a solid collection of signed books. The festival is filled with interesting, creative people. It's my version of church.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
The other day, my dad read the post I originally had up about a babysitting fiasco I had when I was 14. The boy I was watching split his head open and had stitches at the local hospital before his mom came home. I SWORE my dad had stayed at the house with me while my mom took the ambulance to the hospital, but my dad said he went with my mom in the car to the hospital while I stayed home because they wouldn't let her ride in the ambulance. So I pulled the blog post down because I am now questioning the effectiveness of my memory. I was dead wrong. How could I have been so wrong? Why did I remember the story that way?