When you're in search for video gold, analog in type, you find yourself cleaning up constantly. My desk always looks the way it does because the shipments just keep coming. Because someone reminds me of something and I have to find it - and when I do, "putting it away" becomes a labored affair. Because someone asks and research has to be done.
One such issue was the request from Trip Darvez, who (once upon a time) wrote for the L.A. Reader. That paper hasn't been around for decades, as you know. Speaking of, it was 2 decades ago that I first met Trip (at a pool party) and he said that he had a copy - on Beta! - of "Video Reader" a special from KCOP in 1983. I think the fact that I had heard of it connected us, though anyone who really knows me knows that I've heard of a lot of random old TV, commercials, night clubs, so on. Can't say it's all the way useful in my daily life but it's actually helped me every now and then with employment, so I continue to pile it on in the same manner of my desk.
Anyway, without getting too into the mundane, Trip didn't make it in time for our meet-up at the last living Du-Par's restaurant...one nowhere near me, because he said (almost unintelligibly) there was something wrong with his Plymouth. I was pleasantly surprised by the food, annoyed by the pay-for-parking, even more annoyed about the drive at a time when purchasing gasoline is to be part of a vast conspiracy, but so goes another day.
It wasn't until I decompressed that I realized there was a connection here: the last of an LA chain, the last Plymouth that wasn't a collector, the last writer from that lane of prose that was grinding out LA Life at a time when it was at its nuttiest. The combination of all 3 items gave me an appreciative smile at a time when I needed it. I think Trip might have noticed it too, but I assure you he didn't connect the dots in the same fashion.
Days later I received a box from Trip (mailed) containing a stack of video and audio cassettes, even some micro cassettes he used for interviews. There was a note enclosed, written on a wrinkled paper wine bag. "Do you think it's in here?" The tracks of Trip's mind were going off in all directions. He needed help, but not in the way you'd think.
So, I flashed back to those 2 decades ago, the days of the Crescent Heights Overdose, of the walk west on the Strip, the mental gates of steel in view. At that time, more was new than current (or "old" in that respect) and meeting Trip was one of many things at that time. I remember asking Donovan about how often he'd visit his store and he said he didn't know him. And then Trip's missives would be here and there, and time would march on, and I'd always think of how random life can be, how connections can be made with the flimsiness of pretenses, and what loyalty means.
So, after some prompting, it came together. Like being able to understand someone through a thick accent that baffles others. We hadn't talked about that show since...shit, was it when the blog started - 2005?! No, that can't be...but I think that's right. And yet, this is what he's asking.
To be fair, I haven't done anything but just look through the box. It still sits next to my desk. In sum the contents could be anything or nothing. I could contact Trip, then eventually get a hold of him (one way or another) and say "nope, looked through all the tapes, no Video Reader." Would that be enough? "Hey, you taped a bunch of Goodnight L.A. episodes!" Oh...but what else? he might say.
Hey - at least he's still around. Just like the tapes. The stories. Some of the locations. Trip is still out there and, it seems, so is more gold.
