When there's something strange in your neighborhood, Vidal and Vicki Herrera might be the closest thing to Ghostbusters you've got... In Redlands there's a circus even PETA would approve of... an exhibit at the Huntington Library looks at Octavia Butler through her own notes and letters she left behind... Taylor Orci guest hosts and she's filled with joy about the whole thing. (Photo: Vidal Herrera/Credit: Andy Holtzman LA Daily News)
Remembering unsung science-fiction hero/Genius Grant winner Octavia Butler
Octavia E. Butler: Telling my Stories is now on view at the Huntington Library.
Can you guess the first science fiction writer to win a MacArthur “Genius Grant"? It wasn't Ray Bradbury or Philip K. Dick — it was Octavia Butler, an African-American woman who was was born and raised in Pasadena.
This year, non-profit arts organization Clockshop is observing the 10th anniversary of Butler's death with a yearlong look at the science fiction great whose work never broke through to the mainstream.
Write or die
Octavia Butler was 12 years old when she saw "Devil Girl from Mars" for the first time. She watched it on TV one lazy Saturday afternoon.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hOBn-g5VTfM
“When I turned off the television, I said to myself, I can write a better story than that," Butler said in a documentary. "I sat down and began writing my first science-fiction story.”
Butler wrote in a genre known for exotic dystopias and Martian landscapes — where white men created the work and starred in the narrative. Butler saw great power in the parameters of science fiction. Instead of white men exploring galaxies, she could create futures or pasts where women of color were at the center of the story.
Charlie Rose asked her on TV once why she wrote science fiction.
“Because there are no closed doors, no walls," she told him. "The only rule is, if you use science, you should use it accurately. You can look at, examine, play with anything. Absolutely anything."
Octavia Estelle Butler was born June 22, 1947. Her dad died when she was a young girl. She was raised by her mother, a housemaid.
She was a shy kid, and social situations made her anxious. In the hulking, mission-style main branch of the Pasadena Library, 6-year-old Butler found refuge, starting a lifelong obsession with storytelling.
"I had two choices," she told Rose. "I could become a writer or I could die really young, because there wasn’t anything else that I wanted."
She went to Pasadena City College to study writing. In the spring of her freshman year she wrote a short story called “To The Victor." She entered it into a campuswide writing contest and won, taking in $15 in prize money.
Over the course of her life, she would write 15 novels and two collections of short stories. She won dozens of awards, but even her most successful books sold fractions compared to genre giants like Frank Herbert and Kurt Vonnegut.
So for an author who was not widely read during her lifetime, who or what will perpetuate her legacy?
A legacy re-examined
Julia Meltzer directs Clockshop, a non-profit arts organization that helps artists collaborate with large institutions in California. The project Meltzer is working on now is called Radio Imagination. Meltzer has organized a group of 12 artists and writers to celebrate and interpret Butler's work. They've each been given access to Butler’s archives, which are housed at the Huntington Library.
"We are doing this project because I was interested in bringing artists and writers to the Huntington Library who most likely wouldn’t have a reader’s pass there," said Meltzer. "[Who] wouldn’t maybe have the time to spend with her papers and to see what they produce as a result of their time and research."
The new work created by these artists and writers will show up online and at the Armory in Pasadena this year. Meltzer said she finds in Butler's books a world totally unique in science fiction.
"I think it’s interesting to look at her work and think about her perspective, because she just carved out this space for herself in a field that was dominated by white men," she said. "And I think it’s fascinating looking at her perspective on Los Angeles and race, class, gender and imagination and how she saw the world."
Connie Samaras is one of the artists working on the project — she works mainly in photography and video. Samaras said she thinks Butler deserves a place among the best American writers of the 20th century.
"Butler’s stories were very different," she said. "First of all, the protagonist is a young, sometimes adolescent black girl or black woman. She’s not the typical hero, she doesn’t solve everything and resolve everything."
Tisa Bryant is also involved in the project — she's a writer living in L.A. As a longtime fan of Butler, Bryant sees the deep dive into the archive as way to re-animate Butler, to almost have a conversation with her.
"She’s an amazing plotter and she’s incredibly economical. And that’s like a hallmark of the genre — you don’t waste a lot of time. Some writers might be a little more florid or prettier or more detail-oriented than others, but for the most part, genre fiction, you keep it moving," said Bryant. "It’s about the plot. And she’s a champ with that."
Butler won her Genius Grant in 1995, when she was in her late 40s. She died in 2006 following complications from a stroke and a fall. Although she never enjoyed the transcendent popularity of other genre writers like George R.R. Martin or Kurt Vonnegut, Bryant hopes her work with Clockshop will change that.
You can find the grave of Octavia Butler at Mountain View Cemetery in Altadena. Under a small tree, there's her tombstone, with a simple quote written on it:
“All that you touch you change. All that you change, changes you. The only lasting truth is change. Change is God.”
They're the first lines of “Parable of the Sower,” a novel set in a dystopian future California where water is scarce. As also the final sentence in Butler's story, the quote takes on new life.
Butler died young, but she took control of her destiny, not only forging the world she wanted to see but creating the life she wanted to live.
On Wednesday, June 7 at 4:30, there will be a curator tour for the exhibit. Click here for details.
Jim Tully, father of hardboiled fiction, was the 'most hated man in Hollywood'
In the '20s and '30s, Jim Tully was a national celebrity, known as a pioneering novelist, Charlie Chaplin's wingman and publicist — and for punching a major movie star in the face at the Brown Derby. Tully was a top contributor to "Vanity Fair" and H.L. Mencken's "American Mercury," but by the late 1940s, he was forgotten.
"I lived in many a brothel where the dregs of life found shelter. I fraternized with human wrecks whose hands shook as if with palsy, ... with degenerates and perverts, greasy and lousy, with dope fiends who would shoot needles of water into their arms to relieve the wild aching."
— Jim Tully
In 1992 in Kent, Ohio, a man walked into bookseller Paul Bauer's shop and asked for a book by Jim Tully, "the father of hardboiled fiction." Bauer was abashed. He'd never heard of Tully, and so he called his friend Mark Dawidziak, then a columnist at the Akron Beacon Journal.
Dawidziak found Tully's book "Shanty Irish" in another store for $2.50, then searched out all 12 of Tully's novels and scoured libraries for any mention of Tully. In his own newspaper's archives, Dawidziak discovered that Tully had been a reporter for the paper. It was a sign, and the two men decided to write Tully's biography.
A librarian informed them that Tully's personal papers were at the UCLA library.
(Credit: UCLA Jim Tully archive)
They flew out to Los Angeles and found 117 boxes of letters, articles and newspaper clippings. "That really was the treasure trove," they say, that let them piece together Tully's incredible life.
(St. Mary's, Ohio, in the late 1880s. Credit: ridertown.com)
Tully was born in 1886 in St. Mary's, Ohio. His father was a ditch digger, and his mother died when he was 6. Tully's childhood was spent in an orphanage — then, at 12, his father gave him to an abusive farmer as a farmhand.
At 13, Tully escaped back to St. Mary's, where he heard road stories from hobos. At 14, Tully joined them, becoming a "road kid," or "junior hobo," says Dawidziak. The rest of his adolescence was spent jumping trains and in the company of hobos, prostitutes and carnies.
UCLA archivist Alisa Monheim says, "One of the few things that you can do in that situation, places you can go to get out of the heat or out of the cold, is go to libraries." That's where Tully apparently taught himself to read and write.
In 1906, at 20 years old, Tully took up boxing as an occupation.
"I staggered from an overhand right and rattled the teeth in Tierney's jaw in return. I tried to get under the eaves. Tierney was wise. His rigid arm met my attack. Our gloves were now blood-and-water soaked. My kidneys ached with pain."
— Jim Tully on his bout with Chicago Jack Tierney.
"He was an untrained boxer, to be sure, but he was fearless," Bauer says. "He was willing to take punches, to take punishment, all to get inside and score hits." Despite having some success, "He had seen men die in the ring. He had seen 'em blinded in the ring. And I think he realized that this was not a career he was going to carry into middle age."
Tully married his first wife in 1911. They had two children, Alton and Trilby, and moved to Los Angeles.
(Tully and family in L.A.)
He spent 10 years traveling as a tree trimmer and working on his first novel, "Emmett Lawler." He also submitted poetry to newspapers and articles on hoboing and boxing to various magazines.
Recognition for Tully's work grew among writers and editors he sought out for advice: Jack
London, Upton Sinclair and H.L. Mencken. When Tully came to L.A., he made notable friends, including Lon Chaney and Erich von Stroheim.
One of Tully's best friends was Paul Bern, a producer at MGM, who invited Tully to a party, knowing Charlie Chaplin would be there, and that they'd hit it off. In 1923, Charlie Chaplin made Jim Tully his all-purpose PR writer.
During this time, Tully started his second novel, "Beggars of Life."
"Beggars" was published in 1924 to great success, giving Tully the means to leave Chaplin and write more articles, novels and a series of movie star profiles.
"He was known as 'the man Hollywood most loved to hate,' because he was one of the first reporters to ever cover Hollywood as a beat," says UCLA's Monheim. "He really didn't care who he pissed off in the slightest."
Bauer says Tully's profile of former silent film icon John Gilbert was "so harsh that, reportedly, when Gilbert read it, he threw up." In 1930, Gilbert called Tully out at the Brown Derby.
Dawidziak breaks down the scuffle: "Tully is up, and he is in a boxer's stance. Gilbert comes at him, and he throws two wild punches. Misses with both. Tully, a trained boxer, steps into the gap and snaps a right uppercut. Knocks him cold with one punch."
(Gilbert v. Tully at the Brown Derby. Courtesy Mark Dawidziak)
Tully's career was declining by the mid-to-late '30s. He attempted comebacks with "The Bruiser" (1936) and "Biddy Brogan's Boy" (1942), but neither were successful in his lifetime.
On June 22, 1947, Tully's heart failed. He was 61 years old. He's buried at Glendale's Forest Lawn, on the same hill as John Gilbert. A last ignominy for Jim Tully, whom Dawidziak calls "the missing link between Jack London and Jack Kerouac": His grave marker gets his birth year wrong.
Chris Greenspon thanks: Voice actors Jennifer Miller and Christopher Murray, documentary filmmaker Mark Wade Stone for clips from "Way for a Sailor," and WKSU's Joe Gunderman.
1-800-AUTOPSY is real — and you might need it one day
It sounds like another LA gimmick at first blush: A wrapped truck with 1-800-AUTOPSY blocked out in big bold letters, the morbid cousin to Angelyne's bright pink Corvette. John Rabe snapped a photo.
He was tickled by the idea. Is it a prank? A television prop vehicle? What happens when you call the number? Is it a chat line for autopsy fans?
"Autopsies are in decline in America," says Vidal Herrera, former Field Deputy Coroner-Investigator for the Los Angeles County Chief Medical Examiner Coroner.
He says this becomes a problem when someone comes in for a routine surgery but dies from "complications" that can't be verified. Vicki Herrera, Vidal's boss and wife, adds, "It could be something as simple as not turning the oxygen on."
Down the rabbit hole we go, putting verbal points on a map that sprawls out and touches a multitude of factors: the medical industry, the pharmaceutical industry, medical malpractice, the insurance industry, how former competitors have sold body parts on the black market, and so forth.
Given Herrera's experience, he knows that autopsies have come a long way since he started his career.
"Back in my day, coroners were former embalmers," reflecting on how now the profession requires a degree and rigorous training.
Still, he sees plenty of room for improvement, "We've gotta get better. We have to get better."
A great reason to run off and join the circus
Last month, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus rolled up its tents for the last time. On the same night, a different kind of circus, founded by an ex-Ringling acrobat 88 years ago, ended its season too. But the Redlands based Great “Y” circus will be back next year, a triumph for a troupe that bills itself as “The Oldest Community Circus in the World.”
In the lobby of the YMCA in Redlands California, stands outside the Roy Coble Memorial Gym, reading from a a plaque on the wall. "For forty years, he was always there when any when any of his YMCA kids needed him... He befriended the friendless and the lonely and showed them how to find companionship." The man on the memorial plaque sounds too good to be true. But Roy Coble was real. An ex-circus acrobat and aerialist, Coble ended up running the YMCA in Redlands California at the height of the Great Depression. There, He hatched an eccentric dream: To combine his circus skills with the Y’s mandate of exercise and community. Jenna Lowery is the 2017 director of the Great “Y”, aka the Great All American Youth Circus, the performing troupe for children Coble founded in 1929.
“We have a humongous program,” says Lowery. Lowery joined the Great “Y” Circus as a 7 year old unicyclist. "My cousin Colin actually started juggling here. And I fell in love with how cool that was, and how cool HE was doing it." That childish impulse morphed into a calling. “It’s so hard to put into words. But being a part of a circus community—the supporting of one another physically, actually lifting them up into the acrobatic pyramids, being their actual base—creates this really visceral response biologically. "You are reinforcing trust and you’re reinforcing those feelings of support, and it's reciprocated, both emotionally and physically.” Jenna never met Roy Coble, but she knows his family, some of whom are still with the show, 88 years on. “From what I’ve heard, he sounds like he was a really stellar dude. He started doing clowning and acrobatics as a Wednesday night boy’s activity. And it grew ever since then.” The growth of the Great “Y” Circus is obvious when the massive troupe assembles in the Roy Coble Gym to prepare for a show.
There are 350 young performers, plus 50 adult trainers and a small army of show crew. Visible grace notes are everywhere. Hugs and laughter. Teenagers, spinning like human hubcaps inside life-sized rings called German Wheels. Grown-ups teach children juggling moves, or rehearse for rapt kids on the Rolla Bolla, a skateboard-sized teeter-totter perched on a cylinder as big as a human thigh. “All the trainers are volunteers, so none of us get paid," says Assistant Trainer Tim Caldwell. "We have to sign on for a nine month process." Caldwell has been with working with kids at the Great “Y” Circus for fifteen years. “They learn to come out here without worrying if they’re going to win a first place medal, or win the game. You don’t have to defeat anybody to feel good about yourself. Every one of them does the best they can, and that’s good enough.” The PA sounds.
Director Lowery calls the troupe to order for an untraditional pep talk. "You're doing an excellent job--keep it up," Lowery says. “Make sure that you take time—before you’re onstage, after you’re onstage—to take deep breaths. Because as awesome as the season is, it goes by really quickly. And I think it’s something we should remember to savor.” Guest speaker and Juggling Trainer Damon Needleman reads out an invocation, written his wife Samita. It’s a cross between a prayer and a statement of purpose. “Connections," Needleman says. "As humans we crave connections. A sense of belonging to someone or something. It lets others know what village has accepted us into their fold. “There is no village more powerful for my family than the Circus…” The troupe cheers.
And the Great “Y” is a REAL circus. Here’s a partial list of acts the children have mastered, supplied by Selma, Evander and Olivia Burgess—three members of the troupe: "There’s wire, there’s trapeze," says Evander. "Ribbons, Lear and Hammock," adds Olivia. Evander: "Rolling globes…" Olivia: "German Wheel…" Evander: "Rolla Bolla…" And last but not least, seven year old Selma, who says, "I do swinging ladders and unicycle." As the youngest, Selma is seven, microphone shy. Asked, "What was it like being in the circus with your Mom?," she responds cautiously. "It was cool," she says slowly, and adds after a pause, "I guess." Evander is a thoughtful twelve year old. He gravitates toward support positions, behind the scenes of the show. “I feel proud," Evander says. "Because my helping them is actually working.” And then there’s Olivia. At thirteen, she’s very much the oldest child, remarkably self-assured at an awkward age. Asked what the circus has taught her, she's decisive and firm. "Trust," she says. "I’ve learned to trust people. Because when they’re swinging you in the air you have to trust them." Olivia does Ribbon—an aerialist spinning high above the gymnasium floor on long silk in a graceful dance with risk. She bats away a compliment like Serena Williams batting away a slow serve. “It’s not natural ability—at all. Just like when people say their kids were born smart? They practice, they study, every day. They work on it 24/7.”
Taken together, the Burgess kids are like three Polaroids of childhood development—Selma taking cautious first steps, Evander finding himself, and Olivia, coming into her strength. Their mom, Paula Akompong, credits the Great “Y” Circus. “In the circus," Akompong says, "the kids learn perseverance. Because they don’t wake up one day and start doing those tricks. Failure is a part of the learning process. In fact, the best part is to see someone not manage a trick and still compose themselves and smile. “Seein’ them onstage, I hate to say this, but even though there are 400 and somethin’ performers, all I see is my child," Akompong adds, laughing guiltily. "And I see them PERFORMIN’. Doin’ these amazin’ tricks! And then I forget all those nights I was rushing’ them here, snappin’ at them, trying’ to get them ready. I forget all that. I’m like, ‘Oh my gosh! Look at them! Look at what they’re doin’! This is unbelievable! "I can't imagine our lives without it."
Back in the Roy Coble Gym, the Great “Y” Circus forms up into a gym-spanning circle. "The circle is a symbol of our interconnectivity, and our unity before a show," Lowery says. The troupe has one last pre-show ritual to perform. Emilie Gleisberg, the troupe’s second in command, explains. “Every single night that we perform, we all circle up, we hold hands, and we say, ‘Good, Safe, Fast, Show,’ three times — “ The troupe chants out their cheer, with a deafening roar. "And then we clap and we cheer," Gleisberg says, "and we go off behind stage to get dressed and get ready for show." Like Jenna Lowery, Emilie has been with the Great “Y” since early childhood. But this year has a special resonance for her. Not all the kids know yet, but after this show closes, Jenna Lowery will be moving on to pursue a career as a photographer. So next year, it’s Emilie’s show. “It is… a dream come true," Gleisberg says, through tears. "And I tell… WHOO! I tell everybody that. “I cannot believe that I am going to be able to put on a show of my own, in the place where I grew up, with everybody I love, including my father and my mother, [who] is part of the show. “You know, the circus, we’re here for each other, we’re a family. We make it happen. And we never let anybody fail.”