Dan Fonte on family, addiction, and L.A.

missing is my Nicorette gum. Uh-huh. There you go. This is Justin Maurer on Skid Row Radio. We're here. We have the distinct pleasure of hosting Dan Fonte. Now, Dan Fonte is the son of classic L.A. novelist and screenwriter John Fonte, who is known most notably for his novel about a struggling young writer in 1930s Los Angeles called Ask the Dust. Dan Fonte has had many twists and turns in his life, working as a carny in Santa Monica, a taxi and limo driver in New York City, and a limo driver slash coke dealer part-time at the peak of Motley Crue and Van Halen era 1980s Los Angeles. He's had his own sordid history with alcohol, drugs, and sexual experimentation, but ultimately found his calling as a writer. Five novels in, he's most recently published Fonte, a family's tale of addiction. We're most honored to host him today. Hello, Dan. Hi, Justin. That's a nice introduction. I'll try to live up to it. First off, when did you decide to write Fonte, and what exactly brought it about? You know, there's a lot of misinformation about my dad, and so it kind of pissed me off over time, and so I it came to me that I wanted to write something about my dad and myself and about our relationship, and there's a fellow I know, a writer who knew Bukowski, too, who knew Hank, a guy named Ben Pleasance, and Ben is a friend of mine, and he suggested to me, he said, you know, goddammit, Dan, you gotta write a memoir about your father, and so that kind of rattled around, and when I had finished the Bruno Dante, you know, I wrote, I've written actually five books about, with that character. When I finished that, I was thinking about writing another play, and I bumped into Pleasance somewhere, and, you know, we started knocking it around. He said, well, why don't you write that book? So I went home and I started it, and um, what I, what I do, I don't have a plan. My dad, as a writer, always planned, you know, he was one of these punctilious writers who had everything in his imagination. You know, he would storm around for months and break lawnmowers and glasses and scream at people on the phone, and then, uh, when he was ready, he'd sit down and spit a novel out in about, in about three weeks. Wow. And, uh, that's the way he wrote. I don't write like that. I, um, I write every day, except Sunday. And, um, I don't write much. I write a couple hours a day. And, uh, so I, I sit down, the way I test if I'm gonna do something is I start it. And I started this thing, and it just started feeding me. It just started telling me to write more. So, um, for that reason, uh, because there was a facility with words, and, um, and because of, uh, some of the history of my father and, um, and my mother, who kind of, uh, that, the biography written by Stephen Cooper well, extremely well-researched. And Cooper's a nice guy, and, you know, he did very good work. But it was, you know, the iron fist of my mother. You know, in the biography of John Fonney, there's no women. There are no women other than my mother. This is Stephen Cooper's. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Gee, how strange. And then, um, and then mom was pissed off at a number of people. A guy named Alva Bessie who was one of the Hollywood Ten and, uh, Pleasance and, um, oh, who was my, uh, what makes Sammy run? Bud Schulberg. And, uh, so she just kind of had a hit list of people that pissed her off because they had been interviewed and they had said my father, um, was a struggling writer and he became a screenwriter, uh, to pay his bills and then it fell on, then it, my mother somehow felt there was a shadow cast on her, that she was the bitch who was, you know, you know, straw-bossing my father into writing screenplays to feed him. To feed his family, which was not the truth. So, anyway, to correct all that misinformation, I decided to write the biography and, um, that's the reason I did it. Jesus, that was a long... No, not at all. And so, was there any other bits of misinformation that you'd like to clear up in Stephen Cooper's, uh, biography? Well, no, you know, it wasn't Cooper, it was my mother. I see, his main source for... Yeah, he attributes Hank, uh, Charles Bukowski as the rediscoverer of John Fonte. Well, that's just simply not so. Ben Pleasence was. And who was Ben Pleasence? Ben Pleasence is a writer, and he was the former poetry editor of the Los Angeles Times when it had a literary section. And he's a good writer, and he's very knowledgeable about L.A. history. And he knew my father and interviewed my father extensively. So what happened was Pleasence, he was a drinking buddy of Hank's, of Charles Bukowski. And over a course of time, Bukowski would bring up John Fonte. And finally. Pleasence went to the library, and he's a very resourceful guy. And unlike Bukowski, I mean, Pleasence is one of these, you know, eggheads who will dig, dig, and dig, and go to libraries and pull material out. So he read all my father's books, and he said, Jesus Christ, this guy is, you know, is an undiscovered L.A. writer. And then he began to kind of nudge. And Bukowski, come on, Hank, you know, why don't you, you know, you're always talking, you know, after eight drinks, you're waxing poetic about John Fonte. Why the hell don't you say something about him? And finally, Bukowski did. But that was, Bukowski, or Pleasence at that time, had been, he got a number of people to write articles about my father and read his material. And so. But then Pleasence is the, is the guy who was the, the genesis of the rediscovery of John Fonte. And then Bukowski dropped the name in his book. And I don't know, I think it was Women. I'm not sure where he mentioned John Fonte was his favorite writer and was his god. And so that was the thing that broke my father's new literary career loose in Los Angeles. Oh, the other thing was, as I said, there are no women other than my mother in, in, in that biography. And that's, again, the iron fist of Joyce Fonte telling the biographer, no, you're going to say it this way. You're going to do it this way. You're going to write it this way. Or you're not going to have access. Or I'm going to take my toys and go home. So, so there you go. So. So the, the biography of John Fonte is, while well-researched, omits quite a bit of information because of his wife, who was, who was the, the Herman Goering of, and keeper of the John Fonte papers. And if you weren't going to do it Joyce's way, well, you know, fuck you. And the horse you rode in on, you know, so it's like that. Absolutely. Well, I think, would you mind reading the bit about your father's dog? For some reason, I feel inspired to hear that one. Sure. I got. Again, this is Skid Row Radio. This is Justin Maurer. We're here in the studio with Dan Fonte. He's most recently the author of Fonte, A Family's Tale of Addiction. No, no, Justin. Fonte, A Family's Legacy of Riding Drinks. Drinking and Surviving. Excuse me. I didn't pick the title. I don't like the title. But it says Fonte in big letters on the front. And the, I guess the subtitle is A Family's Legacy of Riding, Drinking, and Surviving. Okay. So, yeah, I can read this about, this may go on for, oh, it doesn't matter. It's funny. Okay. This is about the real dog that your father wrote about in My Dog's Stupid. Yes. Is that correct? That's correct. That's correct. So, my. Family. My father moved his wife and four children to Malibu in 1951. And we were all very young. And my dad, his, he got this house. He'd made some money on Full of Life, one of his novels. And he sold it, sold the movie rights and he got a chunk of money. So, he bought this house and there were no houses. And, you know, Malibu in those days didn't have six U's on the end of Mala. Okay. It was just this kind of hokey desert landscape that fell into the water. And my father wanted to be as far away from the movie studios as he could. So, he bought this house. So, and when he bought the house, what came with it were two chihuahuas. And he bought it from. These folks called the Casalas. And they had built it a year before in 1949 or 50. And they, she had TB. So, they wanted to move to Arizona. So, they sold the house cheap and left the chihuahuas. So, that's a setup for the one I'm about to read. This is called Rocco. This is chapter eight. The beginning of chapter eight of my memoir. The former owners of the house, the Casalas, had left. Behind two 10-pound chihuahuas as part of the transaction. To this mix, the old man eventually added white shark-faced Rocco, a bull terrier. This thick 65-pound animal was great with both adults and kids. And romped about our one-acre size property with the other dogs. But as it turned out, the old man had selected a four-legged manifestation of his own personality. Rocco was Mike Tyson, Al Capone. A beast prone to overreaction and multiple animal homicide. The dog's bloodlust showed itself during our first week at Rancho Fonte. At the time, we owned two dozen chickens. Being the dunce of the family, it was my task to feed these chickens. One morning, I went back and discovered four mangled, featherless corpses. To cope with the problem, my father had a newer, stronger fence installed. But it was too... But it too failed to avert his puppy's murderous propensity. In another week or two, Rocco had chewed through the posts and dug under the tightly wired mesh to continue his rampage. Eventually, an even more expensive, wood-slatted barricade was erected. And half a dozen of the pea-brained birds managed to survive. A few months later, when Rocco was no longer a puppy, on walks along the nearby deserted Point Dume cliffs. With either myself or my brother. Nick in charge. Our pooch commenced to mangle and dismember other neighborhood dogs. Weimaraners, Irish Setters, a collie or two, a mastiff, and finally a champion showboxer. The Point Dume section of Malba was now a thriving community. And it took a few months. But people in an ever-widening arc, our neighbors, banded together and drew up petitions. To put a stop to the bullet-nosed white menace behind the tall stone wall. One of these neighbors, Bill Melber, had recently moved his wife and kids into a spanking new house next door. Self-defensive Bill purchased a rifle after Rocco mangled his Airedale. By the time Rocco was 18 months old, deep scars were visible all over his face and body. John Fonte was hardly a people person. And he began to revel in the role of bad guy. Pop was a master of the stinging one-liner. When outraged area residents would bathe. Bang on our front door. Indignant and red-faced after their pet had encountered Rocco. They'd almost always leave our property. The worst for the visit. Sputtering curses and vowing retribution or police intervention. Two incidents endeared Rocco to my father for life. The first happened one afternoon when Nick and I were in the front yard. Helping Pop pull weeds. By now Rocco was prone to repeated escape from our yard. Almost always motivated by a passing animal. Sometimes even a jogger. A horn began honking furiously outside our wall. When we got to the front gate we saw a frantic horse galloping by. Rocco was clamped to the animal's throat. The second incident occurred at almost the same spot. We were getting into my old man's white repainted Cadillac convertible for a trip to the store. When again we heard the blast of a horn. This one happened in the same spot. This one happened in the same spot. This one happened in the same spot. This one happened in the same spot. This was followed by a noise. A resounding thud. And the sight of Rocco airborne after being hit by a pickup truck. Getting out of Pop's Cadillac we ran to the dog's aid. Rocco lay at the side of the road motionless. His pink tongue dangling from his open mouth. He wasn't breathing. His body was lifeless. My father got down on his knees as did Nick and I. No animal could survive a front end collision. And the fourth incident occurred. A 40 foot punt of its body into a pile of weeds. The old man began to stroke his bull terrier's thick white body. Tears welling in his eyes. Then the miracle. Half a minute later Rocco emitted a low wheeze. Then another. His eyes opened. He saw his master above him. More coughing. He got to his feet. Unsteady and dazed. A few seconds later there was a rustle in the nearby weeds. A self-protective lizard. The dog's demise came when he was four years old. By this time our family had attained a neighborhood status similar to that of the Manson family. But John Fonte didn't care. He was Dr. Frankenstein, Quasimodo's sneering keeper. Now, outside our gates, bike riders, strolling couples, and joggers accompanied by their pets detoured. Cutting across the wide open fields rather than risk proximity to the evil beast residing at the corner of Fern Hill and Cliffside Drive. With one exception. A rich stockbroker guy had just built his brand new house at the end of Cliffside in a cul-de-sac. The house was the first of many that would eventually find their way out of their little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little guy moved in, he also brought along his two champion Doberman pinchers. On his first weekend in Malibu, in the Malibu sun, he was strolling up Cliffside Drive with his wife and children and his dogs, which weren't on leashes. When they arrived at the corner where the Fontes resided, a white torpedo-faced bull terrier appeared. Rocco had scrambled through his newest escape route. He attacked both 100-pound Dobies simultaneously, and an appropriate amount of bloodshed and anguished human screaming could be heard taking place. Hearing the commotion, I ran toward the wall, boosted myself up, and then watched helplessly from 50 feet away. In the middle of the battle, the frantic mom and dad waved down a passing motorist, a guy in a Jeep begging for aid. Mr. Jeep took one look at the dogs ripping at each other in the weeds, then punched the gas pedal and sped away. These Dobies, Hans and Fritz or Martin and Lewis or whatever they were called, were would-be show dogs and no match for Rocco. While one of the animals gnawed on him, my papa's pet bull terrier crushed its sidekick's front leg. More blood flowed, but it wasn't Rocco's. His thick white head and body were covered with it now. With one Dobie mutilated and disabled, Rocco briefly said, upon the other, but number two was a fast runner and managed to escape. John Fonte made a decent buck as a screenwriter, but he was not a rich man. His new neighbor was. Lawsuits were filed and court appearances ordered. My father refused to yield. In the end, after months of bitterness and confrontation at the Santa Monica courthouse, the matter was settled. Because our neighbor had been careless and not leashed his would-be champions, Pop had to settle for a new job. He was a good boy, but he was a bad boy. He was a bad boy, but he was a bad boy. Rocco said Rocco didn't agree to their little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little little lethal injection he actually received. Pop said our doggy would go to a spacious ranch in the country above Santa Barbara where the owners loved bull terriers. There he would be able to play with other dogs of his own breed and romp to his heart's content. Done deal. Rocco's death triggered a curious reaction in my father. Perhaps to compensate, he began to acquire more dogs. Over the next few years, he had as many as 10 roaming the property at one time. These were mutts mostly, but there was also an Akita and a half pit bull named Ginger and a crazy shepherd my father named Willie after the writer William Soroyan. Willie was a manic whack job. He developed an obsession for chasing balls of any size and a death grip refusal to release them. A resolve not unlike his namesake, Bill Soroyan, who, standing up for the state of the state, was a man of his own. He was a man of his own. Looking at a Vegas dice table, had manically refused to stop pissing away his money. My father made dinner for these dogs every night, a foul concoction of dog meal and leftovers in a beef broth base. Pop prided himself on his relationship with a local supermarket meat manager named Don, who set aside stacks of special bones for his twice-a-week point-toon customer. My father was deeply affected by the loss of his dog Rocco. His affection, for the Beast was no doubt the inspiration for his wonderful book, My Dog's Stupid. That's it. I really enjoyed that. Thank you. Oh, you're welcome. A big part of this book, it seems like, you know, coming to terms with your father and coming to terms with yourself and coming to terms with these misconceptions about your father and, you know, honoring your father and your mother. But did you find this was, as an experience writing this book, it's just a load off your back to kind of have it all down on paper? Gee, you know, I'm not sure, Justin. I think every book, every time you finish a book, the emotional commitment to it is hopefully fulfilled, that there's something in subtext emotionally, intellectually that you want to get from it. I got what I needed. This was not a screw you, a tell all and, you know, my turn at roasting those who I wanted, who'd screwed me in the past and who I wanted to. That's none of that bullshit. This was a, I really wanted to write a book about my relationship with my father. You know, we're very different, disparate personalities. But we had some. I mean, I think we had some similarities. Seems like you may have inherited the Italian temper. You know, and the self-destructiveness and the ability to always say the wrong thing to the wrong person and all that shit, which is common to the five generations of boozing fontes. But I also, there was a love story here between me and my dad. Mm-hmm. And my father, who really had no business in the same room, began as great adversaries and came to love one another. And toward the end of his life, my father was, you know, my father supported my work and he was open, openly loving. And we had this, I was another writer. And, you know, there's, and there's something. It's interesting because my, my father as a writer considered writing like some people would consider a religious calling. He was, he felt writers were the most important people on the planet because they were the interpreters and the, and, and they were at the forefront of thought. Yeah. And their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their their And so he had this passionate devotion toward literature and writers. And I became a writer. And so we just had something to talk about. And our last few years together were, you know, were wonderful. And we were a father and son that wound up really caring about each other. So this is, you know, it's a kind of the love story of two people at Fifth and Main with no front teeth who bump into each other and fall in love, you know. It seems like the backdrop is kind of equally as important as the story. I mean, your father is known as being a Los Angeles writer. I don't know if you consider yourself a Los Angeles. Oh, yeah, sure. But you have this changing city going on behind the scenes of this changing family, you know, moving to different houses, different apartments, different, you know, jobs or assignments or schools. You know, my father is so notorious for Ask the Dust, but he wrote another book when he was 20 or 21 that was never published until long after. The Road to Los Angeles. The Road to Los Angeles. And he never wanted it published. And he used to tell me, don't publish that fucking book. Don't give that book to anybody. And, you know, he was dead, you know, 10 or 12 years. And my mother was looking for material because John Martin at Black Sparrow Press wanted to publish another book. Anyway, I found this novel. And my dad, my dad was a modern. He wrote in the canon of modernity. Modern fiction. I'm a postmodern writer, as was Bukowski. And so that distinction, my father, you couldn't write about jerking off in the closet and, you know, just, you know, that wasn't the modern canon. And his book was turned down. The guy said, no, you can't publish this. You know, this is, you know, next door to pornography, you know. And and so then my so he my father was convinced that. At that time that he this was. This did not reflect the literary image that, you know, that publishers had for him or his audience had for him. He wrote Wait Until Spring Bandini. And this is about, you know, coming of age and, you know, you know, the dog and the father and everybody goes to the fucking seashore. And, you know, and and so then you get to the road. To Los Angeles. It's about this wacko, intellectual, arrogant little shit who reads Nietzsche and insults everybody. And that's the road to Los Angeles. So as a companion to Ask the Dust, it's a wonderful companion. And I recommend the book. It was he never wanted it published and it wasn't published until long after his death. But it's a, you know, that's the voice of a of a 21 year old writer. That's pretty stunning. One part that struck me about the road to Los Angeles is when he's sleeping in the back of cars down in Wilmington and all the racial tension bubbling the Filipinos and the Mexicans and the Italians and how segregated it was in the canneries down Wilmington. No, it's I think it's a really important book. Yeah, it's certainly about that section of Los Angeles and about and about that time. And also it's completely it's it's postmodern. It's postmodern in an era when you couldn't get a book like that published. You know, so. You and your wife briefly left Los Angeles for Arizona. What brought the move back to L.A. and what's the biggest difference you find between the L.A. of your childhood and young adulthood and the L.A. of today? You know what? Maybe I'll read this letter. You know, did you read it in the back of the book? I did. Let me see where this thing is. God damn it. Okay. Do you mind if I read this? I do not mind. Let's hear it. All right. This is from the back of my book. Harper Perennial makes beautiful books. And in the end, they have what's called a P.S. section of essays. And there's a poem by my mother. And then there's letters from my father to some of his writer friends. And then there's this, which they asked me to write something about moving back to Los Angeles. In 2006, after the death of my mother, Joyce Fonte, I came into a bit of money, enough for a down payment on a house. I'd supported myself by the seat of my pants ever since I became a writer. And my wife, Erin, and I were fed up with Los Angeles and the bumper car lifestyle of its citizens. As a young guy, I could drive across L.A. and take in the town. And it's neighborhoods. The city was a big, gasping, giggling, drunken slut of a place. And her kisses were always wet and deep. I loved the Hollywood Hills and Laurel Canyon, Los Feliz and the Grand Central Market. I loved the crazy, disposable architecture. Los Angeles was a special place for me, tireless and unpredictable. It had its own energy and freedom and a powerful pulse. Then around the mid-1980s, it began to change. It began to be more and more crowded and more difficult to travel the streets. More and more of its citizens began settling their street disputes with a Glock or a Sig. And I was getting grumpy for what had been. Because I was a born car guy, an L.A. kid who grew up in a place that made everything within reach on four wheels, I missed what it'd been. I used to be able to cop dope in Hollywood, catch a great band on the strip, hang out at the bars in Venice, drop by my favorite bookstore, and be home by 2 a.m. But that L.A. was gone. The town where you could be anything you wanted to be if you had a clean shirt and the price of gas money. Enough was enough. For me and my wife, L.A. had grown beyond its capacity to be livable. We had a new sun and we wanted to see the open sky and get away from the clog of a big, dirty city. So off we went to Arizona and the high desert. Then, almost five years later, we were swallowed by that desert. The house I'd paid top dollar for was now worth half what I'd coughed up for it. And I now saw myself pouring even more money down B of A's crapper, money I no longer had. We felt smothered under Arizona's smogless sky. And more than anything, we missed our amazing Pacific Ocean. I don't know why that makes me emotional. Um... And her... And her... And her... Her afternoon breeze. I'd been traveling a thousand miles round trip by car every month to see my friends and do readings back in Los Angeles. And now it was time to reshuffle the cards to see if we could come home again. So we pulled the plug. The upside was that my books were doing well and my fine editor at Harper Perennial was always encouraging. And my passion for writing was as strong as ever. But for me, as for so many others, the American dream had quietly grown rattlesnake fangs. Surviving a crashed economy and rocketing gas prices was becoming serious business. So we scraped together our first and last month's rent in a new place called The Movers and held our breath. Now, after a few months back in Los Angeles, I've concluded that home is not a structure. For us, home is a place where the heart and history of our lives are. And I've been there. And history is stored. Home is where you can refill your roots while drinking strong coffee and staring out at an endless ocean. And of course, I'm well suited to live in Los Angeles. I'm a bungee jumper by nature, impatient, intolerant, and always curious. I love and hate at the drop of a hat. I drive too fast. So it turns out I'm back where I belong. I don't know why I was so emotional reading that. I guess I love Los Angeles. I think your writing and the writing of your dad, there's just so much, I mean, heart there. I mean, when I read this book, you can feel a lot of pain. You know, you can feel anguish. You can feel, you know, the breakthroughs and the kind of, you know, the ebbing and flowing, you know, of the tide. But of life, you know, and so many things that are hard to cope with and come to terms with. You know, Kafka said a good novel should have the same effect as a blow to the head. And people who try to write like that, who lead with their emotions and aren't afraid, you know, and aren't afraid to, you know, to show emotion, there's, you know, there's a risk, but there's also a lot of fulfillment in it because you, because people get it. People get that it's not bullshit. People get that it's, you know, it's the real deal. And those are the people I write for. And even as far as Italy, your ancestral home, you've been able to visit the village. Oh, yeah. And you're my great-grandfather? No, my grandfather. Your grandfather. There's a town in central Italy, in Abruzzo, a couple of hours east of Rome in the high, in the mountains, called Torricella Pollina. And that's where my grandfather's from. And it's very, it's such an elevation that you can only, the growing season, you know, Italians are, you know, have vineyards. And olive groves and grow fruit, but you can't grow much. And so they're all stonemasons or most of them are stonemasons. I go there every year. I have, you know, my, it's, there's only 1200 people in this joint. And, and the people, we're all cousins, you know. You go back two or three generations after, you know, when my, when the Fontes left. But I have, I know two, three people who the name Fonte was their grandparent's name. And they're, one of them's the mayor and one of them's a cousin of mine. And so the name, the same five or six family names circulate. So I go back there every year. That's my family. These people are my family. Yeah. Mm. And so between the two of you, you're a family. So between the LA of your childhood and young adulthood in the LA of today, what do you, what do you see as the most striking or what, what annoys you the most? And what do you love the most that's still around? You know, it's, you know, I'm, I'm probably, there's no mistake that the relationship between the fall of life. And the literature in this country. And the intensity of a big clogged kind of huffing and puffing, snarling city like Los Angeles. You know, this is, it's the story of 2012. It's the, it's the report on what we've become, you know. Los Angeles, I love Los Angeles. I just stay on the West. I stare near the ocean. I really love it. But, you know, we're in a city, a buddy of mine, a guy I met in France recently when I was on a, on a book tour for this book, tells me that almost 50% of the marriages of people under 20 are mixed marriages in Los Angeles. Wow. Almost 50%. 49. Wow. So, let's say half of the people under 20 are marrying people of another race. So, that, that's a, you know, that's a different Los Angeles. That's a, a whole new race of people that are, you know, we're, we're gonna be a different, you know, a cast of, of brown probably, you know. But, so there, so this city is, is driven by, you know, the, the, the, the, the, the, is driven by, you know, vast poverty, you know, Jesus Christ. I mean, 23 million Americans can't go to the doctor. And, and, you know, and there's 14 million people in Los Angeles. So, you know, whatever that percentage is, you know, we're, you were, you know, choking in poverty and, and gas is, you know, bumping 450 a gallon. You can't drive your car anymore. You can't drive your car anymore. It's, you know, it's kind of a rude town, man. And it's hard to get over here, you know. And, but what I love about it, I love the ocean and I love the West Side. And I got to Hollywood the other day and, and I was at Musso and Frank's and Larry Edmonds bookstore, which is across Hollywood Boulevard. Jeff is the manager over there, really good guy. And, and I had lunch at Musso and Frank's. And I had lunch at Musso's. And, you know, there's, you know, I'm, I'm an LA guy. I just stay on the West Side. Now, it's not like it was when I was, you know, 25 or 30 years ago. You just stay in your neighborhood. And if I stay close to the ocean, I'm at the ocean every day and I'm walking for exercise. I walk and listen to books on CD and I do an hour there down at Playa del Rey. And I'm stomping up and down and I get my exercise and I get my books in and, and I'm by the thing that just knocks me on my butt, man. You know, I'm by the Pacific Ocean. So, I love this town, but you, you know, you have to, it's like a, you know, it's like a, it's like a being in love with a woman who, you know, she's just, you know, she's just a woman. You know, she's just so sweet and devoted, but every once in a while she sticks a needle in her arm and just all the shit, you know, goes crazy, you know. And that's, you know, that's Los Angeles, you know. You're, you're, you gotta love her and hate her, you know. And, but that's okay if you're, you know, if you don't mind being schizophrenic because everybody in Los Angeles is, then we're all in the right place. Well, you're featured at an upcoming literary event. Old School Los Angeles at the Last Bookstore here in downtown LA. What do you think of the younger generations looking upon the LA of 30 or 40 years ago with nostalgia? You know, I've got this, you know, if you live long enough, if you don't die and you write enough books, people begin to, you know, put me in this class of, which I don't mind, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, of, some of the other L.A. writers. And I'm, you know, supposedly one of the last survivors of that lineage. I just think it's funny. You know, my job is a typing, you know. And so I like some of the literature that's coming out of L.A. currently. There's a guy, I wrote a review for the L.A. Review of Books. There's a guy named P.G. Sturgis, who's the son of Preston Sturgis. Wrote a great detective, really good, goddamn good writer. So there's some really good writers around. And Los Angeles has still, you know, got the juice. I mean, you know, there's, I think it, you know, I wish there were gang members who were writers. Writing books about L.A. Because that's the other L.A., you know. It's not, I mean, there are those of us who have some kind of literary lineage. But there's, you know, there's 14 million people in this town, man. You know, there's so many voices. But the literature that's coming out of Los Angeles, sadly, again, you know, I take another whack at e-books. And, but that whack is also at publishers. Because there's just, you know, a good writer, it's tough to get in print now. You know, they don't pay much. And distribution, you know, they're going to publish your book. Well, who's going to sell it? You know, where are you going to, you know, how many bookstores? You know, a city of 14 million people. And I know between, you know, Skid Row. And the Pacific Ocean, there aren't five independent bookstores. There aren't even five. Jesus Christ. I mean, that's, I mean, that's kind of absurd. So people don't read, you know. Or they read disposably. You know, you get an e-book and you, you know, you flip, you run your finger along the screen. And you jump back, jump ahead two chapters. And, yeah, I don't know. You know, I, you know, I'm a, I like reading. I like reading books. And I like holding them in my hand. And it's just the, the tone and climate for a writer in Los Angeles, for a writer anywhere in America is, you know, my best advice is, you know, get out. Go to Europe. You know, where they read books, you know. Mm. Would you have any other words of wisdom to impart to a young writer, whether they're being, they're from south of Sunset or up in Eagle Rock or Highland? Mm. Mm. Mm. Or in Fresno, California? Yeah. Yeah. Keep writing. Don't listen to anybody. Write your truth. And, and just keep, just, and keep your day job, you know. People, I mean, now I've been writing, you know, 25 years. And people used to ask me, well, what do you do? And 25 years ago, I'd say. Well, I'm a writer. And they'd say, no, no, no, no. What do you do? Mm-hmm. What do you do for work? So keep your day job and, and indulge your passion. As I mentioned to you, I'm about, I'm signed up for this, to teach a course in the novel at UCLA Extension starting in September. I'm delighted about that. So, you know, I'm hustling. I'm just like everybody else. I'm, you know, you know, I make a few bucks from my books. And, you know. The gift is that I write every day, man. And the gift is that when I turn on my computer and start typing, words come out. So, you know, I'm a happy camper. Do you have a book that you haven't written yet? What's, what's next, the next novel you're about to write? Have you just completed a manuscript? Oh, now I get to plug my stuff. Yeah, I've written, it's done. I mean, Harper Perennial. I was publishing my detective thriller called Point Doom. And there, I think it's this time, January, March or April 2013. The book has been done for a year, but they, you know, there, there, there's been some changing of the guard there. And, but it's being edited and my, my novel has been accepted. And it's a Bruno Dante. As a private detective with a different name. And it's a really good book. So, and then I'm writing the sequel. Is there a title for that book? Point Doom. Point Doom. You know, it's D-O-O-M, not D-U-M-E, but P-O-I-N-T-D-O-O-M. And it's a, it's about a, you know, a guy in recovery who sits in Malibu at AA meetings. Um. With the movie, with the has been TV actors and movie, has been movie stars and their children. And they're all, you know, miserable and living in $6 million palazzos overlooking the Pacific Ocean. And my character, his name is J.D., J.D. Fiorella. Uh, J.D. just hates these people. And, but he's got, he's got no transportation and he lost his license. And he has to walk to these meetings in, on Point Doom. And. And, um, and out of that, this is, stuff begins to happen and, uh, there's a murder and all of a sudden, um, he's involved himself in, in finding out about the death of his friend and it just goes crazy from there. So it's a good book. It's, it's fun and crazy and, uh, and very entertaining and, um, and, and I enjoyed writing it. So I'm writing the second one now. I look forward to it. Well, we're here with. Dan Fonte on Skid Row Radio in downtown Los Angeles. We're going to close with Dan Fonte reading a poem from his book, his rare book, A Gin Pissing Raw Meat Dual Carburetor V8 Son of a Bitch from Los Angeles. A Gin Pissing Raw Meat Dual Carburetor V8 Son of a Bitch. Quite a mouthful. I love it. This is a. This is a poem. I like very much. And I was just back from spending a few weeks, um, in France and, um, you know, I'm a French writer because my, nobody would publish my work over here. And, um, and I sent this, the manuscript of Chump Change, I'm sure to 50 and it was rejected. And then as soon as the, this French publisher saw it, he published it. So I've been a French writer and I sell decently over there. So I was over there reading my stuff. And, uh, I opened my poetry book and I found this poem and I like it. It's not my best poem. It's just a poem I like. Here it is. I bought a car today. My old one, the one that carried me through brokenness and depression and attempted suicide for years complaining, but faithful as a wet, stinking old dog that would never give up or go home finally sprung a heavy oil leak to go with the struts and the master cylinder and the radiator that needs to be removed. I needed immediate attention 18 months ago. The smell of gasoline was making my passengers choke at every stoplight. And my new wife decreed that she would not ride in the beast ever again. So we stopped at a used car lot and I found a shining three-year-old red one. I always buy red whenever possible. And I said goodbye. And the salesman watched me as I put my hand on her trunk and patted her. Goodbye, old car. I said, you saved my life. And he patted my ass over and over and never quit on me. Through the showroom window, she was smiling, approving my happy cosigner. It was then that I grasped an immutable truth. Wives come and go, but a good used car is a treasure. Thank you so much, Dan Fonte, for joining us here on Skid Row Radio. Thank you for having me, Joshua. Thank you for being so candid and honest and even crying, and being moved by, Some of your writing, it was something to see. If it's great writing, it moves you. You know, people tear up when they hear great, even if they've written it themselves. Well, Dan Fonte will be reading at the Last Bookstore in downtown Los Angeles on 5th and Spring Street. That's May 13th, Mother's Day, 2 p.m. It's a Sunday. And we're delighted to see him read with a score of great Los Angeles writers. That's May 13th at the Last Bookstore. Again, thank you so much, Dan Fonte. This is Justin Maurer signing off on Skid Row Radio.