snakes alive

Last night I finally struck what many non-Angelenos would regard as quintessential California: a poetry reading evening in an edgy district of downtown LA. It turned out to be both more and less wacky than I expected.
We were on Olive Street, between 7th and 8th, in the highly talented Gary Leonard's photographer's gallery opposite a parking lot. Derelicts slouched or laid around. Shopfronts were boarded up and overlaid with graffiti and outdated posters that were beginning to peel. I parked nervously, but looked around and saw plenty of other cars parked on the street, mostly in good condition.
The gallery was part of a well-maintained condo building that was entirely occupied by Koreans, according to the residents' directory by the elevator. Outside the smartest parts of Bel Air or Beverly Hills, LA seems to specialise in juxtaposing the architecturally dapper and derelict.
About ten of us sat facing a lectern from which most of us took turns to read out our own or (in my case, as I hadn't brought anything) others' work. The standard was mixed, and that was fine as this was an occasion for experimenting, seeing a cross-section of reactions to your writing. Everything merited polite applause, and there was no critical debate; the mood was too gentle for anything more aggressive or invasive.
Undoubtedly the strongest piece was an edited version of an army veteran's recollections of gunfights in Vietnam, encounters where he was close enough to see his opponent stare into his eyes at the moment of death. Ann, the writer, clearly struggled to control her emotions as she read this, which made its imp
act all the more powerful. So much so that I almost forgot about the python sitting on her head and wrapped around her neck.
When I had first sat down and looked across at Ann, I thought she was wearing a scarf with a snakeskin pattern - until I saw it move independently, and the red tongue darted out from its mouth. The effect was startling.
Draco, as it is called (the gender has not been determined), moved around from time to time and sat on or between Ann's two thick wooden hair pins. She paid it no attention, although she admitted later that she did like to stand in front of a mirror so she could see was Draco was up to. He was certainly a conversation piece which Ann must be well used to discussing by now, from how often he needed feeding (7-10 days), what he eats (thawed frozen mice), and whether he bites (apparently not, having a docile nature). Ann did admit that not everyone enjoys the experience, or even the mention of Draco: one man, with whom she had "made a connection" recently, cooled noticeably on hearing about the snake and its role in her life.
But that is surely to be expected. Snakes, along with spiders, rats and fierce dogs, are among most people's pet hates. Some of us can go along with such creatures, as everyone did last night, but it wouldn't take long to find someone who would run a mile at the sight of a live snake round someone's neck.
After the readings, we broke up into general chat over snacks and drinks. I will definitely go again, and bring some of my own scribblings next time - maybe I could read out this blog, as it wasn't all poetry. Or perhaps it's time I found a rhyme.
To finish the evening, Jim Dawson took Lynne and me round the corner to a splendid pub called the Golden Gopher, all black marble and subdued lighting with a small courtyard outside where it was just warm enough to sit. It was an oasis of activity in an otherwise silent stretch on 8th, between Olive and Hill. The pub had a lively atmosphere. A few prostitutes seemed to be on the lookout for Sunday night business. Oddly, there was a photo booth in the corner. Some of the tables harked back to the 1980s, with Pac-man games inlaid in them. An interesting place to end an unusual evening.