Coachella of Book Festivals

Festival of Books

I gave up going to music festival sometime in my 30s.

I had lost the urge to deal with parking, wait in line for a $10 bottle water, and save someone who is having a drug-induced panic attack in the midst of Nine Inch Nails singing “Down in It.”

I was done.

But somehow, I got tricked into thinking the Los Angeles Times Book Festival wasn’t a festival. This was a place of literature. Books, people!

A simple weekend of listening to authors discuss their writing process, and their many stories of nearly giving up, but didn’t.

Right? Right?

No.

This is a festival.

Sure, it’s wrapped up in a different package, and there weren’t any flower head crowns, but nonetheless, it was a mad house of parking, rushing from one end of the USC campus to the other, while missing the band (author) you came to see because you didn’t know where to go, how to find them, and turns out if you don’t get there by a certain time — they give your ticket away.

My son and I still had a good time, mainly because we were satisfied to sit on a bench in front of a fountain at the University of Southern California, and eat a gigantic burger from one of the food trucks.

This was also part of the festival, so it was the one thing we were able to do without much trouble.

I didn’t get one book signed.

Listen to any of the panels I purchased.

Or meet any of the authors, I wanted.

But, I did get to watch my son fall asleep during a discussion on Mount Everest. My dog Lou had the best time, and is now an official literati, and I got to enjoy an iced coffee on a beautiful afternoon.

So, perhaps I’m to much of a curmudgeon for a festival, but give me a sweet corner away from the crowds and I can find a bit of happiness.