Valley Boy

2008-07-07T11:33:00.000-07:00

KILL AM REDNECK SPORTSTALK HOSTS

Maybe it's because I just saw Wal*E, which affected -- and depressed -- me profoundly (2009 Oscar winner, Best Picture. Book it.), but I have no patience for righteous, greedyand thoughtless blockheads who think solely with their wallets. The object of my scorn at the moment is Colin Cowherd, who hosts a right-wing sports talk show that's heard on the ESPN affiliate in Los Angeles (and, sadly, all over the country). If you haven't heard this clown, imagine Rush Limbaugh talking college football.

Typically, I only tune to his faux-redneck rants if I'm in my car and Dan Patrick's sportstalk show breaks for a commercial, which, unfortunately, happend this morning. He was having a grand ol' time spewing bile at his callers because they didn't agree with his ridiculous generalization that there's a worldwide substance issue with Olympic-caliber swimmers. This was bad enough, but then he showed exactly why this country has gone into the sewer the past eight years: He made some douche-like comment that "everyone's an idealist until they have to write the check," and bitched and moaned that Obama's election would cost him roughly $150,000 in additional taxes over the next four years. Therefore, he was going to vote for McCain. I weep for you, Colin.

Here's a guy, clearly vastly overpaid for the claptrap he spews on the radio, thinking solely with his greedy pocketbook. Guess he could care less about a stupid war, stupid gas prices, global warming and systemic governmental corruption. Long as the checks clear, right Colin?

Dude, you should give the CEO of Disney a deep-throated tongue kiss for the salary you're stealing, and count your blessings that you make enough dough to have that kind of tax bill. If you make the money, you should pay in. Enough with the $250,000 +ers getting a free ride. Bet the callers you so clearly disdain (but also pay your salary) would kill to pay those kinds of taxes.

Guys like Cowherd have been raping and pillaging this country for far too long and with far too much arrogance. While they stew in their own bile-filled myopia, the country around them ticks closer toward the pits of hell every day his guys have the power.

I'm sure he can afford private school and a swank pad in Bumfuck, Connecticut, but when was the last time he looked outside his door, other than to make his 10-minute commute to Bristol?

I know I'm not alone. A cursory search of the Web indicates a great deal of online hate for the man. His sins, apparently, are many, so I'll leave it to you all to do some research.

When it's time to pay the piper, I hope we feed off greedy bastards like you, Cowherd.

Go Obama!

BTW, image courtesy of Michigan Zone.net, which sums Cowherd up better than anything else I've seen.

2008-07-03T11:45:00.000-07:00

TURNING... OLD

I was driving Emmett to Woodbridge Park in Studio City yesterday, where the bus picks him up to take him to Sierra Canyon Day Camp in lovely Chatsworth, and casually flipping through the radio stations along the way. I froze at 93.1, the sort-of good, sort-of shit JACK FM, when I heard some old fashioned corn syrup for the ears: It was the Vapors' "Turning Japanese." Immediately, I began singing along - verse, chorus, it didn't matter. I hit the chorus hard and turned toward Emmett in the backseat. He was amused by the lines "Turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so." Since he's only 6, I opted against explaining the meaning of the songs, which, of course, is an ode to masturbation.

And's not even the best song about masturbation. It's not even close. That would be "Orgasm Addict" by the Buzzcocks. It's funny about "Turning Japanese," though. Even though I knew every friggin' word (I can't believe that's the kind of thing that's sticking to the insides of my brain like a piece of gum I can't extract from my shoe), I never really liked the song. It's catchy, but I was a bit of a snob when it came out. KROQ in L.A. played it to death in 1981 (82? I'm too lazy to look it up), and, to me it signaled the beginning of the end of the station. Suddenly, KROQ was all about hyped-up novelty songs rather than just good music. So everything had to be about sex -- "I Know What Boys Like," "Violent Love," "Good Girls Don't," "Are You Ready For the Sex Girls," and, my favorite, "Too Young To Date," by D-Day. It was the Sparks-ification of KROQ and I really hated it. Thank god I was about to go of to college, where I could listen to forward-looking music like The Grateful Dead (that was a joke, kind of).

But I guess "Turning Japanese" succeeded to the degree that it's survived for 25 years, getting airplay on nostalgia-driven radio formats and forcing me to sing along, even though it wouldn't make my list of Top 1,000,000 songs of all time. Damn it all to hell.

2008-06-04T11:01:00.000-07:00

WHAT, EXACTLY, ABOUT "YOU LOST" DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND?

Rather than actually concede she'd lost the Democratic nomination for President, Hillary Clinton instead said she wanted to hear from Americans. So I went to her website. This is what I wrote:

It's time to quit. You fought hard but it's over. You ran a sleazy campaign. You wanted to change the rules in Florida and Michigan after you initially agreed to them. You preyed on voters' fear. You lost. Don't let your blind ego cost the Democrats the White House.

2008-05-29T14:05:00.001-07:00

REGIME CHANGE

I got an email from my friend Steve Appleford last week notifying me that I was a finalist for an L.A. Press Club journalism award. Which was cool, of course, since it was the first time and all that. It was a story Steve had assigned -- a feature on the actor Jeff Bridges -- and it ran last fall in Citybeat, an alternative weekly here in Los Angeles.

Of course, folks with a passing interest in L.A. media know Steve was unceremoniously ousted from his position of Big Cheese Editor of the paper about two months ago, for reasons that defy all logic, other than penny-pinching that I believe will cost parent company Southland Publishing a lot more in the long run. Apparently, they were bummed that Steve's thoughtful but unflashy editorial style wasn't turning a profit for the Southland suits. If the powers that be had bothered to even do a little bit of homework, that might have discovered that print is essentially dead in this city, judging by the bloodbaths at both the L.A. Times and Daily News. So Steve -- along with, reportedly, a big chunk of the already miniscule budget -- was sacrificed. In his place is the anti-Steve, an inexperienced manager who, judging by what's been published thus far, takes a sloppy, scorched earth approach to writing and editing. In my opinion, it's nothing more than junior high level, shock value crap.

Presented another way, it's like the smart, meticulous kid was replaced by the ugly girl with braces who is suddenly getting attention because she's carved a swastika into her forehead. But people -- and advertisers -- may just stop paying attention when they learn that this pony only has one trick up her sleeve.

Meanwhile, what had been a credible, and important alternative voice in L.A. has lost its heart, replaced by someone who has no real sense of L.A. readers. If Citybeat weren't the flashiest or richest paper on the street, it was comforting to know it existed. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think advertisers will stay on board when they realize the paper's voice has boiled down to the look-at-me cult or personality of its top dog. Best of luck, Southland. You've made your bed....

Maybe I'm just bitter. Maybe. It's true that I go way back with Citybeat's founding editorial staff. We all worked together at the L.A. Reader more than a decade ago, and I will forever consider its founding staff -- Appleford, Natalie Nichols, Andy Klein, Mick Farren -- soulmates, comrades in arms. I was only involved with Citybeat as a writer. I penned a column for two years, called Valley Boy (from which this blogged emerged), and periodically contributed after I stopped writing the column in 2005. It was never about the money. Writing for Citybeat just felt like family. It was important because it was rooted in something I really believed in when I began my career as a journalist -- allowing alternative voices to be heard.

Although I wasn't surprised, I was still a bit sad that I was instantly excised from the contributors list on the masthead. I know these things happen all the time. New folks come in, they bring in their own people, blahblahblah. It happened to me when the Reader was put out of business in 1996 by New Times (now Village Voice Media). I was only on the outer edges, yet I still feel a loss. Like it's the end of something I really believed in.

As for the Press Club nomination, I suppose I'm not surprised no one currently at Citybeat bothered to contact me. It's no longer a place where relationships are cultivated and maintained. It's not a crusade or a club or a place where original voices were encouraged. It's just another business that can't see the forest for the trees.

2008-05-20T09:05:00.000-07:00

CHECK IT OUT

Hey, y'all. Click on the television thingy above to see samples of my ouvre as a writer/producer for the boob tube. Only took two years, but, you know, we move at a languid pace here at Valley Boy Ranch.

2008-05-17T21:10:00.000-07:00

MY BOY

In the interest of equal time, I want to acknowledge that my son, Emmett, turned 6 recently, and was feted at a birthday blowout at the Remo Drum Center in North Hollywood. You put 40 kids in a giant room with percussive instruments and two hours just fly by. Chucky Cheese can go to hell.

On Saturday, Emmett played his weekly scheduled T-ball game at Sherman Oaks Little League. It was hot. Very hot. Probably more than 100 degrees here in the San Fernando Valley. The parents and grandparents sitting in the shaded benches were schvitzing big time. Many were pleading for the coaches to call the game after 2 innings (games usually run 3 innings). The kids got through the game without heat-related kvetching, though. Emmett was fixated on hitting the snack bar when it was over, but he didn't complain about the heat. Their attention wavered (they're 6 years old, after all), but that happens in all temperatures.

I explained to some of the parents (while I stood in the sun, filling in as a base coach) that during my own baseball playing days -- as a member of the 1975 Minor Braves at Sepulveda Little League -- I once played catcher for all six innings of a 30-3 loss in 90+ degree heat. And those were the days when smog simply engulfed the Valley on hot days. A couple hours outside and you could taste the smog in your throat with every deep breath. By contrast, I played a doubleheader with my Synagogue Softball team out in Chatsworth a day later. Midway through the second game, our opposition waved the white towel -- one of their players has a heart condition and began to feel dizzy. Ah, youth. What I love most about the team is that, at 43, I'm one of our team's younger players. But the old guys with whom I play compete with heart and passion and it's always fun, in spite of the mounting losses. It'd be nice to win now and again, though. We're like the Bad News Bears of Synagogue Softball's C-division.

2008-04-27T20:51:00.000-07:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY

My daughter Liv is about to turn 3, and so we had a birthday bash for her preschool pals and their parents at a Toluca Lake arts and crafts establishment today. There was the usual spread: pizza, bagels, lox, cake, and the obligatory box of matzoh for schoolmates whose parents are sticking, tooth and nail, to the no-leavened-bread rule of Passover as it reaches its insufferable end. Liv had a good time, and why not -- she got to eat cake, chock full of eggs, flour and sugar (and kick-ass frosting). Though we actually hosted two pesach sedars (the first two nights; oy, don't get me started) last week, Carrie and I are of the school that while it's okay for the grownups to suffer through the holiday (though I certainly didn't), it's not really fair for kids to munch exclusively on matzoh for a week.

Still, today was a busy party day. We could done have three of them, including ours. But we skipped the last one -- it's a kid in Liv's preschool class who shows his affection by blindsiding classmates and knocking them into furniture. It would have been hypocritical, since I'm of the opinion the kid should be on a leash. Yet there were other families who attended all three parties, and some of them were keeping their kids away from Satan's cake in their solidarity with Moses' crew. Can you imagine, being in the 3- to 6-year-old range, watchng your friends eat yummy cake and not getting to eat it. Talk about Chinese water torture. I like being Jewish, but not that much.

But I digress. It was a joy to see Liv hit the big Oh-Three surrounded by her posse of girlfriends. It also made me sad, because the subject amongst some of the adults, as is always does, turned to where to put the kids in school once they hit kindergarten. Carrie and I decided to send soon-to-be-6-year-old Emmett to a Jewish private school. Although it keeps our bank account fairly low, we couldn't be happier with the school and the community (I'm even one of the younger members of the Synagogue's C-level softball team).

Some of our friends, though, are going through divorces, and they worry about the judgmental eyes of the conservative congregation pooh-poohing them. I don't think that will happen -- we have a lesbian rabbi, after all. And I'm as reformed as they come, yet I attend a monthly study group with the temple's Big Cheese Rabbi. It's a cool temple, and these are strong, cool moms, and I'm sure they'll be fine, and better off, than they are in their current situations.

At the same time, it got me thinking about my own situation. My mom was married three times, so I never really felt that full security blanket, but I do feel blessed for my own family situation. Though we've faced some taxing times recently, due primarily to external factors, the foundation is strong and we're built to last. And one thing I've taken with me from childhood is a commitment to my family and my kids. Only one of my mom's husbands, Grandpa Frank, shares this, and it's why I consider him my father. His obvious interest and love for Emmett and Liv just reinforce this. My biological dad? Forget about it. The less said, the better.

I recently spoke with my mother's third husband ("Doobie") about this, and he had the the most ridiculous copout ever -- two of them, actually. One, that he and biodad were "artists" and, two, that it was "the sixties." Now isn't that the biggest pile of shit you've ever heard? Either you're a committed parent or you're not. Everything else is just bullshit selfishness. No wonder his own kids don't speak with him. It's not about excuses. It's about love.

2008-04-20T23:01:00.001-07:00

SMELL A RATT

I ventured south of Ventura Boulevard recently to check out Ratt at the House of Blues. But before I go on, here's some perspective -- the mother of one of my son's kindergarten friends lost her virginity to vocalist Stephen Pearcy. How cool is that? I don't know the details, but I imagine this woman in a long line of poodle-headed groupie girls waiting for their five minutes of infamy with the great singer of Ratt. When I mentioned this factoid to Pearcy during the course of the Ratt episode of Behind the Music I produced, he seemed genuinely curious about how she'd perceived the experience. It was kind of sweet actually.

I was the right age during the band's heyday 1980s, but I never had much of an appreciation for hair metal, not even in an ironic way. But after being exposed to them through Behind the Music, I developed a strange respect for the band that I can't really explain. I mean, it wasn't rocket science: They never met a cliche they couldn't turn into a song title: "Wanted Man," "Loving You's a DIrty Job," "Slip of the Lip," "Nobody Rides For Free." Guitarist Warren DiMartini has a pained facial expression for every single riff he (over) plays. And no one ever looked worse in vertically striped spandex jumpsuits than drummer Bobby Blotzer. What's not to love?

I guess I just wanted to see what I'd missed, since I hadn't seen the band before. And it was pretty awesome. The band still thinks they're headlining the Forum, even on the small stage at the House of Blues. It was cool that Pearcy mentioned that they were just getting started, even when they were two songs from finishing. He rubs a lot of folks the wrong way, but of all the guys in the band I got to know during the Behind the Music, I liked him the best; he seemed the most grounded in reality. Besides he's a Valley guy, a parent. Someone just trying to make a living.

They delivered exactly what was expected of them. Total pros. But I couldn't help but think about the dynamics of original members DiMartini, Pearcy and Blotzer. I could be way off base, but they made it pretty clear to me they are not the best of friends. I saw these old guys blazing their catalog purely for the cash and, just maybe, to recapture whatever it was that turned them into arena gods for a few years. These are guys that have serious contempt for one another yet can put differences aside to kick a fair degree of ass after 25 years.

I used to snob out about bands reuniting for less than the most creatively pure motives. But you know what? Fuck it. It's all rock history, for better or worse. Savor it while it's here, 'cause when it's gone, we'll only have Youtube videos.

2008-03-25T22:19:00.000-07:00

JORDAN FARMAR: Member of the Tribe

When I'm in a funk -- and I've been in a horrific career funk lately -- I find an obsession to wrap myself around and forget about real life. For the past few months, it's been the Lakers. Sure, it's an exciting race, but I actually TiVo the games. I've been a fairly hardcore NBA fan since the 1979-1980 season, when Magic Johnson joined the team. And though I'll admit that I've lapsed into fair-weather Clippers fandom, I've been solidly loyal to the purple and gold. I was even a season ticket holder at the Forum during the first two post-Magic Johnson years.

It was tough to really love the Shaquille O'Neal-era team. Particularly after Phil Jackson took over, it was almost too easy. Devoid of drama (save the incredible Western Conference Finals vs. Portland in 2000 and the 2002 series vs. Sacramento), the team was just too good. And the Kobe vs. Shaq stuff got old and stupic pretty quick. Strangely, though, I was really into the 2003-04 team, primarily because I really began to appreciate the play of Karl Malone, and understood what a great teammate he was, particularly amid the Kobe rape stuff, Shaq's pay-me bullshit, and the unraveling of Gary Payton.

This season, of course, was a car crash waiting to happen, thanks to Kobe's offseason remarks. Yet as hard as it's been to truly embrace Kobe (aside from his pure greatness as a basketball player), I've seen in the years since Phil Jackson's returned, a guy who really wants to lead, a guy who wants his teammates to succeed. Unfortunately, they've basically sucked. I mean, how does a team that starts Kwame Brown, Smush Parker and Luke Walton make the playoffs (the 05-06 team). It was a miracle.

I'm not sure what makes this season's Lakers so compelling. Obviously, the maturation of Andrew Bynum and the Pao Gasol trade have been real blessings, but maybe it's the whole spiting of Kobe. He cries to the media, and the next thing you know, the Lakers are title contenders.

But I think the real reason is that the Lakers roster features superJew (and former Bruin) Jordan Farmar. Now, I'm not a fan of UCLA (I'm a Cal grad, after all; Twenty years later, I still talk about seeing former NBA star Kevin Johnson actually studying in the library while he was a Cal student). But for crying out loud, the guy was bar mitzvahed. How many current or former Lakers can say that? The icing on the cake, of course, is that Farmar's a Valley guy, a graduate of Taft.

Thank G-d, he's willing to roll on Shabbos.

2008-03-20T11:02:00.000-07:00

SAD TIMES

My affiliation with the Los Angeles Times dates to (gulp) 1982, when, just out of high school, I worked in the sports department. I spent my weekend evenings taking prep sports scores, gathering fish reports and race results, and covering an occasional high school playoff game. I left the paper in 1984, just after the Summer Olympics in L.A., to attend college at UC Berkeley. I began writing again for the paper sporadically in 1993, for various sections. Most recently, I've been writing book reviews fairly regularly.

Having grown up with the Times, it's pretty clear it's not what it once was -- a paper so cushy and well-staffed it was known as the Velvet Coffin. Back then, the paper had national aspirations, and held its own with any daily that wasn't the Washington Post or the New York Times. I still have a soft spot for the paper and it's been an unrealized dream to land a steady gig there, but now I'm not so sure: After all these years and countless bylines, The Times actually misspelled my name in today's paper. It doesn't show up on this link (mainly because I bitched about it and it was changed), but it's there for readers to see in the print edition. I don't really know what to think. I was angry at first, particularly because the piece was edited by people I've worked with countless times. Now, I'm just sad.

Don't let the misspelling deter you from reading the piece, though -- it's a review of Instamatic Karma, May Pang's collection of photos of her one-time lover John Lennon.

In other personal hype, I also have a fairly extensive article on Harry Nilsson in this month's issue of Mojo, which you should buy on the newsstand, but can also see right here. There's another long story that goes with the publication of this piece, but the short version is that I turned it in to the Mojo editors in August of 2004, nearly four years ago. But I guess stories about dead guys are evergreen.

2008-02-24T21:34:00.000-08:00

NOT BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

My son, Emmett, is only pushing six, but he's quite the connoisseur of fine dining. He like to eat out for dinner -- and when we do, he often wants sushi. For breakfast, he's happy with Lego-shaped frozen waffles or cold cereal. But Carrie wanted to go out for breakfast Sunday, and we were clueless. We never go out for breakfast.

We wanted to keep it in the neighborhood, so we first cruised past a newish place called Eat on Magnolia in North Hollywood. It wasn't quite 9, but the place was dead as a doornail. A breakfast out is too precious an occasion to blow it on lousy chow. (Later, I read rave reviews on Yelp and was cursing myself for not risking it).

We pointed the car toward Ventura. Was it gonna be Jinky's or Good Neighbors? We turned left at Lankershim and headed toward the Cahuenga Pass toward Good Neighbors. I've seen it for years, since it's in the same L-shaped center as my favorite Poquito Mas location. And it's usually crowded. Truth is, the place was, at best, mediocre. Soulless menu, Ships-quality food, bad coffee, indifferent service. While were there, though, it inspired a who-has-the-best breakfast argument with Carrie. She will argue to the death for Zachary's in Santa Cruz, tossing in the fact that it was Jerry Garcia's favorite breakfast joint. As if that holds weight. This is a guy who lived on bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. What did he know about food? And where is he now, anyway?

I countered, as I have for the past 20 years with anyone who will listen, that the Homemade Cafe in Berkeley has the best breakfast vittles. Amazing french toast, and the homefry heaven -- to die for. We both stood our ground, but it was a painful reminder that Angelenos have no taste when it comes to breakfast. The Bay Area really has a respect and reverence for the day's first meal, and I'm rarely disappointed wherever I have breakfast up there. I'm big on well-made homefries and rich coffee, and I've yet to really find that combination in the Valley (or even in Silver Lake when I lived there -- sorry Millie's). Long Beach was the only SoCal region that seemed to have a clue about how to make a decent breakfast, but I haven't lived there since 1993, so it may have changed.

I think what summed up my Good Neighbors experience was the the star sighting I had when I was walking out the door: ex-Journey singer Steve Perry. The only good taste that guy's ever had was in avoiding a reunion with his old bandmates.

2008-02-11T13:49:00.000-08:00

GET OUT THE SHOE POLISH

I can't say that I'm a big fan of Ann Powers' work in the L.A. Times (though she's exactly the sort of "critic" the Times deserves), but when I read her Grammy report this morning, I nearly spit my Apple Jacks across the table. While I kinda dig the fact that Amy Winehouse is a white-trashy British Jewess with soul (and substance abuse issues), Ms. Powers found it necessary to describe her via satellite performance as "off-key at times, her drawled syllables sometimes veering uncomfortably close to blackface." Blackface? I didn't see her down on one knee, blathering on about her dear old mammy. WTF? White artists have been pretending to be brothas and sistas since the beginning of time. Why the hate toward Amy? She's got enough problems. Besides, Powers' personal pinup boy, Justin Timberlake, is the biggest soul poseur on the planet, yet Annie has nary a discouraging word for the object of her personal girlcrush.

All I'm saying is that we need to call a spade a spade.

2008-01-31T09:24:00.000-08:00

THINGS I DO WHEN I'M NOT STRESSING ABOUT FINDING A JOB

I reviewed a book called Comedy At the Edge in today's Los Angeles Times. Though a bit overreaching, it's still an entertaining read for everyone who memorized George Carlin's Seven Words You Can't Say on Television in 5th grade.

2008-01-30T21:48:00.001-08:00

DEATH ALERT

A few weeks back, I was channel surfing on behalf of my children (will it be Drake and Josh, Super Robot Monkey Team or Secret Squirrel?) It's always a bit of a drama when you have a five-year-old boy and two-year-old girl. Anyway, I was bouncing between Playhouse Disney, Boomerang and Cartoon Network when I got sucked into a Life Alert commercial. As everyone knows, life alert is kind of like Lojack for people who think they're dying ("I've fallen and I can't get up!!!!"). Press the little button around you neck (that is, if you're not having a stroke and your arms haven't become paralyzed) and the paramedics come to save the day.

Anywho, I was enjoying the testimonials of the geezers whose lives have been saved by this device -- mazel tov to them, right? All of a sudden, for just a flash I hear and see a soundbite from Gene Friedman -- the college adviser at James Monroe High School in Sepulveda (now North Hills), California, when I attended that fine institution of lower learning back in the fabulous 1980s. Now, I was never a fan of "Mean Gene." He had his cult of brainiac students -- he taught advanced placement history, I believe. He didn't like me, though, because, if I can correctly recall, he was pissed that I authorized a positive story in the school paper (I was editor of the Monroe Doctrine -- yeah, I know, pretty clever) about an outgoing principal whom he hated. To me, he was just a petty, old, bitter prick who didn't do what he wanted with his life.

Flash ahead 25 years: The guy's plugging Life Alert. Man, I thought he was old back in the day. So I mentioned this Friedman sighting when I had dinner and drinks with my old high school and college pal, David Koistinen. David actually liked the old coot. He was well aware of the Life Alert ad and thought it ironic that the ads were still running, since Friedman died in 2006.

Sorry, Gene.

2008-01-17T18:09:00.000-08:00

AM I A DIVA?

For much of my career, I worked as a journalist. I worked fairly steadily with only a few interludes in which I had to hustle for free-lance gigs. Five years ago, I got sidetracked into television. I enjoy producing and writing shows, particularly if they fall into the documentary realm, as opposed to reality. Unfortunately, over the past few years I've been employed in fits and starts, as TV gigs typically last three months, followed by a period of hustling and waiting for the phone to ring.

Now that I'm a responsible adult with a mortgage and private school hanging over my head, I need something steady. So I've been exploring positions sort of back in the world of publishing. I've been interviewing mainly for internet jobs that involve the skills I've developed both as a journalist and as a television producer.

Funny, though. In the old days, I don't remember having to jump through the sorts of hoops that I'm being asked to jump for these new media companies. Even when I first got into television and was asked to write a sample script I was compensated for my time. But here are some examples of things I've been asked to do -- gratis -- before I'd be considered for some positions.

Company A:

1. What changes would you make to the content on the existing blog, if any?
2. Assuming you can create features for the homepage, as well as articles to live within the news section, what would an example of a proposed bi-weekly editorial calendar look like (3 months worth)? Please include
titles and descriptions for your proposed features.
3. Please write three blog entries that you think would be relevant to the audience, in the voice that you think would be most appropriate for/appealing to the audience.
4. Please write 3 alternative show descriptions ...
5. Please include any other links to or attachments of writing samples that
you feel come closest to representing the voice you would look to implement
on XXXX.

Company B:

3 Capsules (Profiling 3 places in LA, 1 restaurant, 1 nightclub/bar, 1 boutique).
II. Things You Should Know (write-ups) (2 that are either Food, Nightlife, Art, or Shopping Related)
III. (3) Weekly Features that will be interesting, illuminating and generate buzz. Fill out one for Something New: Something Classic and Create 2 more sections of your own. Creating new weekly features are a good opportunity to get creative!

In both cases, I declined to do these assignments, figuring if my experience didn't speak for itself, then perhaps they were barking up the wrong tree. I certainly am eager to land somewhere, but am I being unreasonable for not taking the time to do this work? Am I just a bitter, arrogant, out-of-touch old sod? And here's one more question: If i had done it, should I have asked for a nondisclosure from the companies to ensure that they wouldn't steal my work?

Trader Joe's management is starting to look better and better.

2008-01-15T21:55:00.001-08:00

BOOK END

In 2004, I became determined to write a book about the history of KROQ, a radio station here in Los Angeles and its impact on the birth of "alt" culture; the story of the station would parallel my own personal growth and be something of a musical memoir. Initially I paired up with writer Kate Sullivan, who'd written an excellent oral history of the station for Los Angeles. Kate eventually dropped out, but I kept moving forward with the project, whose working title was The Sound Salvation. I interviewed lots of interesting folks who'd been involved with the station, including the Insane Darrell Wayne, Shadoe Stevens, Flo & Eddie, Larry Woodside, Chuck Randall, Scott Mason, Raechel Donahue, Dusty Street and countless others, who were incredibly gracious with their time. Those I spoke with were totally stoked about the project. Some weren't, some were total assholes, but that's to be expected. At any rate, it remains a great story. But I'm not going to write it, at least in its original incarnation.

I had an agent who was enthusiastic and a 60-page proposal that covered all the bases. She pitched to just about every house that published pop culture books, but each came back with a no. Most who read it were more interested in the memoir-ish content than the KROQ material. So I may return to a memoir-oriented project. Or not. I think, however, I need to let KROQ go. I know I'll get around to to thanking everyone who has helped me get this far with it, but I figured I could start here.

Onward and upward.

2007-12-07T12:31:00.001-08:00

THE CHILI PEPPERS SUCKED THEN AND STILL SUCK TODAY

I was at a wedding last week when I struck up a conversation with William, my 20something cousin by marriage. William's been in several Bay Area bands of the hardcore variety and also has a keen knowledge of musical history. Anyway, he mentioned that he's the only one among his friends who likes the Grateful Dead. Whatever they came to represent, he said, he believed their first album from 1967 was actually pretty amazing. He compared the early Dead to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, whom, he figured, must have been really cool before pro-tools and John Frusciante showed up with traditional and maudlin songwriting chops.

Au contraire, I responded. I remember when the Chili Peppers were new back in 1983 and how the weekly rags when ga-ga over their "funk punk" thing. They were already hyped to death when I saw them at the Bla Bla Cafe on Ventura Boulevard. They were the opening act on a bill that featured the Minutemen and Blood On the Saddle, whom I'd wanted to see because I had a huge crush on Annette Zalinskas from her days in the Bangles. I wasn't impressed with the Chilis then -- just a lot of chest thumping and funky gimmickry -- and I despise them now.

However, the conversation did provoke a pouring through of my Minutemen records and a viewing of the poignant documentary We Jam Econo. It was a great reminder of just how intimate and intense everything was back then. The Minutemen were true revolutionaries who were just getting warmed up at the time of D. Boon's tragic 1985 death. Check it out if you haven't seen it.

2007-11-18T21:27:00.000-08:00

RUB IT

I interviewed the actor Jeff Bridges the other day and I'm just now getting around to transcribing it. Very nice bloke, and I was able to slip him my card in the hopes that he sits down on camera with me for my Lebowski documentary. The highlight, though, was when he asked to rub my head. It was freshly shaven (the remains of which can be spotted amid the dirt and grass in my backyard), and he wanted to feel it. Apparently, he is now an expert in baldness since he took it all off for his role in the upcoming Iron Man.

Right on, Dude.

2007-10-29T12:47:00.000-07:00

EAT AT ART'S

My friend Harold Ginsburg is stressed out that his family's business, Art's Deli, will take a big hit if there's a writer's strike. As many in Hollywood know, Art's has long been the food of choice for creative brainstorming sessions and power meetings.

I'm a television writer who is not allowed into the Writer's Guild because I write cable documentary programming that is bizarrely grouped with the reality genre (and those who craft reality shows are also more than deserving of guild status). I call on all non-union writers who stand to score some extra dough as a result of the strike to carry on this fine tradition -- grab a corned beef sandwich from Art's. By the way, this handsome photo of Harold is courtesy of photographer Carlos Chavez and the Los Angeles Times

2007-10-29T12:25:00.000-07:00

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE, #423

From a sports fan's perspective, there's really nothing worse than the Boston Red Sox. No, not even the Yankees. There's just so much not to like about this team: This may the greatest assemblage of loathsome human beings ever to win a series. Discounting the pomposity of Curt Schilling and scuzzery of Kevin Youklis (who, according to one report, tried to take two ladies home from a bar with this sensitive line: "Two fives make 10, right?"), there's Julio Lugo, who did nothing but whine like a little bitch when he came over to the Dodgers from the Devil Rays in 2006. There's gonna be no hiding behind that .237 average (and robus .294 OBP) if the Sox get off to a slow start. You know, Manny I don't even mind. He seems pretty harmless. But JD Drew. Fuck me. There's no one on the planet who deserves to win less than this wind-up tool of evil agent Scott Boras. I mean, I almost hurled in my cereal when I read a quote from Drew that closed today's L.A. Times World Series game four story: "I was looking for a team I knew had a chance to compete," he said. "Looks like I chose the right one." Does he honestly think anyone besides the most gullible 8-year-olds would buy that load of horseshit. Just tell the truth: You wanted the most money. It happened to be in Boston. You got lucky. And you sold your first-born to Boras.

"Red Sox Nation," as uttered by team owner John Henry: Does this guy own this inane phrase that blankets the most blantant bandwagon-jumping fans in America into one catch-all cult of inanity? Geezus.

2007-10-26T15:49:00.000-07:00

PUMPING IRON (CHEFS)

Many of my friends have long been devout viewers if the Iron Chef series. I wasn't one of them. To be honest I could never endure an entire cooking program, though I do love to cook. Maybe it was sitting through all those episodes of Galloping Gourmet with my mom when I was a kid. But the Gods of Gainful Employment bestowed me with a short story producing gig on The Next Iron Chef recently, and I have to admit that I got sucked into the whole drama of these hot-shot chefs competing to land a regular gig on the next season of Iron Chef America. The episode I worked on debuts Sunday night on The Food Network, so please do check it out, if you're so inclined.

2007-10-20T09:09:00.000-07:00

GHOSTS

When you spend as much time as I do wasting time on the Internet, it's easy to forget the power it wields. Recently, I've been virtually visited by my distant past, both of whom found me via this blog. Last night, I received an email from a 67-year-old woman whose father was best friends with my grandfather, Bob Clay. Now, Bob Clay was a man I never really met, and I wrote about this non-relationship in this blog last year. Because of that, there is a Google listing for him, and that's how she found me. The woman was worried I'd be shocked by the news that "Bobby" was adopted, that his bio-mom was a famous early film star, and that he was known to have a martini in one hand and a pitcher of martinis in the other. I've heard only terrible things about him, so it was odd to hear that he was someone's best friend for virtually a lifetime. I wasn't shocked; I felt more like a journalist getting the facts about a stranger. It was weird and it was great, though I would like to know who the famous actress was. I'm guessing I haven't heard the last of Bob Clay.

The other email I received was much less welcoming. I was never very close to my mom's third husband's three kids. (ya got that?) But one of them popped out of the woodwork a few weeks back wanting to reconnect. Now, I have a wife and kids, and I don't have enough time for the people I love; why do I need to spend precious hours with someone to whom I'm indifferent. Here was the gist of her first note:
I am sorry you did not like my father, I can't stand him myself and I have not talked to him since I moved.... I only visited my dad because of [your mom] I loved her and she was a great lady she was like my second mother I was there for her always also You and I were like family I do not see why you won't talk to me. I really have nothing to do with him and I have always stood up for you. Blahblahblah.

I wrote back explaining the reasons why I didn't want to pursue a continued dialogue. But, naturally, she didn't get it. Instead, she told me how much money she made. Judging by this response, she's the type whose self-worth is joined at the hip to the money she earns. That somehow it was okay to be her friend because she makes "400K a year." Are people really so tacky, If so insecure, that they feel they need to buy their friends, so to speak. Why should I be impressed by this? Now, would I like to make more money? Sure. Wouldn't anyone? But I don't need to know what my friends earn. I know, it makes me incredibly judgmental. But it's the same principal as "I wouldn't want to join a club that would have me as a member" (did I get that right?). I have no interest in communicating with anyone who believes that their salary makes them cool. If she were male I might think she was compensating for a small penis.

I guess you can chalk it up to how she was brought up. It explains a lot.

2007-10-18T21:46:00.000-07:00

WAHOO!!!

Every time there's a bit of national spotlight on the Cleveland Indians, the PC-gestapo emerge from the woodwork to bitch and moan about the team's mascot, Chief Wahoo. He's been around in some way, shape or form since 1946, yet the happy guy gets a lot of grief because his beatific features are somehow considered offensive to those who need to suck all the fun out of everything in life.

The team itself has boldly ignored the protests -- Chief Wahoo continues to be the face of the Cleveland Indians brand. To that, I say HELL YEAH! And, after tonight, I think I understand why. My son Emmett, who's 5, is just now starting to become interested in baseball (thank God!). Being a wise and just parent, I've conditioned him to hate the Red Sox and Yankees as a matter of course. But while we were watching the Indians get (sadly) stomped by the Sox, Emmett became mesmerized by the Indians' cap. He wants to wear Wahoo on his head. In spite of greed, drugs, the existense of subhuman Red Sox fans, and truly vile players like Curt Schilling and JD Drew, baseball is still, ultimately a kids game. If it takes a cartoon indian with a shit-eating grin to hook my kid, so be it.

2007-10-09T12:17:00.000-07:00

PLUG-O-RAMA

I have a review of Eric Clapton's autobiography in Tuesday's edition of the Los Angeles Times. After reading the book, I have a newfound respect for Clapton. He lays it all on the line and in fairly compelling fashion. Still think his music's shite, but what do I know?

Also, because I am clearly a TV whore (and I swear this is the last time I'll do one of these things), I will be popping up as a talking head on high-brow cable network E! for a one-hour intellectual exercise they're calling "20 Acts of Love Gone Wrong," in which I expound on why Scott Weiland is such a creepy tool and why we canonize a no-talent moron like Sid Vicious. I believe it airs Saturday, October 13, at 5 p.m. PST. But, as they say, check your local listings.

2007-10-03T12:09:00.000-07:00

GO BEARS, GO ANGELS

I’m a huge sports fan, but I haven’t been the sort who feels compelled to wear it on my sleeve. Lately, though, I’ve been feeling different: Both of my teams – the California Angeles (they’ll always be the California Angels to me) and the California Bears of UC Berkeley – are on the verge of really cool things, and I’ve been hanging on to ever moment. Maybe it’s middle age. Maybe I need something to grab a hold of. I’m not sure. But it certainly is fun.

For example, I’ve been an Angels fan since the stinkeroo teams of the early ‘70s – think Leroy Stanton, Winston Llenas, Dave Chalk – but the season that pops out to me is probably 1978. That was the year I delivered the old Herald-Examiner through the Panorama City ghetto on my ratty ten-speed and faithfully read the Herald’s great sports section before I hopped on my bike. The ’78 Angels were a team on the verge of turning a corner, and I really dug the likes of Lyman Bostock, Carney Lansford, Frank Tanana, Chris Knapp and Ron “Papa Jack” Jackson plying their trade. They were so close.

As an Angels fan, I’ve suffered plenty of heartbreak. So when the 2002 playoffs rolled around, life was sweet. My friend Max graciously got sweet seats for the first round series vs. the Yankees. They were close enough to the visitors’ dugout that I was able to squawk at fatboys David Wells, Jason Giambi and Nick Johnson about their grotesque physiques. The Angeles won that night, and for some reason I got into a shouting match with an obnoxious Yankee fan whose weak argument was essentially: “what have you won?” To me, it sounded like a pathetic little voice just before the fall of the Roman Empire.

I like to deal in the here and now. So I continued to refer to the evening’s victory and the Angels’ recent domination of his team. We almost came to blows – that never happens to me. I often think about that episode and wished I could see him again – after the Halos beat the Yanks in that series; after the Halos won the 2002 World Series; and after the Halos eliminated the Yanks in the 2005 Division Series. Basically, the Yankees have become the Angels’ bitch.

Red Sox fans are almost as bad, and, in spite of the East Coast-biased prognostications, I believe this is the Angels year. That they are a team of destiny. And nothing will be sweeter than steamrolling over Boston and New York on the way to a title.

But this isn’t what I want to talk about. Growing up in Southern California, I’m forced to endure a lot of USC obnoxiousness. This spoilt-child chest-thumping’s been going on since my childhood, when John McKay still coached USC’s football team. When I was a student at Sepulveda Junior High School, Mr. Walbert forced the USC Fight Song down our throats over the school’s intercom system after every Trojan victory. It’s no wonder I gravitated toward UCLA. I liked ‘em in the early ‘80s when they were led by porn-star-looking QB Tom Ramsey. Coached by Terry Donahue, they were the “gutty little Bruins.”

When I enrolled at UC Berkeley in 1984, however, all bets were off. I became an athletic snob – my school’s teams generally sucked, but, well, at least they went to class. (Shockingly, Jeff Kent played baseball at my school, but let’s pretend that didn’t happen). I even saw future NBA great Kevin Johnson studying at a campus library. Truth was, when I was a student, I was too wrapped up in the fringe benefits of student life to pay attention – I wasn’t in a frat. I didn’t live in a dorm. I lived at a co-op called Barrington Hall, where drug-taking decathlons were the main sporting events. It simply wasn’t cool to pay attention to school sports.

Yet since graduation, I’ve discovered my latent school spirit. I relished the football team’s defeat of USC a few years back; seethed when the Bears were screwed by the BCS that same year; and this year, well, I’m thinking national championship. Nothing would be more satisfying than the Bears ramming the football down the collective ass of the USC Trojans on November 10 in Berkeley, then going for all the marbles come new year’s. Stranger things have happened, right?