Valley Boy

2009-02-17T23:53:00.000-08:00

FACE IN THE CROWD

Whenever I log onto Facebook, my life flashes before my eyes. And I don't think I like that very much. I'm certainly an easy mark for the site's more addictive qualities -- the word games, the indulgent "things about me" lists, comparing how I've aged against people I've known for decades. Facebook functions as a reunion of every facet of my life -- and it makes me realize I don't want to spend too much time in some of those places.

I used to be someone who clung closely to nostalgia -- I'd pull out old photos, read old letters, think of how much better things used to be, because, of course, the present never measure up when its measured against the past or the future. I'm not very nostalgic anymore, though. Part of the reason is I no longer have the space in my mind and time in my life to take those flights of fancy. Also, my house lacks meaningful shelf space, so the pictures, the letters, the boxes of memories stay out of sight in the garage, piled under garbage bags filled with outgrown kids clothes and grocery bags filled with receipts dating back to forever. My vinyl's in there as well. I do harbor a fantasy of converting the garage into an office/hang space in which my kids will be introduced to this primitive form of music listening. It doesn't look good at the moment, but it is this small thing that keeps me pushing forward, attempting to convert my creativity into an impossible amount of cash.

As for the nostalgia, I get more than I could ever ask for on Facebook. All eras of my life are represented among my 300 + "friends." There's a girl I've known since the age of 6. There's the high school people, the college people, the people I've known through various jobs and the women I've kissed, slept with, or at least wanted to. In this virtual world, all is forgiven. We can all be "friends" and share our kids' pictures and be really anything we want to be, creating personas via the types of items we post or link to, the notes we create, and the professional shilling (oh, sorry, networking) that sometimes goes far beyond what I would define as good taste.
I experience a particular sensation with I check in with my college friends. I was a student at UC Berkeley in the 1980s and lived in a co-op called Barrington Hall. I won't attempt to describe the living experience here, other than to say it was like a really passionate, really unhealthy love affair that seems a lot more fulfilling when seen through the rear view mirror.
There is an "Ex-Barringtonian" group on Facebook, of which I'm a member. Granted, I have no inhibitions about posting photos of myself from 20 years ago in various narcotic states, wearing various shades of eye shadow. Sometimes, though, I read the boards on the group page and get the same rush of emotions I felt when I lived there -- that there is a hierarchy in which only "old members" truly fit in. Objectively, I understand that this is merely my personal hang up. That perhaps there is a part of me stuck in a state of arrested development -- the insecure 20 year old who always felt on the outside looking in. Strangely, though, I was "friended" by someone from Barrington who never bothered to speak to me when we lived together. And all I can think is Why?

By contrast, when I observe (read: spy) on some of the "wall" postings of people whom I knew in high school, I realized that I had in fact grown. Certainly, I'm not the most private person; I've written extensively in print about my childhood, much of it not very pretty. But sometimes I feel like I'm at a high school reunion from hell -- that Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days" is on an endless loop (which, of course, makes me want to drive my car off a cliff). But again, this is my own hang up. I'm being judgmental, I suppose. Who am I to mock those wanting to capture some of the alleged magic of decades past? Well, why can't memories just be memories?

The Internet just ruins everything.

2008-12-10T23:00:00.000-08:00

GOING UNDER

I guess the news was good. The doctor called me to tell me I have something called a granular cell tumor on my esophagus. Benign. 1cm. Not a big deal. We'll check it out in a year. Okay, great. I have to get sedated and have plastic shoved down my throat on an annual basis. This is it. Now it begins. Time to go on high alert with every tweak and pain. The slow crawl to the grave. Yeah, baby.

I actually work the denial pretty well, especially when asked about it by those not in my immediate family. Still, it's a pretty hard slap at my completely irrational vision of a future in which my generation will live to be 200.

It started with a visit to my doctor. I mentioned I had a small bit of discomfort while swallowing and he ordered X-rays. As a lovely parting gift, he told me he wanted to monitor my blood pressure since it seemed a bit high.

Tickticktick. The X-rays come back and it's time to go to the hospital and have 30 minutes of my life wiped from my memory, thanks to the drugs used to knock me out. I wake up and have no sense that there was any intrusion into my body. I think the scariest part of any surgery are those moments leading up to the big event, when you are drilled with questions and a series of documents are shoved before you. I signed them, knowing even without reading that they were largely clearing the hospital of wrongdoing should I accidently die from the anaesthetic. Whoops! But those guys are doctors. What, me worry?

But the doctor speaketh, and he gave me the clean bill. Easy for him to say.

2008-12-02T23:23:00.000-08:00

BEWARE THE BEARD

Santa Claus gives me the creeps. Maybe it's because I'm a Jew in a Christian world. Maybe it's because I grew up virtually gentile for a large portion of my childhood. Flocked trees, plastic trees, ham encased in jiggly gelatin inside rusting tines, fake fireplaces with low-wattage yellow bulbs hiding behind accordion-textures cardboard. And Santa Claus. And that big, white, fucking beard. He's the whitest of wonder bread. Jesus. He's everywhere.

I've told the story before, but my "greatest" Christmas memory is when, at 12, I was sent by my gentile step-relatives to pick up beverages at that liquor store on Overland near Palms, the one with the duck on the sign, while the gifts were being opened. Sneaking into the Vatican to see the Pope for Midnight Mass with a consumed bottle of wine on Christmas Eve, 1986, gets an honorable mention.

When I finally grew up, in my mid-30s, I became more interested in my Jewish faith, largely because it was important on my soon-to-be wife. We took it slowly, hitting the high holidays at the Shofar Group service, held at the DGA on Sunset. Rabbi Jan was our master of ceremonies, and he was the perfect Hollywood rabbi; his flock included many sitcom third bananas, so it almost felt glamorous. It was Jew-lite, but it helped me get a grip on what has become a fairly significant portion of my life. Now we belong to a conservative synagogue (though I admit I sometimes still have trouble wrapping my brain around that).

2008: Two superconsumers -- ages 6 and 3 -- run roughshod around our Valley Village crip. Chanukah is an every-five-minute discussion. Thank you, TV. You help pay my bills, but you are the fucking devil. (Though I will admit, I did Tivo something called Sex Change Hospital on the title alone.) Commercials are evil. "I want that" has replaced "hello," "please," and "thank you" in the kids' lexicon. And if we don't acknowledge their televised bloodlust, there is additional hell to pay. But I have it down to a science. I look up at the tube for a millisecond, say "ok," and that seems to satisfy them, at least until the next advert pops up.

They're well-verse in Chanukay because they both attend a Jewish private school. Yet during those odd moments when we venture outside the house or school, we are bombarded with Santa Clause. And Santa Claus is like crack to my kids.

We were at the horribly useless (except for H&M, my wife assures me) Americana mall in Glendale last weekend. It's bad enough that the very-good-but-still-overrated Katsu Ya opened a Eurotrashy outpost of their sushi empire there -- are they becoming the Chan Dara of sushi? Just asking -- but they've also put up one of those scary Santa's Workshop things in order to extort parents for big cash for cheeseball photos of the little ones sitting on the old guy's crusty lap.

Of course, Emmett, my 6 year old, wanted to check it out. He wasn't totally psyched about it or anything, but maybe he thought there might be free candy (always worth a long wait in line). Or maybe it was like a science field trip -- to see how the parallel universe lives. Or may it was to have that reference in his memory for a punchline of some sort later in life.

We waited in line for about ten minutes before we were ushered in to meet with The Great One. By this time, we were joined by my wife, Carrie, and my daughter, Liv, 3. Liv was smartly freaked out by the fat guy in the red suit who wanted her to sit on his lap. Good girl. Instead, she clung to my leg, gawking at the spectacle of her brother -- the kid does homework that's entirely in Hebrew -- sitting on the lap of the embodiment of crass Goy-dom.

I sensed Emmett regretted it as soon as he reluctantly got on the rent-a-Santa's knee. It was a proud moment, I must say. Santa had to work for his minimum wage with my son. Emmett didn't immediately cough up what was on his wish list. (Just ask me. I have it memorized.) Finally, he admitted he wanted video games. But when the guy asked if Emmett had been good this year, my boy paused. His expression was one of: And exactly why should I be telling you this? To his credit, Emmett told the truth. "Sometimes," he said.

I figured Emmett knew he could be honest. After all, he got his lollipop. And he knew Santa wasn't the guy he had to butter up in order to get what he wanted.

2008-10-03T23:36:00.000-07:00

FIXED

I'm going to be a bitter Angels fan now. I hate the idea that they're the Red Sox' bitch. The Red Sox, with the most loathsome fans in all of professional sports (they make Yankee fans seem like choir boys and girls by comparison), with the most loathsome of players. And to be beat by J.D. Fucking Drew, the poster child for all that is utterly wrong about major league baseball. There is no baseball justice.

But it could be worse. Scary right-wing blowhard Curt Schilling could be on the mound. But it's just terrible how it is. Ordinarily I'd embrace MOT ballplayers, but Kevin Youklis is just another loathsome Red Sox player.

Have I lost hope? Well, it's not impossible. I'm not convinced Josh Beckett is 100 percent. The Angels do the one-game-at-a-time thing better than any other time, so they could possibly chip away and force a game five in Anaheim. But it's not gonna happen if the umpires remain firmly in the pocket of the Bud Selig, who is no doubt wet-dreaming about a Sox-Dodgers matchup. What else explains the out call on Torii Hunter, or K-Rod's perfect pickoff throw to Aybar in the 9th.

Now, though, I'm thinking about next season. I'd do this: Ditch Vlad Guerrero, ditch K-Rod. Re-sign Anderson for less money and make him a fourth outfielder. "Cadillac" is as much Mr. Angel as the whitebread Tim Salmon. And pay Teixera whatever he wants. The Angels need the bats. Something's got to change. My team is becoming the 21st century Atlanta Braves: pretty to look at during the regular season, but totally befuddled in the post-season.

2008-10-02T22:19:00.000-07:00

DEBATE

Here's my Larry King blog. Bare with me.

I'm not very comfortable with a vice-presidential candidate who winks at a television camera during a debate... Is there an uglier shot in television than the wide shot during a debate when the person not speaking must smile or look amused when hearing a pile of shit from their opponent? I ask this because I thought McCain's reaction shots killed him, and Biden's reactions also looked oddly uncomfortable.... I sensed that the cameraguys at the debate had a good time shooting shots of Palin from behind... Never trust anyone who pronounces "nuclear" like this: nukeular....

Is Palin the backwoods female version of W?... Obama's an African American? Big deal: Biden would be the first VP with plugs.

I've obsessively followed this campaign like no other, simply because I'm the demographic targeted by the democrats: the middle class on the verge of falling by the wayside. I hate to blame the government for my own life, but I hate Bush, so what the hell. It's all your fault... It's a dream of mine that Bush, Chaney et. al. will be charged with warcrimes, crimes against the state, anything we can get to stick, to make them pay for their atrocities... would Palin's grin be best described as "shit-eating?"

Eight years ago, my wife and I sort-of-seriously spoke of bolting for Canada if Bush got elected. Now, while feel I confident that Obama will be elected, I think we would move if McCain became president. Watching McCain and Palin open their mouths every day, pandering to the rich and the right, I will be packing my bags if this country is seriously moronic enough to buy into their bullshit.

Re-sign Rafael Furcal...

2008-09-23T20:51:00.000-07:00

Younger Than That Now

I'm the number on Henry Aaron's back. Another birthday came and went and, for the first time, I'm uncomfortable revealing my age. 44 just seems roundly middle-aged and I simply can't spit it out without a struggle. The march toward death somehow seems much less abstract than even a few days ago, when I was still a spry 43. I was reminded by a dear college friend that I thought the universe would explode the day I turned 20 -- but that was mostly the byproduct of being a transfer student at Berkeley surrounded by 18-year-old freshmen (and by virtue of my transfer status, which made me somehow less than...). Then again, I did always try to act older. Even as a child I did it, probably as a mechanism to mask my-less-than-ideal upbringing as the product of a welfare-reliant single mom.
As a result, I became far too serious about my lot in life. I was obsessed with career, with relationships. Gripping way too tight. Not pretty. Stupid, really. Again, if I want to blame everything on my childhood -- and I believe using childhood as an excuse for anything that happens in the present is just a crutch -- I was trying to overcompensate for the waterbed-like fluidity of my youth, searching for the solid ground I alone could provide.
I learned to not rely on my parents, 'cause if I did, I'd be disappointed. So I married young, sold myself out young, because I was in a hurry. I often think about the path I took, one that has mostly kept me in Los Angeles, for better or worse. Till I'm dead, I will long to live elsewhere.
I guess it's been the usual sort of life. I've gotten to mostly do what I've wanted but I'm not particularly satisfied with my accomplishments. Somehow, there's something more interesting and more rewarding up ahead. It's one of the things that keeps me going. I suspect it's much the same with everyone.
44. So now I'm thinking, I've got to get my ass in gear. My wife reminds me that our son's bar mitzvah is just seven years away, a thought that takes my breath away when I seriously ponder it. Time is passing. It stares at me through my windshield every morning on my short commute: South on Colfax from Burbank to Ventura, left on Ventura to the Cahuenga Pass. I've somehow been fated to live my life in the San Fernando Valley, the same region in which I was raised, a place that seriously reflects who I am -- and I say that proudly without irony (no, really). But it's not the same place. The change in the area I lived -- Sepulveda, Panorama City -- is drastic. The fact that these communities have become something of a haven for Spanish-speaking immigrants speaks loudly about the tenuous state of the area when I moved here in 1973. Sepulveda was a low-rent community then; thus, the price was right for us. The price is right now.
I live not far from where I grew up, but it's not the same place. (Thank god the Frosty Queen in Granada Hills remains untouched by time) This past summer, I took my son to swimming lessons, held at a private home on the Granada Hills-Northridge border. My old teenage stomping grounds. Now feels real ghetto. But in early 1979, I moved from a ratty apartment in Sepulveda to a rented house in Granada Hills north of Chatsworth Street and west of Louise. Though we had a septic tank, an unmowed lawn and four or five junked-out old Buicks taking up lawn space at any one time, I thought I'd moved to fucking Beverly Hills. The photo at the top of this website was taken in my backyard -- where my beautiful 1968 Camaro was often parked. When I say I'm Jewish White Trash, I'm not lying.
So now I'm 44. Four years short of the age in which my mother died. An age in which my mind tells me it's time to haul ass. Fucking hell. When do we get to relax?

2008-09-15T23:01:00.000-07:00

THIS IS WHAT THE EVIL, SOUL-SUCKING TV INDUSTRY IS ALL ABOUT

Six years ago I kissed goodbye my career as a journalist. Which, in hindsight, may not have been such a bad thing, given what's happened to the print business in the last few years. I'd had pretty cool jobs at big national publications, but in early 2002, I was editing a trade magazine dedicated to the adult internet business. In other words, I was feeling like a giant-sized bag o' fail.

Then VH1 came calling. They were looking for journalists to help produce a show called Ultimate Albums. It was a brutal, pressure-filled environment in which producers were being fired mid-stream if they didn't have their shit, and their scripts, totally together. For whatever reason, I was able to hang on, and decided that I wanted continue to pursue TV as a career. What was I thinking (but that's a story for another day)?

Along the way, I began pitching shows to my big boss at VH1. None stuck, until maybe now, although I'm not getting any credit for it. In an email dated July 5, 2002, I sent an email with some ideas to my friend Jennifer Vineyard, who worked for MTV in New York. Here's a synopsis for one:

Birthright: What's it like to be the scion of a rock god or goddess. This 30-minute show would explore the lives of rock star progeny. What path did they take in their lives? Do rock stars make good parents? Lots to choose from here: Wendy and Carnie Wilson; Chynna Phillips; Elijah Blue Allman; Jakob Dylan; Jason Nesmith; Louis Goffin; Rufus Wainwright; Derek Trucks; Julian and Sean Lennon; Zak Starkey; Jason Bonham; Teddy Thompson. Of course, parent and child could jam together at the end of each show.

Six years later, Jen sent me an email: "Sounds like you came up with Cradle of Rock," she wrote. Did I really come up with Cradle of Rock, or is it an amazing coincidence? Is it odd that the person to whom I pitched the show said to the the production company that picked it up that he'd been trying to sell it for five years? Is it odd that he told me he didn't have hiring power for the show when I later learned he was in fact interviewing producers for that very show?

Certainly, the idea is not brain surgery, so I'll give the responsible party the benefit of the doubt. I'm not mad, but it does confirm how ugly and evil this business can be.

2008-08-29T23:10:00.000-07:00

RISE

I know. You gave up. Thought it was over. Yeah, me too. Here's how it usually happens: I'm doing something and it reminds me of something else, which I obsess about for a full 10 minutes. I may even mention it to Carrie and say something to the effect of: "Oh, man. I really need to blog about that."

But I find, sometimes, that my mind only stores information for a short, so when I have an idea, I need to act on it immediately. Or it's gone, usually for good. Only reappearing when I laundry list all things I should have done and still pretend to myself will get accomplished. I make these lists in my head often enough that it actually prompts me to get around and tackle a few of them.

The moral is just that I don't gestate well. So let's move onward:

• Should I be writing about politics right now? Does anyone care what I think? Carrie says it's weird that I'm writing about myself when I should obsess, even here, about the election. But I'm a bit overloaded on political media at the moment.

• What is it with all the middle-aged geeks freaking out over Radiohead? Even fellow parents at our synagogue are losing their lunch about their recent visit to L.A. Can someone explain what the big deal is? People speak seeing Radiohead as if it's the second coming of Jesus. Yikes. Do we have so little to live for that a marginally-better-than-average band becomes the most important day of our time on earth? I guess for my fellow tribemembers, Radiohead is a last bastion of a previous life, before responsible adult- and parenthood.

Seems like it's been this way since the beginning. I was working at Spin in New York when OK Computer came out. Being in that office at that time felt like being surrounded by a sweltering pit of fire. Don't even get me started on Roni Size or Cornershop. To me, Radiohead is little more than this generation's Pink Floyd.

• I didn't spend much time at King's Western Wear in the Cahuenga Pass (though I did buy a shirt there), but it breaks my heart that they've packed their bags. It made me sadder, though, when I drove down Wilshire Boulevard in the Miracle Mile area and notice the 5550 Wilshire -- the Auto Club building -- had been razed. I spent nearly four years inside that building working at the old Los Angeles Reader. By far, it was my best and most rewarding professional experience, and I have a big love for those with whom I worked. It's just gone. Progress stops for no one, I suppose.

•

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.