BLATENT SELF-PROMOTION

Self-hype is something I've always hated about many other blogs. Yet what is a blog, ultimately, but a loveletter to ones self (smoochsmoochsmooch)? It's now official Valley Boy policy to lay the hype on good and thick whenever possible. So here goes: Go check out my piece on Anthony Batt and Buzznet in the October issue of Los Angeles Magazine. Anthony's an Internet pioneer who just hasn't been able to catch a break. But Buzznet may finally be his ticket. I'd give you a link, but L.A. Magazine is a bit slow in getting its virtual house in order. So pick it up and read the piece, spread the word. Do whatever you need to do.



Also, it's been out a few months, but I produced and wrote a fairly intense episode of VH1's Behind the Music on Pantera -- how's that for hype? -- which you can watch, thanks to my friends at YouTube.

THE GODS MUST BE CRAZY

Laugh if you must, but the Valley has as fine a collection of bars and saloons as can be found in the entire city. Myself, I'm partial to the Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks, but it's tear-in-the-beer time for flaming adult beverage lovers, as the totally bitchen Lucky Tiki is closing shop in Mission Hills after Sunday, September 24. Rumor is the joint's moving to a more happening locale in North Hollywood -- you know, the "NoHo Arts District," the region that's been promising to be the next cool neighborhood for the past decade without ever really delivering. (Well, there is a Dairy Queen on Lankershim, and that's pretty cool.)

It's too bad. Tiki bars were lagging out here compared to the more conventional variety -- The Tonga Hut just didn't cut it. Tucked into a weird mini mall on Devonshire just west of Sepulveda, the Lucky Tiki was a beauty on the inside, with incredible attention to detail. Though light on the Martin Denny, it was nevertheless a jungle cruise with booze. Hate to admit it, but Mission Hills may be the kiss of death to anything cool. And I had such high hopes when it opened, which you can read about right here. I raise a glass to you, Smokey. May you rise again.

UP AGAINST THE WAL-MART

My wife’s aunt Elizabeth came to stay with us last week. Although she was born in Culver City, nearly three decades ago she married and moved to a small town in Nevada – so small that Reno’s the closest major metropolitan area, and it’s two hours by car.

One day, toward the end of her visit, she asked if there was a Wal-Mart nearby. I must confess, I've never been inside a Wal-Mart. Maybe it's my middle-class elitism, but I've always disliked the way it destroyed small businesses around the country, and created a horrible sort of sub-economy whereby millions became dependent on low-paying, low-esteem careers inside the gigantacenter’s depressing retail assemblyline.

But Elizabeth loves Wal-Mart. I'd imagine when you're a small towner, it's the only game in town, and it has a kid-in-a-candy-store effect. I sort of feel that way when I walk into Target. So, without thinking, I said, yeah, there’s one up at Roscoe and Van Nuys in Panorama City. I gave her directions and she ran out the door.

When she returned an hour later, she was breathless and pale, looking like she’d survived a war zone. Seems I’d neglected to inform (warn?) her that this particular Wal-Mart, sitting in the space one occupied by The Broadway department store, caters to a different demographic than she's accustomed to. She pretty much figured it out when the store's signs said stuff like "Siempre precios bajos. Siempre." And, to put it delicately, she saw a lot of hostility surface among her fellow consumers.

(Warning: Transitional understatement ahead.) Times have changed. When I first moved to the Valley in 1973, the Panorama Mall was not enclosed. It was a long strip of weathered shops, with a Woolworth, maybe a nickel and dime fabric shop, and a lot of mom and pops that smelled like musty old peoples’ apartments. Needless to say, not a desirable shopping locale. In the shadows lurked three creaky department stores – Broadway, Orbach's and Montgomery Ward. It was the kind of center that peaked probably in 1961. Meanwhile, indoor megamalls like Northridge Fashion Center were all the rage.

I lived nearby in Sepulveda, and often rode my bike past Panorama Mall on my way to the library, or for a Saturday matinee at the Americana 6 theater on Van Nuys (saw Jaws like five times there!), or, slightly later, the Tower Records that inexplicably expanded into Panorama City.

By 1979, the Panorama Mall was reinvented as a compact, one-story enclosed mall, with Broadway as its anchor. Didn't do much good, though. The center remained a ghost town. I got a job at Hickory Farms and there were nights when I literally had no customers for four hours. I got realy good at cleaning mold off cheese, however. You can ask my wife -- those mold-cleaning exercises were valuable lessons that have lasted a lifetime. By the time I left the Valley for college in 1982, Panorama City was in the rear-view mirror for good. Or so I thought.

When I moved back as a family-toting homeowner in 2003, it was an entirely different neighborhood. One in which the presence of Wal-Mart made perfect sense.

Sorry Aunt Liz. My bad.

THE BEST BUMPER STICKER EVER

EYES DON'T HAVE IT

Nothing says "I'm eating shit" like a big-screen actor who takes a TV series in the sundown of his or her career. James Woods is only the latest to suffer the indignity of the small-screen paycheck, in a likely-to-be-cancelled-in-six-weeks abomination called Shark for CBS. Now, I have nothing against James Woods. In fact, no one plays creeps like he does -- Casino immediately jumps into my head.

But the poor guy. Not only does he have to take a gig in a show called Shark, but the CBS suits made him pose in that I'm-a-sly-SOB-because-my-sunglasses-are -halfway-down-my-nose-and-you-can-see-my-eyes way. Let's not even discuss how embarrassed Jimmy looks in the shot. When I see it, he's saying to me: "Hey, it's a living. What the fuck?"

I'm just so completely over the sunglasses down the nose thing. What does it actually mean, anyway? Can we just say, okay, it's a cliche, we're done with it. But I guess the suits are still wallowing in some kind of '70s aviator shades nostalgia, when it may have have a cool look for about five minutes. And you know it, and I know it: The only guy who could pull off this pose is dead. Played guitar for the Grateful Dead, kind of thick around the middle. Missing half a finger, didn't take real good care of himself... So let's give it a rest. And good luck with Shark, Jimbo. Loved ya in Entourage. Can't wait for your reality series.