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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?