Note: Valley Boy will periodically return to its print-based roots, highlighting the best of Citybeat's Valley Boy columns. This piece was originally published July 10, 2003. Enjoy.

KITSCH-FREE LIVING

At this very moment, I am standing at the center of the earth – Aisle Three at Albertson's in Van Nuys. If I weren't slouching toward middle age, I would jump up and down. Maybe even yell. Instead, I squint up at the florescent lights on the ceiling and lay a small smile on the Jesus of nutritionally challenged breakfast cereal. The pilgrimage has ended; the planets are aligned. I now know for certain I made the right decision in moving back to the Valley.

I just needed a sign, and here it is, smiling back at me with a pointed beak and a solitary-fanged grin. That's my main man on that shelf, my bad boy, next to the Lucky Charms and the Cookie Crisp: Count Chocula. Right here on Van Nuys Boulevard. The universe is kind and just.

The chocolatey cereal with spooky-fun marshmallows has always been a very good friend to me, even well into adulthood. But I leaned on it particularly heavily to get me through those bleary Panorama City-adjacent mornings of pre-adolescence, when I peered vacantly through the sliding glass door of the balcony outside our second-story apartment. I had a killer view of the carport roof, but it was strangely unsatisfying. Mostly, though, I stared outside with a heavy heart. Our collie, Gypsy, was now living on the cramped balcony where once she once had a backyard in which to roam. She paced, she howled, she slowly turned into canine veal. It was torture. I hated waking up. But when I turned my gaze to the Count and dipped my spoon into the murky brown milk and fished out a bat-shaped glob, everything was okay.

Alas, as I got older, my old friend vanished from supermarket shelves in metropolitan Los Angeles. I know this because I had been searching. I was always on the prowl for that one secret store that still had sense enough to stock the greatest cereal of all time. Fruitlessly.

And the Valley has it – not five minutes from my house. We are obesity. Hear us roar!

I grew up in the '70s, when the breakfast-cereal industry was a bit more forthright in its efforts to tweak the minds of America's youth. Cereal was a narcotic, pure and simple, designed to give us that lift-off buzz before that second period spelling test. And my mother – like most moms, probably – liked to keep me doped up so she could do important things, like tan, pop speed, and suck down diet chocolate pudding. Between my yummy sugar-intensive breakfast cereal and an hour of Hobo Kelly on the tube, I flew high each and every day. Walk the dog? Fuck that shit. Fill that bowl to the brim!

We had Sugar Pops, Super Sugar Smack, Kix. What were they thinking? Most likely, exactly what all you snarky, irony-loving adults are thinking – that General Mills, Kellogs, et al, were selling sugar-coated opiates that swam in milk. Yeah … and … what's your point? At least they were honest. Smack and Pops and Kix provided a nice little drug-like rush to the discerning six-year-old who hadn't quite figured out where the old man kept his stash of Panama Red.

Problem is, the shoe's now on the other foot. Now that I'm a responsible parent, I have to do the right thing – which is to keep the Count away from my son. Maybe I'm just a selfish junkie, and I don't want to share. Then again, I don't want my son to follow in my footsteps. I want Emmett to have a better life. Besides, it's bad for his teeth (all six of them). So I dutifully fill the bowl to the brim and keep it out of his sight.

In terms of the bigger picture, Count Chocula's presence speaks volumes about Valley supremacy. It says we are not embarrassed to indulge in the things we want. We aren't looking over our shoulder or consulting some Eastside-centric magazine for our lifestyle cues. If we're hungry, we eat. Who needs smoothies when you have doughnut shops?

The Valley is, thankfully, a kitsch-free zone. North of Ventura Boulevard, the word “trendy” does not exist. And it's a liberating feeling. After all, I've seen enough pretention in L.A. to last several lifetimes. (Hey, I spent six years in Silver Lake.)

Admittedly, it's been a difficult adjustment for me, but I've learned to drop my guard. It's okay to embrace Count Chocula purely on its merits, not because it's cool or kooky. I'd even venture to guess that if, say, a shop in Los Feliz got a windfall of Count Chocula, it would, with a wink, sell it for 10 clams a box, and whoever bought it would be tempted never to open it because, well, it's art, dude.

The hell with art. Let's eat.