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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.