Take my team, please

Picture this:  you're broke (oh, that's a stretch).  Long ago they stopped taking the NPR membership money from your checking because it was giving you overdraft fits.  You've gone down the ladder and ended up permanently at Aldi.  The bus don't charge insurance.  Within this situation, would you buy a t-shirt with your favorite sports logo on it?  If you said yes, is it because it would make you feel good?  That part of the price would go to boosting the team, possibly giving them enough money to sign that big free agent, the one last piece to push the team over the top?  Would you go to sleep at night like The Gambler, convinced you had broke even, and that you were now emotionally AND financially invested in The Team?

Are you the Governor of Minnesota?

In 20 years every team is going to be Green Bay.  They'll sell it to the communities in different ways.... but civic ownership will be widespread.  They'll put a stadium in Lilydale or whatever, and the conditions will dictate that the "people" will own the team.  Of course, the "people" will then elect their leaders to run the administrative functions (so they can get back to watching GREENWAY!), and the wool will go over the eyes.  They'll sell "shares" or whatever, and Keith of Keith's Kettle will be first in line to plunk down 250 dollars a pop, so that they can hang it in a frame in the basement with their PBR taps and the drum set that has to stay in the closet.  We'll monetize our pride, and the guys will really feel like "our guys".  Everyone will have a team, and they'll pass the championships around like a turkey leg.  Everyone gits a bite.

All of the sports are capitalist to various degrees, but for the first time ever, they've been able to convince Dumb Mouthbreath that they indeed are doing it all for him.  That's the perfect marriage with politics - the grand idea that a rich, famous, handsome man has the interest of a fat, lazy slob in mind when he makes decisions in his life.  "I'm on your side, union workers!" he says, as he eats a meal that costs more than 2 months rent in the Marcy Holmes neighborhood.  And we all buy it, because we're very very dim.  "Hey, that guy fights for the little man!"  Yeah, he learned to fight for the little man at YALE.

It makes sense, then, to fight this war in the public arena, as though a mass of people in the United States has ever been able to exact any kind of change other than general social adjustments.  "If we show up to this rally, perhaps they'll keep the team in Arden Hills!"  Yeah, except not.  They'll bring these battles, be they Labor or Stadium, out to the public square and let everyone Talk About It.  Then, at the end of the night, the cigars will be lit with hundred dollar bills and Deals will be made.  The rally-goers?  Back home for CBS' Monday Night Bonanza.  Ah, order.

I suppose it's a tricky position to convince people that they aren't as dumb as they are.  It's got to be a terrifying position... prop up the ignorance of sports fans who believe that by spending money on things, they will be a part of it (Hey, I own alternative energy stock, does that get me to the front of the line when they launch the ships for a Colder Earth?).  But that's our world.  Take someone's money, tell them they've done a Good Thing, and cash that fucking check with the quickness.

It's simple.  If you drive between Minneapolis and St. Paul, your car will likely be ruined due to the immense amount of potholes.  The pavement buckles and splits constantly due to 6 months of the year being frozen, and a month of days filled with 18 hours of sun.  So, when it comes time to dole out money to fix these various roads and civic projects, I suppose it makes perfect sense to spend hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade the roads leading to and from the proposed stadium site in Arden Hills (a city I became aware of 2 months ago).  Just double it down, invest it all in the team, hoping to holy hell that we'll be able to celebrate a championship like the New Orleans Saints and that will make us forget, if even for a moment, that we live in hell.  That's what we're aiming for.

So please, fair Gold patrons, come and take this team.  Put these people out of their misery.  Wrench it from their plump hands so that they can wake up in the morning and not think about what Ben Leber is having for breakfast.  Maybe we can get back to life for awhile, and then in 10 years you can bring back the Minnesota Wilderness, or whatever.

We need a break.  We need the money.

Nothing to Lose

At that age (like now) I had the slim look…likely should have “bulked up,” (as my father wanted me to do)but it beat being fat. The girl was the opposite of me…and whatever “weight” she had was up top, above the stomach. Plans those days were simply a cover to parents. You had to give an indication that you were going to do something. This was pointless. I wasn’t going to give them the truth, and I did and didn’t know what would happen.


We’d get in the car and drive…drive to the point that we were “nowhere.” That’s when it began. Maybe we thought this was a blank canvas. It could happen during the day, but it was better after dark. It was summer, and it was warm. It was sensational.

This was no courtship, or jewelry bound relationship. We both knew this, but we never spoke of it. Looking back, it seems we both knew that if we DID say something it would ruin the whole deal. But we were of that age, when you claim “nothing” is going on. A window of life; early maturity, when you know what you’re doing and why, and loving the freedom. She and I did this often, never knowing where we’d start, but knowing where we’d end. Sounds impersonal, but it wasn’t. I got mine, she got hers…we were happy. The boredom, bullshit from the parents, it was all wasting away. And all this…during the summer. To a northern boy, it wouldn’t be the same otherwise.

Weeks went by…lost in this shuffle and haze. There was one of those summer rainstorms that keep you up, or hoping you’d closed the windows. I heard a big clap and then thought to myself “I wonder if that is by her house.” Then it hit me: I was caring…even at some minor level I was concerned when we made an unspoken bond we wouldn’t.

And there I sat, thinking I could do all this “no stress.” What did it matter to me? It wouldn’t be a big deal either way, right? I wonder what she really thinks. Summer is almost ending.

What did I know at that moment? What I wanted to know took the summertime to find out. Hell, look at me remembering this. Growing up.

Foul Balls

So, our beloved Bums are now "owned" by Major League Baseball.  Or is it "controlled?"  "Making decisions?"  Whatever the phrase, it is the beginning of a step in the right direction.  Slimey McSlime is slowly on his way out, facing a very tough future.  His business deals, shady as the day is long...his wife, who only seemed to be married to him if it helped her own bottom line...the houses, bought high (in value and in total) and sitting low.  But my favorite: Owning land...creating a new company..."selling" the land to the new company...then PAYING RENT to it.  It's something you still own, but you create something else to support. 

This, while the parking lot gets sketchy.

Questions to consider:
Are there Dodger fans who were L.A. Raiders fans?  Of course. 
Did the L.A. Raiders fans become Dodgers fans once the team moved back north?  Possibly. 
Did that mentality of the fans in the stands slowly turn Raiders?  Not really.
Is the parking lot a clusterfuck, enraging even the saintly?  Absolutely.

Since the divorce trial, Slimey has taken a very hands-off approach.  He's seen less frequently, and heard from even less than that.  It took a week for Slimey to acknowledge a Giants fan beaten by the "gang mentality" (LAPD's words) and it appeared Slimey was most concerned with how it would cost him money.  Money he doesn't have, ironically. 

In a very USFL move, Slimey took out a loan from Fox Sports to give the organization the April paychecks.  Good PR move.  With the prospect of a stadium 1/4th full...fans scared to go to games in person, and an owner who can't foot the bill for the all-you-can-eat section, MLB did the right thing.  All Dodger fans I know (and those who aren't) like the change. 

Who doesn't?  McSlime loyalists, such as Steve Soboroff.  None of this was really his business until, just as this deal went down, McSlime hired Soboroff to become "Vice Chairman."  (Hey - that was his wife's old job!)  One of his duties is to "improve the fan experience" which (as of now) means "not getting knifed in parking lot J."  In his latest "interview" to the LA Times, Soboroff included these gems:

On Slimey McSlime:
"[He's] a different person now moving forward."

On why he's the right man for the job:
"I don't drink. I don't use drugs. I don't use steroids."

Let's just do a block quote from the story because holy SHIT:
On Commissioner Bud Selig: "What did the commissioner of baseball do? He increased the value, he increased revenue lines. He did all kinds of great things for baseball. If you read his Wikipedia and you read Frank's Wikipedia, they ain't too different."


Reading between the lines of all Gofuckoff stated shows 1 thing: his concern is for Slimey McSlime.  The Dodgers?  Well...yeah, but you know, my pal Slimey will be just fine.  (Anyone else sensing under the table money?)  Meanwhile, the future is completely unknown for the team going forward.  Setting the scorecard, you have a 1st time 1st-year manager leading a team of players...the majority of which are new to the organization.  And who are the 3 right now at the top?
Bud Selig
Slimey McSlime
Steve Soboroff, who's been on the job less than a week, and has no experience.  (He doesn't seem too concerned about the team, either)
 
Our beloved Dodge are fucked.  Tommy!  Big Pisan!  Save us!

The Happiest Days of Our Lives

(Editor’s Note: In a March, 1980 edition of the now defunct L.A. Reader, the newspaper devoted an issue to “L.A. Youth: The 1980s.”  Trip Darvez was assigned the aspect of parties, and wrote this story)

The biggest struggle of this undertaking, and the largest obstacle I have in completing this assignment, is the ability to blend in. Normally this is not a concern, but the last thing I wanted was each group that enters to say “Who the fuck is that guy?” As you’ll see, my worries were wasted time.

Instead of doing the lazy thing (buying them beer) I spent approximately 2 days hanging out at various teen spots (you likely know some) and was quickly informed of a party that would suit the story…I was invited by someone who was already going, and was given the address. Good enough.


“Man, you know how much that fucker cost?” Bill was pointing to a keg that was sitting in a sink, with the ice already on its way down the drain. Before I could even ask how they lifted a full keg into a sink and not break anything, I was interrupted. “Michelob one is in the bathtub and going.” Gary, who invited me to this party, was drinking from a Ronald McDonald glass. I attempt to tap the sink keg, which is Grensquell. A steady foam stream ends up in the CSUN mug I find in the cabinet. “Jessica goes to that shithole.”



Randy, resident of the house: “Guys…just be careful in here. I just found a vase that broke by the stairs.”


Bill: Why does your mom put flowers on the staircase?



Nothing is really different in 1980. They are listening to Pink Floyd on the stereo, there are couples going at in the bedrooms upstairs, there is a girl crying in the living room, and a stream of high school students roll through like a slow moving train. The whole purpose of this night was a drinking contest, and one brand was bought on the theory it had higher alcohol content. But one of the contestants has yet to show, and the other is in the backyard, smoking a joint. He was silent on this bet until he returned with a full glass of beer.


“Fuck them. I know I can drink more, but it’s just because we had a party at my place and I was in the pool drinking the brandy from Mike’s liquor cabinet. They couldn’t stand it, but we don’t have beer. (laughs) My dad would seriously shit if he saw me drinking his beer.”


My “conversation” was being drowned out by two girls complaining about a guy. We both ended up roped into it. “I told him I wanted to go to the Chart House. If he wanted to be serious, that’s what couples do. Be he says ‘I want us to have fun.’” This was supposed to be a big point, I could tell, but it was met with silence. I went to freshen up my beer. As I walked away, I heard the other girl say “well, did you tell him he had to pay for it?”


Every time the song came up, someone would cheer and then repeat “We don’t need no education.” Wanting a comparison, I went upstairs and checked out the other keg. It was still there, but the bathroom was nearing “truck stop” in ambience. I wandered about…one room was smoky, the master bedroom…you can guess…the rest were politely untouched. I wondered how this happened considering the deteriorating look of the ground floor. Or maybe everyone was lazy.


When you’re this age even the routine is an expansion. I know of plenty who’ve attempted to return to “Happy Days” of their own life. Whether they were Richie or Potsy, life was simple. Wasn’t it? Of course it wasn’t, but it seems simple now. “Have you ever seen Bill’s dad?” (An out of control executive of a grocery store chain, according to the teller) “Bill said something like ‘shut up’ or something to him, and he took his plate of food, threw it into the kitchen and said ‘finish your dinner.’ What a dick!”


A collection of empty beer cans (brought by some enterprising students) sat inside the stove. I catch Randy look at this out of the corner of my eye, and he does not look good. He comes into the living room to say to no one in particular “Were you guys in the upstairs bathroom?” Of course we were…the keg is up there…but we all say no. “Someone took the pills…they’re to help my dad’s ulcers!” He has the look of a man who knows his fate. But he’s a kid, and it’s life’s becoming real much too late.


I did exercise my wisdom once, when I told a gang that it wasn’t wise to drink in the front yard – if they cops show up, they’ll get you first. I was rewarded with a warm beer. As with before, teens have their own problems, and just like then, they are dealing with it in the same way. When I left the party, there were groups laughing, once guy passed out on the steps, the crying girl eventually got over it and started dancing with someone else. An attempt to make grilled cheese was put out by the foam of the sink keg. All these years later, I was proud to report that very little had changed.

Hollywood Does It Again

Do the residents of Hollywood & neighborhoods to the south enjoy...

Seeing neighborhood business get the shaft for chain stores?

Watching high rise hotels misplace residents in the name of "jobs"?

1-hour parking meters on Weekend Nights, with pay lots where free parking used to reign?

If so, they must, because yesterday they chose to re-elect Tom "I can charge for that" LaBonge to the LA City council.  In a move that stunned your writer, Tom will be around for another term for more ways to completely destroy Hollywood, cutting any personality a neighborhood has, and succumbing to every whim of Big Business.

Does this mean he's completely careless to the Hollywood citizen?  Not completely...potholes get filled...street lights get replaced.  That's a broad example, but the basic nuts and bolts shouldn't be a difficulty.  But citizens don't drop big bucks to build anything...and once the W Hotel was shoved in at Hollywood and Vine (written in this blog back in 2006) Tom wanted to make sure the owners, not citizens were happy.  $$$$ is the answer.

"We don't do that"
-Tom, after finding out the LAPD was giving tickets for parking at broken city meters.  Tell that to the people who have to pay the bullshit ticket!  This was a couple months after Tom voted against a 4-month moratorium on rent increases in his district.

When Tom ran in 2007, it was unopposed (!) and with no competition, it made Tom think he had a blank check for bullshit.  As the construction was going on, Tom continued to follow Antonio's plan for cutting the budget for each library in the district.  THEN, when the ballot measure of increased library funding comes around, he supports that.  So, is he against the kind of bullshit he passes?  Sure, but no one in his district seems to care.

"Remember the gas lines under President Carter?  Odd and Even?  I couldn't follow that."
-Tom on a proposed odd and even watering only rule from the DWP during drought conditions.

I could go on...and on...but why should I?  We have more years of Tom and his zany LA City Council escapades!  Way to go!

"I can't play stoned"

Interesting, isn't it, that something tags along in today's internet world of everyone forcing dramatic opinions at the drop of a hat.  There also has to be full transparency.  There can no longer be mysteries on WHY things happen.  They have to know HOW it happened...that way, life can continue.  For so many, surprises come so rarely...they don't want them to hang around. 

Oh man, look at that reporter from channel 2...she's drunk!  No, wait, she totally had a seizure!  Hold on - she's speaking in tongue!  She's possessed.  The world explodes!

(And then, the actual story comes out: she suddenly had a complex migraine.  Total comments: 2.  Life goes on.)

It's best not to go through life suspending belief when we're talking about reality.  Entertainment is a different topic, however.  How does the set move like that?  Well, it's TV Magic...until you go to a taping and see 3 fat guys shove the set into place.  Did he know he was going to get hit with a coconut?  He acted upset.  Oh, they planned it before.

Go back 30 years, and you have a moment that confounded and stunned nearly the entire viewing public.



You can't really do things like this on free television if you ever expect to work again, so things were carefully planned so it would seem real.  And look at that ending.  People moving around - it's sensational.  Andy gets talked about by adoring comics (Magicians appreciate the craft & how it's performed, not that they know how it's done, right?) and the public at large.  Fridays gets renewed automatically, though it enjoyed higher ratings than Saturday Night Live at the time.  Everyone wins!

The news cycle wasn't quite as quick as today, but it did respond.  The New York Times headline (in the C section) the following Tuesday: "Was 'Fight' on TV Real or Staged?  It All Depends."  It starts out with a continued parade around the truth.  "It looked like a spontaneous fistfight on live television. Whether it really happened is a matter of interpretation."  This is a newspaper reporter, and the "magic" continues to spin.  What we can't really tell, beyond interest in the show and the story, was the level that viewers actually cared if it was real or not.  Fridays increased ratings would make one think that viewers saw the series as something where anything could happen.  (SNL is live for very arbitrary reasons, and is not known for open moments such as that) 

Andy's crowning moment, a sandwich of "behind the scenes TV" and "this is really happening" lives on today.  What really happened?  Who was in on the joke?  Man, I don't know* but that sure was crazy!  Hey, can you get me another beer?

*I do know, but it gets in the way of enjoying the moment. 

The Randomness of Nothing

When it all goes down into a boiling stew of Human Destruction, nobody will be alive to remember. So there won't be anyone to look back at this crystallization, and to evaluate it. We'll never get there, because we're here, and we can't photon-jump. As it all rains down and we forever slip into memory, no one will stand on that edge and say these things.

But I can tell you what *I* would think....

If the Bible has taught us nothing else (and it hasn't), it's that printed words about things that are debatable for the rest of human existence are, in a manner of speaking, the only true immortal things. That languages, races, buildings... virtually everything that constitutes the human experience are all subject to (and destined for) eventual elimination. But the words.... they remain. If you can debate something, it stays forever.

They used to debate sun moon and stars. Telescopes proved one side right. They debated ethics. Mouth-breathers brought that down. But spirituality... that one could never be proven or disproven. It just was. It carved a line in rock and forever and ever, new children will be born into the question and it will breathe eternal.

We will debate the concept of eternity, eternally.

This of course would lead you to a conversation about the San Francisco 49ers.

-------------------------------------------------

Bill Simmons spilled a tanker-truck of ink a few years ago on a book about basketball. It, at its most ambitious, strove to define what makes teams successful throughout history. It aspired to identify a formula, and ride that into some sort of hypothesis about sports across the board. Obviously, this is a concept designed for a blockhead. It is astounding how much is written about sports in the theoretical mindset. How much we search both stats and intangibles and seek to "define" things. Why, oh why, did the Pistons win that championship? Why did Dan Marino never win the big one? What's the formula, Larry Brown??? It's all such garbage. It's garbage because sports is one long, unending unknown. Every single action in a sporting contest is an unknown. Sure, trends develop. But as far as the concrete history... it unfolds in complete randomness.

But we sure do talk about it, don't we?

It happens all the time... the perfect season ends in a loss. The team from nowhere makes a run. These concepts are so ingrained into our sporting experience... we act like idiots who have never seen this before. HOLY CRAP A TEAM THAT WON THE SUPER BOWL IS NOW GOING BACK TO IT, LET'S FIGURE OUT HOW THAT HAPPENS AND CHILI DOGGZ! There is quite simply nothing that can be said for each sporting contest that resonates as new material. And, in one of the few arenas of life where this is actually true, history means nothing. It means less than nothing. It only serves to confuse. Is there any relevance, in any way whatsoever, to a sporting contest that took place years ago with different players?

I'm not stupid. I know these things happen to placate idiot fans who have senses of tradition that only exist to sell more mud-flaps at Wal-mart. I know it all works to crank up the machine and create a narrative. The structure is bare for all to see... no one looks because their mouths are full of Hogg Sundae.

But there is faux-intellectual debate that takes place around the Super Bowl that literally calls to mind two pea-brains arguing about which part of the lake is deeper. Irrelevant statistics and incorrect motivations... it all swirls into a gigantic vortex of debate about nothing. And not even nothing. An UNPREDICTABLE nothing.

When the long-legger from Oregon goes up against Arizona State, that - my friends - is predictable. When ol' Gas Pedal Jones decides the Horned Frogs haven't QUITE scored enough... that's predictable. But when you play a nut-twister in a neutral stadium with the game likely being decided on one single play.... why all the mouth?

And so, I guess, we can just keep the whistle going full volume. Just keep the flag waving and we'll go around the office and everyone can say what their favorite book is. Because you'd be just as likely to predict what pant size you are going to be next year at this time (hint: LARGER) as to be accurate on "Who wins: Steeler cornerbacks or Green Bay tight ends???"

It's only at the end of the movie that everyone wants to proclaim how predictable it truly was. And when Jordan retired, we all crystallized that vision of him in our brain, and we wrote history.

But I remember actively thinking: "No fucking way he does this without Scottie". And that's also correct. So what's the fucking formula?

Ok, hell, here we go. Up the balloon string, reach out and grasp some sky. It's all going to end someday, and we'll be lucky to have ever gone through this shit.

Pinky Ring

Oh, how rare a feeling, this. To stand at the edge of it, to see it spread before you, to be strapped to this chugging train towards the peak. How rare it becomes as we age. How rare, in this climate, to feel anything but crushing gloom. How rare? I can count it on 3 fingers.

We were here in May of 2004. Our basketball team was rife with gangsters and pranksters. The ghetto just oozed from their pores. Sam Cassell would sometimes make a shot and run down the court juggling his incredible Astro Balls. KG would hit a turnaround in the lane and scream into Duncan's face, telling him, in no uncertain terms, how much of a bitch he truly was. And Spree? He drove a Murcielago. I watched it pull out from the bowels of Target Center one frosty night. I went to 17 games that year... and witnessed a total of 2 losses. I was there for Game 5, over Denver, when they finally escaped the first round. Destiny seemed to tip. Suddenly, it was inevitable: we were going all the way.

We all know how that ended. Sam's back went wacky-world, and the Lakers were still the Lakers, downing us in 6 games, despite a heroic game 5 where both Mr. Bliznawski and I were wearing Hoiberg and Mad-dog jerseys (respectively) at two different casinos in Vegas. Down in flames... not only for the season but the franchise. They haven't sniffed it since. Honestly, typing these memories are the only time I am happy with respect to this franchise. They are dead to me now.

We seem to walk up to the base of the mountain every year for the MN Motherfucking. Somehow, someway, we find ways to emphatically defeat the Bitch Sox and send them back to Smelltown, and hope springs eternal. Sometimes, we have MVPs and Cy Young winners on our team. But it matters not. Because we go to the dance, grab a cup of punch, and proceed to unleash a diaperful of dia-rear all over the gym floor. Cuddyer hits a home run, and the sun peaks out for a moment, but the truth is eternal night. Down to the dark, only to rise again in March. Eh, it could be worse. We could be Kansas City.

I was 12 when the Motherfucking took it home against the Braves. I think I was still figuring out how showering worked. A baseball fan, I was not. So I don't count that. I remember it, yes, but my appreciation was minimal. It would be like the Wild winning now. I'd be happy, sure, but I wouldn't be on board, fully invested.

The truth? I've been through two winners in my life... actual winners, invested from beginning to end, with all of the perks that go with being a champion.

The first time was my 'Backs. Oh hell, that was so much fun. Clinton in the press box, Nolan on the sidelines, and motherfucking Scotty Thurman like WHAT BITCH HOW DO YOU LIKE THIS THREE IN YOUR MOUTH??? Cheering for a team through a long NCAA tournament run is likely never going to happen again in my life (of course, I didn't know that at the time) and it was really something. How can you replicate that level of intensity? They win a "must win" game... and then have to play another in 2 days. And at any given time, they could be dashed, and the waiting game would begin anew. But no. They kept winning, kept playing that awesome brand of ball, and eventually, I found that bliss. There were no more games to play... and the Razorbacks had won the final game. They could ascend no higher. They would go to the White House.

In 1997, I was in my senior year of high school in Wisconsin. You can guess how that worked out.

And so here we go again, barreling towards that unknown, the train increasing speed and promising us nothing.

As I age, I realize how rare this gets, and feel the need to live in the moment; to soak in this nervousness and anticipation. When it is not there, it is replaced by apathy and cynicism. That's why I like to revel in failures. That's why I mock the CFL. But when your boys are going for the pinky ring, nothing else matters.

Dear me, we're back to the edge. There are two ways to fall... and Sunday doesn't come but once a week.

Sometimes, once a decade.

Loose Change by the Bay

How is life these days in the Bay Area of the Golden State? Well, there are two sides, right? SF and Oakland. And there are two sides of how life goes. But be careful, because the degree to which these are separate is as steep as Filbert St.

A post-Christmas hangover sat over the city as relatively dry skies welcomed me…and all of the stores were on a full court press. They have to sell to stay in business in today’s America, but there’s still the exclusive class in San Francisco. High-end stores entice you…and as you see shoppers and tourists, you dodge an army of homeless and con-men. One con man attempted a card trick, but was so drunk he dropped the deck and fell to the sidewalk. LA may have a homeless population, but compare it to SF, and it’s non-existent. Look at all of the young couples with dogs – it’s as if nearly everyone has a pup…and the pup, on the walk, will encounter the smells of those asleep in the daytime on the curb on multiple occasions.

With a group so high, you have to be creative in your carnival barking for change. Shaking a cup full of coins does you no good. I encountered one man saying “Can I borrow a nickel tonight?” when I entered the subway, and returned. In a bar, a wino who had teeth so comical he appeared to be from a Mad Magazine drawing asked me on three separate occasions for money to “go home.” The amount switched from $10 “To get a cab” to any change to “trying to get a dollar.”

One evening I visited City Lights Books, a famous local bookstore that was packed with people. In the 30 minutes I was in the store, I was the only one who purchased anything. The rest read, and placed back on the shelf. Maybe they were trying to tell me something: wise up, dunce.  In such an expensive city, don’t spend money when you don’t have to.

I wondered if Berkeley would be different. It wasn’t, but change there was a constant theme. Let me stress: I have never seen a city nickel and dime you more than Berkeley. There’s hourly parking on every street, even the suburbs. (All the better to write tickets) Meter parking is also hourly, so you can’t re-feed the meter, you have to move along. Want to park in a lot for an afternoon movie? No sweat – that’ll be $10.

So, if you can't walk somewhere from your abode, who can browse the shops? That’s right: those angling for change. “Dude, can I have some change so I can ride my carpet out of here?” The wind was whipping; I was too cold. “Don’t freeze to death.” Thanks pal. Nearly all stores were empty, except a “vintage” store that priced out its clientele. This is a town which has an un-written rule to not use your fireplace due to pollution. (Higher Gas bills AREN’T pollution, sucker) As I dodged the wind, I over-heard one wino to another- Excuse me, student:

(Yelled)
“I went to college to write. And I’m gonna write a letter about this. And when I show it to the judge, they’re gonna get you.”

All nonsense, I know. But if they see you’re entertained, they’re coming after you…not to be polite, but because you’re supposed to help.  They know this because you wear a coat.

It was an ambling, not exactly easy drive back to LA…but the greenery of the 101 enforced the ideal that this is the Golden State. You can’t be unprepared or not making deals in this town. Up north? Take a seat and go for it - tell people you need help to make a call...

Theater of Evil

Years ago, long before this "blog" was created, the New Beverly Cinema in Hollywood would treat its patrons with holiday-themed grindhouse gems.  It was there I viewed the good-bad (Silent Night, Deadly Night) and the awful (I've walked out of films that I knew would be bad and yet were worse than that).  Part of the experience in this room of confusion is the theater itself: the lighting was dim.  The floors were never cleaned.  The staff was on the good side of "carny."  The marquee had barely enough letters, and was broken on one side.  Take a Bic and create that laundry list of changes you'd make...you'd be right, but it wouldn't be the same.  Look at it this way: if you were shoveling in Hamburger Helper on the finest China for sale...part of you wouldn't be able to enjoy that salty treat because your mind would tell you shit is wrong.

But thanks to every freak-film-lovers' friend, QT, the New Beverly has received a generous hose-down.  The marquee works, and is new.  The seats: removed, spaced out, with new seats put in.  Light-bulbs added.  The snack bar...well, the menu is now on a barely readable chalkboard, but you can't have everything.  Hell, they even placed a sign attempting to limit what food and drink could be brought in, but that didn't stop the clanging of bottles during the first screening: Christmas Evil.

Might you know this film under the title "You Better Watch Out?"  I hadn't, nor had I viewed it in the past.  The lesson learned from this tale was anyone could be Santa if they want to...because everyone loves Santa.  It helps if you're a single loner, because you'll meet a lot of people...first, by spying on the kids all through the year, and secondly, by "not being a stranger" and giving them gifts.  (Santa also keeps track of who's good and bad, with such nuggets as "negative body hygiene")  Death by toy did occur in this film, including one man sliced with the star from the Christmas tree (in the bedroom, where it usually is).

The director was there afterwards; an old salt, who was married that morning.  He seemed reluctant to tell new tales at the start, but soon warmed up and mentioned that a minor role in the film (a guard played by an old man) slipped and fell during filming.  This was winter, after all.  He passed away 2 weeks later.  "I killed him, basically."  Please...we don't come here for sour memories.  I congratulated him on the wedding and thanked him for showing the film.  He was polite but busy hawking production stills from the film.  He's married now - he needs extra cash.

After a moment to say a sneaky "hi" to the flask, it was time for the second screening: New Year's Evil.  Oh my...now this one, I know.  But I can't turn down 1980 Los Angeles at any time.  Many questions were unintentionally raised by this film:
1. Why did 99% of films and TV shows capture punk and new wave music incorrectly?
2. If your establishing shot is the Burbank Holiday Inn Towers, why shoot everything else at a hotel in Sherman Oaks?  (This was our best guess)
3. If a killer's motives are "I'm fed up" shouldn't we relate to that instead of laugh?

For those not in the know, there's a syndicated TV special counting down the top New Wave songs of the year (1979? - it was released at the end of 1980, so maybe it's meant to be then).  Two bands are playing the songs...neither of which fit the genre.  But it's not a real countdown...you're supposed to call in and make requests.  Whatever, it doesn't matter.  A man calls using either the cheapest or oldest voice distorter saying he's going to kill a "naughty girl" at the stroke of midnight in each time zone (in the continental U.S.).  He isn't believed because this kind of music draws "wackos."  But this man has a series of minor disguises, and travels around LA, doing exactly what he planned.  Wait, why did--

We shouldn't arrive at this destination to ask questions, especially when we know the answers.  See! characters that dominate a scene and then are never seen or referred to for the rest of the movie.  Demand! more scenes from the late lamented Van Nuys Drive-In (a hearty round of applause greeted that sight).  Don't Wait! for the film to end so that we can argue on what's the worst line reading.

It was near midnight when the "new wave" soundtrack blared on the screen, showing the credits and a landscape shot of the lights of L.A.  The rain didn't diminish our attempts to "re-enact" the film and wake the neighbors with dialogue that seemed even funnier the second time around.

It is the second time around, isn't it?  Giving this theater new life...giving barely-seen and much-loved films another go-round...giving hermits the chance to go into public.  It was another Hollywood Christmas present.

The inevitabilities of Mama Earth

Yikes! I was just told that the Large White Nightmare is coming to Minnesota this weekend. That's tough. But, it is November...and a matter of time.

But this is a "blog" about Goldland. How are things out here? Glad you asked. But how could I sum it all up? Hmmm...






That's about right, I think.

Open Minds, Open Hearts

Ah, the old familiar twine issues forth from the squawk-box. Batten it down, folks, the White returns soon. Lives in flux, positions tweaked, but this train keeps moving on.

Out there, we sing songs of Disorder and Oneness. There isn't any rhyme to it. Nothing fits together, but if that's true, then it all works. It's all just f-stops on the reel anyway... just one long unending serial, written with such irregularity as to make Malick proud. The Great American Escapade, featuring The World. We stop here, briefly, but only to fuel the tanks and change the tires.

Pausing for reflection, here in the Waist-Land, offers us a chance for peace and re-organization of memories passed. Did that really happen? Did I honestly turn a corner to see a Yellowfin the length of a Buick having its enormous guts spilled onto the grate at our feet? Did a man lead a monkey in a diaper through an obstacle course to the delighted cackling of children? And what of it? Nothing's ever going to make sense if we don't give it some normalcy to pit it against. Buy a house in Robbinsdale, then all of a sudden your college days are looking better and better. So to the bank we go. And we come to withdraw.

The people out there, they are nothing like us. But you know what? I don't need us anymore. There is very little left to gain. The brain only expands and contracts with changes in elevation, at least at this age. So open it up. Get up to 10,000 and look out at the Shire. If we stop for a second to breathe, we know that it's always there, always a massive pull towards an infinite path. I don't need to live in all worlds, but I know I can't live in just one.

And so, as the white blanket falls, coating and sealing another space and time, we no longer wonder what it is we crave. We no longer search, wandering through caverns of thought fraught with pitfalls and Precious Moments. It's clearer and clearer every day.

The Sun guides the way, but the Monkey Man marks the spot.

Jerry Brown, Uber Alles

The man is back, folks. He will be in charge, and perhaps that is as it should be. As a matter of disclosure, I did not vote for the winner, nor the second place guy. Excuse me, woman. My choice placed near the bottom. Some call that throwing your vote away. Or, you could just not vote at all and bitch about politics 24/7 (like people I know...I'm sure you know some, too).

Where was I? Ah, yes. California found out what happens when someone with no experience in running or working in a government whatsoever is placed in charge: shit breaks right and left. Smiling Arnold will now be sent to the Relief Home for Retired Motion Picture Stars in Toluca Lake, CA. He will continue to tan and petrify, awaiting a call from Sly Stallone for a larger part in The Expendables 2.

Jerry's win is a stunner for a lot of reasons. Yes, his experience is something larger than nearly any candidate in any state election. But he didn't run on that. And he didn't try to match Whitman fund for fund. Even during the summer, I asked people "If Jerry is running for Governor, I'd like to know when the campaign started." But he sat quietly, knowing what to do and when. This thrift and smart spending also impressed people out here at a time when not only most people can't hack it, but Arnold has left the state essentially flat broke.

Whitman attempted (when she was shying away from her personal life) to focus on his time in office in the 70s and 80s, and for whatever points she might have made that were on target, she found an interesting response: indifference. 30+ years later doesn't mean a lot to the public, and since Jerry wasn't pimping his past, there was little comparison.

Jerry likely won't need to attempt to manipulate the press as he moves along, though his affable and knowledgeable nature is a unique change from his predecessor. Will he make changes fast? Will he ignore people trying to get in his way? Getting shit in gear is priority #1, and everyone's waiting.

Oddly enough, I spent much of election day in jury duty. Those of us who can form complete sentences and bathe regularly were complaining that we didn't think it would be today...but here we were. As I attempted to relax while I sat in a mildly more comfortable DMV, I started to wonder how this election would work out. And then, a bolt of knowledge hit my brain: Hey! Look around here - this is essentially the electorate. On face value, take a guess on how you think this will work out.

Holy fuck.

This group...yeah, at least a half-dozen are having trouble maintaining brain function. It's a miracle that they even arrived. One man is wearing white long-johns and stone wash overalls. He has a giant beard. We're all wondering how he made it from Needles to Burbank in time.

Minutes after arriving, the woman in charge continues to talk and eventually berate the guy sitting to my left. He is told on 4 different occasions to complete a form. This man might be in charge of someone's judgement. I wince at the notion. After his form was finally completed, the woman in charge now is doing a final roll call for all of those who may serve today. "Please say 'here' aloud, and take one of these ID cards." The first 5 people called do not move until well afterward. The look on this woman's face must be that of a first grade teacher. Yet, all around me, are "adults."

Can you imagine being in a court case? You are either innocent, or the verdict should clearly go your way...and then you look to your right and see 12 mouth breathers. Not a feel-good view, eh? Life never seemed so unbalanced as that moment. The litigants in the lobby were nervous as it was...seeing my fellow jurors had to scare them shitless.

During a break, I went outside to enjoy the 87 degree day (I live in Dealville, and that's how the temps go out here for November). In process of leaving, I saw a policeman spend roughly 10 seconds trying to enter through the exit door of the court. "Did they change it?" he asks his partner. I'm pretty sure that cop, for the record, is not in favor of being paired with a rookie.

Eventually we were released...free to vote and live life. But I couldn't help but wonder what was going through the foggy minds of the other people. Were they thinking about their votes? Were they focused on a specific election? Or were they in a rush because McRib is back?! Well, Jerry, these are the people you get to lead. You've been here before. As you've seen, this group is an easily leadable one...what's first?

The Two Sides of College Football

There is a duality to college football, and it is not a perfect fit. The two sides do not complete each other. And yet, with one comes the acceptance of the other…and people like me keep looking for a parlay to make a big score. To wit:

The football team is generally the largest revenue generator for the athletic department. With television contracts getting larger, and exposure easier and easier for schools, the likelihood for all schools to be on TV at least once is nearly guaranteed. At worst, it is a regional audience – normally, it is a national audience. And yet…the players receive no compensation. That is, unless you consider a free education compensation. And if you believe that is equal, you believe that the players were brought there and chose to go there ONLY because of the education. We both know that isn’t true. But that’s how those two go together.

“Boosters” are involved in the sport, as if football needed more attention at these schools. As stated, this is the generally the biggest cash cow for a school. And yet…there are plenty of folks who went to that school and are still in town ready to help. They want to see State U get better and better, so “fundraisers” (for, in some cases, PUBLIC SCHOOLS) happen so that cash is around. Local businessmen are also involved, with cash and promises, helping with “summer jobs.” Agents are there, for the bigger players, and their arrival brings riches…now, and in the future.

Players commit acts that, if it were a “regular” student, would have them suspended or, worse, kicked off campus. And yet…a coach protects his players as long as his job isn’t on the line. Read this week about Urban Meyer at Florida, reinstating Chris Rainey. Chris threatened to kill his “girlfriend” and was arrested for stalking. Chris was suspended. But then, the Gators lost two games in a row. That means it’s time for someone to magically “learn their lesson” and come back to help the team, right, Coach? It’s only been over two-dozen players arrested since Urban became a coach for Florida.

Does that make him a bad coach? Or is he simply delusional, as college football is with the rest of the country? And, further, how the country can brush it aside and believe what it wants to believe? That as long as State U wins, all is right with the world?

Reading about Urban and Chris brought to mind the biggest load of “he learned his lesson” shit to EVER come down the college sports pipe: Tom Osborne and Lawrence Phillips at the University of Nebraska in the mid-90s. Lawrence was a good football player and a colossal fuck-up in life. Lawrence beat up his “girlfriend,” pulled her down 3 flights of stairs by her hair, choked her, and threatened to shoot her in the knees. (That’s a summary, by the way) He was suspended…NOT kicked off the team.

And yet…

Coach needed that big win. It was the national championship game. He spoke with him…Lawrence apologized. Tom said "It's not as though Lawrence is an angry young man all the time and a threat to society. I don't believe that. But there are occasions every four to five months when he becomes a little explosive." Read that again and see if you can tell me what the FUCK that means. By January, there was Lawrence, dominating in the title game. Tom gets another title. Go Huskers! All is right in Nebraska.

We’ll have to assume the mentoring stopped the moment the clock ended. Since that game, Lawrence has plead no contest to beating up a woman in a bar, stole a car and ran over 3 teens after a pick-up game, picked up 3 additional domestic violence charges, and a list of other charges. He’s got roughly 30 years left in California prison.

And yet…

The Cornhuskers won the national title! Remember?! Funny how, when Phillips was charged with driving over the teens, Osborne (now a senator, which shows you what the public in Nebraska thinks of all this, and Coach) had no comment. Of course he didn’t.

This is a sport that is filled with schools breaking rules (whether you agree with the rules or not), schools with nearly every athletic team on probation. You’d think all this shadiness would keep me away – to look at it as criminal. I’d be painting a broad brush, sure, but it looks that way from the top down. And yet…is that nutty parlay going to come in to bring instant riches?! Hmm…North Carolina just suspended more players…probably shouldn’t bet them this week, huh?

The Gift That Lasts Year-Round

Wow, look at all this food. Good 'n brown!

Yeah, just like our kitchen. Hey - Joe Namath?!

That's right, kids. You might be late buying a gift for this blog on its 5th Birthday, but anytime is the perfect time for a Hamilton Beach Fry All. Chicken, French Fries, Onion Rings and more can be made with this fantastic appliance. And for easy cooking, Hamilton Beach's Meal Maker boils, steams and fries your favorite game-time foods. Remember, Pacific Gold for writing on swanky times, and Hamilton Beach for your kitchen.

A Day of Labor

(Editor's Note: Trip Darvez once again dips into his archives of columns from the L.A. Reader, a defunct weekly newspaper. This is from September, 1979.)

It was simply an innocuous comment…something said at the Rainbow…just before a few drinks at On the Rox. I was finishing dinner with a group of friends, and it was the kind of talk that you get into, waiting for the bill with the last remnants of the drink in front of you. Casual talk in quick situations can lead to trouble.

Next thing I knew, instead of doing the report on Cable TV in the coming decade, I had volunteered to watch the entire Jerry Lewis telethon. Well, not volunteered so much as bet that I could. Of course I could do it.

Just past 5PM, I nearly forgot that it was time to go in until I could hear my neighbor on his deck…such a fucking loudmouth ever since he got the 50ft. cord. He’s practically shouting to a distant relative, and had I not thought of the “reach out” jingle, I’d have forgotten the wager. But there I was, on KTLA, ready to be entertained. Jerry is full of pep as well. As he begins with a spiel on the purpose of this event, I am quickly going over ground rules and realizing: all I have to do is be in the room while it is on. This sounds flexible, but it’s actually difficult...a lass is sitting on my kitchen counter, eating cookies. I hear loud noises, but here on the couch I sit. Knowing I’m cookie-less, and answering her question that yes, I am being paid to write about this, she leaves. Thank god – I need to concentrate.

You can’t have a show-stopping act at the start – it would stop the show immediately. Instead, Charlie Callas comes out after an overly pro-longed introduction which made me think Jack Benny had been brought back to life. Charlie goes through his routine (the casinos mentioned in his introduction are in Reno, which is…whatever) and is met with perfectly timed guffaws. As I wonder if this is an audience that will laugh at anything (then be given free buffet coupons after spending 2 hours in their chairs) a trombone player accidentally plays a note. Charlie responds with “Hey, don’t blow me off yet.” I actually laugh at Charlie for the first time.

Post-dinner (and realizing I am now missing my Famous Amos goods) Jerry is busy introducing titans of industry. The president of Hickory Farms talks of his “product” – don’t they realize I just ate? Then again, we’ll have to swing by a store…when is that mall in Sherman Oaks opening up, anyway? This guy just referred to something called “Beefstick Central.” Am I ever going to see the money of this bet?

About an hour later (what happened to the time doesn’t need to be written about…certainly not here) I see Jerry mentioning that Kiss will be on next. Now THIS will be a meeting…wait…videotape. I can only imagine the pissed off teens and pre-teens at this. Kiss may “sure know something” and that is: why not record a video and save yourself the trouble?

The local part of the telethon comes back on, and someone named “Winston Earl” has just pledged $5. I make phone calls…lights out at the neighbor’s house. I am told on the other end of the phone that I sound dejected. It’s true…I won’t last…not like Jerry. Maybe I’m fueled by the wrong thing, but I decide to put my speakers on my deck and aim toward the basin. The next act on the telethon will get a booming projection over the city for one full minute.

Englebert Humperdinck?!

Take ten, Jerry. My ten. Back to the bottle.

My many months of living dangerously

It was here on this very blog where I wrote of the brick wall that was in front of me at the network. I was exhausted, at my wits end, "sick of the bullshit." I thought I had found a new, creative outlet for my talents. It would satisfy that aspect of work, freshen my thoughts, and if the pay wasn't that great at the start, who cares?

Well, maybe I'm too optimistic. Maybe my "glass half full" mentality got into the way of reality, which should have been "this glass is filled 1/2." Emotion was my driver, and any changes that I would have made are waaaaay back in hindsight. But just how does one live dangerously in Dealville, avoiding "vitamins" because you think someone in your future might not approve?

The first couple of months were easy - working on ideas, frequent visits with producers of other shows, meetings, so on. I remember returning 6 packs of Sunset Wheat Leine's to the liquor store, and being happy that I was out of that hellhole. However, if you tell anyone you're in that line of work (production, writing, so on) you are supposed to give an example of your work that is so well known, people can judge you immediately and rank you appropriately. Saying things are "in development" leaves you an open book to many...quite possibly yourself as well.

A few months into this, I am chatting with then-current Pacific Gold writer Steve Simpson. We are discussing gambling. I lament that since my "boss" went home for the holidays, I "feel like Potsy. All I'm doing is gambling and eating." He replies that yes, that's accurate, but my volume isn't nearly as large. As the new year began, our concepts continued to lead to nothing but talk: "hearing things" "things might be happening" "it's just a matter of time until" "we'll wait and see." I am getting itchy. After a few months of this, I meet with another producer and we pitch a game show idea I've thought of. He likes it...is willing to help...we lament it would be hard to do a pilot for my concept, but we could sell it. It lies there like last week's wet newspaper.

That's it, gotta find something else. As I've said...these are not those times. And yet, I have interviews with my former employer but in a separate department. It's a job of minor consequence. I am excited as it would cover me for the "down time" of game show production. Reality smirks at me. I ignore it. Immediately after that misguided effort, I am told of a lower-level programming job at GSN - excellent. I can continue the game show vibe, and get back into what I know. I don't get the job - they have candidates with 5+ years experience doing EXACTLY THAT lining up. They send me a rejection letter two months later.

Success seemed around the corner - a fully funded pilot, taping at KTLA. I don't end up doing any kind of work of consequence at the taping, and this is apparently a clerical error. I started to wonder why, leading up to this, wasn't I placed anywhere. Is anyone in charge here? Shit, do they know I'm here?!

Each month was a slow build toward something...a return to what I know, and more importantly, a return to golden life. It was as slow as a ramp built to jump the Pacific Ocean, but I could sense it happening. In-between, I tried to keep my mind off the obvious, as anyone would in the chase. I went on vacations to clear my head. I did pick up work with a distributor who, through osmosis, had me dragging out of gold land and into Canadian trailer parks. My head was at the horizon line...sink or swim.

And now, as "summer" nears its unofficial end, I swim. And I swim in waters which are perfectly tailored to my interests. Not testing peanut butter. Not researching "makeover my mom" shows. Research for HORROR SHOWS. I am a happy man, and a lucky one, but prepared. How could I not be? I've just finished a marathon I never thought I was running...it was supposed to be a jog in the park.

The lesson, in all of this: When times are gold, you never settle. Yet, when times AREN'T gold...you find yourself doing exactly that. Some of it might be inconsequential. But you know you're doing it. And if you have any brain at all (or, maybe it's the Midwestern in me) you adjust the economics. So it'll be Aim toothpaste. That's fine. Ivory is cheaper, so it'll add up, right?

There's nothing gold about that kind of mind-set, but the lesson can be learned easier when you bend to how life treats you. Give yourself over to gold and, over time, you get it. And sweet Moses me, it is good to be back. Put the pork n beans back on the shelf; lamb chops always were your speed, right? Success is something to be shared to all those who live and envision this.

(raises glass)

An evening with Trip Darvez

Editor's Note: I received a missive from Pacific Gold writer Trip Darvez on Friday afternoon to meet up for a "state of things" update. I suggested a "brewpub" in Hollywood. He agreed.

However, it was my mistake when I considered "the parking situation" currently in Hollywood. Both of us arrived late...naturally, I arrived first. I was enjoying a good, strong beer when Trip stormed in. We were both a bit off due to said parking problems.

"What the fuck is this? It's like you have no choice now...you're gonna pay for parking when you come to Hollywood. That's it."

Hollywood's city councilman, best friend to construction and demolition companies, and general dipshit Tom LaBonge ensured this would happen by not only placing parking meters everywhere, but giving them 1 hour limits...even through Friday night! We were stunned. Trip was merciless.

"That fuck...they don't nickel and dime you enough around here?! He wanted a giant W hotel on Vine...just to raise the rates. Then, he allows an outdoor club, right below the rooms. I bet the tourists like that. Bet it's not in the brochure!"

I attempted to give a "what are you gonna do?" attitude to Trip, but it didn't make a difference. He calmed down when our Nordic Lass of a waitress would come by...but the beer was not putting out the fire. We hit the bricks to wander up and down this street...to see the change, good and bad.

"I feel like...you know, we see something cleaned up, like those apartments...and I like that. I remember when that was bombed out. But then I remember when I first came out here...a lot of punks lived there. That place was fucking rocking. Now...it's nice...but listen to how loud it is with all these fucking clubs. All these girls waiting to get in."

I ask if it was noisy then...and he agrees, to a point. I remind him that we are in a gigantic city...one where each fire truck that goes by acts like the entire city is burning to the ground. There's always going to be noise.

"Yeah, but not as much then."

Wasn't that...I don't know, over 30 years ago?

"Fuck off."

We see these clubs, and we can see what others can't. Or, specifically, refuse to look at. Inside, the club is essentially empty. Outside, a line 50 feet deep of girls, wearing next to nothing. I don't hear him complaining. Instead, after we pass another...

"I feel bad for these girls. They're all dressed up, looking ready to fuck but will give YOU a dirty look if you glance at them...which is the point, right? But they're gonna be in line for another hour or so...and by this point, they let everyone in. They get a drink...comically overpriced. They go home. They pretend it was fun."

Yes, Trip. But it was their choice. My point is met with silence. We continue to walk.

What you may not know is that I unknowingly met Trip before he started writing for this blog near 5 years ago at a notorious Hollywood dive, Power House. The jukebox was top notch, the drinks cheap, and the bathroom disgusting. We both lived close enough to walk...we would both be in there. And then, one afternoon (during the week...which seemed strange since there were other derelicts inside as well) Trip brings in a bag-full of hamburgers from Burger King next door. We ate and talked...and were drunk in public at 5PM. No one cared.

I remember noticing, before my first move to the west side, that I hadn't seen Trip in a while. Maybe he was arrested, or evicted, or on assignment. Then I entered Power House...and saw all the lights on. I was given a plastic cup for a drink. It cost more. I recognized no one. I quickly fled...and had yet to return to Hollywood to drink. Coincidentally, neither had Trip.

To break our silence (conversational silence) I remind him of the 'good ol days' just to get Trip talking.

"Yeah, runaways, hookers, that kind of thing. I kind of get flashbacks, seeing all these sluts...but they're not that kind of prostitute."

It isn't necessarily late, but I can tell Trip is itching to leave this city council annoyance. I get into his 1979 Plymouth luxury car, and Little River Band's "Help is on the way" is blaring...after some prodding, he agreed to turn it down. Now...just why did I get into his car when I drove separately? I have no idea. But he's out of gas, and, as with everything else around here...the prices are a tad inflated. I point out a Mobil on LaBrea, and he tells me "give him some cash."

Now, why should I fill HIS tank? Forget it...so I

"HELLO SIR, GOOD EVENING. HOW MAY I HELP YOU?"

Holy Shit...a cashier on uppers! This is sensational. He must be working the all night shift. Trip would love this, but he's not getting out of the car.

"$2 ON NUMBER 9, THANK YOU SIR." I remember Rich Hall once said that getting gas out here is like placing a bet at a race track.

I return to tell Trip that I need a ride back to my car, essentially on the other end of Hollywood.

"Can't man...gotta get home. I'll send ya something."

So...I've got a long walk ahead of me, and he doesn't notice $2 bought half a gallon. In his beast, that won't get him far. Eventually, I made it home...and called Trip to see if that gas was, indeed, enough to get him home.

"No, man, why? I'm just having some M&M's on the floor. Why - we talking deals?"

Goodnight, Burbank

I remember when I had started to move things to this rental house in Burbank - a gigantic mistake in the realm of my life. Real Estate mistakes are so painful because, often times, it takes at least a year to correct. So, I was returning to my old place to get a few last things and...oh my is it not hotter than shit over here. This is nice. So is everything else. Oh well.

Having eventually settled in to a better place in Burbank, I quickly found the advantages. I already wrote of why I liked it so, but a return visit yesterday spelled it out. I finished running 4 errands in under 30 minutes...something unlikely to occur here in the new neighborhood. And I do like the proximity of Beverly Hills...it just puts a spring in your step. But, you know, if you are driving to the bank, and you have to use Rodeo Drive because it is the entrance to the underground parking lot, well...you drive on it. And it does not move as smoothly as, say, Lima Avenue in Burbank. I've got to dodge the tourists, and go around the window shoppers. This 1 task has now taken 30 minutes, seemingly out of nowhere. I have no want to complete any other tasks. What has happened to the day, I ask you?

Had you visited me in Burbank, there would have been the great Southern California myth, Street Cleaning. But that's it. No permits, no other rules. The new neighborhood? I'm not actually sure if you're allowed to walk on the streets on certain days. Shit, these are the same rules in most of Beverly Hills, including streets with a lot of homes. You want friends to come over, and then remind them to move the car a foot every hour? Of course not.

So, what is it about this side of town that is such a stickler? Is it because they KNOW that it's a "better neighborhood" and therefore nickel and dime you with red tape and fees? Is it the unbelievably cash-strapped State of California, who's governor is considering putting ADS ON YOUR LICENSE PLATE?! Maybe that's it. Or maybe it's the fact that people are always out to fuck your shit up.

This is still Dealville. This is still the goal. It's just a recurring surprise when you remember how hard it is to live the completely easy life. Sure, there have been times when I sat on a beach drinking Riunite straight from the bottle, and I didn't have a care in the world. The same rules applied. I was likely drinking away a street cleaning ticket at the time. I didn't care, because it was $30, and I was lazy. It's just that now, a ticket of such minor consequence has doubled and sometimes tripled that it makes one pause. That, to amble around a neighborhood, parking now costs $10 when it used to be free. And I start to wonder if it's worth it.

Wait, what the fuck am I saying?

Well, it is...for now. The ads on the plates? I'll be one of the first on my way back to Halewia, starting my own low power radio station. Or something. Right?

A theme song for this blog

You'll have to ignore the brief BBC identification before it begins...

From the Los Angeles Basin...

30 years ago premiered a late night show that was strictly and nearly by definition a "California" show. And, with the success of Saturday Night Live, ABC wanted in on the game. They weren't exactly meeting with producers and saying that, but it's what they wanted. The timing was ripe as well - by April of 1980, the original cast and writers of SNL were about to leave.

There's a very detailed history of the show here (if you can fight through the ads) but I'd like to focus on the premiere. As you can imagine, there's a lot of reasons why those of us here like this show (largest being that it's funny) but you simply can't deny the energy of this show. I'd like to think the scenery has a lot to do with it, but it's just as much the audience. Early SNL still had a bit of a theater vibe to it...but this was clearly a TV show produced in a TV town with an audience ready to laugh. That helps, and is also pretty rare for a 1st episode.

But how do you address the elephant in the room? You're a live late night sketch comedy show with musical guests. Sure sounds a lot like SNL. Might as well get it right out of the way...
























We first see the producers giving the actors a pep talk...only to cut to each cast member in an SNL's costume. As they continue to drill into the actors that they are NOT a clone of the show, they all nervously agree. Later, a crawl comes on the screen explaining why they did this, which in itself was something SNL did...and they address that too. They weren't going to ignore the inspiration, even if it wasn't admitted. Perhaps this was done just as much to put the audience at ease at well. There's no doubt it won them over, because most everything done in this episode was devoured.














The opening titles, unlike SNL, showed cast members around LA. We see a hot tub in the hills, the pier, Venice Beach, Flipper's Roller Boogie, and the Roxy. Lest we forget the two cast members who formed a relationship here on the show to pave their way for gold a decade later.
























Larry David and Michael Richards aren't the same in terms of comedic delivery, but there's no doubt that, with Seinfeld, they compliment each other with the zest of a burrito and cheese sauce.
























Kenny Loggins is the first musical guest, and in multiple analysis of this show I've heard that, due to the facilities, the sound on this show was excellent. Certainly beat 30 Rock for the go...but we're looking at a transfer of a show from 3 decades ago that looks like it was left in the sun. Plus, that picture on top actually shows the fade through sunset to the night. GOLD. On the bottom is Jack Burns, head writer and announcer for the show. While he wouldn't usually appear in sketches, he would start off the show and introduce any guests. And check out that Fridays satin jacket! I once bid on a Fridays jacket that wouldn't have fit me. But it didn't matter. I mean, look at that. That means L.A. business, right there.














Jack introduces Michael, who spends the first minute of his routine with false-starts and bizarre, nervous sounds. A joke or two is told. One of which, beginning with "knock knock" (and an enthusiastic "WHO'S THERE?!" from the crowd leads him to say "Oh, you've heard that one before?" The director gets on the horn and begs him to introduce the first sketch which is...
























A couple nervously awaits their daughter's visit, and her guest, Ken. After the initial embrace, in comes Ken...a cross between the hunchback and Igor. "You didn't tell me you were dating a...uh...monster." says Dad, while Ken takes another opportunity to freshen up. "We're not dating! Ken's gay." (Which, 30 years ago, gets laughs and applause) Ken reminds the couple that he's just a regular guy and, after showing his mime routine, the family goes out to celebrate.

After the sketch ends, we see everyone go off-stage to change and rabble-rouse. In later episodes, they did this with the musical guests once they finished, and it was always fun to see the hangers on and deal-I mean, "friends" of the band in their lounge.
























Furthering the thoughts of this being an L.A. version of SNL, is "Friday Edition" - their news update. The above piece shows a field story of the tragic annual "Muppet Hunt" in "Henson, CA" where they are killed for their pelt. And if there was any doubt of this process, they then go to Rodeo Dr. to see she latest Muppet fashion. "Once, they warmed our hearts. Now, they warm our bodies."













Following this, two old friends meet up at a bar for a drink...and while they have their conversation, each sip comes out of their mouths when they talk. Not exactly high comedy either way, but it was short and it got those initial laughs. Watching this likely reminded me of a double standard the SNL fans had in this brief moment (the start of the disastrous 6th season of SNL pretty much sent those people right to Fridays) would consider this cheap. Yet, SNL had just as tacky humor that is now viewed as "classic."













Kenny Loggins then performs his first song to an adoring crowd. Digging that "Hotel California" background, huh? Kenny finishes his second song, "This is It," by going right up to the crowd. His enthusiasm is rewarded with a standing ovation!
























Next, a PSA on helping the inner city residents. This man used to be a part of this group of people until now...he's spending his time in Beverly Hills, "helping" people. Or, "affluent honkies" as the acronym for this program mentions the joy of serving food poolside, or watching your just-cleaned Mercedes leave with a happy teen and his friends peeling out the driveway. This is living, as the program helps blacks to help whites, "the way God wanted it to be." This kind of satire was done in a slightly more muted tone on SNL. I would guess that Garrett Morris would be game for such a sketch, but by this time writers there had him actually dressed as a monkey in a Wizard of Oz sketch.













Next is the first bomb of the night: office workers demand "it." They want "it." A doctor then comes in, strips to the above outfit, and does some version of a tribal dance. This satisfies Larry's character. End of sketch. Um...yeah.













Michael Nesmith and William Dear, who would in the following year deliver their own sketch comedy program, made the above commercial parody. It sneaks up on you, that camera angle.
























The winning streak returns when a man who claims to be consistently ignored arrives at a plastic surgeon's office because he's read this doctor can make you look like celebrities. His desired celebrity? Howdy Doody. "Can you handle the responsibility?" The doctor refuses to do the surgery ("I won't have this doody on my conscious"), but the man will pay in cash, so...the transformation is above and a complete success!
























Being a famous celebrity (or looking like one) has its advantages. You can score tables at fancy restaurants. You can hold your breath in punch bowls. Ah, Mr. Doody! Hello, Mr. Doody! Sadly, this is a "no ending" sketch as we just see Howdy walk down the street, accepting accolades while the v/o of his doctor continues to ramble. There's no way you'd know how far they would take this sketch...it was used in many episodes randomly in the future. We'd see someone complaining to the police of lewd conduct...but then who walks down the street? "Well, hello Mr. Doody! Have a good day Mr. Doody!" It's an interesting idea...it plans on you already knowing the first sketch, yet if you DON'T know it, makes you not want to be an outsider. Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. I had a boss once who used to greet me this way. Inside jokes are the best.













Next is a sketch of the first day of class of the Los Angeles school for doormen. As we know, Larry has a comedic soft spot for doormen. You can imagine how long the class (and sketch) lasts. But, it gets the laugh and moves on.
























The final sketch of the night is one that's placed here in the show for a reason (as you'll see). It's poker night, with their wives at a movie. As each guy boasts of how other women want them, the doorbell rings. What a surprise, it's well-dressed women...whores! "Hi, we're whores. We came by to talk to you about our product." After handing out menus, the guys immediately begin to have second thoughts. "Are you really whores?" "Well, they prefer us to use 'genital engineers' but whatever is fine with me." Things seem to be out of their price range, so they suggest a "group plan." One by one we see each guy's face with their final thought: "What if I'm gay?" (Again, more laughs) "Wait, our wives!" Oh, well, then you won't be needing us. Back everyone goes. Yet another sketch I can't see anyone at SNL doing...or probably getting to air.

























Cast member MaryEdith Burrell says goodbye for the cast and highlights their musical guests in the upcoming weeks. Planned or otherwise, she left out The Clash, who would be on in a few weeks. That video is around the internets...I highly recommend it. For the credits of each episode, you see a Polaroid picture of whoever's name scrolls by. Really cool idea, and gave them another chance to sneak in something.

Critically, the response was to hold this up to the current SNL and claim it nothing more than the sham that, in development, it might have been. SNL producer Lorne Michaels had the same agent as the producers of this show (and MC Jack Burns as well). The fact that this agent represented everyone was not lost on ABC, and therefore taken as a personal hit by Michaels. He didn't watch the show. As for the viewers, with new episodes running through to the summer, it cultivated its fan base to the point where its ratings were higher than SNL. Again, that link at the start of this article gives detail on the rise and fall of this show.

It was a brief run - 2 calendar years. It likely wouldn't be nearly as remembered had not Larry and Michael gone on to larger fame. But when it comes to gold, specifically that from California, there are few shows that combined the two so well. Wait...I can think of more...I'd better stop.