You're Wearing a Cynthia Mask

I went to see Robyn Hitchcock on Saturday. He is probably my favorite songwriter. I didn't realize you could take a camera inside, so these pictures are from my mobile.





Grant Lee Phillips made a special guest appearance, playing with Robyn acoustic and later with the full band. When he came out I yelled for the song "I Feel Beautiful," and they played it. It was kind of amazing.




Robyn's backing band was some of the guys from The Minus 5, who opened the night. I had never listened to them before, they were really great. Kind of like really early Wilco.






Everyone was on stage for the closing song, "I Wanna Destroy You," a tune from Robyn's old band Soft Boys. He dedicated it to President George W. Bush.

"It's Our Day"

I'm going to try to keep whining to a minimum in this blog overall, but I'll warn you this post has some.

Lots of folks asked how my Valentine's Day was. To be honest, it was kind of shitty. I worked from 4pm until 7:30am the following morning outputting a cut of a show that probably our executive in development will never actually watch. However, I escaped briefly to enjoy a delicious dinner Morgann made, as well as some Diddy Riese cookies Carly came through with. Lauren and Carrie provided additional humor and hospitality. Oh, and I baked cupcake-style brownies with chocolate chips, a hint of almond, and Reese's peanut butter cups in the center. So if you look at it that way, I spent Valentine's Day eating, drinking, and enjoying the company of four of the hottest girls I know. So what am I complaining about?

It's not commercialism or having no actual Valentine's date or even working obscene hours that I wanted to write about. It's my heritage. Allow me to explain:

I went to the gym that morning. My gym recently changed ownership and is now called SoCal Sports Club, but it's still run by the same type of guys. Italians. Why is it that Italian guys always run gyms? And they all look like they could be related to Lou Ferigno. I mean, I'm sure in southern California running a gym is extremely lucrative. And I'm pretty sure Italians love money, though I don't want to generalize. I certainly like it.

So the new owner, Jimmy, who answers "Fuggidaboudit" to most questions, is having a conversation with a large guy standing near me, and he finishes the chat with, "Hey, Al from Chicago wanted me to tell you Happy Valentine's Day. This is Our Day, pal."

For those that don't immediately pick up on the reference, the Al from Chicago is Al Capone, and he's talking about the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, initiated by Capone's mafia against competing bootlegger "Bugs" Moran. It was probably the bloodiest unsolved mob killing of its time. Now, was Jimmy being sarcastic? I'm not sure. While Italians often claim to want to break free of that gangster stereotype, most of us glorify it, even envy it. Italians like to be bad ass.

And by Italians, I mean third or fourth generation Italians living in the States. I've been to Italy a couple times. Real Italians are not tough. They're actually kind of sissy. They dress in super-tight jeans, wear sunglasses that are more like face shields, ride Vespas, and live with their parents until they're nearly 30. I've seen grown men get slapped in the head by their grandmothers over there.

But Italians in the States ooze machismo. And they talk to each other in these tough guy accents. You're not from the Bronx, ok gym guy? You've probably never even been to New York. Oh, and you guys from Boston, stop talking like that also. Using language from "The Sopranos" or calling pasta sauce "gravy" doesn't make you Italian.

Everyone stop trying to out-Italian the other guy, you all sound like morons. These guys will tell competing stories like, "Oh man, my grandmudda would spend 10 hours a day cookin' for us guys, wit da pasta and the capicola and the brooshetta." It's pronounced "brooSKettah." Learn some basic phonetics if you're going to try to impress me with your ethnicity. These guys never talk about Italian stuff they themselves did either, just stuff their justifiably more Italian ancestors did.

Given, being Italian is about pride. It's about family, history, quality of life. It's in the food, the music, the scenery. It's not in the killing. Or in the accent. Or in the tough guy posturing. So check your tired routine at the door, you're ruining my workout.

"Night Court" and the Backlash of Conservatism

One of the benefits of having digital cable is that I'm able to relive many of my favorite childhood programs. Ok, so I didn't used to watch "Banacek," but golly, that George Pepard is such a charmer. And who doesn't love re-runs of "Alf?"

Though of all my rekindled television flames, the standout is "Night Court." Set in New York, "Night Court" (1984-1992) chronicled the antics of an off-beat judge and his cast of sarcastic clerks presiding over Manhattan's most bizarre petty crimes. It's where Harry Anderson (and Richard Moll) made names for themselves. Oh, and it has one of the best instrumental theme songs ever.

But I never realized how overtly conservative the themes in the show are. In the first episode I watched, a non-English speaking Russian man, threatened with jail time, pours gasoline on himself and holds the court hostage. Judge Harry talks the guy down, in the process pointing out how awful things must be where he's from. Can you say Cold War?

The 1980s also saw the birth of the "Say No to Drugs" campaign. "Night Court" mirrored the efforts of Nancy Reagan by showing various misuses of substances lead to disaster. Characters end up climbing walls, licking tables, passing out in the hallways, and generally make asses of themselves and end up either feeling really crappy or saying, "Boy, I'll never do THAT again."
The theme of capital gain equalling happiness is a frequent one. The characters often pine after winning lottery tickets or even lucrative class action suits. In one episode Dan Fielding even goes so far as to say, "Money can't buy happiness... it buys the things that make happiness." Incidentally, he also mentions getting investment advice from Dick Cheney.

Dan Fielding embodies everything sleazy about the 1980s. Mostly it's womanizing, as he constantly objectifies the female form. In one episode, he refers to a woman as "Mrs. So and So," and the woman corrects him by saying, "It's Ms. (pronounced Miz)," to which Dan replies, "Oh, my mizzzzzstake!"

But Dan's not the only one dishing out the sexism. Harry and Bull also use the terms "broads," "chicks," and "babes," with frequency. Not only that, the female characters are patronized by the writers, painted as soft defenders of humanity with raging emotions, always quick to cry or slump down defeated. And temporary! The show went through 4 female public defenders before Christine Sulllivan, 3 female bailiffs before Roz (ok, Selma Hacker died, it's still a statistic), and about 300 different girlfriends for Harry Stone. If they were too emotionally stable, for example a successful musician or writer, Harry usually dumped them, saying his work in law came first.

The liberal politics of the 1970s led to a massive backlash of conservatism in the 1980s, and I'm realizing now that "Night Court," for all its hilarity, is often just a thinly veiled vehicle for that. Will social consciousness overtake my nostalgia? My DV-R argues the statute of limitations has run out on this one.

Stave it Off, 1, 2, 7

This is my seventh foodless day of the Master Cleanser fast. And the lemonade is starting to get incredibly boring. I actually look forward to those times in the morning when I have to drink a quart of salt water to flush my system, or nights when I arrive home at 2am to make my cup of herbal laxative tea, just for the variant in taste. And I dread those days when I have to visit the grocery store to purchase more spring water or maple syrup, and am forced to pass up fresh baked breads, artisan cheeses, and hell, even uncooked Pop Tarts are looking pretty great right now.

The first question people ask when they hear I'm doing this is not "why" because people in Los Angeles are so used to insane diet and health regimens that to not be flushing or peeling or expunging is abnormal. Instead, people ask, "How do you feel?" I think they expect a one-word answer, like "fine" or "shitty," which is why I like to keep people off-balance by elaborating. Because deep down, I know you really care about how I feel. Thus:

My energy level is pretty normal. I am lucid throughout the day, but I don't really do anything strenuous for fear of overexertion. The book says you can work out; I'm actually going to try that tomorrow. I'll be going to the gym mainly to see how much I weigh. My guess is I've lost about 15 pounds so far, which if you've ever hugged me or seen me in profile, you know to be substantial. My steam trails off a bit in the mid-to-late afternoon like most people, but I've found that it really ramps up around 6pm, so much so that I'm almost jittery. When I go to bed, I sleep very soundly.

The thing I notice most is that my senses feel heightened. I walked past a guy at work yesterday and asked, "Did
you have a cheesesteak for lunch?" He said, "Yeah, how did you know that?" "I'm Jesus," I replied. Then, "Just kidding. I'm God. Don't drive a car tonight." In general though, I'm very alert. So I'm going to test it at MOCA's Ecstasy exhibit to see what sort of inter(re)action happens.

That's how I'm feeling. How are you?

A Test of Your Pedante Broadcast System (PBS)

Mostly this is just to find out if anyone would actually read a blog I made. Because let's be honest - I don't have time for your disinterest. So if you think you'd read about me (and yes, this can substitute for having to talk to me), let me know. But I might as well say something useful since we're all here.

For those of you that don't know, I'm currently on The Master Cleanser. The Master Cleanser was developed by a guy named Stanley Burroughs back in the early 1940s as a way to eliminate toxemia, which from a holistic perspective is the build-up of toxins that inevitably cause illness and disease. The basic idea behind the cleanse is that by eliminating foods for a short period of time, you make your body's digestion energy available to the process of detoxification.

Basically it's like a low-brow colonic (which Burroughs says are really bad for you). You drink only lemon water with organic maple syrup and cayenne pepper in it for 10 days, along with salt water and laxative teas to flush your system. At the end of the fast, you've kind of zeroed out your colon, and you can ease back into your normal diet, or become a vegan or raw foodist like Burroughs suggests.

Rayjax and I embarked on this together. He'd done a shorter version before and liked it, so I said ok. Mostly I am doing this to see what my mental and physical limits are. There are many things I'd like to accomplish this year, and if I can not eat for 10 days (PS eating is my absolute favorite thing to do), I am capable of doing it all.

Right now it's day 3 of 10, and I'm not really that hungry, but the desire for a different taste in my mouth in strong. I actually drooled on myself this morning when a Jack in the Box commercial came on. And I have a bowel movement tally that is staggering. I'm losing weight surprisingly fast, and if I keep it up, I may start to look like Christian Bale in The Machinist - 30 pounds of head on a wiffle ball bat. But more importantly, I might start to go a little crazy, as I've read some people have coming down off the fast. I'll keep you posted.

9 Months and Counting.

This is the 15th night in a row that all my meals have come out of a shrink-wrapped container of some type. Maybe I’m being a whiney cheater by counting cereal or single-serving yogurt for breakfast, but I like streaks. I don’t think I’m alone, either. People love quantifying things, and they are more impressed if those things are consecutive. DiMaggio: 56 games in a row with a hit. Julia “Butterfly” Hill spent two years in a redwood tree to deter loggers from destroying the forests. The Simpsons are in their 14th season of cartoon hilarity. Ok, so maybe it’s not that funny anymore, but it’s still on television.

You always hear about amazing runs like these. But what about the mundane streaks, the sad streaks? No one says, “Hey, Jim made it 12 years at the Post Office before finally having a nervous breakdown.” Or, “Maggie stayed on hold for 47 minutes with her insurance company, just to sort out a billing error.” We’ll give out awards for how fast someone can eat 100 hard-boiled eggs, but the best a mother gets for fixing dinner for five for 19 years successively is one day a year in which the prizewinner receives chintzy cards, picked out moments before they were half-heartedly delivered. “Happy Mother’s Day, honey.” Obligatory kiss on the cheek.

I guess there’s a reason we only herald certain streaks. Some of it has to be an ego thing. I’d like to think I’m the only hero in Los Angeles spending two hours in deadlock at the end of his 12-hour day, just to get home to make dinner for his girlfriend. The truth of the matter is that, while I’m sure other motorists appreciate me not killing myself or anyone else on the “free”way, and I know the girl doesn’t overlook my sacrifices, I am hardly worthy of accolades. With no discernable talent and barely enough self-restraint to make it through the day, my successes are personal triumphs only. Joltin’ Joe I am not.

But I think my mother deserves a phone call.

It starts.

I have pens lying everywhere in my apartment, but as of yet, nothing to show for it. So let's see how the digital world works as a receptacle for watered down thoughts that have never escaped to paper, probably because my thoughts are a little too watery and the paper just a bit too papery.

Fingers crossed...