To begin, a small rant:

For the love of the ever living g*d, why the fuck does every damn theater in Los Angeles County insist on calling its space a theatRE?! We’re not in the UK! We don’t use cheques, the last letter of the alphabet is pronounced “zee” not “zed,” and cricket is a cousin of the locust, not a game.

I mean, really.

A can of pickled herring from the private stock of Dan the LA City Bureaucrat to the best answer to this question. Post your answer in the comments section. And no whining. My decision is final, dammit. It’s my smelly fish, and I’ll give it to whom I please.

I grew up in a part of San Diego called Rancho Penasquitos, which is Spanish for “Rancho Penasquitos.” The main shopping area, which came complete with a Jack In the Box AND a El Pollo Loco, was known as the Penasquitos Towne Centre. This irritated me, and not only due to the dearth of dining options, but because a friggin’ strip mall does not bring to mind Jolly ‘Ole England. It calls to mind Jolly ‘Ole Topeka, hardly the place I want swimming to mind when thinking upon the halcyon days of my youth.

But, anyhow…
»continue reading Theater Review: Betrayal

The play had started twenty minutes prior, and I had a weird feeling of unease. The house, stuffy from the stage fog, clouded my mind, and put the explanation just out of reach.

But then, as I watched a dramatic representation of the dying thoughts of a freshly beheaded obscure 19th Century Chinese woman, I figured it out: I just didn’t get it.

Sure, I get that Severance is made of vignettes, 30 mini-dramas of people (and one chicken) who suffer the misfortunate of leaving this earth in multiple pieces. I get that the play is supposed to be abstract, over-the-top and unsettling. And I even get that each piece is supposed to be 90 seconds long, the length of time the writer and director (Robert Olen Butler and David Jette, respectively) believe a decapitated head remains conscious.
»continue reading Theater Review: Severance

Vine and Banner streets, Hollywood

The Elephant Theatre sits on the eastern edge of Theater Row, an area bordered by the pompous beauty of West Hollywood and the unreconstructed grit of Hollywood proper. It’s a nasty, dirty part of town, one that gives that peculiar feel of guilt, horror and a strong desire for another $12 cocktail at a too-hip-to-have-a-name bar.

And it’s perfect.

“In Arabia We’d All Be Kings” is set in Hell’s Kitchen, a part of Manhattan noted for its honesty in advertising. Or, so it used to be. During the late 1990s, the ‘Kitchen closed, slowly morphing into hipster land, sporting high-end restaurants and no-name bars similar to the ones three blocks north of the Elephant.

The play itself takes place in a bar, and the characters themselves are like moving pieces of the beautifully designed set. They serve as archetypes of the neighborhood that was: the parolee, the whore, the druggie, the old drunk, a sycophantic bartender, opportunistic investors and a teenager with a hair-trigger.

The plot is loose, roughly revolving an imminent sale of the bar and its affect on the characters. Though clearly about gentrification, the play raises questions it does not intend to answer. Does the closing of the bar makes the characters lives better or worse? Is Hell’s Kitchen worth saving?

The plot, such that it is, clearly takes a back seat to the portraits of the characters, presented as a series of well-told vignettes. This is where the play shines. The acting and directing are fluid, the characters vibrant and real. During one particularly poignant part of the play, a woman behind me broke out into loud sobs. I had a lump in my throat myself.

In Arabia We’d All Be Kings
Elephant Theatre
6322 Santa Monica Blvd.
Friday, Saturday, Sunday 8 p.m., through March 17
Tickets and information

Jimmy Juice, Spring and 7th

McKenna, North Spring near I-5.

Dear Daily News,

It’s not you. It’s me. But our relationship has to stop. I can’t have you showing up at my doorstep at four o’clock each morning. I told my fiancee our relationship was over, and she’s getting upset.

Please don’t think I haven’t tried, Daily News. I did.

I remember the chilly day we met last year. A burly man with a name tag that read “Bud” called out to me. Daily News, he said, $24 for 12 months.

“And it comes with a $10 gift card,” said Bud. “So cheap, you don’t even have to read it.”

I remember laughing, Daily News. But then I felt bad that someone would sell you so short. You are clearly worth far more, and I wonder if that has affected your self-esteem.

I appreciated your local coverage and your jaunty red and blue masthead. I think your sports columnists are superior to those of the LA Times, and I like the fact that I can read you in 25 minutes, the time it takes for my Metrolink train to whisk me downtown.

But no more. We had three newspapers at the time: the LA Times, the NY Times and the Daily News. We were overwhelmed. Stacks of newsprint gathered in our home like an illustration in a Shel Silverstein poem.
»continue reading The Daily Dump

Jesus. I’m lost.

Where the hell is the Brentwood Theatre? (And where do they get off with the snotty British spelling of “theater” anyhow?) Allegedly at the corner of Wilshire and San Vincente, the theater is more accurately at the corner of Random Building and Raised Parking Lot in the far west corner of the Westside VA complex.
»continue reading Sister Sister Sister

Sam Shepard, a product of the Yale School of Drama and Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, is one weird mother. Often, you are hard pressed to figure out whether his statements are as odd or otherwise anachronistic as they appear — or just merely ironic. The play is a tough one, dealing with the dark side of fame, the inescapability of fate, the heredity of madness. Do you need to kill yourself to live? Could you stop yourself?

(Sam Shepard, interestingly enough, shares a similar name with Dr. Sam Sheppard, the doctor accused of bludgeoning his pregnant wife to death. That is, the plot line behind “The Fugitive.” Dr. Sheppard died in 1970, while the playwright Shepard still draws oxygen.)
»continue reading Flock to Shepard

“This is the emergency services coordinator. The report of smoke has been investigated by the Fire Department. It was apparently due to a toaster incident on the first floor. It is now safe to return into the building.”

First off, “toaster incident?” It sounds like the name of a neo-funk folk fusion band, perhaps playing on an off night at Spaceland.

Second, why would there be a PA announcement INSIDE the building that it was safe to return INTO said building? A hearty thanks from all of us up here on the top floors.

Third, City Hall has a PA system? Neat. I wonder if anyone has ever taken it over like Andy Dufresne in “Shawshank?”

As seen on the Lancaster Metrolink Line. Northbound, approximately 6:45 p.m. Wednesday, August 16. See its beauty, sense its shape. It is truly perfect.

Sitting just outside the federal building downtown, where masses of recent immigrants huddle to breathe free, is a much-loved Los Angeles landmark. Borne of a cracked sidewalk, lovingly poured in asphalt and welcoming us with open arms is The Man in the Concrete.

LJ: Good morning, Man in the Concrete. How are you doing?

MitC:

LJ: Great to hear. Does it hurt when large men step on your face?

MitC:

LJ: Huh. I wouldn’t have thought that. And birds?

MitC:

LJ: Oh God.

MitC:

LJ: Well, that’s all the time we have. Thanks for stopping by. No, please, don’t get up.

It sits on the third floor of Los Angeles City Hall, just beyond the prow of a ship emblem in the center of the polished floor. The bas relief cutter points to a nearby restroom, perhaps a symbol of the smooth-sailing goodness of a recently emptied bladder. This restroom seems normal enough: it has a wood door, the familiar male-sign triangle, and even the usual sharp tang of urine.

But this normalcy belies the true mystery found inside its cramped walls, for this room is haunted.

Several years ago, a normally unflappable colleague of mine sought relief in this most intimate of rooms. As the door creaked closed, he walked around the corner, following the nature call to the trio of urinals at the back corner.

This room also features five stalls, and inside one of these stalls was an average-looking man, if a tad short. The man had left the stall door open, and was contentedly peeing, seemingly oblivious to any other occupants.

His hair was red and spiked, and the clothes he wore seemed from another era, like the 80s. Presuming the man had simply lost his way from Silver Lake, my friend went about his business, washed his hands, and left.

After exiting, my friend remembered he had forgotten his keys on the bathroom sink, and reentered the room to retrieve them. The room is fairly small, 15 feet by 8 feet at most, and he fully expected to see the redheaded man again.

But he was gone. Vanished.
»continue reading Indiana Bureaucrat and the Urinal of Doom