N.Y. Boy in L.A.

A self-proclaimed New York Snob, Elizabeth Cooke doesn’t believe in living anywhere else.

A youth of the 60s, she is a follower of Kerouac, a hater of Bush, and would marry her packs of Parliament Lights if it were legal. With a mop of red hair and a penchant for black sweaters, Liz is one of those liberal kool kats you’d spot in old photos from the original Woodstock in which she could be testing out every drug known to man. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine her knocking back shots of whiskey at an underground jazz club somewhere in the West Village, swaying to the tunes of a saxophonist named Johnny K and bopping to the bass in a haze of smoke (of course, back when you could puff on cancer sticks in New York establishments).

Her signature rasp of a voice stands out among the faculty of Iona Preparatory. Liz, or Ms. Cooke to her students, teaches English and acts as a moderator of the drama club at the all-boys high school located in the northern heights of New Rochelle. She instructs an array of academics - dumb jocks, bookish loners, closeted artists - yet she silently knows who will succeed and do her proud in the future. She has her "special boys."

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The 1:15 a.m. Metro North train leaving Grand Central usually arrives at the New Rochelle station at approximately 1:47. My day in the city had ended. My stomach was filled with the tasty cuisine of Elmo, the Chelsea restaurant that introduced me to the passion fruit cosmo, and I was coming off the high of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes and seeing Jake Gyllenhaal walk down Bleeker Street.

Just as I was about to let the iPod lull me into a disco nap, I caught a glimpse of reddish brown hair and heard that unmistakable voice, that distinct smoker’s cough.

"Ms. Cooke?"

Before she could walk into the next car in search of a seat, Liz Cooke, follower of Kerouac, hater of Bush, turned around and did a double take.

"Oh my God," she rasped.

"Hiko Mitsuzuka. Class of ‘98?" The woman has seen a lot of boys pass through that prep factory in the past eight years, give her a chance.

"Of course! Oh my God." She turned to the bald gentleman who was carrying her jacket. Her husband, Gus. Another member of the Class of Woodstock ‘69.

The woman who was sitting in the row across from me got up and offered the seats to them so we could talk further. The "talk" was more of a review of names we knew from way back when. She asked about who I kept in touch with (sadly, a few), who was doing what (jobs, not drugs), and most importantly, what the hell have I been doing since I kissed those graffiti-free hallways of Iona goodbye. Turns out I was only one of two guys from my circle of friends who had moved off, out of town, out of state. When Ms. Cooke ("You can call me Liz now") learned of my move to La-La land, she seemed a little surprised and asked the two questions that always hit me when I come back to New York: "You like it? Ever think about moving back?"

I told her I loved it. I can’t imagine not living there.

"Wow, that’s good. Normally, I don’t hear that. Me? I can’t stand California." Spoken like a typical New Yorker. "You roller skate to the hottubs?"

Liz went on to repeat this bizarre roller skate comment later in the conversation. Apparently she thinks all Angelenos favor a good roll on the beach and pruning of the fingers in boiling water. As she stuttered off a list of more names from our past I noticed how she rocked back and forth in her seat, the glaze in her eyes.

My high school English teacher was drunk…or something else.

"Gus and I are coming back from watching a friend play a session in the Village. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m a little out of it, if you know what I mean."

Cut to my mental images: aging hipsters wearing berets and porkpie hats, smoke clouds, shots of whiskey…

I had to stifle a laugh. If the boys of Iona could see this now.

Liz beamed over my class, saying how special my group of friends were (damn right we were). I flashed back to our AP English class trip to Broadway to see Christopher Plummer perform in the one-man "Barrymore." There was the Tom Stoppard play in Hudson Park. The readings of Allen Ginsberg during an October thunderstorm. The acapella spring musical we endured ("My Favorite Year," if you’re wondering, in which I played a Phillipino boxer who was married to a brassy Jewish matriarch). My first fall play, a quartet of one-acts in which I had a non-speaking role as a supermarket shopper in "Ten Items or Less." My first cast party during which the boys participated in a Spice Girls lip-synch-off with the girls of The Ursuline School. Speech and debate tournaments. New Year’s Eve sleepovers. Reading "The Great Gatsby" and briefly romanticizing over the glitz of 1920s high society. Shouting out the lyrics to Meredith Brooks’s "Bitch" during dress rehearsals in the school gymnasium…

It is one thing to take a stroll down memory lane, but when the memory floodgates are opened, one flies down what I like to call the Nostalgia Highway.

And after this past weekend, I could have used an EZ-Pass.

I see a pattern developing during my visits to New York. Regardless of the nature of my trip, I will always run into at least one person from my past who will ask me those same questions I faced on that late-night commuter rail.

Here’s the thing. The first day back is always the same. The jarring differences between both cities hit me. At first, the idea of living in New York (city or elsewhere) loses its appeal to me. Sure, the energy is contagious, but the enclosure of the buildings can be stifling. I prefer some open flatlands now, the idea of driving out to places and seeing the scenery change, not feeling trapped on an island made of concrete and glass. I know some New Yorkers who never venture out beyond the George Washington Bridge. To them, travelling to Jersey is out of the question; Long Island is the beachy country to frequent during the summer. To them, I say go beyond the twenty or so miles. Realize there’s a whole country out there. NYC is arguably the center of the world, and if your pride is as big as Ms. Cooke’s, I mean Liz’s, it’s the center of the universe. You have good reason to feel that way. But may I suggest toning it down a notch. Open your mind and acknowledge the unexplored gems the rest of the nation has to offer.

Frankly, get over yourselves.

Wake up and notice why Manhattanites are starting to migrate out of the city. It’s an ironic move. New Yorkers boast about how great they have it, piquing the interest of newbies who move in to see what all the fuss is about, thus increasing the demand for new condominiums and high-rises (I never witnessed so much construction before) and increasing the dollar signs on property leases. Then, it’s out with the old, in with the new.

New York Friend #1: "I have everything I want within walking distance."

To which I reply, "Wonderful, but how many times can you stomach the same Thai take-out, the same artsy coffeeshop, the same neighborhood pub, the same face you want to avoid on the subway?"

Walking in the city will eventually bring you past the same landmarks…and then you have to walk back home. Sure, it’s good for the heart, all that cardio. But there’s a benefit to all the driving we do here in the City of Angels: We go further, we see more. Those aging NYC natives are getting the picture. They want to see more as well.

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Every street I turn down in Westchester serves me a flashback. Central Avenue: checking out the then-new Barnes and Noble in Hartsdale to buy Anne Rice’s "Queen of the Damned" on a frigid winter night. Wilmot Road: walking in the mud on the side of the road during a rainstorm to catch the bus down on North Avenue. Quaker Ridge Road: shelling out five bucks to walk through the New Rochelle Chamber of Commerce’s annual Haunted House and worrying I wouldn’t make it back home in time to catch the network television premiere of "A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child" (oh TiVo, where were you in 1992?).

And then I return to Los Angeles. I see the friends I have made, the unofficial family I have adopted, and I am welcomed back into the fold. I am surrounded by a rare few who share my trivial obsessions with the giggle-inducing references of "Veronica Mars," the random delight taken from a forgotten Jefferson Starship single, the totally odd sighting of Al Pacino in the West Hollywood Target, and the rejuvenation Rosie has thankfully delivered to "The View." Yes, we’re industry freaks. Get over it.

To say that I’m bicoastal is to repeat myself. That chapter was finished a while ago. What I am now is something different. What I am now is open, ready to catch the fastballs of the West that will propel me into the New, into the Next. What I am now is home.

And for the record: I’ve never gone roller skating. And hottubs? They’re called Jacuzzis. And I love ‘em.

H.P.M.

*Did I mention? Liz hates blogs too.

A disturbing trend is popping up in bookstores across America.

It is something that has bothered me for some time, and being the formerly enormous bookworm that I am (God, I was such the sad sight in the seventh grade), I feel an obligation towards tomorrow’s semi-literate generation to address this matter.

The "quality" young-adult novels I obsessed over during the early 90s are on the verge of extinction. The books my peers and I enjoyed not so long ago are hardly visible among the shelves of every Barnes & Borders throughout the land. No longer do the names Francine Pascal, Christopher Pike or R.L. Stine grace the uncracked spines of paperbacks. Instead, oversized softcovers with increasingly large fonts and flashy images of teen fashionistas, mystical creatures, and drugged-out deviants are taking over the reading sections that used to be found near the "baby" books. It seems as if the retailers want to avoid insulting their young readers by forcing them to hover near "Where’s Waldo" and "The Berestein Bears."

While I do appreciate the clever cover art and more sophisticated subject matter of today’s young-adult novels, I worry that the serialized teen thrillers of yesteryear will completely vanish off the shelves. How many frickin’ fantasy volumes featuring domesticated dragons and young warriors can one reader stomach? Next year Harry Potter will hang up the broomstick and bid adieu to Hogwarts; let it be! Do publishers really think readers will come back for the next rip-off over and over?

"Toto, I don’t think we’re in Sweet Valley anymore."

The epidemic goes beyond the fantasy genre. It looks like the publishers are grooming a new generation of chick-lit fans and "Sex and the City"-holics as well. Series like "The A-List" and "It Girl" flaunt attractive bodies in party atmospheres and fab dwellings, never skimping on the doses of melodrama. These superficial selections are the literary equivalent to "Laguna Beach."

The language is even more daring nowadays. Characters scream expletives and make sexual references usually reserved for a "Nip/Tuck" script. And since it is a pre-req to have cafes in bookstores nowadays, the kiddies are getting high on caffiene while skimming the pages of "Rhymes With Witches" (an honest-to-God title I spotted).

And it’s not like I still read these quasi-novels. I just like to walk by the YA stacks and glance at what new releases are out there. Please. I have graduated to big boy books. I have. Pay no attention to that R.L. Stine sitting on my living room shelf…

My Sunday trip to the new Borders superstore in Century City was an eye-opening visit. First and foremost, I headed to the Seattle’s Best Coffee cafe to receive my free Rewards-members-only 12-ounce drink. Trying not to be rude to customers as I chatted with my mom on the phone, I made my way past the new James Patterson table and around the bargain bins to find the YA books ironically nestled in between Romance and Sci-Fi/Fantasy. A few titles jumped out at me ("Ooh, a new Buffy novelization based on events occurring after the series finale"). The new hardcover from Ned Vizzini, "It’s Kind of a Funny Story," sat there, dying to be purchased with my 25% off coupon. I did what I had to do - pluck it from its nest and give it a new home in my library.

Seriously though, the guy’s a refreshing new writer. He’s a 25-year-old former prep-school kid from NYC who knows someone who knows me. I’m still a little shady on the connections, but we’re MySpace pals and I am a fan. His last novel, "Be More Chill," was on many top-10 lists (including my bible, Entertainment Weekly), and I’m sure some movie producer is adapting the shit out of it right now. It was one of the best books I had read in a long time: http://www.amazon.com/Be-More-Chill-Ned-Vizzini/dp/0786809965/sr=8-1/qid=1158885842/ref=pd_bbs_1/002-8720577-0386448?ie=UTF8&s=books

I left Borders disappointed that none of the novels I grew up with were prominently displayed for all to peruse. That girl holding the seventy-eighth installment of "The Princess Diaries" will never be thrilled by the character-driven whodunit that is Christopher Pike’s "Final Friends" trilogy. The skateboarder-lookin’ muppet frantically searching for trivia books on Tony Hawk will never know about the social commentary hidden within the pages of Todd Strasser’s "The Wave" (who remembers that haunting Afterschool Special?).

When you get down to it though, the fact is: I’m aging and losing my grip on something I loved and enjoyed years ago.

Getting older is certainly not a pretty thing. Just ask Paul Haggis. Last night at the Arclight I caught "The Last Kiss," the Zach Braff downer of a dramedy whose trailer I’ve been playing once a week on Quicktime. I enjoyed the film. Blythe Danner was typically superb. That opening-titles song by Snow Patrol still plays on repeat in my brain. However, the film’s message about turning 30, letting go of an age of innocence, and confronting identity crises took a backseat to the other theme that slapped me in the face:

Men are whiny pussies.

Warning: Spoilers ahead (but if you’ve seen the trailer, this doesn’t give away much)…The four male characters of the film (five, if you include Tom Wilkinson’s dad role) are afraid to face reality. Eric Christian Olsen (Kenny) doesn’t mind ice fishing and bedding every hot Pussycat Doll applicant who crosses his panty-littered path. Casey Affleck (Chris) doesn’t want to live in a loveless marriage with his baby’s mama because she’s always criticizing him and the baby’s always crying. Michael Weston (Izzy) is depressingly desperate to get his long-time girlfriend back and ends up leaving town on a road trip to Mexico. And Zach Braff (Michael) is so scared shitless about committing to his pregnant girlfriend of three years that he literally flirts with disaster in the form of co-ed Rachel Bilson, who, in one scene, pathetically tries to mimic Natalie Portman’s kookiness from "Garden State" but gets the movie’s most thought-provoking line: "The world is moving so fast now that we start freaking out way before our parents did…because we don’t ever stop to breathe anymore."

Thanks, Rachel. Note taken.

And mentally filed away.

Off to be whiny,

H.P.M.

While I stood next to a giggly Kathy Griffin and shook hands with Lance Bass and his reality-TV leftover of a boyfriend, I spotted Howie D. of the Backstreet Boys getting ready in his VIP booth for the birthday cake that was being carried across the dancefloor where Nicole Ritchie’s boyfriend spun some beats. Kevin, AJ, Nick and the younger Carter, Aaron, started singing "Happy Birthday," the rest of the club chiming in over the throbbing bass.

Rewind for a minute: My friend Rex invited me to be his plus one at the Dorough Lupus Foundation party at LAX, the Hollywood "club of the minute." His publicist, the energetic Mina, got us past the VIP line and slapped some bracelets on us for the open bar. Several people stopped Rex as we inched our way through poseurs and pee-ons, shouting out "Lloyd! We love you, man!" Needless to say, those toting their miniscule digicams just had to take pics with him, proof that they got to meet one of the stars of "Entourage."

Little did I know my evening would end up resembling an episode of the HBO comedy.

Go ahead and roll your eyes. I certainly did. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what I was getting into when I accepted the invite. A small spectacle it was. Another vapid get-together disguised as a noble charity event. I’m too lazy to go over all the details because I now believe that none of it matters. I could go on and describe my dinner at Oprah’s birthday party (in an alternate universe, of course) and know that it serves no purpose whatsoever.

The dropping of famous names is an unofficial tradition in Los Angeles you simply cannot avoid (same for New York, I’m sure). Halle Berry likes Body Factory protein shakes? Better go get yourself one! You’re with the Metcalfe party? Sorry, Jesse’s running late with the rest of this posse, so please wait in line with the rest of ‘em. Kate Bosworth ordered a large green tea yogurt at Pinkberry? Shut up! SIDEBAR: Pinkberry is all the rage here in L.A. Lines out the door. All-natural yumminess. It deserves its own chapter someday.

And I feel like a little part of me dies inside every time I have to resort to this practice. It’s as if my soul slightly withers when I try to prove my importance to some shallow creature whose career is steeped in Hyping Up The Trivial. But it feels damn good once you get past that velvet rope. It feels good to be validated in your selection of non-dairy dessert. The self-esteem gets a boost. The chin rises a little higher. The heart blackens just a little.

I consider my namedropping a necessity for these chapters. It comes with the description of the scenery. How can you describe a forest without mentioning the trees?

Labor Day weekend did not consist of any big names, but there were places and things to note. Saturday: a trip to Palm Springs to raid the Desert Hills Outlets (I look forward to debuting my twenty-dollar Calvin Klein blazer in New York at the end of the month). Sunday: Brunch at Mani’s Bakery (I happen to know one of the co-owners) followed by a macrobiotic dessert at M Cafe on Melrose, a self-treated screening of "Step Up" in Century City (Channing Tatum doing his best ghetto-Neanderthal act), a Hot in Hollywood committee dinner at the home of one Ms. Lisa Field, and a late-night visit to the Abbey with my friend Matt, who just returned from Hawaii and wanted to do some much-needed catching up. Coincidentally enough, both of us were on antibiotics during the past few days, so no alcohol was consumed…Here’s where I interrupt my itinerary breakdown for some backstory:

The antibiotics were prescribed to me due to the staph infection I caught last Wednesday. What seemed to be a spider bite near my elbow grew worse, and it was painful to rest my arm at my desk. Cassie, my boss (God love her), and the rest of my co-workers looked after me, advising me to go to Urgent Care before the bump on my arm (pictured, via Google images) grew to the size of a golf ball from Hell. On Thursday I left work early to check myself into the Beverly Hills Urgent Care center, where a doctor poked a hole in my arm with a needle and drained the nastiness from my lucky limb. And to top it all off: my old insurance policy lapsed, and my Anonymous Content plan doesn’t start for another three weeks. Perfect timing, no?

Monday was mostly spent on a sailboat parked in Marina Del Rey, munching on various barbeque goodness and salt-and-vinegar Lays. Said nautical vehicle belonged to Jenn’s friend Rae and her rock singer hubby, Cashew, of the Prix. Again no alcohol was consumed, but I think the sun got to me, which couldn’t have been good for the medication I was taking. Eek. The rest of the evening consisted of scarfing down meatball and zucchini pizza in Silverlake while watching the enjoyable bitchiness of Mandy Moore in "Saved" and the flawless complexion of Julianne Moore in "The Forgotten."

Ephiphany of the Week: While pumping my legs on an elliptical machine at the gym, situated between two blondes, I noticed the one on my right reading an US Weekly from 2003. First I thought, Did she have nothing better to read while pretending to burn calories like the rest of us? Then, I realized the magazine could be the perfect time capsule for future generations to discover. Think about it. One issue can speak volumes about our culture of the time - what we wore (back in ‘03 porkpie hats were the hot item), who was popular (Cameron Diaz dating Justin Timberlake? C’mon!), and what was a must-see at the theaters (Johnny Depp as a pirate? Nah!). Imagine how mindblowing it would be to dig up an issue of People from 2006 in 2032 (that is, if the world hasn’t blown up or been submerged in water by all the icecaps by then)?

Ephiphany done. Next…

With summer finally behind us (overrated, if you ask me), we look forward to what passes as foliage, the boxes of Halloween candy lined up in stores (seriously, I already have my costume picked out), and the eventual, good-ol’ American chaos we call The Holidays.

Just think: 109 days ’til Christmas.

Start shopping. Like, now.

H.P.M.