LAST VALLEY EXIT
LAST VALLEY EXIT
I'm Jewish, so guilt goes a long way with me. Add to that the weight of the San Fernando Valley resting uncomfortably on my shoulders, and you get an idea of how it feels to write this column. No one ever says anything, but I often worry that I should be more topical. That I should be out and about, crunching the numbers and coming up with some revelatory analysis as to why both Villaraigosa and Hahn are blowjobbing the Valley at every opportunity.
Yeah, okay, we're kingmakers. As we should be. A lot of people live here. But you know something? Nothing interests me less. Besides, you can read about that anywhere. Still, stuff like that causes me to worry.
Over the past two years and in the more than 50 of these Valley Boy columns, I've tried to describe a place that's much smaller than the beautiful and hideous suburban sprawl where I grew up and currently live. My favorite columns have resulted from stumbling across things over the course of my daily routine. But often – maybe too often – I haven't gone farther than the confines of my Valley Glen compound. If you were to tally it up, you'd find that I'm my own favorite subject. It's been great therapy. But is it compelling? That's not for me to answer.
And at this point, Valley Boy is rapidly becoming the story of me, and that was never my intent. I wouldn't blame you if you found it dull, or didn't care, or just decided that I was a self-indulgent wanker. Personally, I'm of the mind that self-indulgent wanking is the divine right of the columnist. (Though paradoxically, I'm the first to complain about other self-indulgent wankers. I guess I always figured my wanking was more interesting than other wankers.)
Like I said, I feel guilt. And one more thing – I'm self-conscious. When I sat down to write this column I was psyched to toot the horn for my new daughter, who was born last week. She's the first member of my immediate family who'll have a Valley address from birth, But then I stopped and thought, so what? Not again. The column's become a prism with a very narrow sliver of light. And if I continue down this road, I'm guessing my small audience will shrink to my wife and a handful of friends and relatives.
So this is a sign from God that it's time to give Valley Boy a rest. Actually, there are many neat and tidy signs from God to suggest that I go away for a while – not the least of which is the birth of my daughter. It's a milestone, right? And lest I forget, it's CityBeat's 100th issue, and that must mean something to somebody (probably mostly to the ad reps). Since I started Valley Boy in issue No. 1, it's a nice way to go out. Closure. Everyone wants closure, right?
So I'm walking away, before I begin to not care, before I start to really suck. And sure, I've appreciated the opportunity to write about anything that pops into my head. I've enjoyed the wee bit of ego growth that comes with a gig like this. It's just that those things are no longer enough to sustain me to create something every two weeks.
I started this column when I returned to the Valley as a grown-up after being away for two decades, and it's enabled me to really stop, look, and listen to my surroundings. Valley Boy has been instrumental in my transition back to the Other Side of the Hill and to appreciate its utter coolness in a way that would have otherwise been impossible. So there's a happy ending, I suppose.
So much thanks to my good pals at CityBeat for indulging me. Thanks also to those of you who've let me inside your lives for a little while. And finally, thanks to those of you who have read these columns and taken the time to drop me an e-mail. When you sit in a room, alone, and type words into a computer, all you hear is a giant sucking sound. So hearing from people on the outside has been the most gratifying part of all this.
I'll be around, and I might even be back at some point, but not here, not like this. I've got a diaper to change.Published: 05/05/2005
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