Men suck. Well, not all men, but too many. All it takes is one look on the television or one listen to the radio to realize the accuracy of this statement. I’m not sure when exactly in the history of civilization men decided to become complete d-bags, or if they perhaps just “evolved” that way. All I know is, male behavior toward women has progressively become more and more derogatory. Long gone are the days of Ricky loving Lucy or The Beach Boys serenading sweethearts across America. No Ma’am, what we have on our hands now is one giant Petri dish brimming with bigoted, arrogant, chauvinistic specimens.

Recently, I worked for some time at a company that allowed employees to listen to the radio for eight hours a day. Needless to say, I too often got an earful of lyrics I really didn’t care to have. Sure, there was a time when I’d bop along to the beats and do the subtle-sit-down-dance in my swivel office chair, but that all came to an abrupt halt the day I realized what was actually being sung in these catchy songs that seemed so upbeat and positive. My first realization came with the ever so popular ballad “Toot it and Boot it.” For the longest time I thought the words in the title and chorus were complementing someone who had a cute booty. What I found out is that the singer, known as YG (Young Gangsta), is actually talking about a one night stand with a woman he met at “the club.” The singer seems to take great joy in calling his prey a “slut” and “stupid.” He refers to himself as a “pimp” and asks “who next?” His tone is pompous—he can’t believe the girl doesn’t know who he is, and when she thinks he’s cute, he plays hard to get, saying “knock it off you know you can’t have this.” The girl never says she wants to go home with him, but YG cockily believes that she does. When “she falls in love” YG laughs, kicks her out the door, and “makes her feel stupid.” Towards the end of the song we learn the singer may actually be married. Is NOTHING sacred now?

Unfortunately, the world of television has also sunk so low as to endorse “men” (if I dare even call them that), who think it’s okay to use women as objects. I fear we are all most likely familiar with the MTV show called “Jersey Shore.” I always knew NJ was nicknamed “The Armpit of America” for a reason. But for those of you living under a rock, here’s a brief synopsis of the show: Eight, twenty-something, Italian-Americans live in a house on the Jersey shore, party like it’s 1999 every night/morning, hook up with each other, as well as every other Guido within a five mile radius, then decide that they actually hate each other. Oh yeah, and how could I forget, the holy trinity of gym, tanning and laundry (GTL for short)? Pauly D. and Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino are two guys on the show who, besides GTL, spend the rest of their time attempting to get sex from any girl half way decent looking, i.e., someone who is not a “grenade.” So far, their endeavors don’t always seem to go according to plan, probably because girls are not idiots and can sense these guys are interested in one thing only. Plus, the fake bake tans, blow out haircuts, and steroid induced muscles are not every lady’s cup of tea. Honestly, I wonder if these guys plan on settling down one day and finding a girl they may actually want to marry rather than just “toot and boot.” If they can clean up their act, find someone who will marry them, and have kids with them, will they show episodes of “Jersey Shore” to their sons, or to their daughters??

Believe me, I realize it takes two to tango and that in some instances girls can be just as horrific as boys. But I wonder, do the boys initiate this kind of behavior? Have girls been so conditioned by the morons in their life that they have succumbed to this kind of degradation? Take, for example, “The Situation.” Although he has no class, no respect for his roommates, and seems dumber than a box of rocks, he is the leader of the “Jersey Shore” house, and what he says goes. And yet here he is making appearances all over the place and landing a spot on Dancing with the Stars, and The Tonight Show, sitting next to REAL stars like Jamie Lee Curtis. Why, America, is this meathead being rewarded for his behavior? I’d honestly love to know. I am appalled that he claims to be a descendant from the same country that my grandfather was born and grew up in. As far as I know, since my grandfather passed away, there hasn’t been a kinder, gentler soul to grace this planet, and he was the complete OPPOSITE of the parasitic males that slither and slide their greasy little selves through the television screen, infecting millions of homes across America. And there’s the really sad part of this kind of culture—it’s communicable. That is, not only are these guys at risk of contracting and/or spreading STD’s, they are also transmitting their behaviors to any young, impressionable males who might learn to treat girls as sex objects, and to any young girls who might think this is acceptable.

Growing up, I was always the kid whose parents listened to oldies and watched Nick @ Nite. I was raised on the classics (according to mom and dad, that is), from James Taylor, Johnny Mathis, and John Denver, to Get Smart, The Brady Bunch, and Bewitched. These artists and actors kept it clean and respectful, and were still entertaining, imagine that! I’m not sure why, now, in 2010, being mainstream and “cool” means degrading women. I think the only solution is to take an active stand and be that voice that says, hey, this isn’t cool. In doing so, we leave the despicable creatures that plague TV and radio to binary fision—the asexual reproduction of low life forms.

One year ago I climbed into the passenger’s seat of my sister’s Honda CR-V that was jammed packed with everything we could possibly fit into Space Bags. After squeaking out a goodbye to my parents through the chokes and gurgles of a too obvious cry, my sister pulled the car out of the driveway. I put down my shades in hopes of stopping more tears from welling up and spilling over, looked for a short time in to the rear view mirror, and then cranked up the radio.

About a week later I found myself, on purpose, in a very hot Los Angeles. So hot, in fact, that it was on fire. My mother was hoping we’d turn around and come back to Boston once we saw billowing clouds of black smoke surrounding the areas of our new home. But a little fire in the hills didn’t scare us. Well it did actually, but we mustered enough East coast tenacity to stand our ground and stay, all the while secretly second-guessing our move. My sister came west because she had been hired to work for a company in Pasadena. But me, what was I doing here? I needed a change that was for sure. And my English and theatre degree was always in the back of my mind—maybe I could put it to good use and really make something of myself here. LA, no doubt, seemed chock full of opportunity. Plus it was most definitely the change of scene I so desperately wanted, not to mention lifestyle, culture, climate and attitude to name a few. If I had my very own Toto I’d proclaim that we were certainly not in Massachusetts anymore. But I quickly embraced this new life I was seemingly embarking on—one of year round T-shirt wearing, fast cars, and In and Out burgers. Everything was new to me, and frankly, exciting. After a year now, I’m still exploring unchartered territory, discovering, learning, and observing what it means to live here. And that’s sort of the very point of this piece—what does it mean to be a transplant in Los Angeles?

Before I started writing this piece I was under the impression that migrants to LA are sort of like convicts and the city is their prison. People seem to be putting in their time in the hopes of having it pay off. From interviews I conducted with everyone from actors, to writers, to nurses, to business people, this seems to be particularly true for the artists, as most admitted that accomplishing their goals has been difficult. As one comedienne put it, “there is no set path, and it’s a game of who you know and being in the right place at the right time.” Another artist finds LA “equally inspiring and frustrating every single day.” A writer claims “LA can be a black hole for goals, for any sense of direction or drive you might’ve had before coming here.” I can imagine the general sentiment is due to the large amount of competition that exists in the “biz.” For those in medicine and the corporate world, career opportunities were less of a challenge, but they still faced dilemmas as any transplant would like making new friends and building relationships. One person alleges this to be due to the city’s “geographical challenges and large population.” Needless to say, with all the trials and tribulations of life in the big city, practically everyone I questioned said with assurance that they love LA and are here to stay for the long haul. It sure does make me wonder; does the love then, exist in the strife?

LA, throughout the years, can probably be described as a metaphorical revolving door: people from all over the world coming and going at any given time. In the early days the pioneers traveled west in search of gold and nowadays the same can be said in a sense. From those I spoke with, it seems that the move to Los Angeles was ignited by temptations of the ever seductive American Dream. People want to enrich their lives in one way or another—maybe become a star on the Walk of Fame, or land some swank job downtown, or live by the beach, under the palm trees and next to the rolling hills. It is admirable this pursuit, and certainly takes great courage. And what I’ve learned from writing this piece is that as a transplant in LA, the American Dream, as we like to call it, can be yours no matter where you came from or who you are. What is great about LA, and the reason I’ve concluded it is so loveable, is that here lives chance and hope. The opportunity to do great things and achieve whatever it is you set out to do in life, is alive and well and ripe for the taking in Los Angeles. One writer I interviewed believes LA to possess “creative energy” and even “magic” which I believe to be true. We all want to leave our own unique footprint along the sands of time, no matter how big or how small and it is the creative magic that dwells here that keeps us going and inspires us through thick and thin. The genuine, shared love for LA exists not in the strife of getting from point A to point B, but in the very fact that point B exists as a point on the map of life and quite possibly can be reached through the crossroads that is Los Angeles.

Oscar Wilde once said “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” For Wilde there were actually many things he considered to be the WORST things about life, but this quote in particular rings true in this town, in this day and age, in the entertainment industry specifically. I mean, with TMZ, the tabloids and paparazzi, not too mention The Emmy’s, The Golden Globes, and The Academy Awards—one thing is for certain—actors LOVE to be talked about and recognized. But with every good piece of press, there is that possibility that there can be bad press as well. Like anything in life, it’s just the way the cookie crumbles. So when a few weeks ago, I was instructed to pull a perfectly thoughtful and positive review of a play because the company practices “safe” theatre, I was and am bewildered.

The definition of safe theatre, according to the theatre banning my review is this: a place where actors can perform with the understanding that there will be no reviews whatsoever, therefore allowing them the comfort of knowing that nothing unpleasant or otherwise will be noted, documented or published about their performance. What’s more, advertising prior to the show is strictly prohibited in the world of safe theatre. Now hold on just a minute. If this was a workshop, rehearsal-type of performance no reviews or advertising would make sense. But this performance ran every weekend for about a month, not too mention there was a $15 strongly suggested donation at the door. This show had all the signs of being a normal performance, yet no one was to know about it and no one was to review it. Something fishy seemed to be going on.

I figured I’d ask a couple theatre folks from around town to see if they’ve ever heard of this kind of enforced censorship. First I ask Jane Whitty, an administrative intern at The Antaeus Company in North Hollywood Arts District. Whitty admits she has never heard of a theatre company making the choice to ban reviews, though she does know actors who have made personal decisions not to read the reviews of the shows they are in. I thought Whitty made a perfectly valid point by stating: “as with all art, you can’t improve without a great deal of (ideally constructive) criticism and critique. To deprive a performer of that, in the name of protecting them from negative feedback, seems misguided.” Rochelle Perry, a member of Write Act Repertory Theatre in Hollywood claims Write Act welcomes reviews for fully produced productions though understandably asks that the press not review workshops or staged readings. Meredith Lockwood, also of Write Act, agrees that reviews should be held for preview or tech nights, but beyond that, Freedom of Speech should reign.

Growing up, I remember a certain drama teacher who didn’t believe that the arts should be judged since there was no way to rank an actor like there is an athlete. Needless to say, it didn’t stop her from holding a drama competition at our school every year where there were awards and favorites, and yes, poor little hearts and dreams that were shattered and broken. Let’s face it, most of us can tell good acting from bad so why not recognize those who excel as actors? When I was young and foolish (oh wait, still am) and an aspiring thespian, I wanted to believe acting was a part of my soul, like I HAD to do it or else I would just waste away, completely unfilled. Now I realize that there could in fact be a slew of other occupations out there for me and maybe, just maybe, I only liked acting because of the pats on the back I’d receive after a show. Maybe there was a little something wrong with me like my parents didn’t praise me enough as a child or something and I needed to hear that I had done well onstage. I think maybe a lot of actors are this way—sensitive, fickle, creatures with low self esteem. So, I can almost understand the idea of “safe” theatre or at least see how it can be beneficial to ban reviews in hopes of keeping actors sane and focused. But what I really like to think is that actors perform because they are artists who revel in the idea of creating life onstage (or in front of a camera) and sharing it with the real world. Every good play should have a story, a message, and it’s an actor’s duty to communicate this message with humanity. At the same time, the audience plays a role by choosing whether to absorb the message or reject it—be delighted by it, or disgusted. Be touched or concerned or want to discuss it for hours with other theatre goers after the curtain drops. Or even write a reflective review! It doesn’t matter HOW the audience reacts. It only matters that the opportunity is there for the taking—for theatre to impact, touch, and affect the lives of all who encounter it, one way or another. When a theatre company takes money from the public but denies audience members the right to discuss the play’s merit in a written review, then the purpose of theatre is diminished, therefore rendering the play, the actors, director, and entire crew’s efforts seemingly useless.

What are your thoughts? My ears are open to any critiques.

Billy has no idea what he’s done wrong. Just another confused statistic behind bars, sentenced to life for a crime he never even committed. Now, without any means to plead his case, the 23 year-old is slowly losing his mind. Celebrities, politicians and activists have been fighting over him for several years, and a major trial – with a $42 million price tag – is set to go to court this spring. Advocates for Billy’s life-sentence declare he is getting exactly what he deserves, while critics denounce his wrongful imprisonment as a cruel means to an end that could result in his premature death. Billy happens to be an Asian Elephant, but that is beside the point. This is a life or death situation, with millions of dollars fluttering through the air and a Mayor’s reputation at stake.

But I digress… There is simply no way I could have known that going to the Los Angeles Zoo to write up a “routine environmental story” would lead to uncovering a conspiracy filled with politics and money, death and cover-ups. After all, us writers are no different than the restless animals pacing the Zoo’s cages: waiting for the Muse to get close enough to the bars so we can lash out like starved lightning and get a taste of inspiration. I know this now… In fact, at the dawn of this horrible new decade this may be all that I truly know. My official assignment was to go to the Zoo and prance around like a jerk to indulge Forth’s latest asinine theme: how “Green” is L.A.? Well shit, it doesn’t take Al Gore to drive over the Sepulveda Pass and see the brown cloud of death choking us all to realize we are doomed.