Cinemorphosis

Category: Confessions

  • When a Granola Belly Was a Political Statement

    When a Granola Belly Was a Political Statement

    When I was in my early teens in the 1970s, my family shopped at a San Francisco Bay Area grocery store that “was owned by the people.” It was called Co-Op. The workers were friendly; the men were often bearded and wearing survival gear from Co-Op’s “Wilderness Supply Store.” I would say the affable employees were all somewhere on the Hippy Spectrum. Co-op offered the first day care center for kids while the parents shopped and the first recycling center in town.  In addition to organic wholesome foods, the store had a modest book section featuring Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Peter Tompkins’ The Secret Life of Plants, Erich Von Daniken’s Chariots of the Gods, Laurence J. Peters’ The Peter Principle, and the store’s grand jewel and Vegetarian Bible–Frances Moore Lappe’s Diet for a Small Planet.

    The store had an ample supply of countercultural foods. You could buy carob honey ice cream, wheat germ, granola, alfalfa sprout home kits with mason jars, brown rice, Japanese yams, and tofu. With its book section of countercultural reading, organic ingredients, and wilderness store, Co-Op was more than just a store. It was a sanctuary for those rebelling against The Man. Eating heaping bowls of granola, wheat germ, and organic honey was not just a self-indulgence; it was a political statement. However, this self-righteous certitude also created a condition known as Granola Belly. Scarfing down calorie-dense granola, wheat germ, and honey throughout the day, these valiant warriors raged against corporate food tyranny, their bellies growing rounder with each virtuous bowl of granola and honey. As I shopped at Co-Op with my parents, I observed these granola-loving rotund revolutionaries as they waddled through the aisles, their expanding girth a testament to the blind spots that mar even the most well-intentioned pursuits.

    Granola lovers of the Co-Op era were, without question, a species defined by the contradictory cocktail of high ideals and self-defeating habits. These self-proclaimed countercultural warriors strutted through the aisles of their people-owned utopia, scooping granola by the pound as if it were the holy grail of rebellion, all while sporting survival gear that screamed I’m off to fight the establishment…right after I finish this bowl of carob ice cream. The granola bowl was more than breakfast; it was a badge of moral superiority, a defiant middle finger to The Man served with a side of organic honey. But their noble intentions were undone by their own indulgence. They railed against corporate tyranny with their mouths full, their burgeoning bellies proof that even the most righteous ideals can be upended by an inability to count calories. Their expanding waistlines were not just ironic; they were emblematic of their tendency to cling to virtue while ignoring inconvenient truths—because nothing says rebellion like eating your way to Granola Belly while preaching the gospel of moderation.

  • When the DJ Lost His Mind & Played The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” for Three Hours Straight

    When the DJ Lost His Mind & Played The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” for Three Hours Straight

    It was a sweltering summer night in 1970, the kind of heat that melts your popsicle before you’ve unwrapped it and turns your family barbecue into a gladiator pit of passive-aggressive banter and steak smoke. Somewhere between my dad arguing about grill temps and my aunt trying to turn potato salad into a personality, the true spectacle of the evening wasn’t the charred meat or the mid-century familial dysfunction—it was what erupted over the airwaves.

    KFRC 610 AM, the mighty Top 40 beacon of San Francisco, had apparently been hijacked by a disc jockey teetering on the edge of reality. This radio shaman, perhaps emboldened by a bad acid trip or simply possessed by the spirit of Lennon and McCartney, played The Beatles’ “Hey Jude” on an endless loop for three solid hours.

    Not once. Not twice. Dozens of times.

    It was as if he’d discovered a wormhole in the Na-na-na-na-na-na-na dimension, and he was determined to drag the entire Bay Area through it, kicking and screaming—or, more likely, humming along with mounting psychosis. By the 12th replay, “Hey Jude” didn’t sound like music anymore; it was a mantra, a chant, a psychological experiment conducted in real time on unsuspecting citizens.

    At the time, DJs weren’t expected to be sane. Sanity was a liability.

    In fact, if your grip on reality was too tight, you probably worked in banking. Radio was for the unhinged, the beautifully deranged, the guys who played 9-minute prog-rock odysseys just to go smoke a joint or use the bathroom.

    One DJ at a rival station had a nightly tradition: every time he had to take a leak or inhale an entire bag of Cheetos, he’d cue up The Moody Blues’ “Nights in White Satin.” At nearly ten minutes long, it was the perfect alibi for sloth and snack breaks. And get this—listeners loved it. They called in and demanded it. That song didn’t just chart; it ascended like a slow-moving fog of existential poetry and flute solos.

    Suddenly, the 3-minute pop single was passé. Listeners wanted long, indulgent, vinyl-drenched feasts of music. “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” wasn’t a song—it was an epic. It was our Ninth Symphony, a sprawling, self-important masterpiece that dared to be longer than your average sitcom episode.

    This was the golden era of the musical buffet, where DJs weren’t just tastemakers—they were lunatic conductors of cultural excess. Every drawn-out bridge and psychedelic outro was a sign that we had transcended the 45-rpm world of bubblegum pop and entered a new, freeform temple of indulgence.

    And if your DJ didn’t go off the rails every now and then, frankly, what the hell were you listening for?

  • How I dealt with an overrated restaurant in Mammoth Lakes

    How I dealt with an overrated restaurant in Mammoth Lakes

    While visiting Mammoth Lakes last summer, we made the mistake of visiting a so-called “celebrity chef” Italian restaurant in downtown Mammoth, housed in a lodge so stunning it looked like it had been airlifted straight from the Swiss Alps. The place was dripping with rustic charm—vaulted ceilings, crackling fireplaces, and oversized windows offering a view of the mountains that could bring a tear to your eye.

    But all that ambiance couldn’t hide the fact that the food was an absolute trainwreck. The chef, once a big deal on some cooking show a decade ago, was now milking his fifteen minutes of fame for all they were worth. He strutted around the dining room like a peacock, soaking up the adoration of diners who clearly had no idea they were about to be served what could only be described as gourmet garbage.

    We only had one good dish, the ratatouille pizza. Feeling a newfound sense of duty, I took it upon myself to warn other diners. I went from table to table, declaring that everything on the menu was a culinary disaster except the ratatouille pizzas. To my surprise, the customers were delighted with my advice, nodding in appreciation as they changed their orders. Meanwhile, my wife and daughters were absolutely mortified. They sat there pretending not to know me, faces buried in their napkins, probably wishing they could vanish into thin air.

  • I found my true life purpose at a McDonald’s in Mojave

    I found my true life purpose at a McDonald’s in Mojave

    Coming home from Mammoth last summer, I had naively believed that my children would be sated from their breakfast at the McDonald’s in Bishop, allowing us to drive straight home without further interruptions.

    But by the time we reached Mojave around noon, my daughters swore they would perish on the spot if they didn’t have lunch immediately. So, we found ourselves pulling into yet another McDonald’s in Mojave. The thought of visiting two McDonald’s in a single day felt like a deep plunge into the abyss of self-debasement, a loss of dignity on par with other legendary acts of self-humiliation. I began to think this might be the modern-day equivalent of wearing a sandwich board that reads, “I have given up.” Yet, amid my indignation, I secretly thanked the universe for my daughters’ insatiable appetites because I desperately needed to use the bathroom.

    However, fate—or rather the cruel architects of this establishment—had installed combination locks on the bathroom doors, and the workers guarding these sacred numbers were about as generous with them as a dragon hoarding gold. I had to persuade them that my family of four would be forking over more than fifty dollars for the world’s most lackluster cuisine, and thus, I was surely deserving of the golden code.

    After securing the coveted combination, I made a beeline for the bathroom, practically kicking the door open like a cowboy in a saloon. The relief was so immense that it felt as if I had just liberated a small nation from tyranny. Afterward, I returned to the counter to wait for our food, feeling light as a feather. As I stood there, I observed dozens of men rattling the bathroom doorknob with the desperation of someone who had just spotted an oasis in the desert, only to find it locked. Their faces were contorted in pain, and their eyes begged for mercy but the cruel workers were unmoved.

    Seeing their plight, I realized I had the power to make a difference. I could be their savior. In an act of defiance against the oppressive bathroom code policy, I began shouting the combination with a gusto that could only be described as revolutionary. “Two-four-six-eight!” I bellowed, as if each digit was a bullet in the war against bladder injustice. The relief that spread across their faces was almost spiritual. I had become a mythical prophet, a modern-day Moses leading the oppressed to the Promised Land of Bladder Relief.

    Meanwhile, as I basked in the glory of my newfound role, my wife and daughters sank deeper into their chairs, their faces a mix of horror and embarrassment. They pretended not to know me, as if I were some wild-eyed lunatic who had wandered in from the Mojave Desert. But I didn’t care. I had found my spiritual calling, even if it was in the unlikeliest of places—shouting bathroom codes at a McDonald’s in Mojave.

  • My Disenchantment with the Hyped “Bed-in-a-Box”

    My Disenchantment with the Hyped “Bed-in-a-Box”

    Recently, my wife and I embarked on a perilous expedition to the mall, determined to sample the mystical, much-hyped “bed in a box” phenomenon. These mattresses, made of memory foam and gel, promise to unfurl from their vacuum-sealed cocoons like majestic, overpriced butterflies, transforming into full-sized California Kings. All you need is a steady hand with a box cutter and the courage to avoid slicing into your thousand-dollar slumber investment.

    We lounged on mattresses priced between three and nine thousand dollars, letting the sales pitch wash over us like warm chamomile tea. They were fine. Soft, supportive—sure. But the experience was more “meh” than mind-blowing transcendence. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, was having a good laugh. Thousands of dollars for glorified memory foam? I half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out and yell, “You’ve been Punk’d.”

    Once home, I consulted the digital oracles—various AI platforms—to confirm what I already suspected. Their verdict was swift and merciless: “Bed in a box? Cute. Overpriced. Flimsy.” The collective AI wisdom aligned—luxury does not arrive folded like a quesadilla. I was told that traditional mattresses—those stalwart hybrids and innerspring titans—deliver the same materials, often at half the price, and outlive their boxed-up counterparts by years.

    The harshest critique? Longevity. You can fork over four grand for a slab of compressed foam, and in five years, that bed will be about as supportive as a wet sponge. Meanwhile, a conventional mattress, purchased for the same price, will still be cradling you like the loyal workhorse it was born to be.

    Armed with this knowledge, I basked in smug, streetwise satisfaction. I had danced through the minefield of marketing spin and emerged unscathed, my wallet intact. To celebrate, I collapsed onto my overpriced sectional and binge-watched a Netflix comedy special—content, victorious, and perched atop a couch that cost far too much but, at least, wasn’t pretending to be something it wasn’t.

  • The Los Angeles Wildfires Reconnected Me to Radio

    The Los Angeles Wildfires Reconnected Me to Radio

    The Los Angeles fires, blazing with apocalyptic fury, prompted me to do something I hadn’t done in years: dust off one of my radios and tune into live local news. The live broadcast brought with it not just updates but an epiphany. Two things, in fact. First, I realized that deep down, I despise my streaming devices—their algorithm-driven content is like an endless conveyor belt of lukewarm leftovers, a numbing backdrop of music and chatter that feels canned, impersonal, and incurably distant. Worst of all, these devices have pushed me into a solipsistic bubble, a navel-gazing universe where I am the sole inhabitant. Streaming has turned my listening into an isolating, insidious form of solitary confinement, and I haven’t even noticed.

    When I flipped on the radio in my kitchen, the warmth of its live immediacy hit me like a long-lost friend. My heart ached as memories of radio’s golden touch from my youth came flooding back. As a nine-year-old, after watching Diahann Carroll in Julia and Sally Field in The Flying Nun, I’d crawl into bed, armed with my trusty transistor radio and earbuds, ready for the night to truly begin. Tuned to KFRC 610 AM, I’d be transported into the shimmering world of Sly and the Family Stone’s “Hot Fun in the Summertime,” Tommy James and the Shondells’ “Crystal Blue Persuasion,” and The Friends of Distinction’s “Grazing in the Grass.” The knowledge that thousands of others in my community were swaying to the same beats made the experience electric, communal, alive—so unlike the deadening isolation of my curated streaming playlists.

    And then there was talk radio. Live conversations on KGO 810 AM with Jim Eason and Ronn Owens held a spellbinding charm. In the 70s, my mother and I would sit in the kitchen, enraptured, as they dissected controversies and gossip with the vigor of philosophers at a cocktail party. It was conversation as an art form, communal and vital, like cavemen telling stories around the fire. Contrast that with my podcasts: cherry-picked for my biases, carefully calibrated to affirm my tastes, locking me in an echo chamber so snug it could double as a straightjacket.

    The fires aren’t just devastating to the city—they’ve exposed the cracks in my own longing for connection. The nostalgic ache sent me down a rabbit hole of online research, hunting for a high-performance radio, convinced that it might resurrect the magic of my youth. But even as I clicked through reviews of antennas and AM clarity, a voice nagged at me: was this really about finding a better radio, or was it just another futile errand from a man in his sixties trying to outrun time? Could a supercharged radio transport me back to those transistor nights and kitchen conversations, or was I just tuning into the static of my own melancholia?

  • The gastronomic equivalent of putting a monocle on a raccoon

    The gastronomic equivalent of putting a monocle on a raccoon

    As a kid, my taste buds were on a non-stop joyride with Pigs In a Blanket—those glorious cocktail sausages swaddled in Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, dunked with the carefree abandon of a sugar-high toddler in cheddar cheese, spicy mustard, and barbecue sauce. They were the epitome of childhood bliss.

    Fast forward to adulthood, and we must now suffer Luxury Reinterpretation. This is the gastronomic equivalent of putting a monocle on a raccoon. The process involves taking our beloved comfort foods like Pigs in a Blanket, grilled-cheese sandwiches, and Sloppy Joes, and draping them in so much opulence that you’d think they were being prepared for a royal banquet. We’re talking artisan breads that cost more than a week’s groceries, freshly baked brioche buns, and French cheeses so refined they practically come with a family crest.

    In this upscale twist, culinary wizards employ techniques that sound like they belong in a sci-fi film—slow cooking, smoking, and sous-vide. Flavors are layered with truffle oil, caramelized onions, and sautéed mushrooms, all artfully plated with microgreens, edible flowers, and a drizzle of balsamic reduction that could double as abstract art. There’s even a heart-wrenching narrative woven into the dish, involving deep-rooted culinary traditions or some distant great-grandmother who once served peas on an antique platter.

    The lengths to which we’ll go to gild the lily of our childhood comfort foods is a testament to our fear of being judged for enjoying simple pleasures. Sometimes, all I want is to revel in the uncomplicated joy of Pigs in a Blanket without all the pomp and circumstance. But no, in the world of haute cuisine, even the humble piggy-in-a-blanket must be paraded around in a tuxedo and given a backstory worthy of Shakespearean drama. And so, we drape our comfort foods in an extravagant cloak of sophistication, proving once and for all that our insecurities are as elaborate as the dishes we create.

    This scenario exposes the fact that the move to “Luxury Reinterpretation” isn’t just a culinary choice—it’s a full-blown identity crisis, a performance art piece meant to scream, Look how refined I’ve become! Remember: No matter how much balsamic reduction you drizzle, a piggy-in-a-blanket in a tuxedo is still just a piggy in a blanket—albeit one sweating under the weight of insecurity and overpriced truffle oil.

  • The Slurpee, the Sirens, and the Rabbit That Never Was

    The Slurpee, the Sirens, and the Rabbit That Never Was

    It was a warm California afternoon in 1973, the kind where time stretched lazily and everything smelled like fresh-cut grass, asphalt, and melted sugar. After sixth-grade let out, we piled off the school bus at Crow Canyon Road and made the mandatory pilgrimage to 7-Eleven, where a cherry Slurpee was both a status symbol and a life force.

    Inside, I was mid-slurp, soaking in the neon buzz of the store, when “Brandy, You’re a Fine Girl” crooned from the radio—a song about a sailor who refuses love for the sea, a detail I should have paid more attention to. Because, right then, the Horsefault sisters walked in.

    They were freckled, long-legged, and dangerously charismatic, their mischievous blue eyes glinting with some hidden scheme. One was in eighth grade, the other a high school sophomore, but their combined power far exceeded their individual ages. They lived in a farmhouse behind the 7-Eleven and approached me with an offer that, in retrospect, should have triggered immediate alarm:

    “Do you wanna see a rabbit in a cage?”

    I did not want to see a rabbit in a cage. But they had high cheekbones and figures that activated my deeply ingrained Barbara Eden fixation, so naturally, I announced that I was deeply invested in seeing this rabbit.

    I followed them out of the store, Slurpee in hand, as we walked about a hundred yards down a trail littered with dry horse dung, the sun casting long shadows over the tall grass. This was, in hindsight, my first mistake.

    At the end of the trail stood a large, ominous cage. The door hung slightly ajar, a thick chain lock dangling menacingly from the latch. I peered inside, expecting my promised rabbit. Instead, I saw nothing but the dark void of impending doom.

    Before I could process the cold realization that no rabbit existed, the sisters cackled like witches, grabbed me, and began dragging me toward the cage. The plan was clear: shove me in, slam the door, lock me up, and leave me to contemplate my poor life choices.

    But I was too strong, too desperate, too unwilling to be some kind of farm-boy prisoner. I fought back, and in the ensuing struggle, we tumbled into the dirt, rolling in a cloud of dust and hay, limbs flailing like a low-budget Western bar fight. Nearby, chickens screeched and flapped in terror, as if foreseeing my imminent imprisonment.

    Sweaty and defeated, the sisters finally let go. I scrambled to my feet and bolted, leaving behind my half-finished Slurpee—a tragic casualty of war.

    The Horsefault sisters had nearly claimed me as their caged trophy, but I had escaped. Barely. I never saw the rabbit. I doubt it ever existed. But I did learn an important lesson that day: if two gorgeous, devious girls invite you to see something in a cage, you are probably the attraction.

  • The Accountant, the Hotpants, and My First Taste of Rejection

    The Accountant, the Hotpants, and My First Taste of Rejection

    The summer of 1972, I was ten years old, flying solo from LAX to Miami, parked in the coveted window seat. Next to me, in the middle, sat a blonde woman in her mid-twenties, bronzed to an unnatural, almost radioactive orange, legs crossed confidently beneath pink hotpants with purple and white racing stripes that suggested speed, danger, and an implied warning to stay in my lane.

    In the aisle seat: her conversational hostage, a lean, dark-haired man of about the same age—an accountant, he would later reveal, which felt like foreshadowing.

    For five hours, I listened as they engaged in a dialogue so lively, so animated, I assumed I was witnessing the early chapters of a great love story. She was in dental hygiene school. He had a degree and a steady job. She exuded the kind of effortless confidence that made her gum seem like a gift from the gods when she passed us each a stick of Dentyne, explaining that it would help pop our ears. A public service announcement, delivered with charm.

    The accountant was decent-looking, well-spoken, clearly trying his absolute best—and for five relentless hours, he kept her engaged. They laughed, they shared stories, they existed in a pocket of perfect airborne intimacy. To my ten-year-old brain, this was an ironclad courtship ritual. The chemistry was undeniable.

    Then, the landing. The taxi to the gate. The moment of truth.

    He asked her out.

    She declined. Politely. Firmly. Efficiently.

    My ten-year-old self was staggered. How was this possible? Hadn’t they just shared an entire cinematic romance arc? The witty banter? The shared laughter? The synchronized gum chewing? And yet—nothing.

    I tried to crack the mystery. Maybe he was too bland. Maybe she had a boyfriend. Maybe she just needed to kill five hours before she got back to real life. Whatever the reason, I, a mere child, absorbed his rejection as if it were my own.

    To this day, I remain personally wounded that she turned him down. She turned us down. And for what? Some other guy in tighter pants?

    That flight should have been a lesson in the arbitrary brutality of romance, but all I really learned was that rejection hurts, even when it’s not technically yours.

  • How Poorly-Written Textbooks Turned Me into an English Major

    How Poorly-Written Textbooks Turned Me into an English Major

    For my first two years of college, I leapfrogged from major to major like a deranged amphibian with commitment issues.

    First stop: Criminal Justice. Sounded cool. Maybe I’d end up solving high-stakes crimes or unraveling some Kafkaesque legal conundrum. Instead, I found myself buried under a mountain of legalese so bloated with provisos, caveats, and contingencies that the independent clause was held hostage somewhere deep in the sentence, gasping for air. Every paragraph felt like a hostage negotiation with words like “notwithstanding” and “heretofore.” It drove me to the brink of syntactical madness.

    Next up: Sociology and Psychology—where common sense observations were drenched in enough self-important jargon to make a cult leader blush. Every sentence oozed the smug satisfaction of someone who thought they had just cracked the meaning of life. Instead of learning anything useful, I was forced to machete my way through a linguistic swamp of words like codependency, interconnectivity, dichotomy, marginalization, and facilitate. I clenched my body so tightly while reading these textbooks that I was convinced I would give myself a self-induced inguinal hernia.

    Desperate for clarity, I gave history a shot. But history textbooks—perhaps fearing the sheer tonnage of facts, dates, and places—responded by stripping the prose of all personality. No rhythm, no opinion, no soul—just a flatline of remedial drudgery. If legal writing was a labyrinth and psychology was a swamp, history was a beige waiting room with no exit.

    Then, an epiphany: I wasn’t rejecting these subjects—I was rejecting their horrendous writing.

    I craved something—something crisp, something electric, something that didn’t feel like linguistic waterboarding. That hunger led me, almost involuntarily, to the English major. There, for the first time, I met grammar—not as a dry set of rules, but as a cosmic force.

    Grammar wasn’t just necessary—it was alive. It was the invisible scaffolding that made human expression possible. It was breathing, movement, structure, music. I marveled at the fact that even small children, with no formal training, could construct intricate, nuanced sentences. This wasn’t just mechanics—this was the architecture of thought itself.

    When I thought of grammar, I didn’t think of dull worksheets. I saw rivulets flowing into streams, streams merging into great rivers, rivers pouring into the ocean. I saw harmony, inevitability, the relentless beauty of structure.

    So, in the end, it wasn’t a love of books or storytelling that made me an English major. It was the sheer, visceral disgust at bad writing that left me no other choice.