Last week, Elle magazine's exhausting May 2015 profile of L.A. celebrity snake-oil saleswoman Amanda Chantal Bacon’s daily routine started making the rounds again. Her list of obscure ingredients and potions would make the contents of Hagrid’s stash box blush. Conveniently, all of her consumables can be purchased at either of her establishments for the price of a new Tesla. The worst thing about Bacon's screed is that it tries hard to reinforce the notion that L.A. is the orbiting space base of arcane hokum lifestylists of popular stereotype. National imagination likes to think that we’re a city of mashed yeast and sprouts hell-bent on recharging from crystals, living off of sex dust and snorting Gwyneth Paltrow’s navel scratchings instead of the coffee-and-donut-fueled workaday ethnic intermixture we really are.
In order to get a bead on how a variety of typical Angelenos go about their daily business, I've started with myself and my own daily routine. As a freelance writer, my schedule can be pretty unpredictable, but I think this cuts to the core of my personal brand.
I usually wake up around 10 a.m. when my alarm goes off. My alarm is Trapt's “Headstrong.” I know, it's awful: Don't ask. My day starts with me wondering if I still have all of my limbs. I've pissed off some strange folks in my career, most recently Glenn Frey fans. You never know when one of them is going to find my Silver Lake hideaway and knife me in my sleep while humming “Life in the Fast Lane.” After a quick check in front of my bathroom mirror, I'm usually good to go.
Looks like whoever I went home with last night has kindly left behind my Waylon Jennings T-shirt before she took off. She could be The One, gang. The One. This realization is followed by a 23-count breath set filled with combusted local cannabis. I use a mixture of blue dream and green crack. If I’m feeling brash, I wrap it in a grape Swisher to, uh, balance the chi in my lungs.
I have this mug from L.A. Weekly's 2013 Pancake breakfast. I’m pretty sure that was the last one we held. Maybe it’s just the last one they invited me to. I store it in velvet. It's my only mug so I treat it like a good friend. Because I've probably had too many specials at the Gold Room, I check my phone to make sure I tipped my Lyft driver and to get a more accurate read on when I went to bed. If I've gotten at least six hours of sleep, I fill the mug with instant coffee and a bracing shot of a locally sourced spirit. I bought this bottle of rye less than a mile from my house at the CVS on Glendale Boulevard. Ooh, there might be some of last night's burrito left. To fill my body with crucial carnitids and piquant tortillids, I take a few bites of whatever’s there.
If I had a son, I definitely wouldn’t name him Rohan. That’s pretty cruel, right? I do have a roommate, though. My roommate “Bob” berates me for using his bathroom poorly and slamming doors at 3 a.m. Being in your mid-30s and living with a roommate is probably something most people complain to therapists about.
If I've covered a concert or event the night before, I've probably already blown the deadline. If that's the case, I spend some precious hours crafting an elaborate lie as to why the story couldn't run right away. Today it’s going to be “rickets” and not “crippling perfectionism.” “I caught rickets and thus my copy is going to be late,” is something they might actually buy this time, fingers crossed. If there’s nothing overdue, I put on some soothing music and get into the day.
If it has been a long 24 hours and I need a quiet place to reflect, I hit up the Korean spa. The Wi-Spa on Wilshire has a bunch of specials for those of us with open weekday schedules. For me, the spa serves two very crucial purposes. The first purpose is punishing self-realism: Heating my body beyond its breaking point gives me a good sense that no amount of edible bee pollen or unpronounceable mushrooms will keep this sweaty monkey from kicking the bucket someday. The second one is other-centered realism: Everyone looks hilarious when they’re stark-ass naked.
They serve food at Wi-Spa and I usually eat some when I'm there. I don't take pictures of it. Aren’t we over taking photos of everything we eat yet? Probably not.
It takes quite a bit to get me charged for more work, so I try to shove down some more coffee and purely white sugar–based offerings. Pan dulce is a good way to spike my insulin and pack on the kind of fat that will keep me alive during potentially leaner times. At this time, I usually review any number of hateful emails I receive from fans of bands I've skewered and the dozens of PR emails that I get on any given day.
Since I don't cover a uniquely specific beat within comedy, culture or music, my evenings can range from limerick festivals to Christian-metal concerts. The stories are usually worth it and I've seen some shit.
When I've reviewed all of my notes and uploaded any photos I've taken of the night's activity, it's a healthy dose of meat-slathered pizza and beer … followed by bed.