1:00 a.m. When I awake there is no telling where I am. The last thing I remember is the sight of Manhattan’s white lights disappearing into the distance, then there was darkness. Fields, mountains, desert, sea — at this time of night they all look the same from the window seat. Gazing out at nothing but my own reflection, I am reoriented by a set of dotted headlights winding along an invisible road several thousand feet below me. The highway forks and splits again. Soon the route has multiplied into an elaborate network of light, a gasoline-fueled bloodstream whose main arteries all connect back to a pulsating heart: Los Angeles. Within seconds my view becomes a glowing expanse of electric orange that twinkles and stretches to the coastline, before slipping under the inky cloak of the Pacific. The 737 glides out over the ocean for what seems like a long time, then at last swings into a U-turn and touches down at LAX.

2:00 a.m. The flurry of passengers disperses from the carousel until only a handful remains. I have two hours to kill until my bus leaves, so I wander outside. It’s warmer than where I’ve come from but there’s a chill in the air. The soft rustle of swaying palm trees lining the road is interrupted every two minutes by a stern voice that reiterates the complex regulations of the arrivals area: “No parking, no waiting.” The voice follows me as I stroll back and forth between Terminals 1 through 4, wheeling my half-empty case behind me. Disappointingly I return to my starting point sooner than expected, so I repeat the journey, only this time at an even slower pace. On the second lap I locate a vending machine tucked away inside an alcove. I drop in seven quarters and the machine dispenses a packet of cookies so brittle they barely survive the fall. I perch outside on what passes for a bench and start snacking on tiny pieces of broken biscuit. At the other end a girl removes a ukulele from her luggage and begins to play, singing gently to herself.

4:00 a.m. I can barely make sense of the schedule, so the bus that shows up on time may or may not be there to take me to Union Station. I climb aboard anyway. In the front row two women natter to each other in Spanish; I sit one row behind them on the other side of the aisle. All the other seats remain empty. We leave the refuge of the airport behind as the bus makes its way tentatively through an apparently deserted city. Beneath the elevated road are side streets of two-storey buildings, drooping phone lines, the occasional parked sedan and not a pedestrian in sight. Moments later the bus is barreling steadily up Interstate 110 towards downtown L.A.’s small cluster of skyscrapers, already visible between the slender fan palms silhouetted by a pink and purple sky.

4:30 a.m. The bus drops me off in front of Union Station, which looks like an abandoned luxury gambling resort. I feel like the only person in California who isn’t at home in bed, until I reach the end of a long concourse where I’m approached by several men who haven’t been to bed in weeks, maybe years. I take refuge in a small convenience store where I ask the teenager behind the counter the best way to get to the Greyhound station, but the teenager behind the counter has no idea. The old part of the station is like a vast art deco cathedral, only not as welcoming. Dozens of large wooden armchairs — cordoned-off from non-ticketholders — sit empty, so I’m forced to stroll up and down the dark central aisle alongside the vagabonds and the homeless. A Hispanic man with kind eyes and a heavy blanket over one shoulder politely asks me if I can direct him to the Placita church. He says he’s not from around here, to which I apologize and tell him that unfortunately neither am I. Over near the Christmas tree a Desert Storm veteran asks me where I’m from. When I tell him he gives me a fist bump and wishes me a Merry Christmas.

5:00 a.m. I’d heard that the Greyhound station was even less desirable than the train station, but after an hour spent wandering in circles I decide to take my chances. I convince an idling taxi driver to take me; he agrees on the condition that once we get there I’m to go straight inside. We arrive five minutes later and I make a beeline for the front door without looking up. To my relief the waiting room is well-lit and packed: men, women, children, all in the same boat — soon to be bus — as me. I nibble on some more cookie scraps and wait on a bench made out of metal wire, which is precisely as comfortable as it sounds.

6:00 a.m. It’s still dark as the bus pulls out, but the glimpses I’m offered of the city at dawn are as fascinating as they are fleeting. Fatigue soon sets in, but I’m jolted awake when the bus makes brief stops in North Hollywood and San Fernando, by which time the day is beginning to break.

7:00 a.m. When I awake again the early morning sunshine has completed its morning ascent, and casts a long shadow of the speeding Greyhound across the desert floor. L.A.’s urban sprawl is long behind us, and my view is a barren landscape of crumbling brown rock under a deep blue sky.

9:00 a.m. Though its Spanish style houses and two-story Art Deco grandeur has clearly seen better days, downtown Bakersfield’s faded pastels look beautiful in a run-down, dusty sort of way. One can easily imagine a time not too long ago when dust was all there was around here. We pass the Fox Theater — a local landmark — and pull in at the Package Express. My brother-in-law picks me up in his Toyota. I’m told that spectacular mountains surround Bakersfield. Unfortunately the thick smog that pervades the city has rendered them all but invisible. Still, it’s nice to know they’re there.

9:10 a.m. We pull off the highway and continue down a long road, before eventually turning right. What follows is a swirling maze of streets lined with seemingly identical houses. Presumably the people inside them are all different. Each home appears to have been painted with the same array of colors, ranging from vanilla to parcel paper and comprising all fifty shades of beige that exist in between. This suburban splendor is disrupted by the addition of seasonal accoutrements carefully positioned in every front yard, and the site of a plastic red-nosed reindeer and a Peanuts nativity scene suddenly reminds me its Christmastime.

9:30 a.m. The car pulls up outside a house whose exterior is bereft of holiday ornamentation — perhaps so the owners can locate it more easily. The theme continues inside, where I’m welcomed and offered breakfast. Sleepy but for some reason still awake, I take my coffee outside, where the air is cool and still. I can now begin to make out the outline of the mountain range through the haze. I lie on an inviting slither of exposed lawn and wait for the sun’s distant warmth to reach me.

When Donald Fagen snarled disparagingly of “Show Biz Kids” in their “Steely Dan t-shirts” in 1973, he couldn’t have expected that forty years later he’d be embarking on epic cross-country tours, singing the same line night after night to thousands of fans dressed in over-priced garb emblazoned with the name of his very same band. The irony is not lost on Fagen nor his Steely Dan co-founder Walter Becker. Having given up touring in the mid-seventies, retreating to the studio to focus on the pursuit of jazz-rock perfection, the duo reformed a live band in the early nineties and have been on the road or in the studio ever since. They recently penned a song about their reincarnation called “The Steely Dan Show” (part celebration, part self-deprecation), suggesting the pair now warily embrace the commercial touring routine.

Tonight sees the band coming to the end of a 53-show U.S. tour, the cryptically-titled “Mood Swings 2013: Eight Miles to Pancake Day”. The final seven shows take place at New York’s Beacon Theatre, and as soon as I get off the 1 train at 72nd Street I am approached by several middle-aged men trying to sell me tickets and knock-off merchandise that goes for a third of the price of those inside the lobby. The bar offers a special $14 cocktail called “Deacon Blues”, which depressingly consists of Absolut vodka and Sprite. Why not a Zombie from a cocoa shell, I wonder. Or a Black Cow? Or even a Cuban Breeze, Gretchen? Tonight the crowd is the usual mix of aging hipsters and major dudes, kids with cool parents and couples of all ages who know a tasty horn chart when they hear it. I have a pretty good seat at the front of the lower balcony, and have time to admire the extraordinarily ornate interior of the old theatre, as well as the extensive selection of guitars lined up on stage.

At 8:45pm the band, minus its two leaders, swishes into a jazzy introductory overture, towards the end of which the two founding members of Steely Dan make their entrance. In bright red Nikes, customary Wayfarers and a grey shirt that he looks like he’s been wearing since last night, Donald Fagen slouches onto the stage with the purposefulness of someone who’s just awoken from an extended nap. Meanwhile, his partner in crime Walter Becker ambles into view from the left, his head bobbing from side to side as he noodles on a sparkling apple-green Stratocaster. Taking his place behind the keyboard, Fagen leads the band into an unlikely opener, “Your Gold Teeth”, probably the only pop song in history to make reference to Cathy Berbarian. Unfortunately it turns out to be the most interesting song choice of the evening, as the show which had been billed as “Request Night” quickly shifts into a run-through of the band’s most popular, radio-friendly hits (maybe that’s what the audience requested).

Fagen seemed in high spirits from the start. “Sit back, relax and let the good times roll!” he implored in a possible reference to his idol Ray Charles, whose performance traits behind the keyboard he has frequently appropriated. For a 65-year-old he sang really well, taking intermittent sips from an ever-present can of Coke and even wandering out from behind the keyboard a few times to play his melodica with gusto. I’d read reports of last week’s shows describing Becker’s stage presence as “confused”. Apparently one night last week he disappeared halfway through the show and never came back. Tonight he interrupted “Hey Nineteen” to perform his weird welcoming monologue (which I’ve seen him do twice before), only this time he rambled on for what felt like several minutes, and when the song finally picked up again I’d almost forgotten which one it was. Later he performed lead vocal duties on “Daddy Don’t Live In That New York City No More”. Becker’s evidently more suited to those slightly scathing, humourous songs (I’ve seen him sing “Haitian Divorce” and “Gaucho” before), whereas Fagen seems more at ease with the warmer, more human numbers, something that’s definitely reflected in their solo work.

Becker also had trouble settling on his instrument, frequently switching between at least six different guitars. In addition to the aforementioned sparkly apple-green Strat he also used a cherry-red Stratocaster, a cream Telecaster, a gold Gibson Les Paul, a Gibson Flying V and a Gibson Explorer. Jon Herington on the other hand was happy to rely only on a Gibson SG, Gibson Archtop and a Telecaster, coming up with a handful of devastating solos along the way. With his glasses and crisp blazer I always think he looks more like an interior designer or marketing director than lead guitarist, and I get the impression he’s reluctant to bask in the spotlight, preferring to hover near the curtain rather than soak up the audience’s roars of approval.

Clearly there is no discussion about stage presence or costumes, as everyone (with the exception of the girl singers in their little black dresses) seems to have shown up in whatever they happened to be wearing that day. Trumpet player Michael Leonhart sports a jaunty red fedora while his trombonist neighbor Jim Pugh looks like somebody’s dad in loose-fit jeans and running shoes. Although the juxtaposition is funny it only reinforces the sense that the show is more about expert musicianship than any kind of spectacle. When you read the bios of the individual band members on the official website you realize that these are among the very best musicians you’ll ever see, having between them played with everyone. The other stand-out performer is drummer Keith Carlock, who has probably one of the most challenging yet rewarding jobs in music. The rest of the band is referred to these days as the “Bipolar Allstars”, while the backing singers are known as the “Borderline Brats”. The all-female vocalists shared the lead on “Dirty Work” and a Joe Tex cover called “I Want To (Do Everything For You)”, the arrangement of which sounded exactly like “Chain Lightning”. During this song Becker introduced the band, describing Fagen in typically humourous terms: “…World traveller, organic gourmet chef and stern critic of the contemporary scene…”

They pile on the fan favorites towards the end, and the crowd seems very satisfied. Despite the hit-laden set list there is no room tonight for perennial live cuts such as “Bad Sneakers”, “Green Earrings” or “Josie”. Afterwards Fagen hands a pineapple that had been sitting mysteriously on top of an amp to a fan in the front row. The band returns for an encore and plays “Kid Charlemagne” (“Yes there’s gas in the car!”), allowing Herington to produce perhaps his best solo of the night. Becker and Fagen give a wave to the crowd and disappear again, leaving the band to play the audience out. It’s a slightly anti-climactic end to the show, and there is little sense of the musicians wanting to play any longer than the time allotted or give you a dollar more than your money’s worth.

This is the fourth time I’ve seen Steely Dan since they started touring again after an almost twenty-year hiatus: on the Art Crimes ’96 tour in Birmingham, at the Sanbitter Festival in Lucca in 2007, and once before at the Beacon in 2008. Over the past few years their week-long residence at the storied venue has become something of an Upper West Side tradition, and there is certainly a pervading sense of over-familiarity throughout the evening. Of course, there is no such thing as a bad Steely Dan concert, but this one was perhaps more for the casual fan of FM radio than for those of us who still have every note they’ve ever recorded on heavy rotation. The band is cooking throughout and as tight as ever, but I’d have appreciated a few less oft-performed album tracks to have been thrown into the mix, something that in the past I think they’ve always managed to do quite well. Rumours abound that Don ‘n’ Walt are working up a new record, so why not use the occasion to debut some new material, or at the very least throw in something off either of their most recent solo albums? Knowing Fagen’s encyclopedic knowledge of jazz and r’n’b I’m surprised he doesn’t branch out a bit and take advantage of that vast level of musicology to work some twists into the performances. They seemed to do that a lot when they first started touring again (see the live horn-driven version of “Reelin’ In The Years” on Alive in America), but tonight most songs were replicated exactly as they sound on the recorded versions. I kept listening out for how they’d come up with an ending for songs that fade out on record, which along with Herington’s solos and the backing vocals was the only element exclusive to the live performance.

A recent gimmick among aging rock acts has been the live reproduction of LPs in their entirety, something Steely Dan are not immune to, having performed shows this week devoted to the classic albums, The Royal Scam, Aja and Gaucho. Each of these shows began with backing vocalist Carolyn Leonhart dropping the needle on a spinning turntable on stage, a knowing joke that blurs the lines between live performance and recording. Tonight the newest song on the set list was originally recorded thirty-three years ago, but I think there’s a big difference between listening to old music at home and seeing/hearing it reproduced in person. A record is exactly that, and will always sound exactly the same. A concert is a totally different means of presenting the music, open to variation and spontaneity, with the exchange between performer and audience being more direct and reciprocal. I’ve always believed that a live act with any kind of longevity has to learn to keep things fresh, stay two steps ahead of their audience, even if it forces concert-goers to face the unexpected and even forgo hearing their favourite song. Otherwise it’s merely an exercise in nostalgia. Becker and Fagen surely know by now that those days are gone forever (over a long time ago… oh yeah).

Steely Dan, Beacon Theatre, October 5th, 2013:

Blueport (Gerry Mulligan cover — band only)
Your Gold Teeth
Aja
Hey Nineteen (WB extended monologue)
Show Biz Kids
Black Cow
Black Friday
Time Out Of Mind
Rikki Don’t Lose That Number
Daddy Don’t Live In That New York City No More (WB lead vocal)
Bodhisattva
Dirty Work (backing singers lead vocals)
FM
Babylon Sisters
I Want To (Do Everything For You) (Joe Tex cover, backing singers lead vocals, band intros by WB)
Deacon Blues
Peg
My Old School
Reelin’ In The Years

Encore:
Kid Charlemagne
Outro (band only)

A couple of years ago I wrote about what I had perceived as a growing trend in Hollywood for inserting the name of a movie’s main character into its title. While this tendency has not subsided completely, lately I’ve begun to notice other naming devices used by film and television producers (especially within the comedy genre) that do little to dispel perceptions that the industry’s creative well hath run dry. I no longer consider myself an avid viewer of network television, nor a frequent movie-goer (which I’d like to think says more about the deteriorating quality of both media than about me). But I live in New York City and have eyes, so I am well aware of what’s playing on screens both large and small, even if I would be reluctant to sit through most of it.

Using the character’s name as (or as part of) the title is a more recent phenomenon in relation to movies, but its application to the sitcom has a much longer tradition. This usually follows one of a number of successful formulas.

1) Character’s first name: Arsenio, Bette, Blossom, Cybill, Ellen, Frasier, Freddie, Hank, Jenny, Jesse, Joey, Kirstie, Mary, Maude, Nancy, Reba, Rhoda, Roseanne, Whitney;

2) Character’s name + character’s name: Dharma & Greg, Kate & Allie, Kath & Kim, Laverne & Shirley, Melissa & Joey, Mike & Molly, Mork & Mindy, Ozzie & Harriet, Will & Grace, and in a slight variation, Joanie Loves Chachi;

3) Character’s name + some kind of description of their state or circumstance: Caroline in the City, Everybody Loves Raymond, Everybody Hates Chris, Grace Under Fire, Hangin’ with Mr. Cooper, Samantha Who?, Suddenly Susan, Veronica’s Closet;

4) Multiple character names presented as a list: Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice or Zoe, Duncan, Jack and Jane. Seinfeld and Becker are rarities in that they used the title character’s last name, a convention more often applied to police detective series (it’s worth noting that neither show could be called “cozy” while both employed a more sarcastic brand of humour.)

As you will have noted some of these character names are supplied by the star on whom they are often loosely based. Lucille Ball (I Love Lucy, The Lucy Show, Here’s Lucy, Life With Lucy) and Bill Cosby (The Bill Cosby Show, The New Bill Cosby Show, The Cosby Show, The Cosby Mysteries) were rarely involved in anything that didn’t have their own name attached. The convention of The [insert star actor’s name here] Show has been applied to almost every beloved entertainer in American TV history. This year Michael J. Fox adds his name to a list that includes Andy Griffin, Bernie Mac, Betty White, Drew Carey, Doris Day, Donna Reed, Geena Davis, George Wendt, Jimmy Stewart, Jamie Foxx, Joey Bishop, Larry Sanders, Michael Richards, Mary Tyler Moore, Mickey Rooney, Phil Silvers, Paul Reiser, Tony Danza, Tony Randall and Tom Ewell.

Many sitcoms continue to revolve around the family unit — or some unconventional twenty-first century version of it — and it’s remarkable how many have included the word “family” in the title (All in the Family, Family Ties, Family Matters, Happy Family). This fall two more domestic comedies, Welcome to the Family and Family Guide, have landed on our screens, perhaps seeking to cash in on the recent success of Modern Family. A less common alternative is the cozy pluralization of the fictional family’s last name a la The Jeffersons, though we currently have two new families feuding for ratings: The Goldbergs and The Millers (not to be confused with the contemporaneous movie release, We’re The Millers).

Given the recent disintegration of the classic American sitcom format, there is something particularly quaint about such tried and trusted naming conventions. Far less appealing is the latest tendency for many recent shows to be lumbered with non-titles, or rather barely descriptive labels. This is by no means a new development, but perhaps gained popularity following the huge success of a mid-90s ensemble sitcom that started life as “Insomnia Café”, later becoming “Friends Like Us” before being abbreviated simply to Friends. Lately it seems this approach has reached absurd extremes. This fall season kids across America can see Mom on CBS and Dads on Fox. Perhaps the worst examples are Men of a Certain Age, We Are Men and Guys with Kids, all short-lived shows about, well, you guessed it). I was recently surprised to see a trailer for an Italian movie called 4 padri single (“4 single dads”), proof that the trend is not exclusive to this country or even to the English language.

This meta approach to giving shows deliberately uncreative titles reaches its nadir with what I call the “list” approach. I don’t know if Three Men and a Baby was the earliest case, but several sitcoms followed whose titles essentially described the cast in the most basic of terms: My Two Dads, Two Guys And A Girl (originally called Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place, and not to be confused with the Robert Downey Jr. movie Two Girls and a Guy), Two and a Half Men, 2 Broke Girls and Girls are the best examples.

I’m not sure if cinema trends influence television or vice-versa, but there have been several movies (all comedies) in the last couple of years that do nothing to eradicate this annoying habit: Grown-Ups, Bridesmaids, Spring Breakers, Horrible Bosses, Identity Thief, Tower Heist, Zookeeper, Bad Teacher, even Bad Grandpa. In an age in which television seems to exist primarily for the purpose of generating social media posts it’s not surprising that priorities have shifted. Few people actually sit down to watch TV as it airs; instead the best parts of shows are enjoyed after the fact on YouTube or as live trending tweets. Similarly most movies are available on DVD or streaming before their cinema run has ended. Faced with such an excess of competition, the titles of TV shows and movies no longer have to appeal or intrigue, but rather explain a premise as quickly as possible, that would-be viewers can understand without even watching it. I can only assume that this irritating fad will subside only after reaching its obvious conclusion, in which titles are combined with a one-word review. Although incredibly, neither “Unfunny Sitcom” nor “Bad Movie” sound particularly far-fetched.

This is the Mary Help of Christians on East 12th Street between First Avenue and Avenue A. It was built on the site of the old St. Patrick’s Cathedral, took six years to build and was completed in 1917. Modeled on the Basilica di Maria Ausiliatrice in Turin, the new church immediately became the spiritual home for a multitude of immigrant families in the then largely Italian community, and has grown as a place of social and cultural significance in the East Village for almost a century. In 1953 it was the venue for the wedding of FDR’s daughter, Sara Delano Roosevelt, and Anthony di Bonaventura, the son of a 17th Street Italian barber. The church is referenced in the poetry of Allen Ginsberg, who lived across the street at 437 East 12th Street for many years. The intersection of East 12th Street and Avenue A was renamed Father Mancini Corner in honor of Father Virginio Mancini, the church’s parish priest from 1949 to 1986. The church closed in 2007, but every evening for the past four years as I’ve walked past I have seen a small group of women huddled on its steps praying quietly in Spanish.

Earlier this year the church, rectory and neighboring school (essentially half a block) were purchased by developer Douglas Steiner, who soon revealed plans for “urban development.” “Urban retrogression” would be more accurate, because the specifics of the typically shortsighted project include the usual “prime retail opportunities” plus another non-descript, shoddily-built “luxury” glass condo, guaranteed to attract and house entire swarms of iPhone-gazing potential citibikers. Of course, it would have been far more lucrative in the long-term for Steiner to convert the historic structure for modern usage, but like most in his field he’s only after a fast buck.

Local residents and preservationist groups acted swiftly, appealing to the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission that the historic structure be spared. The application was declined. This summer further protests against the demolition were held after fragments of a wall were unearthed which had originally formed part of the Catholic cemetery that predated the church. Among the 40,000-plus graves was that of Venetian librettist Lorenzo da Ponte, who worked with Mozart on Le Nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni and Cosi Fan Tutte. Again these pleas also were rejected.

By now this type of story is all too familiar to New Yorkers. Over the last few years I’ve watched as renowned and beloved aspects of the city’s vast heritage have been unceremoniously wiped out, eventually taking entire communities with them. Such destruction (both physical and spiritual) is now becoming more frequent and increasingly reckless. What this all amounts to is nothing less than a corporate whitewashing of the city’s history, culture and character—ironically the very same character that is used to lure certain types (and you know which types I mean) into neighborhoods like this one.

I may be naïve or romantic, or maybe just European, but that a place of such architectural, cultural and social importance can be destroyed against the valid wishes of a fearless and vocal community extending far beyond the borders of the East Village, all for the greed-driven or politically-driven benefit of a clueless few, leaves me incredulous. Yet it is highly indicative of the culture that has been perpetuated by this city’s highest powers in recent years. The consequence is that many New Yorkers – the real kind, those that think for themselves and see straight through the bullshit – find themselves victims of what can be best described as a culture war. As the minority it should come as no surprise to us that our side is losing.

“The poets ’round here don’t write nothing at all, they just stand back and let it all be.”