How Hollywood’s Favorite Juice Bar Owner Really Eats Every Day

Elle.com posted this article last year about Amanda Chantal Bacon, founder and owner of the popular Los Angeles juice bar Moon Juice, and her exotic diet. In the interest of journalistic integrity, I talked to her again, nine months later, so see if her diet has changed.

Her original diet, in italics, will be followed by her updated diet today.

Upon Waking: Photo courtesy of Elle

Original: “I usually wake up at 6:30am, and start with some Kundalini meditation and a 23-minute breath set—along with a copper cup of silver needle and calendula tea—before my son Rohan wakes.”

Today: “When the alarm goes off at 6:30am, I have another one set for 6:33, and then 6:38, and then finally I wake up at 7:30am, scream ‘HOLY SHIT ROHAN YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE’ and grab a Pop Tart as we run out the door.”

Pre-Breakfast. Photo courtesy of Elle

Original: “At 8am, I had a warm, morning chi drink on my way to the school drop off, drunk in the car! It contains more than 25 grams of plant protein, thanks to vanilla mushroom protein and stone ground almond butter, and also has the super endocrine, brain, immunity, and libido- boosting powers of Brain Dust, cordyceps, reishi, maca, and Shilajit resin. I throw ho shou wu and pearl in as part of my beauty regime. I chase it with three quinton shots for mineralization and two lipospheric vitamin B-complex packets for energy.”

Today: “I’m going ninety down the wrong way on a one-way street, and I gulp down the remnants of Rohan’s juice box, which was mostly drunk in the car. It has like a jillion calories and tastes like pure sugar. I chase that with a stale package of crackers that I found under the seat looking for Rohan’s fucking shoe which he managed to lose between getting in the car and being put in his carseat. I hork down six kids’ gummy vitamins for energy and whatever too.”

Breakfast. Photo courtesy of Elle

Original: “At 9:30am, I drink 16 ounces of unsweetened, strong green juice, which is my alkalizer, hydrator, energizer, source of protein and calcium, and overall mood balancer. It’s also my easy, ‘lazy,’ and delicious skin regime. I also take three tablespoons of bee pollen. I love Moon Juice’s soft and chewy bee pollen—it’s a creamy, candy-like treat that gives me my daily B-vitamin blast, and also helps feed my skin and aids hormone production. I’ll also grab a handful of activated cashews. I try to get these in every day for their brain chemistry magic. I chase this with a shot of pressed turmeric root in freshly squeezed grapefruit juice.”

Today: “At 9:30am, I drink 16 ounces of whatever Starbucks’ seasonal drink is, providing the mood balancing I need to not rip everyone’s heads off. I used to take three tablespoons of bee pollen, but now I just chug a little honey from one of those honey bears, and then I grab a handful of chocolate-covered Teddy Grahams. I try to eat a few each day just because I love biting their fucking heads off and pretending they’re real.”

Lunch photo courtesy Elle

Original: “For lunch, I had zucchini ribbons with basil, pine nuts, sun-cured olives, and lemon, with green tea on the side. This is such an easy, elegant, and light meal. I made this while on a phone meeting before heading out for the rest of the work day. I often alternate this with my other lunch staple: a nori roll with umeboshi paste, avocado, cultured sea vegetables, and pea sprouts. This is my version of a taco, and it’s insanely delicious. These ingredients are all pantry staples, so I eat some version of this everyday. It’s probiotic-rich with the cultured veggies, and deeply mineralizing thanks to the sea vegetables, and the avocado nourishes the brain and hormones. It’s awesomely satiating and takes 45 seconds to compile. I usually make this while standing, working with someone, simultaneously emailing and definitely texting. I know the right answer would be to sit down and take 10 minutes to eat, but that doesn’t happen for lunch, ever.”

Today: “For lunch, I eat a salad that I made while on the phone at home, so basically it just ended up being celery and Ranch dressing. Sometimes, though, I’ll alternate this with one of Rohan’s Lunchables, because I didn’t have time to make anything. It’s awesomely sodium-packed and I can demolish one in about 45 seconds, usually while standing, working with someone, emailing, texting, and spitting parts of it at the person I’m talking to. I usually also reconsider why I named my son Rohan.”

Snack. Photo courtesy of Elle

Original: “If I’m home around 3pm, I always reach for coconut yogurt with cardamom, dried figs, walnuts, and apricots from a weekend farm visit—and a chunk of raw dark chocolate. I ferment big batches of coconut yogurt and make big batches of raw chocolate spiked with maca and any other medicinal herb I’m focusing on. It’s easy to do, and makes for potent, fast snack food throughout the month.”

Today: “If I’m home around 3pm, I’m usually fucking starving. All of the good food is gone – goddamnit, Rohan – so I curse his name while I search for something with a little boost to wake me up. I can usually find some chocolate left over from Halloween that I put up high enough that Rohan can’t reach. I’M STILL IN CHARGE ROHAN!”

Snack 2. Photo courtesy of Elle

Original: “Today I also called into Moon Juice and got some ‘drive through.’ Work doesn’t keep me in the shop like it used to. Sadly I’m always on the go and running late, so I usually call in a mid-workday curbside pick-up. I grabbed a mint chip hemp milk with double servings of maca and sprouted brown rice protein, sweetened with stevia, as well as two Goodness Greens juices.”

Today: “I’m so fucking sick of juice – why did I open that stupid juice bar? I usually just get a milkshake at Chick fil-A and chug it before my employees see me.”

Dinner. Photo courtesy Elle

Original: “I had an early, pre-yoga dinner at Shima in Abbot Kinney, which is my 3-year-old’s favorite restaurant. I had a seaweed salad with micro cilantro and daikon, and a delicate broth of mushrooms and herbs.”

Today: “I snagged two of Rohan’s chicken nuggets at McDonald’s, his favorite restaurant, before that fucker could eat all of them. That should tide me over through yoga.”

Fitness. Photo courtesy Elle

Original: “From 7 to 9pm, I went to my Kundalini yoga class at Rama Yoga in Venice, with my go-to teacher, Harijiwan.”

Today: “Went in to drop Rohan off at home with the nanny and made the mistake of sitting on the bed for a second. Fell asleep and missed yoga. Fuck.”

Dessert. Photo courtesy Elle

Original: “My son and I make a batch of almond milk and vanilla chia pudding for the next morning at bedtime. We like to have cups of it before it’s totally done, when it’s more like chia milk.”

Today: “I change the clocks in the house and tell Rohan it’s time for bed an hour earlier than normal, and then I drink a bottle of wine.

Before Bed. Photo courtesy Elle

Original: “At 11pm, I had a nightcap of heart tonic and raw chocolate made from one of my big batches—this one was made with our Moon Pantry heirloom raw cacao, reishi and Chaga mushroom, sprouted brown rice protein, and coconut oil. I love chocolate—and on some evenings, I don’t want to deny the indulgence—so I’ve devised a million low glycemic recipes.”

Today: “If the wine doesn’t put me to sleep, I’ll usually chase it with an Ambien and a Klonopin. That makes me hungry, though, so I’ll indulge with some of those generic cheese-coated balls that come in that giant plastic jar that I throw at Rohan to get him to give me some fucking peace. It’s worth it to wake up coated in orange dust.”

Original article by Victoria Dawson Hoff. Photos taken without permission from Elle. This is a parody. Duh.


This is part of a series in which I will attempt to write something every single day of 2016. Will I be able to do it? You’ll only know if you subscribe using the form below!

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One white man’s perspective on Black History Month

There are arguments for and against Black History Month. On one hand, we need a Black History Month because every month is White History Month. All history is written by those in power, and it’s important to have time to recognize the achievements of our citizens of color. On the other, shouldn’t the goal be to move beyond the need to have a month dedicated to Black History because our shared American history includes notability of all races? Does Black History Month block this path by giving the educational systems, media, and others excuses not to update our own understandings of how things really were (and still are, to a lesser but still severely troubling extent)?

What’s the solution? Maybe we should have a Black History Week every month. One that touches not just on the greatness of Black Americans, but also doesn’t whitewash (pun intended) the pain and suffering, distrust and judgment, and systemic inequality facing Black Americans throughout history, including today. One week a month where someone like me, a well-educated middle-class white man, can put on someone else’s shoes. Where I can at least attempt to understand what it’s like to be afraid of being pulled over even if I haven’t done anything wrong. Where I am scared of going on a run (not that I’ve actually moved faster than a brisk walk since I was a teen) for fear of the risk of being shot out of nothing more than bigotry, paraonia, and fear? Or, even seemingly more innocuous yet more ingrained and harmful, where my social circles result in me being a token, or a spokesperson for a diverse, multi-cultural race of human beings just because of the color of my skin?

I shouldn’t even be talking about this topic. I’m part of the problem. I don’t actively spread distrust and hatred, fear and bigotry, and if I see it, I say something. However, I also don’t actively campaign against it. You won’t see me at a protest or a march or a sit-in or a sit-out or anything else. I read, I share, I like, I comment, but social media activism, the patting-yourself-on-the-back version of making a difference, is the extent of my contribution to the racial conversation.

Maybe Black History Month is actually the perfect time to celebrate and remember Black History. You’ve had a month since January 1st, and you’ve already screwed up your New Year’s Resolutions. You’re feeling like a loser – that diet, that gym plan, your goal not to fucking swear anymore – down the drain.

Welcome to February 1st!

It’s time to make a real New Year’s Resolution. One that matters. A Black History Resolution, if you will. Repeat after me:

I, [insert privileged white person name here], resolve to think about how my perspective and the perspective of someone of color might be completely different even if I’m standing right next to him or her;

I resolve to realize that empathy is important but it will never give me the ability to truly understand what it’s like to be Black;

I resolve to understand that maybe, just maybe, I have it easier for the simple reason that my skin is white, and that I should keep that in mind before I speak or act in an insensitive way;

I resolve to reconsider things that I may have previously considered “harmless” or “funny because my friends are Black” and understand that they perpetuate an acceptance of an extremely harmful mindset;

I resolve to stop saying “It’s okay to say it as long as you don’t say it with a hard ‘r’ at the end”;

I resolve to take the time to expand my universe to include black authors, directors, artists, and other creators because I know there’s no better way to look through someone’s eyes than by appreciating their works;

I resolve never to refer to someone of color as “articulate”;

I resolve not to ask any of my Black friends to be a token representative of their race;

I resolve not to use singular examples of powerful Black figures to argue that racism and bigotry no longer exist because I understand that the exceptions do not make the rule;

I resolve to avoid saying that I don’t see color because I know that’s a nonsense phrase that only diminishes the color of someone’s skin;

I resolve to avoid being defensive when talking about racism because I understand that not actively being racist doesn’t eliminate the problem;

I resolve not to try to relate to a friend’s story about experiencing racism by saying that I couldn’t get a cab one time or that I got looked at strangely once because I understand now that those are not the same things in any way;

I resolve not to appropriate Black culture but rather, to appreciate it;

I resolve to understand that “Black Lives Matter” doesn’t mean that other lives don’t but instead is an anthem and a voice I should stand behind; and

I resolve to do a lot better with my Black History Resolutions than I did with my New Year’s Resolutions. Fuck that diet anyway.

Who’s with me?


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Party prep 101: Avitable’s 39th Birthday Squanch

Tomorrow, on January 30th, I am throwing a birthday party at my house. My parties are infamous, and I love throwing a good debaucherous affair. I thought I would take a minute and pass on some tips for throwing the perfect soirée.

Here is a simple pre-party checklist that should make your life easier next time you’re having a little get-together:

  • Empty each trash can. Place 3-4 folded new trashbags in the bottom of each can, and then put a new bag in the can properly. This will save time when you have to change the trash throughout the night. This will really suck if someone takes an empty trash can and pukes in it, though.
  • Restock all bathrooms with toilet paper. Add a note next to the bathroom trashcan that reminds your guests to please use the trash for all used tampons, condoms, torn panties, and accidental babies.
  • Buy bottled water. Give each guest a bottle of water as they leave for the night so that they can stay hydrated and not be too inebriated. Print a small label to stick to each bottle that states “By accepting this bottle and exiting my house, you are hereby agreeing that I have no legal liability for any stupid decisions you make while drunk, including driving, voting, texting your ex, having sex with your ex, getting your ex pregnant, or posting on Instagram.”
  • Buy more food than you think you’ll need. It’s always a good idea to have more chips and dip than you think people will eat, because there will be spillage, waste, and drunken gluttony. In addition, when you’re faced with the prospect of cleaning up the next morning, you can just say the hell with it and eat chips and dip before setting your house on fire and calling it a day.
  • Pay your vendors when they arrive. There’s nothing more awkward than being drunk at your own party at the end of the night and having your vendors standing around waiting for you to remember where you left your pants, and then those vendors send their pimp Fitty Tree Knuckles in to beat the piss out of you because “dese hos gots to be paid.” I mean, vendors. Not hookers. Vendors.
  • Be ready on time. If you start your party at 9, make sure that you’ve done all your finishing touches by 8:59. It’s proper decorum and you know that there will be that one dorky guy named Clarence who shows up at 9 PM sharp because he doesn’t understand proper fuckin’ etiquette, and he’s probably just been looking in your window since 8:30 because he doesn’t understand how to use a GPS either.
  • Moderate your drinking. If you’re the host, be a host. Drink water between drinks, avoid more than two keg stands, and don’t let yourself pass out until after the last guest has either left or fallen asleep in the pool. It’s an unwritten rule that if the host passes out first, every guest gets to steal something from your closet, box of sex toys, or pantry.
  • Don’t stress! The fun of having a party and celebrating whatever you’re celebrating – birthday, equinox, a day that ends in y, your new shipment from Bath and Body Works arriving, whatever – can be overshadowed by the stress of preparing for it. Keep in mind that your guests won’t notice if the floor isn’t sparkling clean, or if the shower is still damp. You want to tidy, but pretty soon you’re going to have 50-150 drunk obnoxious fuckers tracking everything from mud to oh my god is that dog shit through your house, spilling drinks places like in your washing machine and behind your couch and across your wall, and leaving bodily fluids everywhere. So, fuck ’em if the house isn’t 100% perfect. It’s your party and you’ll do what you want to.

If you live in the Central Florida and I know who you are and don’t think you’re a total dickbag, you can come to my party tomorrow! Bring a bottle of booze, bacon, beer, or boobs, and celebrate my birthday in the raucous, immature style to which I’m accustomed. See you Saturday!


This is part of a series in which I will attempt to write something every single day of 2016. Will I be able to do it? You’ll only know if you subscribe using the form below!

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The earth is flat and other things B.o.B. believes

B.o.B. is a 27-year old recording artist who has decided to educate the rest of the world that the Earth is in fact, flat. Using many visual examples that show exactly why he went into music instead of something requiring a high school diploma, Bobby Ray Simmons, Jr., a name that certainly belongs to someone whose opinion you could trust, has blown up the Internet with his theories on Earth, space, the Holocaust, and human cloning.

But that’s not all. I’ve also found his journals, filled with hastily scribbled notes about thousands of other theories that he challenges in all of his sweaty, ranty idiocy:

What else does B.o.B believe?

  • Nobody actually uses the metric system. It was invented by the Illuminati to keep the focus on the United States and ensure an atmosphere of distrust directed towards anyone who says the word “liters”.
  • Mark Zuckerberg is a clone of Jesus spliced with Bill Gates, which means that he will usher in the end of the world.
  • Morton Salt is actually owned by German conglomerate K+S, and for years, they have been digging up mass graves and grinding up the bones in order to keep up with the demand for more salt in our food.
  • There really is only one person on Earth with an HBO Go password that we’re all using.
  • Selfies are not selfies, but wormholes that show our reflection in another universe where our doppelganger is also looking at his or her phone at that exact moment. That’s why the image is flipped, and when you try to take a picture but it doesn’t work, it’s because your doppelganger just died.
  • If we wanted to travel back in time, all we have to do is spin the Earth backwards fast enough.
  • Women don’t actually have orgasms. All women are actually biological robots who are planning to take over the world, and they view orgasms as moments of weakness. Any man who has told you that he has witnessed it only saw an elaborate acting job, and any woman who tells you she has had one is lying to protect their ultimate plan.
  • 911 happened, but the buildings were actually made from Legos.
  • Paul McCartney has been dead since the late 1960s, and he was replaced by his brother, Gunnar McCartney. There are clues in certain songs by the Beatles, including lyrics that say “This isn’t Paul, it’s Gunnar” and “RIP Paul” and the beloved Beatles song titled “Paul’s Body is Frozen in a Vat in the Garage.”
  • Snow is actually cocaine that’s sent from CIA weather satellites to get us all addicted.
  • The Middle Ages never existed, and we’ve been wrong about what date it’s been for our entire lives. It’s actually the 1700s, and we know it’s true because if the Middle Ages had existed, we would have uncovered at least one dragon by now.
  • Highlander was non-fiction, and Sean Connery is an Immortal.
  • If you play every episode of The Simpsons in a row, backwards in alphabetical order by the title of the episode, you’ll see an Illuminati blueprint for the takeover of the entire world through the manufacture and sale of FitBits that are actually mental control devices.
  • All dolphins are actually aliens and they abduct and brainwash humans into becoming exclusively herbivores. This is in anticipation of the end of the world when the dolphins will be taking a select few of us to their new planet that is purely plant-based. This explains the recent proliferation of vegans in today’s society.
  • The moon really is made from cheese. Gouda, in fact.

Crazy train has arrived at the station. All aboard!


This is part of a series in which I will attempt to write something every single day of 2016. Will I be able to do it? You’ll only know if you subscribe using the form below!

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Thirty Years Ago, The Challenger Exploded And Avitable Rose From The Ashes

When you are a mother who deals in pain and death all day long, you have little choice but to develop a morbid sense of humor. As the first assistant to an open heart surgeon, you spend your days elbow deep in the chest cavities of lost causes, saved by a sense of humor that protects you and your fellow nurses and physicians from the obvious emotional fallout of your careers.

And when you have a husband who doesn’t want to hear about the giant tapeworm that looked like a piece of fettuccini in the middle of dinner, or the abscess on the ear that was filled with maggots resembling rice as he tried to eat, you end up with a void to fill. A need, if you will, to share your humor with the family you love.

So maybe you’re that woman, and you’re the smartest person at your job and you have a husband who dotes on you, and a 9-year old son who reads at a high school level so he seems a lot older than he is, as well as two younger children who don’t play a part in this story at all. And on January 28th, 1986, your son is in school – at the small Christian Academy of Learning where they foster his intellectual growth in substantial ways – and he watches the Challenger shuttle explode on television right in the middle of class, the television turned off immediately lest young minds be wounded with fear. This is the same explosion that you hear about while you’re in the middle of performing open heart surgery on an old man. You don’t remember if he makes it. It doesn’t matter.

The way that anyone in the operating room at Memorial Hospital in Ormond Beach, Florida, is going to deal with tragedy is to joke about it. There are no other options. Grief prevents you from moving on to the next emergency, so you laugh in death’s face and dare him to take the next one from you. The jokes are inevitable, and when you hear jokes about the Challenger explosion surfacing, you all laugh until you can hardly breathe, because at least this means you get to feel something.

Back home, you have a husband who doesn’t want to hear them, because he’s not immune to pain and heartbreak, and you have a young daughter and baby son who can’t even understand. But then there’s that son. And he’s only nine but the way he talks and comprehends things, he’s practically a teenager. Practically. Hell, by now, he’s read half the set of encyclopedia in the house and most of the children’s library, so he’s almost an adult! Almost.

It’s at this moment that you decide that these jokes, made at the expense of the dead and those who are mourning their passing, have to be shared. They cry out from within you to be shared. With someone else who might appreciate why they exist in the first place. Why not your own son? He’s part of you. He’ll understand.

“Adam,” you say, “I want to share these with you, but it’s very important that you don’t tell anyone else what I’m going to tell you. Other people will not understand. They may be offended or get their feelings hurt if you tell them. Promise me that what I’m about to tell you will stay between us.”

He looks up at you with those big hazel eyes and nods. He has no idea that what you’re about to share with him will change his life and set him down a path from which he will never stray.

“Adam, do you know about the Challenger explosion? And do you know about the people who were on it? How does it make you feel?”

“It’s sad,” he says, “but there are lots of sad things in the world.”

You remember that this is the boy who cried until he couldn’t breathe when he read “Where The Red Fern Grows” and you know it’s now or never.

“Adam, do you know what NASA stands for? Need Another Seven Astronauts.”

His eyes widen.

“Do you know what Christa McAuliffe’s last words were? What does this button do?”

He gets it. He chuckles.

“Adam, do you know what color Christa McAuliffe’s eyes were? Blue. One blew that way and one blew the other.”

He gasps but the laughs continue.

“They also found out what her last words were to her husband. You feed the dogs. I’ll feed the fish.”

You can see his little computer brain processing it until he understands. A smile grows.

“What was the last thing to go through the captain’s mind? The control panel.”

More laughter.

“Do you know how they know what shampoo Christa McAuliffe used? They found her Head & Shoulders on the beach.”

He is definitely your blood. You can tell as he laughs until he cries.

“Adam, can you tell me how many astronauts can fit into a Volkswagen Bug? 11. Two in the front seat, two in the back seat, seven in the ashtray.”

This one, he loves more than any of the rest. This moment will forever be etched in his brain. The concept that people can deal with death and disaster through humor was raw and unformed in his mind, until now.

That little boy will tell those to himself over and over again that night, laughing himself to sleep. He’ll feel compelled to share them with his class the next day, prompting an irate phone call from the Drs. Mudrey, who can’t understand where he would have heard those horrible jokes and have you considered therapy. That boy will grow, and his brain will fill with information and details and memories but he’ll continue to tell those jokes for thirty years. And he’ll still laugh, fueled by that tiny moment you shared with him as a small boy who was only nine years of age.

Comedian Adam Avitable at the Improv


This is part of a series in which I will attempt to write something every single day of 2016. Will I be able to do it? You’ll only know if you subscribe using the form below!

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Where Avitable lives.