The Juice Is Nous

by Francis Parrilli


The Juice Is Nous

Been There; Got the T-Shirt: Three Days, 384 Ounces of Cleansing Nectar



Los Angeles juices


I have a propensity for the consumption of juice; it just so happens it usually comes in the form of a 25-ounce glass bottle of fermented grape hailing from the regions of Bordeaux or Burgundy. While my current geographical location naturally dictates a healthier, active lifestyle, you won’t find me at Kundalini class discussing my new vegan kicks and didgeridoo techniques. But upon reading the touch-points of “How Do I Know I Need a Cleanse?” I’m persuaded to give it a try. Navigating an alarming number of strollers and older men in bike shorts, I cruise down to the Pacific Palisades to gather the cold-pressed haul awaiting me at Juice Crafters. A sudden craving for fried cheese (310 calories, 19 grams of total fat) followed by a bear claw chaser (460 calories, 22 grams of total fat) washes over me like a big day at Latigo Point. Something about the smell of spinach pulp and romaine crushed under 10 tons of pressure brings me to a near panicked state. Once steadied, the sight of blood purifying, anti-inflammatory goodness dripping from countertops, lid rims, and parched weekend lips, brings a soothing calm to the Dante-like hole I called a gut.


Highlight: date, almond, vanilla bean, sea salt, and filtered H2O.

I have done my best to prep the body, per the instructions I received a few days before: no meat (220 calories per 3.5 ounces) and no alcohol (125 calories per glass). How am I going to drink 128 ounces a day? I wonder where all these toxins are going to end up—does this particular cleanse require I put plastic coverings down on the bed or the bathroom floor? Pushing aside the thought of suddenly-liberated free radicals causing havoc in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, I’m feeling good until mid-afternoon, right around Root #5. I fall behind on my intake (every 2-3 hours) but I start to pick back up at Cleaner #10. Maybe it is the Vitamin K, or the reduced nausea and headache, but I feel a pineapple army bringing peace to the often-volatile stretch of my 25 feet of intestines. “I am supporting weight loss!” Who knew the joyous exaltings of a liver in relief?


Highlight: apple, watermelon, carrot, and ginger.

I wake with the distinct smell of pulverized celery seeping from my pores—and then I realize: I have actually slept soundly. This has been a rarity; waking well rested without desert cotton mouth and raccoon eyes awaiting the morning’s crowbar-prying of the sun. The post-it note on the six-cup Chemex reminds me of my limits, so I crack open Fresh & Clean #11 with her 390% serving of Vitamin A and it’s bottoms-up. Maybe I will take that Bikram class (burns 450 calories per hour)? I look forward to the day, proud of my small co-op shopping bag full of seven plastic bottles of new life. I am becoming focused. I’ve got the two, six, and nine designations of Vitamin B working on my cell metabolism and apparently, if you pay attention, one can actually hear the anti-aging sounds of a happy gallbladder.


Highlight: pure aloe vera and H2O.

By the morning of day three, the lust—like the penal gland hooking up with unabashed gut at the skating rink in ’89—for Almond Nut Milk #15, is at the extremes of Jack Tripper and a choice. I’m clean-stoned on alkaline, aloe vera, and “youthful boost.” The thoughts of Clean #16’s obvious pairing with vodka in long stemmed glassware are completely gone. I could go running, maybe on the beach, maybe with my shirt off. I find myself as much in disbelief of my newfound positive disposition (thank you Greenest #3), as my lack of hunger. I am experiencing digestive satisfaction. “Why don’t you go and put that on a T-shirt that you’ll subsequently tear off while jogging down the middle of Abbot Kinney?” I think to myself, and also: “I am reducing glucose levels.”

And thus, after seventy-two hours, the detox comes to an end. I crave nothing but goodness (I am full with zinc, chromium, and potassium). Forgetting I recently lost the Vitamix in a divorce, I hit the Farmers Market thinking I might just keep this thing going. The greens of kale, the vivid hues of carrot, and the crimson of beet are suddenly much more exciting to my senses, I am thirsty again. The cute girl at the apple stand with the haircut and the hard-to-pronounce name comments on my glow and I nonchalantly mention my abundance of Vitamin E draped in the squeezed joy of grapefruit and mint (Clean #9). How healthy my mind and body are now is up for debate, but my liver doesn’t feel like an early morning sidewalk in Panama City Beach in the spring, so there’s that. After three days, 384 ounces, and the first 36 hours of the caffeine-lacking-skull-throbbing ache, I’ve gained wealth in the realms of manganese, zinc, and dropped aminos. While my insides are a bit raw and confused about the “Signature” exodus they’ve just been submitted to, I’d do it all again if for no other reason than to feel like I finally belonged in Los Angeles.

Written by Francis Parrilli