We waited for weeks with baited breath for the proverbial light (stick) at the end of the tunnel. Glow, an all night massive music and light art festival sponsored by the City of Santa Monica had–with its elaborate advertising campaign–practically promised the second coming of Jesus. I would say it was more like the second coming of Jesus Jones for its walk down retro-90’s memory lane. The glow sticks were abundant whereas, for the mostpart, the art was at times amateur, at times just plain hard to reach and scattered.

Droves of people came out for the event–a whopping 14,000. And a spirit of unity, again reminiscent of the early-mid-90s rave scene foreshadowed it. When you chatted with people it seemed like everyone in L.A. and their wannabe out-of-town cousin was headed out to the Pier on July 19th. Even claustrophobic, snobby, ‘great masses’-loathing me was excited to connect to Glow. Amidst all the crappy news about the economy, gas prices and the environment, it seemed like a good enough way to unify Angelinos and by extension, the nation. That was the spirit I went into it with. Plus, two artists aquaintances of mine decided to hold their pre-wedding reception at Glow (they also had a piece there–which had a line to see it so I never got to it).

For our crew of eight, trying to find the tent where our friends had set up the reception became something of a ‘pilgrimage into the desert.’ We walked around in wall-to-wall crowds (the pier bridge was so jammed with bodies that it looked like The Great Wall of China) searching aimlessly for our Mecca–the tent which promised friends, food and drink, and a respite from the crowds. We passed by some fairly unimpressive art pieces (if I see any more neon white or purple, green or pink day-glo I’m going to like barf).

There was one centerpiece to the whole show, a sprinkler-like installation on the beach with projections on it that people seemed really jazzed about. I’ve never seen a crowd cat-call an art installation before. It was like they were construction workers and the art was a scantily clad woman. “Whew! Yeah!” they cried, hopefully on drugs. The piece was cool ‘drug art,’ quite grand, but ooh-babying the work just seemed a little inappropriate. And then there was the giant neon white moon bounce, the balloon cave and finally the fake glowing camp fire where the earnest lesbian (?) cellist was surrounded by onlookers singing folk songs about partnership…A low-point was the people doing ‘rhymic gymnastics for ravers’ (with day-glo ribbons) by the dance area where Garth Trinidad from KCRW was DJ’ing (the latter being a high-point).

“Glow blows,” said one friend who I didn’t meet up with but who caught the late shift of the festival. It seemed to be a sort of kvetch fest from my experience. First I heard a twentysomething girl shuffle by whining, “Ow, my Achilles heel.” Then my friend Thomas overheard someone proclaim, disappointed, “It’s like Burning Man without the Acid.” When I saw a huge line in front of my other friends’ installation I told my group: “I really want to see this, but after waiting in line for everything in the past half hour, I don’t really feel like getting in another line.” A passer-by chimed in, “I hear ya!”

The most kvetchy of experiences was walking through the (already terrifying) gated bridge accross the PCH (something which gives me anxiety attacks even when it’s empty). It was full of people budging not more than an inch a minute going all the way up the stairs. I made a comment about wanting to get to the other side already and some irritated guy chimed in, “What’s the point?” Meanwhile my friend Molly was getting yelled at by an impatient dude who told her, “We’re all going in the same direction, you don’t have to push.” Uh, slightly bad vibes. And we never did find that wedding reception tent. Apparently our betrothed pals said they ended up sitting around with strangers, as hardly any of their guests found the tent either.

The positive note of all of this, for me, was the plethora of hot blond West Side preppy boys–which are exotic to me as a dweller of metrosexual/’I am an artist’ Hollywood (although I do get to hang with them at the golf course every week). “Normal boys…total bliss…” But they were mixed in with dread-locked, light-stick waving, techno-hippies.

I wonder if there will be another Glow next year, “Glow II: Electric Boogaloo.” My friend John mused that the whole evening was probably just a giant live drill for the Santa Monica Police Department.

For all its efforts, Glow failed to impress as grand art spectacle…but it did act as a West Coast metropolitan launch for the inevitable (come on, you know you want it) retro ’90s movement. Ladies and gentlemen, get out your platform sneakers, XTC, Addidas pot leaf t’s, big floppy hats, whistles and of course…glow sticks…the ’90s are officially back. 

Though I’m most comfortable asking the questions, every once in a while I get the inappropriate opp to be written about. This time was extra-special because the article appears in De Pers, a newspaper in Amsterdam. It’s entitled, “Carpool met Lisa Marie.” Presley, that is. Yes, I carpooled with her when I was in kindergarten and she was, I guess in grade school when we both attended French Lycee here in L.A.

Even though the piece is tongue in cheek, and a fun little international plug for yours truly, it was also an opportunity for me to gain more perspective on the outside, non-American world views on the glitz and fame of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and the L.A. mystique in general…It’s an exotic oddity to them but to us Angelenos, a qutoidien egoic neurosis.

The best part of the piece, in my opinion, is the end. The author, Sanne Rooseboom quotes me as saying that people in L.A. go out of their way to ignore the famous but it’s the tourists who go overtly wild over celebs. She then recounts my story about Robbie Williams who is a HUGE pop star in Europe getting ignored when he pranced proudly into the Coffee Bean on Sunset Plaza. Were it not for one devoted visiting Spanish girl, his ego would have been crushed like a cocoa bean. If you read Dutch, check it out on page 9 of this pdf link.

Other than that, went to a screening of an amazingly funny little film tonight, starring Danny Masterson. It’s called “Capers.” This flick is destined to be a cult hit along with the likes of “Idiocracy” and “Office Space.” I would highly recommend you see it, only it hasn’t found distribution yet. These days that means it could be on YouTube in a matter of hours. Let’s hope, for the talent of “Capers” that it’s not.

Dropped by the Stone Rose Lounge last night for a launch party for Jasmin Rosemberg’s debut novel on Hachette, “How the Other Half Hamptons.” Believe it or not, that was my second book launch celebration in the last three days.

My friend Josh Miller hosted a soiree on Sunday in honor of his friend Josh Emmons’ novel (the coolly titled) “Prescription for a Superior Existence.” It was held at the home of one of my generation’s favorite directors, Amy Heckerling (”Clueless” and “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”). Josh mentioned that it used to be Liz Taylor’s pad which I could see because it was grand and extremely decadent, in a good way. For someone who usually only reads non-fiction, I sure am being exposed to my share of fiction these days.

Speaking of which, how’d you like that Iranian government Photoshopping an extra missile in the photo that graced the cover of every newspaper today? We all take liberties with our photos these days but, guys this isn’t Facebook, it’s international warfare. How very James Frey of them…insert quote about truth being stranger than…on second thought, goodnight.

 Image: Fernando Torres clips the winning goal past Jens Lehmann (©Getty Images)

Image: My favorite Spain team kicker, Fernando Torres

It was a nail-biter–the nightmare penalty kick shoot-out between Spain and Italy (the champs). Spain played their hearts out through the game’s entirety and overtime; Italy doing a kick-ass job of defending and not much more (NOT football if you ask me). It must have been disappointing for Italy fans seeing as they were amazing when they beat France in the World Cup two years ago. So, despite penalties being the lamest part of the game, the best man (or men) did win after Spain’s goalie did a muy excellente job of blocking two kicks. It’s on to the semi’s for Spain, who will fight the Russkis.

Oh, and to any of you high fallutin martini-sipping trendofiles who are dissapointed that I’ve chosen to blog about nothing but footy for the past few days….sod off!

Image: Maurits, Prince of Orange, on his death-bed

I just came back from watching the Holland vs. Russia quarter final of Euro Cup 2008 at a Dutch-packed Western-themed bar in W. Hollywood. All those young Russian legs (Russia has the youngest team in the Cup) outran the seasoned but shot-shy Dutch, and of course outscored them. R.I.P. Team Nederland

I ended up sitting with a table of missionaries–a guy from Friesland, his fiancee from Mexico and their wholesome looking Canadian buddy…all big team Holland fans…and fans of The Christ as well. At one point, when the Dutch goalie blocked a kick, I kid you not, the Fries guy yelled, “Praise the Lord!”

The rest of the orange-clad crew consisted of the usual older (see: ‘Lesbian or German Lady?‘ article for reference) Dutch ladies with their Ellen Degeneres haircuts and (as if that wasn’t butch enough), orange football jersies. ‘Ladies,’ that’s not cultural pride, that’s called ‘going in drag.’ There were also some football hooligans and lasses, and my personal favorite, one or two adorable blond Dutch twinkies for the eye candy spectacle of it all. I have to say that it was strange watching soccer/football with a room full of Euros and a mechanical bull. But somehow it worked (though team Nederland didn’t).

While Schnijder proved to be a great disappointment, Ruud van Nistlrooy provided one of the few great moments for the Dutch in this game. As an aside, an ex of mine in Amsterdam is always mistaken for Ruud. Finally one day an older man came up to him begging for an autograph for his son. My ex insisted, ‘no.’ The guy pleaded. Finally my ex capitulated and gave the guy the autograph. How sad it will be one day when he tries to sell it on Ebay and is flagged.

Walking down memory lane, I had a reverse situation when I lived in Amsterdam. When I was exiting a bar on the Lediseplein, a (what I perceived as sleazy) dude started hitting on me asking where I was from, etc. I was slightly snooty towards him and my friend was even more recalcitrant. All his friends insisted we should know who he was. I said we hadn’t a clue. The dude asked me if I knew of the England football team and introduced himself as “Alan.” It still meant nothing to me. The guy seemed ticked and started to walk off. His friends said, “Forget it, they’re Americans” and told us this guy was the captain of the team. I went home and Googled “Alan,” “England,” “Captain” and “Football” and his picture popped up, legendary player and England team captain Alan Shearer…doh!

Image:  Roman Pavlyuchenko, yes, he’s ‘the enemy’ but, I think I can make an exception… 

Meanwhile back at the ranch–er, the Western themed bar/restaurant–they were tied in overtime and the Russians scored two goals. I have to admit to needing a cold shower when all those cuties did the pile-on. That, and it’s like 105 degrees out today! Oh well, better luck next time…wel te rustig jongens!

Just a quick note to say that I’m a little perplexed by something I read on Politico.com today. In an article about how the Obama campaign is hiring more women for senior staff positions, it mentions that Patti Solis Doyle will be the chief of staff to the Vice Presidential nominee. Solis Doyle played a part in running Hillary Clinton’s campaign into the ground. On a personal note, she is the one who wrote me a dismissive email regarding me doing pop culture oriented strategy work for the campaign earlier on when they thought they had it ‘in the bag.’  I did however later get an apologetic email from the cool and smart Huma Abedin, Sen. Clinton’s personal assistant. Word is that Solis Doyle is not well-liked in the Clinton camp. So, my question then is, ’what up with this appointment?’ Some say it’s a gesture to indicate that there is no way Obama will choose Clinton as his running mate. But I wonder if it could mean the opposite. Though acrimonious departures make headlines in the news, I’m pretty sure that behind closed doors on The Hill, bad sentiments don’t run too deeply (or for too long). These are, after all, politicians we’re talking about. Solis Doyle, regardless of her flubbing, was a long time friend of Clinton’s. So, this move by Obama’s campaign leaves me wondering…or is it just the record temperatures causing my brain to overheat…anyway…back to the ice packs and beer..

Image: My honorary Euro Cup 2008 collage piece entitled, “Coach Mortem”

I have been taking some time to process a massive energy spurt that I have been experiencing inside myself and in the world. Energy seems to be the word of the day lately, in the throes of a gas crisis, with renewable energy on people’s minds. And certainly the contaminated tomato scare has caused me to think a lot about how to make my life my own so it is not dependent on government agencies and outside sources for its sustenance. So I have began Round Two of my ‘growing vegetables’ experiment (Round One, a couple of years back involved beans which sadly failed to fully mature). This time, I planted artichokes, lettuce, spinach and zucchini. And again, I’ll be watching what sort of energy the sun imbues them with.

My energy–and that of a lot of people I know–shifted massively last month. It was like everyone was making monumental changes in their lives or faced with things they could no longer ignore. I had just come back from Amsterdam and was trying to reintegrate my vacation experiences with my life here. My interpretation had been that that trip opened up my heart again. I felt a sense of the ‘possible’–like the world was open to me. I am still struggling to retain that feeling even in light of some disappointments that have revealed themselves since I returned from that trip.

In the meantime, the energies swirling around me have been intensifying. Everyone around me is talking quite freely about mystical affairs. I spoke with two brothers at an art opening in Venice last week who recounted their fantastical Ayahuasca trip in Machu Pichu. One asked his psychedelic self the question, “What is 2012?” The answer, he said, was simply an energy of bliss. I discussed similar matters with a film development guy who lives in my neighborhood. He pointed out how amazing it was that ABC (I believe it was ABC) is doing a series about where we’re at, and how we can survive the next century. Incredible that this vibe is permeating mainstream consciousness. Then there’s the topic of astral projection–which, I know, sounds like so ’70s and cosmic to veryone. But, having experienced it momentarily (accidentally) for the first time a couple of weeks back, I can attest to the fact that it is alive and well in the millennium era.

My good friend Eva in Spain opened up to me about her experiences with it. We are now in the throes of experimenting with ways to communicate remotely and non-verbally with each other at a higher state of consciousness (hey, it saves on long distance bills). Another good buddy of mine from the neighborhood also had an out of body experience that was not purposely induced. Basically, we have all been trying to make sense of this stuff. We’re all intelligent, educated professionals. But something about the way this world has been operating doesn’t make sense to us anymore. So we are attracting these super-real experiences. I believe, at the end of the day, that the Age of Reason and Logic is pasing away to make room for the Age of Experience.

I can’t profess to knowing how to process all these changes, except to say that when I fight them, I feel tremendous amount of anxiety. When I embrace them and flow with them, I feel a sense of euphoria.

My dreams are changing me….

As I’ve professed many times, I have been a huge supporter of Hillary Clinton’s. I was deeply disappointed by her failed presidential campaign. However, recently, I had two rather vivid dreams about Barack Obama. In both, he communicated many serious things to me. And I can’t quite explain it, but now, in waking life his message is suddenly resonating. Either he’s pulled off the most amazing campaign ever (that involves the clever marketing tactic of entering voters’ dreams) or I’m feeling the pulse of something greater than myself, greater than him as a man or politician, a general sense of the times.

Lately, in my dreams I consciously travel to places I am kean to visit, but I have still not mastered true lucid dreaming. Last week I was in Amsterdam and in Paris. In the former I saw a street begin to flood and attempted to tell the police who were not listening to me. In the latter, I rode in a boat on the Seine. I still, however feel that these reveries are close to the realm of 3-D reality. I have not yet succeeded in truly traveling ethereally to these places because of FEAR. Each time I feel a part of me splitting off from another part of me, I panic.

The truth is, there are some people I’d like to see in the ethereal realm. There are things I’d like to say to them–things which words compromise. Sometimes, this waking reality of DSL streams, phony online social network connections, ignored emails, and promises of “we’ll do lunch”, feels like a nightmare. And I wish I could wake up in my dreams and really connect–if only for a fleeting moment.

Image: Yves Saint Laurent in Marrakesh in 1969 by Lord Patrick Lichfield

(1st of August, 1936-1st of June, 2008)

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Advertise your product on the dry erase board of my office and the next time I’m on Skype, your brand could be exposed to somebody fabulous and trendsetting, a cosmopolitan ”influencer” as Malcolm Gladwell calls them. The subliminal joy-by-association of your brand’s connection to my intellectually sardonic yet au-courant and riveting web-cam conversation might just be the tipping point of its popularity.

Rates upon request.