Firstly, let me get the shameless self-promo out of the way. Even neurotic writers like to flirt with fashion. I got written up in LA.com’s Clothes Hoarse Blog as a STYLE STARTER. If you click on the above link and scroll down you’ll see me buzzed off free alcohol at a club opening, terrified that a camera has been stuck in front of my face.

I just watched Invocation of my Demon Brother and Lucifer Rising at my friends Dave and Barbara’s the other night. I was really impressed with the quality of Anger’s images, all the over-the-top, trying to be creepy Satanic stuff aside.

And this brings me to another topic. Seriously folks, and I’m talking to all of you out there who don’t know me from Adam (and I do have a few friends named Adam, I’m not talking about those guys)…just because you think you know me doesn’t mean you know me. Yes, I like watching Kenneth Anger movies on occasion, but that doesn’t mean I’m some loser goth chick who likes to weird people out by talking about bloodletting and showing you my scorpion tattoo. And maybe I hate Valentine’s Day but it doesn’t mean that I’m not a hopeless romantic. And maybe I like Kris Kristofferson, but that doesn’t mean I like butch seventies guys…oh, actually yes it does, YES YES YES, and a resounding YES on that one.

Anyway, folks who don’t know me at all…I want to feel free in this BLOG to explore all sides of myself. Don’t look over my shoulder, don’t censor me and don’t MOST OF ALL obsess over me and pour over my BLOG a gazillion times trying to find some deeper meaning that connects us. It’s just not there. I’m writing this BLOG so that my friends in Europe, Australia and Asia can connect with me remotely. I’m writing this BLOG so that my psyche has an outlet for all this pop cultural and sociological garbage that it fills up with. I’m writing it to connect with myself…not some fantasy Internet person.

So, flip the bird at your screen, turn off your computer, get up and go interact with some live, flesh and blood chicks, and enjoy life, real life!

Here’s the best anti-Valentine’s tale I’ve heard in a while direct from the Bay Area. My friend Mieke’s friend Matthew works at a seafood restaurant in San Francisco. The eatery was really hamming up the nightmare of all holidays and wrote on their blackboard, “Come Get Fresh Dungeness Crabs for Valentine’s Day.” Matthew grabbed an eraser and reworked the ad to read: “Come Get Crabs for VD.” Ain’t that the truth.

Now that I got your attention. Er, just kidding. It is actually the year of the Wood Cock (or Wood Rooster or Wood Chicken depending on the Asian culture). So, Happy New Year!
To me, this is the REAL New Year. Western, American New Year was about getting drunk with my girl friends, going party hopping, smooching unsuspecting boys, and waking up with a hangover and the realization, sigh, that, “another year has gone by.”

Chinese New Year, on the other hand (at least for me) is a much more profound, philosophical occasion. It takes place on a new moon so it genuinely heralds a new beginning. Two-thousand-and-four was a very dynamic year for me. But now I’m so excited about embracing new responsibilities, experiencing security, and getting to know new people (and deepening my friendships with my amazing existing friends).

Like a traditional new year, we grow apart from certain people, but that’s ok. Such are the cycles of life. And you never know when you are going to reconnect with those friends. And then (what I love most) you get to know new sides of old friends. For me, this has been about seeing each other through the hard times. My greatest lesson in 2005 was that relationships (platonic and romantic) are about a committment to each other, a committment to fighting on the same side of things, seeing the nobility in each other and working together through trying situations. When all you people (you know who you are) think that you’re bothering me when you need to vent or you’re feeling bad about something, or even when you get irritable with me, think again. I love your flaws. Your flaws are your individuality.

The concept of perfection is a confining paradigm, someone else’s paradigm of uniformity. If everyone looks a certain way, makes a certain amount of money, has a certain job, a certain car and a certain house, they’re supposed to be perfect. Really what they are is lost assemblyline people. It’s the scars, the one-eyed dogs, the clumsy self-taught aphorisms, and the weird quirks that make people unique. Those are the things I love most about the people in my life. There are no perfect people; just deluded people with the self-destructive goal of negating their flaws.

I for one hope that the wooden element of this year brings a solid foundation to my life, and that the crowing animal is a wake-up call to live my life passionately and positively.

Image: “Hey, love those shades, Kris!”

It is perhaps only someone as ruggedly handsome as the 40-something incarnation of Kris Kristofferson that could equal or rival my Sam Elliott fixation. Thanks again, Barbara Ann for lending my Convoy, which though a tedious road movie (a-la Smokey and the Bandit) was chock full of great, raspy Kris moments. No chemistry between Kris and co-star Ali Macgraw but hey, “love means never having to say you’re sorry,” or something.

Anyway, as luck and coincidence would have it, I’m heading over to casa Adam Parfrey to watch, “The Ballad of Ramblin’ Jack,” a film which is also graced by the presense of Mr. Kristofferson.

Lately, I’ve been mighty preoccupied with the late sixties specifically. This is slightly different than my usual seventies obsession. It seems like something very dark yet necessary (Plutonian, one might say) was occuring in the bridge era between the two decades. I think my reverence for this ‘moment,’ comes from my disillusionment over society today. I’m sick to death of eulogizing morons on reality tv, an adoration for porn/stripper culture that is unmerited, a fixation with plastic surgery and celebrities. I long for depth, profundity, soul-shaking revolution. I want to not just put my name on the mailing list for an organization but live, breathe, sleep a cause.

I’m a product of the “me generation,” of my eighties adolescence and that’s not all bad. It’s caused me to go inward and separate from others in an attempt to understand my inner-workings. It’s made me less concerned about what others think and more concerned about my personal mission. But what we “me generation” kids lack is a broader view, and a connection to society as a whole–a concern for that society. I feel the pang of that emptiness as I walk past some gymbo or gymbette in front of Buzz coffee and mumble insults at them.

Not everything needs to be heavy and meaningful and I’m all for some lighthearted fun, but where’s the balance, where’s the strength of character? Maybe the reason I’m attracted to older people is because I feel that like coffee (my favorite drink), their flavor is deep, rich, brewed perfection. It is riveting and an acquired taste. The youth culture today is fluffy–it’s cotton candy and other genetically modified organisms. It doesn’t nourish my spirit. It’s a lot of drama, bravado, and acting to overcompensate for shallowness. It’s a lot of show but no artistic merit in the performance.

I just picked up a copy of Joan Didion’s “The White Album.” I am interested in studying the essay style at its best, hoping to craft the skills I crudely display here in my BLOG. She was writing about the Black Panthers, and then about attending the trial of Linda Kasabian, for the Manson/Tate/LaBianca killings. Then, bizarrely, the very same night I met a gallery owner who is featuring new works (from prison) by Bobby Beausoleil, former Mansonite, who killed a man in an LSD deal gone sour. As it turns out I’m going to be going ahead with this interview for Salon. But I found it a bizarre twist in my day.

This comes several days after my friend Barbara dropped off a DVD of “The Weather Underground,” a doc about the revolutionaries that broke Tim Leary out of prison. She also threw in Joni Mitchell’s “Ladies of the Canyon” for good measure. And now I am seriously tripping out (in my poncho, in the Canyon) wondering why all these 60’s/70’s vibes are suddenly coming my way. There’s a conspiracy in here somewhere.