Photo: George Pitts

“Just remember, you are not only a killer, you can also love…” or something contrived like that was said by the French woman who offers Martin Sheen the cognac and some lovemaking in “Apocalypse Now Redux.” Why the noir pic, you ask? Because, well, I’m vain and I’m feeling very much like that French woman–you could say that my inner thespian is coming out, that irritating chick who monopolizes the scene in acting class and gives group hugs (well, er, not that part, yech…).

If you too have been drawn to black and white photography, your vanity mirror, red wine, Zelda Fizgerald and Lucifer, you might be suffering from the same ailment. In one sense it’s the Frenchification of the psyche, I guess. My ailment, most likely is caused by an inadvertant over-indulgence in the nouveau Angeleno culture. Vintage LA does not fall under this rubrick. Nouveau Angeleno is the superficially attractive cowpokes that out here from Texas (etc.) to be famous reality TV stars. Nouveau LA is Chai Lattes, smiling faces, mini-malls that attempt to recall Ancient Rome or something like that in their ersatz classical architectural design. Nouveau LA is SUV’s, vapid Scientology parties (”Oh, I’m an avid reader, I’ve read everything by LRH”) and gym socializing (don’t stand in one place–i.e. the treadmill–for too long lest you be perceived as waiting to be hit on).

All of this technicolor bullshit has got me craving some good old fashioned darkness, substance, and some imperfections. Ahoy to the urban pirates with their scars, wooden legs and gravely voices. Book worms and real nerds unite in the hidden stacks of mom n’ pop bookstores. People whose socks don’t match, I take my moth-eaten hat off to you. I’m a fighter, not a lover.

I love that line from Kenneth Anger’s “Invocation of My Demon Brother.” But seriously, folks, I AM A FULL-FLEDGED WITCH. Gosh, don’t I just feel like a schoolgirl, jumping up and down all excited to have aced that pop quiz? I only realized this recently after all the spells I concocted over the Equinox (in the name of good clean innocent Pagan fun) began materializing. It seems as though the more creative I get with these plunges into the occult, employing alternative means of conveyance, the more loaded and potent they are. It’s the eve of my MAYAN BIRTHDAY. So, in a way, in honor of this and my new “gift,” I’m planting some HTML seeds in my digital garden and sitting back and watching them as they grow.

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Man Ray’s “Violin d’Ingres”

Writer John Gilmore invited me to the Andres Serrano art opening at the Erotic Museum. My buddies Barbara-Ann Crumm and Dave Naz had already mentioned the show to me, so I was excited to check it out. John had already gone into the show and hadn’t thought much of it but I was still looking forward to formulating my own (uniquely scathing or adoring) opinion. Serrano’s name, when conjuring recognition, does so on the basis of the late 80’s National Endowment for the Arts fiasco which saw the controversial “artist” paired with fellow shockster Robert Mapplethorpe. Serrano’s famous work was a figure of Jesus on the cross submerged in urine, “Piss Christ.” Ironically enough, Serrano would have been more with the times had he continued this line of work (seeing as the Catholic Church is in the throes of major change). Instead he opted to jump on the old porn bandwagon.

When we walked into the Museum we were greeted by Nico Bruinsma, gallery owner of the Clair Obscur Gallery, a hot-bed for shocking artwork as well but of the thoughtful variety. We walked around the gallery with him and his friend and when we stopped beneath a photo of a hot young blond guy opening his mouth to receive the streaming pee of an unidentified woman, Nico said, “I know this guy quite well.” I surmised that it was a contact of his from Holland. All of the work was like this–with the finesse and sophistication of a horny 13-year-old saying, “Oh my God, look, look, how sick is this shit?” Quite frankly not sick enough in the era of the Internet when you can see a Martian having anal sex with a cow in the middle of the Vatican if you are skilled enough in the art of Googling.

As we walked around the upstairs gallery where the show was displayed, we listened in as people sang Serrano’s praises. Why? The answer is the same as why people think that Timothy Greenfield-Sanders’ book of portraits of porn stars is “cool.” It’s the shocking pink of the moment. News flash: the emperor not only has no clothes but he’s sucking a huge cock.

Let’s be honest, to be fair to Serrano and his fellow high priests of pubes, erotic art is not easy to create in the photographic medium. Conveying the sense of raw electricity, and or emotion of the sex act is something that lends itself better to the expressive painting medium. The sex act is not like the freeze frames we see on the Internet. When you’re in it you’re smelling, sweating, desiring, feeling, letting go, maybe even fearing, grinding, moaning. You’re losing yourself in the moment. And when that big “o” hits, you are letting go of who you are and blending in with the timelessness. You forget who you are in the climax, but it’s ok, it’s not scary at that moment. You want it. You’re building up to that great dissolve. There is something masterfully poetic about it. And, unless, you have a mirror or camera in front of you during every sex act, this is what sex is about. There is a reason the French call it “the little death.” As your muscles grasp the physicality and let go of the unfathomable you die, but you love it. It is perhaps the only time that we (and I leave out cultures that embrace death like the Native Americans) actually deeply yearn for death.

So, in a sense, erotic art COULD be so much. It’s got massive scope. Erotic art could be about existence. It could be about embracing that very fear. It could be about emotion. It could be about mortality. But according to Serrano, it’s a totally visual act. He depicts an old man and a young woman naked in embrace–and that’s shocking. He depicts a young girl with a strap on standing behind her cute boyfriend. He thinks that that is sex. He depicts a man with piercings and leather clamps. Now that’s erotic (or so that is the load he hopes we will swallow). To me, that’s not sex. That’s marketing, that’s product, that’s photography, that’s pre-fabrication, that’s entertainment. Have we followed these false pornography Gods so far that we no longer recall that entertainment is not sex. It’s flesh with a price on it.

Now, I’m not immune to porn. I’ve surfed the Internet and played Peeping Tammy to a range of sexual visuals. And they can titillate. But they operate on a very surface level. What is arousing about pornography is that it makes me feel in control and totally disconnected from what sex really is. It makes me feel safe, skin-deep so to speak, at a comfortable distance from Sex. And that is porn’s job. But real sex, it’s vulnerable, it’s real, it’s scary, it’s spontaneous, it’s INTIMATE. I’m not talking about love. I’m talking about human intimacy here, sharing a body, becoming animal again, together. Like Freud says about phobias; what we fear the most, we secretly want the most. Sex is intimacy. Intimacy is scary. We want sex. We fear intimacy. What a conundrum. How to solve this? Make sex NOT INTIMATE–turn it into porn and you’re totally safe.

I personally like my art to grab me and thrust itself inside my psyche. I may be content to download a picture of a woman being penetrated by two men at once, but it doesn’t reach deep inside me. It makes a dysfunction out of my human desire/fear for sexual intimacy. Great art, to me, is human. It does not shy away from those human truths of intimacy and fear. It takes them and sticks them in your face for further examination (whether it does so subtly or overtly). Andres Serrano’s work is not art. It’s Museum porno spam. It might as well have a sign above it reading, “Penis Enlargement,” or “Hot Girls Waiting For You.” Then at least I’d have the choice to hit, Delete.

Today at 12:32PM (PST) a hybrid solar eclipse took place in sidereal Pisces. A hybrid eclipse is an eclipse that, well, goes both ways astrologically–it’s an annual and total eclipse. The last hybrid eclipse took place 78 years ago, so it’s one of those fluke occasions, a synchronicity of sorts.

I spent my eclipse day in a synchronous way as well. I had the pleasure and the honor of having a phone interview with legendary creator Alejandro Jodorowsky, in Paris. The director of El Topo and Santa Sangre, creator of warped comics like Metabarons, The Incal, Son of the Gun, and writer of a 600 page book on tarot proclaimed of our call, “this is a synchronicity.”

It got me thinking about what kinds of gods we choose to celebrate. In his sphere of avant garde, spiritually sophisticated influence, Jodorowsky is a god. In the grander context the Pope is a god–viewed (not for his limited views on homosexuality, birth control and women’s issues, but) for his mercy and symbolism of the church. In the sad, vapid world of Hollywood, Paris Hilton is a god because she is vapid, has money and looks like a whore. Donald Trump is a god because he knows how to make money and represents power. Elvis is a god because had a golden voice, took Black music and made it accessible to the white man, made music for the masses, and became a humorous caricature before the end of his life.

I don’t understand the notion of choosing a god because it implies the existence of an obsequious follower, down on his/her knees. But barring that, the idea of choosing an idol (amongst many), someone to help inspire in those moments of depletion; that makes sense. And for this I would choose someone like Jodorowsky because the man is an homage to creativity. He lives, breathes and sleeps his creativity. This is his life essence, to continue to make his thoughts a work in progress. Well into his seventies, he does not understand the Western concept tied up in fear of aging. For him aging is finessing and expanding your creativity. Aging too is creativity.

Putting someone up on a pedestal because of their body, possessions, success, beauty, virtues, vices, even for their intelligence–seem like surface reverences. But to respect someone for their crystal-clear line to the great divine force of creativity, their ability to make themselves a conduit to it–that is truly divine and sumptuous.

A hybrid eclipse is a synchronicity point. It’s a point at which two fairly infrequent occurrences (an annual eclipse and a solar eclipse) cross over. They take place at the same time. Hybridity is something that nature and the cosmos smile upon. When two people from different races or nationalities make love, the universe rewards them with a child whose genetic makeup is strong, taking from the strengths of each (think of the reverse: when two people from the same stock, i.e. in-bred white folks produce a child; the result is a mongoloid). So, like the Yin-Yang concept, this hybridity is a potent entity; an entity of creation in and of itself. Today represents that creation. Today is a good day to choose a god, and make sure we choose this symbol for the right reasons.

The O.G. sinners: Adam and Eve

Today as I sweat my little heart on the treadmill at the gym I peered up at one of the TV screens, deviating momentiarly from CNN (my journalistic heroin). There on The Bimbo Television Network (a.k.a. VH1) was a program featuring the likes of Courtney Love, Anna-Nicole Smith, Pamela Anderson and the rest of the gang. After being barraged with Viagra spam every day and being told to swallow the bitter load that porno is now somehow ‘cool’ (the West Valley was and never will be cool), I was forced to see more of it at my place of respite. Of course that’s not entirely true; the gym is in and of itself a den of thumping, pumping members (see the film Perfect, a journalistic foray into sex at the gym, and headbands).

Now I grew up in the eighties, when the slut style was starting to hit the streets (thank you Madonna). We were all overly made up and wore fishnets, smacked our gum and looked like little tramps. So why is it any different now? I got to thinking that in my next incarnation, I will dread having sex with the men of future generations. Having been raised on cum shots, stripping as high art (a.k.a. “dancing”), silicon packing bimbs galore and the REAL doll, these guys will be the opposite of hot and sexy. They will be impossible to satisfy and devoid of sensuality. Why even “try” to get hard when viagra does the trick? It’s such a chore, after all. The drug will by then be released beneath there skin via a timed surgicially embedded attachment.

Since these guys will have seen women violated every which way under the sun–brutalized, bestialized, served up on a platter with body-enhancing attachments (silicon boobs will be easily removed so that men can play with them while women journey out to run their stripping empires), it will be, well, er, a little difficult to get a rise out of them (sans viagra). I imagine it to be like the last scene in “Carnal Knowledge,” when Jack Nicholson, a womanizing loser with a victim’s complex, finally can no longer get it up so he goes to a sex therapist/coach. She has to go through a long series of ego-inflating diatribes to finally get the sleepy thing to rise from the ashes.

But let’s for a moment forget about the man’s pleasure. In the future, in my next incarnation, I will not be able to be visually stimulated because I will have seen it all via my techy devices–like my i-PORN and my Cockberry. Who am I kidding, at that point they will have pheremon emitting air conditioning units? So, we will blindfold each other, fit each other with airtight ear plugs, and nose plugs, don our body condoms and enter a new world of pleasure–a pleasure sans egos, sans senses…a pleasure sans contact.

It finally happened. Kris Kristofferson found shanatinglipton.com. After a brazen introductory email professing his macho 70’s love to me, we met at Jerry’s Deli in the Valley. He ordered a pastrami on rye. I ordered a cobb salad. We jumped into his big rig and drove off onto Ventura Boulevard…

Please check the date.