Welcome to my bizarre life where the lines between sit-com fantasy and non-television inspired reality blur to form…well, the vortex. The week was humming along, on the heels of a humor/relationships article I had written, “Where Have You Gone, Grizzly Adams.” I was pleasantly surprised to receive some reader feedback. The piece, being about my fixation with 40-50something mountain men, a-la Sam Elliott, with the 70s grit of Kris Kristoffersen, was certainly appropriately placed to pique the attention of the demographic. Boys (and I do mean boys) my own age or thereabouts are not avid readers of the paper–in that down-and-dirty ink-on-the-fingers gritty way. They get their news from sites like the New York Times online and The Drudge Report.

So apparently, some Elliot emulators read this particular article. I was besieged with invitations. One guy invited me to check out his archery club and promised that one of the men, ranging in ages from 30-70 was surely a Gordon Lightfoot fan and boar hunter. Most fascinating to me was Dan Haggerty’s (the actor who played Grizzly Adams in the 70s TV show) manager wrote as well, overjoyed at the fact that I had given some respect to true grit in the masculine aesthetic. He invited me to meet “Grizz,” and his pals which apparently include stuntmen, and the incomparable Sam Elliot himself. I have yet to hear from Sam directly–though he’s been notified of the article. I was a little shocked that Kris Kristofferson never surfaced. But hey, with these fellas, time is of the essence and patience a virtue.

Doing a little back research on Haggerty, I was impressed to find that he’s an eclectic sort. He custom-designed the motorcycles for Easy Rider, was a stuntman, AND has his own BBQ sauce. He did experience a dubious patch in the Delorean-era (the 80’s) when he was busted for dealing snow. But who wasn’t a snowman or snow woman in the 80s. I myself was just a kid but as retrospective knowledge goes, I believe that was everyone’s common ground.

In any case, I’m anticipating a happy, at the very least adventurous birthday. On that special–yet oh so mundane–day, I will be on the opposite end of the cultural spectrum, veering away from 70’s land and moving into the sophisticated world of Chinese contemporary art. On July 28th, Marc Richards privately opens a contemporary annex of his gallery with a show devoted to today’s innovative Chinese photographers. Purely topically speaking, I guess you could dub my eclecticism something like, ‘From China White to China.’

Chuck E. Weiss and Rickie Lee Jones at Duke’s Coffee Shop, 1979

Since this country’s basically going down the toilet and this city (Los Angeles) has been relegated to a sardine can for Mid-Western morons with a penchant for celebrity, I have decided to take matters into my own hands–or rather frame of mind. Outside of the tiny realm of LA matters are equally tense. However, back in the old country of my mitochondrial origin, China, there’s a lot going on–namely in the art world. I saw this firsthand when I was in Hong Kong and Shanghai last year cruising the galleries and have as of late been privy to writing about it. So, first and foremost I choose to focus my attention on all the amazing artists–painters and photographers–coming out of China. I will not only write about them, but I will also be inspired by their creative spirits.

Turning my attentions locally, I have decided that Nouveau LA is dead to me. From this day forth, I will not set my sights on places like The Key Club (formerly Gazzari’s) or The House of Blues –not that I ever really did, but you get the cadence of my rant. No longer is Mel’s on Sunset Plaza a dining option, for it was once Ben Frank’s, one of the few hotspots in the 60’s that allowed “long hairs” in. I am turning my back on mini-malls, tall buildings and theme architecture (with the exception of the Dudley Do-Right Emporium). I am going to live in LA as if it was at least fifteen years ago–before the influx of Reality TV hopefuls with their vapid smalltown stories and faux Hollywood attitudes, descended upon this fabulous city.

Today I had lunch at Duke’s and what a pleasure it was. Ironically, I had just read the chapter in Danny Sugerman’s memoir, “Wonderland Avenue,” that depicted the 13-year-old author having lunch with Jim Morrison and a groupie at Duke’s. I walked in and it was as if time stood still. Only about eight dinners were present at the height of lunch hour (praise old LA!). The old and apathetic waitress was a waitress and not a perky servor with fake breasts and a butt-crack tattoo peeking out of a pair of gawdy low-rise jeans. A framed black n’ white photo of Shirley Jones and Marty Ingels in zany cop uniforms graced the back wall. The autograph by Ingels read, “Duke’s is better than having sex.” Half of me–the top half–concurs.

Support Judith Miller

“If journalists cannot be trusted to guarantee confidentiality, then journalists cannot function and there cannot be a free press. The right of civil disobedience is based on personal conscience, it is fundamental to our system and it is honored throughout our history.”
-Judith Miller, New York Times reporter, to a Federal Judge on the government’s attempts to get her to violate the journalism code and divulge her anonymous CIA source.

Renate Druks, “Anais Nin Visitation” (1979), Clair Obscur Gallery

A little disclaimer here: I’m not much feeling like blogging lately. The summer sun is frying my mind and I want nothing more than to watch Jim Belushi movies on TV (well, that’s hyperbole but you catch my drift). So let me stop being a meat-head for a moment to tell you about an amazing show I popped in to see: ‘Sirens of Surrealism’ at the Clair Obscur Gallery. I was blown away by two out of the three artists (all women): Renate Druks and Veronica Agostini. Most notably, the above image, sitting on the back wall (the very same one that was home to my favorite erotic spanking drawings by Bobby Beausoleil only a few months ago), blew me away. I’m not usually into chick art (being honest). But this is a profound woman, this Renate Druks. I almost ignore the fact that the painting is entitled “Anais Nin Visitation,” because I prefer to give it my own meaning.

I see an image here that chills me to the bone because I relate to it. It’s both icey and promising. This image depicts so many intelligent, profound women I know. The simple subtext is that she’s in a cage of her own making. And maybe that’s all there is to it. The field is open, fertile with possibilities but she doesn’t see it. She stands in its midst afraid to explore it. It’s too vast and unknowable. She prefers to limit herself because it’s safe. For many of us women there is a vast unknown in nature that we are privy to because we are more connected to nature than men (we give birth). Yet, we fear our limitless nature. We prefer to know, rather than to experience. The painting is sad but it definitely puts life into persective. Sometimes you need to pull back a bit to see just how much you’re constricting your spirit.