Fresh off the heels of a trip to San Francisco more liberal than ever…

Here’s an interesting coincidence: My article on the al-Jazeera TV network’s attempt to rebrand itself for a Western audience as al-Jazeera International (thwarted by so-called “Jazeera-be” web sites) ran on Radar magazine’s site today. After I sent the link out to my distribution list I received an email from Benjamin Bratton, an acquaintance and Sci Arc professor asking if I had heard about the latest Bush faux-pas.

Apparently truth is stranger than fiction and truth is debatable (oops, sorry that was just the result of the Bush administration using NLP on me). Does it get more surreal than this–of course it does with Junior at the helm. Apparently Bush is purported to have threatened to bomb the Qatar based TV station for being a mouthpiece of al-Qaeda. Hmmm, now how could that have become news?

My guess is that the Prez was cavorting in the good ol’ boys’ room with a bunch of GOB’s, waxing illiterate about all the things he was capable of–in that “Date Rape and AIDS jokes” (to use Heathers vernacular) way. Using similar braggadacio to a frat boy describing every sorority girl he was planning on banging he probably let a few far-flung bullshits fly. Fast forward several days later and it’s–sadly–BBC news, because, hey, we really never know when this gun-toting Texan crazy could well, stray from his tenuous 12 steps and hit more than the Jesus Juice. It probably wouldn’t even take intoxication to get him to throw the baby out with the baptismal water.

Hey, hey, I’ve got a script idea. Hear me out on this one–it’ll be great–a Merchant Ivory kind of deal–two parts romantic folly, one part reality: “The Madness of King George W.”

As I’m plowing through Maureen Dowd’s new book, Are Men Necessary?(finally a feminine, intelligent career woman’s perspective on the bimbofication and baby fever infiltrating American cities), some thoughts are coming to mind. When you mention the name Maureen Dowd nowadays you get a very extreme reaction–either in the realm of “you go, girl,” or in the case of some men–many of them Dowd column readers who wrote in with complaints to the journalist–utter disdain.

In her book, Dowd muses on why many Alpha males–powerful, intellectual, top of the heap– eventually opt for Beta females–weak, dowdy (no pun intended) caregivers instead of strong, powerful, sexy, intelligent women in their league. The reaction to this very point, apparently makes some men’s blood boil. Dowd says: “I also got many e-mails scorching career women as materialistic, choosey and self-absorbed.” These men, many of them clearly not feeling Alpha, balked at women like Dowd for being so discriminating as to desire equally powerful men at their sides. There was a general sense of inadequacy and venom in their responses to her opinions. One acrimonious reader vented: “Despite being older and less beautiful, they are none the wiser and as picky as ever…The very men whom they had rejected are now happily married to women who are less picky.”

WELL, EXCUSE ME (as the Steve Martinism goes)… Anthony Santelli (above Beta commentator), if women who have worked damned hard to achieve their positions in a still male dominated work place, women who dream big, want it all, and are true livers of life, are not interested in marrying the Domino’s pizza guy. I have to admit that hearing this from men is not only surprising but revealing of the innate insecurities that some of these non-Alpha males have. It’s enough to make you want to adopt Aldous Huxley’s “Brave New World,” as a social bible (Alphas in their place at the helm, Betas in their place taking orders or crunching numbers).

I take umbrage at being told to “settle” for less because I am being “too picky.” I happen to take shacking up with a man rather seriously and unlike many of the breeders out there for whom any good, successful man with a decent job will do to knock them up so they can be happy housewives–I am, quite frankly looking for something more out of life. I would rather be alone and nurture myself through friendships, reading, learning new skills, reinforcing my career and just smelling the flowers, than be shackled to a ball and chain, NOT of my own choosing (but stemming in society’s pressures towards mediocrity). We only live once–unless you believe in reincarnation (what a nightmarish thought) and to be reprimanded as a “far-reacher,” an “overachiever” (or whatever marginalizing terms are used) for wanting the whole package, is so damned blue collar (and NOT in the fiscal sense–in the social sense) that it makes me want to hurl.

These fuming Beta men are the same sorts of people that tell you, in life, “you’ll never succeed in this…it’s just too competitive…” They’re the nay-sayers of society–discontent with their one failings to such a degree that they have to impose the “misery loves company” effect on everyone (male and female) around them.

I absolutely, unabashedly am, as the scientifically inclined personals ad might read, Alpha female searching Alpha male. And I wonder what shame there really is in admitting this. An independent woman (i.e. a woman content in her own pursuits, even, believe it or not, sans kids or husband) seeks the same–a man who can stand on his own–a strong survivor, an authority who leads, not follows, a many who does not NEED but WANTS. I say, let the Beta men be satisfied with their own Beta breeder women in their suburban nests with their suburban gripes (”You’re always too busy to go to little Jimmy’s school plays,” “Make up your mind, chicken or beef,” “There’ll be another movie showing, the game is on”).

Why, Anthony Santelli, do you even care what Alpha women do? If you’re so clearly a Beta, live with it with dignity–know your place in society as “support staff.” My dominant menstrual cycle and personality, as well as my stalwart goals in life clearly label me as Alpha and I do not complain. I accept that I am a woman who needs quite a lot to be content. It’s no bed of roses, trust me, but what can I do, lie to myself and pretend that getting knocked up by the mailman will satisfy my interminable hunger for….mediocrity?

I have to end this wrathful diatribe by saying that Alpha male is not synonymous with insanely rich motherfucker. This is where some of the men have it wrong. It’s not about the money. It’s about the attitude towards life. A Beta male could be absolutely loaded in his managerial position–buying cars and a fancy house, but that doesn’t make him Alpha. Alpha is the drive behind the man–it’s the willingness to be accountable for himself, not to blame others for any failings and to keep resolutely attending to his own furthering in an independent manner. The fact that many Alphas end up being rich is a bonus–a testament to the fact that they don’t give up because they’re relentless (and not a princely birth right). Their advanced sexual prowess is another story altogether…for another BLOG, at another time…but rest assured, it will be explored, in detail…

Another quick one…because the fun never stops here in the Hollywood Hills. My German photographer neighbor has a cat that wanders the neighborhood like a savvy alley cat. “He has a huge territory,” he always tells me about his pet. In fact, for months I was actually feeding the feline, thinking that he was a starving stray cat. I even named him Cat Stevens. Well, p.s. Cat Stevens is actually Felix, a brie-eating kitty who hunts birds in my yard. And being a total sucker for independent, self-sustaining wanderers, I still feed him. It’s our little ritual. He comes to my back door, sits, stares, waits and I feed him some kibble.

Today he was more courageous and so I let him wander around my house a bit. I thought it would be nice, no strings attached, to have a quasi-cat (i.e. he doesn’t depend on me but he comes around occasionally and it’s cool). Anyway, he made his way down to my office–which incidentally has new teak floors, looked around and then strategically went for a spot in the North West corner, and like every man I’ve ever known…marked his territory with a quick spray. Now, the only reason I’m aware that that niche is in the North West is because I’m a Feng Shui addict. And Felix, you sly devil, you just sprayed all over my love corner.

Oh, how I hate doing this…adding in a little by-the-by after I’ve blogged ‘graf after ‘graf on my weekend escapades…but it’s a blog and that’s what it’s for…brevity, dirty little secrets, afterthoughts, scandal–oh, whoops that’s Gawker–which incidentally has a shirt that is so after my own heart that I will now divulge to you what lies beneath my silent, tolerant look: voila, the t-shirt

But that’s not why I logged on. I logged on to dump a load of laughter that’s been sitting in my belly simmering, on you. Oh, I can’t help it, this is naughty humor because it shouldn’t be funny…oh, but it is, it is, and isn’t that the best kind. Ok, here’s the visual I will leave you with. I went to a friend of mine’s house the other day. His wife is pregnant with twins and so they’ve done some remodeling in preparation for the little ones’ arrival. Said friend was telling me about how his mother has been working hard to decorate the baby room. She’s put new wallpaper up, bought stuffed toys, and above each cot, hung alphabet building blocks that spell the boys’ names out–one of which is Owen.

So, as I was getting the grand tour of the newly remodeled pad, we neared the nursery as he was telling me a story. He opened the door and there it was…Ahhhhh! Above one of the cots, the word, “OMEN.” The “w” from Owen had apparently flipped over. Holy Rosemary’s Baby! Of course when you see that on a wall and you’ve seen Damian do his thing one too many times in that 70’s trilogy of terror music even cues in in your head (”Carmina Burana” or something classical with chanting sticcato voices). My friend promptly flipped over the “M” and turned it into a “W” (another letter that breeds fear in me and everyone I know these days).

Well, after several days of having clusters of humans around me non-stop, I’m pretty much aching for some alone-time. My friend Kiino did a fashion photo shoot at my house on Saturday which went smoothly and confirmed what I’ve always secretly known to be true–that I am capable of just letting go. I sat in my office for hours as chatter and furniture moving went on upstairs and didn’t even break a sweat.

Later it was off to see my good friend George Pitts’ work displayed in his first L.A. solo show. George is the photo editor for Life magazine but on the side he explores female life–well the female nude specifically. He has photographed me before but you’ll never see those pics emerge from the shadows (unless my psychologically maladroit ex-boyfriend attempts to throw his weight around–but they are in fact copyrighted as George’s so watch out for a law suit). Anyhoo, the images on the menu were, “femmes under glass,” quite literally women beneath a large piece of glass. One would think that this would appear to be objectifying women but the way George photographs (with an eye that gives away his reverence of women) the women became part of the furniture in a subtle, artistic way that did not vulgarize them sexually. Kudos to George.

Sunday night was all Hollywood brouhaha as I attended the premiere for my childhood friend Sebastian Dungan’s film “TransAmerica.” Seb produced the movie starring Desperate Housewife Felicity Huffman as a transsexual connecting with the son (s)he never knew (s)he had (twist: the cutie son, pretty boy actor Kevin Zegers doesn’t know that she’s his father). I can say, sans nepotism, that the movie was great and that I was especially impressed with Huffman’s breakaway performance. Now I lived in New York during the “Paris is Burning” (no tasteless current political pun intended) era and I know trannies. She was totally believable as a lilac-suit wearing, hormone-popping, Adams Apple conceiling transsexual. Brava, do I hear Oscar buzz? (purposely phrased in that repulsive “Extra” style intimating insider status).

The after-party was held at the former Sunset Room in Hollywood, currently called the Cabana Club. All the other “Housewives” attended the premiere–Terri Hatcher, Marcia Cross, Eva Longoria, Nicolette Sheridan…as well as executive producer William H. Macy. But I was hanging in the gay ghetto–and I say that affectionately–amongst friends. I did run into my straight friend Robby, who prides himself on attending every premiere after-party but skipping the film screening. I pulled him aside and explained why that might have been a mistake this time–seeing as the film was about a transsexual and much of the guest list consisted of gay men and trannies. See the film, next time, sweetie…for your love life’s sake.

As an aside, I do believe that my outfit for the evening (uncharacteristic of my new Canyon style) was a hit–at least the boys in the band said so–and their word is golden. I was sporting a purple mini-dress suit by Thierry Mugler with 5-inch black alligator heels–my homage to the drag queen and her post-op self.

Ok, back to work as Metrosexualopolis’ answer to Lois Lane…