I am happy to report, after a night out on the town in beautiful Atwater Village, that places still exist where septuegenarians and their young hipster neighbors drink in harmony together. The oddly named “Tee Gee” bar is one such At-watering hole (as I so cornily call it). I don’t expect this to be the case for too long however, because once the hipster factor makes its way into a neighborhood’s equation, it’s not long before the altecockers (as my father would call them) start shuffling out of the venue.

Such was the case with the Dresden Room in Los Feliz, which was as I recall an old folks’ lounge where famed caccaphonous hubby/wifey duo Marty and Elaine regaled audiences with off-key renditions of “Come Fly With Me,” and other classics.

My entree into the Dresden “scene” was in the eighties. I was lured in by the rumour amongst my barely legal pals, that this was an oldies spot which, by virtue of its core demographic, did not have the knee-jerk reaction to card folks at the door. So in droves, we private school kids from Westlake, Harvard and Lycee Francais snuck in to down Tom Collinses and Sidecars with the hip and hunchbacked best of them. One might imagine that some drivers-by caught a glimpse of us and other youngsters starting to frequent the spot and thought that it was the “new thing.”

Fast forward a decade into the swingin’ mid-nineties and the Dresden became a den of ‘daddios’ thanks to the wannabe ‘rat pack’ scene immortalized in the film “Swingers” (side note: almost a decade after that I was living in the famed “Swingers” party house). So the owner of the Dresden was surely in fat city as they say. And I’m quite certain some of the old lecherous patrons didn’t mind gazing at young women. But in essence hipsterdom killed the old folks’ home away from the old folks’ home.

And so I pray that spots like the Tee Gee will not fall prey to “my kind,” pop culture vultures on the prowl for a spot to claim as their own. Last night, as my friends and I downed our Tom Collinses and loaded the jukebox with songs that were inappropriate juxtapositions with the usual tunes (David Bowie alongside Duke Ellington) there was a sense that we had found a home. The TV was on, playing Animal Planet’s “The Yorkie Show,” as a couple of guys in Dodgers caps at the end of the bar made loudmouth comments about the pooches. The antique bartender was drunk as a skunk, even as the owner, an elderly Italian-American looking grand dame downed cocktails to his right.

An old photograph of what looked like it could of been her family (looking a bit Corleone-ish) graced the back wall. Adjacent, was a “humorous” poster featuring all of the things that Italy has contributed to the U.S. since 1492–Chris Columbus, Rocky Balboa, Madonna and (gulp) Susan Lucci. And there was that hunched over 70-something at the bar–a sprinkling of sediment in a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau. But the pregnant, unposed question was, in this battle of the bands, who would win, The Everly Brothers or Nirvana? As fate would have it, I was sitting in a booth with my friend Pat who had in fact been in the latter band. Any evidence of Everly was tough to muster up. So the showdown wasn’t sans handicap.

Yet there is one cultural one-up that the old timers have on us–our generation is culturally unoriginal and fond of the retro rehash. If the Dresden was any indicator–as a sort of social experiment of things to come–the porous young coolies seem to end up pulling in the old influences (as the “Swingers” scene showed). So perhaps, and I’m just saying perhaps, the next time I pop into the Tee Gee, the Atwater twenty and thirty-somethings will be sporting sweater vests, knee socks, and reading glasses. Stranger trends have have been known to infiltrate–case in point, the mullet, you get the picture.

Image: Jack Nicholson plays yet another misogynistic cad alongside Karen Black’s “bimbo waitress” in “Five Easy Pieces”

Love him or hate him, Jack Nicholson is a brilliant actor who has essentially made a career out of playing the nightmare boyfriend we all dread (and many of us have had the misfortune of actually having dated). He’s played the cad, n’er do well, grumpy misogynistic, commitment phobic, crude, dysfunctional immature guy for years. And I think many women can relate to this archetype–which Jack has portrayed in an honest, cutting, yet subtle manner.

I am only going to cite a handful of examples, lest I write endlessly and prompt some literary agent to suggest I pen a book on the “Jack-off film,” as I call it (which could actually, come to think of it, be quite cathartic). His Jack Torrance character in “The Shining,” takes his propensity to play the “worst ever romantic partner” to an extreme of course. One would hope to never “get the axe” in such a literal way. His lecherous but lovable (that’s his “winning combination,” to quote his old bachelor character in “Something’s Gotta Give“) character Garett Breedlove in “Terms of Endearment” also falls into this category.

As Daryl van Horne in “The Witches of Eastwick,” he once again gets a name that corresponds with his character and gets to play the ultimate creepy cad. But I would venture to say that ol’ wicked Jack is at his best when the roles are toned down and real. That’s when he’s really at home, really himself. One such psychologically maladroit lothario that he played was Jonathan Fuerst in the “bridge era” (’tween 60’s-70’s) study of sex and the thoroughly fucked up American man, “Carnal Knowledge.”

In this one, he and cohort Art Garfunkel spend the best years of their lives, from college on, pal’ing around, picking up ladies, cheating on them, dumping them, etc. Like many of the more realistic Jack-off cinematic works, this one takes the audience through his fall from grace showing how it began. In this case, Sandy (Garfunkel) and Jack’s character both fell in love with the same woman, Susan (Candice Bergen) and she ended up going with Garfunkel’s character because she didn’t take Jack seriously. So we see his misogynistic attitude of objectifying women like Anne Margaret and then treating them (and her) like garbage continue through the years. The finale: he’s showing Garfunkel and his latest underage girlfriend a slide show he made of the women in his life, coyly entitled, “Ballbusters on Parade.”

I recently added another “bridge era” Jack-off film to my repertoire, “Five Easy Pieces.” This one is perhaps the cherry on top of the Jack-off film sundae. Jack is so unlikable in this film that I almost like him. The story (by Bob Rafelson) is actually really sad. Jack plays Robert Dupea a guy who works construction, drinks beer, hangs out with low-lifes and has a girlfriend (the amazing Karen Black, one of my favorite actresses of the era) who is a sweet but dim-witted waitress who he cheats on her every chance he gets. He and his buddies don’t have any goals in life, other than bowling, screwing and getting a paycheck.

One day Dupea gets a phone call from his sister. His father has suffered his second stroke and is on his last leg so he must go home. Reluctantly, he drags Black’s character with him and dumps her off in a motel. Then we discover, when he gets to his family home that he is actually not from a working class blue collar family, but a high class, sophisticated, family of classical music virtuosos. While in the house, Jack’s character meets Catherine van Oost, an uptown girl who his brother is in love with and coaching in piano. He is immediately taken by her. She asks him to play a piece on the piano because she heard that he used to be quite good. When he does it’s simple but intense, haunting, profound. Catherine tells him how much the piece moved her but he just demeans her saying that he chose the easiest piece and that they’re both just playing a b.s. game to impress each other, etc. She is offended and asks, “You mean to tell me that you had no feeling whatsoever when you were playing?” “No,” he says callously. They proceed to get into a fight which turns intense and heated. Ultimately Jack says, “Shut up,” pushes her down on the bed and has his way with her.

The beauty of the film really comes at the end (though it’s all so brilliantly Jack-off-ish). Rayette (the bimbo waitress) shows up at the house and it’s a total embarassment. As an aside, we even feel for her character because, though simple and tarty, she really only wants to love him but he treats her abominably. Jack tries to explain her presence to his classy paramour. She cuts him off. She’s about to marry his brother, but she says, “It would never work out anyway.” “Why?” he asks. Here’s her final ball kicker: “You have no love for yourself, no love for your friends, nothing that you love in life,” or something to that effect. It’s horrifying but true.

At this point Jack’s character has confronted his catatonic father and we begin to understand how he got this way. He was afraid to have to live up to his dad’s expectations so he fled and lowered his own expectations of himself, taking the easy way out. Despite what a Jack-off his character is, I can’t help but sympathize with this guy. Sure, you would never want to be romantically involved with him but such films as “Five Easy Pieces” (referring to the piano pieces he has learned so as to impress but not fail in playing) humanize the “prick boyfriend.” Again, these Jack-off movies are not telling women to tolerate the sadistic messed up weak male so that they can be disrespected, demeaned and lead sad masochistic lives by his side as he squashes his beer can on their heads (literally and figuratively). The films simply allow reality to rush forward in a sort of cathartic release. And what’s a Jack-off film sans release?

As promised in my last BLOG, here are some camera phone pix snapped by Ms. Bettie Rinehart on the evening of our foray into 60’s-70’s-land, a.k.a. a loft past Downtown where the wild things grow (some folks call ‘em beards).
Take a careful look at each candidate before making up your mind and emailing your ballots. This will, after all, determine who will obtain the coveted honor of, “Mr. 1970–2006.” Remember, you’re not just judging them on their appearances but on their vibe, man, their vision of the world, the intelligence of their aura…and all those other rules ascribed to us in such seminal competitions as “Miss Universe,” and their ilk. Only this one is more of a seminal competition if you catch my hardy-har-har drift.

THE CANDIDATES

CANDIDATE #1: “It goes to 11”

CANDIDATE #2: “Groovy meets Grunge”

CANDIDATE #3: “Why don’t you come with me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride?”

CANDIDATE #4: “Healter Skelter is coming now…whoops, I misspelled it, ah well, gotta run”

CANDIDATE #5: “C’mon Jim, let me hang with you and Pamela and Ray…I promise I won’t bogart the Whiskey…”

CANDIDATE #6: “Charlie’s got clever, stealth ways, he’s a worthy opponent.”

CANDIDATE #7: “Steve Grogan after years in the slammer? (See CANDIDATE 4)”

CANDIDATE #8: “Who let Jeremy Piven into the competition?”

Early 70’s Bearded Archetypes:

Jesus Christ Superstar

Jim Morrison

Charles Manson

There’s a war going on overseas. No one supports it and people have been pretty vocal about it–only this time it’s not ‘Nam but ‘Raq. We’ve got another crooked, mendacious bunch of politicians in the oval office, our very own 21st century answer to Richard Nixon. And, my favorite part of the symetry: men are growing beards again like they’re going out of style (or coming into style, how does that phrase work?).

On Monday night, attending a stealth warehouse show for which Dead Meadow headlined and my favorites, Spindrift opened, this bearded revolution was most apparent (not to mention that both bands are part of the current neo-psychedelic movement that’s teeming from the ground up). One by one, the paraded before me and my party cohort as we snapped shots of them (hopefully to be published in this blog in the near future): Charles Manson, Jesus Christ Superstar, members of Spinal Tap, George Harrison, the Islamic fundamentalist, the gas station guys–all the bearded “types” were represented. And they were all united under one philosophy–thou shalt not shave–(or bathe, in many cases as well).

I have been long calling for a beard-revival. You need only look at last year’s entries in this BLOG. During that same “blogue epoque” I was also waxing hindsight poetic about the bridge era between the 60s and the 70s. And that night–and on many other occasions–I seem to have seen my romantic dreams materialize. When Spindrift got on stage, three-hundred sheets from the wind, clad in cowboy hats and fringe suede jackets, with two drummers beating out a primal rhythm, and howling at the crowds–why yes, I think I did see a dead Indian on the road, or at least before my eyes in spirit. Jim Morrison would have been proud.

If this year’s Oscar Awards are any indicator–replete with liberal talk show host Jon Stewart and nominated films on Mccarthyism, blacklisting and media ethics, gay cowboys and scribes and transsexuals–I do sense the pendulum swinging (yeah baby, you heard me, I said “swinging”) the other way.

Another thing I’ve noticed on more than one occasion is hitchhikers. Yes, believe it or not in the BTK era, there are folks on the roadside thumbing a ride. How 1970 is that?

But let me not give preferential treatment to 1970. In my own personal web of reality (or surreality), this BLOG’s title could easily incorporate 1977 through 1980 and the jurisdiction of The Village People. Yes, they’re back once again on my BLOG. That’s because this is an equal opportunity BLOG…oh, and, I was delighted today to receive an email from Randy Jones, otherwise known as RJ, the “original cowboy from the village people.”

I’m contemplating adding this to my cool celebrity and expert quotes on the index page: “I’ve enjoyed your writing. Keep up the great work.” He’s of course referring to a couple of entries about the Village People, one of which notes how similar he looks to Leo di Cap. In response, RJ says: “I’m often made aware that there is a bit more than a passing resemblance to Leo. The comments began to come more often after the film Aviator was released. We both have the sort of “old Hollywood” kinda face.”

It seems that everybody loves a good ol’ fashioned cowboy and shanatinglipton.com emphatically concurs.

I’ll have you know that I’m ruminating on posting a BLOG entry about Greg Evigan. For those of you too young or wasted to remember, that’s B.J. Mckay (and his best friend bear) of B.J. & the Bear. Hey, this writing thing has already yielded emails from the original Village People cowboy, Grizzly Adams’ manager, a phone call from Sam Elliott and a letter from Hugh Hefner. Why not go for broke and conceptually thumb a ride to Bakersfield in a big rig?

Preface: I am a multicultural person who has lived abroad and believes in cultural understanding and tolerance. I am a spiritual person who believes in the existence of “something greater.” I also believe in the right to free speech.

But I have to say, in response to the latest controversy over these cartoons of the prophet Mohammed published and re-published in European newspapers, lighten up! Let’s first look back at one of my old BLOG entires (an entry that was very popular, I noticed, from my web statistics), which featured a cartoon published in an English language Arab newspaper, making a commentary on the U.S. and Abu Ghraib. Another preface is necessary: I think that what happened at Abu Ghraib is dispicable and reflects the lack of conscience and the sad power-hungry nature of some sick U.S. soldiers.

That being said, if all of these radical muslim protesters are angry that someone has published cartoon images that ridicule a symbol of their religious culture, I say that it’s the pot calling the kettle black. Look at the cartoon from my BLOG. The Statue of Liberty–a symbol of American freedom–is wearing a KKK sheet over its head and pulling the switch to electrocute an Abu Ghraib prisoner. I didn’t see any Americans burning down Arab countries’ embassies over this controversial caricature. Since the U.S. is a multi-religious, multi-cultural country one could argue that the Statue of Liberty is a unifying icon of ethics and standards in a similar manner as the Prophet is to muslims. For those who cry foul on this account I would say, “Why are you being so insensitive to the U.S.’s cultural morays?” Freedom is a word oft used in the U.S. I won’t even get into the hypocrisy of our own government in using it…that is for another BLOG entry.

But jeez, can some of these radical elements see that social/political cartoons are social/political cartoons whether they’re directed at the U.S., muslim nations, whoever…They’re one person’s ironic and sometimes twisted viewpoint on a given situation. The world is made of multiple viewpoints, n’est-ce-pas? I mean if it was something downright revolting–like an image of the Prophet being hanged–then definitely that would be outside of the realm of decency and I would agree that the newspaper was wrong in publishing it.

Has this world gone mad? Can we no longer make ironic commentaries on anything lest they be deemed blasphemous? And I would have to say that this applies to the extreme right wing Christians in the U.S. as well.

Let me just culminate by saying that if you are a truly spiritual being who connects with his/her god(s) or cosmic theory in a profound and undeniable way, there is NOTHING external that anyone can do or say to desecrate or deny that sacred connection. It is only those who feel that their connection to the ‘great one’ or ‘great beyond’ is tenuous that are wrathful towards anone or anything that questions it. To loosely quote Shakespeare, “the [religious zealot] doth protest too much.”

I was in a beyond-BLOG cyberspace reverie, stumped, unmotivated, catatonic until a New York Times article shocked me back to life and I had to BLOG.

The piece was covering the progress of that first face transplant patient in France. That Frankenstein monster low-tech visual (stitches along the cheekbone) should have been the shocker moment but I made the mistake of reading a bit further. I’m sure this is hardly news to most of you online news junkies out there, but did anyone happen to catch the description of HOW her face was mangled beyond recognition?

The woman’s dog ate half her face off.

I just paused because I got a little faint there. Anyway, apparently said-mademoiselle was down in the dumps about her life and decided to pop some mothers’ little helpers. She claims to have passed out hitting her head on a piece of furniture. When she awoke, in typical French fashion, she decided to have a cigarette. But when she tried to put the cig between her lips she was confused as to why it kept dropping out. Well, she ran to the mirror to take a look and to her horror…there it was…You’ve all heard of “the dog ate my homework,” well in a similar vein (and some arteries and tissue to boot) that’s kind of what happened.

I was considering getting a pet–most likely a cat–but then I read this and to be honest, I was quite horrified and may never be able to do so. I did a search around the web and saw some posts on this story from animal rights people, outraged that her dog had been subsequently put to sleep. They felt the dog had tried to rouse her in his own canine manner and of course failed–eating her flesh off instead.

Personally, I say: “Guilty!” If there’s anything animals are good at, it’s sensing things–they smell, they taste, they have instincts. If the dog could not tell that the woman had passed out (and was not in fact dead) then you know, maybe this dog was a little, well, “off.” Humans are off sometimes–and they’re called killers, psychopaths, etc. Why is it so hard to believe that an animal might not have had the best of intentions and that Animal Lecters do exist in the canine kingdom?

That’s really all I wanted to say. Quite frankly, I needed to exhale that information as it was weighing heavily on my mind and body–a body which, even if it looks dead-tired or dead is in fact just depleted, so please don’t eat my face off, ok, Lassie?