Last night’s opening at Ace Gallery featured work from Dennis Hopper (above)

As you can tell by my dearth of blogs, things are quite busy and I’ve once again been neglecting my favorite outlet for my own personal pop cultural form of psychtherapy. However, I did manage to pop out quickly to the Ace Gallery opening of Dennis Hopper’s classic photographic work last night.

I’ve never been much of a celebrity spotter but this event brought ‘em out in droves. I remember a time when People sent me out to parties to scour for celebs–that was short-lived. A/ I’m quite frankly oblivious (I was once in the bathroom fixing the straps on my dress when Liv Tyler came up and helped me–when she left, I was like, “she was nice,” when my friend pointed out her celebrity). B/ I go into some kind of weird daze at public events when the whole scene becomes like an expressionist painting and I can’t seem to make out faces amidst the dripping oil paint. C/ I grew up in L.A. for Christ’s sake, unless it’s Kris Kristofferson, Sam Elliott, Paul Newman…you get the picture…I’m not all that starstruck. And finally D/ It was F’ing hot and humid as Hell in there with no ventillation. The live collective body count was enough to heat a small village in Africa. So naturally, my vision was impaired by, well, sweat dripping from my temples into my eyes.

Thankfully, my friend Seb was my eyes and ears. He turned to me stealthly and mechanically uttered in my ear, “Viggo alert, Viggo alert,” as if the air raid siren was close behind. And there was the handsome but untouchable Viggo Mortensen and son. I say untouchable because despite his glorious physical allure, what woman in her right mind would want to get entangled with Exene Cervenka’s ex-husband. Talk about punk martyrdom…that’s some scary baggage for any man–even a blistering hottie. Better to hop on the Billy Zane express. And Seb kindly pointed the “other white meat” out to me as if offering another alternative to Viggo.

Seb also spotted Ed Begley Jr. who looked bloated and smug–he was after all the first in Hollywood to pioneer the electric car, long before the “W oil crisis.” Another face from the 80s was Michael Keaton (yes, I know he did some acting in the 90’s and beyond, but to me he’ll always be Mr. Mom, a face from the 80’s like Paulina and Magnum P.I.).

Seb whispered in my ear with urgency, “Darryl Hannah.” I looked around, totally confused until my gaze landed upon someone from Planet Joan Rivers, a.k.a. Space Station Spelling. The once very natural beauty had clearly been under the knife and emerged as nothing short of an Ivana-cum-Pamela. Note, there are two ‘under the knife’ camps–the other is David-and-Liza-land, otherwise known as the Wilds of Wildenstein–a scary little bog that few dare to traverse.

A 60’s inspired L.A. art event wouldn’t be complete without the attendance of Angelica Huston and her reigning L.A. sculptor hubby Robert Graham. And so it was complete. But let’s not forget about Hollywood honchos like Jerry Bruckheimer. You’ve got to love my friend for recognizing people whose names I only know as credits hastily floated up my TV screen.

Then there was the beautiful and predatory Jacqueline Bisset, who came up to one of the people we were chatting with. He was a cute 40′ish gay-as-Xmas L.A. art community fellow who bore a striking resemblance to a young Ed Ruscha. And Ms. Bisset let him know this too–flirting artfully (literally artfully) and telling him she’d seen “his portrait” in the next room. Then both Seb and I were shocked when this fellow, who we were sure was batting for the pink team blurted out with the grace and intonation of Miss Scarlett, “I should have gotten her number. I should have gone out with her and slept with her.”

What is the world coming to when even boys in the band toot their own horns in order to pass society’s virility test? For goodness sake, did David Guest not prove that that one doesn’t work? And he got smacked for it, no less. Poor David, it’s not his fault, word is that Liza’s got a mean left hook. And so our story ends back in a misty bog somewhere beyond the Wilds of Wildenstein. And misty it was–the art was cute and nostalgic, the company stellar, but someone at the gallery needed desperately to crack a window.

I just had to share this quick note with you in light of my last BLOG on ersatz spirituality (or designer spirituality). I was just speaking with a good friend of mine from New York who has recently been taking courses at Landmark. Realizing that it’s a cult, but enjoying some of its tennets a-la-carte, she had hoped to make the most out of it without getting too sucked in.

She was thinking of going to a LM meeting tomorrow but was having her doubts. After having had cocktails with a bombastic boozer friend of hers she returned to her Uptown abode and was settling in for the evening when at 9PM her phone rang. She answered it.

“Hello, this is Tom from Landmark,” said the voice on the other end. “I heard you were having doubts about going to the meeting tomorrow. Do you want to talk about it?”

Appauled that he had snaked his way into her free time she came back with a response worthy of the sardonic and snappy Dorothy Parker, “Thank you, Tom. I understand that you’re doing your job. But it is 9 o’clock. It is a weekend. And I do not know you. So, why don’t we all just put the Kool-Aid down.” She had successfully chopped off his sense of self EST-eem (if you catch the pun).

I had to crack up at the pop CULT-ural reference (another pun intended, they just keep coming). But it seems as if Tom didn’t quite get the joke. It was perhaps a reference from before his time–in the good old days when cult members had the decency to stay away from the big city…the good ol’ days of smalltown cult worship when men were Jesus and Kool-Aid was flowing…Oh yeah!

No, I haven’t forgotten you. You’re still my special one. I still have your number, yes yes…I just went to Hell and back thanks to that wretched flu that’s been going around–prompting such timely questions as, “Is it the bird flu?” Thankfully, I’ve recharged my body, but my soul is another question.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all Christian on your ass. That’s far too pedestrian for my tastes. But I have noticed, living in the city of LA-LA, a disconcerting, nagging sort of spiritual starvation take form in the pit of my stomach. Sure, California is the land of gurus, yoga and retreats but it must be said that even so-called spiritual sensations have an air of affectation in this town.

As you sit in your Kundalini Yoga class at Golden Bridge faced with a headset-clad Gurmukh and a class full of the former teacher to Madonna’s fans, you scratch your head and wonder…Wonder how much of the joy on everyone’s face is from doing yoga amongst the trendsters and how much of it is inner joy devoid of a designer label. I’m sorry to be so cynical but having taken classes at the Amsterdam 3HO KY yoga center and ones here–I sense a difference. Maybe I’m just being overly-sensitive.

Even the hippies in L.A. bear the markings of ‘cool.’ Share and share alike–but it feels more like an ironic Diesel ad than an actual unity credo. On this very subject, I had some odd epiphanies (if you could call ‘odd ideas between doing crunches at the gym’ epiphanies). The term, “Rich Hippie,” is and has always been a common moniker describing an alleged certain breed of upscale ragamuffin–hair looks unclean but that’s the latest Sebastian hair product making it look so delightfully unkempt. The truth is that all true hippies are rich hippies. The expression should be “Poor Hippie.” You don’t really see many of those around. Maybe that’s because if you come from a financially challenged background, the last thing you’re dying to do is equally divvy up the wealth. You worked damned hard for that money, so you’re going to keep it.

But “Rich” and “Hippie” sort of go hand in hand–like peanut butter and chocolate. You’re rich so you have, as my awesomely astute ex-boyriend Ramsey called it, “afluenza.” It’s when you’ve got “it” so there’s no need to go after “it.” A kind of slow atrophy sets in as well as some n’er do well symptoms–wearing your robe and pajamas all day (though you’re not Hugh Hefner) and referring to your masseuse, therapist and manicurist is, “my people.” Wealth malaise produces a kind of spiritual hunger that is often best filled with dollops of patchouli oil, a gaggle of straggly friends with $100 holes in their jeans, a tamboreen and a bong.

Instead, I fantasize about real spiritual nourishment, far from here in some expansive magical place like Northern New Mexico or better yet the Yucatan. I would be alone there, sans L.A. identity, a tabularasa of a person open to everything without irony or the toffee-nosed trends that I can’t help but fall prey to in the big city. Like my Dad’s Montana fishing buddy said as he was departing L.A. to return to his humble abode, “I can’t wait to go back to a place where spaghetti is spaghetti and not pasta.”

Image: Bobby Beausoleil in Kenneth Anger’s “Invocation of my Demon Brother”

Don’t you just hate when you get jet lagged and you haven’t even set foot on a plane bound for some exotic and faraway locale? That’s where I’m at now, after a week of non-stop workalizing, event-ish committments and a sprinkle of play thrown in to keep me sane. I’m pretty much on Hawaiian time–three hours behind. But I’ll work on that…Mahalo.

The punctuating events of my week go something like this–I attended a lovely salon in the private home of a couple of really smart and shrewd indie publishers I know. Nestled deep in the Franklin Hills (where Hollywood resided before “Hollywood” existed), the home still possesses relics from its past incarnation as a sea captain’s hospice–ropey railings along the stairs, a Gaudi-esque chandelier, etc. On this particular night we watched a screening of a film which I assumed was a doc on Leon Russell circa late 60’s-early 70’s. It was called, “A Poem is a Naked Person.”

No disrespect to our kind hosts–who I’m sure would appreciate that salons are the appropriate jurisdiction of criticism, analysis and the like, but well…Firstly, the film’s title should have given it away–sophomoric sounding as it is. It in fact sounds similar to some lines of ad-hoc poetry I wrote when I was 14. I wondered if the filmmaker had managed to somehow get his hands on my diaries. As an aside, just a couple of nights ago I met the director of “Transamerica” who says he has a box of my old stuff in New York that was in storage, passed down from our mutual friend and it includes my diaries, which he found very titillating, he said…gulp. Minutes later, he proceded to tell me that he hopes his next cinematic character is like me (which was sweet but scary considering he may be in possession of “my deepest most innermost thoughts,” as Marsha Brady once said after Cindy snooped in her diary).

Anyway, on with the show. The film was beautifully shot but offended me to the extent that it was a schizophrenic documentary with no common thread to tie in its disparate elements–from random people in the South, to Russell’s road crew, to a boa devouring a baby chick, to Russell (who was a fascinating character that I learned NOTHING about as a result of the film). The reason I say “offended,” is because I view documentary filmmaking as the visual wing of journalism. Being a journalist, I understand that it is tempting to throw entire conversations from interviews into a given work, but I don’t do it because my committment is to creating something cohesive, informative and creative. Believe it or not, folks, it is an art form as loathe as you may be to admit it.

Assuming that a salon should invite criticism and discussion, my friend Mieke Eerkens and I went around asking guests what they thought of the film (which wasn’t easy to stealthy do considering the director was spitting distance from us). A stoned acquaintance, between scarfing down hands full of hors d’oeuvres muttered, “It was amazing.” We asked why he thought this considering there seemed to be no “raison d’etre” or thread, message or commentary/observation tying everything together. “It was the filmmaking style of the time,” he quipped. When I brought up that “Gimme Shelter” was of a similar era yet it had a purpose and was a truly incredible documentary making commentary on a moment in time when everything changed, his eyes fluttered, he slowly pivoted in the other direction, literally turning his back on us. I want to add that one of my favorite film directors, Kenneth Anger is probably literally schizophrenic but his work has cohesion. The symbols he places in his films are unified by common themes and there is a purpose to all the seeming madness.

When my friend and I asked other folks about what they thought of the film they similarly told us how great it was, and giggled at some of the obviously drug-induced shots. My opinion ultimately is that “A Poem is a Naked Person” could have been dubbed, “A Poem is an Emperor with no Clothes.”

Trust me, I love the 60’s and 70’s and appreciate remnants of the psychedelic culture. I’m a huge fan of classic rock n’ roll and its blues/country cousin. I even think Leon Russell is quite a cool cat. And I LOVE documentary films. But alas, this director (who I’m guessing from people at the salon’s reaction to his name, has come a long way since this freshman effort) greatly needed the assistance of a top-notch editor. This is one of those rare occasions when we can see very clearly that film editors have their work cut out for them (hardy har har pun intended). Now that I’ll probably never be invited to another salon again…I will continue…

On Sunday night, I had the pleasure of attending a “caj” barbecue in North Hollywood at the home of a music producer and musician (for band The Quarter After, formerly The Brian Jonestown Massacre). The settings was rustic and remarkable–a wooden makeshift stage in the front yard, a mobile fireplace/firepit surrounded by chairs and trees, grass and general green abounding. Three psychedelic/experimental folk bands played, one of the members of The Tyde, Winter Flowers and aussie group The Morning After Girls. The moon was pregnant with possibility (just days from an eclipse–today), kids of all ages cavorted and the vibes were friendly and open. The freezing temps made me feel as if I had been transported to Woodstock, freezing New York that is. But my friend and I braved the cold because the sounds and the night were ripe…

It got me to thinking in that over-analytical manner that pop culture writers tend towards, about psychedelic music and its concomitant transcendent lifestyle. Until recently, I could frequently be found tauting the revival of the 60’s or 70’s or whatever. But I’ve come to the realization that there is no revival–it’s more like a legacy. Psychedelic movements have existed throughout last century and this one in one form or other. They espoused experimental thought and sounds, and the possibility of altered states of consciousness. There is something distinctly right brained about all of these psychedelic movements–that is to say, artistic, holistic, integrated, lyrical and intuitive.

After the 60’s, shards of psychedlia penetrated the art/glam scene of the 70’s–in the form of Brian Eno’s work and that of bands like T-Rex with their distorted vocals and dreamy rambling fantasy poetry. In the 80s you had sweet and spacey groups like The Jesus and Mary Chain, and in the 90s the post-Manchester revolution was calling out to psychedelic spawn everywhere with a musical form that melded electronica and rock. With this came the rave trend–something of a throwback to large-scale 60’s trip-out festivals (but really not a throwback at all but a continuation with the addition of technological updates).

So, before I get all professorial on your asses, I’m going to quit and just say, long live psychedelia and the activation of my brain’s right lobe. However, let’s not forget the left lobe either, which enables us to chronicle psychedelic modalities in a cohesive and user-friendly way.

Classic shot of Kris Kristofferson, back in the day by leading rock photographer Jim Marshall

A recent live photo of Kris Kristofferson (still sexy, I might add), photographer unknown

Remember the days when people were real? I have foggy memories of a pre-80s era sans botox, sans shiny, happy perfect people, when flaws were cool and people had the patience to kick back and listen to some stories (without the interruption of a cell phone version of Europe’s “The Final Countdown,” or other digital distractions). Last night, when I went to see my dream guy, Kris Kristofferson at the legendary Troubadour, I stepped into a time capsule and went back to those days.

Kris is one of my favorites–a pioneer of a bygone era when men were men–before they were spineless pretty scenesters without integrity and character. He was a helicopter pilot, Rhodes scholar, son of an army captain, country western musician, actor–in short, a real man, who has experienced a Hell of a life–not devoid of ugly dramas, booze, domestic strife, etc. And the Troubadour, well, for those of you not from around these parts (L.A. that is), it’s a legendary haunt that spawned the likes of Judy Collins and The Eagles (who played there as Linda Rondstadt’s back-up band).

My generation calls the night spot, the Troub. That mono-syllabic moniker conjures up images from our high school heyday when aspiring teen musicians performed there in the (cringe) pay-to-play era. But last night it seemed to re-adopt at least part of its name’s original meaning, thanks to Kris. Troubadour: “one of a class of lyric poets and poet-musicians often of knightly rank who flourished from the 11th to the end of the 13th century chiefly in the south of France and the north of Italy and whose major theme was courtly love ” (Merriam-Webster).

On approach to the venue, I saw that there were hoards of people lined up to see Kris and one elusive and reappearing guy with a cowboy hat looking for scalped tickets. The marquis literally couldn’t hold Kris Kristofferson. It was, quite simply, not big enough. So the folks at the venue had to hyphenate his name to Kristof-ferson and split it into two lines.

The crowd inside was the most diverse I’ve probably ever seen in LA: Texas soccer moms, mohawked punkers, LA rockers (including members of the L.A. Guns), young Hollywood (including Luke Wilson) and old indie cinema (including the drunk and teetering Harry Dean Stanton), young hippies, old hippies, frat boys and me.

Kris’ performance was spectacular–and perhaps not using the criteria that a music critic would normally employ. He was so REAL, EARTHY, GRITTY, HEARTFELT, EARNEST and HUMBLE that it damn near blew my mind. From the moment he got out on the stage, pushing 70, he told the crowd that it was amazing after all these years of performing that he could still get nervous. This totally made him human–in an era of Stepford people, collagen and duck faced magazine cut-outs and phony we’ll-do-lunchers. He emasculated and disempowered all of this just by his sheer honest presence. His voice, seasoned by decades of Jim Beam and living could soothe even the most neurotic of people (myself as a prime example). I could be gently coddled to sleep to that voice and that’s saying something coming from an insomniac.

The songs, some of them classics, like the one that Janis Joplin made famous, “Me and Bobby McGee,” and “For the Good Times,” (which I had no idea Kristofferson wrote–thought it was Al Green)were the stuff of life–heartaching, sanguine, human. When Kris played, “Help me Make it Through the Night” (which another of my favorites, Bryan Ferry covered), I wanted to crawl into fetal position and nest inside the womb of his melody forever. He sang against the war and the government. He remisced about his daddy, who he was just starting to get close to when he died. He sang country songs that bore no relevance to my Hollywood Hills lifestyle yet they drew me in and felt somehow more relevant than ever thanks to his delivery.

Towards the middle of the performance, Kris was messing up some guitar riffs and he called himself on it, made a self-deprecating remark, “Some guitar player.” But no one in the audience cared. He was inviting us to hang out with him, as my friend Shayna said. We were all sitting around the campfire of his essence, listening to a beautiful old patriarch tell stories that would haunt us and inspire us. And in a funny way, those “mess-up” moment when his finger slipped on a fret brought him down to our level and made him not just Kris “A Star is Born,” Kristofferson, but Kris, “that cool guy with the incredible life, and all those stories to tell…great guy…”

His candor was charming when he told us that the couch in his dressing room was so comfortable he just fell asleep on it just before the show. And he did take a break between two nice, long sets to rest. Because, that’s what humans do. We get older and we get wiser, more delectably sedimenty but we also get tired and weary. Perhaps though, for one magical evening in L.A. as the has-beens and the have-it-alls assembled to hear the music of a 69-year-old troubadour, they noticed something funny–noticed it because it was spotlit for two hours: the startling, thrilling and comforting comeliness of age and a life fully lived.

I have to concur with Defamer in my grave dissapointment that “Crash” took Best Picture at the Oscars over “Brokeback Mountain.” But, there’s more kvetching where that came from.

It has been validated for me that the members of the Academy are, as the handsome and politically conscious George Clooney said, “out of touch,” but in their case, they’re not out of touch with Middle America, but with their own ilk.

What a slap in the balls to the poor ‘Brokeback’ folks (in all senses of the expression) who were actually trying to make a socially conscious film that captures today’s zeitgeist and not yesterday’s zeitgeist (see ‘Rodney King riots,’ oh, about just over a decade ago–when Madonna was still cool).

“Brokeback Mountain” personifies how many (straight and gay) live their lives. I’m a straight woman and I have known Ennises (their straight counterparts) who have the love in them but are scared shitless to live to their full capacity and choose, instead, empty lives filled with meaningless liaisons over grand explorations of life, love and who they are. So this film is not a gay film. It’s universal. Unfortunately many straight men (’thou dost protest too much’) are afraid to see it. My dad saw it and liked it. Then again, he’s a real man.

Beyond the film’s attempt to humanize gay men in the only way that might help the rest of the conservative cattle in America understand (a ‘cowboy,’ one of their brethren), the work was about love and about being who you are , living large, loving large, without the censorship of a society of grumpy old uptight men and their cupie doll wives.

But, it looks like The Academy has a fondness for cupie doll wives. Look who they chose to win Best Actress, the woman previously best known for her challenging role in “Legally Blonde,” Reese Witherspoon. “In’t she just adorrable?” with her bold statement, “I want to matter.” Who gives a flying fuck if some down-home dingbat wants to matter? Why doesn’t she just join the PTA, for Christ’s sake? Why are so many Americans obsessed with the so-called perfect looking, perfect acting cupie doll Stepford woman that stays in her place? Because at the root of it all, this isnt’ a progressive country. We’re a country that wants to hang on to our old identity. Just as John Cougar Mellencamp croons about the good ol’ days of youth as he cracks open the proverbial beer–America (or should I say, the RED STATES) can’t seem to let go of that Confederacy and its concomitant culture.

Let actresses like Felicity Huffman, playing challenging roles about complex, inscrutable human beings struggling with things that society deems ugly and shameful win. As far as I’m concerned, the Oscar was hers. Then again, it was challenging for those straight and narrow Academy members to check the right box when it came to Huffman’s nomination–”Wouldn’t that be best actor? She was playing a man, well, uh, a woman, uh, oh screw it, let’s vote for that Sweet Home Alabama girl.”

And back to “Crash”…I saw it and I even liked it, but Best Picture? Give me a break. The Academy members clearly relished selecting a “socially conscious movie” that wasn’t too currently incendiary, lest it ruffle any feathers. Unfortunately, folks, socially concious movies are meant to ruffle feathers and they’re meant to be current. Interestingly enough, I loved the “Crash” original song. Sadly, the Academy members felt that repetitive gangsta rap was more au-courant (”Aren’t the kids listening to that rap music nowadays? Yeah, that’s it. I’ll vote for that.”)

Ok, ok, I’m pretty much done venting. I do have to give kudos where they’re due. Love the Jon Stewart. Also, secretly loved that many RED STATERS were fuming so much over the Dick Cheney joke that that little vein in their temple was throbbing.

George Clooney, please call me next time you’re in the Canyon. I’ll have you over for some Fungi Porcini and we’ll Fungi Porcini. You are humble, principled, gutsy and hot. Thank you for commenting that if the rest of the country thinks we’re out of touch and ‘out of touch’ means confronting poignant but ugly social and political issues, then goddamned it we’re out of touch.

I’d also like to compliment Larry McMurtry for praising small booksellers and getting the word out to keep reading alive in our culture…big kiss, Lar, well, not as big as the Clooney kiss but big kiss nevertheless.

In conclusion, I’m not quite as horrified as many other viewers. I’ve heard folks proclaim that they will never watch the Oscars again. And then there are the Crash-hating BLOGS spewing vitriol. I will watch them again. But next time I’ll wipe the pixie dust from my eyes and remember who’s casting the votes–a bunch of milque-toast sheep…and around here in ‘Brokeback’ country, sheep are ignored in favor of more intriguing and beguiling company.

Just a quick note on a conversation I had with my branding savvy, hipster mother today… We were chatting about Google’s stock having gone down and I posited that any product that has managed to become part of the cultural vernacular (via everyday conversation, the media, etc.) is on track and will bounce back. I wonder if this is true. I’m certainly no financial advisor, but rather an avid culture vulture. These days though, “E’r the two shall meet.”

Kleenex (in lieu of tissue) certainly became part of our jargon to the point where some folks think that it’s actually a common noun. The “noun” was also immortalized in a Generation X (Billy Idol’s early punk band) tune by the same name.

The next one that comes to mind is the “verb” “PhotoShop.” This is most often used with disdain to describe the cover of a magazine that purports that said covergirl (or less often coverboy) is actually perfect as porcelain when in fact she(he) has been “Photoshopped to death.”

Google is my favorite “verb” for all of the connotations it brings up. “I Google myself. Come on, everybody does it.”

And then there’s Apple’s genius name “iPod” which has been appropriated and spawned a whole generation of technology and media via the term, “podcast.” You don’t hear people saying, “You’ve got to listen to this amazing MP3-cast…” now do you?

Lastly, there are the more ambiguous, less-highly used, “Friendster” (soon to be dead, it would seem as a tumbleweed practically rolls accross the screen when you sign in) and “MySpace.” On rare occasion I’ve used the “noun” “Friendster” in the following context: “Oh, I know that guy. He’s my Friendster.” I guess that would translate to: “Person I know or have met once at a party whose likeness has been electronically stashed in my files as an online acquaintance.” Try as I might, I have never quite been able to get “MySpace” into the vernacular. Whenever I do, it smacks of obviousness. I’ve said, “Oh, yeah, him, right, he’s in My Space.” Sounds a little dirty but doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as, “My Friendster.”

So that leaves me where I started…with a partially debunked theory. Ok so maybe sometimes products make it into our lexicon as pseudo-words and that’s about as valuable as they’ll ever be–dated entries on Dictionary.com.