Image: Carl Sagan in his series “Cosmos” (1980)

There it is in my title, my rationale for being an absentee blogger (although, on second thought my title looks like I’m advertising some kind of porno site…whoops). Anyhow, my dehydrated and parched self will do its best to get the ol’ brain working to partial degree anyway…

I want to throw out a thought or two on the state of the planet, which finally (thank the pop culture gods) has become ‘trendy.’ I know that word causes many (like myself) to cringe but let’s face it trendy=media time and media time=changing hearts and minds.

Coincidentally, I recently found myself mesmerized by an old episode of Carl Sagan’s “Cosmos” series. Despite the poofy comb-over a-la Larry Dallas from Three’s Company and the concomitant threads, nothing has really changed since the late 70s when Sagan made the documentaries on past, present, and future Earth changes and cosmic universality. He talked about respecting the Earth and learning from the lessons of the past–as he described how ancient civilization upon ancient civilization became greedy, obsessed with its spoils and its own technologies and was devoured by itself or in some roundabout way by the planet.

There was one standout line, and please excuse me if I misquote it as it’s damned hot here and my brain is fried…Sagan said something to the effect of, “We [humans] are a way for the Earth to know itself.” It was poetic, really beautiful. He was talking about human consciousness and the symbolic ‘Holy Grail’ –the search for purpose and meaning. Each individual consciousness is vital to the survival of this planet, a piece in the puzzle so to speak. Sagan was a genius beyond even Stephen Hawking’s genius in that he could make all of this information palatable to the average person, sans grandiose rhetoric. He was a humanist and he understood how to translate only the most valuable information that could be retained–information with an emotional component, since emotion is a prerequisite for memory. I myself couldn’t get through Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time.” I got about 25% of the way in and was baffled. I felt stupid at the time until my friend, a biochemstry PhD complained similarly that Hawking’s musings were inscrutable. So, thanks Carl, for being a real mensch and keeping it real (even post-mortum).

All that being said, I’ve given some air time to Al Gore’s new documentary on ‘climate change’ [the new bon mot for the beaten-to-death term “global warming”], “An Inconvenient Truth” in this Thursday’s What’s Hot This Weekend segment for KTLA, by previewing it. I have to admit that I felt good about this when I was driving home from work and heard and interview with Gore and his producer on NPR. They were saying that what’s really important is for the media to carry the message. So, I guess I did indeed.

Each person has to do what he/shecan, what’s within his/her power. We can’t all be Atlas, carrying the weight of the entire world on our shoulders. But–and I know this sounds corny like that Flower Power Coca-Cola commercial from the 70s–we can all carry our part and together move–or at least change, for the better–the Earth.

Image: from “The Black Rider” a theatrical performance currently showing at The Music Centre in L.A.

First let me say that if anyone is looking for something intentionally oblique to do in L.A., please check out the amazingly surreal musical “The Black Rider“(and no, that’s not a sex toy available at the Hustler store). The hair and makeup recalls “Rocky Horror,” the songs perverse cabaret/Tin Pan Alley and the plot a high camp allegory for heroine addiction and involuntary manslaughter of a family member. That’s because William Burroughs wrote the libretto, Robert Wilson directed and did set and lighting design and Tom Waits composed the music. It reminded me–in vibe–of Alejandro Jodorowsky’s “Santa Sangre,” over-the-top, carnivalesque, out-there, etc.

Clearly a not-so-subtle reference (in plotline) to Burroughs accidentally shooting his wife while playing William Tell (shooting an apple off her head) and his life-long addiction to heroine, it’s not for the faint (and less-than-hip) at heart. We witnessed dozens of people walking out before the intermission. Surely more departed during the intermission. But the die-hards stayed for what was a truly spectacular work. My favorite tune was sung by the devil (of course) a pithy little song whose chorus was, “A peg (*pause*) leg (*pause*) man.” My friend reminded me that I’d had a crush on a peg legged man (a rugged guy who’d gotten into a motorcycle accident) and it all made sense.

In any case, this was a sort of morality play, devil and all. It warned people of the dangers of making proverbial pacts with the devil. And I related. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how the Christians have it all wrong–or at least partly wrong. Jesus’ second coming? The anti-Christ returning for a final battle? These aren’t literally people, they are energies that exist within us. Like the Yin-Yang symbol we are made up of both light and darkness. But when we get off-center (such as was the case with Burroughs’ enslavement to heroine) we do things that have only short-term benefits but that are deeply injuring to our spirits in the long-run…THAT is the anti-Christ–not some horned figure with a smile like Damian’s.

I have to admit that I’m normally very turned off by theatre. It reaks of the kind of exaggerated acting that drama students–who give frequent group hugs– seem to relish. But “The Black Rider”s actors were dramatic to the power of ten for a purpose. This was not simply a night at the theatre, but ART.

Meandering into a completely polar opposite line of thinking I want to posit on a young urban woman’s dilemma and see if any of you folks in WWW land have any thoughts or solutions. Here’s the context: in a place like New York no one makes eye contact or chit-chats for too long with people in their immediate community; neighbors, even at times, find themselves beyond approach. For some reason this is ok in the Big Shitty. There are far too many people, and there is too much energy to take it all in and open oneself up to making constant connections. L.A. is however a different story. There’s a sense of chit-chatting over lattes or making small talk in stores that one regularly frequents, hearing stories about the dry cleaner’s family, your favorite waiter’s band (as the Dandy Warhols intimated in their song, “Bohemian Like you” etc.)

Initially, I had adopted a New York attitude in L.A. and opted to not engage with the everyday people in my sphere (the parking attendants at the building which houses my gym, my convenient store guys, the gas station guys, etc.) Then I thought that I might be being a bit harsh and unfriendly so I decided to loosen up and adopt a chill, talkative relationship with these folks. But recently, I have noticed that chill and talkative does not work if you are a young woman. You see, any man is going to interpret chill and talkative as an invitation to hit on you. Sure, it’s flattering at first, but then when you consider the fact that you can’t get stamps at the post office, or water at the market anymore in peaceful anonymity, it begins to, well, sort of stink. But you simply can’t go back to being Manhattan Mary with your cold and concise rhetoric because now they’ve seen you open up. Were you to put up your defenses at that point, it would seem psychotic and even Jekyll-and-Hyde-like.

So, what to do? Never buy stamps, milk or gas again? Never park in a public lot? This is beginning to sound like an article in Adbusters magazine touting the virtues of commune living. Unfortunately, that’s simply not possible (until my bean garden grows out a little more and I befriend Willie Nelson and get his recipe for non-gasoline fuel). Alas, a young woman could start wearing a fake wedding ring on her marriage finger. I did this for a brief period at the gym, so constant were the come-ons (but later realized that oversized ‘rapper’ headphones do the trick just as well–Yo, I’m working out, homey). But then if you come accross a guy who interests you, he will automatically think you’re off-the-market.

So, that’s pretty much it…Sunday afternoon musings as to an everyday phenomenon-cum-conundrum (no pun intended). To snub or not to snub, that is the question?

Now that former model/actress Rebecca Romijn is over thirty and divorced (i.e. used up in Tinseltown’s fickle paradigm), she has opted to play a broadcast journalist in her new show “Pepper Dennis.” Hmm, now that’s familiar. When former model/actress Brooke Shields was 31 she starred as a print journalist in “Suddenly Susan.” She divorced Andre Agassi during the show’s penultimate year. At the age of 42, former model/actress Candice Bergen played a broadcast journalist in the long-running TV show, “Murphy Brown.” Minus the divorce, she would set up this career prototype for her aging descendents. Apparently when you reach a certain age and you were once a model, you feel that you are seasoned enough to play a smart media career woman.

Think again. Naturally, I take umbrage to this (if I didn’t, you wouldn’t hear about it in my BLOG, so don’t complain that I’m complaining). Ladies, just because you don’t look as hot as you did in your youthful modeling days doesn’t mean you’ve sprouted a larger brain–one that can write, report, interview, analyze news and culture. Okay, okay, Brooke Shields went to Princeton so she MAY be the exception. But, Rebecca Romijn, please…

It’s as if some of these model/actresses think that journalism is the “old gal’s career” or something. True, we journalists (especially of the Los Angeles variety) have an edge over our female peers in that our profession isn’t necessarily contingent on youth and looks. But still, it’s hard work. And even a role in “Endless Love” can’t prepare you for that kind of drama and stress. I guess the moral of the story is, if you want to mature on screen as an actress, and you’ve only got your years of the Method, good grooming and botox to show for your career, then there’s a special place for you–NOT in the newsroom–on Wisteria Lane. Goodnight and good luck!

Recently on the edge of total burnout I opted–in lieu of a last-minute vacation to New Mexico–to decisively take a break from it all. Once I had completed my week’s assignments I proverbially ‘turned the ringer off.’ I limited my email responses and basically closed up shop in order to recharge in preparation for a new burst of creativity.

In the throes of my ‘holiday-a-maison,’ I took yet another mini-vacay, this one to beautiful (I mean this in the same way that the rappers mean “Stupid,” i.e. NOT) Valencia, the home of Magic Mountain. This was where on Thursday night I attended a private bash for Joe (Girls Gone Wild) Francis’ birthday and the preview of the new Tatsu rollercoaster. I can in no way discern how many other ‘exclusive guests’ were in attendance (that’s like guessing the amount of jelly beans in a jar in layman’s terms). Suffice to say that ol’ Joe’s friends were many, at least that’s how it seemed at the ‘red carpet’ arrival (it wouldn’t be an exclusive event without the red carpet). That’s where teenybopper actress Jessica Alba was hamming it up for the cameras as my guest and I swooshed by, accidentally making it into a couple of frames.

The crowd, I decided after about 15 minutes of fighting to be first in the open bar line–was cheesey B-list young Hollywood peppered with some teen and 20-something O.C. bimbettes and the pathetic old guys that hang around them. My judgement on the guest list was sealed when once B-list (probably now down to a C or a D) celebrity Kato Kaelin (a.k.a. O.J.’s pool house party boy) passed by. And the crowds around the party area reaked of Kaelin Kologne (i.e. The Chronic). Other B-list 20somethings in attendance included Jason Biggs, Joe’s ex Paris Hilton (she’ll show up to the opening of an envelope these days, it would seem), and Kelly Osbourne. I did hear that the crew from Cypress Hill made it, which definitely gave the party some creds.

Since I hate rollercoasters I decided early on that I was looking at a night of copious drinking compliments of our host, and some game playing. After a couple of rounds, huge stuffed Homer Simpson and Tasmanian Devil dolls start to look real good. Truth be told, I wanted a basketball most of all and was about to shell out the only money I would shell out all evening–two bucks–for a chance to shoot some hoops–when the cute Latino 20something in front of me won 2 basketballs. “Are you going to keep the second one in your hoodie?” my friend taunted him. He handed over the ball (which seemed cool at the time but the next day, on sobriety’s wings, it looked like a big tacky Vegas basketball decorated with playing cards).

Bouncing a basketball around Magic Mountain was far less cumbersome than mounting a three-foot tall stuffed animal on my back (as many of the drunk young “ladies” soon discovered). I had only to put my ball at my feet when I got on the only rollercoaster I would ride all night, The GoldRush. “This is the kiddie ride,” said my friend, trying to reassure me. She was so confident of this ride’s sluggishness that she went on it Vodka and tonic in-hand only to discover–after most of her drink hit her at high velocity–that it was indeed a real rollercoaster. As we alighted one of the girls a couple of seats back rhetorically asked, “Did you enjoy your drink?…We did!”

I spent much of the evening in what I call, “the chicken coop” with other men and women who had bowed out of the intensely scary rollercoasters at the Mountain. I waited, like a mom, for my friend to get off the ride, exhilarated and buzzed. But since everything was on Joe, I enjoyed the feeling of “having a rich Daddy.” When we wanted pizza we went over and grabbed a gratis slice. Drinks…on Joe…entrance to the park…on Joe…dessert…on Joe…we love you, Joe, “you’re hot.” I’ll never forget everyone’s mad rush for the highly caloric Funnel Cake late in the night (remember, The Chronic was in attendance). The poor kitchen staff couldn’t make Funnel cake fast enough as folks lined up and ordered 6 at a time of the 45′ record-sized baked good.

Meanwhile back at Joe’s dance party extravaganza featuring DJ A.M., things were heating up. A raised dance area held (of course) only women…God forbid a straight guy gets up to show his dance moves–other than the slide-up-behind-the-girl-to-cop-a-feel-when-reggae-tune-is-playing manoeuver. Instead, a bunch of intoxicated women swayed their hips–many of them propping up their oversized dumb-looking stuffed animals. At that time we saw no tops discarded. Hey, just because it’s a “Girls Gone Wild” party doesn’t mean the girls can’t take a break from going wild–isn’t that what a holiday is all about?

Recently, I mused over a lardy meal at El Coyote, on the ever so vapid and trite subject of being “A list,” “B-list,” “C list” and so on when it comes to party invitations in L.A. One hardly needs a manual to ascertain what “A-list” implies: the Vanity Fair Oscar bash, a private gathering at Arianna Huffington’s home, anything with a red carpet (at least around these parts).

I counted myself lucky that as a lowly pop culture journo, I do occasionally get some cool invites to premieres, art openings, private media viewings, etc. So though not “A list” I would consider myself a “B+.” Then–scanning this month and next month’s agenda–a shocking revelation hit me. Well, let’s see, last weekend I went to a cocktail party in the Canyon to celebrate the stars of erotic/fetish photography and the following night to the opening of their group art show. Tonight I’m off to a private party for the launch of Magic Mountain’s new rollercoaster, Tatsu, and Joe (Girls Gone Wild) Francis’ birthday bash. Some friends invited me to a book reading tomorrow night which includes the former editor of Hustler magazine. And next month, I’m due to drop in to the Playboy Mansion to write an article on the resident DJ.

Hmmm, either I’m a character in a new Aaron Spelling show called “The West Valley,” or I’m a journalist dying to keep “B+ list” status being dragged into “B-” ranking by a plethora of skin-trade inspired events. It suddenly occurred to me that in the fleshfest of a city known as Los Angeles (should be Los Angelbreast), there’s a fine–dare I say fuzzy–line between being “A list” and “C list.” That nether region is the jurisdiction of, well, the porn scene. Recently made “cool” by a bunch of bored under-sexed and jaded journalists and the bubbleheaded E Channel, it’s, as my friend Jack put it, “The only film related industry in L.A. that continues to increase its profits.” He could be right. And since Millennium L.A. is like Rome under Caligula, money, sex and things of a crass/andor flashy nature are of the uttmost importance (note, kids: Caligula was killed, the Roman Empire fell…too much hedonism left everyone asking the proverbial question, “Got Milk?”)

Now I don’t wish to pass judgment on those in the second oldest profession in the world. I say, live and let ejaculate (or some rendition of the old proverb). But at the end of the day I’m a good girl–who occasionally enjoys being bad, don’t we all–but is discriminate about who she shares her privates with. So ultimately, I’m aiming for not just “A list” status but “A+ list” status–which in my mind is more akin to “A-list” in New York.

I’d love to be invited to soirees that include excellent, witty, brilliant conversationalists–authors, would-be politicos, culture mavens and perhaps the odd celebrity (redeemed by his/her social conscience, George Clooney, you’re invited). My ideal “A+ list” fete would also include a handful of “wild cards” to shake things up–a street artist or two, an old vaudeville guy, an intellectual rocker, a Japanese pop star and a kilt wearing dandy. So, folks, next time something akin to the above-envisioned party is planned, please notify me because I could really stand to improve my grades and excel as an “A student,” teacher’s pet all the way.

I think I’ve waxed intellectual on this subject before but I guess you could say that it’s deja-vu all over again over here on ShanaTingLipton.com’s blog. I awoke with a pleasant hangover (not to be confused with the spinning, barfing kind) at the civilized (at least in Spain) hour of noon. My head was awash with memories of epic–and I’m talking an urban Odyssey–dreams featuring friends, parents, ex-boyfriends, murder and espionage with a crescendo of me being stalked in my own home.

The peculiar part of all of this is the architectural space that my mind chose to seize upon. For example, my bedroom wasn’t really my bedroom but another space entirely–a combination of a room in the Clint Eastwood film “Play Misty for Me,” my grandparents’ guest house in Hong Kong and my office here at home. Another architectural space was an ex-boyfriend’s home which in the dream took the form of my childhood best friend’s home in Holmby Hills for some odd reason.

I just find it fascinating how the mind archives all of these spaces that we experience through the years only to–like some psychological jukebox–pop an old tune in when you least expect it. It obviously has more to do with categorizing sensation, vibe and emotion. It’s about how a certain space once made me feel and if that feeling is congruous to another separate experience.

I have to admit that my dream world is not the only jurisdiction of this architectural mismatching (or jukeboxing, if the term is more appropriate). Sometimes, when I’m chatting with someone in every day life a certain area or place will pop into my head and I don’t know why. Some common ones are a turnoff on the road near my house and a certain intersection near my elementary school. A physical space surely represents your mental space (when your room’s a mess, your house is a mess). So, since I drempt last night of manicured upper middle class neighborhoods, stalkers and car chases, I guess I’m somewhere between extreme comfort and phobic mania. Another day in the life of a SoCal writer…

Image: Cover of October 1975 issue of Playgirl magazine

I read the New York Times daily, and particularly relish, on the weekends, checking out their magazine which features the best in cutting edge arts and culture. I have a subscription to Harper’s magazine which pulls me in with its incisive and expansive political commentaries. But there is, alas, a gap in my regular reading program–a gap soon to be filled with Playgirls 1973-1977.

My friend Jack pointed out that I might really enjoy the magazine and I scoffed at him, noting how cheesey, waxed, plucked and greased it is today. Then he added, “No, the old Playgirls from the 70s.” After some swift snooping on EBAY, I found the above-pictured issue, truly emblematic of perfect fluffy (or should I say fluffer?) reading material. I discovered an interview in another vintage issue, with Sam Elliott, my ‘zen cowboy’ (a term I first uttered in my Los Angeles Times article, now co-opted and credited to me by Southern California Senior Life–if you can imagine, yes, I know, I like ‘em old). Then there’s a story on my all-time favorite band Roxy Music.

And the above-pictured issue, so tantalizingly entitled, “Loving an older man,” depicting a salt n’ pepper dreamboat daddy of the handlebar ’stache variety is perfectly poised to posthumously (he’s got to be deceased or older than GOD) capture at least one reader beyond its gay Mid-Western demographic–me. I can’t wait to read the Disinfo-worthy cover story: “The Link Between Patty Hearst, Charles Manson and the CIA.” They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to.