Just got the advance of the new Peaches CD, “Impeach my Bush,” in the mail. This young lady certainly makes a statement (said in the demure voice of an octegenarian). No seriously, when I think Canadian musical artist, I think Gordon Lightfoot so this Toronto born electro-clash performer’s work was a big surprise for lil ol’ me–having been out of that scene for quite some time now.

I was sitting there mouth pleasantly agape in prude-like disbelief as I listened to her decadent and debaucherous tune about a proposed menage-a-trois of the manwich variety in which she requires her partners “get down” with each other. It’s called, “Two Guys for Every Girl” (but would surely have caused Jan and Dean to run with their surfboards in the other direction).

Standout line: “No no no, baby, I ain’t carrying mace. Did you just feel something spray in your face?” Ahem, anyhoo, that would be a great big (in her own words, “your tent’s so big in your pants, baby”) thumbs up for the album. Rock on sister perv.

Image: Pyramid in Uxmal, Yucatan, Mexico

It’s the dead of summer. Bamboo shoots are infiltrating my office windows. Bougenvillas are blocking my view of the neighbors. Life is in full bloom in the Hollywood Hills. This time ’seeing green,’ isn’t an expression of anger or the color of money, but a vision of a new way of life.

I just set up my mulcher in my yard so now all vegetable and fruit scraps, tea, coffee grinds, etc. no longer sit in a garbage heep in the Inland Empire but will do as they’re told and decompose turning into rich brown soil. This will go back into my bean stalks, my spinach, my orange tree, my avocado tree and hey, what goes around comes around…behold the cycle of life.

I know, right now I sound like I’m wearing a flowing white dress, a garland of flowers around my hair and an Al Gore in ‘08 button (or at the very least I could be cast in a Massengil commercial, were it 1978). But hey, once you go green you never go…black…or something to that effect.

Speaking of which, it’s just weeks before I get my new green car–a patina-colored Prius that will fully accommodate my shift into the next economy or at the very least enable more road trips. And since I haven’t had my proper dosage of travel in ages, I’m off to the Yucatan as well, where I will meet Martijn Groenendal who was one of my favorite favorites when I lived in Amsterdam, and who is now a tour guide in the region.

But let’s stop a moment to be honest, you can take the JAP out of Beverly Hills (or The Five Towns, if you’re an East Coast reader) but you can’t take the JAP out of me (yes, I know, I have once again ruined a perfectly good pithy slogan). So, I will be staying part of the time at a new boutique hotel in the Mayan Riviera. That’s, of course, between trips to Tulum to agonizingly climb a pyramid or something in 90 degree heat in open-toed heels…my own eco-friendly, archeo-friendly version of the wet T-shirt contest….just my way of sacrificing myself to the plumed serpent. In Lak’esh!

Poor boo boo–Fernando Torres of team Spain, that is. I was rooting for them when they played against France in today’s World Cup knock-out game. And he’s just such a cutie that despite the fact that he and his teammate’s got pummeled (3 to 1) you prayed against all odds that Zidane would get injured and the game would be Spain’s. Then we could see so much more of my favorite little Spain player. To get all 80s on you, what a babe! I know he looks barely legal but he’s actually 22!

In the early ’70’s one album release single-handedly changed the face of masculinity for generations to come. That album was not The Rolling Stones’ “Exile on Main Street,” or even David Bowie’s “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars” (though I’m sure they contributed their fair share on some level), but “Free to Be… You and Me.” Yep, the album championed by Marlo Thomas, and the Ms. foundation, along with buddies like Diana Ross (now that’s enough to make a confused young man bat for the other team) and Rosey Greer. This piece of early ’70’s work had, let’s face it, as it’s main aim, reshaping gender identity, and that it did.

Now certainly there have been times when I have praised this story and song album for what it did for my young self-esteem when my art teacher Miss Burgess would play it for our 1st grade class. It was a feminist clarion call–a way of empowering young women, telling them they could be anything they wanted to be and that they were equal to men. The problem is that men and women–though equally potent in their own ways–are not equal. We each have our own strengths and weaknesses, what we contribute to society based on (I know no one wants to hear this) our primordial predispositions.

Gender identity is a good thing. It’s not good to discriminate against people in the workplace. But it’s good to understand that men like to go into their little caves (as is evidenced in the recent book by James B. Twitchell, “Where Men Hide“) and why shouldn’t they? What are they supposed to do, sit around and talk and talk and talk until they’re blue in the face? They NEED a time-out. Similarly, sometimes women like to talk–not for the sake of having their male friend or partner solve their problems–but just to release some stress (we’re great communicators, after all).

The problem with FTBYAM is that it created a generation of almost androgenous–or at least analagous–men vis-a-vis their female counterparts. This is most likely the reason I am not attracted to men in my age group. They’re sort of like women–they’ve been Oprah-fied. Maybe they whiz around on skateboards, and perhaps they listen to punk rock, but when it comes down to it, they’ve lost touch with their true masculine strengths–the ability to protect and take care of a woman, and their dichotomous relationship with Nature (as combattant and friend to it).

Thanks, Marlo Thomas and friends, for successfully pussefying an entire generation–Generation X, or should I say, in this case, Generation XX (as in the female chromosome). Thank God there are still men in their forties whose dads must have banned Marlo and friends from the record player. Or better yet, men in their fifties who were not pre-programmed to be (as the record suggested) ballerinas or homemakers. Thank God, there are still men whose prized culinary recipe is a grilled cheese sandwich with (that special touch) a tomato slice.

Image: Abbie Hoffman in the ’60s, Yippie, I’m over 30!

Remember, way back when, in the ’60s when Jerry Rubin, founder of the Yippies proclaimed, “Don’t trust anyone over 30?” Well, it turns out that in 1968, when he helped disrupt the National Democratic Convention in Chicago, that he was, well 30. Ok, so that might be pushing it. But consider some of the other key players in the mid-late ’60’s, a period remembered for not just activism, but youth culture on the rise.

In 1968…

Abbie Hoffman (Yippie co-founder and activist) was 32.

Charles Manson (cult leader/murderer who changed the shiny, happy face of Flower Power into something considerably more fearsome and demonic) was 34. However, I can see how the above aphorism would still work in this case, since he’s not to be trusted, but you get where I’m going with this.

Ram Dass (LSD enthusiast and leader) was 37.

Ravi Shankar (famed sitar musical artist) was 48.

Timothy Leary (writer and psychedelic leader and advocate) was 48.

Hmmm, do you see a trend here? Most of the influential (whether negative or positive) individuals in the late ’60s were a decent amount of years over 30. It’s interesting how in retrospect we think something was a youth movement because we see old footage from youth club riots on the Sunset Strip and pregnant teenagers dancing barefoot in the park. But actually, apart from many of the bands, quite a few of the movers and shakers were over 30. Now I can take a deep breath and enjoy my 30th birthday on July 28th…ahem, again…

And BTW, happy birthday, Jack Kappler (over 30 and to be trusted, entirely)! Jack will inevitably see this blog entry when it’s way after his birthday and he is bored and Googles himself one day…ah well, better late than never!

Tying yet another item into July’s Esquire…another questions on their “Survey of the American Man” went as follows:

9. Did you see “Brokeback Mountain”?
Yes, I saw it: 13%
Not yet, but I plan to: 30%
No, and I don’t plan to: 57%

And in response to that pussy-ish 57% of so-called American males (i.e. closet cases), here is something I witnessed last night at a barbecue:

A group of 50-something heterosexual white water rafter guys, discussing how amazing “Brokeback Mountain” was, responded to a related query, “Of course we’ve seen it, we’re real men.” But surely they don’t eat quiche.

Image: Colorized image of wartime carpenter, they don’t get much manlier

This month’s issue of Esquire, entitled, “The State of the American Man,” is a keeper. Now generally, I enjoy reading men’s magazine’s more than women’s magazines anyway. Since any woman with half a brain is going to get tired of reading about cellulite creams, how to please a man and what clothes to wear this season. The fact is that most men’s magazines assume that men have interests, hobbies, want to know about current events. I’m sad to say that women’s magazines assume that women just want to know about men’s needs. The irony is that most of these female readers could learn a thing or two about men’s interests (which are attached to their needs) by reading men’s magazines that discuss these ideas. But I’m certainly not suggesting bubbleheaded bimbos explore such reading simply for the sake of landing a dude. That would be like the plot of a Sandra Dee movie or something.

Anyway, please don’t get me wrong and think I’m some kind of women hater. It’s not so much hatred but general disinterest. Apart from the spiritual components of womanhood (which I find infinitely fascinating), the cultural components of females in the society at large leave me, eh, tepid and intellectually malnourished (and that’s probably more the fault of the media culture than anything else). Men are just, well, kind of fascinating to me–they say they’re simple but they’re crudely complex. Case in point is a beautifully written article praising “Al Swerengen,” the elegant yet crude character that Ian MacShane plays on my favorite show, “Deadwood.”

Anyhow, I won’t totally give away the contents of the July Esquire because it’s well worth a gander. But I’ve got to snip a few lines that made me laugh out loud:

-From the article on MacShane: “…he’s frequently given bona fide soliloquies, generally delivered in the direction of (you can’t really say “to”) either the hooker who’s currently blowing him or the decapitated head of an Indian Chief…”

-From their poll of men +25 accross the Nation: out of 14 women given as potential dinner guests that could be invited over, Maureen Dowd came in last (5%); even Ellen DeGeneres came in higher at 21%.

-And one from the other side of the fence, a woman (with chutzpah), Parker Posey’s comment to “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women”: “8. Next time a woman is acting crazy, break into applause and see what happens.”

Now stop being a cheapskate and go buy you’re own issue!

Image: Milli Vanilli, Rob and Fab (they once provoked boos and hisses but now seem as comforting as they were cheesey)

I am starting to realize the sad fact of the matter that the sheer cheesiness and laissez-faire vibe of much of the films and music that came out in the late 80s are like comfort food to me. The music I never deigned listen to when I was a little punk rock girl in high school–Robert Palmer’s “Simply Irresistible” or Huey Lewis and the News’ “If This is It”–are the aural equivalent of warm Quaker Oats with milk. They conveyed that sense of squeaky clean (or more appropriately slick) excess that came from youthful confidence–a confidence of a young America in its fiscal prime.

Then there were the cheesey movies like “Weekend at Bernie’s.” Someone spent money to make a movie about two guys (one of them, gulp, Andrew McCarthy) who dragged around a dead guy and made him look like the life of the party. You’ve got to have balls and a great sense of over-inflated confidence to even attempt that one. All the edge that had been ushered in during the early to mid 80s had at that point been watered down into sugary, syrupy excess–a pool of gelato, a puddle of Dippity Do. The hair of the epoque spoke and raised volumes. Like Axl Rose said in the late 80s hit, “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” “Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place, where as a child I’d hide,” even the mile-high coifs conveyed a sense of comfort and safety.

Pre-boutique hotel minimalism and raver post-hippie unity, this moment in the late 80’s was about being the largest YOU money could buy. Nevertheless I say, it’s not about the money…nor is it about the songs and their singers (case in point: Milli Vanilli)…it’s not even about the style…iridescent hues are not known for producing warm, fuzzy feelings… All of the aforementioned are just accessories that never meant much to me in the late 80s nor do they now. Let’s just say that it’s all about the vibe…And from this vantage-point–war, a worsening eco-crisis, dictatorial powers in office, the world hating us (when we were once “the coolest ever”), it all seems so warm that you want to crawl into it like you were a toddler and it was a womb…or–to put it in grossly flip late 80s terms–like you were a gerbil and it was Richard Gere’s butt.

“If one advances confidently in the directions of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”

-Henry David Thoreau

Out again for the second time on a school night, I headed to an art gallery opening with my posse (could she actually have used that word in a non-rap context?)–consisting of my good friend Dave Naz and new acquaintance Eric Kroll, a renowned fetish photographer who spends the daylight hours editing books for Taschen. The new space, The Shooting Gallery in Hollywood, promised to fill a gaping, yearning hole (puns intended) in L.A.’s art scene: the rock photography niche. It sounded like a genius idea, and having bought my first rock photograph drunk at a Christie’s auction back in the winter, I was particularly looking forward to it.

But as we approached the door to the venue there was (gasp) a man with a clipboard (hardly what you’d expect from an invite made available on MySpace) –guess I missed the four magic words R-S-V-P or more appropriately, R-S-V-P-R-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-U-S…. I gave it the ol’ New York try and BS’d my way in (though was it really BS’ing considering I had given this event media coverage?). Inside, what appeared to be the entire shop staff combined of Melrose Avenue present tense, was cavorting and lapping it up. No edge (not the U2 guitarist, the prerequisite for a good party, event or scene) was in sight. Oh, but there was an android DJ wearing, I kid you not Corey Hart, his sunglasses at night. Another Melrose reference came to mind–though this one of the Old School variety–”Poseur” (the name of a cool shop in the 80s, but in this case, just a sad one word description of the crowd’s vibe).

But then there was the art, which was after all, the main reason we came, n’est pas. Sadly, much of it (save for a really beautiful black and white photo of James Brown from back in the day, and a pretty nice shot of Lemmie from Motorhead) reminded me of the photos of local bands like Celebrity Skin and The Mentors that I would put up on the walls of my high school–out of focus at times, faded, and even distorted in a non-Chris Cunningham sort of way in the case of one shot of 70s girl band The Runaways. Trust me, I wanted to love this show. I was in love with the idea of it before I entered the gallery–it had me at ‘hello,’ so to speak. And as you can see, I’m not naming names so as to display some semblance of decency to photographers who no doubt put their all into this for the sake of–not the money–but the scene, man, the scene.

Naz and I cringed as we approached a shot of The Ramones (from a tour he had been on with them when he was in a punk band back in the 80s). It begged the title “Airport Security.” It looked to me like a group passport shot. Certainly in this confounding Po-Mo era there is a fine line between ironic, kitsch and intentionally cruddy and really bad, so who am I to judge? But I–like everyone else on this planet these days–have this lovely online soapbox to stand on so…

I just wonder why capturing an image of a musician automatically makes it worthy of being framed and sold for $1500. If that’s the case, I’ll certainly dig out the wild and naughty photos of the Red Hot Chili Peppers that I took when I was 15 and claiming to be starting a magazine called “Scenester” (which sadly, had a short run of negative one issues). I could understand if the show’s premise was akin to the “Starstruck” book (deliberately “fan” perspective) but, sadly, it wasn’t. And though I’d like to give it the benefit of the doubt–perhaps it was the curator’s selection and not a true representation of the work–I’m in a grumpy PMS’y mood so…shit out of luck.

Outside, in front of the gallery Eric pointed out that Rod Stewart’s ex Rachel Hunter was there. That sealed it….this opening was the cheesey land that ‘edge’ forgot and I was a lactose intolerant person that needed to get out of there before I became ill. I’m all for the occasional ex-model spotting (it’s sort of like playing car bingo–a bit inane but it passes the time when extremely bored on the long journey of life). However, had I seen Veruschka or Elena Christiensen, it would have been a different story–class, taste and creativity trump big hair and manly facial features every time.

So our trio headed off to the Sunset Marquis for a late late dinner…ironic, considering their Whiskey Bar used to have some of the best rock photography images from pioneer Jim Marshall. In any case, the food, wine and company there actually rocked!