In my constant search for meaning and symbology in the mundanity of everyday latte life in L.A., I find myself in the throes of a shift. In this case, perhaps it’s not those grand scale moments that portend changes in one’s self, but rather, the evolving minutiae of every day life.

It’s the fact that the sweet lady who makes the best Chai in the world at my coffee stand says she might be going back to the Middle East to be with her family. It’s the fact that my neighbors finally bit the bullet and cut down half of my beautiful avocado tree. Or maybe, to put it in really practical practical terms, it’s the fact that I just returned my car of 4 years, as the lease is up and am in automotive purgatory, waiting for the Prius I was wait-listed for to come in.

These are little elements of my daily landscape. I can say that the feeling of not seeing my Chai-making friend, makes me feel a bit emptier. The sense of purpose, of knowing in my weekly/daily ritual that I would see her and chat a bit, may be no more, and that’s disturbing. If she goes, I contemplate moving my ritual to another spot–changing the landscape a bit, perhaps sitting with a newspaper at a coffee joint and watching the vacant fakesters go by, cell phone and/or scripts in hand.

I was at first devastated by half my beloved avocado tree being bald but then I noticed that it afforded me a sprawling view of the canyon. Normally, I’m a curmudgeonly self-contained sort who seeks to separate myself from outside intrusion, but maybe this expanded vista is a good thing. I know that about 50% more light is coming in. So, one might say, let there be light!

Ultimately, I’m most embarassed about the car. It’s a hunk of metal really. And I’ve been disappointed in the past when superficial men that I’ve known have put all of their joy and passion into gears, tires and the like–leaving nothing for their living, breathing human friends. But in L.A., a car is at least psychologically like a second home; we spend so much of our time in these vehicles. So, oddly, after I had dropped off my little white Saab at the dealership I felt a really deep sense of loss. Suddenly all memories associated with the car flashed before my eyes…four years worth. Being sans-vehicle and waiting like this feels like I’m anticipating this new Prius picking me up and transporting me into another era of my life. Could be.

But enough post-birthday pontificating…Just so you know, I will not be blogging for about a week. I could be anywhere, I could be here, I could have nothing to say. Either way, the STL blog will be on summer break (or in L.A. biz parlance, ‘hiatus’) during that time. As they say in high school year books. Have a Happy Summer. Keep in touch (or K.I.T.).

Image: Their god, George Hamilton

I write this as an antidote, as an attempt to reverse the effects of the fakest event I’ve been to in a long time. Tonight, I attended a private party at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel to celebrate the ‘fantasy world’ of hotels via a slew of short films, free hors-d’oeuvres, booze and a reminder of why we urbanites are living in the period of the decline of western civilization. This is Fall of Rome stuff, I kid you not. Despite the fact that some of the guest list was borrowed from RES magazine–with its slightly edgy, hip film festival events–the other half of the list consisted of sycophants at a gold-plated altar whose patron saint had to be uber-tan fakester George Hamilton.

Oh please, Aunt Emm, wake me up, please…I’ve been sucked into a vortex of phoniness that makes MySpace bulletin boards look like the Ten Commandments or Martin Luther’s 95 Theses. It’s a land where childhood friends connect to you as if you were a chamber maid in the bathroom of a posh restaurant handing them a Frette towel. It’s a land where–amidst a sprinkling of techsters (courtesy of RES) barely able to look up from their PDA’s–Satan sits in a corner, sporting an Armani suit, puffing on a Cuban, flanked by two Russian hookers. Stop me if I’m getting too graphic…

A few of the short films that they showcased for the event were very good but the main short, the one that was intended to promote the hotel and its “lifestyle” (or deathstyle unless you have the depth and vapidity of Andrew McCarthy’s co-star in the 80s movie “Mannequin“) was painful. In it, a woman in a hotel (the uh, Roosevelt actually) picks up a man who is about to walk in on his wife and her lover in one of the rooms. They decide to have a drink in the lobby and invent fake names and identities (perfect for this crowd!) and he tells her his name is Thompson (coincidentally the name of the boutique hotel company funding the flick). It was so pretentious that I wanted to slit my wrists and have David LaChapelle photograph it for Flaunt as we both watched the life drain out of me.

Later at the after-party by the pool people pretended to connect over cocktails and (woe is me to have inadvertantly discovered) $13 house wine. But Queen Antoinette, the people are thirsting in the streets of France…Let them drink Cointreau! The weather was baking, probably in the 80s at night, while purposeless fire pits exacerbated the problem. Yet there was no warmth to be found there. Naturally, everyone was on their best behavior. Any attempt to express emotion would have been blasphemy on the planet Vulcan.

Pseudo celebs like the joy-riding parking attendant in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” cavorted with B-list babes like Tia Carrere surrounding a pool that but one person out of hundreds dared jump into (despite the fact that it was sort of billed as a late night pool party). It was Invasion of the hard Body Snatchers–a zone where ice-cold pod people snubbed each other with Mephistophelean delite.

Later outside, as I waited for the valet to bring me my vehicle (for a cool $16 including tip) I observed as a short faggy looking Italian guy with greasy hair escorted a tarted up Persian princess out of the hotel and turned to his adoring audience (no one) to murmer, “Ciao, ciao.” Then there was the crusty tan, evil looking Aussie in a suit, open shirt revealing that emblem of “I have arrived,” (or I have arrived at Tony Manero’s disco) a gold chain. He whispered to his female friends that so-and-so, who they’d just seen, was actually the mastermind behind blah blah blah. “But,” the dark one from down under added, “He’s a liberal.” I bit my lip wanting to take a slug at his shit-eating grin (or worse perhaps in his eyes, take him to dinner at Pink’s). Ahem, why don’t you just move to the bible belt if you want conservatives? Don’t move to Los Angeles, beyond that California, if you’ve got a problem with liberals. That’s like moving to Israel when you have a problem with Jews (and let’s take that comment at face value in this particularly charged political moment).

Ugh, I’m exhausted from recounting this tale. And yet, I know, some readers have commented that I deserve this for going to these elitist L.A. entertainment events. But as a pop culture writer, I tend to attend a lot of promotional parties–and some, though they’re not always my style, are at least enjoyable for the cultural bouillabaisse effect–a voyeuristic experience that inspires and invigorates. Basically, after attending this event, I desire nothing more than to sit atop a mountain in the middle of nowhere with an unshaven man who smells really bad, as he chews tobacco and farts valiantly into the wind.

Image: Edward Munch’s iconic painting, “The Scream”

It’s literally Hades-on-Earth with the temps close to 100, and in a heat-induced dilerium I am left to ponder some thoughts posited by a good friend of mine on the phone last night (you see we were literally adhered by sweat to the phones so the conversation went on for hours). He was telling me about an out-of-print book called, “The Surprise Party Complex.” The fictional story was based on this notion that a lot of people (read: everyone) fantasize about being surprised in life by sudden events that somehow make everything feel alright and pivot their lives in a new, better direction. We wait for the proverbial Lotto ticket…well, I guess there’s no need for a proverb related to a Lotto ticket since we’ve got one related to a surprise party.

This resonated so much for me, I’m sorry to say. I feel as if, since turning 30, life has taken on a stable, less adventurous quality–for both me and my friends. And there is this deep burning desire in me to be pleasantly surprised by some miraculous event. But I’m no regular Surprise Party hopeful. I take my share of chances to ensure the surprise. It’s sort of like telling someone it’s your birthday so they’ll be sure to do something special (and hey, it’s my birthday this Friday, July 28th so start planning). In my case, I’ve always taken to doing ridiculous over-the-top things, putting myself out there on a limb in order to get paid back in fortuitous serendipity. Spontaneity and The Surprise Party Complex are a good mix.

I recall taking a train from Amsterdam to Rotterdam to attend the film festival a few years back. On the way back I found myself listening in to a cell phone conversation between a man and his girlfriend (which alluded to a disasterous relationship). Somehow, in surprise party mode, I ended up chatting with this fellow and his friend and we ended up going out all night in Amsterdam, go figure.

Other times, the stick-your-neck-out for surprises theory doesn’t work. I remember at age 23, giving Antonio Sabato, Jr. my phone number written on a wrapped condom. Well, you can imagine how well that must have gone over with his lady, Virgina Madsen! But other times it has worked out. I’ve taken the chance and written to some of my favorite authors, and on one occasion ended up vacationing on an eco-commune in Sweden as a result.

I must add that sometimes, someone will throw the proverbial surprise party and when everyone ‘pops out from behind their chairs, and yells SURPRISE!!’ the recipient has a heart attack. So perhaps the SPC is not for everyone. Let’s just say that it’s not for the faint of heart. But for those of us who enjoy the rush of living, it’s still one of life’s sweetest rewards.

At this point, it would behoove me to whip out a book of Zen proverbs and tell you that every single beautiful moment in life is a surprise waiting to be discovered. True though it is in its essence, it’s not exactly practical when it comes to modern urban life (nor does one hand clapping create appropriate applause). Instead, I will opt to throw others surprise parties, in the meantime, secretly hoping, against all odds, that they will eventually retreat into the darkness, behind the furniture, fingers to mouths, as if to say, “shhhh,” until the moment of my entrance is upon them. SURPRISE!!!!

Oh, almost forgot, check out my new author shot, a photo taken by renowned fetish photographer (and my good old friend) Dave Naz. I love it, and I didn’t even have to Full Monty anyone, crack a whip or get on my knees Seriously, Naz is eclectic, check it out.

I had to do it…had to quote the ol’ Billy Idol tune describing this surge of heat. A friend of mine last night referred to it as “Al Gore weather,” which is a nice way of not repeating that over-used phrase whose initials are G.W. (NOT the Yale flunky in office who will be our Earth’s downfall, but the climactically challenged worldwide phenomenon). Since it’s Al Gore weather, I’d like to be the irritating environmentalist (great title for a TV personality, right, “Iron Chef,” “Irritating Environmentalist”) and pass on my pointers for eco-conciousness in this pre-apocalyptic era of heat, corn oil, black gold, hot summers and nuclear winters.

STL’s ECO-FRIENDLY TIPS OF WHAT YOU (the average self-centered urban citizen) CAN DO TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE:

-Turn your air-conditioners (if you use them) up to 77 or 78 degrees but no lower–come on, you can handle it, and you’ll get to wear your skimpiest outfits around the house to boot…

-If you live in a rural area get a composter–that way you can recycle vegetable and fruit peelings, coffee grinds, tea bags, egg shells, etc. back into the Earth and limit your ‘black trash.’

-Get a hybrid vehicle–for God’s sake they’re no longer a Begley trend. Pretty soon every soccer mom and Nascar daddy will have one (by then it’ll be time to switch to 100% electric)

-Only buy toilet paper and paper towels that are made from recycled paper.

-Dry your clothes on a retractable clothesline in the warmer seasons (you know, the kinds they have at hotels that are unobtrusive and snap back into the wall). Dryers are total energy drains.

-If you live in Southern California call the DWP and ask them to revamp your toilet–they have a special program where they come to your house for free and revamp it to make it water-saving.

-Get a solar power generator–great for backup in case of emergencies but you can also run your TV for example or even a small air conditioner off it in the summers (Lord knows we have enough sun).

-Keep backpacks or durable cloth bags in your car so when you go grocery shopping you don’t have to waste plastic and paper bags.

Apart from these simple suggestions, you can always sleep naked sans sheets in lieu of running the air-conditioner…and if you’re really cheeky you can leave the blinds open and give your neighbors a free show, prompting them to stay home in the summer evenings, thus saving on the gas they would have burned in their vehicles when they hit the strip clubs…er, just kidding, of course.

Last night I found myself in Culver City at a group art opening that included Tony Ward (Madonna lover circa 90’s, “Hustler White” star). It was more T&A photography, as usual and frankly, ugh, I am so bored of seeing naked women with tattoos, or slutty looking naked women or just plain naked women in art shows!!!! I know, I know, they’re the oldest muses in the biz, since Picasso and all the way back to Lascaux (well actually technically that was prehistoric animal scrawlings in a cave in France). But still, it’s as if the horny male artists of the Nation have but one thing on their minds that inspires: naked booty. It wouldn’t even be so monotonous if they found an abstract creative way of representing this inspiration. But the visual flesh fest is just getting so blah!

I mean some of the photos were beautiful but when you go to an art show every week and this is all you see, it’s, well, kind of same-ol-same-ol-poonie-on-display. It’s my own fault for going to these so called counter-culture art openings (which by the nature of their names purport edginess but by the nature of their traditional muses present nothing new).

But I like counterculture art openings…more for the people watching than to look at art. Because generally when I want to look at art I go to serious galleries. And if I’m really serious about looking at the serious art in serious galleries, I go on a date other than the opening. But people-watching it was with Academy Award winning actor Adrian Brody in attendance (I use such language because my friend Dave did and it just sounded appropos). Pretty much every tattooed hipster faux-gangbanger in Venice was there, along with the usual throng of gorgeous actors, so pretty I could never bring myself to approach them, let alone dein have sex with them for fear that (like this one scene in “Death Becomes Her“) their shellac would peal off, revealing the real them.

And lately, I’ll be honest, I’m starting to feel that way about people in L.A. It’s not that they’re just afraid to merge on the freeways in Los Angeles (to quote my era’s J.D. Salinger, Bret Easton Ellis, in his 80’s classic “Less Than Zero”). They’re afraid to merge, period. Sex, especially fetishistic sex is fine in L.A. because it’s a stand-in (and I use this loaded Hollywood word intentionally) for intimacy. It’s a way to break through but in a rather impersonal manner–relegating your mate to an object. It doesn’t matter how passionate you are about that object at the end of the day, your psyche never fully bonds with it, because it is an object. Angelenos are fond of model-fucking, fetishistic sex and the like because true intimacy scares the beJesus out of them. They have worked hard to fine-tune their publicist-assisted images. And for anyone to step up in their faces and destroy the facade….well, to put it in a language they can understand: “For Immediate Release - True Intimacy is Blasphemy.”

I’ll never forget, as a little girl, going with my godmother Barbara Parkins to the set of “The Love Boat.” At the time it was THE hot show and as a kid it was a dream to be setting foot on the “boat.” Well it was at a studio of course but my eyes lit up when I saw the greeting area that they showed on the program’s beginning–Julie-your-cruise-director dutifully waiting…a new bunch of passengers, with their new set of issues coming on board… So when I saw this ‘dreamplace’ my first instinct was to run freely down a hallway of “cabins.” Imagine my horror, when I excitedly flung open the door to one of them and saw what looked like a virtually empty construction site–random wood beams, one or two out-of-commission lights and that sort of thing. The dream turned to dust.

That memory should serve as a guide to all Angelenos. For when you meet people and attempt to connect with them here, and even if you do succeed for a fraction of a moment, be careful, don’t open that cabin door, for both of your sakes. You might just find an empty room.

Image: A full page ad in a 1975 issue of Playgirl magazine

Ladies, ladies, please, stay calm…please, no stampedes…We are proud to present to you–Just for You–a new single by a new artist by a new company. Are you ready to Randy?

One can only imagine what was going through Randy’s mind when he put the above ad in the October 1975 issue of Playgirl magazine, showcasing his talents and his goods.

Cut to the sleepy, stoney town of Valley Cottage, New York. Randy’s sitting around with his buddies toking up to the tunes of The Steve Miller Band. “Hey man, I just got a genius idea,” he pipes in. Silence as one buddy stuffs a donut in his mouth and the other takes a hit off the bong. He continues: “I put a picture of myself naked with my lady, that would be my guitar of course, in Playgirl magazine…The chicks, naturally horny broads if they’re buying Playgirl, get all turned on by it and they ALL order my new album.”

Little did Randy know that his hot pic gave the ladies a fright. Some thought it was an ad for the latest Sasquatch documentary (set to music by The Steve Miller band). Others thought, “Creepy, it’s that annoying guy from the singles bar last weekend…” Taking a further gander at his face, it wouldn’t have been way off base if they’d mused on whether he was a lost Belushi brother.

And then there’s that coupon/form. When I see one of those dotted line forms that asks me to write in my name and address–even though my brain tells me it’s from 1975–I get a funny little urge inside to fill it out and mail it in. Who knows, maybe somewhere in the Randysphere, beyond time and space, the P.O. box exists in an infinite universe of cheesiness and I’ll actually get a piece of vinyl in the mail…and in that very same spacey place, Randy still looks like that, and he’s standing there, tense as he tries desperately to hold that pose with his right hand on his hip and his left hand on his head (guitar head that is). One for the where are they now files…

…On this day that shall henceforth be known as Black Wednesday–Quarta-Feira Preta, in the language of the sadly defeated Portuguese. Now the finals are Italy vs. France–Is there really any point in watching? Let’s be honest–with the exception of serious soccerheads–there are two types of people: those who root for the underdog and those who root (mindlessly I might add) for the sure-fire winners who’ve already won in the past. ‘Nuf said, and now to drink a bottle of Jack, draped in a Portuguese flag and a veil, and sink into soccer oblivion…

Just one little note on the World Cup game–Italy versus Germany. Totally thought it was going to be Deutschland Deutschland, Uber Alles–as many had predicted but the I-Talians won…Neither is my team so technically I shouldn’t care. But the win was more symbolic than anything–to quote one of the old New York Lottery ads, “Hey, ya never know.” Now if Portugal (my team) can beat France tomorrow, anything is truly possible and miracles can happen. “Gracas a deus,” as those of us who know Portuguese–linguistically and culturally–would say!

Image: A painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec–hooker, “sex educator,” or “bawdy starlet”?

It’s a gloriously lazy holiday weekend, so between hanging with friends and buying bottled water, I flipped on the TV and caught the movie, “The Girl Next Door” on cable. It’s your classic tale of boy meets girl, girl turns out to be a porn star, they fall in love and he helps her quit the biz, yada yada. I didn’t need my Masters degree to figure out that the director and his crew were hoping to update “Risky Business” for today’s teen crowd (instead I did need years of living in L.A., reading dumb scripts and being sated by bad teen sex comedy “formulas” from their heyday in the ’80s).

I found it firstly interesting that the porn star in this movie gets all boo-boo faced and then cross when her regular-high-school student paramour takes her to a motel one night–to cash in, no doubt on what he’s been promised on film. I know it’s only a movie. But it’s amazing to me how, well, dumb and airheaded some of these women can be, at least in theory. You have sex for money on film and then get all bent out of shape when a guy’s initial reaction to you is as a sex object. I mean really, if you had wanted men to treat you like a respectable young lady wouldn’t you, say, get another job–at least a less high-profile one? And in the movie she’s all mad at the guy for his assumptions. Subtext: just because I have menages, gang bangs and get penetrated anally on a regular basis on video that is disseminated to hundreds of thousands of consumers does not mean I will have sex with you after our nice dinner date. Huh? Oh well, I’ll chalk it up to typical unrealistic Hollywood fluff…

But onward…so the porn star is the hooker of yesteryear, all tarted up like a glazed donut and romanticized for the teenage boy of today to wax erotic to, 24/7? I guess the archetype remains while its embodiment changes…makes sense. Yet, I find it interesting that many a porn star gets up on their high horse (or something hung like one) and rants about how they’re not a prostitute, they’re “an actress” or “actor.” That’s like a soap opera star boasting about their “thespian craft.”

I even recently read Allan Macdonnell’s “Prisoner of X” (about his days working at Hustler magazine) and there was, I believe, an anecdote about a porn star scoffing at her friend for turning tricks. Her friend laughed and told her that she was already a prostitute. That’s what amazes me–reality TV, and a celebrity culture (or anti-culture) has made people utterly delusional. Having lived in Holland where prostitution is legal and known some male and female prostitutes over there, I can say that there is a sense of honesty (with onesself and the world) in these people’s less-than-savory jobs. And they will be the first to admit that their work is less-than-savory. They are having sex for money, and most of them not too thrilled about it or they recognize that it has been for them, a sort of addiction and self-undoing. They are aware on some level that this is a low-point but, hey, they may have to do this for a little while until they either get off their drug addiction or have enough money to “start over.” But I never heard of one of them calling themselves “a courtesan” for example or “a sex educationist.”

I know I am going to get shit for it because porn stars are so utterly trendy right now but let me just say that there is a brazen dishonesty that many of them bandy about. There is a sense that they are better than the classic prostitute, they are, naturellement, a star, beyond the moralistic reproach that prostitutes must face. This is what they likely initially tell themselves in order to be able to do it in the first place, and the lie follows them wherever they go. The problem, these days is that the media too is going along with the lie, thus making its members enablers. I’ll attempt to put it in Deadwood language (as it turns out one of the stars of Deadwood, Timothy Olyphant was also in “The Girl Next Door”): “Call a spade a spade and a cocksucker a cocksucker.”