It’s 2AM, do you know where your wristband is? I do–carelessly tossed to the floor of my bathroom. That would be the bright blue plastic one that allowed me safe passage into the private opening of Area, the new Brent Bolthouse boite on La Cienega. For those of you not from ’round here, Bolthouse is the LA kid’s promoter. I remember him from as far back as the acid house days in late 80s L.A. And he’s still at it going strong. I’m not though…rarely the clubhopper anymore, it takes (as it does for most of us semi-jaded old L.A. souls) the promise of an entirely comped night to even get me to consider leaving the cozy comfort of a night in watching Bill Maher, Nip/Tuck or some other guilty pleasure with a bottle of 2-buck Chuck and a chocolate bar.

I ventured forth for this one and I’m glad I did. One Aussie and his friend lamented, “We heard the celebrity list is slim.” That, to me, was what made it a great party. Dave Navarro–God bless him, who would go to the opening of an envelope–was in attendance as a single man. But the rest of the party was, as they said, “slim.” This is L.A., so slim is good. And I can tell you that a night without those same ol’ young tired faces and exposed asses was a night I relished.

There was however no dearth of parking attendants outside the club. As we walked up to the front we couldn’t miss them standing uniformly erect in single file line. There had to have been at least 10 of them. I mutterered as we passed them, “There’s more of them than there are U.S. troupes in Iraq.” All joking aside–a brigade of valet parkers is the sign of a well-prepared L.A. party.

The inside of the club was manned (operative word) by the best-looking set of male attendants I think I’ve every seen in any heterosexual club. From bouncer to bartender, they were a Campari meets a Calvin Klein ad–let’s just say that they were high-brow hot and that the only six packs they would be sporting were under their shirts. Let us pause for a moment to marvel at this odd fact that in L.A.–land of the gorgeous bimbo actresses–the beautiful men in a HETEROSEXUAL (I repeat) establishment equaled or quite possibly even surpassed the amount of attractive women.

The attire for the females was over-the-top ridiculous–plunging and violently colored gowns, shimmery mini-dresses–all of which made Victoria Gotti look like Audrey Hepburn. “A” for effort–and show-me factor–”C+” for actual style–with a handful of exceptions. The men were safely clad all in black with pristine new baseball caps–let’s call them the Coalition of the Chilling, for lack of better terms. And lucky for my partner in crime, Mary and I, we met some real life O.C. boys, surfers, our peeps. One looked like a young Jan Michael Vincent (of the infamous surf flick “Big Wednesday”). They were such perfect specimens of surfdom that one imagined that they were sent in from central casting.

The tunes were great with oldies (and I use this term loosely attempting to adopt the quick time frame of my party cohorts) like Janet Jackson’s “Go Deep,” and even further back into the vault, some 80s crowd-karaokeing faves like the Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me Baby.” I danced as much as I could in a pair of old Gucci stilletto snakeskin “cockroach killer” boots. Sadly, these accessories had caused me great anxiety earlier in the evening. Tight, knee-high and sans zipper, the boots trapped me in them halfway so that I was neither wearing them, nor not wearing them. They were cutting off my circulation and I was starting to have visions of “I have fallen and I can’t get up,” the chic version, with an ambulance pulling up to remove the designer assailants from my legs. Luckily, I managed to squeeze some Vaseline in there and find a pair of scissors and cut myself free (and into a new fashion trend apparently–cuffed boots). I kid you not, I arrived wearing the damned things and saw at least six other women with flipped over cuffed knee-high boots. The emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a nice pair of boots.

The case of urban myth vs. reality vis-a-vis the Disneyland Jail is still under active investigation. My source in New York went back and spoke to his old friend who was one of the relayers of the scary tale. His response was as follows:

“It is true that that ‘Dave’ was arrested at Disneyland on 17 hits of acid, however I don’t recall part of the story being that the jail looked like a Disney character. You can ask him yourself he’s on MySpace and in my list of friends.”

I had no idea that the dosing was at near-lethal or more appropriately near-Leary levels, so that new piece of information adds more intrigue and mania to the case. And of course its culmination begs the rhetorical question, do all roads always have to lead back to MySpace? I will of course keep you posted as this fascinating story unfolds.

Image: An old library at Oxford University

I attended an art opening at Dawson’s Book Shop (the oldest operational bookstore in L.A.) on Friday, and it reminded me of how much I miss being surrounded by books–old and new–in a place that worships them with the same zeal as denizens of the Sunset Strip do strippers, porn stars and b-list celebrities. Of course–like any self-respecting scribe–I have a library in my home but those dozen or so shelves pale in comparison to a truly thorough expansive library.

In the past decade we’ve seen the actual architectural site of a true library diminish in usage thanks to the likes of Amazon.com, Borders and Barnes & Noble. In fact, this very trend towards online book purchases and bookstores that double as singles bars with their latte shop apendages–has, I believe, inspired a backlash revaluation of the library space. I can’t, however, be completely credited with this theory. When I was interviewing architectural/technology savant Benjamin Bratton for a story for the recently deceased RES magazine, he brought up that the digital age compacting banking or online shopping actually frees the architectural site to become more than just a functional building. It allows it to have a style and an ambience. Ironically–or not–Bratton’s now working with a purely online presence, Yahoo. But his wise words linger on, at least for me…

Apart from Dawson’s, I was overjoyed to see that an incredible library/bookstore/reading room has opened up in the unlikely locale of the Beverly Glen Circle. Dragon Books with its dark oaky vibes, ample old books and comfortable chairs looks like the type of place you might presumably find Mr. Livingston (puffing on a pipe, of course). In short, it’s pornography for the smart set. What I mean by that is that there’s something sensual–engaging the senses–about a perfect library space (like the one pictured above). The smell of old volumes, the quiet, the potential of all knowledge seductively hangs in the air as if to say, “take me!”

And that has quite literally been the case in some libraries. I recall, back in the day walking through the dank halls of Butler Library at Columbia, as a freshman and marvelling at ‘the hush.’ It was a little scary, to be honest. And then I heard the stories of couples fornicating in the darkness of ‘the stacks,’ and was even warned of going there late at night when lusty pervs might be on the prowl for an innocent victim.

Either way, the library was and will always be for me something incredibly sexy, haunting and stunning. Sadly, even that fetish has been perverted (in the worst sense of the word). I remember having lunch at a boutique hotel in Beverly Hills a couple of years back and seeing a ‘designer’ library lined with books with white covers. When I picked one up and opened it, I was not entirely surprised to find the pages blank. How…vapidly trendy…how…unsexy. I guess there will always be those who prefer blank books, and worse those who prefer to burn books. But some of us saucy deviants with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge actually like to surround ourselves with them and READ THEM!

I was just at the check out line of Whole Foods when–don’t ask me why–but I found myself recounting what I thought was a personal story about Disneyland Jail–to the clerk. I told him that I had a friend in New York who had taken Acid with two other friends at Disneyland. One of them had started having a bad trip and it spiraled into total mayhem and misconduct. The unruly visitors were apparently quickly shuttled off to Disneyland Jail to spend the rest of their time in the happiest place on Earth, behind bars inside a giant Goofy head.

Much to my surprise and chagrin, the clerk replied, “I heard that exact same story. Isn’t that an urban myth?” He might as well have told me that Santa Claus didn’t exist (or hot older bearded men in general) so horrified was I by this revelation. I swiftly emailed my New York friend to clear the whole mess up. His response: It was not an urban legend. My old bandmate told this story…as far as I remember. I will try to get verification from a mutual friend.”

So, as I await verification on this important tale of LSD and TLC, I naturally find myself Googling “Disneyland Jail,” wondering if there are others who have heard of this mythical sounding allegedly real place and its exploits (since we’re talking prison exploits and ethics and Guantanamo in the news, might as well look even deeper into America’s closet). One chatboard devotes a series of entries to this very subject. But once again everyone’s got a different opinion–there’s no jail, just a boring room; there is a jail behind the Haunted Mansion; it’s some dark secret they don’t talk about…Perhaps we need to get Geraldo in there to delve deep into the catacombs of Disneyland to uncover…nothing. Or maybe it was just a fantastic Acid dream, something like William Blake meets The Brady Bunch on vacation.

One thing’s for sure, if it does exist, the administration is probably bending the rules right now to ensure that they permit all captives to be choked with rainbow lollypops and smothered by oversized stuffed animals.

You’ve got to love the WWW. Not long after I posted my Pelosi Parlance entry questioning what I might have heard California’s beloved congresswoman say in her commentary on Hugo Chavez, I received an email response correcting me (might have to use this method as a fact-checker again in the future–it’s certainly effective). Blog reader Gitana explains that Pelosi was referring NOT to Simone de Beauvoir (silly existentially inclined me) but to Simon Bolivar, and pronouncing it correctly as ’see-mohn’. “Doh,” as Homer Simpson would say. But as far as “Doh”s I feel fairly confident that it’s one of the less retardedly offensive of them. I did secretly relish the idea that Pelosi was comparing a contemporary hardcore dictator to a tough-as-nails French philosopher of the feminist persuasion…if in a bit of an odd context. Let me dream if I want to…

Did anyone happen to catch the news today when several elected officials–liberal and conservative–were rebutting Hugo Chavez’ insulting comments about Bush II? Nancy Pelosi, who I respect a great deal, in a press conference, seemed a wee bit flustered. I could have sworn, correct me if I’m going deaf (which is a possible side effect of years of punk rock and house music), that she said that Chavez “fancies himself a modern day Simone BeauDevoir.” I tried to double check this online but came up empty windowed. Could this smart, sassy politician possibly have uttered such a malapopism? Perhaps only noticable to the intelligencia (so was it really a malapropism since most of the country is part of what Mike Judge terms an “Idiocracy“), Pelosi was referring, I assume to Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre’s feminist partner for years. Apart from the name error–BeauDevoir in French actually translates into, “Handsome Assignment,” isn’t that an odd reference? Comparing a South American dictator to a feminist existentialist. It’s kind of like Dada. I just don’t get it. Ok, I’ll shut up now lest I embarrass myself when it is revealed that I misheard her and that she was actually referring to some obscure ancient rebel figure that only REALLY smart people know of. So, I guess I bid you RevoirAu, or is that Au Revoir…

Almost forgot…this photo of the Banksy installation “Barely Legal”–this weekend’s talk of the town–proves that art and creativity are alive and well in the world. The elephant was in the room and so was half of hipster L.A.

Image: “I got anorexic,” said actor Billy Bob Thornton (above)

Women’s groups are always railing (pun intended) against Hollywood’s leading men and women for continuing to promote the idea that thin is in. Certainly the above pictured ‘manorexic,’ Billy Bob, is proof that this trend has gone beyond gender. But what I propose is that these angry activists put their fury where it deserves to be put…on the camera.

Clearly the reason so many actors and actresses–like the oft referenced Nicole Richie and Calista Flockhart–are skin and bones–is that the camera, a prerequisite in their profession–adds 10 pounds. In an attempt to keep up the necessary appearances (NOT to be anorexically thin per se–but to be decently slim and toned), these stars and starlets have been overcompensating for this technological handicap. So naturally, they look great on film but in photos they resemble someone that Sally Struthers or Angelina Jolie may have picked up on a recent trip to Uganda.

My advice is a public campaign to promote new and improved camera technologies that do not require already slender or average weighted actors and actresses to drop more weight. I’m no tech-y so I couldn’t tell you what those new cameras and films are or whether they even exist. But in this day and age, chances are good that they do. So, I say to the folks who are sick of seeing sicklies–don’t ’shave the hair’ so to speak, pull it out from the root. Down with 35 mm! The people have spoken. And if that doesn’t work, they can always dust off ol’ Anna Nicole and bring her back, again.

Image: From the Set of the LA Opera’s Ambitious Production of Don Carlo

Last night I went to see Verdi’s opera “Don Carlo” at the Music Center. What struck me immediately–apart from the elaborate, even Baroque production, and the stand-out performances by Dolora Zajick and Feruccio Ferlanetto–was the appropriateness of the subject matter in light of present-day America.

Though I’m sure Placido Domingo, who is overseeing the LA Opera, was simply paying homage to Verdi’s incredible epic work (the original version was five acts; this one three acts at a whopping 3 hours and 15 minutes), I like to imagine that there was more behind this choice. In my fertile politically motivated mind, this was a subsersive way of using the arts during a particularly restrictive period in America’s history, to make a statement.

The story, in a nutshell, takes place during the time of the Spanish Inquisition and in a story of classic archetypal battles, pits man against his father. In this case it’s the abandoned Don Carlo and his father, King Philip (played by the gifted baritone, Ferlanetto). Don Carlo wants to save the people of Flanders who are suffering under bloody tyranny being inflicted in the name of Roman Catholicism. When Don Carlo speaks against his father in this respect, he is told by The Grand Inquisitor (a hunched over little old man who resembles the last pontif in his ailing days) that his father, the King is protected by God. In layman’s 21st century terms, G-O-D stands muscly and seething between a velvet rope and Club Philip.

It got me to thinking about the current regime and the way it similarly hides behind “God’s” imposing and virile figure. Just as in “Don Carlo,” anything said contra the regime is utter blasphemy. It is as if one were directly insulting The Creator. What I find fascinating as well is that the bible, in Matthew 24 warns about a “False Christ.” That seed of thought having been planted, I will say no more…lest it be blasphemy.

In conclusion, last night’s performance was outstanding in so many ways–the above-noted performers, the lavish costumes and resounding chorals. When they brought out the giant Christ on the Cross–which dominated the stage–and the massive chorus sang grimly around it as a handful of shirtless men self-flagellated, I felt like I was really there in 16th century Europe, minus of course the Bubonic Plague (though there were a lot of septuagenarians coughing intermittantly throughout the performance).

Image: Conan O’Brien’s Famous Double, Finland’s President Tarja Halonen

I’ve recently been thinking about the idea that we each have our celebrity double out there, and it got me to thinking about ’separated at birth’ and other doubles concepts. My friend Jack says people think he’s the exact sound-alike of Owen Wilson, and he tells me that my sound-alike and marginal double is Winona Ryder. True, we both grew up in California–so he’s got the drawl right. In the looks department, she was more my double in my New York college years–with my darker shorter hair and nihilistic pallor. I do remember walking down First Avenue in the East Village and having two guys yell out of the sunroof of a limo, “Look, it’s Winona Ryder.” One gay friend of mine reminds me a bit of a better looking Stanford Blatch (of “Sex and the City” hag-fag fame).

When I was at the Gary Panter opening this weekend my thoughts went to punk and rock doubles. My buddy Pat Smear had long ago dubbed seminal punk photographer Ed Colver, Ric Ocasek. But I thought I saw Pat’s likeness on the t-shirt of some guy at Norm’s in W. Hollywood the other night. When I took a closer look I realized that it was NOT Pat, but his t-shirt drawing double, Bruce Lee. Ok, so sometimes double means double vision when the ethnicity is completely off (in this case, half-Black mistaken for full Chinese). But in general there’s something to it. Ellen Degeneres, for instance looks like she could easily blend in with one of the guys in the Backstreet Boys or N’ Sync. I wouldn’t say Lance Bass is her double but they could be fraternal twins (just to further obfuscate their sexual preferences).

Another category of the double is of course the aged twin (a.k.a. the double chin). For instance, when I look at, and hear, Lindsay Lohan, I see her aging into the husky-voiced nutball Brenda Vaccaro. It’s all in the voice, and a bit in the eyes and the demeanor. I already see Paris Hilton as her older double. It’s some attractive but cookie cutter society type like Blythe Danner. Once she moves past her total whore phase she’ll be vilifying girls like herself. The Chanel suit clad heiress will bitterly sip Sidecars–like the Karen Walker character in “Will & Grace,” as her husband chases mini-skirts.

And then there’s the generational double. I don’t mean to be politically incorrect, but is is it just me or do a lot of homeless guys look like scenesters from the 70s (a-la “Hair“)? Or perhaps that should be reversed. A lot of 70s dudes looked homeless maybe because they were a decade after everyone had tuned in, turned on and dropped out. I caught a bit of Nick Nolte in his prime when he played a homeless guy who cleaned up nice in “Down and Out in Beverly Hills,” and he definitely had the look down. It was 70s surf bum, someone out of “Big Wednesday” (which, coincidentally was also on cable the same week). Either way–as homeless guy/beachcomber or as cleaned up Cali dude, he was looking good…which I’m almost afraid to say, seeing what he’s become…not so much a double, but a “Why don’t you make that a double…”