Image: A Clipping from Coop’s poster for MTV, “The Return of the Rock”

Ok, so after months, even years of bemoaning the annual slut fest that is Halloween, I finally succumbed to my inner harlot. This year, I decided if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em and went clad as ’slutty devil.’ This was however a tertiary costume choice as my first choice–’muslim woman in a burka’ was too much of an investment, and my second choice, ’slutty slut’ was too oblique and likely to be misinterpreted as ’streetwalker.’

Both initial costume ideas were intended as jabs against the lascivious legions of slutty nurses, slutty witches and slutty cops that abound during Halloween. What better way to exploit (and take further) the stereotype than ’slutty slut?’

The burka concept was my homage to anti-Camille Paglia feminism. In an era during which women bare all to obtain personal power, they have effectively neutralized skin, making it commonplace and lackluster, in the spirit of the nudist colony. What is sexy now? Suggestion (apart from those mesmerizing eyes, what else you got underneath that burka?)

But, truth be told, I wondered what it might feel like to parade around as a total ho, unabashed and even proud of my bodily attributes. I envisioned hoards of drunk losers, beers in one hand, my right ass cheek in the other as I struggled to throw them off. I foresaw women from all walks of life shunning and ostracizing me. So I put on the 80s style red Michelle Mason micro-mini dress, red fishnets, red six-inch vinyl heels, redhead Bettie Page wig and horns + tail and hit the town as my alter-ego: Loose-siffer.  

After a pre-costumed jaunt through Hollywood Forever Cemetary with cohorts Jula Bell and Steve for the Day of the Dead celebration, we headed to LACMA for their annual masquerade ball. I was at once stopped and complimented by a girl wearing equally slutty high heels and asked if her friend could photograph our elevated footwear side-by-side. I’m sure it ended up on sexyfootfetish.com or some similarly named site (I’ll never be able to run for office). As I teetered through the crowd of Kabuki players, knights, Andy Warhols and boyscouts, I found myself feeling frightfully well-accepted and enveloped by warmth and conviviality (not beer-breathed frat boys, as I had expected).

The following night, I attended the annual Deep Halloween Masquerade Ball. Again, my expectation was to be inappropriately man-handled by assholes and snubbed by other women. Instead, I got compliments on my costume by my fellow females, and ended up discussing politics with a group of guys. Hmmm, Loose-siffer was illiciting such a civilized reaction from her fellow-night revelers…strange.

Perhaps that’s because these days ‘adult Halloween’ has become so accepted as a form of grown-up sexual self-expression that it’s no longer deemed scandalous or rebellious–rather par for the course. The New York Times recently ran a story profiling the trend of slutty rendition costumes.  Op-Ed columnist John Tierney similarly wrote a piece in which he dubbed the holiday “Slutoween.”

So perhaps Paglia was right. There is a certain liberation (and ultimately neutralization) that comes from bandying about your sexuality for all to see. For me, though, it wasn’t so much the scanty outfit that provided a sense of freedom. It was that discussion of politics with the boys on the patio of The Vanguard. Who knows, in this era of false freedoms, how much longer we’ll be allowed to ‘agree to differ.’ Because whether you wrap it in an American flag or a tight red dress–liars, pedaphiles, dictators and eco-enemies all look the same–like wanton, shameless conniving devils.

Images: Two Badasses, Giorgio Moroder and his Cezeta-Moroder V16T

“G” is for genius. “G” is for Grammy. ”G” is for gigolo. “G” is for Giorgio–ahem, Moroder, in case you didn’t know. With all this attention on the classic 80s Pacino flick “Scarface” (1983) as of late (due to some video game rendition of it), I would like to remind everyone of the brilliance of its original soundtrack composer, the Italian disco maestro Giorgio Moroder.

The other day I found myself cruising down the PCH pumping up some Moroder tracks like the theme from “Midnight Express” (1978) entitled, “The Chase” and Giorgio’s own “I Wanna Rock You.” When those digital weaves burrough their way through your body you have no choice but to sit back and cruise (or if it’s 1980 and you’re driving a Ferrari, snort a line of coke off of the hood, snap on your leather driving gloves and burn rubber).

You see, Moroder didn’t just gratutiously play with digital sounds like many of his wannabe descendants did. He didn’t exploit them. But rather, he conducted their orchestration through a series of twists and turns that can be felt up and down your spine as you tune in to the grooves. That’s why, as I was telling my very talented DJ pal Marques Wyatt just the other night in a similarly minded discussion, I’m feeling very moroder these days. This is the adjective that must be employed when one is sensing cheesey euphoria that causes the pulse to race and the highway to beckon–sort of like fahrfugnugen with a mustache, an Italian accent and a much more radical vehicle.

Perhaps you already know of the “G”enie’s high profile cinematic scoring work. He’s the Euro-dance mastermind who fashioned other soundtracks like “Flashdance” (1983), ”Electric Dreams” (1984), ”Cat People” (1982), ”Foxes” (1980) and “American Gigolo” (1980). And he worked with such great disco/rock divas as Debbie Harry and Donna Summer.

But maybe you didn’t know that the big G’s mustache wasn’t his only external accouterment eulogy to ‘the lifestyle.’ This rhythm consiglieri also dreamed the big dream in the 1980’s–that dream, of course having been ‘car porn.’ You remember, the Delorean, “Back to the Future,” that whole racey aesthetic…During that era, Moroder worked with an auto specialist to design the flashy, flash dancey, Cizeta-Moroder V16T, the Euro-trash  speed demon to rival all other Euro-trash speed demons–a sports car that was born…born…born…born to be alive!!

So, the next time you decide to cruise, at full speed down a highway, windows open, wind blowing through your hair in that “Xanadu” fashion, think very carefully about which CD you opt to pop in. Don’t get all knee-jerk reactive and choose that slow droopy Snoopy Doggy Dog style stoner crap. Don’t let the droning, wailing Wolfmother bring you down. Go for speed. Go for Giorgio. Just go!

Paid for by the Giorgio Moroder Preservation Society.  

Image: An imagined Elvis, the heretic, as Jesus

In commemoration of that holiday that Angelenos just can’t get enough of, I penned a ghost story for a general article in the LA Alternative on paranormal experiences in L.A. Since this is tinseltown, it naturally revolves around a celebrity. The name “Phoenix Rising” is an obvious clue. Check it out.

And if you’re still chomping at the bit, I leave you with this excerpt from the book, “Hollywood and the Supernatural.” It ironically refers to an incident retold by an old friend of mine’s dad, Larry Geller, who was Elvis Presley’s hairdresser and personal guru (only in L.A., folks would these two vocations meet). I couldn’t resist citing it, if just for the six degreesiness of it all, seeing as I knew Geller, and carpooled with Lisa-Marie Presley in grade school:

The incident occurred in 1965, Geller said, as they were headed toward Los Angeles. Elvis was driving the bus when he suddenly stopped, awestruck by the shape of a cloud on the horizon. At first, the singer saw the face of Joseph Stalin in the swirling white mass, then the visage he perceived transformed itself to that of Jesus.

“I saw the Christ and the Antichrist,” he sobbed, hugging Geller. “For the first time in my life, God and Christ were a living reality. Now I know. I’ll never have any doubt again. God loves me.”

Ok, maybe God loved him, but the neo-cons (or neo-con artists as the history books will one day dub them) certainly wouldn’t have, had he been alive today. Joseph Stalin, Jesus? They would have surely accused ol’ Pelvis of being not just blasphemous but worse (in their eyes), a bleedin’ pinko.

Image: 90’s Weblebrity Mahir (left) and comedy character Borat (right) 

As we near the most important date of this year in early November–the release of the “Borat” movie (what else would I be talking about?)–I find myself waxing reminiscent about the good ol’ days just prior to the bursting of the dot com bubble. I love Sacha Baron Cohen (creator of “Borat”’s personage) don’t get me wrong. But I won’t be the first to say that his bungling but sincere Kazakh character bears a striking resemblance to former weblebrity Mahir.

For those of you who missed that key chapter in online international relations and the folly of fame, Mahir was a Turkish gentleman whose web site invitation to strangers to befriend him and visit his home in his country reached epic proportions in 1999. With his tag line, “I kiss you,” his goofy mustache and corny attire, he posted numerous amusing photos of his exploits and his telephone number on his web site. This prompted the media, including Salon.com and Entertainment Weekly to post articles about this impromptu inadvertent celeb.

A sincere and sincerely touched Mahir was overloaded with responses and visits, and as a result made many new friends from America and beyond. In a Wikipedia article on the “Borat” character it states the claim that Baron Cohen had begun formulating this fictional person years before the Mahir craze, but was familiar with him (and possibly inspired by him). Kazakhstan and Turkey are obviously different countries but you wouldn’t believe the subtle non-continental cultural similiarities. 

In order to truly appreciate that this sort of Joe Schmovowski is not an obscure anomale you have to have lived outside of the U.S. and met folks like this. Baron Cohen obviously did, as did I.

Briefly, while living in Amsterdam, I frequented a certain dry cleaner in De Pijp neighborhood. He was a round, short, hairy, balding, sincere, gushing Turkish gentleman with the best of intentions. One day, we worked out a trade where I would teach him English for free dry cleaning. The JAP in me was obviously busy fashioning ways in which I could maintain my couture in good shape while striking a deal (always a deal).

The after-work lessons, which I taught him in the back of the dry cleaner’s were comical to say the least. He was a Turk who spoke some Dutch but no English. I was an American who spoke some Dutch but no Turkish. Nevertheless, I made him cassettes and was intent on getting him to speak proficiently–or at the very least keeping things going until the next fashion season. And the bottom line is that he was a nice guy. But being from a different culture–one that is open and friendly to strangers inviting them in like family–he ultimately crossed a social line.

First he kindly offered to have our next lesson over Shoarma (his treat). It was quite an experience stepping into the Middle Eastern meaterie with a guy who knew all of the restaurant’s staff and could communicate with them in Turkish and some Arabic. And that was a fun lesson indeed, with lamb juice dribbling down my lip as I intermittantly translated phrases from Dutch to English. Eventually, he wanted me to join him and his family for a big dinner at their house–with the kids and everyone. I made up excuses until finally I realized the Seinfeldian truth that I could not have a normal friendship with my Turkish dry cleaner. We were not just culturally like day and night but our career goals, our ages–everything collectively created an odd chasm. I would have to gently cut him out.

It was sad because it was a testament to just how different American and Turkish cultures are. It would be impossible to find the happy medium I was looking for–an everyday cordiality sans border-crossing (for lack of better terms).

And it was in the annals of culture as well that I searched for an out from this cultural connundrum. Knowing that natives of such a Eurasian country bordering on Arab lands would surely understand male possessiveness, I fibbed and told him that my “boyfriend” was becoming increasingly jealous of our friendship.

Understanding but disappointed he looked at me and asked, “Vriend zeg” (translated from bad Dutch: “Boyfriend says), “Vriend niet meer” (translated from bad Dutch: “No more friend?” I nodded my head. He looked a bit perplexed. In my four years in Amsterdam, he had been friendlier, more open and kinder to me than any Dutch person I had met. Nevertheless I said (I kiss you!) goodbye, so to speak to the stomer-eye (phonetic Dutch for “dry cleaner”).

Apologies for my absence. I have been attempting to upgrade this blog (notice the new “email to a friend” button). I’m encountering some imaging glitches. I should be back blogging soon.

Ok, so we knew it was over when the trendy gays starting sporting their faux hawks. Certainly the funeral dirge could be heard emanating from the mouth of an “E.R.” cast member fronting for legendary L.A. punk band The Germs’ reincarnation (please forgive me, Pat Smear–he does a great Darby imitation but there’s only one Darby, right?). It was blatantly obvious to us when Paris Hilton started sporting a pink Ramones mini-T (sorry, Ramsey Salem, I know your wonderful clothing line manufactures them but, this one makes my blood boil).

Like some Christian Apocalypse scenario all the signs were there. And it is with great regret on this Friday the 13th that I officially say farewell to punk–which we all know hasn’t been the same in decades–but we can no longer drunkenly slam our heads in angry but gleeful denial (for many reasons including the fact that many of those old punkers are now in A.A. and I can’t think of anything less punk than that). The legendary New York home to so many great punk and punk inspired bands like The Ramones, Iggy Pop, Blondie, The Heartbreakers, The New York Dolls, Patti Smith and so on, CBGB will close its doors after this Sunday’s final show. This sold out weekend’s finale lineup includes The Dictators, Patti Smith, Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, among others. Bad Brains and The Talking Heads have already played the club’s final week.

But worry not ye freaks who wish to keep old school punk in a Terry Schivo-like state–undignified, vegetative and on life support–the club, says owner Hilly Crystal will resurface in none other than the anti-punk den of gross consumerism Las Vegas. Stay tuned for humiliation–worse than even The Germs not having known how to play their instruments or Iggy Pop inebriated on stage wanking himself. This is the kind of evil prolonged death that only a money-hungry, tasteless capitalist society can provide. Before I get too harsh, I understand that the club’s owner got shafted financially for his years of hard work and like everyone needs to make a living so my commentary is purely from a distant culturally critiquing standpoint–not a personal one.

But generally, I think some underground zeitgeists need–like great leaders–to be laid to rest in state, with a dignity and fond remembrance for their golden years and not attempt to keep the party (in both senses of the word) alive. Don’t get me wrong, punk and its musical derivatives have been a HUGE part of my life. I did lose my virginity to a bass player for a big SoCal punk rock band in a music practice space, after all (to subsequent ex-boyfriends, sorry for revealing that YOU weren’t the ONE). But do I want to remember the occasion as it was or try to re-live it by dating punk rock musicians into my adulthood, thus pathetically extending something that was meant to be a crazy unthinking adolescent moment in time? Uh, no, I don’t think so. Let’s all just don our black clothing, march slowly towards the spiked coffin, pay our respects and move on to creating a new thorn in society’s side.

Image: Beautiful Kristin Dunst as “Marie Antoinette,” the Paris Hilton of the 18th century in the film by the same name

Image: Not-quite-as-perfect America Ferrera as “Ugly Betty” in the ABC TV show by the same name

In a combination of the Battle of the Bulge and the Battle of the Network Stars, media icons are readying themselves for an End of Days-worthy combat. Has anybody noticed that–after being force-fed (or more appropriately force-starved) on the idea of the skinny, surgically perfected rich idiots, that the ugly girls with grit and smarts are fighting back? Cases in point, the imminent release of Sofia Coppola’s “Marie Antoinette” (a.k.a. the Paris Hilton of the Versailles golden age–ridiculously wealthy and offensively untalented and stupid) and the launch of the new TV series “Ugly Betty.”

You had to have seen it coming. Look at the context: an excessive and saccharine sweet era of ostentatious wealth, inane banter about porn stars and celebrities (which ironically outlined their similarities, to quote Gina Gershon’s character in “Showgirls“: “We’re all whores, darlin’), young and dumb and full of cum being a motivational mantra rather than an insult, and people so wrapped up in plastic looking beauty that they didn’t quite get that their favorite show “Nip/Tuck” was actually making fun of them.

So the backlash has arrived in the form of shows like the above-mentioned and Dove’s new “real beauty” campaign and the like. But still there’s this self-indulgent clinging to the old guard via Coppola’s new film–if only by virtue of its choice of subject matter. I will reserve judgment on the actual work until I have seen it. Apparently, or so I’ve heard, Coppola was hoping to prove that Antoinette never uttered that infamously stupid line in response to hearing of the starving people in her kingdom: “Let them eat cake.” Personally, I can think of a million more significant fallacies that need far more urgent disproving in this day and age than those of a shallow in-bred 18th century monarch (um, let’s say justification for going into Iraq). But let’s leave that one alone for now.

I’m relieved to see that the natural “uglies” (for lack of better terms–and attempting to disempower vocabulary as the gays did with “queer”) are fighting back because frankly it was getting a little bit boring with all these Stepford people ruling the town asylum. And I do think it’s time for some balance. But I want to add that there was an era–which none of us will remember because it dates back 25,000 years, when heavy rounded women with extreme exaggerated facial features were the picks of the litter. One can just imagine a bunch of them haughtily sauntering past the delicate malnourished women who did not fit their canon of beauty, as they set off to pose for clay artists (the equivalent of let’s say a Mario Testino back in the cave days). There they were immortalized in the form of fetish idols like The Venus of Willendorf–they who today would be sent off to Mcnamara Troy or Celebrity Fit Club. Moral of the story–”you shouldn’t have thrown those black skinny pants away,” because it all comes back in style, SOONER OR LATER!!

Is it me or are people starting to celebrate Halloween WAY too early this year? Perhaps it’s a double homage to Friday the 13th and Samhain, but this year, Lost Angelenos can hardly keep it in their pants for the spine-tingling holiday. All through the Hollywood Hills I’ve seen Halloween set-ups–orange and black decorations, carved pumpkins and the like and it’s only October 11th. Since when did Halloween become a season?

I’m not even counting the infamous ‘holiday whore’ house on Sunset in Beverly Hills as part of my proof (though its annual Halloween extravaganza is currently on display). I’m sure its owner is a nice enough fellow but those of us who grew up driving past his ‘Tournament of Roses Parade’-like home can attest to the fact that he’ll put out an equally lavish spread for every holiday….From Easter to Ramadan (well, he hasn’t actually done that one yet–’there goes the neighborhood’ might be the reaction from his xenophobic BH adjacents–save for the owner of the infamous ‘pubic hair mansion’ lot, recently rebuilt.

Historical footnote: Residents were once aghast, decades ago when the owner of a mansion on Sunset in Beverly Hills equipped his palace with naked statues adorned with painted pubic hair. The proud proprietor of the 38 room mansion was Sheik Mohammed al Fassi of Saudi Arabia. The mega-house was tragically gutted by a fire. He fled. It was an empty lot until recently when they started building two McMansions on it. But I digress…although I’ve just given you a genius idea for a regional Halloween costume, tying it all in to my theme (”pubic hair mansion statue”).

In any case, beyond the decorations, I’ve seen Halloween costumes pop up on MySpace profiles, been asked numerous times what I’m going to do for Halloween, and even heard disturbing cheers of Happy Halloween and the like spread accross this sprawling non-metropolis. I’m not just talking about the slut costumes that typically abound during the ghoulish holiday (those are, after all, year-round in L.A.). But there’s a general zeal beyond that of previous years that’s permeating the landscape.

It seems that this Pagan-originated holiday is perhaps surpassing the popularity of even Christmas…though I know that such blasphemy may disturb those in other parts of the country. Perhaps Christ isn’t the prom king he once was–at least not the over-the-top version of Christ that has been marketed to us by Hallmark for decades. Isn’t it a little more fun to be bad?

In truth, however, Samhain isn’t an evil holiday at all, despite its tough rep. Much like the Fonz, it’s got a soft spot. This Wicca beloved holiday is dedicated to remembering one’s ancestors and exploring the thin veil that separates the living world from the invisible one. And Wicca isn’t evil either, Church Lady. It follows a long tradition of following the Earth’s rhythms and understanding the balance between its seasons and elements.

Hey, but if all of this history stuff is a little bit of a buzz kill for ya, go ahead and celebrate Halloween by donning a Nixon mask (or more topically a Laura Bush one), and don’t wait another second. After all, you’ve only got 20 more days to be bad and have society sanction it!

Our hand-shaking, pulse-quickening, tummy-tingling story starts back in 1886 in Atlanta, Georgia, where a man by the name of John Pemberton invents a beverage known as Coca-Cola. The tasty treat’s secret ingredient is a miniscule amount of cocaine (China White, Mother of Pearl, Ivory Flake, if you’re Grandmaster Flash). They put a cap on that Pandora’s box in 1906 (the same year as the big San Francisco quake–a coincidence that both caused trembling? Perhaps not…).

That’s when Coke was just Coke, ‘the real thing,’ and not the thing that causes you to end up in a subterranean gimp cage with a bunch of urban vampires and Rick James at six o’clock in the morning. Anyway, ‘coke’ the powdered substance may have died in soft drink form that year but Coke the name became catchy and a sort of wink-wink-nudge-nudge nod to the soft drink’s prior hard status.

But through the years as our culture of haste and impatience continues to grow, so has the speedy soft drink industry. We’ve seen a parade of these wanton temptresses with that cool ’sweat’ coating their cans, with their beckoning, ‘come hither…now now now now!!!’ catchphrases and exclamations.

In 1985, a new soft drink was invented so non-cokeheads wouldn’t feel left out of the ’80s snow fest. Jolt Cola was “all the sugar, twice the caffeine,” and boasted a big gold lightening bolt logo worthy of gracing a cut-up sweatshirt worn by Jennifer Beals.

In 2003, the Brits got in on the action with Red Bull, an energy drink with twice the caffeine of Coke and some added fatigue combatants like Taurine. Chic, slender and wing-providing, Red Bull started as the sophisticate’s version of the common man’s energy drink (although in Europe it was more like club glug).

About a year later the inventors of cocaine (well, practically) the Peruvians came up with their own flashy beverage–KDrink. It contained 0.6 milligrams of coca leaves (the base ingredient in cocaine). Only in Peru…apparently. Because in the U.S. Rockstar hit the stage. This energy drink intimated that it could make you perform (in more ways than one…see Mick Jagger) like a rock star, day and night. It’s even product placed in the Girls Gone Wild videos and has joined forces to throw parties with Penthouse magazine. Still, don’t sell your stock in Viagra just yet.

So, if these drinks hadn’t hit rock bottom enough–having (like Rockstar) practically descended to the level of soft drink crack whore, another bev has hit the markets–much to the dismay of lawmakers…but to my joy. The reason I say ‘joy’ is that finally SOMEONE is calling a spade a spade–or in this case, a soft drink Cocaine. That’s right, you may have heard hushed murmurings from your local dealer at the grocery store about this heavyweight. The drink should come with a purple hat with a pink feather in it and an Ike Turner sticker. Instead, it’s something of an imitation of its grandfather’s packaging–bright red with white lettering. One peculiar (hmmm) graphic touch is that the lettering is, shall we say, bumpy…not unlike lines of cocaine. Not that I would know personally but I have it on authority…ask the current president.

According to the lead in the New York Times story that ran last week:

“Outraged New York City lawmakers denounced the manufacturer of a new, highly caffeinated soft drink called Cocaine yesterday and called for a boycott of the beverage, saying it glamorized an illegal and deadly stimulant that has ravaged families and neighborhoods since the epidemic of the 1980’s.”

Interesting, so it takes the actual name Cocaine to get lawmakers’ pulse racing. Like Coke, Jolt, Red Bull, KDrink and Rockstar weren’t enough. So Cocaine gets to take the wrap for the rest of them street urchins. What a slap in the face! What an indignity! That’s like Clarence Thomas modifying his famous line to, “There’s a pubic hair in my Cocaine.” Sort of adds insult to injury. Gulp.

I watched my favorite weekend guilty pleasure “Real Time with Bill Maher“–live from Capitol Hill and was surprised and horrified to find that it wasn’t the loudmouth Republicans creating an undue ruckus this time but none other than comedian Robin Williams. The panel consisted of Williams, Richard Clarke, Ileana Ros-Lehtinen and Chris Matthews. Like some unruly, wasted nightmare party guest Williams hijacked Maher’s show and made it a virtually unwatchable reality show depicting one man’s manic episode.

Robin Williams is funny, don’t get me wrong. But his constant histrionic badgering (which hardly contributed anything to this fantastic panel) was about as inappropriate as the bride’s maid at a wedding walking onto the dancefloor where the bride and groom are sharing a first dance, pushing the bride out of the way and dancing the Lambada with the groom.

I wish I had been able to hear Richard Clarke, former White House terrorism adviser, or the hard-hitting Chris Matthew. But each time they were drowned out by Williams’ psychotic episodes. At first it was somewhat amusing but towards the end when Maher was attempting to read his always-humorous and poigant “New Rules” Williams–like a child deprived of Ritalin and amped up on corn syrup–commented on each of his points (despite the fact that this is–for anyone who watches the show–Maher’s final commentary….SOLO). Then, when I couldn’t believe they hadn’t whisked Williams off the stage in a straitjacket, it got, can you imagine, worse. Maher was attempting to give his final commentary while Williams hummed some parody tune (?) in the background.

Apart from it being ungracious and highly inappropriate (and you could see it by the look on Maher’s face at the end–he was drawn, resigned and I’m sure pissed off), it made me wonder whether Williams had been doing bumps with Marion Barry backstage before the show. Alternately, was it some kind of hazing ritual from old school comic to new school comic? Or was he truly having a manic episode? Either way it was scary–Hitchcock scary. I can just see it–Bill Maher at home in his shower when Williams walks in holding a knife, clad in Mrs. Doubtfire attire. Cue crescendo music from “Psycho.”