In the waiting room of a doctor’s office where my mom was getting a check up I leafed through a T magazine as an older lady with red hair cyber-gabbed on her Blackberry. Then a septuagenarian man walked past, stopped suddenly recognizing her as a friend and pivoted to say hi. As he did, the contents of his two pharmaceutical goody bags flew onto the floor and an empty seat. The two friends laughed and enjoyed their reunion, as he absent-mindedly picked up the senior detritus.

Out of the corner of my eye, I couldn’t help but notice a Viagra sample pack still sitting on the chair. It’s kind of hard NOT to notice such things as they kind of, well, pop out, um, like a boner actually. Before his female acquaintance caught the glimpse I got, he scooped it away into the bag (not nervously, mind you, matter-of-factly). I marvelled at the fact that they are giving this stuff away like it’s candy. And it’s on TV for all to see in the form of an older couple dancing in a field or an older guy going “yes,” fists in the air like Tom Cruise. But it’s Bob Dole whose commercials for Viagra have made him ViagMan. Yet ironically, Hugh Hefner has done ads for Carl’s Junior. Shouldn’t it be the opposite?

Anyway, I’m happy to know that whoever I end up growing old with won’t let me down when I need him…ever. But just wondering–and maybe I’ll do a little snooping and soon find out–what’s in the septuegenarian woman’s pharmaceutical goody bag? A vibrator and some Botox injections? That’s enough to make you never smile again, quite literally.

The pixie dust is just settling from a truly unique Thanksgiving thanks to an unprecedented global telephonic meditation on the latest shift in the Mayan Calendar. So, I’m all abuzz with the term and concept du jour: Co-Creation. As is oft the case with zeitgeists, suddenly you look into the pop cultural sphere and a given concept or word seems to pop up everywhere (like a Gene Hackman movie on basic cable). A couple of years back it was ‘hybrid,’ and before that it was power-anything (power yoga, power pop, “The Power of Now“..)

I’m not at all trying to demean this concept. On the contrary I’m fascinated by how–like computers, with their DOS and Java–our global brain speaks in its own language and its individual words change to suit the emotional, spiritual, pop cultural climate of the day.

Co-Creation arrives on the heels of a social scientist’s labeling of “the super-creative core” of the famed “creative class,” a breed of innovative trailblazers who march to the beat of their own drums. And why shouldn’t they? In our era of customization and personalization (albeit through online dating and your MySpace profile), we’ve become accustomed to creating our own individual worlds here on this planet. There was a day when we thought Virtual Reality would govern our micro-environments. Two decades later Tron’s low-fi quality is retro-kitsch in, and beyond that the machinery in “Strange Days” looks like an eight-track. Who would have thought our version of virtual reality would be–NOT owned by Bill Gates–but copyright, me, me me. 

Whether the extent to your spiritual visionary thinking is being a Chai drinker or a full-fledged Nahuatl speaking Mayanist, Co-Creation, like it or not, is here to stay. I’ll sum it up for anyone who isn’t creative enough to get the gist of things. It’s aligning yourself the unifying source, centering yourself and playing the role of the architect (see “The Matrix”) in your own world. The secret is not wanting, desiring or longing, but existing, listening and being in the moment.

Co-Creation isn’t being like Tina Turner or one of her capitalistic buddhist buddies and chanting ‘Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo’ for a new BMW. It’s about being in divine, blissful conversation with the greater source. And the best conversations, we all know, are about sharing AND listening. It’s about sharing yourself with the people around you with no expectations of them returning the favor. It’s about listening to what you truly want in your life, and then not wishing it into your life but seeing where it already exists and being grateful for it. When you do this with trust and no expectations, that thing expands and blossoms when you least expect it, in nature’s due time.

As we’ve all seen, the role of the capitalistic architect of machinations–exemplified, quite literally in Karl Rove–is on the decline. Why? You see, that kind of plotting and scheming and bending of others to your will does produce results but they’re shortsighted and short-lived. Really co-creating is not like working with a team of writers on a hit comedy show (that’s why “Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip” is tanking in the ratings). In other words, it’s not dog-eat-dog political gain for the sake of ratings, and ultimately a raise.

Well, it is, truth be told about a raise–a raise in consciousness. Now stuff that wad of cash in your pocket and see if, in three months when you decide to wear that old jacket again you’re pleasantly surprised to find some valuable currency. 

Remember the expression ‘As American as apple pie?’ Well, I’m wondering if it–like the electoral voting system–deserves a revamp. I mean, who really consumes that much apple pie in this great nation? And how much Trans fat does it contain? On this Thanksgiving eve, I’m going to suggest that we all attempt to fill in the blank. As American as…greed, corruption, a Meth lab, a wealthy trailer trash diva, special treatment for celebrities, a big fat lard butt, endless trials, retrials, lawyers and Libel? What does it mean to be American anyway?

For decades the rest of the world has referred to us as the teenagers of the world. And like some idiot tyrant boy king we’ve proven the old adage that ‘Boys will be boys.’ Teenaged boys like getting laid, rabblerousing, playing with guns, and getting attention. And so we–America as a nation–have. But in the past decade, we have begun to lose our gawkiness. We have–dare I say–become young adults. With that young adulthood came drastic progressive changes in our society…single motherhood, some women in high professional positions, shows like “Will and Grace” signaling an acceptance of alternative lifestyles, and so on.

But the changes happened perhaps a bit too quickly for some of us young adults to process. There were those of us who didn’t want to go off to college, so to speak. Instead, we opted to loaf around in our home town and smoke pot in our parents’ basement and put off university indefinitely. Those of us who feared growth clung to the past. In this analogy that would be the glory days of high school. In reality it would take the shape of an extremist form of Christian Evangelicalism, a return to the good ol’ days (the 1950’s) when a woman’s place was barefoot and pregnant in the home and a man worked hard for his nuclear family.

A pop cultural propensity towards Westerns even returned full force, because those were the days when America’s pioneering spirit was uniformly recognized as honorable or at least kick-ass rebellious in a way that didn’t offend anyone’s sense of masculinity.

If there’s one thing the recent mid-term elections showed us (if but in fraction form), it was that after having taken that semester off college–which for us meant five years–many of us are ready to grow up and go to college. We had to take ten steps back to allay our fears of progressivism and change seeping into our lives. We’ve seen what ten steps back does to a nation. It paves the path for intolerance, prejudice, single-minded autocracy and exclusionism.

And now we Americans have the chance to look at ourselves in the mirror and correct our flaws as a country. In this vein, some of us decided that we are no longer a nation of bloodthirsty voyeurs, when we said ‘no’ to the O.J. book. We decided that there is no room for racial or religious prejudice like that of Mel Gibson and Michael Richards.

There are so many other issues to address in the pop cultural landscape (as well as the political landscape) as we graduate and head off to college. Let’s not forget–beyond the analogy–what it was actually like to finish high school and head to university as a newbie adult. We thought we would suddenly be called upon to take responsibility for ourselves, to grow up and don the garb of adults. But really it was another rite of passage and more growth amidst one hell of a four-year party!

Just drove past the Laugh Factory and noted that Paul Rodriguez was out front being interviewed yet again, over the “Kramer quandary,” no doubt. At least four news vans were parked on the adjacent Laurel Avenue. All the while, drive-by hecklers yelled expletives out the window. Could this be the exception to the ‘any publicity is good publicity’ clause? Or would that be the “If I Did It” fiasco? A bad week for racists, murderers and amoral profiteers..

Noteworthy: Sacha Baron Cohen’s inked deal with Universal Pictures for the new ”Bruno” movie (the follow up to “Borat”) exceeds $30 million USD. An article in the Daily Mail says he now qualifies for inclusion in Forbes Celebrity 100. The salary is also millions higher than that of Brit star royals like Michael Caine, Sean Connery and Anthony Hopkins (for a single film). Good, now maybe he can buy the country of Kazakhstan.

Image: The four horsemen of the apocalypse - Black Sabbath

 Does metal age well, or does it get rusty? I pondered this question this weekend after attending the opening of the boutique Black Sabbath Resurrection (BSR, for short). That’s right, folks, heavy metal, in all of its incarnations, is the latest edgy retro trend to be thrust like a runaway prostitute, into the clutches of the mainstream pimping powers that be.

The boutique is located in the vicinity of Beverly Boulevard in West Hollywood. The posh quartier is hardly the spot you’d imagine such a re-imagining of heavy metal taking place in, via a sort of lifestyle brand boasting clothing, accessories, photos and trinkets for the Black Sabbath fan.

I could see it happening somewhere deep in the San Fernando Valley, former home to contingencies of long-haired headbangers we used to call heshers. Or perhaps an old factory town in the U.K. (that is, after all, how heavy metal got its name). Alas, just a stone’s throw away from galleries, chic restaurants like BLD and such, “Satan laughing spreads his wings,” (to quote a Sabbath tune from back in the day). In an era where ‘back in black,’ is as ominous as a spunky Audrey Hepburn clip used to sell Gap clothing, is there enough creative space to headbang?

Sure, the whole concept makes my stomach turn a bit. I was a HUGE Black Sabbath fan during high school. My older boyfriend was in a well-known punk rock band, and I absorbed his and his bandmates’ influences like a sponge. One of them was early Sabbath–from say, 1970 to 1973–the psychedelic years, the original line-up. And how many times do I remember being slightly toasted in my car, meandering through the hills of Los Angeles listening to the heavy and hypnotizing guitar riffs of maestro Tony Iommi, or the lardy bass of Geezer Butler? Bill Ward, like some hun-like beast, pounded on those drums while Ozzy sang grammatically incorrect lyrics.

The tunes were macabre, ominous–about the dark side of Christianity and civilization on the verge of an apocolypse and so Ozz became forever associated with biting the head off a bat. Contextually though, the subject matter was already even a bit passe. In the late sixties a wave of occult obsession had consumed the mainstream to the extent that even The Rolling Stones were sympathizing with the devil. Alas, Sabbath took it a step further with a sound that was deep, insidious, at times slow, yet always weighty.

All of this being said, I totally respect what the BSR boutique’s originators had in mind. The serpentine corridors and tiny rooms of the retail outlet are a shrine to one of the greatest under-appreciated bands in rock n’ roll history, during the era of their prime. So, if they want to sell black high-tops, with the BSR logo. Let them. Let them sell high tops, I say. If they want to tempt you with BSR candles for that special Satanic ritual, open Pandora’s box and let ‘er rip. However, may I make a suggestion? Perhaps bumper stickers that say, WWOD (what would Ozzy do)?

In response to that question, the formerly glorious singer of Black Sabbath turned (gulp) reality show star did make a brief appearance at the event. According to one of the event’s promoters, he doesn’t like crowds, so the event was temporarily shut down and the seas parted for his entrance. And what did Ozzy do? He took a stroll into the boutique and almost immediately walked out. To quote the Sabbath tune “The Wizard:”

Never talking
Just keeps walking
spreading his magic
 

Long time music retail giant Tower Records is currently in the process of liquidating all of its stores’ stock. Clearly computers and media players have won the battle of the burn. 

Now, stop for a second and ask yourself when the last time was that you walked into a travel agency. Thanks to easy ticketing via sites like Orbitz, they too are a thing of the past.

Then there’s the slump in newspaper sales from New York to L.A. Let’s face it, people want their news delivered at broadband speeds. By the time they pick up the paper, it’s literally, ‘yesterday’s news,’ as the saying goes–despite the fact that it can be used to wipe down your car wind shields, streak-free.

You don’t need to be the mayor of Cyberia to get a sense of where all of this is going. It’s certainly not going out…the door that is. It’s moving all of these businesses onto a screen so that they no longer take up valuable commercial real estate in your city. It’s keeping the consumer at home.

Think about it, if you didn’t have to eat, occasionally get loaded and fulfill your caffeine jones at the local coffee place, would you ever leave your house? It’s like the old saying goes about men and blow jobs. If it were physically possible for them to give them to themselves, would they ever leave the house?

On that subject, you barely have to part from your beloved flatscreen to ‘get some’ these days. There’s MySpace, Match.com, Nerve and the Onion personals, the more scurrilous Alt.com (for real pervs) and so on. You can literally order a date or a hook-up via your computer. Just think, we’re currently breeding a whole generation of lazy desk potatoe homebodies, accustomed to instant gratification, and surely afflicted with carpal tunnel syndrome.  

So, sitting here afflicted with carpal tunnel and an extremely short attention span I ponder what our physical world–our cities, our streets might look like in, say 2012, when even more retail spaces give up their leases for the ‘rent controlled’ atmosphere online. Might they be filled with condos to house all the outside rural folks who move into the cities? Perhaps they’ll be Disney/Vegas-like cartoon virtual spaces that will amuse us with their over-the-top, superfluous physicality, and ask us to pay for such a privilege. Or they’ll be ghost towns taken over by anarchistic squatters, making the city a dangerously unlivable place. Or….eh, who am I kidding, I’m bored of musing on this subject. It’s that damned attention span. What was I just saying?

Image: The Lovable H.R. Pufnstuf from Sid & Marty Krofft’s Popular ’70s Kids’ TV Show

I had the delightful pleasure of having dinner with none other than the king of the Land of the Lost, the stuff in H.R. Pufnstuf, Mr. Sid Krofft. The occasion was a culinary sneak preview of his and partner Richard Grossi’s soon-to-be-opened restaurant/club “11.” Eight of us assembled at the penthouse of a private loft downtown for a multi-coursed taster dinner by the former chef of Maple Drive (soon-to-be chef of “11″).

After hearing Krofft’s elaborate and whimsical descriptions of the restau-extraordinaire with its dinner tables that automatically lower to coffee table size after supper hours, and its every-fifteen-minutes surprise entertainment, I am dying of anticipation and curiosity to check this new eaterie/lounge out. Its site is a West Hollywood historical building from the ’20s whose last incarnation was Larrabee Sound Studio. Again, to those of you 30somethings–if you couldn’t get enough of the “Krofft Superstars” references, here’s another for you: Prince recorded “Purple Rain” in the very spot that is to be “11.”

The food was delicious (and included a course peppered with my favorite–truffles) but most enjoyable to me–a pop culture gourmet–were Krofft’s amazing tales that enraptured me as much as his and his brother’s TV show did when I was a kid.

The one in which he and Syd Charisse are at the Polo Lounge and begin chatting with Walt Disney springs to mind (though, this lively septuagenarian could have gone on for hours, and I could have gone on listening). It was way back when in the early ’60s, when L.A. was a “great big freeway” (to quote the Burt Bacharach tune, “Do You Know the Way to San Jose”). Apparently Disney knew of Krofft and his brother Marty and gave them a piece of advice. He suggested that whatever creative project they embark on have their name on it (an early lesson in branding, no doubt).

And so, years later, we see that ol Walt was right. Because, apart from Chaka, Sigmund the Sea Monster and Witchypoo, what’s branded into my brain like the sight of a flashing neon sign are those funky psychedelic letters that made up “The Krofft Superstars.”

Ah, the memories. As I told Krofft: “You single-handedly helped erase the damage that Marlo Thomas’ Free to Be…You and Me inflicted on me.” Sorry, Marlo, I didn’t grow up to be a fireman. But I may yet be a space traveler (if all it involves is being a maintenance worker who mistakes a “launch” button for “lunch”).

Last night I went to an opening for Camille Rose Garcia at the Merry Karnowsky Gallery. Always the flamboyant and jam-packed scene, it was yet another harbinger of the changes (or havoc being wrought, if you’re a bufuddled traditional business person) in the art world.

Nico Bruinsma, collector and once gallery owner of Clair Obscur pulled me aside and told me: ”Nobody goes to art galleries anymore, except for the openings.” He’s even nailed the final coffin in his own gallery space (formerly in L.A.C.C. vicinity Melrose) in favor of a more free-form floating gallery opening methodology.

I chatted with his friend Victor, who is similarly in the throes of exploring new, creative ways to reinvent the gallery’s magnetism to consumers (with a penchant for partying). Let’s face it, art people like a good party.

I remember my dad telling the story of a wealthy socialite being interested in his work. But he apparently required a meeting with my father before signing any checks. In person, my father immediately ascertained that the guy was gay. It was confirmed when he told him something to the effect of, “I like my artists to be social,” and then asked, “Will you be available for parties?” Only later did he jump back at my dad’s mention of a wife. As suspected, after that, the deal was off.

It’s pretty much always been: no socializing, no art. But now that many collectors are buying through the Internet (or just through an agent), what’s a gallery to do to distinguish itself? Perhaps a page on MySpace? Did you hear that? Picasso just rolled over in his grave, and he flipped us the bird.

Image: Qu’est-ce-que c’est Zune? I get my hands on the new media device.

Image: Yours truly and party cohort Jason at the Zune launch event

Image: Yours truly and gal pal Mary Lee at the Zune launch event

Last night techheads, ad whores, haircut hipsters and a sprinkling of West Siders met at Element to celebrate the launch of Microsoft’s very own Zune–the arch-enemy of iPOD. In the struggle for global dominion (via dominion over the ear canals of 20/30somethings), the company has come up with its own version of the iPOD, or multi-purpose media player. iPOD eat your heart out because if size matters, this is big daddy, great screen resolution too.

So the media folks threw a shindig to celebrate, at Hollywood’s Element with Mr. Jason Bentley presiding over the turntables and an oddly mixed crowd if I ever did see one. Practically all walks of young L.A. life were represented (please see descriptions in first paragraph)–from the East Side to the West Side (as a SoCal gangsta rapper might say). Glaringly missing from the guest list were the members of the new male model mafia. Maybe they’re iPODians? They were sorely missed, I must say.

Apart from myself, fringetellectual L.A. was missing from the guest list as well. I pondered why (that’s what we fringetellectuals do). After all, we enjoy downloading our share of thoughtful, provocative NPR podcasts. We like to listen to our Brian Eno when we’re on the go. And we similarly might be prone to peruse the ol’ YouTube for the odd social political farce commentary. If you prick us, do we not bleed?

In any case, comped drinks were imbibed, American Spirits were puffed, business cards were exchanged, MySpace and Borat were discussed, and drinks were spilled on designer clothing…all in all a cocktail for a nice weekday party.