Image: Original Gender Bender David Bowie in “The Man Who Fell to Earth”

A few days ago, I attended the re-opening of Table 8. Billed as “pretty chill,” by the resident publicist, it ended up being the eye of the perfect W. Hollywood storm–a dark and sexy den where wine glasses were bottomless and the rich, gay, straight, bi-curious, cute and famous and semi-famous frolicked together in post-post-punk Melrose style. 

As I recall, classic old daddy and boy toy sat by the front entrance to the restau like West Hollywood circa 1986 paper dolls come to life. The elder silver haired fellow in his three-piece suit, with his Hamptons jaw-line sat ensconced in a plush chair. His boy toy, a young blond WASP in yacht club attire embodied a cross between Billy Zabka and the richie played by James Spader in ”Pretty in Pink.”

Following the rich theme, everyone’s favorite famous no-talent Paris Hilton showed up with her sister Nicky. They walked in, made a u-turn and paused for a photo-op before exiting. It made me wonder whether they were “working,” running from party-for-pay to party-for-pay. The new, younger upgrade to David Schimmer, Jason Biggs was also in attendance.

I then spotted a devastatingly handsome blond guy sporting too much hair gel. I asked my adorable gay posse (AGP) for assistance in translating his body gestures for the Gaydar impaired. One of my cohorts explained the subtlety of foot-shifting as a means of ascertaining sexual proclivity. So once I realized that he was foot-shifting in a way befitting of a straight man (or at least a shameless metrosexual), I went in for the kill. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the high-end bounty I had imagined from his looks, but rather the usual L.A. commoner (i.e. sollipsistic actor slash model who wants to do EVERYTHING, from filmmaking to writing).

The afore-mentioned AGP also advised me on ‘cruising,’ as a straight activity, explaining something novel to me: how to flirt with a man, NOT with your intellect but with your eyes. So I tried it on Saturday at a Hollywood watering hole. Instructions: look in his direction and pause momentarily, look away, look back again and this time smile, look away; the third time look, smile and linger, and just wait. I followed the instructions to the letter and sure enough said man approached. I feel terrible saying this, but it was just an experiment…and it worked. Not that he wasn’t attractive but he was “funny guy,” you know always on, identifies with being the clown, dead pan gazes, sarcastic quote funny lines.

At least he was identifiable as a straight man. At a photography opening I went to in Glassell Park, I people-watched and my gaze landed on two guys, chatting dubiously tight-knit. The older one was a butch Latin American looking fellow with a gautille. The younger was a cute blond, fresh-faced kid. Once again falling prey to my homomorphia (an affliction that makes me think that every man is gay), I assumed they were lovers. Moments later the older one approached me and said, “I have been watching you and I have decided that I like you, you’re very attractive” in a South American accent. He introduced me to his friend who had just moved to LA from Spain. Note to self: aha, not gay, but foreign.

I even had a similar gender blending experience not two days ago in cyber space, on Second Life. On my first day on I decided I wanted to try having cyber-sex. So I went to a cyber sex club and got “naked” (though we avatars are not furnished with penises, vaginas, or nipples) with some blond guy who was my type in avatar form. The next day I went on and this same avatar was online, only now he was an arty Indian chick with a head that looked like the Buddha’s. Horrified, I texted him/her, “Sorry, but you’re not my type anymore,” and logged off.

NOTEWORTHY:

I was sitting in Duke’s Coffee Shop on Sunset today when out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of a very serious looking sign that I hadn’t previously noticed: “Customers, please do not serve yourselves.” Huh? I know Duke’s has an open kitchen but what grave impetus was there for the sign? It couldn’t have just been one oddball customer entering the open kitchen like it was a cafeteria and loading up their plate with potatoes and an omelette. No, this must have been an epidemic at one time. Perhaps they had billed themselves as a home-away-from-home comfort food spot and a bunch of wack jobs took them a little too seriously. My brain is abuzz with this and other theories…

Image: Run, Fab Four, Don’t Walk, Far from the Cirque de Soleil People

A New York music producer/composer friend of mine, whose opinion I unquestioningly trust, recently suggested that I buy a copy of The Beatles’ Love CD. For those of you who haven’t heard about it, it’s a remastered, reinvisioned mash-up of some of their greatest hits that came out last year. The work was intended to go along with a new show at Cirque de Soleil–which made me skin curdle a bit, being someone who is repelled by contortionists, men in tights and the sheer French Riviera-meets-Vegas cheesiness of it all. I nevertheless decided to keep an open mind.

“Very creative,” were the words that my friend used to describe the work. Having grown up on my parents’ old Beatles albums, I was eager to hear how someone else might re-interpret their work and spotlight certain aspects of it.

Step One was to pop it into the CD player in my car and drive around the Hollywood Hills so that I could fully absorb the soundscape effect of its interwoven tunes. Step Two was to completely obliterate images of frolicking midgets with painted faces and pubescent twin Asian acrobats from my mind. Step Two was no easy feat. This is because, apart from the stickiness (a term used by Malcolm Gladwell in his book “The Tipping Point”) of the Cirque de Soleil’s pop cultural connotations the tracks that the creators chose were particularly razzmatazz and circus-friendly. And the only razzmatazz circus-friendly work that I appreciate is Alejandro Jodorowsky’s “Santa Sangre,” and the British glam rock movement of the 70s.

Some of the tunes I most love by The Beatles like “She Said,” “I’ll Follow the Sun,” and “In my Life” were either used as minimal segue audio wallpaper or ommitted entirely in favor of larger-than-life pop rock classics like “Revolution,” “Drive my Car” and “Lady Madonna.” Perhaps the former were not compatible with fire breathing and jumping through giant hoops. I can just see a muscly, unctuous Euro acrobat in his package-hugging leotard trying to imitate Peter Fonda’s bad acid trip.

I agree with my friend that it was a creative foray–an attempt to play mixmaster DJ with the greats. But audio effects like the introduction’s acappella version of “Because” reduced the master work to its choral bare bones, taking out all of the romantic frills I love so much, and bringing it dangerously close to Yanni and Enya territory. And the cover design with its graphics of alleged Beatles leaping into the air like clowns–someone, please give me a barefoot Paul as Jesus, anytime.

At the end of the day, these are Beatles tracks so they’re far and beyond most popular music–past and present. There isn’t too much that a bunch of cheesey French dudes can do to totally ruin them. But I wouldn’t put them past trying. Perhaps the next Cirque de Soleil will be “The Beatles: The Yoko Revolution.” I’d like to see them try to mess with the Ms. Ono’s artistic integrity. “Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss off, love.” 

Everyone in Los Angeles is now not only on their cell phones–in the car, at the gym, in line at the store–but also in the constant throes of laboriously typing in a text message. I’ve come to the realization that the limited text message format and the simplistic and brief Haiku format are perfect bedfellows. So I submit to you some potential text message Haikus. I hope you will be inspired to follow suit and create your own—surprising and delighting your friends, booty calls and work associates.

SITTING IN TRAFFIC: 
The 101 at 5:05 
 “Where’s my audio book?” 
Inching through annihilation 

IN THE PRESENCE OF A ROOMMATE: 
Redrum 
My crazy roommate 
Held prisoner in my room 

GETTING OUT OF AN UNPLEASANT DATE: 
My Space match 
Bad sushi in the Valley 
“My drunk friend needs a ride” 

BOOTY CALL: 
It’s 1 A.M. 
My panties, Red Bull and Vodka 
Please bring a condom 

Image: Ian Hart (who plays paparazzo Don Konkey) and Courteney Cox (who plays tabloid editor Lucy Spiller) in the new F/X show “Dirt”

Last night was the series premiere of Courteney Cox’ new show, “Dirt.” Once again, the folks at F/X were genius in exploiting (key word) a previously obvious and poignant, yet unexploited pop cultural scene–an insider’s view of the world of tabloid “journalism.”

The network initially struck oil (and silicon) with the success of its show, “Nip/Tuck,” which uncovers the seamy world of plastic surgery, via an insider’s view of a Miami based practice. Unfortunately, just as “Laverne and Shirley” did when its characters moved to L.A. and the show became “Laverne and Company,” “Nip/Tuck” is about to jump the shark. The recent season finale’s final scene promised a move to L.A. and I damn near grabbed an empty latte cup and a bottle of Xanax and threw them at the screen. “Please don’t move here! Everyone moves here with their big shallow dreams, road rage, and unchic out-of-state plates. Please stay in Florida,” I pleaded. But something tells me my imploring will go unheeded. On a side note, the once-brilliant plastic surgery show’s finale was so bad that it even featured a music-video style segment (robbed right out of “Magnolia“) of a sullen cast lip-synching to an Oasis song. What next, raining frogs?

In any case, overall F/X gets my thumbs up for its over-the-top, unabashedly sleazy but clever programming. One thing though, could they perhaps rename themselves “The Vice Network.” It would be more appropriate. Beyond the plastic surgery show and the tabloid show, they’re now beginning to air teasers for a new program, “The Riches.” The ads show a smug Eddie Izzard talking about the pursuit of the American dream and its spoils while breaking open an oyster from which a pearl pops out. Geez, are the execs at F/X using “The Seven Deadly Sins” as guidelines for their programming?

In any case, for a sleazy show about muckrackers, “Dirt” was phenomenal. The art direction–including shots of two work associates texting “live” on their Treos, and a schizophrenic paparazzo who sees words pop out of people’s mouths when he’s not on his meds–was smart and entertaining. Courteney Cox does a great “Amanda from Melrose Place” with her brassy, evil cocky (Coxy?) character Lucy Spiller. Note, the name is cheesey as can be, “Spiller,” as in she spills the beans on all the celebrities…wah wah (sound of out of tune trumpet). It sort of reminds me of the main character in another sleazy work, “Showgirls.” Remember “Nomi” (as in “know me, I want to be famous, know me”) Malone? However, I will say that “Dirt”s blackmail plot of a sports star photographed getting plunged by a blond woman wearing a strap-on digs “deep,” as the theme song’s lyrics imply.

I will be tuning in next week for sure. After all, in L.A. there is only one person whose very persona and nature rivals that of an actor in the disdain and distaste it evokes, and that’s the tabloid journalist.
  

Image: Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon

‘Change your life today.’ ‘Be the new person you want to be.’ Can your life as you know it be changed by a simple overly zealous catchphrase? The Zen Buddhists seem to think it’s about simplicity, so why not? A pinch of Madison Avenue and a splash of Buddha–tasty cocktail!

My catchphrase for the career track crowd is actually more of a fragment. I call it, “Six Degrees of Success.” Evoking the Hollywood pop cultural sensibility of “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon,” the new age guru-ism of Deepak Chopra’s ”The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success” and the pithy punch of spam for ‘penis enlargement,’ or unmerited ‘college diplomas,’ it’s got something, no?

In a town like Los Angeles (or New York, for that matter) where everyone is looking over their shoulder at someone else’s success with a mixture of envy, awe and frustration, it’s the perfect philosophy. For, if you look at success in the form of another human being as a thing to be envied and put up on a pedestal, it seems to evade you.

I once knew a man who had a decent entertainment industry job, a good head on his shoulders and some halfway decent ideas. But his ego prevented him from being around people who were more sucessful than he was. He would joke that he liked his (unmotivated) friends because they made him look successful. Is it a surprise that he never ascended that proverbial ladder?

The core idea behind, “Six Degrees of Success” is that to be successful, you must tame your little ego and jump in the (back) seat of the limo of someone whose lofty goals and sticktoitiveness have earned them a place ‘up front.’ It tells the universe that you’re not being afraid of success. You will ride with success until you get in the drivers’ seat.

Recently two female friends of mine told me that they had gotten news of their ex-boyfriends attaining higher positions in their respective fields. Though these ladies’ knee-jerk reaction may have been to loathe these men for ascending the ladder first, they refrained from this kind of thinking. Instead, they decided to be happy for these individuals who they were once close to, and to congratulate themselves for having had the great taste to have chosen to be with men who first envisioned and then manifested their dreams.

So, in the spirit of being fearless in the face of greatness, in the name of honoring and learning from–not envying, remember that old fragment, “Six Degrees of Success.” And allow the yolk of your ideas and innovations to be touched by the Bacon in your world.