Image: Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” (one of the early modern sufferers of affluenza)

*Affluenza: An ailment that is transmitted through constant exposure to the rich and sometimes famous (the carriers or patients 0’s). Some of the symptoms are sollipsistic behavior, general languorousness, starting a clothing line when you know nothing about fashion, investing in a magazine when you know nothing about publishing and living in your rich friend or parent’s guest house (see: Kato Kaelin, strongly afflicted via O.J. Simpson). There is no preventative shot for this disease but a doctor may prescribe you many useless pills for everything from panic to restless leg syndrome to stave off (or enhance) some of the symptoms. 

Last night I attended the much anticipated opening of Damien Hirst’s show at the Gagosian Gallery in Beverly Hills. Tonight I’m resting on the couch, after reading Defamer (who blogged my Radar feature on party crashers today along with LA Observed and Media Bistro’s media guide to the Oscars) and other blogs with a bad case of the chills–otherwise known in A-list party vernacular as “the mean reds,” to quote Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany.” I’m pretty sure I caught affluenza at said event. I hear it’s being going around town ever since Barack Hussein Obama’s shameless fundraising trip to Hollywood activated a new strain.

Luckily my boy-buddy Devon and I got there early enough to avoid the block-long line in the front of the place–which looked like the opening of Studio 54–minus the glittery gal on the white horse. Limos, even one in 1979 white (a-la Bryan Ferry album cover) caused a traffic jam on Camden Drive. Inside the rich, famous and mostly aimless occasionally peered at Hirst’s amazing, massive stain glass window style works (made up of dead butterflies–mommy, I’m scared, I want to go home) when they weren’t checking each other out.

I’ll admit that the voyeur in me was in attendance last night. And it was hard not to be when we were jam-packed–elevator style–in a spotlight-heated room, literally rubbing elbows with the rich and famous (other times just colliding and of course not apologizing but icily ignoring each other and getting on our way). Once again, there was no comp wine in sight so if I ever do interview Larry that will be my first question: “You charge hundreds of thousands for a Hirst piece. Are a few cases of two-buck Chuck too much to ask?” I guess when you know that Courtney Love is going to show up (she was in attendance last night and again at the last Gagosian opening), you make sure to have a dry opening.

In any case, at some pointa veritable light storm hit and the affluenza started to grab hold. First symptom: flashing lights and tunnel vision. Or Arnold the Governator entering the gallery, mobbed by every paparazzo in the house.

My weary eyes then got a workout as they darted aimlessly around the room occasionally landing on a TV star or two–members of the TV show, “Brothers & Sisters” (including SoCal art money namesake Balthazar Getty). Then more boring forgettables like the goofy looking dude who plays Courtney Cox’ gay brother in “Dirt” and celebrity designer Zac Posen.

Being in Beverly Hills and seeing Ms. Lauren Hutton there, I couldn’t help but think back to her pivotal role as the beautiful lonely BH housewife who falls in love with hired stud Richard Gere in “American Gigolo.” We were after all not far from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, which I believe may have been one of the furtive hot spots for one of Gere’s multiple cougar hunts in the film. The piece-de-resistance of celeb spotting was the fabulous John Waters–at least for me. I wasn’t that impressed to hear that Naomi Campbell had dropped in. I’m a fan of craft and unless you perceive an art to throwing cell phones at your assistant, she’s a no-talent.

“No one’s looking at the art,” noted my young companion. Of course not, my dear, it’s all about the people watching at Gagosian. When we ultimately decided to leave it was quite simply because we began to get eye headaches from gawking at the royals of our toothless American society: celebrities or PWH’s (People with Headshots). Another sign that the affluenza had taken hold: my vision got blurry and I was, literally and figuratively, beginning to see stars.

Last night I attended a private cocktail/lite dinner party in the Hollywood Hills. It was a collaborative effort on the part of my favorite publicist in L.A., an artist friend of hers, and a wealthy screenwriter friend of his. The latter’s humble multi-million dollar abode with its swimming pool and massive deck overlooking our smoggy city was a veritable chicster homage to glamorous chachkas. From cool vintage shots of rat packers to the older ‘rich guy’ favorite of a jukebox (hey, Phil Spector has one), fun collectibles abounded.

The crowd was oddly eclectic–a mix of visionary young hipster artists and aspiring filmmakers, snaggle-toothed drunk party fixtures, aging indy starlets and character actors. In the latter category was a personage I had grown to love for his small albeit meaningful role in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” He played one of the two parking attendants who takes the hot red sports car for a joy ride.

In my true L.A. native laidback fashion I thought nothing of walking up to this master thespian and professing my admiration for his role (which had after all been poignant to my youth). ”You are the fine actor who was in one of my favorite movies, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” I said with a smile. He gave me an icy stare befitting of Nicole Kidman or Laura Bush. Didn’t he realize that as an L.A. native I generally enforce my “treat the actor like a leper” code at parties. Having carpooled with Lisa-Marie Presley and gone to high school with Tori Spelling I’m like (to get all 80s on you), big wow, you’re an actor.

But character actors of his stature are sometimes my exception. One would think that an actor whose roles consist of 27th billing in the Starsky and Hutch movie would have been overjoyed to have been recognized. I guess he was too busy curing Cancer and saving the world to dein to acknowledge my lowly writerly existence.

Thankfully there were other more genuine people at the soiree like a young video director who I chatted with about the evolution of consciousness and technology, and a very talented pianist and musical composer who lifted the party’s spirit with some Gershwin tunes. This was after a wayward sestegenarian, teetering about the piano with a wine glass in-hand slurred, “Are you going to play for us?” The tall bespectacled older gentleman who tinkled the ivories was like someone out of a Woody Allen film–a sort of Jeffrey Tambor-meets-Alan Alda. His playing was beautiful. 

And so I too drunkenly chimed in when he ultimately ended the Gershwin set to play my favorite, “Girl From Ipanema,” until the resident drunk writer (drunk writers are soooo 1920’s, pah-leese) came over and man-handled me. When I moved away and quietly uttered, “uh, nooo,” under my breath, I was told to go fuck myself. “Thank you, I will,” I responded.

Possibly one of the reasons for the high inebriation quotient at this gathering was that all of the meat at the buffet table had been gobbled up early. By the time some of us got to the spread, it had dwindled down to a vegan cornucopia. And we all know that meat is a prereq for a night of bottomless wine drinking.

I chatted with an extraordinarily efeminate, trendy writer with horn-rimmed glasses and a lisp, and was shocked to hear him utter, mid-conversation, “My wife…” I wondered if people still used that bearded term. Actually, now that I think of it, it’s so retro that it’s almost trendy again. He was a hip, nice guy and introduced me to a soused Mary Waranov (former Warhol “it” girl) who snubbed me as well. I can’t say that I blame her. When I’m soused, I’d much rather talk to a handsome young man than a woman. There was a small handful of those at the party and they were in high demand. I tried to look past the older long-haired British rock journalist type in the middle of the living room to see if I could spot them. No such luck.

It was getting late. A middle-aged blond woman stood at the top of the stairs pointing to each of us. “I know youuuu,” she slurred, “I know youuuu…” “But I don’t know youuu,” she pointed at me and attempted a wave which almost knocked her off balance were it not for the gentleman friend who grabbed her in the nick of time.

All in all a host of eccentric party guests–from a man who does sex videos on multiple orgasms for men to a former 70s punk band member. See, L.A. DOES have character. I’ll drink to that (and so would everyone at the soiree, to be sure).

I have concluded after yesterday’s Valentine mayhem punctuated it for me, that Americans need more holidays and vacation time. Europeans get like two months (which is why they make the worst house guests) and what do we get, two weeks?

As you know from some of my previous entries on Halloween (and its extension from a day-long holiday to a week of advance celebrations), this notion has been a long-time coming.

Valentine’s Day (known to some more affectionately as “VD day”) has traditionally been an all-time least favorite for many. If you’re single, you allegedly feel bad and end up getting drunk and eating the contents of a box of chocolates before lighting its heart-shaped cover on fire in a mini indoor bonfire. If you’re with a partner, overblown expectations imbue the day with dissappointments leading to yelling, crying (and one can only hope) make-up sex.

But this year I sensed a completely different vibe on the Day of Dread. Perhaps some clever suit on Madison avenue, or some man-boy wannabe skater working in a boutique ad agency in L.A. has found a way of re-branding this holiday, but Valentine’s Day seems to have metamorphosed from a day of “exclusive love” to a day of “general love” in that hippie-meets-night owl kind of way.

Platonic relations who would normally lament the day now sing its praises by calling, emailing, texting, “Happy Valentine’s Day” (as if it were, gasp, Christmas or New Year’s). Families celebrate with dinners or by exchanging gifts. And most notably for me, as I stepped out to attend my good friend George Pitts’ art opening at the Antebellum Gallery in Hollywood, the streets were jam-packed like it was a Saturday night! Hollywood Boulevard resembled a Southland version of Carnivale with its weekend cruisers working overtime on a Wednesday–souped up stereos emmitting bassy sounds, clusters of soused singletons waiting in line at clubs and cops out in droves to police the “wild Valentine crowds.” Odd.

If you follow the Bacharach Theory (”what the world needs now is love, sweet love”) then it is we humans that have changed this icky couples-touting holiday into a day to celebrate our love for each other and our love of going out with our buddies and tying one on. That wouldn’t be entirely ridiculous as far as social studies analysis go.

But as a pop culturist, I can’t help but posit via a broader context. America is changing. As we slide from our #1 position (and the guy at the basketball game waving the large foam pointing finger slips into obscurity), the pressure’s coming off. I’m not saying we’ve reached developing country status. But as this administration flounders and makes our government seem less worthy of global responsibility and international policing, we are finding that the upshot is that we can rest on our laurels a bit more. It’s, after all, lonely at the top.

I predict that the good ol’ U.S. and A. as “Borat” calls it, will become more like its European parents (who have enjoyed a Top Five, albeit lower spot for decades). We will relish our vacation time and the idea of living a full, holistic life–not a life of slaving away in fluorescent lit cubicles to make more money and be #1. The Internet employers were prescient about this when they provided rock-climbing walls and basketball courts for their employees. All work and no play…

The death of Anna Nicole Smith was the first nail in the coffin of bling as the ultimate uber-capitalist, me-culture statement. Bling also embodies the pressure to succeed, to be #1. And it’s pretty much as out as Ted Haggard. To quote Prince’s classic tune “Uptown,” “It’s all about being free.” So it stands to reason that our free time is more valuable than ever to us now.

And so, a sickly sweet Hallmark holiday like Valentine’s Day is destined to evolve into a fully-fledged week-long build-up a-la Halloween or Christmas. Because, to quote another eighties song (as they seem to be beckoning me on this day after V-day), we need to take, as the prophets of Devo said, “time out for fun.” I can’t wait until St. Patrick’s Week!

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Image: From WCVB-TV Boston, a Boston bomb squad official dismantles a viral ad for ”Aqua Teen Hunger Force”

Please excuse the dearth of entries. You will likely see less of them (as well as less frequent podcasts) in the coming month as my schedule is jam-packed with assignments and I am at work on a non-fiction book project.

In any case, I did come up for air long enough to catch the non-stop reporting of the Boston Bomb scare on CNN–later to be dubbed the Aqua Teen Hunger Force Virus (or viral marketing campaign to be exact). So, Adult Swim has now sunk (excuse pun) to an unimaginable low, provoking bomb scares in major cities in the U.S., all in the name of promoting the all important comedy-for-adults format. I just heard the “PacMan being eaten by a monster Game Over” noise in my head.

I know, I know, the folks at Time Warner gave the public an apology saying that they in no way intended this to happen. But I can’t help but wonder (as Carrie Bradshaw always says in “Sex in the City” before the defining question in the episode is posed), could this be more than they had hoped for? I grew up on “any publicity is good publicity.” I live in an era of peak government corruption that makes “Three Days of the Condor” look like a mild comedy. So, I apologize if I’m a bit leery of street-savvy ad agencies and their wacko campaigns.

It was but a week or so ago that I was approached on MySpace by an old lady who crochets Hip-Hop themed objets, to be a friend. I was suspicious of this request and went snooping around, only to find her video on YouTube. Beneath it were comments by some kids who were equally suspicious. They posited that it was a soft drink marketing campaign. And, ultimately, I discovered that it was the brainchild of an acquaintance of mine who owns a small ad agency in town. He was apparently putting it out there to us “connectors” first, in hopes of starting an epidemic. Notice that I refrained from outing the company or the character in the name of protecting his precious work. But I also never accepted the request. I do not want to be friends with an ad.

I know I should probably be more sympathetic to the plight of the Millennium era adman or woman. It’s no Rock Hudson movie anymore. Though advertising is still the breeding ground of some very clever and creative minds, the ends to its means is viewed as “evil” (a simple term given new relevance by none other than Google). Being part of a viral marketing campaign is about as snazzy and hep as well, being a publicist, and that’s pretty low in this town (sorry handful of publicists that I adore, but you know it’s unfortunately the bitter truth).

Another sad, sorry case in point is the ‘designated trendspotter.’ A good friend of mine in New York recently told me the sad tale of running into a friend he hadn’t seen in years. He was aware that she worked at a boutique ad agency but this fact and its concomitant details never came up in their conversation. Instead, ten minutes into it she raved ecstatically about some web site, continuously repeating its name like subliminal advertising. “Don’t ask me why,” said my friend, “But i just KNEW, I just felt it, she was being paid to advertise the site to me, to spread the word virally.”

Horrifying as this might seem, I wouldn’t put it past an ad agency to do this. You see, they are running out of options as our generation and the next one beneath us has been raised on ads and have Darwinially evolved to tune them out. Sometimes a low-budget ad like the repetitive one for Head-On (”apply directly to the forehead, apply directly to the forehead, apply directly to the forehead”) will catch us off-guard and succeed in sticking in our heads. Other times it’s a perceived low-budget ad like the Geico caveman with his cheesey five-and-dime caveman costume and his C&R suit…We love that low-fi, low-budget look. It romanticizes an era in which we felt–albeit mistakenly–that we weren’t being sold to by some slick ad agency.

Ultimately, I believe that the ad agency’s presence will diminish in the near future. Corporations will no longer have bottomless ad budgets. Quality will trump being sold to. We are already in the most consumer-friendly era of modern life, an epoch that sees hundreds of thousands of consumers critiquing faulty products on sites like Amazon.com or Bizrate.com. They can’t afford to mess up and sell us something futile and poorly-made. Next time, a bomb scare won’t distract us from not believing the hype.