NOTE: I am once again switching back to written (non-podcast format) as a few people have made comments that it’s easier to read a blog at work than to listen to a podcast. Also, truth be told, the podcasting was a lot of work and I could never find the right audio program to make it sound right. It’s not off the table for future–I may even occasionally podcast a blog that I particularly like if I have time.  

Recently, a friend of mine took me out for a belated birthday dinner at the Moun of Tunis. To those of you outside the region, it’s a North African restaurant that, apart from bringing out eats like bastila and hummus, also boasts a bevy of, er, jiggly exhibitionists known as belly dancers. Always the uncomfortable experience, it goes something like this: The family sits lard asses and saddle bags propped up by exotic cushions, shoving chickpeas and such into their mouths, sharing happy ordinary family moments that provide happy family memories when suddenly obnoxiously loud Middle Eastern music circa 1965 (a mono recording, for sure) pipes out from the speakers. Everyone looks surprised even though they saw it coming.

And then the scantily clad jiggling one prances out and dances around the table lasciviously ogling everyone at the table–men, women, children…illiciting blushing, fake frozen smiles and majorly uncomfortable vibes. It feels sort of liek walking by that peeping tom with the trenchcoat and bottle of Jack as he checks you out with his lazy eye. “Oh no, she’s turned around and is shaking her rump in front of Uncle Joe while he stuffs dollar bills in her bra…avert your eyes, please everyone, avert your eyes.”

Sure, we Americans live in a rather puritanical society. Sex is still sizzlingly taboo and we act like 14-year-old virgin boys when it’s the subject of conversation. But the aforementioned is a specific type of awkward sexual moment that, let’s just say, warrants its uncomfortable response. I believe belly dancers in the even more prudish Middle East are something akin to the stripper caste or even bordering on hooker with a hookah. So it’s like going to a strip club or brothel with your family.

Behold another cringe-worthy example of said awkwardness: ads on network television for sexual enhancement drugs. It’s network TV so little suzy or joey might be watching. Drug companies have to make sure to cloak their ads in innuendo. My favorite guy to quote, Bill Maher has a joke in his routine about the Cialis commercials with that annoying couple holding hands in matching baths built for one. No wonder the guy is having difficulty getting it up, he and his sex partner are in SEPARATE tubs, he says.

Not to be topped (pun intended), Viagra came out with its own awkward campaign. Imagine the scene, a bunch of dudes (who worship at the altar of dude god Jim Belushi or someone like that) meet up in a garage to play music. They laugh, they jam, they sing “Viva Viagra” to the tune of Elvis’ “Viva Las Vegas.” The song may not have been written by The King but boy does it merit some grave-turning on his part.

The dudes in the commercial ultimately high five each other and then ride off on their motorcycles, presumably to go find some chicks to try out their Viagra with. I really did not need to see (or hear) this. On the latter point, I’ve been unconsciously humming “Viva Viagra” for days. Ok, so they must be doing something right. But did they have to do it on network TV?

Such uncouth moments are after all best explored in the jurisdiction of cable. Speaking of which, I came home late-ish one weekend night, flipped on the telly and happened to end up on one of those home shopping channels. A couple of suburban soccer mom types were oohing and ahhing over the latest products…only this wasn’t the Flowbee system or Tupperware…these were vibrators, some of them very, um, well let’s just put it this way, they did things no human male could.

And so these ladies who go to SuperCuts for their birthday, Chuck E. Cheese for their kids’ birthdays and Sizzler for hubby’s big day were, well, celebrating early…discussing with scientific detail the benefits of one girthy device whose tip they touched repeatedly like they were auditioning for a Chia Pet commercial. Um, awkward, well a little.

Perhaps it’s prude of me to wince with discomfort at the everyday moms, dads and uncles exploring different facets of their sexuality. But I’d prefer not align infomercials, tupperware parties, family dinners, Nascar dads’ garage bands, and classic Elvis tunes with the Big O. All awkwardness aside, it’s also brutally goofy and unsexy.

But, truth be told, it may not just be an American ailment (except in the case of goofy perv Larry Flynt who enjoys pictorials of cigars sticking out of vaginas and labia lips that are made to look red and inflamed to the point of STD status). When I lived in Holland, I recall seeing commercials on TV at night for a web site called Dildo.nl. Their frighteningly fairytale-like jingle was, “Do, ray, me, fa, so, la, dil-do.”

On the plus side, though the rest of the commercial was in Dutch, the punchline needed no translation.

Image: The Brewer Twins - sorta my type

I sauntered into a work-related party near Sunset Plaza scanning the room as I always do…skipping over the exotic Mediterranean men, looking beyond the short and faint Woody Allen types–my gaze finally landing on a WASPY slightly stocky blond, blue-eyed, kind of clean-cut looking prepster. He was staring me down as well, but I was being “neutralized” by other men in the room. With my hair stylistically styled in curl-set tendrils, a Sophia Lauren Style Armani dress hanging over my size 4 physique and heels, I was clearly WASP-boy’s type. Luckily WASP-boy was my type.

Los Angeles, industry town that it is, you see, is all about type-casting, even in the dating world. Actors go into auditions only to sit waiting with their dopplegangers. And so possible suitors and dating ladies cavort with would-be mates with the hidden knowledge that their stand-ins wait in the wings for a chance to pounce. Look at Hugh Hefner and his three girlfriends. Sure, two of them are said to be part of a publicity ploy. But the point is the message that Angelenos send into the mating ether: “I only date x, y or z. If you’re not x, y, or z you are invisible.”

I later discovered that WASP-boy fancied highly stylized retro fashionable brunettes. But his wasn’t the only type I cast in the role of boyfriend, lover, activity partner (yikes, did I just write activity partner?) I sometimes revert to an old fetish I have for roughin’ it, burly, masculine lumberjack types–like Kris Kristofferson in his 40s. I happened to meet one at a party last week as well. I was on heightened casting alert for another WASP-boy when I was blind-sided by a fetish from the past. Sometimes the memories of ghosts from typecasting past are strong enough to revive interest in said type.

One thing worth emphasizing to would-be actors and actresses (of the dating and thespian variety): you’re not right for every role! Unfortunately many haughty, vain L.A. singletons forget this. I remember an old buddy of mine who has very specific fetishes towards round, adolescently-flawed Lolita types telling me about an incident at the gym. He got on one of the ellipticals next to a buxom blond (clone of every West Valley type in this town) and he said she glared at him like, “stay away from me, you perv,” assuming that she was his type. My friend was infuriated and emphasized that this girl was the antithesis of sexy to him but clearly thought she did it for every man.

Now I love my fetish as much as the next gal or guy in this town, don’t get me wrong. If he’s blond, light-complexioned, Irish, WASPy, clean-looking and a little on the preppie or sporty-surfy Westide side of things, my head turns–as it does for the slightly older version of this–the attractive WASPy middle-aged nature guy with one foot in the forest and the other in a Lexus hybrid. However, I believe that the fetishes we Angelenos create for ourselves are really just externalized traits of what we crave on a deeper, emotional level.

Perhaps a man who loves huge breasted ladies really wants to be mothered (said the spirit of Sigmund whispering into my ear). A woman who likes big strong men might similarly be looking for an emotionally strong capable man who can step up to the plate and take care of business. The guy who likes the little girl type wants to keep things light and be treated with a girlish gentleness that makes him feel like the big man.

Unfortunately, when we don our special Gucci X-Ray specs and see nothing but our type, we close off to the possibility of meeting our perfect spiritual match. Or worse the universe, like some evil genie, sends us someone we can’t keep our minds or hands off and they turn out to possess all the traits we despise. In my case that would be a short, unctuous, pushy, swarthy, high-maintenance smoker in a band who rents a house in Echo Park.

Turn the whole situation around and see how irritating it is to be type-cast - on and off-screen. Talk to any Asian woman about the men with Yellow Fever who tell them, “Ah, I love the mysteries of the East and martial arts,” and they’ll surely make gagging noises. Gene Hackman would certainly chime in that he’s got more in him than just another morally bankrupt guy with a heart of gold.

Image: France after the big storm of December 1999, © AFP / Franck Fife 

 NOTE: I am working out glitches with my audio editing software and in the process of shopping for a new program. So for the next couple of weeks or until I get it sorted, I’m posting Culture Vulture old school style, as a written blog. I invite your comments on whether you prefer text-only version, audio-only or a mixture of the two as I continue to refashion the weekly “column”]

Once upon a time, there were people called travel agents who worked out of offices. Said agents would often present prospective travelers with a large binder (known in retrospect as a “dream book”). In it were hundreds of vacation packages all listed by duration of stay, caliber of hotel and destination. Ah, yes I remember it well. A trip to Kos in Greece…two back-to-back trips to Prague. But that was inter-European travel.

In the Golden 90s there was also an organization known as Now Voyager which hooked travelers up with astoundingly low air fares if they agreed to give up their alotted check-in baggage space so that Now could serve as a courier service. And then there were all those incredible weekend-to-Paris trips originating in New York. I can safely speak for most xenophiles in saying that we all felt like jet-setters back in the day–whether we were on a shoestring (or conversely a string-of-pearls) budget.

Cut to scene of fanny-packed tourists being coraled like cattle into an airport…close up on woman being subjected to the deepest humiliation–having to remove her Manolo Blahniks and stick them in a uniform gray plastic tray going down a conveyer belt, and then having to walk through on cold, hard, cheap, public airport tile barefoot save for her Wolford tights contact with said cheapo ground. Travel these days–something akin to working in a labor camp in Maoist China and PAYING FOR IT! It used to be fun–start to finish, booking the trip and then getting there. Nowadays with scarce flights, high ticket costs (due to soaring gas prices) and generally dismal conditions, you might as well opt for Disaster Travel.

What is this unique sounding concept, you ask? Well, for starters, check out Fema’s Disaster Map for some ideas. The pretty much useless federal organization lists the Top 59 locations where disasters were declared. The Top 5 are: 1/Texas, 2/California, 3/Florida, 4/New York and 5/Louisiana. So those are some pretty good options as far as your upcoming Disaster Travel vacation goes. You see, if you check out Travelocity’s Top 3 packages for hotel + airfare for the current period, they are (not so coincidentally): 1/New York, 2/Dallas and 3/ Los Angeles. You can get three nights in a New York hotel (could be the hotel hell, but oh well) and airfare for as low as $208…astounding.

Speaking of New York, we are about to approach the jackpot of all disaster travel days, September 11th. On this sad occasion (that Disaster Travelers can learn to use to their benefit), flights from Los Angeles to New York (and one would venture to guess also from SF) are astoundingly cheap. Major airlines who use mileage programs like American and United fly for Jet Blue rates and the times are even reasonable; many flights leaving at 9:30 or 10 in the morning as opposed to the usually punitive 6AM flight). I had a friend, a true VIP Disaster Traveler, who upon hearing the devastating news of the September 11th attacks, promptly booked himself on a grand European vacation which cost him a fraction of the price.

But 9/11 isn’t the only mega-Disaster Travel date. Another idea is to travel to extremely Christian and superstitious countries on Friday the 13th. Unfortunately the next one isn’t until June 13th, 2008, but hey, the early bird catches the worm.

Other hot Disaster Travel areas are the Florida Keys and parts of the Carribbean during storm seasons, New Orleans (currently at about $348 from the West Coast) and of course just about anywhere after an earthquake of 6.3 and above. I wouldn’t go so far as suggesting that you go to the Centers for Disease Control web site and check on the Outbreak links. That’s for serious (or seriously crazy) Disaster Travelers. The current postings indicate Malaria in Kingston, Jamaica and Chikungunya Fever in Sri Lanka. What do you want to bet you can get some great deals to said island paradises?

One last specific note on Disaster Travel. It would seem like a flight to Israel year-round would yield cheap fares, but not so. Despite the feuding with the PLO and adjacency to war zones, there’s the Jesus Factor. The Jesus Factor means that nutso zealots will risk their lives just about any time to go to Jerusalem and pay their respects to the JC, so sadly Disaster Travel does not affect this region.

So remember, timing is everything and a little creativity helps, even in an era where the easy Business Class upgrade is a thing of the past. As we saw from recent news reports, even if you have, say Tuberculosis and get on a plane you’re not necessarily chastised or removed but rather made into a celebrity for 15 minutes. Hmm, that’s an idea, “excuse me, miss, I think I need to be sequestered in First Class, I’ve contracted a bad case of hepatitis.”

[NOTE: I am working out glitches with my audio editing software and in the process of shopping for a new program. So for the next couple of weeks or until I get it sorted, I’m posting Culture Vulture old school style, as a written blog. I invite your comments on whether you prefer text-only version, audio-only or a mixture of the two as I continue to refashion the weekly “column”]

In the era of domestic spying it should hardly come as any surprise to anyone that tech-era socializers seem to have formulated their own version of a domestic spy program. Introducing cyber-sleuthing—an online technique for micro-managing every aspect of your social life by pre-screening anyone you intend to allow in your life. If you’ve seen the Tom Cruise movie “Collateral,” it’s not unlike the concept of pre-crime. You’re essentially anticipating a social offense or incompatibility before it surfaces—only this time not based on the premonitions of three bald precogs but on data available to you via the Internet.

One such example is when I was invited by a friend of a friend who I knew very little about to a party. He had conveniently forwarded me the invitation so my cyber-sleuthing sensors zeroed in on the host’s name. With a few swift clicks of the mouse and maneuverings of the keyboard I found myself on his MySpace page, where I promptly surveyed his list of buddies paying special attention to his Top Friends. These—I thought to myself—are the types of people that will be at the party. Needless to say, I opted out of attending the geek extravaganza.

You may find yourself cringing at this tale of my pre-snobbery. But witness a girlfriend of mine who was interested in a much younger man who never had a steady job. She began by doing what we all do and running a good ol’ Google search so she could ascertain his accomplishments and hobbies. She then went to Zabasearch hoping to find a free public record of his birthdate—to figure out if he was telling the truth about his age. Instead she came accross his home address—he lived with his parents–and took the search to another level going to Zillow, where she had the family real estate appraised at a cool 2 mil. She was all green-lit to date the trust funder when she discovered on MySpace the presence of multiple hoochi mammas and their concomitant crass comments (note: 25% and under hoochi mommas in a male’s MySpace account is considered acceptable or borderline but when the amount exceeds this a player alert is promptly sounded). On the advice of her friends—myself included—this cautious lady decided to give him the cold shoulder.

Another layer of cyber-sleuthing involves the Google image search where many an embarrassingly private photo can be found—often from someone’s friend’s personal blog—bachelor parties featuring the uncomely panties on the head shot and fat vacation photos from the archives abound. This technique essentially divulges nothing but can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back in a borderline platonic or dating situation. In the dating arena, another important method is the “spouse check.” Undoubtedly not fool proof, it involves typing in the person’s name in quotation marks in Google with the word husband or wife next to it in order to figure out whether the prospective date is married or not based on any results that show up.

And finally, a frightening surveillance of someone’s inner thoughts is easily enough volunteered to you by said friend or prospective lover thanks to the personal BLOG—in which you are privy to mundane portions of the individual’s day complete with boring but often revealing interior dialogue.

Another friend of mine’s cyber-sleuthing site of choice is Linked In because he’s interested in social networking. There he can obtain all of someone’s employment data and a peek at their career network without interviewing them for a job.

With this arsenal of cyber-sleuthing tricks it’s not surprising to find that sadly many denizens of today’s tech-land find themselves taking a sort of probability and statistics clinical approach to decision-making in the social arena, rather than getting in touch with intuition, going with the flow and being in the moment.

Today we can see who’s calling us before we pick up the phone, we have met (in quotation marks) someone’s family before we’ve met their family. We know their sexual kinks, the value of their home, who they hang out with, their political affiliations, and even in some cases salary. It leaves little to chance or serendipity. Some would argue that it’s good to know certain things—for instance if a guy you’re interested in is married so drama is minimized and feelings spared. Despite the fact that just about everyone I know cyber-sleuths and I’ve been known to have great skills as a digital detective myself…I believe that ultimately life is messy and filled with flaws and unpleasant but manageable facts. If we seek to use our technological tools for the purpose of social eugenics we miss the sloppy, imperfect crazy wisdom of it all. And it will never be 100% effective until they find a way to upload the contents of a human soul into cyberspace.