I think my work here for the weekend may be done. This one is truly the masterpiece. Some of you Gen. X’ers may recall this album that may or may not have shaped your view of the world; the original non-political spoof by Marlo Thomas and the Ms. Foundation. Who can forget “Boy Meets Girl,” particularly pertinent to my pop political collage. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” asks the newborn baby “boy” character in the skit whose voice is Mel Brooks’. “A fireman,” answers the baby “girl.” So through this masculine vocational choice, the baby “boy” deduces that the other baby must be a boy. P.S. When I was five I wanted to be president of the United States. As you can tell I’m vicariously living out some sort of infantile fantasy through Sen. Clinton.

Yes, I know, I’m loving these Hillary Clinton For President pop culture collages (my new hobby apparently). Just predicting, now that the 80s revival is more out than the faux hawk, the NEXT revival.

Oh, and for anyone who questions the possibility of this somehow unifying the opposing political party, check this out, from today’s New York Times:

Image: My humble, Hollywood, interpretation of things…

I’m currently in the throes of an editing project so I’ve reached a saturation point with words. It feels more strenuous to cough up letters and phrases than to give in to the image. So this week’s blog will be more pic-heavy than usual. I finally went through some of the photos from my New York trip–my pre-Halloween attempt to adopt a different costume: photographer. Here are some shots that have, dare-I-say, an arty, painterly quality to them, along with some brief descriptors…

I call this one “Urban Jungle.” My friend Jacqueline Micucci tries as she might to connect to nature in the Big City and discovers a quasi-hidden subterranean world beneath the French cafes and consignment shops of SoHo.

This one’s dubbed “Somebody Put Something in my Drink,” after the Ramones tune. It’s a bit blurry as you can see, and I was, in fact slightly intoxicated when I stopped to snap these typical East Villagers honoring the memory of recently deceased CBGB owner Hilly Kristal (not to be confused with the hilarious and heartfelt Billy Crystal). He had died the day prior to this image being taken, on August 28th.

And this one is called “Host in the Machine.” It focuses on the boredom and spiritual vacuousness that trendy night owls must feign in order to captivate and beguile. Here, my old friend from Columbia University days, Stephan Von Muehlen and I are lounging at the Library Bar at the Hudson Hotel in Midtown Manhattan. We’re doing our best to look apathetic. The guy on the cell phone’s got it down to a science.

Image: Catania Solarium 2.1 by Massimo Vitali at M&B Gallery

Image: Victoria portrait from Grief series by Erwin Olaf at M&B Gallery

This Saturday evening I stepped out to check out the opening of fashionably inclined Dutch photographer Erwin Olaf’s Grief show at the M&B Gallery in Beverly Hills. I actually met Olaf at a nightclub called Roxy when I first went to Amsterdam in ‘96. Unfortunately, I was too busy working his acquaintance, an adorable 19-year-old blond named Diederik, to recall anything spectacular about said meeting. I do remember checking out his pics at a later date and being impressed–chic and aesthetic with some other subtle je-ne-sais-quoi.

The show at M&B was no different. Olaf mixes a late ’70s–beige and brown–aesthetic that is very in-vogue these days, especially in the bi-coastal boutique hotel circuit, with a contemporary fashion magazine vibe. There’s also this ’60s cinematic undertone (I’m sure he’s seen “Belle de Jour” with Catherine Deneuve more than a few times) and in the above image an unconscious homage to those stoic Dutch masters portraits, a-la Jan Van Eyck and so on.

My gallery companion (gosh it sounds like I’m an 80-year-old widow, doesn’t it?) and I also wandered into the back room where a leftover Massimo Vitali photo was hanging. He apparently invented his own camera technology that is able to pull in tons of light enabling him to shoot human landscapes and pick up subtle details. Back in 2001 or 2002 when I was still living in Amsterdam, I fell in love with a shot he took in a resort town night club. Back then, I don’t believe he had even shown in the U.S. His pieces are incredible to take in, and like Olaf, there’s a subtle homage to the classics. In this case it’s Hieronymus Bosch in Biarritz (or the packed Euro resort town equivalent).

After taking in a little old-meets-new art we had drinks at everyone’s little darling (unless you’re part of the old school We.Ho gay community that hates hipster straight bars moving into the neighborhood), Bar Lubitch. My friend lamented the loss of its former incarnation, The Parlour–”the one place that would let Don Bolles in” for a regular night to boot. Love the Eastern Bloc meets Western Hollywood mystique. Unfortunately, having been to Eastern Europe, Prague to be exact (though they call themselves “Middle Europe,” sounds like the Tolkien envisioned “Middle Earth”) I can say it’s not really accurate. As I recall, the popular thing was bars where ’50s bands (”hey, Fonzie is cool, comrad”) played while un-hip but attractive locals guzzled brewski’s. Perhaps the place where Sha-na-na should launch its revival tour.

Then it was off to a party in Trousdale-adjacent Beverly Hills. This one really warmed the cockles of my Westside heart. It brought back memories of my collegiate years when old Beverly Hills pals would throw ragers at their parents’ multi-million-dollar estates. Most of those homes (and this one was no exception) were uncomely architecturally boxy middle class interpretations of uber-wealth–i.e. a mid-century modern structure, no style to be found and a swimming pool with (gasp) an attached slide. But the young party-throwers didn’t pay multi-millions for said Saddam-as-grandpa palaces…their rents did…whew! Alas, the party was great fun and everybody was friendly and open and nicely soused.

It reminds me…of this gorgeous Cali classic blond BH buddy who lived in one of those grand casas in Trousdale–which doubled as a country club for strippers. He inherited it from his affluent deceased father. He would often invite blond bombshells (and not-at-all-blonde or bombshell-ish me) to come lounge by the pool. “I’ll let the house boy know you’re coming,” was the tagline. And the house boy was always there waiting with towels and drinks. Sure I had to sit supine beside fake-boobed bimbos galore listening to their tales of sugar daddies and breathing through their noses, but it was worth it for the pool and the demi-view.

Anyway, enough reminiscing for now. Following this blog’s title reference phrase…I’m off to search for something borrowed and something blue.

Image: Even the Red Hot Chili Peppers are afraid to rock out with their cocks out lest they be mauled by hick-ish non-L.A. fans

I loved L.A….Not necessarily in the days of Randy Newman…Though I do have sweet memories of hanging in my mom’s shop in Beverly Hills, meeting a young pre-outed Rupert Everett with my godmother Barbara Parkins (who was known for her role in Valley of the Dolls but who, at the time was guest starring on, gasp, Love Boat and, sigh, Fantasy Island) and getting my first pre-teen “job” thanks to mom’s friend Georges Marciano, at Baby Guess.

Ok, this dates me a little…but seriously, I miss the less traficky days when my hometown was well-balanced with a majority of native Angelinos, a few chill San Franciscans and New Yorkers and the gratuitous sprinkling of would-be actors from out of state. Now, when you ask someone, “Did you grow up in LA?” their answer is the offensive, “Did anyone?” Don’t get me wrong, I think non-Angelino cultural influence is important to a thriving Angelino culture, just not when it consumes the local color like a peach-hued pleather cancer.

I try to explain to folks that are new to these parts that natives of Los Angeles are the absolute opposite of their preconceptions of us. We’re not stuck-up and aloof. That’s how out-of-staters feel they need to act to be “so L.A.” The truth is L.A. natives are Californians first and foremost with a love of surf, sand, doobies and “kickin’ it.” We don’t even run up to celebrities. As my high school friend Kenya once said we “do the whole treat the celebrity-like-a-leper thing.” And on occasion some of us, ahem, light up with say Drew Barrymore, share guac with Beck or chat with a crouching Crispin Glover by a stairwell (my favorite!)

You never used to hear a din of honking horns on the streets of L.A. until…THEY arrived…the New Yorkers.. We love you guys; your culture is unsurpassable and you’ve got cools up and down, but please chill out; it’s not rush hour on the Van Wick Expressway (though it may feel like it at times). And don’t even get me started on the transplants from the middle of our great Nation. New York get the weirdo eccentric fascinating artist/intellectual transplants from the Mid-West. We get the vapid, asshole prom king and queen made-for-reality-TV.

I miss zooming down Sunset 50 mph sans traffic. I miss walking into a room at a fabulous party and seeing people I went to high school with who have since flourished and giving them a native extra-slapping high-five. I even miss Ben Frank’s where the boys I knew used to pee in the parking lot and street punkers and Trust Fund Babies united over terrible burgers. I miss L’Orangerie, a Los Angeles French food tradition where I dined after high school graduation, on birthdays, anniversaries, etc.

Alas, shares one of my New York friends, “your town is IT and I know tons of people moving out there.” You sure know how to hurt a girl. But Los Angeles is NOT New York–with its “personal bubble” that you take with you wherever you go because it’s so damned crowded you’ll lose your mind if you don’t. The terrain is, well was, a sort of open, spacious desert dotted by the occasional Strip Mall. You should see the frightening monstrocity they’re building on Sunset near Crescent Heights, surely an overpriced dorm for would-be actors from Des Moines…yikes!

You don’t even see the Chili Peppers rocking out with their cocks out anymore. Like a tortoise that hides when it’s in danger of being attacked (by hick-ish fans, in this case), the cock is hiding.  My dream: all the interesting, freakishly brilliant Mid-Westerners move to LA (and their shallow paysannes get the “f” out of Dodge) but just a sprinkling here and there–just enough to pepper the boullabaisse that is L.A. Perhaps a few New York intellectuals, comedians, artists to curry the stew and a whole lot of Californicators to restore the Golden City in the Golden State to its original glory.

A promising departure point is to remind everyone of how unbelievably super-cool Portland is. Nike, the ad agencies, affordable housing, the beauty of it all…’I hear Leonardo’s thinking of opening a studio there,’ non-Cali people. And then it’s, as we native Angelinos say, “Late!”

Image: Sir Richard Branson and yours truly chatting in First Class before the inaugural LA/NY flight of Virgin America, photo by Adam Wells

   What a long, strange trip it’s been…as the Dead/high school yearbook saying goes. I’m back in LA from a whirlwind dip in the grimy but always reviving waters of Manhattan–thanks to the generous folks at Virgin America. I had written a blog draft inebriated at 2 in the morning from the Big Shitty the other night (what better way to blog from NY, right?) but on second, sober look…I present you with an updated clearer version of my memoir–sans Bombay Sapphire fever and delirium and at a more leisurely (non New York minute) pace. 

On Tuesday, I interviewed Sir Richard Branson in first class on an empty Virgin America flight pre-LA/NY launch. The disco lighting, the scintillating conversation with the cosmopolitan billionaire, the roomy leather seats…I could live like this! See above image. 

Image: Pink bubbly flows at LAX for the inaugural LA/NY flight of Virgin America

The next day was the inauguration of Virgin America’s LAX to JFK flight–the big push–likely pushing Jet Blue out of its affordable bi-coastal flight monopoly. I saw champagne. I saw a ribbon. I saw many metropolitane gals glossing up their lips so as to be ready for the close-up that never arrived. In any case, the Virgin King cut the ribbon (or in Virgin terms, popped the cherry) and we were off. 

Image: Branson cutting the ribbon for the inaugural with what appear to be the world’s largest pair of scissors

I had fantasized about instant-chatting on the flight with some debonaire entrepreneur guest–a sort of “You’ve Got Mail” for the jet set. Instead I tried Virgin’s seat-to-seat chat with one of my journalist peers, a Texan transplant from 944 magazine. And so I typed as the plane zoomed over the “fly-over states.” Just think how easy and quick it would be to get to New York from LA sans Nebraska, Kansas, etc. Ah, to dream… Let me preface this by saying that I normally get jittery when flying. Being 35,000 feet up in the air seems so unnatural and alarming, especially sans Xanax. But something about having “Sir Richard” (a nomenclature he finds stuffy but to me it sounds like something a cool comedic rapper from the early 90s might be called) on the flight put me at ease…What really gave me a sense of comfort were his intermittant enthusiastic messages via the loudspeaker, and most of all, getting up to go use the bathroom, peering over and seeing Sir Richard Branson, captain of industry of global hip, snoozing in coach (yes this man flies coach, what a guy!) 

Unfortuantely, some bratty kids behind me were knocking my seat and screaming the whole time. On any other flight my eye-rolls might have been met with disdain by other understanding soccer moms and Nascar dads. But this was the Virgin bi-coastal inaugural. Bow down to your double income, no kids, Gucci-clad masters! Instead, the guy in front of me chimed in, “Someone needs to put a sock in that brat’s mouth” within earshot of his corpulent and ineffectual mother–a Venus of Willendorf if I’ve ever seen one in live human form. Though, even she, looked like post-makeover Rosanne Barr with that gorgeois flattering Virgin lighting (sure to induce more Mile High Club memberships). After that, our small press posse was whisked off onto a big bus. It felt like the last scene in “The Graduate.” Where do we go from here? Apparently the fabulous Tribeca Grand Hotel–a definite recommend from me to you. 

After that I split from the crew to meet my friend Kitty. We made the mistake of grabbing dinner and being fashionably late for the Virgin America LA/NY launch party and arriving at peak “fabulous time.” We were greeted (which is really an exaggeration of terms) by the chubby-chased Door Queen lording over the rope in draconian fashion, reminiscent of the days of club Life in the 90’s (where if you looked coked-out and deadpan and acted blase you could get in even if you worked at The Gap). Two mannish and plain fashion yentas pushed in front of us and one said, in a sing-songy baritone befitting of Charles Nelson Riley, “We’re from Ehlllle!” The Door Queen lavished the name-drop and kissed their asses. Meanwhile, we, who were there on the invitation of Virgin were treated like members of the lower caste. “Sir Richard” would have surely been dismayed to see how this Queen-for-a-night was treating his invited guests. I called the publicist and cut off contact with this asphalt-level host. That’s when the long-in-the-tooth Euro-nobody came rushing up pleading to get in because he was from Blah Blah Media. The “probably-from-Michigan” keeper of the velvet rope was not amused. Alas, he begrudgingly allowed us passage into the sardine-packed club. 

The Box, a fashionable and actually kind of great, cabaret style venue was unfortunately living up to its name–not really able to hold the amount of people streaming in for this cosmopolitan fete. It was like being in the subway during rush hour–hipster style. Actually, I was referring to the whole experience as Metroxexual Frogger. Quick, dodge the waifish flaming queen carrying the bellini like a torch two feet in front of his face. Oh, no, watch out, there’s “drunk guy.” If he spills his martini on you you lose 10 points. Object of the game is to get to the swag pile. If you make it past hefty linebacker type in shoulder-padded suit, you get the prize: 30 pounds worth of skin products and perfume. But obstacles await such as cuntyinistas (term coined by Kitty to describe the those designer demons) with handbag weaponry. In the end, sorry (pac man ”sad” noise) no swag bags left. They’ve all been gobbled up by the party-crashers from Ehhhhllle magazine. As we walked towards the Soho Grand for drinks, following three Virgin party-goers who looked like urban frontiersmen loaded with heavy swag bags, don’t think we didn’t think of mugging them for product. “You can take cankles,” said Kitty to me. 

My 944 magazine friend told me he went towards the very late end of the party and it had cleared out. He saw a midget perform as well as Thievery Corporation. Lesson learned: never go to coolster NY party between 10:30 and 11:30 peak. My next few days in New York were spent catching up with old friends, going on meetings, slaving through the inferno-like subway, treating designer-heel induced bunyons, shopping consignment and getting massages. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. 

One thing that did strike me about our sister city was the remnants of a dying breed still gasping for air in 2007: the snarkoleptics. As mentioned above, the mannish and plain fashion yentas with attitude are part of that group. Certainly it was partly my fault. I had forgotten to shut down my vulnerabilities and walk around in my “New York bubble.” I was behaving like an open, friendly Californicator. I said “sorry” when I had no change to give a homeless guy asking me for change (which was met with some mumbling angry words of, “She’s sorry, oh, ok, sorry…blah blah). Of course I made the mistake of asking the African cab driver how he was doing only to get into uncomfortable political discussions involving him praising Bush as the best president (I guess compared to Idi Amin, he seems like a swell guy). I looked people in the eye on the subway when I should have adopted my “Islamic woman downward gaze.”  But it wasn’t just that. I believe that snark is dead. Just saying it sounds kind of snarky, doesn’t it? The whole, “I’m so bored and jaded” thing is, well, so boring and jaded. Unfortunately there are a few folks left in Manhattan who still think it’s cool to be ice-cool. But it’s not the cool 80’s (or 90’s) for that matter. It’s the globally warmed and passionate Millennium. Don’t get me wrong, I love the all the great unrivaled culture in the city that never sleeps. But maybe it should, well, from time to time get some sleep lest it lose its dewy-freshness and get cranky.