Now that is one curly, naked, hairy ’70s fantasy portrait! That’s from the THIRD, yes THIRD version of “A Star is Born,” a film I finally watched last night. I’ve been a fan of Kris Kristofferson’s for quite some time but had been unable to find a rental DVD of said movie (only VHS)…until Virgin Megastore on Sunset went out of business and was hocking loads of the vids for 40% off.

First of all, if you’re into pop or counterculture flicks (and I most certainly am), this one is for you. Hearing country great Kris Kristofferson stammer his way, a-la “L.A. Woman” era Jim Morrison, through cheesey ’70s rock tunes is irresistible. Ok, credit where credit is due, composing legend Paul Williams is responsible for a lot of the tunes on the soundtrack (as is the equally revered Leon Russell), but some really don’t age well.

The film, however is timeless… utter female pornography. The young-ish Kristofferson is gorgeous and plays the pathos generating bad boy rock star that every woman has fallen in love with against her better judgment. The montage sequences of their laughter, lovemaking and good times, with the backdrop of the famous Barbra Streisand tune, “Evergreen” (”Love, soft as an easy-chair”) is dreamy in that Lifetime for Women sort of way. And every time the broken down burned out rock star stumbles and falls, the maternal urge in all of us gals wants to pick him up, clean him up and love him up (except, of course, after we see him in bed with a groupie…then we want to shoot darts at his private parts).

It’s also fem-porn in the sense that the woman’s star ends up eclipsing the man’s. Streisand’s character, Esther Hoffman (horribly yenta name if I’ve ever heard one) taken under Kris’ wing and nurtured, etc., emerges as a Grammy-winning powerhouse. Of course the camera never pans to the audience cheering for Esther to reveal that it consists entirely of gay men and their mothers.

Kris’ character, though manly enough to be happy for his wife, is miserable in his own creative vacuum…numbed by booze and cocaine. The only place he feels somewhat liberated is on the couple’s ranch in the middle of nowhere (and he looks good there too! Perfect, with his beard and a poncho).

Of course, the character John Norman Howard is your typical A.D.D. rock musician–an adrenaline addict who needs to feel close to death to feel alive. And in true cliche, he goes out drinking and driving in his sports car and eats it…forever…on a dirt road. Insert line: ‘It’s better to burn out than to fade away.’ Premiere rock stars, you see, must die living fast or else Satan will revoke their contract.

Watching the “hot tub” scene between the two stars, I remembered reading somewhere that the director (who had been dating Streisand at the time, apparently) warned Kristofferson that he MUST wear his swimming trunks in the tub–lest his tantalizing package risk rubbing up against the saucy Jewess. I guess Kris smiled, laughed at the director and then proceeded to take off his trunks…lucky Barbra.

So, this was the second remake of “A Star is Born.” The original starred Janet Gaynor in the ’30s. The first remake starred Judy Garland in the ’50s. Apparently all the stars of “A Star is Born” are destined to go on to become gay icons. Streisand said it seemed to make sense to remake the film about every 20 years. I guess they missed it in the ’90s.

There would still be time for yet another remake today…only is the star mythology really that mythological anymore? Methinks it’s been demystified by our tabloid culture and the democratization of stardom, thanks to reality TV. People prefer to experience the climb to stardom as it happens blow by blow rather than to view a “glamorized” Hollywood version of it. Why spend all that money on yet another movie that no one will go see (seeing as theatres are practically empty these days) when you can watch Jennifer Holiday’s career as a constant fly on the wall? And let’s face it, there’s no man in Hollywood today who could rival Kristofferson for his masculine sensitivity and soulfullness. They just don’t make leading men like they used to.

In dateland, when memory obfuscates, streaming video offers to “refresh the page”

I recently came to the conclusion that there are some advantages to dating in the era of YouTube, notably a little something called perspective. I was recently delving into the online “Where are they now?” files of some guys I had dated.

One of them was just some dude who took me to dinner and drinks and then called again to make another date but never followed up with the details. I was bummed, but not crushed. However, when I found some video footage on him–an interview by a video blogger–”bummed” turned into “relieved.” If memory served me (and it apparently did not), he reminded me of Ethan Hawke. He was charming in a sort of street-savvy way and extremely gentlemanly. Imagine my surprise when I watched the video and discovered, gulp, that not only did he look nothing like the star of “Before Sunrise,” but rather the star of my very own drama, ”After a Few Tequila Sunrises.” He seemed really creepy and sleazy in the video interview, proving to me that in the dating game, your mind’s eye can quite often be blind.

The second guy I looked up had crushed me a bit more. We’d had a few dates, and really clicked (I thought). He brought me gifts, took me to nice dinners, and continuously told me what an amazing time he was having and how beautiful I was, yadda yadda yadda. Then one morning when he was leaving my place to go home, it appeared as if someone had lit a fire under his ass. He pretty much ran for the hills. I got a couple of emails and then he disappeared. Some guys react to the discovery of my tail that way….ha ha, I’m funny.

Anyway, in my initial investigation of bachelor #2, I found some nice photos which made me sigh a bit. He was still a gorgeous blond, blue eyed Cali dude with a knock ‘em dead smile. Alas, I then stumbled upon the dreaded online acting reel. This is actually a phenomenon unique to Los Angeles. I had remembered him as a charming, hot guy who was witty and romantic. But as frame upon frame of the video flashed across my screen, I sunk deeper and deeper into my ergonomic office chair. I took stock of my memories versus the reality of the situation. Memory: charming. Reality: cheesey. Memory: witty. Reality: ditzy. Memory: romantic. Reality: an utter boob.

How could I have been so wrong? It didn’t matter, streaming video never lies. My point being that discovering the ScrewTube video, as one might call it, is beneficial to women in particular (since we are notorious for “building guys up”). It offers us the power of perspective. Of course, half of romance is the pining over someone…the fantasizing, okay, the building them up. But this tool, should we be lucky enough to have it offered, is there to help us get over our crush in an instant and of course to remind us of how much “life” we inject into our romantic “creations.”

However, be warned that there are those rare, “good on camera,” in a manner of speaking, men . I happened to be walking down sexual memory lane and thought I’d look up an old fling online. I found his reel on the Tube as well. There he was surfing, frolicking, flipping his blond locks as he charmed the panties off every female in his vicinity… and horrors, looking just as damned fit and beautiful as I had remembered. 

I had written a short front-of-the-book article for Men’s Journal this month on New Year’s in Iowa (amidst the caucuses), so I just received a copy of the issue in the mail. The cover story is an absolutely brilliant interview by Bill Zehme with Jack Nicholson, dubbed, “What Would Jack Do?” I love it so much because I think it’s the perfect companion to a blog I wrote ages back called “Jack-Off Films.” The latter was an analysis of the same old bachelor character that Nicholson has played for his whole career (another version of himself, to loosely quote his character in “Something’s Gotta Give”). This interview is a sort of ‘world according to Jack,’ addendum.

The analysis of men’s brains and psyches has always been a hobby of mine so the MJ interview was right up my alley. Here’s an excerpt. Are you taking notes, ladies? You’re not going to learn to understand men by reading women’s magazine’s, rocket scientists! Even if dating men who relate to Jack Nicholson is the ultimate faux pas, let’s face it, every guy–young or old–has a little Jack in them.

How does a man know when he’s in love?

Well, I used to know because of the way it feels. It’s a distinct and divine state of being. But ensuing information has told me that one thing hasn’t changed since the chimpanzees, and that is what they call the 18-month infatuation cycle. Every human being has it - I’m talking about species-long. You know them for nine months, they’re pregnant for nine months, and then you’re looking on to the next. I don’t want it to be that simple, because I’m also a romantic. So how do I know when I’m in love? I mean,don’t you know? But life - it’ll make you suspicious of love, there’s no doubt about that.

What’s the best way for a man to get over a broken heart?

Well, after about the one-thousandth time I got hit, I did 10 years on this topic, wrestling with it. I give myself mantras sometimes, and the mantra for this was: There is no away. It’s a false concept, the escape: “I’m going to go to New York. I’m going to leave and go away from this pain.” This does not take anybody out of the world. We know this in many other areas of loss. Why do we think this game of geographic location could work here? I arrived at this on a personal level, because I always thought I could do without it, partnerships, in any situation. “Hey, you’re not that happy with this scenario - okay, I’ve done the best I could. Let’s see what happens. I’ll just…go away.” So it was more an admonition of myself, because you get comfortable with the ways you successfully solve problems, and sometimes that’s not the best thing.

Look, as you go on in life, you’ll see that almost all of the criticism that staggered you most came from women you loved. But maybe you shouldn’t have taken all of that criticism so much to heart. Yet I wouldn’t say never compromise in future endeavors, either. You know, almost unanimously among my friends, they would say, “Jack’s a pretty reasonable dude, but don’t ask him about love and relationships!” You can’t believe how dumb my friends think I am in this area - I mean, ay yi yi - but I’m really just searching for truth. It’s only if you don’t examine it and allow it to nourish your perceptions that you’re cooked. My secretary’s kind of a Yiddish mama, and I love her definition of a relationship: “If it’s not half the effort and twice the fun, it’s not good.”

NOTE: I so related to this last part about his friends thinking he’s backwards in regards to relationships (especially male friends). Men can be so harsh and merciless. I had one male friend, a serial monogamist, beat me down verbally about my lack of finesse in understanding men and relationships on more than one occasion. It just made me feel hurt and mad. That was his forte, not mine. And whenever he bemoaned the ’sad state’ of his career to me I would always listen and offer construcive (rather than hurtful, ego-bruising) advice, since that area seems to be my forte. Oh well, I think I will use Jack’s wise response if any of those smug couples or harsh critics come at me again: hey man, I’m just searching for truth.

“I’m running for president because I believe that there is not a contradiction between experience and change.”

-Hillary Rodham Clinton

Image: Bohemian-in-training (i.e. Boho Twink), left, and “thinking man,” center, check out Oliver Arms’ work at the Western Project gallery in Culver City

I am realizing more and more that L.A. is not a town of complexity and ecclecticism as much as it is an homage to Central Casting. I’ve explored this in a previous entry about “Typecasting.” But I’m noticing it more and more as I myself attempt to indulge in my diverse interests–from tennis and going to the gym, to the occult and hearty non-fiction (a-la Malcolm Gladwell and Alan Greenspan) and to expand myself.

However, L.A. seems to be divvied up in quadrants unlike, say Manhattan where you never know who you’re going to meet at a given party or event (drag queen dominatrix alongside real estate mogul alongside literary critic alongside bartender with a PhD alongside ex-sports star). In L.A., if you go to an industry party, you’ll generally see “Hollywood types.” If you go to a pub on the West Side you’ll meet jocks. If you go to an art opening or a Bohemian East Side fete, well you pretty much know you will not meet any outdoors enthusiasts with a penchant for extreme sports, for instance.

I guess this provides some with a sense of solace…i.e. no surprises. But, it makes me feel a little jaded and uninspired by the lack of real social ecclecticism and the element of surprise in this town. But I guess people like to ’stick with their own kind.’ Unfortunately, I don’t know what ‘my own kind’ is, because I like pubs on the West Side as much as I like art openings. And I’m attracted to surfers and preps but I love to read about the Mayan Calendar, Hindu astrology and L.A. Noir lore. But I digress…

I did get the chance to see some people I really wanted to see on Saturday night. And I enjoyed some fantastic artwork by Oliver Arms an F.O.F. (friend of a friend’s) who had a solo show at Western Project. I happen to own one of his tiny pieces–a sort of swatch version of the big ones–which my good friend Jena gave me as a gift.

Above is a photo of the artist (with the glasses) looking happy and light-hearted. And he had every reason to look and feel that way. Every single piece in his show sold within an hour and a half of the opening. Good for him! And the pieces were beautiful, lush Pollack-esque, layered, rich, massive abstract paintings (enough adjectives for ya?).

And obviously I couldn’t get enough of shooting the above Gallery Twink. I even went so far as to get the middle-aged art lesbians in-frame just so I could snap him… In fact, he was probably one of the few straight guys there so what was a girl to do? Again, the frustration of the art show “demographic” (”Life as a Demographic” shall we call it?). Where was Viggo when we needed him?

Next I was on the road to a part of town that frankly sort of gives me hives (in a proverbial sense and probably other airborne skin afflictions in a literal sense), Silver Lake. I’m one of those people who doesn’t like to go West of La Brea, ok, live with it. It was a truly momentous occasion at the home (above) of Adam Parfrey and his wife Jodi–who have been throwing cool alternative salons in their old sea captain’s house for years. The lit power couple is sadly moving to Washington. I say sadly because these salons have been the lynchpin of “counterculture L.A.,” and in some ways some of the few original events in said scene. I mean honestly if I see one more MySpace bulletin from an aging East Side scenester about some Klaus Nomi event, I’m going to barf. Klaus is to the L.A. counterculturists what Judy Garland is to Old Skool gay men. And I know he was supposed to be so visionary and weird and all but after a while even he starts to feel Wonder Bread when you get beaten over the head by his personage enough times. What, David Bowie wasn’t weird enough? Oh, right, he married a model and hangs with the jet-set now. Next, freakish icon…

Ok, a little sour grapes about that one. But seriously the Parfreys are probably the last originals. Look at this amazing painting that their friends Nimrod Erez and Katrin Osmialowski gave them as a wedding gift. The pair hired a Chinese artist (in China) to parody a ’50s Chinese propaganda poster, replacing two Chinese scientists with the Parfreys. I loved this piece!

Image: Dana Collins, a graphic designer who has created book covers for said publishers, hanging by the wine area

So anyway, the usual suspects were there…guys who looked like wizards, the patchouli-afflicted, former Hustler writers, underground cult members, former punk rock icons living off yesterday’s gravy train, and some friends of mine I hadn’t seen in ages and was stoked to run into like Teresa Mayer (married to Dana, above), Jula Bell (Dog Camp LA owner, and bassist extraordinaire) and Richard Metzger (former emperor of Disinfo). I was having a grand old time in the great old place until one of the wizard guys started to play theremin and the crowds doubled, giving me a slight anxiety attack. Playing theremin at a cocktail soiree is kind of like playing Kraftwerk at a dance club…it usually tends to clear the floor.

In any case, it was the end of an era, and I wish the Parfreys amazing success with their new property where they will be growing fruits and veggies.

Now that the scene that they infused life into is officially in search of a new nexus, I will officially be moving on…searching, as always for that odd and un-L.A. place where surfers, writers, investment bankers, eco-inventors, painters, and tennis aficionados live together in harmony and share new info with each other…and to honor Rodney King, CAN just all get along.

P.S. As an afterthought (of which I have many), the last line conjured yet more painfully ’80s references…to The Breakfast Club and of course the opening line of Bret Easton Ellis’ classic L.A. tome, “Less Than Zero”: “People are afraid to merge on the freeways in Los Angeles.”

Don’t even get me started on the Iowa Caucus. As a resident of the great state of California (with 55 electoral votes, the largest in the Nation; home of Google, Silicon Valley, Hollywood, etc.), I am disgusted that Iowa, that little corn state (whose great claim to fame is making it into the title of a Stephen King book) has this much weight. All kvetching aside, at the end of the day…