Image (L to R): “In the Flesh NY” founder Rachel Kramer Bussel, Carly Milne (”Sexography,” Maxim, etc.), yours truly STL, Stan Kent (”Shoe Leather,” “Shoes Your Weapon”), Maxim Jakubowski (”Confessions of a Romantic Pornographer”)

Here’s a pic from yesterday’s first L.A. “In the Flesh” erotic reading series, for which I read my essay, “In the Port of Amsterdam.” The shot is from Fishbowl LA’s coverage of the event. The event was held in the back of West Side sex boutique Freddy & Eddy (as you can see, “dildos are in the haaausse!” behind us author/readers).

Great fun, even though, for shy writers like myself getting on stage with a mic in front of an audience is akin to “literary karaoke.” Ah well, I was the last guest reader so I was pretty well liquored up to do my rendition of Jacques Brel’s “Amsterdam.”

It was a lovely Memorial Day weekend filled with my favorites: barbecues, $13 Martinis, high-fiving a bunch of dudes, discussing esoteric cosmic philosophy, hanging at Liz Taylor’s old house in Beverly Hills (now Amy Heckerling’s), listening to live jazz, watching the Lakers game on the telly, and soaking in the good vibes of good peoples.

Alas, I’m going to take a little break from the usual long rant this week. I “blew my load” so to speak, working on an essay I’ll be reading at the LA debut of the “In the Flesh” series…which, you guessed it, is erotica-themed. My story’s entitled “In the Port of Amsterdam” and for all of you interested parties who can’t make it down to Venice on Thursday the 29th at 8 p.m., I am considering posting the piece in my site-exclusive clips section. I say considering, because such levels of vulnerability make me a wee bit uncomfortable. Alas, I’ll have to get over that ‘naked feeling’ when I talk about roleplay, young men in ropes, and unexpected non-fetishized l-o-v-e in front of a bunch of strangers tomorrow night….sigh…

Image: Me and my tech-geeky cyber-shadow ensconce ourselves in the shrine of Google

I took a little break from So.Cal and headed up to No. Cal, first stop, Mountain View, home of the blessed Google and its Mecca the Googleplex, to visit my friend Marc who works in their legal dept. I have loads and loads of tales to tell of one of the most surreal and fantastic workplaces I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, what happens in Google stays in Google. I feel a little bit cowed by the ominous non-disclosure agreement I had to sign upon entrance into The Kingdom. All I can hint at is that Googlites’ asses are warm and clean, and their bodies well-fed and relaxed–despite all disconcerting images that that may conjure up.

I’m not a 9-to-5′er, but I have to say that I might enter the rat race if I could work in a user-friendly environment like Google’s…I’d probably never leave (which is exactly the point of their over-the-top on-site perks and incentives). The place is like the college campus of your fantasies. And folks are utterly mistaken when they say that all the men there are tech geeks. It’s not all pocket-protectors and glasses. There are plenty of squeaky clean, earthy California boys dotting the campus (and they probably went to Ivy League schools and make six figure salaries while wearing ripped jeans and ironic statement t-shirts). I saw evidence of that at the Friday evening employee mixer that my friend took me too. A gander at the parking lot is an environmentalist’s wet dream. It looks like a hybrid dealership, with what must be like 25% Priuses and Honda hybrids.

I wish our government was more like Google; then they could get things done and not be evil while doing so. In fact, I have at times likened Google to a country–a visionary, eco-friendly, civilized land…Google, Google uber alles!

I spent the rest of my time in Marin during a sweltering heat wave, but enjoyed my friend Mieke’s rustic hideaway in San Rafael–a charming little postage stamp of a town, which happened to be hosting a hot rod festival while I was there. We also ventured into San Francisco to check out an art opening.

Image: Writers Shana Ting Lipton and Mieke Eerkens make art their life in SF

Image: Wish I could remember the gallery’s name but the free mediocre wine went to my head!

I truly enjoyed dinner at my old friends Erin and Laurent Katgely’s amazing French bistro, Chez Spencer. The highlight of the meal was the foie gras served with a fresh berry sauce. It fully awakened my senses. The balance of rich, deep and buttery with sweet, fruity and warm was a combination I hadn’t really thought of but which worked perfectly. My palate hasn’t been that open in years. And I liken this feeling to love (or at least how I want to experience love).

Many people in this world view love and relationships as a series of meals. You eat because you’re hungry; you’ve got to do it to survive. For me, real love, real relating is a delicacy. The equisite, subtle, rich and precious combination comes around once in a great while and it impacts you, reminds you of what life is about. It’s certainly not about shoveling bland comfort food like potatoes in your mouth without thinking but rather feeling the flow, the beauty and the inspiration of something which nourishes you AND is out-of-this-world delicious. It’s a dish whose creation required that everything be “just so,” cooked lightly with perfect timing, fresh robust ingredients and a combination that perhaps no one expected but which makes beautiful sense.

Image: If you could only see the chic beams and tweaked-to-perfection setting at the charming and swank Chez Spencer, a restaurant in SF that the NY Times says is the “best bistro food you will find in SF”

My trip culminated in the famed surf town of Santa Cruz. I went there to visit my friend Bettina Santillan and we sat in the sun with sea breezes wafting through, eating ceviche while my back burned. Then I headed back…unfortunately stuck in the middle of the artichoke festival in the artichoke capital of Castroville. Then it was on to the 101, the scenic route. I listened to Kris Kristoferson and Fleetwood Mac while mountains streamed by my windshield–ah, the earthiness of it all. My California is so beautiful!

At least until you enter….the Valley towns. Sadly, I had to pull over for a rest stop in the dreaded Camarillo where I made the mistake of stopping in the local In n’ Out burger (only good for their bumper stickers–so you can scratch out the letters to read In n’ Out urge). Pimply teens scrambled around the fluorescent lit space serving greasy meals to other pimply teens…and me. And after the first French fry made it into my mouth I instantly regretted it…trying oh so hard to revive memories of foie gras and berry puree.  

Image: The most well-designed, well-styled ’lost dog’ sign I have ever seen (photo by Paul Wertheimer)

Lest I be accused of being heartless, let me begin this blog post by saying that I grew up with a family dog, and we loved her. As the saying goes, “some of my best friends are…” Anyway, the above massive poster-sized sign has been distracting me since I first saw it plastered over two central parts of our canyon. I’d be talking to someone over coffee, deeply engrossed in conversation when suddenly behind their shoulder, there he was beckoning me: the lost dog in all his prestigious ascotted grandure–his signage representing all that is so utterly wrong with Los Angeles.

It is an unfortunate fact of life that people lose pets. It’s sad. The owners often go door-to-door in search of them, or they staple handmade signs up to telephone polls and on bulletin boards. They’re usually 8 1/2 by 11 pieces of paper often festooned with brightly colored crayon letters–some sad little kid or other lost their pet and is desperate to find him. But this behemoth sign–expensively–no doubt–and professionally printed with its perfect layout and photograph befitting of the cover of Dogue, just rubs me the wrong way.

I try and I try to focus on the LOVE that went into the act of bold desperation. Instead, I see a billboard, not unlike the barrage of intrusive billboards that accost me as I’m driving down the Sunset Strip. Only this one isn’t for Gucci or the latest George Clooney movie–however it’s equally intrusive as it rapes the otherwise unspoiled landscape with its subconsciously narcissistic, proprietary, ALL CAPS, red letters, exclamatory message: MY dog is the most important dog in this whole damned town!

I’m sure I’m exaggerating, considering I am currently reading the new Eckhart Tolle book, “A New Earth” (the latest self-help rage that literally EVERYONE is talking about). But something about this sign–though I’m sure it was well-intended–feels, to loosely quote Tolle, like a manifestation of “the collective egoic dysfunction of humanity.”

Now I hope of course that these folks, who I’m sure are perfectly nice, find their lost dog. And God bless the person who gets that juicy cash reward. But some of us Canyonites have been musing that perhaps a mutiny is afoot, and that the petite canine got tired of sporting that fashionable-yet-confining tie and went A.W.O.L. in search of his freedom…in search of a lost dog’s lost soul…something that, frankly, is starting to sound better and better to me.

Images: Tang and Ting (or Ting and Tang, as you prefer), the elusive Beverly Tang joins me at a celebration at Marcos Manor

I had to chronicle the above moments of my Saturday reunion with my elusive Mt. Washington friend, the amazing visionary and lighting designer Beverly Tang–who is so visionary that she rarely steps outside of her studio laboratory in the hills. Her and her loving partner in crime Thomas stepped out with me to celebrate the engagement of Marcos Lutyens, a hypnotist/architect/visionary in his own right (with architecture genes going back to Sir Edwin Lutyens) and fiancee Yi-Ping. We hadn’t been to Marcos’ Mexican casita out yonder on the East Side in perhaps two years since he bought it–and it was amazing, totally restored to ‘conquistador of style’ glory.

Anyway, had some heady conversations about everything from the Big Bang, energy and quantum physics, to psychoanalysis cognitive behavioral style. I was fascinated to hear Marcos’ friend Mike tell me about his marijuana dispenary’s unique approach to the ‘product.’ They are apparently very serious about scientifically studying the exact brain-chemical correlations with different strands (”one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small”). These folks are psychedelic free-thinkers amidst the usual L.A. ’sheeple’ which can be a refreshing change. Thomas also gave me some cool audio books including Alan Watts and Arthur C. Clarke. A twist of brain-mutating epiphany with your Martini with a twist?

Image: “The In Group,” 18th of July, 1967 by Patrick Lichfield - Back Row (L to R), Susannah York, Peter S. Cook, Tom Courtenay, Twiggy - Center Row (L to R), Joe Orton, Michael Fish - Front Row (L to R) Miranda Chiu me mum, and Lucy Fleming

A big Sunday for my family, as an old friend from London notified us that my mother Miranda Chiu (her ’60s self) appears in the Sunday Times magazine as part of an article about British photographer Lord Patrick Lichfield. There is apparently a retrospective show of his images opening on the 14th at London gallery Chris Beetles. Unfortunately, the web version doesn’t show the above fabu shot, but the print one does. So if you’re in London, do me a favour (with a “u”) and pick up a copy.

I’m so very proud of this shot of my mum, looking very young and chic, in the company of none other than Twiggy and Joe Orton. As an aside, my mother is referenced as “a Chinese girl” in the famous Orton biography, “Prick Up Your Ears.”