Ok, I’m sorry for singling out these tragic un-hipsters but somebody had to do it. I have been tormented by having to watch as my beloved hometown of L.A. is slowly but surely transformed into Vegas. That’s right, the tacky, kitschy, oiled up, cheesey, tasteless, classless capital of all that is wrong with America. I’m not saying L.A. has a rep for being the bastion of class and pedigree, but what I’ve seen lately is for me akin to a horror movie. I know SoCal has always traditionally had a hip art scene. There are rustic enclaves in canyons and by the sea that make us marvel. There is subtle style and taste in this town, I swear! But at some point through the years, the turnip truck began making regular stops in L.A. (surely including Las Vegas in its route).

It’s like L.A. just got a cultural case of crabs!

Tanning salons–formerly the mainstays of cold places that didn’t boast our moderate climate–seem ubiquitious if one is to judge by the young woman on the far left. The poor little transplant to her right seems to have learned makeup skills from the “Tammy Faye School of Cosmotology.” But let’s not pick on the ladies. There are plenty of examples of the Vegasication of L.A. at my gym in West Hollywood where ’straight’ guys who look like Sigfried and Roy walk around fondling their carrot-hued man teets in front of the mirror. I swear there must be some radiocative waste in those protein shakes they heartily consume because their skin is not of human tone or texture…nor are the fibers of their clothing even close to natural.

I know I’m the ultimate snob–I’m not going to deny it. I like educated, subtle, sophisticated, cultured nuanced people. But I also like earthiness–explorations of nature, the salt of the earth, roughing it, etc. And I’m sure Vegas is a swell place. I loved Showgirls…but not as a genuinely great film; as a kitsch masterpiece…one that was easily escapable by switching off the TV.

Like many other time wasters I was horrified today when Scrabulous was yanked off of Facebook. I had spent weeks in “training” against the robot on their site with the aim of making Gary Kasparov proud and actually beating the robot (on level 10). It finally happened and so I launched into several competitive games with my RL friends on FB….when I awoke to the nightmare of the switch being pulled, so to speak…just when I was, gasp, actually winning.

I get it, it’s copyright infringement and Hasbro and Mattel have to threaten legal action. But could those boneheads at least applaud a ‘triple word’ score marketing idea? Rajat and Jayant Agarwalla are branding geniuses as they succeeded in updating and re-contextualizing the fun (but crusty) brainiac board game.

“It’s crack for writers,” said one of my online competitors. Speaking of which, I noticed Facebook friends of mine who are pro writers like Neal Pollack posting status updates to reflect their horror at this latest, er ‘move.’ An architect friend of mine commented tonight that the handful of Scrabulous addicts in his office who usually spend lunches boning up on their vocab through the game seemed to wander around aimlessly (first the bee confusion epidemic, now this). They even tried to invent games at the table of the restaurant they were (forced to dine) in (because of the lack of Scrabulous). My friend lamented that they’d forgotten the art of conversation.

Anyway, I signed the pro-Scrabulous petition and would suggest that the folks at Hasbro and Mattel get a clue. Instead of suing the Indian bros, they should hire them to work on their marketing team.

Image: A piece from Hu Yang’s, “New Shanghai Living” solo exhibition at Shanghart Gallery in Shanghai

I love the post modern cool malaise that permeates the above image. This is tragic hipsterdom in photo form, the Cult of Hipster that has no geographic boundaries and exists as part of a global network of interconnected cool kids. Anyway, just wanted to throw it out there since (as of July 26), photographer Hu Yang’s “New Shanghai Living” will be up at the respected and pioneering Shanghart gallery in Shanghai. If any of you are headed to China for the Olympics pop into Shanghai for a visit. The show runs through August 31. The rest of the pieces cover more diverse habitats like those of migrant workers and diplomats. Got to love the artist for included the trendoids.

And Happy Birthday to me, and to my birthday mates Marcel Duchamps, Beatrix Potter (as Google just informed me), and Jacqueline Onassis (in loving memory), and Luis Aragones (retired coach of winning Euro Cup futbol team Espana). As part of my “Life as Ad Campaign” series, my birthday slogan is: “Old enough to know better. Young enough not to care.”

Image: The Market Mews by Stephen Ehrlich Architects in Venice

The term “real estate” has been transformed in cyberspace to mean any inch of space that one could use for profit or branding and promotion. And now real estate, in the literal old fashioned sense (real life homes and buildings for sale) is utilizing its valuable “real estate” (space within its space) to showcase architecture, furniture and even new signature cocktails. Is your head spinning yet? Mine was, after last night’s champagne and Absinthe.

I went to a little event dubbed arcanely enough, “The Home as Art” at the above Market Mews site. It promised and delivered architecture (the site itself) some very interest dark brooding landscape photographs courtesy of J. Bennett Fitts, and furnishings from Ford Brady. Going beyond a gallery opening–in the truely decadent capitalist style that L.A. has been known to champion–all of the aforementioned were for sale. Included in the price list was the actual structure which was going for between 1.2 and 1.4 mil with its glass ‘garage door’ open/closed living room and balcony. An interesting idea in these times of sagging home sales. Every Angelino is up for a party and many (those who aren’t in the Program) for gratis cocktails, so that is how they cleverly lured us all in.

I imagined that the event was catering to a special kind of hip and discriminating (and gay) buyer because many of the guests were somewhat stylish gay men (or metros, who knows these days?). And most importantly, whoever did the event planning had smartly hired two jaw-joppingly beautiful model-esque male bartenders. Who knows if the real estate agents will make an imminent sale but you’ve got to give them points for active ingenuity.

Next, I checked out a Flavorpill event held at Denizen Design Gallery in Culver City environs. The focus of the party appeared to be a particular brand of Absinthe and the bartender (more humanly good-looking–versus the air-brushed Adonises at the previous fete) served up signature “Flavorpill Absinthe” cocktails as folks cavorted on and surrounded by designer furniture. There were some hand-painted trucker hats for sale too. It’s a recession folks: retail spaces are practically garage sales these days, hocking a myriad of wares in hopes of making a hit on something.

True Absinthe, in its lore, has been known to do a Jekyll & Hyde on imbibers transforming them into magnets for psychedelic activity–fairy sightings and all sorts of other flying things. Unfortunately the cocktails weren’t tasty enough to cause any money to fly out of my wallet (as it usually does when I’m shopping under the influence). Not to scoff at a free drink, but these tasted like cough syrup and were presented in faux test tubes. This design flaw made me feel like I was at the doctor’s office about to provide the nurse with a urine sample. Where’s the Goldenseal when you need it?

We waited for weeks with baited breath for the proverbial light (stick) at the end of the tunnel. Glow, an all night massive music and light art festival sponsored by the City of Santa Monica had–with its elaborate advertising campaign–practically promised the second coming of Jesus. I would say it was more like the second coming of Jesus Jones for its walk down retro-90’s memory lane. The glow sticks were abundant whereas, for the mostpart, the art was at times amateur, at times just plain hard to reach and scattered.

Droves of people came out for the event–a whopping 14,000. And a spirit of unity, again reminiscent of the early-mid-90s rave scene foreshadowed it. When you chatted with people it seemed like everyone in L.A. and their wannabe out-of-town cousin was headed out to the Pier on July 19th. Even claustrophobic, snobby, ‘great masses’-loathing me was excited to connect to Glow. Amidst all the crappy news about the economy, gas prices and the environment, it seemed like a good enough way to unify Angelinos and by extension, the nation. That was the spirit I went into it with. Plus, two artists aquaintances of mine decided to hold their pre-wedding reception at Glow (they also had a piece there–which had a line to see it so I never got to it).

For our crew of eight, trying to find the tent where our friends had set up the reception became something of a ‘pilgrimage into the desert.’ We walked around in wall-to-wall crowds (the pier bridge was so jammed with bodies that it looked like The Great Wall of China) searching aimlessly for our Mecca–the tent which promised friends, food and drink, and a respite from the crowds. We passed by some fairly unimpressive art pieces (if I see any more neon white or purple, green or pink day-glo I’m going to like barf).

There was one centerpiece to the whole show, a sprinkler-like installation on the beach with projections on it that people seemed really jazzed about. I’ve never seen a crowd cat-call an art installation before. It was like they were construction workers and the art was a scantily clad woman. “Whew! Yeah!” they cried, hopefully on drugs. The piece was cool ‘drug art,’ quite grand, but ooh-babying the work just seemed a little inappropriate. And then there was the giant neon white moon bounce, the balloon cave and finally the fake glowing camp fire where the earnest lesbian (?) cellist was surrounded by onlookers singing folk songs about partnership…A low-point was the people doing ‘rhymic gymnastics for ravers’ (with day-glo ribbons) by the dance area where Garth Trinidad from KCRW was DJ’ing (the latter being a high-point).

“Glow blows,” said one friend who I didn’t meet up with but who caught the late shift of the festival. It seemed to be a sort of kvetch fest from my experience. First I heard a twentysomething girl shuffle by whining, “Ow, my Achilles heel.” Then my friend Thomas overheard someone proclaim, disappointed, “It’s like Burning Man without the Acid.” When I saw a huge line in front of my other friends’ installation I told my group: “I really want to see this, but after waiting in line for everything in the past half hour, I don’t really feel like getting in another line.” A passer-by chimed in, “I hear ya!”

The most kvetchy of experiences was walking through the (already terrifying) gated bridge accross the PCH (something which gives me anxiety attacks even when it’s empty). It was full of people budging not more than an inch a minute going all the way up the stairs. I made a comment about wanting to get to the other side already and some irritated guy chimed in, “What’s the point?” Meanwhile my friend Molly was getting yelled at by an impatient dude who told her, “We’re all going in the same direction, you don’t have to push.” Uh, slightly bad vibes. And we never did find that wedding reception tent. Apparently our betrothed pals said they ended up sitting around with strangers, as hardly any of their guests found the tent either.

The positive note of all of this, for me, was the plethora of hot blond West Side preppy boys–which are exotic to me as a dweller of metrosexual/’I am an artist’ Hollywood (although I do get to hang with them at the golf course every week). “Normal boys…total bliss…” But they were mixed in with dread-locked, light-stick waving, techno-hippies.

I wonder if there will be another Glow next year, “Glow II: Electric Boogaloo.” My friend John mused that the whole evening was probably just a giant live drill for the Santa Monica Police Department.

For all its efforts, Glow failed to impress as grand art spectacle…but it did act as a West Coast metropolitan launch for the inevitable (come on, you know you want it) retro ’90s movement. Ladies and gentlemen, get out your platform sneakers, XTC, Addidas pot leaf t’s, big floppy hats, whistles and of course…glow sticks…the ’90s are officially back. 

Though I’m most comfortable asking the questions, every once in a while I get the inappropriate opp to be written about. This time was extra-special because the article appears in De Pers, a newspaper in Amsterdam. It’s entitled, “Carpool met Lisa Marie.” Presley, that is. Yes, I carpooled with her when I was in kindergarten and she was, I guess in grade school when we both attended French Lycee here in L.A.

Even though the piece is tongue in cheek, and a fun little international plug for yours truly, it was also an opportunity for me to gain more perspective on the outside, non-American world views on the glitz and fame of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and the L.A. mystique in general…It’s an exotic oddity to them but to us Angelenos, a qutoidien egoic neurosis.

The best part of the piece, in my opinion, is the end. The author, Sanne Rooseboom quotes me as saying that people in L.A. go out of their way to ignore the famous but it’s the tourists who go overtly wild over celebs. She then recounts my story about Robbie Williams who is a HUGE pop star in Europe getting ignored when he pranced proudly into the Coffee Bean on Sunset Plaza. Were it not for one devoted visiting Spanish girl, his ego would have been crushed like a cocoa bean. If you read Dutch, check it out on page 9 of this pdf link.

Other than that, went to a screening of an amazingly funny little film tonight, starring Danny Masterson. It’s called “Capers.” This flick is destined to be a cult hit along with the likes of “Idiocracy” and “Office Space.” I would highly recommend you see it, only it hasn’t found distribution yet. These days that means it could be on YouTube in a matter of hours. Let’s hope, for the talent of “Capers” that it’s not.

Dropped by the Stone Rose Lounge last night for a launch party for Jasmin Rosemberg’s debut novel on Hachette, “How the Other Half Hamptons.” Believe it or not, that was my second book launch celebration in the last three days.

My friend Josh Miller hosted a soiree on Sunday in honor of his friend Josh Emmons’ novel (the coolly titled) “Prescription for a Superior Existence.” It was held at the home of one of my generation’s favorite directors, Amy Heckerling (”Clueless” and “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”). Josh mentioned that it used to be Liz Taylor’s pad which I could see because it was grand and extremely decadent, in a good way. For someone who usually only reads non-fiction, I sure am being exposed to my share of fiction these days.

Speaking of which, how’d you like that Iranian government Photoshopping an extra missile in the photo that graced the cover of every newspaper today? We all take liberties with our photos these days but, guys this isn’t Facebook, it’s international warfare. How very James Frey of them…insert quote about truth being stranger than…on second thought, goodnight.

 Image: Fernando Torres clips the winning goal past Jens Lehmann (©Getty Images)

Image: My favorite Spain team kicker, Fernando Torres

It was a nail-biter–the nightmare penalty kick shoot-out between Spain and Italy (the champs). Spain played their hearts out through the game’s entirety and overtime; Italy doing a kick-ass job of defending and not much more (NOT football if you ask me). It must have been disappointing for Italy fans seeing as they were amazing when they beat France in the World Cup two years ago. So, despite penalties being the lamest part of the game, the best man (or men) did win after Spain’s goalie did a muy excellente job of blocking two kicks. It’s on to the semi’s for Spain, who will fight the Russkis.

Oh, and to any of you high fallutin martini-sipping trendofiles who are dissapointed that I’ve chosen to blog about nothing but footy for the past few days….sod off!

Image: Maurits, Prince of Orange, on his death-bed

I just came back from watching the Holland vs. Russia quarter final of Euro Cup 2008 at a Dutch-packed Western-themed bar in W. Hollywood. All those young Russian legs (Russia has the youngest team in the Cup) outran the seasoned but shot-shy Dutch, and of course outscored them. R.I.P. Team Nederland

I ended up sitting with a table of missionaries–a guy from Friesland, his fiancee from Mexico and their wholesome looking Canadian buddy…all big team Holland fans…and fans of The Christ as well. At one point, when the Dutch goalie blocked a kick, I kid you not, the Fries guy yelled, “Praise the Lord!”

The rest of the orange-clad crew consisted of the usual older (see: ‘Lesbian or German Lady?‘ article for reference) Dutch ladies with their Ellen Degeneres haircuts and (as if that wasn’t butch enough), orange football jersies. ‘Ladies,’ that’s not cultural pride, that’s called ‘going in drag.’ There were also some football hooligans and lasses, and my personal favorite, one or two adorable blond Dutch twinkies for the eye candy spectacle of it all. I have to say that it was strange watching soccer/football with a room full of Euros and a mechanical bull. But somehow it worked (though team Nederland didn’t).

While Schnijder proved to be a great disappointment, Ruud van Nistlrooy provided one of the few great moments for the Dutch in this game. As an aside, an ex of mine in Amsterdam is always mistaken for Ruud. Finally one day an older man came up to him begging for an autograph for his son. My ex insisted, ‘no.’ The guy pleaded. Finally my ex capitulated and gave the guy the autograph. How sad it will be one day when he tries to sell it on Ebay and is flagged.

Walking down memory lane, I had a reverse situation when I lived in Amsterdam. When I was exiting a bar on the Lediseplein, a (what I perceived as sleazy) dude started hitting on me asking where I was from, etc. I was slightly snooty towards him and my friend was even more recalcitrant. All his friends insisted we should know who he was. I said we hadn’t a clue. The dude asked me if I knew of the England football team and introduced himself as “Alan.” It still meant nothing to me. The guy seemed ticked and started to walk off. His friends said, “Forget it, they’re Americans” and told us this guy was the captain of the team. I went home and Googled “Alan,” “England,” “Captain” and “Football” and his picture popped up, legendary player and England team captain Alan Shearer…doh!

Image:  Roman Pavlyuchenko, yes, he’s ‘the enemy’ but, I think I can make an exception… 

Meanwhile back at the ranch–er, the Western themed bar/restaurant–they were tied in overtime and the Russians scored two goals. I have to admit to needing a cold shower when all those cuties did the pile-on. That, and it’s like 105 degrees out today! Oh well, better luck next time…wel te rustig jongens!