What’s Sexy?

The other night at the Academy Awards, 61 year old Actress Dame Helen Mirren wasn’t wearing panties underneath her tight fitting dress.

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it while simultaneaously trying to forget it, evict the image from my brain. See, I can’t figure out if I find her going commando hot or not. It’s starting to raise unsettling questions for me.

Am I attracted to a 61 year-old bird from Britain?

“It was all made for me so I didn’t have to have any underwear,” she told presenter OPRAH WINFREY.

“It fitted me like two angel’s hands,” she giggled, cupping her boobs to illustrate the point.

“I cried when I put it on, it is a work of art.”

I must admit she fills the dress out nice and fits it like a glove. If it’s okay for a 16 year-old to espouse the philosophy ‘if you got it flaunt it’ why can’t a 61 year-old?

Sex is about attitude.

Dame Helen is sexy.

She’s got attitude. What we in America call spunk, but that means something else entirely in England – picture yogurt that comes out of a snake-like part of a man’s body – so I’ll refrain from calling her spunky.

She’s just, well… a lady.

A dame.

And she won an oscar so more power to her.

Meanwhile, on our side of the pond, Britney Spears is burned out at 26. It’s obvious the drugs have done her wrong. I never liked that Lolita act anyway and after you watch a woman in a trucker hat burp and question time travel it’s really hard to ever find her sexy again.

Is she crying out for attention?

Discovering herself?

Throwing a tantrum?

Has she lost her mind?

Who the hell cares?

She was always a dumb hick from Louisiana who followed her puppet masters to riches off of exploiting her Mickey Mouse Club “virginity” sex appeal. Now that she is white trash again no one finds her sexy anymore.

Big surprise.

Can anyone feel sorry for her? Who here will argue that the laws of karma are not executing their poetic justice upon her? Isn’t she reaping what she sowed when she inspired a million bare mid-drift tween army?

And of course this pearl of wisdom from Brit:

“I think we should just trust our president in every decision he makes.”

Don’t worry too much about her.

She’s filthy rich.

America still loves her.

Pondering the 80’s

You can change the world. We can do it together.

If we dare to try.

We’re capable of impossible, fantastically incredible feats. The ability for one person to make a difference has been a core component of my generation.
I am a child of the 80’s.

We are dreamers.

I grew up on tales of individuals single handily accomplishing great things with nothing but bold ambition and some mousse.

Defying physics and travelling in time.

Saving their town by discovering pirate treasure.

And more sinsiterly, saving America from Communisim.

On a related note, the Academy Awards were on last night.

The Departed won of course.

Everyone felt good for Martin Scorcese. He finally got his little statue. But Jack Nicholson was the star of the show, mugging it up for the camera with his shiny, bald dome. Acting like he owned the place.

I heard that there is a special secret room at the Staples Center for Jack to smoke weed at halftime. I’m convinced that’s why he’s always wearing shades and grinning like the Cheshire cat. He’s higher than a bird.

It might be fair to say that Jack is unofficially the coolest man in America.

I bet he could call up George at 2 am all drunk and tell him he’s crashing in Lincoln’s bedroom for the night and Georgy would send a limo.

The man’s got game like that.

Still, I miss the geekiness of the cinema of my youth.

The camp.

Every movie out now gets bloodier and more depressing or maybe I’m getting older and more squeamish but I miss those silly, corny flicks of yonder years.

Why were 80’s movies so gloriously cheesy?

I don’t know. Let’s ponder it together.

The 405

Freeway traffic and these great gray clouds rolling overhead.
Brake lights repeating for miles like an endless stream of blood droplets.
Where do they end? Where does it end?

I feel trapped in this deadly cage.

Passing by a neon cross,
and an SUV with the Stars and Stripes on its bumper.
Driving down low next to it in my Civic
through the dry hills and under the alabaster Getty Center
I experience a truly American epiphany:
the confusing feeling of being
both the bottom and top of the food chain
at the same time.

A helicopter flies over Wilshire.
A ghetto bird.
I’d open the sunroof if I had one.
My cell phone buzzes in my pocket. I fear the future.
I don’t answer it.

An opening.
I take it.
Signal to change lanes, find the current,
fall into the stream.
I start passing sports cars.
I’m starting to feel good about the world again.

Then a tow truck speeds by on my right going 85 or more.
The driver has a mouth full of chew and a Budweiser hat.
Godspeed I wave. You asshole.
Where does it get you? What good does it do you?

Anger trickles up my sleve.

Or me?

I’d make a lousy specimen.
I’m no corpse or cadaver.
Shoot me from a cannon like Hunter S. Thompson.

Send me to the moon.

When I’m outta here; I’m outta here.
So long and thanks for all the fish.

The 10 freeway approaches.
Or rather,
I approach it.
Cars start to back up and I slow down,
come to a halt.
I’m almost thankful.
I scratch my head and realize that it’s still there.

And realize…

the speed of life
is ill suited for
the 405.

On the Road

So it’s official. By about ten minutes. I’m thirty-one.

I’ve been working and travelling and writing and really don’t have time for a birthday.

Actually that’s probably just an excuse.

Truth is birthdays are becoming somewhat rote. Rather insignificant.

My twenty-first, ten years ago, that was something. Rang it in at Monty’s in Westwood overlooking the diamond studded hills of Bel Air. Came home and got sick off the side of the bed and passed out. When my friends called in the morning to pick me up to go to Big Bear I discovered, unfortunately, once I put the receiver to my ear, that my phone received the brunt of my vomit.

Tomorrow the wife and I are going to celebrate by getting a steak at Billingsley’s.

Looking back birthdays are good for one thing and that’s to mark the highway of your life with road signs. Five years ago I was in Boston with a bunch of friends, at Bukowski’s, a noisy hipster bar overlooking the Pike. I bought a pair of pants and a western shirt earlier that day at the Urban Outfitters on Newbury Street, special for the occasion. Four years ago I celebrated it in Denver, while filling in as a dogsitter for my father’s girlfriend, at the PS Lounge on Colfax Blvd. with my brother-in-law.

And three years ago I was in Big Bear again with my girlfriend. Amid a chance snowfall, the romantic crackling of the fire, and the rosy glow of cabernet, I proposed to her and she became my fiancee.

Back in good old 97, for my twenty-first, a dozen of my closest friends and I jammed into a cabin in Big Bear and drank a fridgefull of booze like fricken cavemen.

Apologies to these guys.

But we still managed to hit the slopes that Saturday all wobbly and crass, loud and making a scene. I remember launching jumps, and in midair feeling my stomach move and slosh. We managed to get in eight hours of boarding through sheer insanity and will.

This weekend I’m headed up to Mammoth. I won’t drink half as much as a decade ago but it’s not for lack of trying, I just don’t have the gills for it anymore and I haven’t been on a snowboard since 99. I hate to imagine the result.

It’s supposed to snow all weekend.

That’s all I could ask for. I’m a happy man. I don’t care if I fall down the whole mountain and ache like I just finished playing the Super Bowl without pads. It’s going to be great.

The longer I live the more simple my contentments become. It’s not that you lose your dreams, your exuberance, your passion; it’s just that you find them in smaller, warmer, cozier places.

I still get a touch of teenage angst every now and then, writer’s ennui, mysteriously… out of the blue, but it passes quickly. Just enough to keep me on my toes, help me feel young.

Overall, these days, I’m easily pleased. I’m happy with a good steak, a glass of wine, and a Naugahyde booth.

That right there is something to celebrate.

Cheers.

Watch McCain Grovel

This upcoming presidential election is sure to be a doozy. With Obama vs. Hillary and Rudy vs. McCain I just can’t wait. (sorry McCain, too many Johns for you to be addressed on a first name basis)

Of course, I could care less who gets the Republican nod as long as that candidate gets defeated by the Dem, but lately McCain has seriously rubbed me the wrong way, like a stranger on a Subway taking liberties. It starts with his emphatic support of the surge, so that more innocent men are sent to Iraq to be stars in Al Queda recruiting videos. BOOM. But now he is on hands and knees groveling to the Religious Right – the American version of fundamentalists, cleaner and shinier than the ones in the Mideast, but equally backwards and irrational.

The kind of people that want to lock up Abortion doctors but don’t mind the likes of Ken Lay plundering the retirement funds of thousands of his hard-working employess. The kind of people that think Bush is moral for saving some stem cells while killing tens of thousands of innocent Muslims.

These kind of God-fearing hypocrites.

These brilliant Christians who rejected McCain in 00′ in favor of George Bush because of Rove’s clever spreading of lies about McCain’s adopted children. (Rove tastefully alleged that they were black – they are Vietnamese) Of course, to rational Americans, this makes no difference, but apparently to Republicans in the South this was an unforgivable sin of some sort and they threw their votes to Bush.

Thanks South Carolina.

Well, McCain is back in South Carolina, kissing up to the same group that threw him under the bus 8 years ago.

SPARTANBURG, S.C. – Republican presidential candidate John McCain, looking to improve his standing with the party’s conservative voters, said Sunday the court decision that legalized abortion should be overturned.

“I do not support Roe versus Wade. It should be overturned,” the Arizona senator told about 800 people in South Carolina, one of the early voting states.

McCain also vowed that if elected, he would appoint judges who “strictly interpret the Constitution of the United States and do not legislate from the bench.”

I love how McCain has been able to pull the wool over the eyes of the majority of Americans concerning his “principals”. The supposed “straight shooter”.

He is as depraved and power-hungry as the rest of them. Not only that, but he’s willing to sacrifice this nation’s youth and treasury just so that he won’t have to admit to being wrong about Iraq. And he’s willing to delude himself, or if that’s not what’s going on, he’s willing to lie directly to the American people.

From Vanity Fair:

Finally, a questioner lays it all on the line: “The war’s the big issue,” he says, adding, “Some kind of disengagement—it’s going to have to happen. It’s a big issue for you, for our party, in 24 months. It’s not that long a time.” McCain replies, “I do believe this issue isn’t going to be around in 2008. I think it’s going to either tip into civil war … ” He breaks off, as if not wanting to rehearse the handful of other unattractive possibilities. “Listen,” he says, “I believe in prayer. I pray every night.” And that’s where he leaves his discussion of the war this morning: at the kneeling rail.

Great. More reliance on prayer and superstition and none on Rationalism – that’s my new religion, I started it yesterday. I annointed myself the holy leader of this religion and those that question my faith and beliefs are going to Hell, where those that accept my dogma in the face of all reason will be rewarded with unlimited Ipods and Iphones in Heaven.

But seriously, back to McCain.

If you still think he’s a straight shooter, check out this video.

Like I said it’s going to be an entertaining election, especially to watch McCain grovel.

Vote Democratic. For the love of your country and in defense of reason.

Please. Let’s bring rational people back to The White House.

Colorado

Took a break from Los Angeles for the weekend to visit the family.

Went to Colorado where there’s a lot of snow.

And ice.

And ducks.

And kids.

Now it’s back to reality. TV.

A New Drug of Choice

More people are swallowing Oxy Contin, Vicodin and Percocet for enjoyment that ever before. And of course teenagers are getting in on the act too, in fact it’s already in the house because it’s likely mom and dad might have a bottle in the medicine cabinet and either use it for pain or to relax in front of the TV at night. They don’t even have to go out and score it all they have to do is look next to the Tylenol.

We’re not seeing the outrage from the government like you saw with almost every other abused drug; marijuana, cocaine, ectasy. All these trends saw massive alarm from parent groups and the DEA. But on prescription drug use the normal suspects are surprisingly mum.

I don’t see any commercials. This is your brain on Vicodin.

I don’t see any billboards, nothing.

Silence.

According to a government study the rate that prescription drugs were abused before one moved on to cocaine/crack is 60 percent, whereas for those trying prescription drugs before marijuana is about 15%. There is as much evidence that prescription drugs can lead to harder drugs, the mythically feared gateway drug, than pot.

Again where’s the hysteria, where’s the national campaigns, where’s Nancy Reagan telling us to just say no?

It couldn’t have anything to do with prescription drugs being created, sold, and profited from by major pharmaceutical companies could it?

They must surely know how much of their product is being consumed for non-medical reasons? But it’s not like they’re going to make less of it, or even control it better. Why would you when there are stockholders to take care of, CEO’s to pay millions to, and lobbyist to fund?

Once again the DEA shows it’s hypocrisy towards drugs that are entrenched inside the capitalist system, alcohol, tobacco, prescription drugs versus those that are black market.

Why? The dough is not ending up in these guys’ pocket.

It’s time to bring a little reason to the war on drugs. It’s a failed war that Nixon started and continues to wreck innocent lives across America. It’s time to end it.

Car Accidents and Forgotten Rhymes

I saw a commercial on the television tonight that said a person has a 1 in 8 chance of getting in an accident. It was an insurance company. It didn’t specify whether that was over your lifetime, although I figured that’s what it meant because I drive everyday and I don’t get in an accident every eigth day.

However, I’ve lived in Los Angeles most of my life so I have been in almost a dozen fender benders and 2 accidents that have completely totalled the car I was in; but luckily I’ve never been hurt or anyone else involved, just a bunch of dents and scratches. My wife has only been in one minor accident and of course that was with me. The amount of people on the road and all the places to go and you’re bound to collide into your fellow man every now and then.

It’s what we all have in the common.

Some people get all worked up over a little bump; they’re all frantic, shaking, they grab their necks all theatrically, they ask to leave work early. “Oh my god, I was in an accident on my way here. I can’t believe it.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I was at a light and this guy just rammed into me from behind.”

“Was he going fast?”

“No. He was barely moving but it really shook me up.”

Yeah. Yeah.

George Carlin said it best about LA drivers:

Everybody driving slower than you is a moron. And everybody driving faster than you is an idiot.

Many years ago I was a messenger for a company that specialized in the entertainment industry. I was sent on a pickup at a trendy sushi restaurant around lunchtime for $160 worth of styrofoam boxes in two plastic bags that I was supposed to bring to a residence up Bennedict Canyon, to a certain smooth jazz artist.

While on the curvy part of Sunset I was next to a truck pulling a billboard for a strip club, a collection of half naked ladies smiled at me at 30 mph. Distracted briefly, I saw the brake lights in front of me a second late, stopped short and nicked a red porsche in front of me.

Kenny G’s sushi flipped over in the backseat behind me.

“Fuck!” I yelled. My world seemingly destroyed all at once. I pictured myself getting fired and humiliated by Kenny G and blackballed from Hollywood all with one lascivious glance.

The driver of the Porshce got out, moved his shades to the end of his nose, and took a look at the bumper; then strolled to my window casually, smiled at me and said, “life’s too short to worry about a scratch.”

I thanked the guy and he got back in his car and the light turned green and we proceeded west into the glare of the setting sun. My life might not be over.

I didn’t look over at the billboard again and when I was able to turn off of Sunset and pull over, I discovered that the bags had flipped perfectly over and landed right side up. I took a peek inside and everything looked perfect still, the sushi had maintained its integrity. I felt like a small miracle had taken place, a gift from the gods. And a message.

Keep your eyes on the road.

When I did the drop off he was sitting in the lobby eating one of the meals I was bringing him. He must eat them everyday. He smiled and said thank you and even though I’m not what you call a fan I think I probably blushed and stammered like any good American meeting a celebrity. I walked out of his house knowing that this would make a good story one day.

So when it comes to playing bumper cars, if you live in L.A, you see, you learn to save up your concern for the really big ones. Car accidents are like earthquakes. You can’t freak out about every little tremor. You learn to take them in stride. Maybe that’s where that laid back reputation comes from.

That and too much sun.

I’m becoming spoiled myself lately.

A regular layabout.

The landlord recently fixed our dishwasher and now thatI have all that extra time on my hands it’s going to my head. It had seemed like keeping up with the dishes was an ongoing, perpetual battle that consumed half the night. Now I just rinse the plate and stick it away in the machine until there’s enough in there to warrant a wash.

With that extra ten minutes a night I go out on the balcony and look at my jasmine plants and try to figure out what I’m doing wrong. I talk to them and plead with them but they seem intent on some sort of teenage gothic rebellion, refusing to bloom for me. The bloody bastards keep dying on me!

Anyway. On a happy note, Monday night is the best night on television. I Love New York and The White Rapper Show back to back. Rico got the boot, he was a bore anyway. But my man Mr. Boston is coming through with the late night snacks.

Tango is the next to go. I’m calling it now. He’s a pussy.

And once again Persia couldn’t remember her raps. The girl gets serious stage fright. It probably didn’t help that she recently suffered from heat exhaustion on some Be a Thug competition and then bailed on the hospital, but still…

Watching her forget her rhymes was painful. Nobody wants to go out with a whimper. It should be that fool Jus Rhymes going home, he’s plain irritating. A fucking U.S.C student spitting shit about the black panthers. It bothers me he represents L.A. Doesn’t he know the conundrum he’s built for himself?

My boy applied for the show, sent in a tape we made on this computer I type these words. He would have blown these clowns out the box. But that’s not the point of the show. It’s humiliation. It’s about catering to the stereotypes. The Political Wannabe. The King of the Burbs. The Southern Rapper with a Grill.

It’s John Brown with a crooked hat mumbling about his Ghetto Revival.

Reality Shows in 2007 are like car wrecks, it’s impossible not to slow down and take a peak as you pass by, but it makes you feel guilty for feeling a little thrill.

I Love New York.
Bad Girls Club.
Maui Fever.
Real Housewives of Orange County.

Somewhere in the cosmos Andy Warhol is looking down and smiling.

Maybe Pittsburgh.

Ventura Boulevard Reflections

*                *              *

Homeless Paraplegic Kicked To The Curb

When is this going to stop?

What hospital takes a paraplegic to Skid Row and dumps him on the street? In broad daylight. In front of dozens of people. Kicks him to the curb.

Literally.

What city allows this to happen to its residents?

From LA Times

Witnesses told police that the man propped himself up in the door of the van. He then hurled himself from the vehicle, tumbling to the street. He pulled himself along, dragging a bag of his belongings in his clenched teeth.

Police said several people began shouting at the driver, who in addition to applying makeup was more concerned that the seats of the van had been soiled, investigators said.

LAPD Officers Eric de la Cruz and Pernell Taylor said they arrived to find the man being carried out of the street on a chair that had been retrieved from the nearby park offices.

How we care for those who can not care for themselves is the true mark of character.

I understand the strain that hospitals face, which is a whole ‘nother blog about a whole ‘nother moral failing, but there are simple standards I expect all hospitals to operate by, a code, an appreciation and value for life and dignity for all reflected in their treatment of every individual.

This was just cruel.

If they can’t be trusted to not kick a paraplegic out on Skid Row without wheelchair or walker then the city needs to set up a destination of last resort. A mission/ halfway house to be the default option in extreme cases such as these. It would take a few pen strokes and the opening of some Hollywood pockets but it’s not a hard thing to set up.

In the meantime, in regard to this incident, I’d say Hollywood Presbyterian has some big time explaining to do, some soul-searching to conduct, and a certain female driver to fire.

Witnesses shouted at the female driver of the van, “Where’s his wheelchair, where’s his walker?”

Gary Lett, an employee at Gladys Park, near where the incident occurred, said the woman driving the van didn’t reply, but proceeded to apply makeup and perfume before driving off.

I’m not pretending to know all the answers with Skid Row. It’s an entrenched sort of misery that would be tough to break. There are many problems that lead one to those streets: drugs, mental problems, PTSD, physical ailments. There is no simple answer. You can scatter the homeless all around the city but that doesn’t necessarily solve their problem, just downtown developers’. What I do know is that it doesn’t make the situation better when hospitals dump patients there in this dehumanizing fashion.

It degrades not only the paraplegic but the homeless who witnessed it and the community it happened in. It degrades the driver too but she apparently has a heart of meat, rancid to the core; she’s a cunt of the highest order and I resort to that word for only the truly worthy.

As painful a story as this is, I believe everyone in Los Angeles should hear about it, should know. Let it be the blight on this city that it is, let it move us to stop it.

This time, let’s not turn another blind eye. Let’s stop pretending that Skid Row is only a shadow, and what happens there doesn’t count because we do not see it, and that we are not affected.

Let us be affected…