hung out with my good girlfriend named Myrtle, the Gyrtle. Miss M works for a limo company as a driver. She told me some hot gossip concerning dorky TV and movie star Jamie Kennedy. She went to pick him up one morning at his house on Fairfax between Hollywood and Sunset and who pops out with him but Paris Hilton, one of those Hilton sisters who go to the opening of a bag of potato chips. She was just wearing a T-shirt and a thong, and it was obvious she had spent the night getting throttled. Jamie shyly explained he had a pajama party. Yeah a Victoria's Secret Pajama Party. Well you go dude. You'll only be young and successful once in this life so taste all the prunes.
Took Cesar Vega to birthday breaky at Pacific Dining Car. Cesar is soooo sweet. What a nice, otter of a boy he is. Too bad he doesn't realize that hanging out with me will only bring him madness or death.
2nite going to tired Spaceland to see Alice Bag's new band Stay at Home Bomb. I'd love it if they re-named themselves Bombshell. Can't wait to see them, they are getting quite a following.
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
This just in from Glenn Belverio, my sister of the cloth and global editrix fashion guru. She is in China for a month guest editing for East/West. Enjoy her observations are always spot on.
Shanghai 06.08.03
I returned from Henan Province in central China where Shaolin Temple is located (near the town of Deng Feng) last night and now I’m back in Shanghai. All the rooms at my beloved 5 star hotel are booked solid (as are all the good hotels in my hosts’ ‘hood) so I’ve been booked into a “service apartment” with no internet connection, a stove that fills the small room with smoke when used, and a sliver of a window with a depressing view of a construction site…..I feel like I’m back in the East Village but at least there I have a bigger window. Now I’m in some restaurant trying to order lunch with minimal success (no one speaks English at any of the restaurants) because I forgot to bring my Mandarin phrase book. I’m having what a hip ex-pat I met last week calls “a bad China day”.
Three days ago I set off for Deng Feng in Henan province with Matthew, our photographer from Paris via South Africa, to visit the famed Shaolin Temple which lies at the foot of beautiful Shaoshin mountain. We were greeted at the airport by our guide and translator, Mr. Zhang (his English name is John) and our driver. The drive to the hotel was a long journey past stretches of corn fields guarded by ‘Phoenix’ trees (Phoenixes were said to once roost in them and their function is to protect the crops from the elements), rows of humble wooden shacks and low cement pagoda-roofed buildings, caves (yes, caves) containing peasant cave dwellers and of course hundreds of farmer families whose naked children frolicked in the mud along the road. It was a far cry from quasi-cosmopolitan Shanghai, even Shanghai’s slummy neighborhoods. Excited by these rustic tableaus of round-faced farmers and their children, Matthew repeatedly yelled to the driver so he could stop and snap a shot of a father cradling his child in his arms or an elderly man – his leathery face a complex road map of intricate lines and wrinkles – struggling to pull a heavy cart of hay or wood. At first I cringed at the exploitative aspect of the situation, but most of the peasants reacted with broad, warm smiles (even the old man struggling to pull the cart!) and rabid curiosity. Soon we came to a larger highway and as our driver sped up I noticed with some alarm the Chinese’ unique style of driving: no one paid attention to the highway’s designated lanes and everyone swerved in and out of them and around and toward each other’s vehicles in a motorized ballet of chaos that was a backseat driver’s worst nightmare. In America, teenagers are known to play a game called ‘chicken’ where two cars drive toward each other until one chickens out and turns off the road. In China, the game of ‘chicken’ is called ‘driving’ – a series of endless, potential head-on collisions that somehow get you to your destination in one piece. Throw in the added fun of bicyclists who never, ever get out of the way even when a car horn is blown up their asses and the occassional errant herd of cows and you have a ride that is never boring. Wheeeeeee, indeed. Eventually we hit a traffic jam, and our driver turned off onto a dirt road, if you could even call it a road, and we bumped along through the hills past more caves and ramshackle stores and gas stations. (Amidst all this poor, simple life there were still billboard ads hawking noodles and soft drinks). After what seemed like an hour of dune buggy style driving we came upon a wide, newly paved highway lined with workers who looked more like chain gang members as they sledgehammered rocks while wearing prison-like work uniforms. The highway is being built by the government to enable easier transport for tourists who wish to visit Shaolin Temple. In fact, the government is pouring a lot of money into this area as part of a facelift to prepare for the 2008 Olympics, a time when many eyes will be turned not just on the Games, but on “modern” China itself as well. We sped along on this pristine new road only to reach an abrupt, disappointing end where the pavements gave way to more dirt and boulders. Finally we made it to our creepy, deserted “4 star” hotel in Deng Feng (we’ll get to that later) that, with its natty pagoda-style roof and large, empty chambers, was like a Chinese version of the hotel in The Shining. We dropped off our bags and set off immediately for Shaolin Temple. Shaolin Temple is a large area that consists of thirty kung fu schools where thousands upon thousands of Chinese students aged between 6 and 18 are in residence (there are some older students between 19 and 21. And of course there are the hip Westerners who come to learn kung fu and “find themselves”…or rather there were. In April, the 30 or 40 French and Belgian 20-somethings fled back to Europe at the first report of SARS. Chicken shits. It should be noted that there has not been one reported case of SARS in Henan province.) The first school we visited, the Shaolin Arts Martial Arts School Tagou (Tagou is the name of the area where Shaolin Temple and the school are) is the largest in the area: 10,000 students (400 of them are girls). As we entered the large front yard of the school, hundreds of boys were lined up in squadrons as instructors yelled orders at them. The boys, in little red uniforms, were jumping, thrusting, and yelling in unison but when they spotted the two tall, alien-looking Westerners in their midst, scores of them stopped – in mid-karate chop, yet – to yell “HELLO!” and flash cherubic smiles. We wandered into the dormitory area where some of the boys were engaged in armed combat, brandishing wide swords, whips (called ‘whispers’ or bians) and chains, their shirtless, lean, hard torsos resembling those of stealthy young jungle cats. There were times in fact when we were surround by a sea of perfect, lean, tight young bodies that put all of those Western (Hollywood) yoga-and- pilates-bodies-in-a-room-full-of-hotties to utter shame. As we pulled out our cameras, the boys feigned shyness and scampered away, only to return in groups of 3 or 4 and snap into a perfect kung fu mise-en-scene with weapons or limbs brandished with stylish perfection. In other words these boys know they are hot shit and they love to show it off. And as the camera flashed, they changed poses for each picture with more professionalism and panache than a top super model.
To be cont.....
Shanghai 06.08.03
I returned from Henan Province in central China where Shaolin Temple is located (near the town of Deng Feng) last night and now I’m back in Shanghai. All the rooms at my beloved 5 star hotel are booked solid (as are all the good hotels in my hosts’ ‘hood) so I’ve been booked into a “service apartment” with no internet connection, a stove that fills the small room with smoke when used, and a sliver of a window with a depressing view of a construction site…..I feel like I’m back in the East Village but at least there I have a bigger window. Now I’m in some restaurant trying to order lunch with minimal success (no one speaks English at any of the restaurants) because I forgot to bring my Mandarin phrase book. I’m having what a hip ex-pat I met last week calls “a bad China day”.
Three days ago I set off for Deng Feng in Henan province with Matthew, our photographer from Paris via South Africa, to visit the famed Shaolin Temple which lies at the foot of beautiful Shaoshin mountain. We were greeted at the airport by our guide and translator, Mr. Zhang (his English name is John) and our driver. The drive to the hotel was a long journey past stretches of corn fields guarded by ‘Phoenix’ trees (Phoenixes were said to once roost in them and their function is to protect the crops from the elements), rows of humble wooden shacks and low cement pagoda-roofed buildings, caves (yes, caves) containing peasant cave dwellers and of course hundreds of farmer families whose naked children frolicked in the mud along the road. It was a far cry from quasi-cosmopolitan Shanghai, even Shanghai’s slummy neighborhoods. Excited by these rustic tableaus of round-faced farmers and their children, Matthew repeatedly yelled to the driver so he could stop and snap a shot of a father cradling his child in his arms or an elderly man – his leathery face a complex road map of intricate lines and wrinkles – struggling to pull a heavy cart of hay or wood. At first I cringed at the exploitative aspect of the situation, but most of the peasants reacted with broad, warm smiles (even the old man struggling to pull the cart!) and rabid curiosity. Soon we came to a larger highway and as our driver sped up I noticed with some alarm the Chinese’ unique style of driving: no one paid attention to the highway’s designated lanes and everyone swerved in and out of them and around and toward each other’s vehicles in a motorized ballet of chaos that was a backseat driver’s worst nightmare. In America, teenagers are known to play a game called ‘chicken’ where two cars drive toward each other until one chickens out and turns off the road. In China, the game of ‘chicken’ is called ‘driving’ – a series of endless, potential head-on collisions that somehow get you to your destination in one piece. Throw in the added fun of bicyclists who never, ever get out of the way even when a car horn is blown up their asses and the occassional errant herd of cows and you have a ride that is never boring. Wheeeeeee, indeed. Eventually we hit a traffic jam, and our driver turned off onto a dirt road, if you could even call it a road, and we bumped along through the hills past more caves and ramshackle stores and gas stations. (Amidst all this poor, simple life there were still billboard ads hawking noodles and soft drinks). After what seemed like an hour of dune buggy style driving we came upon a wide, newly paved highway lined with workers who looked more like chain gang members as they sledgehammered rocks while wearing prison-like work uniforms. The highway is being built by the government to enable easier transport for tourists who wish to visit Shaolin Temple. In fact, the government is pouring a lot of money into this area as part of a facelift to prepare for the 2008 Olympics, a time when many eyes will be turned not just on the Games, but on “modern” China itself as well. We sped along on this pristine new road only to reach an abrupt, disappointing end where the pavements gave way to more dirt and boulders. Finally we made it to our creepy, deserted “4 star” hotel in Deng Feng (we’ll get to that later) that, with its natty pagoda-style roof and large, empty chambers, was like a Chinese version of the hotel in The Shining. We dropped off our bags and set off immediately for Shaolin Temple. Shaolin Temple is a large area that consists of thirty kung fu schools where thousands upon thousands of Chinese students aged between 6 and 18 are in residence (there are some older students between 19 and 21. And of course there are the hip Westerners who come to learn kung fu and “find themselves”…or rather there were. In April, the 30 or 40 French and Belgian 20-somethings fled back to Europe at the first report of SARS. Chicken shits. It should be noted that there has not been one reported case of SARS in Henan province.) The first school we visited, the Shaolin Arts Martial Arts School Tagou (Tagou is the name of the area where Shaolin Temple and the school are) is the largest in the area: 10,000 students (400 of them are girls). As we entered the large front yard of the school, hundreds of boys were lined up in squadrons as instructors yelled orders at them. The boys, in little red uniforms, were jumping, thrusting, and yelling in unison but when they spotted the two tall, alien-looking Westerners in their midst, scores of them stopped – in mid-karate chop, yet – to yell “HELLO!” and flash cherubic smiles. We wandered into the dormitory area where some of the boys were engaged in armed combat, brandishing wide swords, whips (called ‘whispers’ or bians) and chains, their shirtless, lean, hard torsos resembling those of stealthy young jungle cats. There were times in fact when we were surround by a sea of perfect, lean, tight young bodies that put all of those Western (Hollywood) yoga-and- pilates-bodies-in-a-room-full-of-hotties to utter shame. As we pulled out our cameras, the boys feigned shyness and scampered away, only to return in groups of 3 or 4 and snap into a perfect kung fu mise-en-scene with weapons or limbs brandished with stylish perfection. In other words these boys know they are hot shit and they love to show it off. And as the camera flashed, they changed poses for each picture with more professionalism and panache than a top super model.
To be cont.....
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
my time at the LA Weekly every friday is coming to an end. I'm surprised i lasted this long. I was just supposed to take Ron Athey's place when he went on tour 5 years ago and somehow that wound up being a temporary permanent thing. It has been fun here and there, but i don't like having to be anyplace every week. Especially with Bricktops on Friday, i'd like to have that time to prepare for the club and not be all frantic and exhausted by showtime. I'll still be contributing to the Weekly writing here and there, but i just won't be in the office on a regular basis any more. Don't know when my official last Friday will be. Maybe at the end of this month or maybe sooner or perhaps later.
Monday, August 04, 2003
Got this email from Judy LaBruce. She is the best!
hi Vaginal. oh boy, what a life. marital bliss ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, let me be the first to inform you. the muslim has gone off the tracks again and has sent me into a spirulina. it usually happens about once a year. visions of angels, apocalyptic prognostications, fisticuffs, fire and brimstone. and that’s just during foreplay. how did i end up with a closeted bi-polar fundamentalist Muslim anyhow? i must be a closeted bi-polar fundamentalist Muslim magnet. sure, he has approximately the same number of distinct personalities as Sybill at the best of times, but the important thing is that I like all of them. it’s like dating the King family. (how’s that for an outdated reference). but this one personality that emerges annually, I tell you, is a real jerk. I don’t know. is there any future with a closeted bi-polar fundamentalist Muslim? i’m having serious doubts. this weekend was a disaster. i can’t go into the last detail, but i’ll give you a sampling. he’s driving on the freeway in his car and suddenly he feels himself detaching from his body. he doesn’t think he can control the car so he exits and continues to drive to my place through the city. when he goes into this fugued state he’s usually two to three hours late anyway. when he finally arrives he’s high on pot and shaking like a Leif Garret. he tells me he thinks he’s dead. this i can relate to. i feel like i’m dead a lot of the time too, and after fainting and hitting my head on the side of the bathtub in january, i almost believe that i did die and everything since than has been a vivid dream of the living dead. i calm him down and we go out for a nice meal, and once we’re home we get into bed and start to watch the Omega Man which i’ve rented because i figure it’s a good movie for a dead person to watch. he falls asleep for an hour but his drug dealer calls so he gets dressed and disappears for an hour. meantime i’ve fallen asleep – it’s almost 4am. when he gets back into bed he wants to have sex, but i’m asleep and not in the mood. so he leaves because he’s taken a hit of E. the next day he tells me that he met the archangel Michael who told him that the world is going to end soon. how he then tried to pick up a guy on the street who turned out to be a hustler who got mad at him and kicked him in the head so he beat up the poor boy. then he tried to pick up a female hooker in a park and he almost got kicked in the head again. now today he’s talking about an arranged marriage with a female doctor divorcee that his family is trying to set him up with. honestly, this only happens once a year, but it makes me realize that it doesn’t bode well for long-term marital bliss. but then, why should i expect that anyway? most of the time he’s a normal, sweet-natured, loving man, so i guess i should just take it day by day day by day oh dear allah three things i pray. anyway, the reason i’m writing is to ask you what was the name of that kooky Hawaiin dyke that was doing the make up in my horn doggy room? please inform. how was your weekend. x blab
Had breaky with pretty Louise of the LA Times. We met at Tropical. She had never been there, and it was great introducing a legendary spot to a Los Ang newcomer. I really like Louise. She has that no-nonsence euro quality that i adore in people and she is a great beauty as well with the most amazing face, warm and open. She is way too smart for a town like this. And she loves to drink. I loved hearing about Danish Royalty. She told me that the queen of Denmark is my height and in her 50s, she married a big dicked Frenchcommoner, and recently was at a summit where Fidel Castro sat right to her side in his army fatigues. How how is that. The Queen of Denmark seems much more interesting then olde Bessie of Merry ole England. The Queen of Den has a hot son, the Crown Prince Frederick who is a strapping ginger head with a big butt and giant willisaurus. She has a younger boy who married a hong kong lady. Something tells me that the crown prince and i are meant to be an item, and i'm going to wind up Vaginal I of Denmark. Hey why shouldn't i marry into royalty? Its my destiny.
Willie Banta and his gorgeous wife Miriam Jacobsen came by my pad and put me up a nice big shelf in my closet. Boy do i need the extra shelving. They also took me out to a scrumpteous meal at the Pig n Whistle on Hollywood Blvd. They wanted to go to Musso and Franks, but its closed on Sundays. I had always wanted to go to The Pig since its a Hollywood Landmark from the 20s that was closed in the 50s and was brought back with the renovation of the adjacent Egyptian Theatre. I loved the food, delish, but they need to get rid of that big screen TV and all the other tiny monitors. I don't want to eat in a tired Sports bar. One of the reasons why i never went in was all the icky people you'd see eating there from the outside looking in. Tired trash with cell phones. But at the time we went we had the place all to ourselves which is how i like it. I'm getting more reclusive as i get older, very much like my mother, i find myself not having any desire to be around many people. Such is the life of a lady like myself.
Oh i was housesitting for Da Da Athey and cooked up a meal for Shauna Leone. We had a great time just having a girlish gagfest. She is such a sweet child.
hi Vaginal. oh boy, what a life. marital bliss ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, let me be the first to inform you. the muslim has gone off the tracks again and has sent me into a spirulina. it usually happens about once a year. visions of angels, apocalyptic prognostications, fisticuffs, fire and brimstone. and that’s just during foreplay. how did i end up with a closeted bi-polar fundamentalist Muslim anyhow? i must be a closeted bi-polar fundamentalist Muslim magnet. sure, he has approximately the same number of distinct personalities as Sybill at the best of times, but the important thing is that I like all of them. it’s like dating the King family. (how’s that for an outdated reference). but this one personality that emerges annually, I tell you, is a real jerk. I don’t know. is there any future with a closeted bi-polar fundamentalist Muslim? i’m having serious doubts. this weekend was a disaster. i can’t go into the last detail, but i’ll give you a sampling. he’s driving on the freeway in his car and suddenly he feels himself detaching from his body. he doesn’t think he can control the car so he exits and continues to drive to my place through the city. when he goes into this fugued state he’s usually two to three hours late anyway. when he finally arrives he’s high on pot and shaking like a Leif Garret. he tells me he thinks he’s dead. this i can relate to. i feel like i’m dead a lot of the time too, and after fainting and hitting my head on the side of the bathtub in january, i almost believe that i did die and everything since than has been a vivid dream of the living dead. i calm him down and we go out for a nice meal, and once we’re home we get into bed and start to watch the Omega Man which i’ve rented because i figure it’s a good movie for a dead person to watch. he falls asleep for an hour but his drug dealer calls so he gets dressed and disappears for an hour. meantime i’ve fallen asleep – it’s almost 4am. when he gets back into bed he wants to have sex, but i’m asleep and not in the mood. so he leaves because he’s taken a hit of E. the next day he tells me that he met the archangel Michael who told him that the world is going to end soon. how he then tried to pick up a guy on the street who turned out to be a hustler who got mad at him and kicked him in the head so he beat up the poor boy. then he tried to pick up a female hooker in a park and he almost got kicked in the head again. now today he’s talking about an arranged marriage with a female doctor divorcee that his family is trying to set him up with. honestly, this only happens once a year, but it makes me realize that it doesn’t bode well for long-term marital bliss. but then, why should i expect that anyway? most of the time he’s a normal, sweet-natured, loving man, so i guess i should just take it day by day day by day oh dear allah three things i pray. anyway, the reason i’m writing is to ask you what was the name of that kooky Hawaiin dyke that was doing the make up in my horn doggy room? please inform. how was your weekend. x blab
Had breaky with pretty Louise of the LA Times. We met at Tropical. She had never been there, and it was great introducing a legendary spot to a Los Ang newcomer. I really like Louise. She has that no-nonsence euro quality that i adore in people and she is a great beauty as well with the most amazing face, warm and open. She is way too smart for a town like this. And she loves to drink. I loved hearing about Danish Royalty. She told me that the queen of Denmark is my height and in her 50s, she married a big dicked Frenchcommoner, and recently was at a summit where Fidel Castro sat right to her side in his army fatigues. How how is that. The Queen of Denmark seems much more interesting then olde Bessie of Merry ole England. The Queen of Den has a hot son, the Crown Prince Frederick who is a strapping ginger head with a big butt and giant willisaurus. She has a younger boy who married a hong kong lady. Something tells me that the crown prince and i are meant to be an item, and i'm going to wind up Vaginal I of Denmark. Hey why shouldn't i marry into royalty? Its my destiny.
Willie Banta and his gorgeous wife Miriam Jacobsen came by my pad and put me up a nice big shelf in my closet. Boy do i need the extra shelving. They also took me out to a scrumpteous meal at the Pig n Whistle on Hollywood Blvd. They wanted to go to Musso and Franks, but its closed on Sundays. I had always wanted to go to The Pig since its a Hollywood Landmark from the 20s that was closed in the 50s and was brought back with the renovation of the adjacent Egyptian Theatre. I loved the food, delish, but they need to get rid of that big screen TV and all the other tiny monitors. I don't want to eat in a tired Sports bar. One of the reasons why i never went in was all the icky people you'd see eating there from the outside looking in. Tired trash with cell phones. But at the time we went we had the place all to ourselves which is how i like it. I'm getting more reclusive as i get older, very much like my mother, i find myself not having any desire to be around many people. Such is the life of a lady like myself.
Oh i was housesitting for Da Da Athey and cooked up a meal for Shauna Leone. We had a great time just having a girlish gagfest. She is such a sweet child.
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