Oh No She Didn't

Yikes! Freedom of speech rears its ugly head.

But that's alright, Miss North Carolina trumped our California princess and is free to do the stiff hand wave perched on many a backseat convertible. I mean, strive to achieve world peace.

Per my last blog regarding those hilarious anti-gay commercials, there have been plenty of spoofs to keep our spirits up in California and beyond. We've got Steven Colbert, Funny or Die even really bad homemade ones have been blasted all over You Tube, bless their hearts!

Oh So This is How We Lost Prop 8

When Obama and Clinton were campaigning for Oval Office, I rode the wave of high spirits on the left coast. It almost didn't matter who won. What mattered was that Americans were being fearless. The status quo was being challenged, and not by a novelty woman and a novelty black guy; the democrat ticket had some quality names. When McCain gave his concession speech, Los Angeles suddenly erupted with the sound of car horns. I stepped out onto my front lawn and was overwhelmed by the roar of the city. It came from as far as the freeways to as close as our block. You couldn't help but get swept up in the feeling.

Then Prop 8 passed. Crickets! The balloon popped. We were puffed up with too much confidence in our fellow citizens. For weeks we stumbled around, scratching our heads, wondering how it was possible. California is filled with artists, the educated, and people who fled the oppression of their hometowns. We became suspicious of everyone.

But perhaps we weren't brought down by farming towns and Orange County. I uncovered THIS! This commercial has been boring into soft skulls all over the country, and went online to California. There's a whole series of them. Fake lightning flashes, stiff actors stand like poles waiting for their lines, which they seem to deliver from teleprompters written in doctor scratch.

Halloween seems a million years ago. It was right before the heated election, and we all knew that Sarah Palin was only up for her 15 minutes, not a vice presidency. We threw together our Sarah Palin Halloween costumes before the world forgot about her. The photo to the right is myself at the Gay Pride Halloween Costume Carnaval. We were all so excited about the country's changes, and had no idea we were about to be blindsided by Prop 8. Gay couples are dealing with a violation of their human rights. Me, I'm just straight and embarrassed. This post is for them.

Hotel del Hype

Where I grew up, everyone was surrounded by battlefields, colonial homes and historic landmarks. My old friend found a Civil War coin in her creek. Another used to camp out beside the Revolutionary War trench in her backyard. We were surrounded by the romance of history and the possibility of hauntings. I lived just outside of D.C. in Virginia, and every school made the pilgrimage to the reportedly haunted Ford Theatre. Alcohol also feeds the curiosity, and when away at college down South, we crept around abandoned plantations and old corn fields, just to see if we could feel something.

Here in Los Angeles, there isn't much left standing that could spark the spirit of adventure. Mexican battlefronts are now paved strip malls, gone are the crumbling, moss-covered graveyards and nearly all Victorian homes have been razed, eliminating even the appearance of a haunted house. But we do have the Hotel Del Coronado just off the coast of San Diego.

Legend has it, the ghost of Kate Morgan haunts the hotel, and her visage has been seen by staff and guest alike. Kate was a young woman who checked in over Thanksgiving weekend in 1892 under the alias Lottie Bernard. She stayed a few days, and the staff became increasingly concerned about how upset she seemed. After taking a street car into San Diego to buy a gun and ammunition, she killed herself on the steps of the hotel leading to the ocean. Other guests at the time reported that Kate seemed to be watching and waiting constantly, as if expecting someone to meet her at the hotel. No one ever came.

It's not that I'm insensitive to the plight of Abraham Lincoln, slaves and suicidal Victorian brides. My love of history mixed with the fact that I like being scared force me to seek these things out. I can't help myself.

My husband and I flew down the freeway to Coronado Island, just off the coast of San Diego. As we approached the infamous hotel, I was reminded of the repeated images I had seen in many a dragged-out History Channel documentary. You know the kind, with the creepy music and the promise to unfold the mystery right after the 18th commercial break. I wanted it to feel cavernous and lonely inside, like the hotel in The Shining.

It was beautiful. The dark, wood-paneled interiors had vaulted ceilings. The elevator was an iron cage. The darkness was contrasted by the white beaches outside. But I felt nothing. I ignored the signs and trespassed down the hallways, especially by room #3327, where most of the activity is said to take place. Nothing. I stalked the gift shop, where things were reported to have flown off the shelves. I lounged in different lobby enclaves, sinking into overstuffed antique furniture. Still nothing.

But all is not lost. Any East Coast transplant dying to escape the yawn-worthy architecture of Los Angeles should take in the place. Hollywood hails Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall as a masterpiece, but after seeing the Hotel Del Coronado, they'll be astonished to discover they've been brainwashed. Upon returning from the "Hotel Del" as locals call it, Angelenos will realize that Mr. Gehry's creation is but a giant replica of crumpled tin foil.

Besides, what would I get out of seeing a reportedly depressed ghost? Terror and sadness? Why do I seek out such things? I can get terror and sadness locally. Trolling the streets of Watts, I can blast country music, heckle idiot gangsters and they can make a ghost of me.

Hometown Spirit

You don't need to be from Chicago to see how hardcore they are about their hometown. Abusive relationships with their sports teams abound. Residents never leave The Windy City, and in the rare occasion they do, they wail about it the entire time. Before a warm Malibu sunset, you'll hear Chicagoans reminisce about shoveling out their driveways in sub-zero temperatures.

Where is the love in Los Angeles? Half the people here are transplants, and the only brotherhood we're known for are the Menendez brothers. Angelenos from the East Coast and San Francisco claim intellectual superiority based on geography. Half the time they can't back it up and the locals are sick of it.

In my inbox, I received a Chicago Friends vs. Regular Friends email. Like all things hyping Chi-town, it was prideful of their wholesome, "America's-Heartland-meets-the-big-city"quality.

It was time to take a stand.

This is Los Angeles, for goodness' sake. We have kickin' Mexican food, Topanga Canyon, open bar red carpet events and beach sunsets every night. Are we all really that miserable that we can't pull together? I made a Chicago Friends vs. Los Angeles Friends version, using all the same answers from the Windy City.

Enjoy!

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Always bring the food.
L.A. FRIENDS: Don't eat, so more for you!

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Cry with you.
L.A. FRIENDS: Always have Valium.

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Will give you a big hug and a kiss.
L.A. FRIENDS: Never get slobber on your make-up - air kisses!

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Could write a book with direct quotes from you.
L.A. FRIENDS: Can recommend a great book agent.

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Will spend the night in jail with you.
L.A. FRIENDS: Would call your publicist, pronto.

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Have your number memorized.
L.A. FRIENDS: Prefer Blackberries over rotary phones.

...just sayin'

What it Looks Like When a Thug Lives Next Door

Pawing Your Way to the Top

Part of living in Los Angeles is having struggling actors for friends. You take the $15-$20 gamble on their plays and hope for the best, though sometimes you end up with men in drag dressed as the Statue of Liberty, splattered in yellow paint and wailing monologues about the decline of jazz.

The perks? Wrap parties filled with pretty boys and all the red wine you can drink. You may hit gold if one of your friends lands a series regular role. Red carpets and gift bag hand-me-downs? Yes, please.

But these days, scratching and clawing your way to the top is a lot dirtier than the age-old casting couch. My friend Rene once said, "If I can't get into acting the old-fashioned way, I'll go through Scientology." But Xenu.net exposed the sci-fi cult for what it was, and Tom Cruise didn't help any by treating Oprah's furniture badly. Rene knew she couldn't maintain her dignity and pretend to sell her soul to those people.

"Kaballah! That's it! I'll join Kaballah!" What, with Madonna, Demi and Ashton jumping on board and red string bracelets on celebs like Gwenyth Paltrow and Lindsay Lohan, it seemed a sure thing. But that faded fast too. Bracelets flew off wrists faster than you can say, "Fifteen minutes!"

These days, it seems there's only one shortcut to fame. It's called Much Love, the animal rescue organization in Los Angeles. Spearheaded by Tori Spelling and boasting members such as Alicia Silverstone and Drew Barrymore, adorable young starlets-to-be line up for the volunteer classes. With blowouts and manicures, they beautifully throw themselves into the world of animal rescue. They nod their perfumed heads, flash their bleached smiles, and hope to help with the next fundraiser at the Playboy Mansion. Or that red carpet gala with Ralph Fiennes. Whatever works.

But I can't knock anyone willing to give homeless pets a new lease on life. Unlike pretending to be ancient Hebrew spiritualists or adopting theories of alien takeovers, at least these people are making a difference. I've even brought my beloved greyhound Olivia (see above photo) to a Much Love red carpet event. My advice to the up-and-comers? Don't claw your way to the top, paw your way to the top.

The Moth

Note to performance artists: Spreading mayonnaise on your face to protest your history of child abuse is a selfish way to obtain attention. Therapy is much more direct. In fact, you'll need a few extra sessions to get over the fact that you spread mayonnaise on your face. In public. And don't even get me started on spoken word.

Angelenos and New Yorkers, if you want to have a beer while being intellectually stimulated, you needn't endure people slathering themselves in fatty condiments. There will be no more of that screaming over your Sam Adams pretending to have a real conversation. It's high time you discovered The Moth. What started as a simple storytelling phenomenon in New York City is now booming in LaLa Land.

It started small on the West Coast, with a group of about 15 insiders gathering at Tangiers in Los Feliz to share stories. But just last month, hundreds of people crammed into El Cid to take in the Love Hurts-themed stories. Was it the subject matter that drove in the crowds? Everyone has a story to tell when it comes to broken hearts. "Except the ones who are dead inside," noted M.C. Brian Finkelestein. He then rethought the statement to the standing room-only crowd. "No, even if you are dead inside, you've got a story."

People from all walks of life grab cocktails, throw their names in a bag, and hope to be one of the ten people picked to share their personal story. There's a five minute limit on stage, and stories must follow the evening's theme. The encouraging audience sits rapt and judges rate your story from one to ten. Any preconceived notions of pretentiousness are quickly dissolved. Since none of the storytellers are allowed to do stand-up or character pieces, every story, whether good or bad, is real. The nervous speakers endear themselves to you. The laughter is often, the tears are occasional.

The sudden boom in popularity is not surprising. Los Angeles is a town doling out broken dreams on a daily basis. Everyone from disgruntled actors to unemployed philosphy professors have taken the stage. But this is no soap box for the downtrodden, most stories are a celebration of the everyday absurd. Even celebrities have caught the bug. Molly Ringwald has been a judge. Margaret Cho, Ethan Hawke and Moby have been storytellers. Prairie Home Companion legend Harrison Keillor and actor John Turturro recently hosted the annual Moth event.

If you're looking for more substantial, dare I say reflective, entertainment that goes above and beyond watching drunk blondes riding mechanical bulls on Sunset, it's high time you experienced The Moth.