Is it Still Cool to be a Scientologist?

Just asking, because my safety level is in direct proportion to how powerful the "church" is, when it comes to trash talkin'. All sorts of people turn up dead for speaking up, according to Xenu.net. I don't want to die, but man are they stupid.

I must report something that happened a few years ago, which made my suspicions about Scientology crescendo into mild paranoia. I was standing beside a building a few years ago, when a plane smashed into it. Simple as that. I lived off Melrose right by Fairfax High School. The pilot flying overhead had been experiencing technical difficulties and tried to land in the high school's football field. He missed and flew into an apartment building, killing five people.

Neighbors and students from Fairfax High School fled to the scene, as people jumped from second story windows and flew through the lobby doors screaming. Jet fuel ignited a white-hot fire in the building, and black smoke choked the air. Just as firetrucks began to arrive, so did a van. Skidding to a stop next to the high school, the van door slid open and out hopped an organized row of Scientologists, all in matching yellow t-shirts. They descended upon the crowd, offering support, water bottles, whatever.

My roommate at the time slowly turned to me. We stared wide-eyed at one another, wondering the exact same thing. How did the Scientologists manage to organize and arrive so quickly? They got there almost as fast as the fire trucks did. As confused people roamed the streets wondering if their cat was going to burn in the furnace that was once their apartment building, the Scientologists stroked backs, gave knowing nods and held little counseling sessions on the curb.

I'm not saying that the Scientologists orchestrated the crash so they could take advantage of vulnerable people and brainwash new recruits. I'm just saying the van with the yellow t-shirted crew arrived reeeeeeeally quickly.

Note to Scientologists: I've got two big dogs and nosy neighbors. I'd like to see you try.

The Best Little Art Gallery in L.A.

I know, I know, Rembrandt and Toulouse Lautrec are brilliant, blah blah blah. Now that that's out of the way, I love the Crazy 4 Cult gallery...more than a friend. Celebrating pop culture, you will fall in love with romanticized adaptations of Edward Scissorhands, and fall on the floor laughing when you see renderings of the sickest families in film history.

If you can't make it to their Melrose space, check out Crazy 4 Cult right HERE.

In order from the top, the family portraits are from The Shining, The Jerk, There Will Be Blood, and...The Lost Boys!

"Death by Stereo!!"

Who DIDN'T want to do the lift?

Every girl has dreamt of doing it. Even a few men. Before my wedding, I toyed with the idea of reenacting Dirty Dancing's Nobody puts baby in a corner dance sequence. But 90% of my wedding party was on the East Coast. Oh who am I kidding? I wasn't tiny enough and the groom wasn't strong enough. Plus my billowing Oleg Cassini would swallow him up, making it look as if he were attacked by a giant dollop of whipped cream.

Here in Hollywood, people love film. Whether they dish out $2.00 for a second-run showing in Pasadena, or $56.00 at the Arclight on opening weekend - it's the reason so many of us are here. We all have a fantasy movie we'd love to cast ourselves in. And let no man protest. I've seen that Star Wars light saber scene with accompanying sound effects more often than I'd appreciate.

Meatheads fantasise about being a foul-mouthed criminal in Reservoir Dogs, and before that they dreamed of riding their bikes into the sky with E.T. Young girls pretended to walk the yellow brick road, and when older played out the closing scene in Casablanca. Then there is, of course, the lift.

Most of us however, will never grace the silver screen. Luckily, all of our embarrassing and ego-driven Hollywood fantasies can come true with YooStar. We can literally, er, digitally insert ourselves into some of the most memorable film scenes in history. For all you struggling here in the City of Angels, if you're frustrated by a day of auditions for antacids and sundries of the feminine hygiene persuasion, it's a way to force yourself into Hollywood - if only electronically. Drunk idiots everywhere will convince themselves that reenacting a scene in Fight Club is really cool, and you'll have a front row seat. Perhaps you can write this program off on your taxes, because this tool could sharpen your chops. Hell, it may feel better than the real thing - no more auditioning and hello ice cream. I'm just sayin'.

Thank You Los Angeles!

This Thanksgiving, I'd like to thank Los Angeles for...

Portos Bakery! (their potato balls are abusive)

Frog Island Comedy! (Pacino & Pacino Talent Agency is still tops)

$2 matinees at Academy Cinemas in Pasadena! (and their variety of popcorn powder toppings like jalapeno & sour cream & onion)

Boba Loca! (when oh when will you open in Studio City?)

Cinespia Screenings at Hollywood Forever Cemetery! (and thanks for letting us bring booze!)

Pho at Golden Deli! (so worth the drive)

The Pasadena Community Youth Orchestra! (selflessly giving back to L.A.)

Thank you!

xoxo,

fayeruz

The Legend of Johnny Blaze

Los Angeles has its fair share of hauntings. There's the house in Culver City that inspired the movie The Entity, the Queen Mary ship in Long Beach, etc.

But there's one place in Los Angeles that's haunted by a living soul, a creature so bizarre that upon encountering it, he makes the space within it's walls a live historical site. This place is a karaoke bar called Dimples, and it's haunted by a man named Johnny Blaze.

He looks like Rick Moranis, swaggers like Elvis, wears a leather jacket a la The Fonz and cannot do a song on stage without breaking out in a violent karate frenzy, complete with sound effects.

We stood in silent awe as he took over the stage, singing, kicking and chopping the air until the whirling dervish was awash with sweat and swooshing sound effects. He roams the place after his performance, handing out his card, winking and telling anyone who will listen of his big Hollywood plans.

Like any haunted place, half the visitors are there to patronize the business, and the other half are there in hopes of experiencing the in-house ghost. So many people have left the place completely freaked out, that word spread like wildfire around Los Angeles and even Jimmy Kimmel couldn't resist having him do a song on his show. For those who may have missed the unnatural phenomenon, you can see his official site.

L.A. Weekly: Arts & Entertainment, Plastic Surgery & Escorts

I love the L.A. Weekly, even if they won't hire me as a writer.

L.A. Weekly helped me fall in love with this town; not an easy task for an East Coast transplant. To avoid that cliche trap of complaining loudly and claiming intellectual superiority simply because I grew up on the Eastern seaboard, I turned to this publication. Every fall when their highly-anticipated "Best of" issue is released, I grab a cup of coffee and attack it with a pair of scissors. I did try the "Best Tacos" and I did drive up to the "Best View of the Ocean" - I was determined to love it here.

The thing that separates L.A. Weekly from all other city papers, is that:

- 20 pages in the front are dedicated to plastic surgery

- 20 pages in the back are dedicated to escorts

But with this dwindling economy, these ridiculous ads are fewer. The paper is lighter. Less advertisers means less revenue, and I can't have my weekly shutting their doors on me. I love editorial the best of course, but what's an issue of L.A. Weekly without trashy ads of Filipino girls clutching their breasts and begging for the affection of strangers? What about the plastic surgery ads featuring girls with inflated inner-tube lips covered in frosted pink gloss circa '84?

There are even fewer vaginal rejuvenation ads, which must mean the porn industry is tanking. Lord knows what that will do to our pitiful economy. Here's to hoping L.A. Weekly won't ever, ever leave us!

Vaginal Rejuvenation Ad

How to Make a Quick Buck Off the Desperately Unemployed

I won't name the popular "media marketplace" that threw this so-called party, because God knows, I may need them one day. Times are tough, so when I was invited to their networking party at swanky Social Hollywood, (better known as the scene for drunken antics by Paris Hilton), I was drunk with the promise of making connections in this bleak market. So did hundreds of others.

But this networking party felt like a shameless scheme to make a quick buck. It's as if the semi-media moguls sniffed out our desperation and hatched a scheme to swipe our money. Perhaps they are are struggling like the rest of us, and reserved the club for a night to hike up prices and split the profits.

How to tell if you're being hoodwinked:

1) The valet parking costs as much as dinner at Chaya

2) No open bar, but plenty of "drink specials" that insult you by their use of the word "special"

3) Too cheap to hire sufficient help, one bartender spins wildly to serve a line of 30 people, most of whom cannot afford the drink "special" in the first place

4) No entertainment, just a bunch of strangers standing in line bonding over how insane it is to have one bartender serve a party of a few hundred

5) No food. Not even a plate of germ-infested pretzels.

6) No speech given by the head of this organization to give out a message, interact with or unite the crowd. Just a raffle that no one would buy a ticket for because no one would buy the prize in the first place.

7) The raffle item is an overpriced service that the company itself offers

I would have loved to pitch my book, but I never spoke with anyone. It all felt too awkward. People either came and huddled with their friends or skulked in corners of the beautiful bar, seeing how the Paris Hiltons of the world spend their time. Apparently, bars that cater to the rich and famous have no qualms about the dangers of open firelaces and the potential damage to plush white carpeting. And when I say plush, I mean the carpet was a couple of inches thick. You sink into it while you walk, as if in a freshly-fallen snow. If it were someone's home, I would have had to take my shoes off.

We were being robbed, but everything and everyone was so pretty, that most of us didn't notice.