Sunday, December 27, 2009


((From the latest issue of POLYGON))

They were the largest pumps you ever did see; huge pink heels that once belonged to Barbie Gargantua XXX, smiter of bratty little girls with bowl cuts and lateral lisps. They struck a chord in my childhood heart- tickled the ivories with 2-foot high stilettos. I'd catch sight of them and swoon, spiraling into their plastic depths with my arms straight out at my sides, falling back into the hard husk the color of a drag queen's aura, ending up in a fetal position right where the robust heel would have fit. Just one more little girl taking the Jesus route into Mattel heaven, not for humanity’s salvation but for the plasticized glory of the giant shoes outside of Orlando's FAO Schwartz. It was the same every time I caught sight of them, this routine...fully under their spell.

Now, you may balk at my kiddy shoe fetish, but the wonderment I felt about those clunkers rivals the first time I pricked my finger on a rosebush and realized that nature functions as a not-always benevolent unit, and that those little beads of blood were a testament to my fallibility.

I saw God/it/him/her/me in those shoes, plain and simple.

Sure, they were soulless. They were garish. They had been smothered by countless numbers of little girls desperate to fulfill their Thumbelina complexes, but the fact that they existed, that the inherently unnatural landscape of Orlando, Florida- home of Mickey Mouse and Holy Land Experience- could manifest itself into a pair of GIANT SHOES and not be questioned, could be coveted even, was beautiful.

If you think I’m trying to insert some sort of rah-rah-atheist subliminal message into your afternoon snack, I promise you, I’m not being facetious*. This is a shout-out to the triple-named papas of transcendental ideals, ideals that I think, should resurface in this day and age. We all perceive our lives in different ways, this is true. I mean, I'm not an overtly spiritual person. I leave the crystal hoarding and mantra chanting to my more sentient friends, but I still constantly weigh the pureness of experiences.

Over the past few years my being has been jolted a few times, shaken into a euphoric jumble, and if I happen to pair those monumental experiences with the memory of the Barbie shoes, so be it. I don’t claim to know what, or whom “God” is, but the moments when life is good- when objects please us aesthetically and soulfully, when the rose-tinted shades are lifted and everything still seems to be functioning in astral cohesion- those are the moments that might lead us toward understanding the concept better.

Unfortunately, the new surge of trends in the past decade have hindered this idea being universally accepted; novelty is given a bad name, but is surreptitiously the norm. What better example is there than the latest media-craze surrounding “Where the Wild Things Are.” On one hand, I think the film succeeded in capturing the not always pleasing to see, but undoubtedly innocent reactions between children and their surroundings. This is quite a feat when weighing the baggage of trying to convey the message of a 48-page children’s book for the world to appreciate. On the other hand, the “Wild Things” clothing and jewelry collection at Opening Ceremony plucked the pneuma right out of the story, leaving us with models dressed as if they were inspired. In reality, if people had been inspired they’d be the ones howling at the sky, knocked right out of their pretty-face catatonia for a chance to be a kid again. Take Candance and Steve Lubanski over in Pasadena: they gave each other a bunny rabbit souvenir every day as a testament to their love, and now, take pride in their plush doodads, opening up their home as the “Bunny Museum.” Every day visitors pay homage to their collection, on the surface comical, but deep down a prime example of individuality. Staid lemmings be damned!

So kiddies, gosh-darnit, if you enjoy something, embrace the reasons why you enjoyed it: those feelings of wordless bliss - the spark that sends you tumbling into a giant Barbie shoe- and no matter whether you’re looking up to Shiva, Buddha, or Anton Lavey for your grand credo, the holiness will envelop you.

* I’m also not directly condoning objectum sexuality...

Bandini's "Blood Purge for the Fatherland"

Fante stuck the impulsiveness of Americans in the middle of family values and Pinoy fisheries. He breathed life into characters that wobbled on their feet only to stand solidly on their own, now ready to whistle at passing behinds.

He embodied the megalomaniacal attitude of 1930 Los Angeles writers, typing flurries of papers with wet cigarettes dangling from his mouth.

And yet, to me at least, he signified a simple brilliance that overwhelmed any privileged predecessors. With the juice of L.A. orchards on his hands, he created novels that fueled the development of his own life by describing the development of the Golden State.

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Louise Huebner, Official Witch of Los Angeles


And thus, L.A. was sent off on the sex-charged mania of the 70's. The mood was ripe for Mr. Sophistication's big-breasted bimbos, writhing through the smog into the laps of leisure suits.

Feral cats, MEOW! Sorceress Huebner released you.

Friday, July 17, 2009

rest in peace

"It's impossible to live with a puppeteer who works with shadows, a moth-tamer..."
"Why have we had to invent Eden,
to live submerged in the nostalgia of a lost paradise,
to make up utopias, propose a future
for ourselves?"

"We have to live, after all."

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Everyone goes through the grunge mystic phase.

When I was younger I would have recurring nightmares centered around the musical "Godspell". It was a combination of all my fears- clowns, hippies, and organized religion- molded into one psychadelic free-for-all.
Now my neurotic panic is centered around paper money. Not that its value is decreasing, but that every dollar bill has passed through at least one working girl's rhinestoned g-string.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

"I found that I had become so spinsterish that I was made neurotic not only by my life of domesticity but by the slightest derangement of my room. I would burst into a fit of weeping if the kettle was not facing due east."