Voodoo, Hoodoo, and Santeria at the Congregation Gallery

I'm not feeling very prolific at the moment. Best let the pictures tell the story...

Good Times Around Town: Hollywood

Good times around town...seems like I've been having a lot of those lately.

Tonight Mystic Diva, Nsa, Conor, Will, and I hit up the Congregation of Forgotten Saints for "Artcore: Reinterpreting Sainthood at the Altar of Rock". In addition to housing one of the coolest clothing collections ever, they also throw the best parties ever: Awesome art, cool people, free vino, and a fucking confessional! For those who have not been, heard, or seen, Congregation of Forgotten Saints is world-renowned for its handmade and one-of-kind designs. Lead by Owner and Designer Cody Varona, CFS straddles the edge of art and rock n' roll. Their clothes have been essential for styling a menagerie of music icons such as Alice Cooper, Slipknot, Motley Crue, Sixx:A.M., Buckcherry, and Breaker.






After Forgotten Saints, we headed over to the Whisky, where we met up with Curtis, to see Lunarclick and Otto's Daughter. Of course, no Breaker outing would be complete without a little rock n' roll rowdiness, and thankfully Conor took care of that when he threw a cup full of ice at two guys who were exceedingly rude. They tackled him to the ground and got thrown out by the bouncer. I was proud of Conor for his bad behavior. It's the Breaker sensibility.

Around midnight, we made our way to the best pizza this side of the LA River, Frankie and Johnny's. Will proceeded to humiliate himself (and amuse me) by putting the moves on Nsa. After he told her that her 2-year-old niece would grow up to be a stripper, he pulled the old I-look-like-I'm-yawning-but-I'm-really-putting-my-arm-around-you move. It was glorious. We wound down with some good ol' fashioned DOC-talk, Kanye West, and Berkley-bashing.

It was a really good night.

Good Times Around Town: Trashy Lingerie

A wife, a mother, and a divorcee walk into a lingerie store...

Today Mystic Diva, Sacred Diva, and I went on a little mission: Buy Sacred Diva some sexy lingerie! "Why?" you might wonder. Because when she wears it, she gets more of what she wants. And that's reason enough! I figured we might as well start at the Mecca: Trashy Lingerie in West Hollywood. Sure, it's pricey as hell, but no lingerie-acquiring-mission would be complete without a trip to Trashy.

After buying a membership, pawing through the racks, and trying on countless items, Sacred still had no new lingerie. It was all either too big, too small, or just didn't fit right. We sat in the back parking lot before determining our next destination and had some girl talk. You know the kind, the kind about men - all the men we had been with, what we've learned, what works, what doesn't, what's good, and what you should avoid like the plague. It was uplifting, to say the least and we decided, "we must go on!"

I suggested Victoria's Secret, and then Mystic one-upped me by mentioning Frederick's of Hollywood. We hauled ass across town and then after a lengthy parking debacle, made it in to the mini-Mecca. It was clear upon arrival that Sacred's lingerie was in Frederick's! Pressed for time, as I had a Breaker rehearsal to get to only one block south of Frederick's, I left Mystic and Sacred to sort it out themselves.

The girls came by the studio to sit in on a few songs, and from what I saw it was a pretty successful mission: Sacred got $300 worth of wearable goodies. Undoubtedly, that translates into countless days and nights of getting what she wants. And, honey, there ain't no way to put a price tage on that!

Buddhist Texans and Happy Endings.

My flight home form Maine could easily be described in one word: long. "How long?", you might wonder. Eleven hours long.

I don't usually fly Southwest as they rarely go anywhere I wanna' be going, and the whole cattle call seating just doesn't work for me. I don't want to arrive early and wait in line. I want to arrive and mosey on over to my seat when it's convenient for me. The reason this particular flight took so long is that it stopped three - yes, three - times before delivering me to my beloved City of Angels. I munched and slept and read through the first three legs, growing restless as the hours rolled by and my stomach grew hungry for real food and not Chex Mix.

At stop number three a new batch of passengers got on board. As I stared blankly down the aisle, a pair of eyes met mine."Oh geez", I thought, "I made eye contact; I'm doomed". And sure enough, Mr. Eye Contact disregarded the many empty rows he walked past to get to my row, where he promptly sat down.

He immediately introduced himself, with a very gentlemanly tone and slight southern accent, and got chattin'. Instead of the normal onslaught of airplane conversational questions - What do you do? Where are you from? Where are you going? - he surprised me with conversation of much greater depth - Finding new things to appreciate each and every day; dreams of making a positive difference in the world; tattoos and their meanings; exploring both intrinsic and extrinsic reasons for traveling. Turned out my airplane buddy was a Buddhist from Texas - which I didn't know was possible. I was fascinated.

On the home stretch, we experienced some of the most wicked turbulence I've ever endured. (Just to put it in perspective, there were screams from nearby passengers.) Ever the gentleman, my next-seat neighbor asked if I was alright. I'm sitting there thinking, "A polite buddhist from Texas who's going to Japan to teach kids English? This is unreal!" Upon landing safely in LA - after my eleven hour trek, we exchanged contact info and agreed to keep in touch; inform each other of where our respective roads lead us.

To borrow a line from a beloved character: He was by far "the most interesting single-serving friend I've ever met".

Good Times Around Town: Melrose Ave.

I was supposed to get my hair done by my girl, Natalie, at Floyd's in Studio City yesterday. I showed up to my appointment to find out that she was out sick with strep throat, and no one else was available to do a cut and color. At first I was bummed - photoshoot in two days and here I was stuck with crummy hair. Determined to spend my money anyway, I headed over the hill for a little retail therapy.

Flasher was my first stop. The psychotic (seemingly coked-out) cigarette-smoking salesman actually had some slammin' taste in clothes and sent me into the dressing room with a pile of rockin' threads to try on. After settling on a snazzy little vest and a pair of tight black jeans, I headed over to Forgotten Saints. No luck there. On my way out of Forgotten Saints, I remembered that there was a Floyd's on Melrose and headed in that direction.

Once in Floyd's I told the chickie at the desk that I needed a cut n' color. Without hesitation, she sent me over to Bryan. He was my kinda guy. I told him what I wanted and he got to work on creating my new 'do. We started talking and it turned out that he does Natalie's hair (the stylist who usually does mine). Man, I thought, this is kismet. She always has great hair, and what are the chances of this little encounter?

A couple hours later I rolled out sportin' my new cherry-cola 'do. On the way back to the car I passed a bunch more shops. Lots of "SALE" signs. I paid no mind until I noticed Salvage on a mannequin in a store boasting 30%-70% off everything. Now I love me some Salvage, and what's even better than Salvage is discounted Salvage.

After scoring a smashing little top at 50% off, I was ready to go home...or more realistically, ready to sit in traffic for an hour and a half. I felt so good, I didn't even care.

In the name of the iguana, the octopus, and unseen vengeance.

Just Another Friday Night

For the sake of my sanity, I'll keep it short and sweet. 

I go to see Lukas Rossi at The Mint with Will and D-Cell. Lukas gives an incredible acoustic performance and afterwards invites us to The Abbey. Hilarity ensues...

Rock n' roll never looked so gay, and D-Cell never looked so uncomfortable. 

Good times!

The $384 Lesson

Yesterday I ventured into strange territory: the other side of the hill. I had an appointment with a client in Santa Monica before I was scheduled to meet Mystic Diva at LACMA for an afternoon of cultural delight, followed by dinner at Campanile for a little grilled cheese delight. Getting there from Santa Monica turned out to take longer than I had anticipated; I don't know if it was holiday traffic or if everybody just decided simultaneously to drive really, really slow, but it took so long to maneuver through the throngs of snail-paced cars that I inevitably arrived late.

In a mad rush to find my friend who had been waiting nearly an hour for me, I grabbed a spot on Wilshire, loaded up the meter, and ran towards the museum. Mystic told me I could park in the lot for $7, but I thought "screw that, I got a spot for $2". She was calm as ever, not the least bit perturbed (as I imagine I would be), and we went on our merry way.

The museum was not my favorite. It felt stiff, rigid, and contrived. I much prefer The Getty or The Met. After almost two hours of Indonesian tapestries, Fabiola, and Masculinity & Sport, we'd had enough. We had an hour to spare before our dinner reservations and decided Starbucks was a good place to spend it. I volunteered to drive.

Only when we went to get my car, it was gone. It was the last in a long block of cars that were all gone too. Mystic kept asking, "Are you sure you parked on Wilshire?" I was sure. I stopped to read the sign that stated "Anti-Gridlock Zone: No Stopping After 4 pm". Ooops.

A few phone calls later, we found that my car was miles across town, would cost $239 to get out, and that we had to get it before dinner, otherwise it would have to wait until the morning and cost an additional $39. With 45 minutes until our dinner reservation, Mystic and I jumped in her Honda and tore ass across LA. 

It was a quick and easy process of getting my car back - I.D., Gold Card, and a couple signatures. Much to my surprise though, the fun didn't end there - there was a parking ticket for $145 stuck under my windshield wiper! My trip to that stinkin' museum had cost me $384 - and to think, I could have paid $7 and called it a day.

While happily munching on my grilled cheese at Campanile, I vowed to myself to pay for parking from now on. Thank you, City of Los Angeles. Consider this a lesson learned.

Turn Up the Tunes - We've Got Canyons to Conquer!

Long drives call for a wide selection of of good music. And after a morning like mine, a long drive and good music was just what I needed.

My brother, my former guitar player and partner in crime, moved back to New York today. He fell in love with a girl and followed his heart all the way back to Long Island. I've been moody and mopey about it for a week now, and after dropping him off LAX this morning, I felt as though my heart was torn to shreds and my brain steamrollered. Dramatic, I know, but it's how I felt.

I let the force guide me as I slowly rolled out of the airport and back into this sprawling suburb of a city. Onwards we drove, past Temescal Canyon with Breaker blaring, towards the Pacific Ocean. "Right on PCH", a voice whispered. I obeyed. And with the change of scenery, a change of music was necessary. Red Hot Chili Peppers always do me right, and the Mars disc of "Stadium Arcadium" was the perfect accompaniment for a ride through the beautiful beach front town of Malibu. 

The going was good so I kept on going. A little Steve Miller Band for Oxnard, and then David Bowie for my Oceanside moment of reflection. I sat there and took in the surf, the salt air, wondering if it was time to call it quits. "Keep going", the voice urged. I criss-crossed the canyons. Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers for Kanan Rd., where I scoped out my dream house, a gem hidden among the hilltops of the Santa Monica Mountains. Through Malibu Canyon with the Smashing Pumpkins; Topanga Canyon with John Frusciante; and on home through Laurel Canyon with the Harry Potter score. 

Half a tank of gas later, here I am. Feeling at peace with what has transpired. Knowing that the only way out is through, so I've got to keep moving. Keep moving.