Once More with a Modicum of Style: A Brief History of the All New L.A. Bizarro

12 years and a smattering of months ago, Matt Maranian and I were sitting on a plush couch in Chateau Marmont, surrounded by well-wishers like Bill Maher and Richard Lewis as our first book was launched with full-fledged fanfare. It was an ugly little morsel, both visually and materially, that was being met with nothing less than enthusiastic response. Within weeks it climbed to the #1 spot on the L.A. Times non-fiction list. Bookstores sold out as soon as shipments came in. Reviews--what few we received--were decent. Our mugs turned up on CNN and local news shows alike. Our mellifluous voices drifted from the radio.  

L.A. Bizarro had arrived.

Then, just in time for the holiday season, the book vanished from shelves. Printing enough copies for eager gift givers just slipped the publisher's mind. And the scarcity continued into the new year, until bookstores and readers alike kind of forgot about the strange little bastard and moved on to sleazier pastures. Nevertheless, over the ensuing decade, the book enjoyed more than 20 printings, and became a cult favorite. It was hard to run into someone in L.A. who had not heard of the book; some claimed it changed their lives.

Matt and I went our separate ways, partly because Matt was moving to Vermont and partly because I was either nodding off at our signings or slobbering on fans at our readings. I had to wear sunglasses on one early morning news show (at 5 AM) just to keep the anchorchick from bolting.
Live television is nerve-racking--unless you sleep through most of it, as I did, awakening only to blurt out slurred and obtuse observations about local abattoirs and poultry gravesites. On another show, the amiable newscasters gave up on me altogether and directed all their questions to Matt. Or was it the same show? It's all a fuzzy wuzzy blur.

So it should have come as no surprise that our parting was anything but amicable (a pattern I now realize has oft been repeated in my life, thus explaining my utter lack of friends). Unfortunately, I was completely oblivious to the fact that Matt was perturbed to be playing the straight man, and it took almost a decade for him to speak to me again--a decision I predict he will come to thoroughly regret.

Interestingly, Matt first had no interest in doing a new L.A. Bizarro. He had nothing but bad memories (aside from my misbehavior, we were burned seven ways to Sunday by numerous parties) and better things to do with his time than write another low-paying sequel. He gave me his blessing and said the the title was mine to do with as I pleased. Of course, I did nothing. The subject was dropped for a year or so, and in that time, Matt apparently warmed to the idea. The next time we spoke, he was up for an L.A. Bizarro update.

And that's all it was going to be at first. An update. Throw out the places that had closed, clean up our sloppy writing (which we found incredibly awful--our publisher didn't see the need for a copy editor), add a few new photos, and we'd be done.

Instead, we rewrote every entry in the book, added about 70% new material, took all new photos, and ended up with a book almost twice as long and four times as legible as the original.  It was a project that took almost two years to complete. Thanks to Chronicle Books (who is NOT our previous publisher), it's now available worldwide.

Though we won't be enjoying any star-studded parties at the Chateau (or anywhere for that matter), we're hoping for a reading/signing here or there if Matt can pry himself away from Boomerang, his Vermont clothing store and come to L.A. We're also open to the occasional plug on TV and radio--especially the latter since I'm agoraphobic (yes, it is ironic isn't it?)and it's easy to get us both on the phone.

You can find the book at many fine local L.A. bookstores, or order it online through our website , which we hope to launch in full bloom any day now. Currently the website only touts the book, but soon there will be a place where you can post your own bizarro experiences, read our blogs and new reviews, network socially, and buy vicodin from foreign pharmacies.

Just wanted to make sure you were still reading.

Sanitized for your protection

There's a brilliant cartoonist on the scene who is finally getting his kudos. His name is Snappy Del Rio. His unique style (which predates that of David Rees) combines intellectual existentialism with ontological solipsism, with just a dash of 4th grade potty humor thrown in for good measure. Here's his latest strip "Sanitary Adult Comics," published in the prominent trade publication, AVN.

Click on the strip to see it close up.

I Buy My Clothes at the Liquor Store

It's true. I buy my clothes at the crappy liquor store behind the shuttered discount bread outlet, just down the sidewalk from Sunny's Saloon, a noteworthy bikini bar. There's a high school up the street and a Carl's Jr. just across the parking lot. In the afternoon it's a great spot to watch the collection of zaftig teenage latinas, stuffed into their skintight stretch outfits like so much chorizo, as they meticulously apply mounds of eye make-up in the shade of the bus stop. Sure beats the pants off going to a mall, which is where they are undoubtedly heading.

I don't buy all my clothes at the liquor store. Only my shorts, men's mesh basketball and plaid surfer varieties that come just below my knees, which is how I like it. The shorts are displayed on a low rail that runs the the length of the ten-foot wall of bulletproof glass that separates the family of Korean owners from the rest of the world. These shorts aren't incredibly baggy kind or even stylish, but for $7.99 I'm not complaining; the elastic waist ensure a fit for even a fat slob like me. The size selection is hit and miss, as is the accuracy of the sizes themselves. I own an XL, XXL, and XXL of the exact same style of short, and there is very little difference between them--in fact, the XXL and XXXL appear to be exactly the same. (Note to Chinese clothing manufacturers: Putting more X's on the label does not magically make the shorts larger. You actually have to use more fabric.)

After buying a pair on whim, I tried to find them on the web, thinking I could order a gross from Amazon and be set for life. No dice.

And I'm kind of happy it turned out that way. Now, when I stop at the liquor store every morning for my 24-ounce Monster Khaos, I'm filled with the same kind of giddy anticipation I experienced as a kid on Christmas morning. What will be waiting for me on that rack of cheap Chinese wonders? And will it fit?

Make Mine a Double

Years ago, when I was much younger, I spent a weekend in San Francisco at the behest of a few friends who were involved in the yearly Gay & Lesbian Film Festival. It would be the first time I would meet John Waters, and salvage a discarded pack of his Kool cigarettes, which still hang, framed, in the home of my writing partner.

But that's another story.

It was the late 80's, and thanks in part to the movie "Cocktail," complicated mixed drinks were enjoying something of a Renaissance. So it was there, in San Francisco, after a night of very heavy drinking at a long-forgotten bar in the Castro, where I came up with a unique variation of the martini that I hoped (in my inebriated state) would become the next big thing not only for gay drinkers, but for middle-aged Chippendale hausfraus, and free-thinking alcoholics everywhere.

The drink is prepared in exactly in the same manner as any dry martini (I prefer gin, but vodka works, too), with a very special ingredient added at the end: after the drink has been poured in the serving glass, the bartender pulls down his pants and proceeds to "teabag" the elixir before popping in an olive and serving it. The teabagging doesnot have to involve full immersion--that could create a nasty spill--but the bottom half of the mixologist's scrotum should at least be glistening with liquor once the task is completed.

With the aid of a twenty dollar bill, talking the bartender into it was surprisingly easy. As he climbed up on the bar, unhitched his chaps, and straddled the dainty glass, the din of the bar evaporated into silence. It was over in the blink of an eye, but history had been made and everyone there knew it. Applause and cheers erupted in the room as if the clock had just rolled over into a New Year. My friend took the drink, examined it playfully, and, as he plucked a coarse black pube from the rim, asked me what I called this brave new beverage.

"I call it..."The Scrotini," I said.

He gazed at me with a mixture of pride and disgust, then brought the drink to his lips and took a long, slow sip. He gave me a knowing smile. "Not bad for a breeder," he said, and offered me a sip. When I politely declined, the bartender scowled. "Pussy," he muttered under his breath.

Soon the Scrotini had taken the Castro by storm.

Forget Tom Cruise in "Cocktail." You hadn't seen anything until you'd witnessed a bartender leap-frogging a dozen martinis, leather pants around his ankles, deftly dangling his jewels in each concoction, and, depending on his grooming habits, imparting a flavor described by many as familiar yet indescribable. In one BDsM bar, the mixologist went so far as create his own variation on the Scrotini, which he dubbed "The Flaming Scrotini." His gimmick was to light his sack on fire, albeit briefly, before serving the drink(s). He said this proved he had not skimped on the teabagging, but frankly, I think he just liked the feeling. Another bartender used a thick blue rubber band--the kind employed on broccoli stalks--to tie off his testicles until they turned a disturbing shade of blue. This, of course, was "The Blue Balls Scrotini." Soon there were more variations on the drink than one could imagine, some as inventive as they were unhealthy.

And so it came as no surprise that the perennial party pooper known as The Board of Health soon came down with all its weight on the Scrotini and all its variants, ending the trend before it had truly blossomed.

Still, in private homes across this great land, voyeurs can occasionally glimpse a familiar shadow on the wall or silhouetted against the blinds. The squatting man, the small gasps of joy, the clinking of martini glasses can only mean one thing.

The Scrotini lives on.

Beyond the Palin: A Nation of Masochists

Last week I wrote an amusing blog about Sarah Palin because I found her...amusing.

Then I watched the Republican convention.









I am no longer amused.

A feeling of dread has seeped into my bones, not unlike the one I experienced late in 2000 and 2oo4. As much as I wanted Gore and Kerry to win, I had a sense that Bush would beat them, one way or another.

I'm starting to get that feeling again with McCain, especially following the introduction of Palin to the ticket. Predicting the American electorate is not that hard, really. It's a lot like sitting in a mental ward and predicting whether or not that girl with the cigarette and all the burn marks on her thigh is going to snuff out another one on her leg.

Tsssssssss! There she goes again.

It seems to me that a slight majority of Americans are masochists who would rather suffer through more of the same than face the unpleasant reality that change encompasses. They are masochists in that they are stubborn to the point of self-destruction. Or, to use the AA analogy, it would appear that most of us are in denial about our problems, and won't do anything about it until we hit "rock bottom." Unfortunately for the rest of us, there's no telling whether this crowd sees "rock bottom" and "apocalypse" as being synonymous.

You know these folks: They are the ones who will continue driving in circles rather than admit they are lost. They are the ones incapable of ever admitting they are wrong, even when faced with a mountain of evidence. They are the ones who, when caught in a lie, will grab the shovel and dig deeper rather than tell the truth.

They are the Donner Party, only instead of eating each other, they eat us.

At first, Palin's nomination appeared to be a colossal fiasco. The question that seemed to resonate from both sides of the idelogical fence was the same: Could McCain really be that callow and that out of touch with reality? For true believers, the answer, of course, was no. And so came the swelling of support that culminated in jaw-dropping welcome she received at the Republican convention.

That afternoon, before watching her speech, I joked about her being a VPILF. That night, after turning off the TV, I felt a brief, albeit fleeting, connection to Albert DeSalvo.

Take away the Y chromosome, add some lipstick, and she is Bush. Only worse.

I've always felt that this election was going to be close, and should it swing to the GOP, I would be able to take some solace in the fact that McCain, of all the evils offered up but his party this year, was the least of the bunch. I reminded myself how I actually kind of liked him a decade ago, and talked myself into believing that his flip-flopping and buddying up with Bush and other right wing wackjobs was just a political ploy to get elected. And if he got elected, he would drop the mask and the old John McCain, the one that actually was independent and had balls, would step into the spotlight.

I lost all hope of that with Palin. Now, as they tour the country on The Straight Poop Express, I see exactly what kind of man McCain has become, what kind of woman Palin is, and how weakly the American press bats at their barrage of lies, like a disinterested cat with a worn-out ball of string. I see conservatives "fired up" by this duo, and when Palin's qualifications and character are called into question, the become even more energized. What may very well have begun as a fatal blunder has turned into what appears to be an exquisitely cynical but effective work of genius. Even if it was not intended as such, that is how it's being played, and the press is going along with it. Anybody remenber a guy named Dan Quayle?

If Obama and Biden lose, it will not be because they are unqualified or because they ran a bad campaign. If they lose--and I believe that possibility is increasing daily--it will be because they refused to play dirty in a game where there is no longer a referee, and the majority of the fans in the stands don't give a damn. They just want the sweet smell of victory, tinged with the scent of cigarette smoke and burning flesh.

The Emperor's New Clothes

Let me get this straight.

According to McCain, putting America first means lowering taxes, which means not being able to pay America's bills, which means not being able to afford programs aimed at helping Americans.

Putting America first means giving tax cuts to the wealthy and businesses who, of course, could never be accused of having a "me first" attitude. People like...John McCain and his heiress wife, Cindy.


Putting America first is about asking Americans to sacrifice their lives for a war a vast majority admit was a huge mistake, but which, for some reason, would bring us disgrace if we end it without "winning." On the other hand, putting America First is not about asking the wealthy and businesses (who enjoy the lowest taxes since the 1930's) to sacrifice a little more money for the sake of their country and its crippling deficit. That, after all, would be a selfish, "me first" thing to do, unlike asking someone to give their life for country.


Tonight in his acceptance speech, McCain said "And let me offer an advance warning to the old, big-spending, do-nothing, me-first, country-second Washington crowd: Change is coming." I know he must have meant the Democratic congress, but it sounds a lot more like Bush, Cheney, and the Republicans to me. They've been using this bullshit tactic for years. It worked for Reagan, who raised taxes more than he reduced them, and plummeted us into incalculable debt after running on the promise of a balanced budget. Bush, Rove, and Cheney followed the same roadmap and captured eight years in the White House based on bald-faced lies.

I just watched McCain do the same, albeit in a kinder, gentler tone than his smug, sarcastic, condescending "pitbull with lipstick" Veep, Mrs. Palin, who is basically G.W. Bush with a vagina and nice legs.

In their consummate lying, they have proven themselves to be true Republicans, which is why I would not be surprised if they win this election. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

McCain may have distanced himself from Bush's administration and failed policies tonight, but he also proved he is cut from exactly the same cloth: the kind used to make the Emperor's new clothes.

DAWN OF THE VPILF

Let's face it, Sarah Palin may very well become the country's first VPILF.



Personally, I have to commend McCain for his brilliantly evil choice of a well-spoken, energetic, sexy middle-aged woman as VP. The fact that her 17-year-old daughter is either unaware or apathetic about the existence of birth control is only made better by the fact that Republicans gave Palin an extra two minutes of applause last night at the convention because her unmarried teen daughter is knocked-up. Were it to have come out that Palin had to muddle through a period of her life with the assistance of welfare, that would have garnered her another two minutes of applause. Any tidbit that would be used as a curse against a democrat only makes Palin stronger and more loved, because conservatives are not about to be wrong on this one, no matter what is revealed about her. This is where their obstinate tunnel-vision comes in handy. It's too late. They have to love her.

I do, too, but for different reasons.

As a liberal, I am already tired of other liberals who get offended by any mention of Sarah Palin and sexuality, as if we're not supposed to notice that she's attractive. Yes, it has nothing to do with her qualifications, but nor does it somehow diminish her accomplishments, which, frankly, I find less impressive than her hotness. So while I would not care to see her in the White House, a porno movie is another matter.

In fact, one of the first things I noticed about Palin is her resemblance to porn star Eva Angelina, right down the glasses.



The great thing about Eva Angelina is that she can play both Sarah and daughter Bristol in "Laying Pipe: The Uncensored Sarah Palin Story."

I predict it will be available for whacking by the weekend.

I have a Y chromosome. Sue me.