Sunday, June 29, 2008


I am at The Hair God's house, hanging out while he waits for his client.  I have known The Hair God for about nine years, since we worked on an ABC MOW (movie of the week) together back in 1999.  He is one of those people that from the moment we met, I knew we would be friends for life.

At the time he was seriously addicted to drugs, but within a year he would check into Betty Ford and become sober.  Over the years he has completely turned his life around- filing all of his back taxes, paying off debts both financial and emotional, and becoming one of the best hairdressers in the film industry, and in my opinion, the best colourist in the world.  When he isn't on a show he takes selective clients, mostly from the industry.

The client we are waiting for is his signature client, Makeup Xtraordinaire.  Her hair is her signature. They change the colours and patterns every time, and it is always different and always amazing. She is on his business cards and in some circles he is known not as The Hair God, but as "the guy who does Makeup Xtraordinaire's hair."  She is a make-up artist and on more than one occasion a celebrity client has tried to copy her hair colour and design.

While we wait we talk about sex (what else?) and in particular gay sex.  The Hair God is shocked to learn that I do not know what glory holes are.

"In the bath houses--" he begins.

"Well, see, how could I know, they won't even let women in to bath houses," I interrupt.

He raises a disapproving eyebrow at my interruption.

"In the bath houses," he begins again patiently, "there are holes in the walls at waist level.  You can walk by them and see if a cock you like is sticking out and get fucked.  Or if there is a nice hole on the other end you can fuck it."

The Hair God doesn't go to bath houses anymore, not since his sobriety.  But it seems likely that glory holes are still a popular attraction.  IMO, gay sex is just male sex without women involved.  Most men, gay or straight, like indiscriminate, unattached sex, or at the very at least, the idea of indiscriminate, unattached sex.

We turn our conversation to more socially acceptable topics as Makeup Xtraordinaire arrives.  It has been eleven weeks since she's had her hair done and her roots are showing.  This is the longest she has ever gone without getting colour.  (The Hair God was on a long show out of town.)

First her roots must be bleached in order to be ready to accept the new colours.  An emergency call must be made to the local beauty supply for cuticle sealer-- you can't shampoo hair for three days after you colour it.  You can use vinegar to close the cuticle, but a good sealer is better.  Thankfully the beauty supply delivers and they bring it right over.

Because they both work in the industry, the looming threat of an actor's strike is a hot topic of conversation.  There is a lot going on that isn't in the news.  For instance, during the writer's strike the studios cleaned house.  Many support staffers were fired or laid off-- custodial, secretarial, food service-- and many were close to retirement.  The Hair God believes the studios did this so that they wouldn't have to pay benefits.

In the film industry there are people that work "above the line" and everyone else works "below the line".  Above the line are the people in the head credits- the producers, actors, and some high level production jobs like Production Designer, etc.  Most of the people I know work below the line and many people feel that that the studios want another strike so that they can clean house some more.  Gotta keep the profits for the no-talent, uncreative, suck-ass producers, and the greedy, ego inflated celebrities.

The industry makes so much money that there really is no reason for all of this greed.  But so many people in Hollywood (the industry, not that actual city) feel that there entire self-worth is based on how much they have.  And if someone else has more, well, than they want more too.  There are a lot of really neurotic personalities in the upper echelon of the film industry, and a culture of extravagance and entitlement that is truly appalling.

During colour application food is ordered and the depressing talk about the strike is 86'ed.  Makeup Xtraordinaire hand feeds The Hair God as he applies the various shades and wraps each section of hair in foil.  I laugh at how easily they do this.

"What?" The Hair God asks me.

"I wish I had a picture of Makeup Xtraordinaire feeding you chips and guacamole without missing a beat."

All three of us laugh.

"We've been doing this for over 13 years now!"  Makeup Xtraordinaire responds.

The process takes almost 8 hours from start to finish.  But it is worth it.  The palette and patterns reminds me of an acid trip.  I dub it the LSD design.  The colours are true and bright and perfectly layered in six sections-- three top to bottom, and three horizontally- the left side, back, and right side.

I want to be part of the creative process so I sweep the floor and clean up while Makeup Xtraordinaire preps for photos.

We go outside to take pictures and really admire the colours.

"This is the best one yet," I proclaim.  

"Every time is the best time," Makeup Xtraordinaire agrees with me.  "It's always different, always a surprise.  We've never done the same thing twice."


Wednesday, June 25, 2008


My friend Enigma and I went to the beach on Monday.  We went in the morning, before the crowd arrived.  It was a hot day in most of Los Angeles.  The wind was really strong at the beach, which made it a very sandy experience, but nice and cool.  

We went to Leo Carillo, but we couldn't go in the caves because the tide was too strong.  We had planned to do a ritual to release some old karma and obstacles (mostly from old relationships, what else?).  One thing Enigma had wanted to do was burn an old love note.  We were going to cast a circle and all that.  But then it was so windy, and we couldn't go in the caves for cover.

Enigma started taking photos and I went to sit on some rocks and just let the pounding surf cleanse me.  I believe that if you sit on the beach long enough, everything will be taken out of you but yourself- the only thing that needs to remain.  The sound of the earth's heartbeat is like natural meditation.  You cannot hold onto anything unnecessary when you listen to the surf.

I found myself almost unconsciously collecting little stones that were within reach and creating small circles and patterns with them.  Witchcraft is not a religion at the beach, it is a conversation; a dialogue you have with sun, sand, wave, and wind.

"Is that for the witchcraft Circle?"  Enigma asked, as she sat down beside me and admired my handiwork.

"You know, we probably don't even need all the ritual," I answered.  "Let's just let all of these big heavy burdens be something so insignificant that we just throw them in the trashcan as we leave."

Enigma felt like her note still needed to be burned with ceremony.  We decided to go in search of an alcove or protected area after we had absorbed enough of the beauty before us.

We chit-chatted idly. I always learn stuff from Enigma.  For instance, lesbians always wipe their mouths after they eat pussy.

"Most guys love the dripping cum mouth."

"Really?" She asked me, incredulously.  "Why?"

"They love getting their load all over everything.  Like you are over filled with their manly juices.  They love shooting off on everything- breasts, ass, face, mouth."

"Will most guys kiss you after you go down on them?"

"Most, yeah."

Lesbians are also not into bald pussy.  Trimming is big, but not shaving or waxing.  Enigma does sleep with men occasionally.  But it is just sex, never anything emotional.  

"Breeder sex is kind of boring," she informs me.  "I have toys all over my house.  And sex between two women is never a 3 minute affair."  Later that day I will almost trip over a dildo in her apartment.  She's not kidding.

Flocks of pelicans were out hunting.  They would fly overhead and then dip down to just inches above the waves, flying low and slow, wings steady.  They looked like Star Wars spaceship cruisers.  They were unearthly, stunning, and perfect.

We couldn't stay for long, we both had other things to do that day.  When we got to the car I remembered Enigma's love note.

"It's just something to throw away," I said.  "We don't need the ritual.  There is no past or future at the beach, just now."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "I don't want to make a big deal about it anymore.  That relationship is over."

There is no bullshit in life that can't be released by a couple of hours watching the waves and wildlife of the beach.  

Enigma wadded up the note and dropped it in the trashcan without hesitation or ceremony.  As she did, another flock of pelicans flew overhead in perfect formation.  As one unit they descended on the waves and hovered, low and slow, wings outspread and steady, but otherwise motionless.  We paused to watch them until they flew out of sight.

"Wow," Enigma breathed.

"Yeah," I agreed.

We got in the car to drive home. And since we'd left all of our burdens and bullshit from the past at the beach, we were able to carry some of the magick of the morning back with us to the real world.


Sunday, June 22, 2008


I wonder if I can ever get all of the different parts of me to fit into one location.  I miss my hometown, but I like myself better in Los Angeles.  I like my life better here. I just needed to slow down I guess.  

My friend "The Lizard" took the photo below.  We had an informal memorial for someone we knew that died 20 years ago (6/08/88).  This included watching videos of said departed friend, worshipping in the church of mystical botany, lying in the grass in the backyard looking at the stars and planets, playing video games, and taking pictures of my breasts.

I also learned how to play the D chord and the first few bars of Led Zeppelin's THANK YOU.  

The Lizard usually has animal friends in the neighborhood.  In the past he's befriended a bluebird, pigeon, dove, crow, racoon, squirrel, possum, rat, and lizard.  At this house he's got a red squirrel that takes hazelnuts from his hand, and waits for him in the afternoon.  

It's been really hot, 110 degrees, but I still love being back.  


Friday, June 06, 2008


I went to see the eagerly awaited SEX & THE CITY movie last weekend. In my other life I am Candice Bushnell (the author of the real Sex and the City columns that the show was based on). Actually, I think I am half Candice Bushnell and half witch. Or something like that. Anyhow, I love her.

Before I tear this movie apart, let me say that I did enjoy watching it, if only to see the Girls again. And that hunky Smith. My friend that I went to see it with really liked it and disagreed with me that the script was awful. I think all the other women in the theatre probably felt like my friend.

It doesn't appear that Bushnell even went to the New York premiere. There are no photos of her attending, and you know she would have worn something fabulous. After seeing the movie I think I know why.

Michael Patrick King wrote the script, and it was Big's wedding in the movie, not Carrie's. She'd been with the man for ten years, she would have had an armed escort waiting to take him to the Library for the wedding.

No labels? Please. Carrie deserved nothing less than to walk down the aisle in that Vera Wang dress. And that crap with Miranda being responsible for Big's freak out? Pretty please with f**king sugar on top. Did Michael Patrick King get divorced recently or something? WTF was that? It wasn't even in character for Miranda or Carrie.

Here's my script: Carrie decides to give Big his wedding. She buys the label-less suit from the vintage shop. The date is set for sometime in the future. The struggles and joys the other cast members are going through take up much of her time, as she is not focusing on her wedding that much. She shrugs it off when the girls try to bring it up.

Carrie, not Big, gets cold feet. It just doesn't feel right to her. She backs out. She and her friends go to Mexico. She tries to live without Big, but it just isn't working out. The real clincher comes from an email photo of Louise's wedding dress. Carrie cries when she sees "Saint Louise" in her beautiful bridal gown.

The shoes left at the apartment worked well in the movie, and they would work in my story too. But when she sees Big back there they argue and Carrie let's fly that it just didn't feel right without the fairy tale wedding. She is as shocked at this revelation as he is. She didn't think she needed the big wedding if she had the Big man. But in every woman there is a Princess in a Vera Wang gown with a long train and fabulous pair of Manolo's.

Big slips the shoe on her foot, and then whirlwind wedding preparations-- montage of the decorating, dresses, etc-- intercut the library filling with each thing as it is chosen, including the guest list- intercutting people appearing in their seats.

Stop the montage for the wedding party, and end with the happily ever after.

Goddess, Hollywood needs me...