This is rich

It seems that another porn-obsessed white guy has found a new threat the the nations youths: iPorn.

Yes, little Johnny and Jenny aren't just using that iPod to get parent approved tunes on there, they're downloading "Debbie Does Dallas".

He writes However, the ability of parents to monitor is seriously undermined if their children quickly can download adult content onto their iPods and then take it away from the home for easy viewing elsewhere

Currently, the only thing you can download to the iPod is from the iTunes music store. Access to the store can be limited by parents. If little Johnny has figured out how to rip a DVD and stuff it onto his iPod, by-passing DRM's and coding it so it will actually play, well, you have one problem with him watching porn, but then again, he is ready for M.I.T.. So that's something.

He continues Yet, iPods are becoming so ubiquitous and are so small, they are an easy vehicle for bringing pornography into the workplace. Employees discreetly could try to view pornography away from the watch of others.

Only by people who are seriously looking to get fired. Most companies are more interested in what you are putting on thier machines, not yours. That's why they block you from downloading or attaching practically anything. If I turn off my computer I have to have IT come and re-attach my CDRW drive that I use for work.

He makes the point that parents should closely monitor what kids put on their pods. I'm not a parent, but I think of little Johnny got it together to purchase himself a $300 iPod (because the most he'd get from cheapo Pansy is a Shuffle), he's adult enough to be trusted not to have stuff he shouldn't on there. Or at least discreet enough to keep it to himself.

Maybe it's best I'm not a parent. I'd be more disturbed by little Johnny wanting a copy of "Carmaggedon" or "Grand Theft Auto" than video of people boinking.

And now for something that's not a big fat whinge

two posts in one night? Christmas in November!

On my way home today, I got off the bus at the Pacific Design Center to see the exhibition of William Haines furniture. Really beautiful stuff- Billy Haines practically created the whole Hollywood Moderne thing, but his undeniable talent and 50 year career as a decorator is only part of the story.

Movie star Billy Haines was to the 20's what, well I don't know who is to the present. He was huge. He was one of MGM's biggest male stars, specialising in roles that played up his boyish. althletic, all-American image. During one of his movies, he fell in love with his stand-in, Jimmy Shelds. They moved in together in 1923. Despite pressure from the studio, he refused to cover up his homosexuality by getting married, even though his friend Joan Crawford offered. Finally, in the early 30's. Studio boss Louis Mayer gave Haines an ultimatum: he could give up Jimmy, or give up Metro. Billy told him in no uncertian terms: "I'll leave Jimmy if you leave your wife"

Can you imagine the stones? Never mind doing it in 2004, with at least some semblance of civil rights, equal protection under the law (at least for now), and some states allowing gay marriage- this was seventy years ago. Being killed for this "sin" was not exactly looked upon as a bad thing.

Imagine a big Hollywood star today walking away from that....

Luckily, Billy had his side business. He and Jimmy had bought an antique shop in 1930 and had made some money; their customers went from just buying the furniture to asking advice on how to decorate. His friend Joan Crawford was one of the first to hire him to decorate her Brentwood house. He redecorated it over the years and they remained the best of friends; she was known to quip "the happiest marriage I've seen in Hollywood is Billy Haines and Jimmy Shields".

Billy designed homes for Crawford, Claudette Colbert, Marion Davies, Bette Davis, George Cukor, Lionel Barrymore, Carole Lombard, Ronald Reagan, and Jack Warner (if not Louis Mayer). They also designed the London home of the US ambassador Walter Annenberg, Winfield House.

Haines died in 1973 of cancer, Jimmy, unable to live without him, took his own life a few months later.

Sometimes in these days when people are able to pretty much (at least here in the US {for now}, as opposed to Iran) able to live our lives with a some sense of freedom from persecution, we forget that some people made the simple act of being true to themselves a courageous act.

Some of you (all five of you...) know that I am really into cars. REALLY into them. Not so much that I clip pictures and paste them up in my cubicle, but enough that I peruse all of the car mags and several of the websites. For some reason this has landed me on several mailing lists that have allowed me to go off to various events and drive some serious iron: Mercedes and Cadillac have both invited me to drive their best, and at one GM event (sparsely attended because of a morning downpour) I got to drive a new Corvette with the following instructions from the GM guy in the seat next to me: "Keep it in first and stand on the gas until I tell you to brake. If you wreck it, I'll take responsibility"

Is there more of a way to release the inner 5 year old?

Of course, I'd never buy one of those things- I'm just too cheap. I grind my teeth writing the check to the insurance company as it is, and I don't want to give up the feeling of smug superiority that using 8 gallons to go 200-odd miles gives you (cheap and smug, how does he remain single?)

Having said that I wrestled the LA Times to the ground last Thursday and saw that the public was being invited to preview the 2007 Escalade at it's premier at the 2 Rodeo mall in Beverly Hills. Usually, I hate SUV's: I find it the epitome of irony that Boomers railed against their parent's giant gas-guzzling chrome laden dinosaurs now drive something that makes a '79 Chevy look like a Honda, but I have an soft spot for Cadillacs. Especially the new ones. Their fractal styling I find refreshing after years of jellybean cars, and the roadster one I drove made me wish for Lotto winnings.

So, I wandered over to take a look.

Well, it was a gorgeous SUV. Really pretty and looked well put together. Makes the old one look like a Model T. Not for me, but I'm sure it'll sell.

But where they really dropped the ball was the whole "event" One Escalade (white and gorgeous) was merely parked at the end of the fake street that bisects the 2 Rodeo mall. No signs, nobody from Cadillac nearby to tell people about it, no nothing. There were people all over the car, even though it looked as if the Valet had just parked it there by mistake and
wandered off to Il Fornaio for a coffee. Would it have killed them to have someone there, at least to direct people to the storefont down Rodeo where the other cars were? Guess so. At first I thought it was because I got there at the very start of the event, so I decided to drop back later. Same deal.

Walking down the street, you got to a storefront. The window has a gorgeous XLR-V in it, and the store has been christened "Chrome Couture" (how cute). There was a woman outside in a black suit, who I think may have been from GM, but since she was staring off into space, I wan't sure. But then I remembered seeing her earlier at ten AM, so unless she was comatose, she worked there. She certainly wasn't making eye contact with anyone, or smiling. I went in. There was a BHPD officer in a chair chatting with someone else in a black suit next to the (stunning-really stunning) XLR-V roadster. There was another black suit standing by a desk by the door. None of them remotely noted my existence.

The thing that came to mind was "why'd they bother?" The only thing I could think of was that thay had the
store for a whole week, so at the last minute, they decided to "invite" the public. Invite them, but treat them like worse-than-D-list. I mean, I realise that I'm not Kanye West or Paris Hilton so I can't be invited to the cool-kids party, but I was there. Isn't that the point?

Granted, I'm not an MBA or a marketing genius, but if the people you are paying to host this event in your name and
represent your company (and may even work for you) cannot pretend to be excited enough about your new cars to actually greet someone who came in to your "store", or at least not act so very put out that they are forced to interact with the hoi-polloi when they were so recently rubbing shoulders with Tara Reid, then why the hell should I get excited about them?

What a freaking waste.

Not so little boxes....





This is an image posted by a friend who moved to
Western Pennsylvania. She may have thought that she was getting away from the Mansionization capital of the universe, but nooooooooooo, it just was a little slower to get to her.

Firstly, I will never for the life of me understand people that feel the need to move to a certain area only to totally wipe out any vestige of that area's original appeal. I've seen it all over the US. What little sense it may make in beautiful Beverly Hills to move into a neighborhood filled with gorgeous little story-book cottages so dripping with cuteness and original detail that you have an urge to burp them, (I guess if you dropped 2 million on the place, you might want more than 2 bedrooms and "original charm" ends at 1927 wiring) only to shoehorn in some huge box that usually has all the grace, style and architectural significance of your local strip-mall, I can't get why people feel the need to go out into the woods, clear cut a few acres, slap up a thyroidal monster in that ever present mish-mash of neo-Colonial French country and Meditterrifyingly bad hash that looks just as ridiculously stage-set-like whether it's in Boise, Bel Air of Bala Cynwyd.

What is it that caused this shift in tastes? (He types, getting out his grumpy old man trousers) What happened that seemingly everybody in America feels that it's not only their right, but their duty to have a two-story foyer, "Great Room" and separate bath for the pets? Why on earth would someone move to say, Scottsdale, which has some of the most glorious desert terrain imaginable, and slap up a faux Ante-Bellum with an acre or rolling lawn and some live Oaks? Why not just move to the South if you just have to go home to Tara every night? Why move into a heavily forested country area, plow the ground flat and do the same thing? Just so you can have two extra bathrooms, a sub-zero and enough room to dock your giant Ford ExxonValdez?

Do we need these houses, really? I wonder what's going to happen when tastes shift back (and what with the price of heating oil doubling this year, I think tastes may shift back faster than anybody thinks..). Since they are nothing even remotely specal architecturally, and the ones I've been in have all the quality of construction of a '78 Cordoba, I see a huge glut coming of ugly, big-ass houses that won't sell at half the original price...

I know I haven't posted much lately- I'll correct that soon.

In the mean time..

I just got back from a screening of "Brokeback Mountain". Having read and love the short story in the New Yorker, I didn't quite know what to expect. I like Ang Lee, but didn't really know whether he was the man for the job.

I couldn't have been more wrong. The film is a masterpiece. It will be remembered for years. The cast is uniformly excellent; and if Heath Ledger isn't nominated for an Oscar, the Academy is asleep at the switch.

I urge you to go see this- but bring Kleenex.

adding on

24 hours later and this movie is still hovering over me like a fog. I spoke to my friend who invited me to the screening and she's having much the same delayed reaction. While I didn't react much during the screening, stone-hearted me actually had a bit of a weep- especially after I re-read the short story upon which the movie was based. I was so moved by the infinite sadness of the thwarted lovers (even if the movie could be construed as presenting the relationship as more sexual obsession than true love) and the sadness of the women whose lives they touched that I feel, well, upset is the best word. That could be the fact that this is the first movie I've seen in quite a few decades that actually stayed with me for more than about three minutes after the lights came up, but I don't think so. I think the movie speaks to a universal truth- even if you might never have experienced that one perfect moment of pure happiness with another human being, it's something that we spend our lives looking for. To have found it and to have society, or fear, or happenstance or age take it away is that saddest thing imaginable. For me, this movie taps that like a keyboard.

Ageing sucks.

Not that any of you reading this hadn't come to this conclusion already, but I reiterate: ageing sucks. I've been particularly lucky, in that a combination of good genes and a credit line at Neiman Marcus has allowed me to maintain the visage of, well, less than middle age. But the signs are there- if I tried to pluck out all of the white hairs, I'd have bald spots. The knee that I dislocated in dance class in college (and if there's anything gayer than a dance-related injury, I can't think what it is at the moment) audibly clicks when I climb the stairs. It takes a lot more exercise and a lot more diet than it used to to maintain what I like to think of as a trim figure (shut up, you!). The looks from other guys are fewer and far between, and worst of all, the people at the grocery store now are firmly in the "sir" zone. Since I am not in the habit of going to Gelson's in chaps and a harness, a plain "thank you" will do, in case any checkers are reading.

I know that this is an inevitable thing: "Death Becomes Her" aside, there's no magic potion that reverses ageing (but if there is......). I also know that it's completely possible to remain engaged, happy, vivacious and active into years twice mine; as a matter of fact I will be seeing a friend of mine this weekend who is literally more than twice my age and embodies all of the above traits: a woman who met the love of her life in her 50's and at 92 is still full of vinegar and life and wonder.

On the other end of the scale, I met a couple of young boys who are staying with friends of mine. Barely 20, and really sweet: running around the country on their endless summer (really, isn't school in session now?) working where they can and generally bumming around. I spent some time with them the other day, they're lovely in that not-quite-fully-baked way that children on the edge of adulthood who are from certain families are. Nothing in life has conspired to whack them across the chops with a rolled up newspaper yet, so they look at every new thing and new person with the wide-eyed wonderment of a puppy.

I guess I am just noting that the part of me that was the puppy has been officially over. I'm not ready yet for Canine Senior, but I'm way past Puppy Chow.

If I only had a heart........

Many of you know that I don't have the closest relationship with my siblings. I have one sister who stayed back in Massachusetts, who seems perfectly keen on never speaking to either my brother or me again. I figure that whatever reason she has for this is her reason, and I don't press- if there's some wrong that I did, since I don't know what it is, an apology would sound pretty false. My brother and I have a more cordial relationship, but we aren't excactly close. I call him or he calls me every six months or so, and we usually chat desultorally about stuff until the conversation just sort of peters out. I've always told myself that there's the family that you are born to, and then there's the family you make. I have the family that I made, and frankly, I'd rather spend holidays with them. Not to say that I never want to see my brother face to face (or, god willing, face-lift to face); we're just comfortable where we are. So it was with more of a sense of duty ("Will I look like a complete asshole if I don't make that phone call when this hurricane I vaguely heard about hits near them? Uhhhh, Yup!") that I picked up the phone and hit speed dial. Bob was there, he and his wife were fine, they were not going to evacuate. The State of Mississippi said they needn't, apparently, and since Bob volunteers for the fire department in Bay St. Louis, he also felt he'd be needed. Bob is like that- he was that way as a kid, too. He wanted to be the one to charge into the disaster and help. I was the one who wanted to charge into Bergdorf Goodman, and well, charge. After about a half an hours talk about gadgets, cars, and other stuff, he signed off with his usual "love you, Bro"

When I woke up the next day and went into work and saw the reports of the damage, I experienced something that I have never experienced before and hope never to do so again: complete blind panic. Despite the fact that my brother and I had never best buddies, and had a realtionship that was pretty much covered by twice yearly phone calls and Christmas cards, I was totally pole-axed by the idea that he and his wife could have been washed away in the storm surge. Adding hellish gloss to this was the fact that technology managed to not only fail (no phones land or cell) to alleviate my dread, but to exacerbate it (live, clickable satellite photos showing the devasted coast of Missisippi). For days I plodded through my tasks at work, staring at that stupid screen, hating everybody who was asking me to give up an atom of my precious time to focus on anything but my needs (well, more than usual, anyhoo) Hating all of the pundits from FEMA who were sitting on their asses and turning away aid. Hating (even and yet more) our President, who did his Crawford version of Nero, strumming his guitar and eating birthday cake while New Orleans flooded. I didn't want to tell anybody about it, since I honestly felt that I would burst into tears at the mention; when one of my co-workers got it out of me I almost did. Lucklily, that last day (Friday) came news from a ham radio operator that my brother and his wife were safe. I've never wanted to do pretty much anything with a ham radio operator, but if I hit the lotto, dude, I am totally buying you a car. I've even spoken to my brother, at the Ramada Inn they are in. Lost everything, but they're alive, and insured.

There's a scene in the movie "The Women" where Joan Crawford tells Norma Shearer that Joan won't be able to break up Norma's marriage without her help. (Paraphrasing)"Not because he isn't crazy about me, he let's that old-fashioned sentiment put the indian sign on him"

It certainly put the indian sign on me real good......

On the funny side, my brother always painted Bay St Louis as being the back of the Bayou- Bob always wanted to appear as down-to-earth as he could get. Having been nearly wiped off the map, I've learned a lot about the town: it's Nan-freaking-tucket with a drawl. Loads of cute shops and antebellum manses (sadly, now heavily damaged). I used to think about it practically hearing the theme from "Deliverance" in my head. As one of my friends said, "Tom, I met your Mother, and apples just don't fall that far from the tree...."

Love you, but you're busted, Bro

Why I hate the Metro
The adventures of the Irrepressible Pansy Tham will return.

whether you like it or not...

I am one of the few people I know that actually commutes to work on public transportation. This is mostly due to the fact that the large corporation I work for has a deal where they will pay half the price of your bus pass, but will charge you to park. It's a carrot and stick deal, you see, and while I am personally averse to carrots, I am even more averse to sticks. So, I take the bus to work, and somtimes even on weekends to go out. That way I can go to Santa Monica without having to cope with trying to find a place to park or worry about moving the car every two hours.

I've had a long personal history with the Metro, at least through two major strikes, three name changes (do they think they're fooling us?), the construction of the subway (and subsequent destruction of parts of Hollywood), and the addition of the new "Rapid" buses.

The Metro has been working my nerves during this long history. They cancelled a line that I really liked that ran along San Vicente Boulevard (very scenic) that. admittedly may have been there solely so servants who worked in the big houses in Brentwood and Santa Monica had a way to work. It was usually me and about 25 women who were obviously cleaning women ar nannies. It was also one of the few busses that actually ran during the first transit strike I lived through in LA. I'm sure the fact that the then-mayor live in Brentwood had nothing, nothing at all to do with that.

Then they added the "Rapid" bus. They started out with Ventura Boulevard, which had no affect upon me, and on Wilshire, which did. "Rapid" buses make very few stops. The idea is that you get on in Whittier and make only about four stops before you get off in Santa Monica. Which is nice if you live in Whittier and crave a trip to the beach. The "Rapid" buses were fine for a while, but then the fine people at Metro came up with the bright idea to seperate each "Rapid" stop from it's lesser (and now a lot less frequent) local bus by putting it on the other side of the intersection. This means that commuters enjoy that wonderful Murphy's law effect on Wilshire. For instance, say I want to go to Santa Monica. I can either wait on one corner to see if the red ("Rapid") but I see way down Wilshire is A) stuffed to the gills or B) only going to Westwood, or C) both, or I can wait for a few years on the other corner to see if the orange (local) bus coming is actually going to Santa Monica, or just to Westwood. Invariably, after waiting long enough on one corner to need a haircut, I will switch to the other corner: the buses, who have clearly been in hiding will then release the gaggle of buses that I had been previously awaiting, which will pass me by, radioing any bus scheduled to stop at the stop I'm at that they should divert to Idaho until further notice.

I suppose there is some MBA in the Metro management that came up with this idea (most likely when he was driving into work in his Lexus), astounded by his own brilliance. I think he should be sentenced to having to commute from Covina on local buses only. It's almost as if the Metro's attitude is "If you live on the westside and don't have a car, you're too much of a loser to leave your neighborhood"

In any case, the Metro people are really enamored of these "Rapid" buses. Looking at the timetables, I can't see that they are doing much in the way of saving time for anyone but the drivers, finally giving them a green-light to gleefully pass up people who only want to get anywhere. They've been expanding the number of "Rapid" lines exponentially over the years, until last month when they finally hit me where I live: The Beverly Boulevard Bus has now been "Rapid"ed.

Previously, I could stumble out of my shower, get to the corner with the sure and certain knowledge that there will be at least three buses that will get me downtown reasonably close to early for work. Now, thanks to the MTA, I have one. I suppose I could walk the two places that the "Rapid" would deign to stop for me, but adding a half-hour walk onto my morning commute past 5 local stops makes as much sense as parking in Koreatown and walking the rest of the way. Plus it ensures that the one local bus that does come along is so choked with people by the time it hits downtown that it makes getting off the bus as easy as trying to extricate the middle anchovy from the can. Without opening it.

Personally, I think it's a plot. The car companies are behind it. They clearly want you to buy a car. Any car. And drive it everywhere

Pansy's scenic drive

So, early the next morning, I awoke, checked out of my hotel, and left Portland FOREVER. Well, maybe not forever, but I felt a little drama was needed, ya know? I got back on the 5 south and headed towards Los Angeles.

All of you who have been so far riveted will doubtless remember that I had said that there is nothing to see on the 5. You may ask yourself why I got back on that road. You may even ask me. Mostly because it's right in Portland. Duh. However, the first chance I got, I made a sharp right and went for the coast.

I took the 101 south through the Redwoods, stopping at the drive-though tree because, really, you just have to.

There are many sights in this country that are awe-inspiring in their loveliness. One of the big ones has to be the coast of Northern California.

For this reason, at Santa Rosa, I made a hard right and went to Bodega Bay. Many of you will remember Bodega Bay as the site that Hitchcock used as the small coastal town in "The Birds". In many ways it looks pretty much the same. The old restaurant has quintupled in size and is unrecognisable, but the old school is still there, with the house Suzanne Pleshette lived in right next to it (actually, that isn't in Bodega Bay, it's on the way into town in Bodega, a few miles inland)

Leaving Bodega Bay, I drove the coast route into San Francisco. This route was in the part of "The Birds" where we aee 'Tippi' Hedren piloting her Aston Martin to deliver her love birds to Rod Steiger at the beginning of the movie. If you are ever in Northern California for any reason whatever, you must, MUST make this drive. It's absolutely spectacular. A word to the wise: it was also the route they used in "Basic Instinct" for the white knuckle car chase between Sharon Stone and Michael Douglas. It's a tricky road with switchbacks and vertiginous drop-offs. Agoraphobics take note. I felt very un-'Tippi' in my giant sand-colored Toyota SuburboCruizer minivan, but I was glad I was getting to make this drive with pay.

I'd like to be able to tell you the rest of the scenic wonders that I experienced, but there really weren't any; the Golden Gate bridge was an experience, and San Francisco is, as always so agressively scenic you sometimes want to slug it. I could stayed the course and kept to the coast road, but it was getting towards dark and I had a holiday dinner to go to the next day. So I got back on the 101 and was back in my lovely home in the Industrial Triangle area of beautiful Beverly Hills in time for the 11 o'clock news.

I got into my house to find a message from the friendly gorgon. Thong World no longer needed my services. I'd been replaced.

Boo freakin' Hoo.

Now that you're all riveted....

So anyway, I delivered the sofa without much fanfare. For some reason, I didn't feel like exploring Seattle. I don't know why (Bill Gates? Mount St Helens? Starbucks?). So I went south to Portland, and found a hotel. The hotel was a rather cheap but clean affair east of the 5 in a neighborhood that was middle-eastern. The people who owned the place were very nice, and pointed me towards some very yummy and very cheap food. Which I availed myself of before I went to the Mecca, the Shangrila, the el Dorado for anyone who loves books: Powell's

Powell's is an enourmous place, having started out as a used bookstore in what was then a rather rundown neighborhood in northwest Portland. At one point, they came up with the great idea that they'd sell new and used books. Since that day in teh 70's, the place has grown like Topsy. One day when I have a lot of extra money, I want to go in there with my platinum card between my teeth and a U-Haul at the curb. I spent a few hours perusing, then herniated my way to the car under the weight of my (what I thought) meagre purchases. Luckily, there was a lot of room in the van.

Did I mention the van? A Toyota Sienna minivan in a tan color that must have been listed on the option sheet as "Champagne Inoffensive Metallic". Pay attention, because this will figure later in the story. There may be a quiz.

Next: Pansy takes the scenic route!