Slut Walk

Feminism: Organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests

SlutWalk first started in Toronto.

In January of 2011 Toronto police constable Michael Sanguinetti was invited to New York University to lecture to a group of young co-ed’s about safety and personal security. During the class Sanguinetti told the students who had gathered that: "Women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized."

Local feminists Sonya Barnett and Heather Jarvis were outraged: Sanguinetti's blame the victim mentality infuriated them along with the insinuation that women who are sexually assaulted are somehow responsible for their own rape. True, neither Barnett or Jarvis were at the event where Sanguinetti made his comment, but this didn’t stop them from deciding to do something about it. Sanguinetti and the Toronto police department apologized, but Barnett and Jarvis still weren't satisfied, and a week later both they and three of their friends organized a five woman march - or SlutWalk, to protest victim blaming, sexual profiling, and to reclaim the word “slut”.

A Facebook page was created, and via Twitter a social movement was born. SlutWalk didn’t have the "official" support of NOW (National Organization of Women) or other major feminist organizations, but that hardly mattered. The movement went viral and within weeks dozens of protests were organized throughout the United States and Canada, including Australia and South Africa. Although the movement started small, some marches have already gathered thousands of protesters, many of whom dress in corsets, stiletto high heels and fish net stockings in an effort to attract attention. For the first time in twenty years the feminist movement was no longer on the defensive. SlutWalk had given feminism a much needed shot of adrenaline.

In 1999 I was a part time substitute teacher who had recently completed my MA in U.S. history, but with no job prospects I’d leap at any chance to earn a little extra cash. I was contacted by Barbara Drake, editor of the Peoria Journal Star, who was on an assignment for the paper to interview famous people who had grown up in Peoria, Illinois. Drake was going to be in Washington D.C. to interview Betty Friedan, author of the Feminine Mystique and the official founder of the post World War II feminist movement. Drake informed me that my job was to make sure the tape cassettes ran smoothly and ensure the interview wasn’t interrupted – Friedan had a reputation for being difficult and Drake didn’t want anything to break up the flow of the interview. After Richard Pryor, Friedan was probably the 2nd most famous person to ever hail from Peoria, a city with just over 100,000 people surrounded by farmland in the heart of the Mid-West. I was curious to meet Friedan, who for me wasn’t so much a person but a piece of living history, for over 40 years a woman endlessly referenced in text books and articles by scholars and academics. Just as you can’t talk about the Theory of Evolution without invoking Darwin, or discuss the Communist Manifesto without referencing Marx, you can’t have any legitimate understanding of modern Feminism without discussing Betty Friedan.

And I was going to get to meet her!

Although Friedan was an intellectual and an activist who had successfully founded NOW and staged a victorious campaign to help legalize abortion, increase women’s wages and fight for paid maternity leave, Drake was more interested in interviewing her about her childhood and what it was like to grow up in Peoria. In other words, it was a “fluff” piece; Drake wasn’t interested in being adversarial, all she wanted to know was what it was like to have been born and raised in Peoria. The interview, if you’re interested, can be accessed here:

http://books.google.com/books?id=JXYStj1VHSoC&pg=PA181&lpg=PA181&dq=betty+friedan+peoria+journal+star&source=bl&ots=s22YiBL743&sig=0E47SvmehRLb9GXx9WByMKkhIKo&hl=en&ei=18D7TfiHHczRiAKC1eXsBA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=6&ved=0CDQQ6AEwBQ#v=onepage&q=betty%20friedan%20peoria%20journal%20star&f=false

Located in North West D.C., Friedan’s apartment was decorated in awards and honorary plaques, including a political cartoon of her dressed as a 19th century maid sweeping away playboy bunnies and Hugh Hefner, the caption reading: SWEEPING OUT THE TRASH! Friedan herself was frail but her mind was still sharp, eyes glittering in a weathered face. I set up the tape recorders as Drake introduced herself, asking Friedan questions about her childhood and what it was like to attend school in Peoria in the 1930’s.

At one point Friedan’s phone rang, disrupting the interview. I looked at Drake, afraid to ask if I should answer it. “Damn it! Friedan snapped, “Isn’t someone going to get that!” I nearly leapt out of my chair, scrambling to reach the phone which was in the kitchen, but as I grabbed for the receiver the caller hung up. “That’s it, this interview is over!” Friedan exploded as she pounded her couch in fury. “I can’t believe you didn’t get that for me!”

Drake and I tried to hide our astonishment, but Drake recovered quickly, calming Friedan down. After several minutes of coaxing, Friedan relented and allowed Drake to finish the interview. But something had changed; Friedan was angrier now, more sullen, more bitter. No matter how easy the question, Friedan’s remarks become more biting and cynical. She was angry at younger women for not appreciating what they have, for all that she and other feminists fought for. She was enraged at NOW for turning feminism into a gender issue and steering it away from equality, “Normal women don’t want to be associated with a group of lesbians.” Friedan fumed about masculine culture and its unfair standards of beauty; she complained about ageism, sexism, and the glass ceiling which no matter how hard women push against it, always seems to remain just out of reach.

She was a revolutionary, and like Patrick Henry after the American Revolution had found herself put out to pasture. Friedan’s victory for women’s rights was so complete that her brand of feminism is passé, even the most die hard misogynist would have a difficult time arguing that women should get paid less than men for doing the same work. Certainly there is still sexism, but the basic privileges that Friedan wanted have been obtained. To survive as a movement, feminism had to change, veering further and further to the left until it entered the territory of the absurd. Early feminists objected to being portrayed as sexual objects, campaigned hard against the abuse of sex workers; they burned bras and pornography and refused to wear nylons, heels, use hair products or cosmetics.

How far we’ve come; from the glory days where millions of activists marched for the Equal Rights Amendment, now handfuls of thousands march for the right to reclaim the word “slut.” Known as third wave feminism, post-modern feminists no longer abhor lingerie; they relish in it, and are completely unapologetic about what they wear or how they should behave. Like libertarians who claim they have no fiscal or social responsibility to anyone, post-feminists feel they shouldn’t be held accountable for how they dress; they are women who insist they not be sexually objectified even if they dress like sex objects. They demand the right to wear whatever they want wherever they want whenever they want without being labeled, insisting that their clothing, or lack of it, should have no effect on the viewer – but then wear sexy apparel that deliberately incites the viewer into labeling them “sluts.”

There is a SlutWalk being held at West Hollywood Park just off of Santa Monica , in an area of the city typically referred to as “Boy’s Town.” Boys Town is tasteful, full of trendy restaurants that serve delightful servings of what a friend of mine refers to as “gay-cuisine.” It’s a Saturday afternoon, and there are perhaps two hundred people in attendance, the majority of whom are young women holding signs and shouting slogans while a handful of men chant along half-heartedly.

“No matter what I wear or how I wear it!” a woman at the mike shouts.

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

“2, 4. 6, 8, stop the violence stop the rape!”

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

“Not the church, not the state, women must control their fate!”

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

“Whatever we wear, wherever we go, yes means yes, but no means no!”

“YOU MAY NOT TOUCH ME!”

Most of the women are dressed in sweats and jeans, but a handful wear bras and fishnet stockings, including a cougar in a black latex corset with thigh high boots. Other girls wear black T-shirts with the word SLUT emboldened across them: I would stare but most of them don’t have bodies worth staring at. A pasty skinned rape survivor takes to the podium and speaks about surviving rape; a feminist professor in blue shorts, knee high black socks and hiking boots informs the crowd two women are sexually assaulted every minute in the United States. I do a quick calculation and estimate that’s roughly a million American women every year.

While a few in the crowd appear to be true believers, the majority look like they’re attending just to be a “part” of an event. For them, SlutWalk might as well be Halloween, it’s an excuse to dress up like “sluts” and party. One full figured alternative girl in a black T-shirt wearing fifties rimmed glasses informs a news crew that at least for her, it’s all about reclaiming the word “slut” and making it good again, similar to what “stud” means for men.

If you want to see SlutwWalks around the world, click below:

http://www.ibtimes.com/articles/166482/20110621/slutwalk-capitol-hill-neighborhood-in-seattle-women-in-provocative-outfits-capitol-hill-neighborhood.htm

I should stay, but truthfully, I’m bored. After the speeches there is going to be a march around the streets of Hollywood, culminating at the gayest Hamburger joint in West Hollywood, Hamburger Mary's. Normally I’d stay, but something about the combination of feminist dogma and unattractive women wanting to dress slutty acts like a repellent bug spray, and after fifteen minutes I find myself beating a hasty exit. The next speaker drones on about the patriarchy and how it must be overthrown if women are ever to be free from the reign of men, the crowd claps appropriately - I wonder how many of these young women are attending for "college" credit. No one misses me, and I'm glad I'm ignored - by nature of my gender and skin color I symbolize the "dominant-patriarchy" and there is no place for me here.

Post Modern Feminism isn't about gender equality, it's a hate group.

Not even 6 years past Friedan’s death, and the feminist movement which she started has become an almost unrecognizable parody of itself, a mockery of the values she fought to change. As long as post modern feminism continues to bash men and promote women as victims, is it any wonder why so few women want to identify themselves as feminists?

Perhaps all social movements are destined to become corrupted; would Jesus even remotely recognize the religion Christianity has become? Ancient Christians identified themselves through drawings of fish, the cross was not a holy symbol, but an image of pain and terror until it was co-opted by the Catholic church in the 11th century. Whereas Jesus was outspoken against usury and the excesses of the wealthy, Calvinism actively cherishes the pursuit of wealth as an act of divine grace.

Today, more women attend college and earn college degrees then men, while the wage gap has shrunk and almost disappeared. Divorce and abortions, which at one time were virtually unobtainable, are now everyday rights. Each year, more women enter the male dominated fields of law, medicine and science; the most popular candidate in the Republican party is ironically, a woman. (True she's not "officially" running and she is an idiot, but she draws massive crowds.)

But instead of continuing to push for equal rights, modern feminists tell women they should be proud to dress like "sluts". Instead of being embarrassed for dressing like a skank, they should "own" it, flaunt it, and actively parade their sexuality in open public space. Instead of promoting individual responsibility, the message of SlutWalk seems to be that you're free to act however you want and if something "bad" happens to you, well that's the fault of the man who assaults you.

If men were to organize a "PimpWalk," dressed in ghetto fabulous street wear in an effort to promote soliciting prostitutes to live off their earnings and reclaim the word "pimp", would anyone take a PimpWalk seriously? That feminists would have to resort to shock tactics to garner attention does not bode well for the future of the movement - perhaps feminism, having accomplished what it initially set out to do, is past its due date and should be tossed into the ideological trash bin. It's one thing to promote awareness, rape is a horrific crime, but its another to do it while wearing bunny ears and lingerie as it reduces sexual assault to the level of a surrealist joke.

And yet SlutWalk resonates, especially with younger women. Friedan was right, younger women don't appreciate the sacrifices that earlier generations made. SlutWalk isn't a protest movement, it's a costume party, a chance to be simultaneously risque and yet be socially "aware". The majority of these girls aren't protesting for social change, they're protesting to get attention. They want the privileges of equality, but not the responsibilities. Just because you can dress like a "slut," doesn't mean you should.

Feminist – An opinionated woman with a strong dislike of men: see Feminazi

Exit Through the MOCA

I don't like modern art.

Modern art doesn't have to be explained, it doesn't have to follow any rules or guidelines; modern art can be formless, shapeless, messy, non-sensical, even ridiculous. If I were to write a blog with no paragraphs, no sentence structure and no standardized spelling it would be unreadable garbage, literate trash not worth the encrypted bits of data it's written on. But splatter some paint on canvas, cover a painting in abstract geometric shapes, take a picture of a soup can, and suddenly it's "art".

I despise modern artists - these new age con-men that hide behind their pseudo scientific etymology that criticizes the viewer for not understanding their post-modern, post-minimalist, conceptual-realist, impressionist via post-impressionist, neo-expressionist movement. The modern artist does not have to be "great", only to have others perceive them as "great"; their art requires no study or great skill - it's meant to be mass produced, copied, emulated. Modern art requires nothing on the part of the artist or the viewer; technique, style, and form are irrelevant, all that matters is how the art makes you "feel".

An eight year old by the name of Autumn de Forest began producing art pieces when she was five - she's already raked in $200,000. Doesn't matter if she's a child prodigy or if she's just lucky - people like her work because buying an 8-year old's art makes them feel "good."

Not even war has managed to escape the touchy-feely modern day art movement. In the early days of operation "Iraq Freedom" bomber crews would write epithet's on the sides of their bombs; "Take that Camel Jockey!" or "Hope you've got 72 virgins waiting on the other side, Mohammad!" Reporters took photographs, there was an uproar, and the Air Force apologized, promising a quick stop to the practice of writing insults on bombs. It was evidently okay to blow someone up, just not to call them a name while doing it.

Better to hit me with sticks and stones and break my bones because y'know, names can really hurt me.

One of the newest movements in modern art is "Street Art", an art movement that started about twenty years ago off the streets of New York and LA. Street artists are modern day surrealists that create guerrilla style art by placing their images on unsanctioned public space. Many don't consider them artists at all, but unlicensed vandals who should be fined and jailed for spraying "graffiti" on public buildings. Growing up with '70's and '80's pop culture, street artists don't appear to be interested in redefining art, but simply questioning its meaning by stating it doesn't have any meaning.

In other words, they delight in thumbing their nose at the establishment, especially the post modern art movement.

Last year, Banksy, the Andy Warhol of the street art movement, made a documentary entitled Exit Through The Giftshop. The movie was supposed to be a documentary about Banksy until he takes over the film and spins the cameras on filmmaker Thierry Guetta. Although Thierry Guetta has no discernible talent, Banksy lends him credibility, transforming Thierry into Mr. Brainwash, a non-talented overhyped genius sensation. A couple testimonials, a write up in the LA Weekly, and Thierry's Brainwash originals transform into priceless gems worth thousands of dollars.

Bat Papi is my favorite.

Starting this weekend the LA museum of contemporary art (MOCA) put on the first major museum "Street Art" exhibition - Art in the Streets. Like a mid-westerner avoiding a vegan restaurant, the MOCA is the kind of museum I would never enter unless I wanted to make myself irrationally angry watching people ogle over puddles of dripping ooze, but for Street Art I'll make an exception.

Street Art doesn't pretend to be anything, it is just as devoid of meaning as any other kind of modern art, except Street Art is both an incessant celebration of pop-culture and never ending mockery of the modern art movement.

My uncle Bernard is in town, so I decide to take him and my cousin Arlie to the exhibit. We park and Arlie pops for the tickets, $10 a piece. After nearly running a couple of pedestrians over, we discover we're at the wrong part of the museum, we'll have to take a shuttle to the exhibit which is being held in another part of the MOCA downtown. Ironically this was the best thing we could have done because the line for tickets outside the actual event looks to be about an hour long.

Inside we are greeted by a mural of dead animals covered in doors that function like a macabre pop up book, when the doors are flipped "open" they reveal the animals interior organs. Brains, guts, the digestive system. People open the doors then scurry away in revulsion.

Looking out over the museum the entire building strikes me as a carnival. The MOCA's interior is covered in graffiti, stencil art, and posters with videos playing in the background. It's packed with Hollywood hipsters wearing ironic T-shirts and coiffed hair, faces masked under thick McNamara glasses, bodies decorated with sleeves of tattoos, wrapped in so many lairs of irony one wonders if there is a person beneath the "look".

The crowd is an exhibit unto itself, young MILF's with adorable children who function not as kids but as fashion accessories, manicured metrosexuals, 5'1 lesbian couples with matching chain tattoos, unshaven intellectuals wearing leather jackets and sneakers, dolled up Asian girls being towed by their dopey white boy boyfriends, Echo Park Bohemians and vogue Westsiders who look like they rarely cross East of the 110, teenage taggers who drool over the cholo graffiti with wonder and envy.

As they say in LA, it's not an event, it's a "happening."

The art is as varied as it is bizarre; some of it I recognize because I've already seen it decorating the streets of LA for years; Shepard Fairey's Andre the Giant entitled "Obey" (he's also done the blue and red Obama poster), Invader's trademark Space Invader coming down to Earth, Lady Pink's Buff Monster - and of course Banksy.

Banksy's "I Hate Mondays!

There are ceilings hung with paper fighter jets riding skateboards above armored shogun warriors, disembodied arms spray painting buildings, cars pimped out with blue and pink chrome, a 3-D replica of an interior subway car two feet wide, a drum set just sitting out in the open waiting for anyone to play it, murals of cholo's drinking 40's and chola's wielding uzi's dressed as angels. It takes me a moment to realize that much of the art isn't even on canvas, but spray painted or stenciled into the walls of the MOCA itself - someone is going to have a time cleaning this all up.

"I like it," Bernie declares grandly, "I like it because it's an act of free will. I just can't tell if they are doing it to make a statement or make a buck."

"Probably both."

"I normally hate museums," Arlie adds, "but this doesn't feel like a museum at all."

She's right, it doesn't feel like a museum. The exhibit isn't confined to the art on display, but is a part of the walls themselves, even the crowd feels like a part of the show. This is art not for the elite, but for the masses; subversive, irreverent, flippant - it requires no "specialized" training to appreciate; Street Art is both a celebration and inditement of the billboards and advertisements that have become such a part of our architecture we can no longer imagine life without them.

I don't like Modern Art, but for Street Art, I'll make an exception.

Banksy's Police Beating Pinata

Dana's Thirtysomethingish Birthday

Birthdays.

For most of us, our birthday is an excuse to get together with family and friends, have a good meal, open a few gifts and blow out some candles on a cake. After turning 21, I became indifferent to birthdays, all I had left to look forward to was may auto insurance dropping at age 25 and I just didn't see any point to celebrating getting older. Sometimes I've woken up and actually forgotten it's my day of birth until I get a call from my mother wishing me a "Happy Birthday."

Dana is my diametrical birthday opposite; my sister will often begin planning her birthday party weeks in advance, sending out evites to hundreds of potential attendees. Her birthday is not commemorated by a single party, but a week long event of exquisite dinners starting usually around the 4th of April which culminates on her "official" birthday in either a swank Hollywood hotel or trendy club on April 10th.

Last year Easter fell on the 4th.

Dana upstaged Jesus.

This year I get an email from Tracina, Dana's co-producer, that they are holding a birthday party for my sister at the Hudson, one of those versatile bars that simultaneously appeals to both men and women. The Hudson may look like a converted train box car on the outside, but on the inside it's a meeting place for the society of good looking white people with great cheek bones; a pit stop for hipsters before they head out to the even trendier and swankier clubs in West Hollywood.

In addition to celebrating Dana's birthday, they'll also be watching a live broadcast of her latest TV show, Marcel's Quantum Kitchen, with both the cast and crew in attendance. Given the last minute invitation, Dana isn't expecting a big crowd, but then this is just the opening birthday event.

Phil's got an invitation, he lives nearby so I stop by his place and we walk over. Like most trendy Hollywood bars, at the Hudson you've got to pay for valet or spend 15 minutes in a vain attempt looking for free parking before finally giving up and paying the $6 for the valet. The Midwesterner in me would rather walk, so we decide to hike the distance, it would be a pleasant stroll except for the deluge of white people walking their dogs.

We pass by a pair of dog owners making small talk about their breeds, and Phil unsuccessfully tries to hide his disgust. "I swear to God the worst part about owning a dog is all the banal questions you have to suffer through. How old is your dog? What breed is your pup? Where do you have him groomed? It's the worst."

I nod in sympathy. Freaking white people and their small talk.

Phil and I have got better things to discuss, like the press release for his new novel, Ass Eyes in a Sea of Spec. http://bit.ly/iamxum As we debate the content of the press release we pass a dog owner walking his poodle; he fires off a withering glare. We're not Weho material walking pampered dogs that spend their days in doggie day care, we're writers.

There goes the neighborhood.

We get to the Hudson early to enjoy the last vestiges of happy hour. Fifteen minutes and two drinks later, both of us are in a better mood. I ask Phil if he were a drink, what kind of drink would he be?

"Probably a beer. Hoppy. Takes some getting used to, but after a while you'll love it."

"Rum and coke." I reply. "Sweet, easy going, piratey."

Marcel and the cast from his show arrive but Dana's nowhere in site. It's after seven but Dana will never be on time for her own party - in LA that's simply not done. I walk over and say hello to the cast, it's the third time I've met Marcel, the first being my 39th birthday where I made a request to my sister to have him cook me a dinner at Bazaar. (http://leiken.blogspot.com/2009/09/birthday-bazaar.html)

Calling Marcel a "cook" is like naming Einstein a "mathematician"; Marcel is a gastronomic force of nature, his kitchen a culinary laboratory. Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (MQK) is a reality TV show ostensibly about a Hollywood catering business, but the heart of the program is observing Marcel in his kitchen concoct dishes that defy the laws of culinary physics; noodles created out of blended wine, foie gras wrapped around cotton candy, desserts cooked with liquid nitrogen that cause smoke to billow forth from the mouth and nose - it's not cooking but science, or what Marcel refers to as "molecular gastronomy".

Originally a contestant on Top Chef, Marcel had developed a reputation for having an "attitude"; for being a vicious perfectionist with no empathy or pity for "lesser" cooks.

But I've tasted his cooking; its like eating a Picasso. I shake his hand, Marcel beams.

Chef, buddy, and fellow cast member Jarrid is sitting next to him. Covered in tattoos and wearing a leather jacket, Jarrid looks like he belongs in the Hell's Angels. He exudes almost manic energy, I bet he was pegged with ADHD as a kid.

I sidle up next to him. "I heard that while you were working as a bus boy at Bazaar you stole a prep chef uniform and showed up the next day pretending to be one of the cooks, is that true?"

Jarrid laughs. "Yeah, I wanted to learn how to cook, and it wasn't happening fast enough, so I just took one of the uniforms that had gotten back from the cleaners and showed up early the next day. I started prepping and it was like a month before anyone figured out that I wasn't a cook, I just wanted to learn. Marcel knew, but he didn't care. After the boss found out Marcel just took me in and now I work for him."

"That's amazing."

Jarrid shrugs. "Anytime I've wanted to do something, I just went out and did it. That's how I learned how to be a circus performer, fire eater, and trapeze artist."

I try not to gape. He was a circus performer? "Isn't that scary?"

"Anytime you do something new it's scary, everything's scary. But you just go out and do it."

My sister arrives, she's just had her hair and make up done and she looks like a movie star. "Would you believe that the guy who was doing my make-up was a former contestant on NEXT?" she exclaims. "I remember producing him and he was quite the prize, I mean they all wanted him. I was just afraid he was going to make me look like a drag queen."

"You look great, Dana," I reply. I'm a little surprised she isn't wearing a tiara, but then it is early. "Where's Christos?"

"He's up in San Francisco, but he had me bring wine." Dana withdraws a couple of bottles from a small winery located in Napa valley. We uncork it and it's delicious.

"If you were a drink, what kind of drink would you be?" I ask.

"Champagne," my sister answers.

I nod, my sister probably would be a bottle of champagne, sophisticated and sparkly. We order food and I devour a burger and sweet potato fries. It's one of the best burgers I've ever had, but then I'm really hungry and I am a burger whore.

A willowy woman with great cheek bones arrives, she looks like a model. Phil asks who it is, I'm not sure but I think its Marcel's super hot model girlfriend. I ask Dana.

"Oh, that's Shannon. She's Marcel's girlfriend, they met while she was modeling for the show."

I love it when I'm right. To get a woman like Shannon you'd have to be some kind of culinary genius with his own TV show. My sister didn't settle for anything less than 007; I'd date Christos and I'm not even gay.

"I was expecting a blog about the last party, but instead you wrote about your car!" Dana exclaims. "I still think you should name it "Teacher's Pet!"

"I'll write about this party next, I just need a couple of photos as proof I was here."

You need proof?" Marcel calls out, waving me over. "C'mon then, let's take a photo." We pose and I give my patented "thumbs up and wink" - Arrggh! Marcel picks up on it immediately and mimics it.

Dana begins opening gifts. I haven't gotten her anything yet because I've learned its better just to ask what she wants. Phil has brought her a Buddha board, a stylus that you paint with water that creates images, then over time disappear allowing you to use it over and over again. Dana claps her hands in excitement. "Where's your gift, brother unit?"

"I decided to wait."

"Phil got it right. Good job Phil."

I try not to glare. "Yeah, good job Phil."

More people arrive, many of them people Dana has worked with on other shows. My sister has a vast network of reality TV show contacts, its one of the reasons she is so successful at both finding work and getting shows produced. The Tonight Show, Howie Mandel, Beyond Chance, The Best Damn Sports Show, Christopher Lowell, NEXT, Ace of Cakes - there's more but I can't remember them all. Dana's birthday's are more than just a celebration, they provide her an opportunity to network, it's one of the reasons why it takes a week for her to get through her birthday.

Other than Facebook how else is she supposed to keep up with all these people?

The staff changes the channel on a big screen TV over to MQK but there's a Laker game on and the bar is packed, I can't hear a thing. As soon as the show starts the cast and crew cheers; I try listening for half a minute before giving up.

Dana arches an eyebrow in my direction, annoyed I'm not watching the show, but then hardly anyone is. The Lakers are playing the Utah Jazz and are on the verge of making a come back; the bar is filled with jubilant cries of exultation that drowns out any conversation more than two feet away.

At least until Kobe drops the ball with two seconds left and loses the game (I love it when the Lakers lose) but by this time MQK is almost over. I find my attention diverted between watching Marcel on screen, then switching back to glance at him in the bar; which one do I watch? TV Marcel, or flesh and blood Marcel? The same goes for the rest of the cast: Jarrid, Robyn, and Kevin; watching someone on TV while being able to simultaneously talk to them creates dissonance in the brain, how do I know which one is real?

We sing Dana happy birthday, there are cupcakes and she blows out a pair of candles. She's completely in her element, laughing, working the room as her friends and co-workers pay homage to the young woman who has become a celebrity in the nebulous world of production. The only thing better than being a star is being a star maker; and my sister has the contacts, experience, and creativity to make it happen.

If most people in Hollywood are talk, Dana is one of those rare few who can actually make it happen. Breast cancer didn't stop her, it wasn't even a yield sign, just a speed bump that barely slowed her down, she managed to produce MQK while going through chemotherapy. Like a gambler rolling straight 7's at the craps table, people surround my sister in the hopes that some of her luck will rub off on them.

Beautiful, fearless, exuberant, Dana is a phenomenon, a Hollywood singularity that continues to beat the odds because successful people like my sister generate their own luck.

If I had a motto it would be something like, "It's kind of crappy, but it's free," or "Send those squabs to Davy Jones' locker!"

But my sister only has one motto: Make it happen!

Before I head out I kiss her on the cheek. "I better still get a call on my birthday," Dana warns.

I nod. Woe unto those who forget my sister's birthday. D-day is not June 6th.

D-day is April 10th.

Happy Birthday, Dana.

Make it happen!

The Death of Orifice

It took three seconds.

I'm pulling out of school, feeling good about heading home, when a 1999 Chevy Cavalier emerges like a white demon from behind a eighteen wheeler, colliding into my 2002 Honda Civic, ripping off the front of my car in an instant.

This is the same 2002 Honda Civic into which I had just poured a total of $3500 in a vain attempt to fix a continuously overheating engine; first a new radiator, but six weeks later almost a completely new cooling system: valve covers, thermostat, water pump hoses and starter after the car overheated on the highway. Three days later, the engine began to overheat again; a second mechanic informs me the first mechanic neglected to test for leaky valves; it's another $1500 just to fix what should have been fixed the first time.

A week after my Honda Civic is up and running I wake up to find "Orifice" missing; stolen out of my apartment car port by a pair of junkies who shatter a window and proceed to rip out the radio and collect a handful of change. The police find Orifice three blocks away with a valet key still in the ignition; I'm embarrassed but grateful my car has been found.

But truthfully, I no longer trust Orifice, she can break down for any reason and will open up her doors for anyone who wishes to take her for a spin.

Whore.

Three seconds, three lousy seconds of delay and I would never have been hit. After the accident I find myself wishing over and over how I wish I could replay the same three seconds, just set back the reality clock and take back what has just happened. The only good news is that I'm only a block away from the school, and teachers stop to help.

Owens offers me the use of her AAA membership to pay for a tow, I'm grateful because with all the mechanical problems I've had in the past four months I've used up my AAA membership limit for the year.

I have the car towed back to Orozco's. The head mechanic comes out and shakes his head, sad for my loss but happy for my business. I place a call to Seabourne and ask again if I can borrow her Toyota Corolla for a week until the insurance can come out and give me an estimate on the Honda.

Seabourne says I can borrow it for two. Give it up for Seabourne!

A few days later a State Farm Insurance agent contacts me, and given the age of my car and the damage it's a toss up - I can either pay the $1000 deductible, or they'll buy me out and total the vehicle.

"Just fix it." I respond, resigned.

"You haven't even heard our offer yet!"

Great. I've already looked up the blue book value of a 2002 Honda Civic, it's about $5000 in excellent condition. Given Orifice's history and with the deductible, I'm looking at possibly 3, hopefully 4 grand. "How much to total?" I ask.

"Minus your deductible, we're looking at $8,100."

What? 8,100, how is that possible?

I thank him and call my sister for a second opinion. She's just as shocked as I am, but tells me to take the money. Her husband seconds the motion.

I call back five minutes later and accept the offer to total the car. The next day an envelope arrives from Fed Ex with the necessary paper work. I fill it out and include the car title. Two days later I receive a check for $8,100.

For years I've thought about canceling with State Farm and going with different, less expensive insurance. Geico, Mercury, Progressive. Now I'm glad I've stuck with them.

The only question is what am I going to buy to replace Orifice? Normally, I'd just buy another Honda, for your money you won't find a better used car on the market, but they're also more expensive. Truthfully, I'm starting to think they're cursed.

I begin looking into alternatives. Something practical and inexpensive. I'd like a BMW mini, because it looks cool, but it's also tiny, practically a girly car. The Jetta, too gay. The Mazda 3, it's got some zip and power, but if it breaks the parts are more expensive. A friend out in Phoenix who buys and fixes up used cars for a living offers to sell me a Toyota Prius with 120,000 miles for eight grand, but the mileage makes me hesitate.

I consult with Parrish at work. "You got to be careful with the Prius," she argues, "that's a lesbian's car. Remember that cop movie, the one with Wil Ferrell and Mark Wahlburg?"

"The Other Guys."

"Right. The Other Guys. When they have to drive around in Ferrell's Prius Wahlburg keeps complaining it's like cruising in a vagina. What color is the Prius out in Phoenix?"

"Deep red. Scarlet."

"Brian," Parrish exclaims, leveling a stare at me. "Do not buy that car!"

The Ford Focus? Sorry, I know it makes me dangerously un-American but I'm not buying an American car, mostly because I believe them to be crap. The Nissan Sentra? Maybe...

Varga suggests I take a look at Hyundai's. "They're good cars."

"I always thought they were crap."

"They used to be crap, but over the past ten years I don't think that's true anymore. Plus they come with that crazy 10 year 100,000 mile warranty. Other than Kia no one offers that kind of warranty. No one. Take a look at the Hyundai Sonata, they're a sweet ride." The next day I drive up to Keyes on Van Nuys, it's that LA dealership that advertises like mad on the radio. "Keyes, Keyes, Keyes - Keyes on Van Nuys." The fact that they have ten different automaker dealerships within a half mile of one another cements my decision; I can test drive a bunch of different cars without having to drive half way around the city.

I go to the Hyundai dealership first, introduce myself to a young salesman and tell him I'm not thinking about buying, but I do want to test drive a Sonota. He asks how much I'm looking to spend. I tell him 14k and he offers up a black Elantra for 15,999.

I pull out my iPhone and do some quick research. The Elantra gets a 4.7 out of 5 on Edmunds. Consumer reports has picked the Elantra as one of the top six cars three years in a row. I check out Carfax - the Elantra has had one previous owner, who is returning it on a lease. No accidents.

Two hours later I'm buying a 2010 Elantra with 25,000 miles for 14k with the crazy 10 year 100,000 mile warranty at 4.9% financing. I get the low jack for an extra $500 - I've already had two car's stolen, if nothing else I want the piece of mind.

Piece of mind. I can't remember the last time I've driven in a vehicle and not been nagged by the ever present worry of having a mechanical failure or a break in. I've put in my time driving beaters and nags past their prime; I'm out of that game, I'm done. In the past I've always attempted to get away with driving cheaper cars, looking for a bargain, but in the end I always lose.

No more. Goodbye Orifice. Goodbye Pandora. It's only a matter of time before I get hit or have my car broken into or suffer a mechanical failure, but this time, I'll be ready. I've had the Hyundai a week now, and it's ride is smooth. It looks and feels like a modern, luxury vehicle.

Now it just needs a name? Suggestions?

Man on Fire

"A man can be an artist...in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it. Creasy's art is death. He is about to paint his masterpiece. I have nothing else to say. - Rayburn, Man on Fire


My art is teaching. Like most men with delusions of grandeur, I'd like to think I'm something other than I am; a writer, a comedian, a pirate - the Indiana Jones of South East Asia. But my true craft, my genuine talent, lies withing the realm of teaching. It's a skill that's been honed through thousands of hours of practice in the heart of darkness, the inner city classroom, strengthened by teaching the inherently "unteachable" - Special Ed. Anyone can teach AP, but not anyone can teach those who choose to be wilfully stupid, the students who hate everything and everyone because secretly, they despise themselves.

If you can teach Special Ed in the inner city, you can teach anything.

I used to think I was ineffective, a fraud, a fake. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I explained and re-explained, no matter how many hours I spent in review or helping kids with their homework, my students just didn't "get it".

But give me a class full of general ed students, and I transform - metamorphosing from a crude hockey player into an elegant figure skater, gliding through concepts with lectures and discussion that borders on high performance art.

Give me a class of honors and AP, and I am no longer a figure skater, but a God.

You are what you teach.

One of the tricks to teaching is learning not to take things personally, to quell your feelings and your emotional frustration: apprehension, rage, angst - gone. Like a bemused comedian in the middle of a routine, you are no longer an individual but an act, a persona that oscillates between unflappable royalty and Buddhist monk because no matter how good you are, you have to accept that some things are beyond your control.

No matter how hard you try, your students still have to be willing to learn and listen.

Sometimes you receive a question in class that is so far out in left field it came from the bleachers. I'm co-teaching in Duran's economics class, explaining how property values can decline in crime ridden areas when a question is tossed from outside the stadium.


"Mister," Fluffy asks, "What happens if a house is haunted? Does the property go down?"

Sigh, it's Fluffy. Duran takes to the plate first. "Well, then you have to call in the Ghost Busters."

The class laughs. "Ha ha ha, Mr. Duran." Fluffy says loudly. "Very funny. I know there is no such thing as the Ghost Busters."

Shrugging, I return to the board. A small interruption, no big thing.

"But seriously," Fluffy interjects, "what happens when a house is haunted?"

My turn. "Normally after the police ascertain a house is haunted, they call in the Bureau of Paranormal Activity."

The entire class looks up. Bureau of Paranormal Activity! What's that? "Seriously, none of you have heard of the Bureau of Paranormal Activity? Section 13?"

Fluffy sits forward. "Section 13! What do they do?"

"They investigate and solve paranormal crimes; hauntings, aliens, that sort of thing."

"How do you get into it!"

"You study to be a para-psychologist. They're specifically trained to handle ghosts. One of the ways they identify ghosts is by the ectoplasm they leave behind." I state offhandedly.

"How does one get to be one of those!" Fluffy pants, leaning forward.

The class is riveted. Time to crush Fluffy's imaginary dream. "Well, you have to go to college and get a degree in para-psychology."

Fluffy deflates. College. I might as well have told him he had to jump to the moon. "How come I've never heard of Section 13?"

"Talk to me after class."

Twenty minutes later, the bell rings and Fluffy's out the door, question and answer forgotten as he heads out to lunch, but the next day he approaches me with yet another question. "Mr. Leiken, I tried looking up Section 13 on Google, and I couldn't find anything."

"Well it's not like they are going to have Section 13 on the Internet!" I snort. "They don't want the public knowing about it."

"Oh." Fluffy replies, heading back to his seat.

It's probably the first time Fluffy has ever shown initiative when attempting to research a topic.

Later that week I show an English class one of my blogs; Top 10 Movies: 2010. Working with Castaneda, we've decided to dedicate one day a week to blog writing in an attempt to get the class to write creatively and work on self expression. On Friday I give them their first assignment, write one page about a movie or TV show they either loved or hated and explain why they either loved or hated the show or film.

On Monday I ask them to hand the assignment in. Out of forty kids, only eighteen turn in their work, and five of the eighteen turned in not papers but three sentence paragraphs. Curiously, the three Special Ed kids in the class have all completed the assignment.

"Can't we turn it in late, Mister?"

"Sorry, I don't accept late work."

"But you can't expect us to do work on the weekend!"

"Oh no, not the WEEKEND!" I exclaim, throwing up my hands. "Oh my God, the teacher assigned homework on the weekend. We're doomed, DOOMED!" I fall down to my knees, head raised as I beseech the heavens, sobbing. "Why, God, why? Why have you forsaken us? I can't believe you expect us to do homework on the WEEKEND! Why not just kill us now!"


The class is stupefied, not sure whether to laugh or look ashamed. I pop back up to my feet, grinning. "So, what can anyone tell me about constructive criticism?"

The next time I give an assignment, thirty kids turn it in. That's progress, I guess.

Good teaching is like telling a good joke; anyone can tell a joke, but not anyone can tell a joke effectively. Cracking jokes is not about the words, it's about the timing; a good joke is not just a set up and a punch line, but a story infused with personality. Teaching is the same way, anyone can recite facts and present information, but not everyone has the passion, the personality, the inner fire. A great teacher has a heart of flame, a soul animated not with a bonfire but an inferno, a tornado of enthusiasm that tears away the listless and mundane, a whirlwind that rips through the insipid red tape and brainless bureaucracy of standardized testing and meaningless rules.

Without the fire, you won't make it, there's a reason why teachers who have given up are referred to as burn outs. As the refrain goes from Damn Yankees, "You got to have heart, miles and miles and miles of heart." Hopefully, your flame catches a spark in those you teach and inspires them to be more than they are, not diploma approved CST automatons, but free willed thinkers who refuse to live in the cave of cultural conformity.

Writer, comedian, pirate; I am all of those things. But I am also, and always will be, a teacher. Everyday I teach in the inner city, I continue to create my masterpiece.

I am the man on fire.

Luck of the Irish

Orifice has been found!

My menopausal, 107,000 mile silver chromed Honda Civic, the car which recently cost $3,000 dollars worth of repairs has been found!

At this point I should probably thank God or something, but if God was responsible for me getting my car back, God also had to be responsible for sending a thief to steal my car. No, I'm chalking this up to dumb, Irish luck, the kind that gets you into trouble but also gets you out.

True, I'm not Irish, but there is no such thing as Jewish luck.

Turns out the thieves drove the car three blocks away and parked it at a more secluded parking complex to rip out the radio and rustle through my belongings. The police arrive at my doorstep to inform me of the good news; when the landlord of the other apartment building called the police to inform that my car was parked illegally and needed to be towed, they ran the plates and noted that it had been stolen.

"We tried calling you but you didn't answer your phone," the officer says in a monotone voice. (I was cleaning up a spill of fruit juice in the kitchen.) "You're lucky we stopped by your apartment, otherwise we would have impounded the car."

"Well, I'm glad you did!" I exclaim brightly.

The police offer to give me a ride in their squad car. The back seat of the squad car has no cushions, just hardened black, uncomfortable plastic with a bullet proof shield between me and the police sitting in front. Probably a lot easier to wipe up blood and vomit when you don't have upholstery to worry about.

We get Orifice and she appears to be in good shape, all except for the triangular shaped rear window on the passenger side, broken into a thousand tiny pieces; held in place by a thick, viscous black tape.

"What's the tape for?"

"It muffles the sound of the breaking of the window. It also prevents glass from scattering everywhere," the officer replies.

I open up the car door to find all of my change (approximately $4.50) my radio and my cell phone charger gone. A pirate hat lies in the passenger seat, along with a copy of Kavalier and Clay I've borrowed from Phil. I rifle through some papers scattered on the floor and find a Barnes and Noble's gift card I had forgotten in the glove compartment for $20.

Thieves never steal books; trust me on this. If you ever want to thief "proof" your house, just put all your valuables in books. Better yet, line books around the walls, they'll form an educational barrier of spiritual energy that no thief will dare to cross. A gift card from Target or Wal-Mart would have been snatched in a second, but a card from Barnes and Noble in ghetto world is foreign currency - worthless.

The police check my ID. "Sir, did you let anyone borrow your keys?"

"No."

"Well, we found a key in the ignition." The officer hands me my valet key, the one I had forgotten I had left in the car. "Were these in your glove compartment?"

I don't answer. Maybe? I feel stupid as a strange feeling creeps over me, unable to look the police in the eye. What is this strange sense of humiliation, I wonder? Oh that's right, I remember this sensations now, embarrassment! Not an emotion I'm accustomed to.

"Sir, you shouldn't leave your keys in the car," the officer drones on. "When you do that, you make it easy for people to steal your car." His partner smirks, but the subtext is clear.

Why are you being such a dumb ass?

They inform me I can drive the car home, but I should wait an hour before going on the road just to make sure the license plates have been taken out of the police system, otherwise I might get pulled over because another cop might think I've stolen the car.

I thank them and drive the car home. I call work to tell them the good news. Let slip about the keys - they crack up.

Hardy, har, har. Laugh it up, Parrish.

I call a mobile window repair shop. They come out a few hours later and replace the broken window in about a half hour. I marvel at the economic efficiency of it; in the span of a day I've had my car stolen, re-discovered through a computerized system, and repaired by a mechanic from a shop which specializes in fixing broken windows by driving out to peoples homes.

Car theft in LA isn't just a crime.

It's an economy.

Cursed

My car has been stolen.

The silver colored Honda Civic, the chrome coated "Orifice" on wheels, my 107,000 mile menopausal vehicle that has just cost me $3000 in repairs, is gone. Vanished into the ether, disappeared into the urban void, in a single night transformed from my single most valuable possession into a few tiny particles of broken glass left behind from a broken window. Mr. Leiken presents his magnificent, magical, mysterious teleporting car; WATCH him effortlessly make it vanish.....

....now only if he knew where it had been "vanished" too.

I've mentioned how much I dislike cars, my sneering tolerance held in check by the apprehension of having to live without one. Like a doomed victim in a horror movie, I live under a geas, an automobile curse that torments me from the moment I purchase a vehicle through a series of endless repairs, costly upkeep, fender bender accidents and petty tickets; a bottomless pit of angst that ends in an orgasmic crescendo of horror the moment I discover my car is GONE.

When you have a car stolen it takes a moment for the facts of the situation to fit in; like a computer warming up it takes several seconds for the brain to register the empirical data presented before it, for the facts to become reality. Here's the sequence:

1. SURPRISE - Where is my car? I know I parked it here.

2. DENIAL - Someone must have moved it. I know it can't be STOLEN.

3. ANGER - Some Mutherf---r just took my car!

4. RAGE - I'm going to kill that Mutherf----r who took my car!

5. WHINING - This is so unfair!!!

6. BITTERNESS - I hate the world and all the lucky fools who still have their cars.

7. ACCEPTANCE - Time to write a blog about it.

I've gotten semi-accustomed to having my car being broken into and stolen over the years, possess an immune system toughened through a series of vehicular fiascos that enables me to process the emotional aspects expediently. I file a police report, call my insurance, walk out onto the street just to make sure the thief didn't take the car on a joy ride and leave it parked nearby.

Nope.

Not much I can do now, just have to suck this up and move on. The police officer informs me that a Honda Civic was stolen yesterday not more than a mile from where I live, that Honda's are the most widely stolen car in America.

Thanks for that, Chief.

He's right though, as great as they are, Honda's are a magnet for thieves, I can't afford to drive one because inevitably one day you won't have one to drive. What do I drive next? Do I buy a clunker and drive it until dies, or do I go to a dealership that's offering a low interest rate and no money down? Should I just forgo thinking about owning a car and lease? Perhaps I can work out a deal with a student and buy a car from one of their parents, almost every kid at my school has at least a parent or uncle who is a mechanic.

Except they all drive Hondas.

Perhaps I should just hoof it and try to take the bus...

No, not really an option. Not in LA. Not unless you want to completely give up your lifestyle and freedom.

Just because the horror movie ends, doesn't mean that you can't have a sequel - have to keep the franchise going. If my cars were horror movies they would have been titled:

PANDORA'S BOX

It looked like a good car, it was boon - a gift from father to son. Little did they know what lurked beneath the engine.

THE CAR THAT WAS TOWED

It was supposed to be a casual tow for a parking violation - but it ended in a total loss.

CABALLERO'S END

It was the car that was driven a thousand miles through Mexico and back without the protection of Mexican auto insurance. But the car Christened in Mexico was no match for the daily horror's of LA.

ORIFICE'S WHEELS

Lavished with money in upkeep and repairs, it was the car that was supposed to last, until one day it just simply disappeared.

And currently in development...

CAR FIVE (working title)

The story of a man who had suffered through a lifetime of bad relationships with his vehicles as he seeks a new vehicle.

My car was stolen.

I'm going to kill that MUTHERF----R!!!