EVIL-DOER

Okay, now the guy who sits in the White House says we need to stay in Iraq because it's a hotbed of Al Qaeda activity. Funny, that wasn't the case before Bush ordered the invasion. I was under the impression that Saddam Hussein ran a fairly secular ship, and that terrorists really weren't welcome in Iraq. So basically, we have to keep flushing billions of dollars down the toilet (and intp Dick Cheney's pocket) because the United States lied in order to justify invading Iraq, destroying the existing infrastructure and turning the country into a hotbed for terrorists. Nice. Too bad we didn't just keep pounding Al Quaeda in Afghanistan and Pakistan instead of instigating a money grab in Iraq for the President's pals. Seems to me that if Bush were seriously concerned about "smoking out" "evil-doers," he might've swallowed his pride and allied himself with Saddam in order to keep the terrorists down. I certainly don't like the guy, but he wasn't a friend of the bad guys Bush has targeted.

It would be nice to get the hell out of Iraq, but I wonder how fucked Israel would be?

KENTUCKY FRIED

Since I am, sadly, a person of leisure these days (waiting for unemployment checks is a biweekly hightlight, I'm afraid), I've decided to stick it to the Man and become an entrepreneur. Yes, it's true, I've started a company (Kojakcolumbo Productions -- for the uninitiated, an homage to my hero Harry Nilsson). I'm now officially in the "entertainment" business and have embarked on a project I hope will turn into a compelling (and hugely lucrative) feature documentary. First stop, Louisville, Kentucky, to attend and shoot the 6th Annual Lebowski Fest, held primarily at the Executive Lanes, conveniently located about 45 seconds from the airport.

After a hellish early morning flight last Thursday from LAX with my cohort Abigail Parsons, we finally arrived in Louisville late that evening. We secured lodging with Dave and Maryann Packard, the aunt and uncle of my wife's former business partner (you rock, Lori!). I am greatly obliged to Maryann and Dave for opening their home to us. As an added bonus, Dave, a funeral director, told us he embalmed Col. Sanders (of Kentucky Fried Chicken fame). How cool is that?

I'd never been to Kentucky before, and I must say I was pleasantly surprised. The folks of Louisville seemed uniformly cool, and besides, I'd never seen such a greater concentration of Dairy Queens, which always makes me happy. Shockingly, I managed to avoid my favorite place on earth. I deferred to my cameraman Jim Ricker and to Abigail, natives of Ohio and West Virginia, respectively, who pined for the bad fast food of their misbegotten youth -- White Castle and Steak and Shake.

Lebowski Fest itself was everything I could have hoped, and more. We shot the hell out of the myriad Dudes, Walters, Maudes and Jesuses (not to mention a World of Pain, a Nice Marmot, and a New Shit That's Come to Light) who sucked down White Russians, bowled, and traded lines from the 1998 film The Big Lebowksi. Fest organizers Will and Scott couldn't have been more accomodating, and the whole exercise reconfirmed my hunch that this documentary project is something that'll really resonate with an audience and really speak to the culture at large.

I'll keep you posted.

IN CAPTIVITY

My life (two young kids, a wife) doesn't allow me many opportunities to check out how the other half lives. But once in a while, I make the trek into the city to see what it is I'm missing. At the behest of my old pal Ross Johnson, journalist-turned-"public relations professional" for a firm called Sitrick and Company, I attented a party Tuesday night celebrating a film called Captivity. The film's hyped as a shockingly depraved film filled with torture and degradation. Yum.

The film's billboards have teased us for months, and the party, held at West Hollywood's Privilege, was a perfectly entertaining exercise in orchestrated decadence. (the film opens Friday -- the 13th. Hahahahahahaaha). Lots of leather, studs, free booze, and naked, tatooed chicks wearing little in the way of clothing. I'm not one to judge, since I don't get out much, but I'm guessing this was a pretty wild event.

I attended with my friend Jason, wishfully thinking that he might hook up with a Suicide Girl or two. Instead, I got the rundown on mid-30s single life and watched, bemused from the bar, as the audience squeezed their inebriated little bodies through the trendy club, checking out the latest in goth exhibitionism. And since this was a Hollywood media event, first and foremost, there were lots of cameras floating about. Good job, Ross.

It was quite a scene: Near naked girls writhed in a life-sized diorama filled with meat hook props. Jason got his photo taken with a Suicide Girl. A past-her-prime dominatrix had her way with a near-naked obese dude. I shook hands with a girl in panties and pasties who was "bathing" herself in a bubbly tub.

Ross, of course, was running frantically like a chicken missing its head -- headset in ear, Corona in hand. He had goaded me into coming with his gentle email invites --"Grow a pair, then call me," "Still think you oughta leave the Valley for this one, bitch"-- which shows that he has mastered the art of subtle public relations. How could I say no?

I came, I saw, I drank. I even saw some familiar faces. I chatted with my old pal, Missy, the den mother of the Suicide Girls, who showed me a photo of her beautiful new son in her phone. I saw Dave Navarro with a camera crew (does he attend envelope openings?), the fat guy from Borat, even porn star and former gubernatorial candidate Mary Carey, who, franky, in person, is not much to look at. Also had a nice conversation with Captivity actress Sonni Stommel, who, with a drink in her hand and beaming smile, proudly revealed she was the first girl tortured in the film. It's her first movie.

After several refreshing glasses of Jamesons on the rocks I longed for the tranquilty of my Valley Village headquarters, away from the whips, the chains and the rubber-necking trendsters. Besides, my wife has enough tattoos to keep me happy.

CLUSTERF**K

When I was a little kid living in Venice, we never had to go anywhere to see fireworks. Instead, a few days before the 4th, adoptodad and I would visit a fireworks stand in Culver City, the kind built hastily from plywood and chicken wire, and purchase a box of Red Devil fireworks. When it was finally dark enough on the appointed day, we systematically shot off the box in front of our house on Washington Way. We started with the good stuff, maybe a Roman Candle or two, worked our way down to the Piccalo Pete and ended with a thud, burning up the borning little sparklers. The little black tablets called Snakes were often saved for the next day, because there wasn't much thrill in seeing a little round disc expand into a curlicue of gray dust. Of course, the Snake stain on the pavement would last forever, a constant reminder of Fourth of Julys past.

Somewhere in the intervening years, fireworks stands became illegal and gave way to organized shows, such as the infamous Santa Monica Pier event, which I drunkenly attended for many of my teenage years.

I'm now a parent of a five year old and a two year old, and of course they look forward to seeing fireworks on the 4th. Finding them's always been a scramble, because like most Americans, we believe free fireworks are an inalienable right. Last year, we wound up in the parking lot at Gelson's on Laurel Canyon, with a poor view of the works shot from CBS' Studio City lot.

Tonight, though, we bit the bullet and actually paid to attend the CBS soiree. We bought in advance, so it set us back "only" 30 clams (the price was jacked up to 40 for walkups). Seemed like it actually might be fun -- it was advertised as lots of food, a kids area, a Beatles cover band. Sounded like a nice night out with the family.

Yet the event, organized by the Studio City Chamber of Commerce, was horribly mismanaged. The CBS lot itself is a fairly narrow labyrinth of bungalows and tight spaces that does not lend itself to teeming masses. And they were teeming. We encounted an impatient gridlock of bodies and strollers, making anything more than a rudimentary exploration of the grounds almost impossible.

The "food court" consisted of one stand for food, one for pie and brownies and a kiosk each for beer and wine. My family and our friends are vegetarians, so of course by 7 p.m., two hours before firework time, the food stand was out of veggie burgers. My kids were hungry, but they weren't interested in a meal of potato salad and baked beans. We ordered these things anyway, but after waiting 15 minutes, we discovered our order had been lost. We tried to get them a brownie, but those were gone as well. I heard they ran out of forks, too.

I don't know if the Studio CIty Chamber is greedy or just buffoons, but they also decided to charge extra to let kids run around in inflatable slides and bouncy toys. I'm not sure what the $15-$20 entry fee covered, other than the priviledge of being incredibly frustrated and watching kids melt down. Oh, I forgot, we got to walk the hallowed grounds of a real network TV lot. Woo-hoo.

The fireworks? They were nice, all 18 minutes of them. It must of been nicer for the 1 percent of attendees who snagged a chair in which to sit. But when it was over, it took four times that long to actually escape the parking lot. We were on the fifth level and my father-in-law estimated that we didn't move an inch for a good 40 minutes.

You know what this exprience felt like? Whatever the opposite of independence day would be -- let's call it Incarceration Day. Seems like the Studio City Chamber of Commerce is taking its cues from President Bush: to fuck us over into submission and count their money all the while.

The Gelson's parking lot never looked so good.