Tor - The fabulous warrior

The story of Tor

Thor was made in Taiwan by a 13 year old boy on a hot afternoon on the week before Christmas.

He was big; a strong toy of a viking, Thor, was a destroyer of men. And he was the best viking of all of hundreds made that day. When his crate arrived in California's major distribution centers, all the other vikings had black eyes and smashed toes. He was king of all he surveyed.

And sure enough, he was the first one picked off the shelf, given to a freckle faced red headed boy with a mean look on his face. This was Thor's kind of boy.

Together, they terrified the neighbors and conqured mother's rose garden. Victory was theirs. But one day, on the boy's birthday, he got a bb gun and forgot all about Thor. Then one particularly dark day, the pit bull got ahold of Thor.

As Boomer tore into his mighty torso he thought what a sad state he was. And North Dakota sucked too. Splayed out on the kithen floor, his stuffing pulled from his stomach, he felt the cold despair and ruin fall over him. Alone and hopeless he resigned to end his wretched existence.

Into the fireplace he flung himself, but not far enough it seemed, for he only made it halfway, burning his arms and the back of his mighty head. Mother came in, shouting at the boy that he could have burned the house down. Tossed into the basement, burned and broken, he lay for many months.

He knew no  happiness or relief. And when mother threw this once mighty warrior to the bowels of the home, he thought about life and death and reincarnation. And he lay in the basement, in despair and a pile of rafes until an angel glowing in pink moved over him. For years he had wished and wished, He had cried our for help. and finally he grew quiet and gave up. But now, he was in the arms of God, speaking to the infinisly large person. God spoke. You can be reborn and begin a new life. There will be pain and death but you will become new again. What do you want, Tor? Tor thought and quicly agreed. White hot light pierced Tors body and he ceased to be.

Tor awoke at the Tulsa City art fair at 12:30 in the afternoon. To the left of him was a little dog that looked very funny. His long ears were fluffy but the rest of him was hairless. His stitching looked weird. It was as if someobe had turned him inside out. To the right, triplet penquins with the same syle as if they had been turned inside out. Then he looked down at himself. He was purple, inside out and funny looking too. What had he agreed to? What had God done to him?

The bright sun was suddenly clouded by a giant. A girl with hair like the sun reached down and picked up the purple bundle of muscles and polyester. Thor was frightened and waited for his inevitable mocking. But instead, words of love and praise came from the girl. His neighbors were picked up as well, hugged and put into a wicker basket next to him. Thor, Slukey the dog, and Eep, Opp, and Ork the penguins were going home with the girl with hair like the sun.

"You are all so wonderful and I know you will all get along and have wonderful adventures together!"

And the girl with hair like the sun was right. They were best of friends. They wrestled alligators, drank prickly pear juice and lived and danced in the sunroom in the girls home.

And they lived happily ever after.

The End.

Titus

Christopher Titus is fucked up.

I'm sure he'd be the first to admit that. A comedian that tells jokes about domestic violence, suicide, molestation, rape, death and his own struggles with addiction and pain, is not something you think would be all that funny. But he is. And that's why I've been a fan of his for over a decade.

His stand up is more like a one man show, telling stories about his life. He talks about his schizophrenic mother who shot her last husband (she was acquitted) then later killed herself in 1994. His father who married 6 times and was more than harsh to him at times. (He died in 2001 of a heart attack)The only person he doesn't speak much of is his sister Shannon, who killed herself in 2004. He's been beaten, cheated on, divorced, and fallen into a bonfire, hands first. I know it doesn't sound funny at all, but here's why it is.

For other fucked up people, who have had some bad things happen to us or have made some bad choices, we understand other fucked up people. If you've ever woken up some place you have sworn you've never been before.... If you given more than 2 eulogies in less than 6 months... If you have found yourself in an abusive relationship... If you have had any moment where you think to yourself, "This is so fucked but it's my life..."  then you are part of the club. And Titus is a proud member of that club.

Going to one of his shows is like going to church, therapy, school and stand up all in one. Sometimes the things he says are so close to home, you laugh not to cry. Many times, I have wanted to jump up and scream "Hallelujah!" or "Yes! Exactly!".  His stand up is brutal at times, taking bits from his sometimes tragic circumstances to stage, where his monologues stop and we all sit there in silence while he stands on stage, head bowed. Part of the act, yes, but poignant none the less.

Titus and me

After his shows, I feel exhausted, in a good way, like after a long run or a good cry. And even with all the shit that's rained down on him, he's still positive and ends with signs of happiness.

I've been a fan since I was a teen and over 10 years later I'm still coming to the shows. He's more than just a funny comic; for the damaged people (like myself), his shows are my proof that overcoming is possible.

So bring it on Professor/Dr./Pastor Titus. I'll see you at the next show.

God Save the McQueen

I would kill for one of his dresses.

Well, I would definitely kick someone in the shins or cut in line. I would probably run though Times Square naked.  I would definitely pay, if I had the money. (Will work for red feather strapless dress with white tulle underskirt.) He was new, shocking and so inspiring in a sometimes uninspired landscape. (Tommy Hilfiger, I'm looking at you.) His clothes were like stories, portals into a stories, into the bodies of characters. Never was there a boring piece. It was art.

Even if you don't follow fashion, you have probably seen his work. A blatant ripoff of a wonderful McQueen dress was featured in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (part 1), not to mention on the red carpet, covering Lady Gaga, Cate Blanchett, Michelle Obama, and if you've been keeping up with all the silly royal wedding madness, Katherine Middleton's wedding dress was based on a McQueen design.

For his 2004 ready-to-wear collection, instead of the standard runway, McQueen staged an extravaganza, reenacting "They Shoot Horses, Don't They?". Models and dancers started the show with exuberant dancing moves, and ending with a sole dancer, barely keeping her head up, then collapsing on stage. McQueen and the choreographer carried her off stage. Not only was the staging ingenious but the clothes themselves were beautiful and innovative.

I personally loved that he dress the common girl to the first lady. He had a line at Target a couple of years ago but also creates dresses that retail in the tens of thousands. And he knows and loves women. Now, you might want to argue that after seeing some of the contraptions he puts his models in but I would argue right back. You can't look at some of his beautiful dresses and say he doesn't worship our bodies. The chest-plated outfits and high collars, I argue, are statements, art speaking about changing our shapes via harshness. But that's just one girl's opinion.

In this month addition of Bazaar, close friend Annabelle Neilson wrote about "Lee" (his true given name) on the one year anniversary of his death. In the article, she seems still in shock about the whole thing, her retelling scattered and grief-stricken. She spoke briefly that he had promised her that he would never go the way of Isabella Blow. 

Isabella Blow was a editor, style icon and muse for the fashion forward. She suffered from depression after the people she helped get started in the business left her behind, infertility and money issues, not to mention her ovarian cancer and bipolar diagnoses. She drank weed killer that finally ended her life but, according to Daily Collegian, before that she had attempted to do so by jumping off the Hammersmith flyover in London (breaking both her ankles), car accident, getting horse tranquilizers, drowning and overdosing on various pills. The woman was determined. And in the end, so was Alex.

Alexander McQueen meant something to me. It was as if he knew how I wanted to dress; the secret wish that I could be like the girls on his catwalk. They were romantic, tough, sexy, and highly strange. I would often see a dress and fall deeply in love with it only to find out that it was a McQueen. ("Of course it's a McQueen!" I would shout in the middle of the grocery store magazine aisle.) Dripping in style and never compromised, he never pussy footed around the concept. He was brave. And that's what I wanted.

I'll miss you, amazing designer, visionary and fabulous person. 

The slings and arrows

Why is it so hard to be loved?

Is it because we inherently don't feel we deserve it? Is it because you survived while others didn't? You're not as beautiful or full of light or whole as you used to be? Your baggage to too great to be vulnerable again with another human being? Or maybe we just hate ourselves.

I never thought myself as one of those idiots who's self loathing was so great that they would turn away from love, to run from the fear of it. But here I am. So caught up in my own insecurity, confusion, my desperate and pathetic need to please and the pain of rejection, distrust and judgment so great, I can't even move at times. Or breathe. Or see the room in front of me.

What's the answer? I think sometimes it's to let go, love recklessly, fall head first, even though there is a 100% guarantee that I'll end the night with a arrow though my reckless stupid head. And how many arrows can my head take? Do I ignore the hurtful things said just to be free of them? Do I shrug off more criticism so they can't weight me down?

If only I thought life was richer without love. But I know that to be untrue and can't ignore the possibility of a half lived life. I must navigate and find a way.

But if anyone has a map, a compass or even vague directions, I'll take them.

Hollyweird - Part One

What ever happened to Baby Jane? Only this house knows. If you have never seen this movie, get it right now! Bette Davis was only about 54 when she made this film so you have got to give her credit for not being afraid to look like utter hell on camera. Joan Crawford played Bette sister and boy howdy, did they hate each other. Both were raging bitches in their own right but when put together really stirred up trouble. Bette put in a Coke machine in her room just to upset Joan, who held a seat at the Pepsi board of directors. During a scene where Bette was to drag Joan's near lifeless body, Joan put weights in her pockets and made herself so heavy Bette threw out her back. Me-ow! Not pictured is the home next door, which Judy Garland lived in while filming The Wizard of Oz.

Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright Jr. (also the inventor of lincoln logs and son of the famous architect) it's often referred to as the Jaws House. It was also home to Dr. George Hodel, who was one of a few suspects in the Black Dahlia murder case. Many think this is the house where Elizabeth Short was murdered then chopped up. Yum...

It used to be known as "The House That Nat Built", the Capitol Records Building has been a part of music history that can never be replaced. In '08, CBS broadcast a report that the legendary echo chambers, designed by Les Paul, could no longer be used because of construction noise from neighbors, although it's denied by those doing the noise making. It's said that the light on the rooftop spire of the Capitol Records building flashes "H-O-L-L-Y-W-O-O-D" in Morse code, but I'm not fluent.

The Chateau Marmont, the white house on the hill, has a torrid past. Led Zepplin road their motorcycles through the lobby. Bogart would work in the bungalow garden. Construction began in 1927 as apartments but when 1929 hit, it turned into a hotel. John Belushi died of a drug overdose in Bungalow #3. F. Scott Fitzgerald had a heart attack in the lobby. Grace Kelly hung by the pool. Jim Morrison hung off the side of the building by a drain pipe. Montgomery Clift recouped from his nearly fatal accident in one of the penthouses, rented for him by Elizabeth Taylor. Jean Harlow spent her honeymoon among the shadded trees and flowers. The place is just dripping in history, ghost stories and scars. One day, I'm going to stay there and maybe drive my mini cooper on the sidewalk... or something a little more rock and roll.

Follow the cute little bird tracks to the next installment of my long overdue trip to the darker side of LA.