Halloween Ain't Over

It's my favorite holiday. I have been a pirate, a gypsy, a flapper (more than once) and this year a geisha. I love giving candy to kids--but scaring them first. I love Victorian Halloweens and candied apples and old-fashioned spook houses with bowls of peeled grapes for eyeballs and boiled spaghetti for guts. I love Old Hallow's Eve, the skull and crossbones, the witch's cauldron, playing dress up, sneaking from house to house, apartment to apartment, club to club, in search of goodies.

Halloween is proof that things can be spooky and fun at the same time. I don't react to fear well since 9/11. But yesterday, the sidewalks in my neighborhood glittered with lost sequins and stray rhinestones from all the costumes of the high school kids, putting aside their neat urban cynicism for one day--not Christmas, really--but Halloween, to dress up as lions and rock stars and giant butterflies.

We should always dress up--it's good for us to get out in full costume, in full makeup, and tear apart the town. It gives us girls the illusion of confidence, as we strut in slutty costumes (and any costume can be made stutty). It give the boys imagination, and the ones without costumes at last night's masquerade ball did not interest me or my corseted friend, Miss Julie.

Enough with casual fridays and Gap wear and boxers. Let's dress up again, and make it All Hallows Eve all over again.

BOO!

Celluloid Lolitas and Dungeons and Dragons

For all those movie buffs out there who can't admit their secret fantasies about their neighbor's teenage daughter, check out my last feature as Movies.com's Movie Sexpert, 8 Great Little Tramps. There are so many underage temptresses not mentioned--Tuesday Weld in Pretty Poison, Kirsten Dunst in Interview with a Vampire, Uma Thurman in Dangerous Liaisons, Lindsay Lohan in Herbie Fully Loaded...the list goes on and on. But, of course, 8 Great is about great films, preferably one that we have lolita pictures for to put on the website. Next: 8 Great Stripteases.

Lest my audience and my mother think that I emulated these adolescent sex kittens, I must state that I had very little in common with those hot young things. I was no sunglass-wearing, lip-gloss pouting, bikini-modeling, boy-manipulating Lolita. My glasses were prescription--and big. I wore a training bra. And my only non-bullying contact with boys was when we played Dungeons and Dragons. That should tell you something about my social life; it can't be good if it revolved around 20-sided dice.

The number of girls who played Dungeons and Dragons (D&D) seriously in its heyday--the 80's-- is very small. I know this because every time I admit how fanatical I was, I get the same bored question: "Isn't that something boys did?" Yes, it certainly was. But that had nothing to do with my interest. I was a hardcore sci-fi/fantasy geek, and well before I discovered Tolkein or Poul Anderson or Elquest, I discovered Dungeons and Dragons. I was at a party at my parents' friend's house--I can't remember the night, because our families always got together on the weekends--but I remember opening up the 1st edition Dungeons and Dragons Guide and being amazed. Everything I would later love in Lord of the Rings, in the Arthurian tales, in Egyptology and mythology, told to me by the Grimms or Chaucer or Wagner seemed to be laid out in clearly analytical form. Role the dice, find out who you are, where you are, if you've succeeded. The fact that there was magic, and unicorns and elves, and lots and lots of storytelling only sealed the deal; I was hooked from the first roll of the hit dice.

It didn't occur to me that this was a "boy thing" until a few games in. For those of you who had lives, a game involved a Dungeon Master (or DM generally a control-happy type, detail oriented, story-telling type) and a bunch of Player Characters (PC's) with varying careers: cleric, magic-user, fighter, etc. The dice is rolled to see give them character traits (strength, wisdom, charisma--my favorite) They buy weapons, usually motivated by the coolness and deadliness factor. No one buys things like clothing or shoes or water, even though you're supposed to. They choose their spells, usually motivated by what would be really cool to impress their friends in real life. The DM opens the Dungeon Master's Guide, which holds the secrets of their adventure. The dice are laid out: 4-,6-, 8- 10- 20- sided dice. A collective breath is taken, as one PC takes the dice. And, the excitment begins--

Okay, he rolls the dice. Repeatedly. The DM throws monsters at the party of players ("Look out! It's a half-orc!") and the players kill it in ridiculous ways. ("I cast my spell on my lantern to set it on fire and throw it at the offending orc!). By rolling the dice. Repeatedly. If the orc dies, usually when the DM loses patience, or has found another really cool monster from the Monster Manual to throw at the party. And the adventure continues.

This sort of thing can go on for hours and hours, which may seem a trifle odd to some of you out there, it was absolutely fascinating to me. It allowed me to be part of the stories I found so interesting, to submerge into a fantasy life where adolescence didn't exist. This is precisely the thing my parents found so alarming, especially after they heard on 60/60 that Some Kid in Some Midwestern State killed himself because his player character got killed. They refused to buy me the books, but their resistance just made me want to play more. Ah, rebellion.

No, the real problem was that it was a boy thing, and something must be said about the rampant sexism that ran through the D&D population. If other girls played, they didn't want to play with the *real* game--rolling the dice, taking your turn, fighting the demons. They wanted to peruse the books and figure out if they'd rather date a paladin or a ranger, and whether they'd look pretty in the magic Cloak of Feathers. If you wanted to play a real role-playing adventure, you played with the boys.

And while that might sound sexy and fun, the truth was that it's no fun entering a boy's world. They got rambunctious and crazy when they fought dragons, and argumentative when they started incurring injuries. Sometimes the whole night devolved into bouts of arguing and truculence, with the DM throwing nasty creatures at uncooperative PC's. And the worst, as I said, was the sexism--let me say it out loud: I never got the cool magic weapons. I never got to tame the gold dragons. I never got to be a lycanthrope (werewolf) player character. Ah, I felt the discrimination clearly, as I was always in the back of the group, waiting to cast my spells, while all the fighters and thieves argued about how saving throws were allowed against the undead monsters. Sure, they wanted me around if I was a cleric and could heal their wounds, but when it was my turn to face exotic monster, a troglodyte, a kobold, a doppleganger? By the time everything calmed down, the monster would be dispatched and with a swift blow of a two-sided sword and the treasure divided.

I got the copper pieces. Sometimes silver.

Did they want me there? I don't think, at that age, it mattered. But it taught me a useful lessons--when you go where the boys are, don't expect to see them behave like gentlemen. This is why, when friends tell me their schemes to meet men--learning golf, or going to sports bars or working at the New York Stock Exchange or moving to Alaska--I can only shake my head. Anyone who has tried this will realize, very quickly, that a mob of fanatical men, whether British soccer hooligans, Indian adolescent nerds, yuppie stockbrokers--get together, you'd better shout awfully loud to be heard over them. And even then, it doesn't always work out right.

Once, I complained. "Fine," the cold-hearted DM said. "You can face the next monster." Was it his fault that the next monster was the 7-headed Tiamat, the Chromatic King of the Dragons? Actually, well, yes it was. As my poor half-elf cleric perished in a haze of noxious gas, I pondered the irony.

No, it was better to secretly collect the books as they tired of them, discovering video games and post-adolescent aggression instead. I prided myself in collecting the oddball books--the Deities and Demigods, a friendly helping of the world's mythologies (basically gods with overwhelming powers who grind games to a halt), or The Oriental AD&D Handbook, and equally friendly helping of all Asian history and myth (become a Wu Jen! kill with a Katana! kick ass with Tae Kwon Do! learn flower arranging!). And of course--the Dungeon Master's Guides, a pandora's box of fantasy, mythology and obsessive compulsive detailing. These books sit in a corner of my room, gathering dust, except for those rare times, usually late at night, when I pull them out and look through them, reading my offhand notes, marveling at every minute detail (wind speed when flying, types of mental afflictions, the dozen or so elvish races). Fascinating, unecessary, painstakingly detailed instructions to created your own universe.

Was it a waste of time? I don't think so. I look at the lolitas--celluloid and otherwise--and think of how much they missed. That awkward adolescenct games of Dungeons and Dragons allowed me to hang out comfortably with the boys before sexual blossoming made that impossible. It taught me a lot about storytelling, about imagination, and about the fact that there were others like me....E.T. phone home and all that. If I had rushed into sexuality right out of elementary school--or during, according to those strange Bratz cartoons--then I would probably see men in the way that women's magazine's encourage: strange alien creatures, dogs meant to be tamed, sexual objects, poor things. As ridiculous as the boys could get--competitive, aggressive and magic-weapon-grabbing--I saw them as friends, and still do.

So I appeal to my fellow AD&D expert Stephen Colbert (yes, lawful good paladin is redundant) to bring back the time-honored tradition of old-school TSR role-playing: the maps, the dice, the miniature figurines. Throw in a few bottles of Stoly, a hookah and some mood music, and the adventures can begin again.

SAD cures

So it's that time of year where I once again consider going to Rubalad, that lovely surreal sex- drug- art- music- scene driven warehouse party in Brooklyn which no one has ever heard of. Or, at least, no one outside the few hundred or so people that pack into it. Ah....just the way I like it.

Of course, it is hard to account for an sex- drug- etc driven night when you are meeting your friend's midwestern mother the next day. I realize I play the interesting, flaky, usually-out-of-it bad-girl role in most of my friendships, but I think showing up with dilated pupils and grinding teeth for a Sunday Brunch With Mother seems rather unwise.

But dammit, I want to be unwise! I've been cooped up forever.

In book news, my latest proposal for The Devil Inside Her: A Pop History of Wicked Women is going out to editors this week. The link is a convenient and fast way to tell you about my book, which is wicked women and pop culture, but please note that the book is NOT going to be published by Seal (thank god) and may not have the same cover. It feels fabulous and scary to go out with it again, with a new agent. And, before you ask, in the interest of keeping things civilized, I will not explain why Seal and I parted. But it was definitely for the best. Onward and Upward.

For those of you who have not seen the OK GO video for "Here We Go Again," I advise you to stop what you are doing, and click on this link. You will see a fuzzy picture of men in bright pants jumping up and down on treadmills. Play this video. I do not suggest this lightly. Today in New York, it rained that grimy, muddy rain that coats the bottom of your pants and flattens your hair. It was not a good day to walk dogs or run errands, both of which I had to do. But halfway through my day I remembered this video, and smiled instinctively. Clever. Amusing. Seemingly Effortless. I realized then and there that this video is an instant cure to the SAD (Seriously Ass-hat Day) that many are experiencing. Take twice and download again in the morning. Also highly recommended is lead singer Damian Kulash's article for ElleGirl last year about why you should never date a musician. Sigh. But....they can't all be doomed to roam the earth alone, can they? Sigh.

When you awake from your gloom, you will want to party. I suggest buying all your stemware from The Scandalous Cup, a downtown boutique devoted to the art of drinking well. The website alone indicates that these people are, ahem, spirited folk and the Den of Iniquity will soon lead to The Scandalous Society, an movement to bring back the freewheeling speakeasy era of the 1920's Jazz Age. I'm all for it.

Back to Rubulad. Can I go and remain a lady (keeping, as my mother once said, both feet firmly on the floor) and not spend money and be back by 1 AM?

Doubtful.

What's In, What's Hot, What's Ready To Blow Up, blah blah blah

Well, after Friday's night of partying resulting in a fishnet stocking-related incident (note: be careful about fishnets and shoe buckles when stumbling drunkenly down staircases), I spent the rest of the weekend in relative squalor and seclusion, awaiting a new roommate and an explosion of work this week. A torn ligament in 1994 has made my left ankle permenantly weak, so it balloons like a cantaloupe when I stumble (often) or wear stilletos (rarely). This provided an opportunity for me to get better acquainted with my DVR and the internet. As a result, here are my picks and predictions for what for What's In, What's Hot, What's Ready To Blow Up, blah blah blah.

1. Idlewild: Do not miss this movie. Not only is Andre Benjamin (Andre 3000) smokingly fine and the slickest fashion icon since David Beckham, he's mad talented. Idlewild is set in a speakeasy in the 1920's South with all the jazzy, sassy glam that you'd expect. Part performance piece, part melodrama, it's more Moulin Rouge than Chicago, a hip, modern spin on a retro-musical that I think will put them both to shame. I have no doubts about Andre's acting ability--he has enough charm to compensate if he can't--but let's see if Big Boi can pull off the lead role as the club's owner. Look out for Macy Gray, Terrence Howard, Ving Rhames, and Patti Labelle in supporting roles, and some blazing musical numbers that are as much heart as beat.

2. Pet Love. My dog-loving neighbor now designs leashes on the side; my bohemian friend just published a very popular ode to her ferret. The world is filled with labradoodles--half labrador, half poodle, all affection. Pet love is in, and I don't trust anyone who turns his/her nose up our furry creatures. I've started walking my dogs around the busy hospital streets around the corner, and when the dogs meet the patients, it's amazing to see how happy one creature is to meet another with the time and inclination to play a little.

3. Gale Harold. Known for his role as libertine and gay icon Brian Kinney in Queer As Folk, this divine actor is finally playing it straight in Fox's new TV Series Vanished. Do I have high hopes? Well, from the commercials, Vanished is about some disappearing senator's wife and a secret card-playing, cloak-wearing cult, but one look from Mr. Harold reduces the plot to rubble. Unfortunately, it seems that whoever's directing has decided that Gale is going to play it straight indeed--straight and square. Mainstream TV should let loose a little and allow him to show some of that rebellious sexuality that caused Camille Paglia to call him Donatello's David, all grown up. Straight or queer? I don't think it matters. (Note: is anyone casting for The Portrait of Dorian Gray? Lord Henry awaits...)

4. Kiki de Montparnasse, the store. Professional Mistresses everywhere celebrated everywhere when this Soho shop, named after Man Ray's most infamous and decadent muse, brought elegance to the dirty Valentine's Day present. I give it two months before Paris Hilton or Lindsay Lohan starts bragging about her addiction to KikiDM ("how could I have ever lived without one? now I'm done with men forever"), but that's beside the point. No one needs a Titanium Vibrator, but in terms receiving one as a discreetly extravagant romantic gift, you can't beat KikiDM's collection. It's for the grand gesture (or the abject apology) and there's lot's of raciness to go around. I knew I picked the right agent when she suggested we hold our book party at the elegantly racy Soho store .

5. Magicians. God no, not David Blaine, or the aptly title mindFreak Criss Angel. I'm talking old school magic once again on the silver screen, the dazzling magicians of the Victorian/Edwardian era like Harry Houdini or Henry Blackstone. Antiquated? Hollwood disagrees with you, as not one but two magician-themed movies are being released in the next few months. The Illusionist features the dueling intensities of Edward Norton (as a romantic magician) and Paul Giamatti (as a romantic policeman) and the glassy perfection of Jessica Biel. The Prestige which will be released in the fall, will be far superior, as both leads (Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale) are rival magicians, and the lady in question is Scarlett Johanssen. I base my ranking not only on the hotness of the stars, but also on the fact that The Prestige is based on a superb novel by Christopher Priest that I read a few years ago. Either way, I will be in the audience, soaking up all the vintage carnival-like magic acts, fully suspending disbelief.

6. Wolfmother: Back in my high school daze, there were always a bunch of kids hanging around in their old Chevys near the tennis courts and swimming pool, music blasting. They were long-haired shaggy skateboarders with rocker-t's and torn jeans, their girlfriends always wearing denims skirts with long leggings (something that's coming back, interestingly). A cloud of smoke enveloped their portion of the parking lot, and as I walked home from school I tried to place the scent. Tobacco? Yes, mostly, but also something else--kind of like the incense my dad used. They were the laconic rebels of the school, befuddled as I was by all the social climbing and unspoken rules, falling together in this pocket of smoke like pieces of lint in a coat pocket. Their knowing outsiderness and endless philosophizing made them superior, but they still sparked with life, and always managed lazy smiles as I walked by, head down shyly.

They would have listened to Wolfmother.

7. Dark Age of Glam: With not one but two true-life Hollywood murder movies (the quirky underground The Black Dahlia and the star-powered Hollywoodland) coming out in the next month, the new way of fashion is clearly going to be old Hollywood glam a la Ava Gardner, Gina Lollabridgida, Jean Harlow. Marilyn Monroe? Too accessible. It's scarlet (Johanssen) lips, plucked brows and peekaboo hair hair--the femme fatale of the 1950's pulp novel, or B-movie, or film noir. Witness Christina Aguilera's transformation from "dirty" (mud wrestling) to "clean" ('50's pinup) sex object for an example. From Diane Lane in Hollywoodland (a manipulative older vixen) to Hilary Swank, Scarlett Johansson and Mia Kirschner in The Black Dahlia, there's a lot to love about this revival in the classic era of Hollywood--it's sexy, curvaceous, glamorous--unapologetically bombshell. And the movies are especially enticing since they go into the underbelly of classic Hollywood, giving you that true-crime shivers as you drool over the fabulous dresses. Or vice versa.

I will probably add to this post. Maybe. Maybe not.

Ban This Post

China banned primetime airing of The Simpsons today, which is not merely a crime against art and free expression, but of bad public policy as well. The Chinese government is banning The Simpsons, along with Pokeman and other terrifying cartoons, to help the country's struggling animations studios. Here are my two predictions:

1. There will be an enormous rise of blackmarket Simpson DVD's of current episodes.
2. The Simpson will do a cartoon banning episode featuring Itchy and Scratchy.

Come on, gentle Commies--with Fidel on the brink, this is not the time to make enemies. As for animators, my heart is with you, but my head is capitalist: want to recapture your audience? make better cartoons. Until then, the black market thanks you.

I don't like bans. I don't think they solve anything, financially or artistically. But so many people in the world live under restrictions I can't imagine, and yet find a way to express themselves. For example, in this month's issue of Marie Claire (the one with Maggie Gyllenhaal modeling silent film-era goth girl chic), there's a fascinating article on wealthy, fashion-conscious Saudi Arabian women. (I'd link it if I could, but the Marie Claire website is remarking stingy. Not even a taste, ladies?). Covered from head to foot in black burkas, these women indulge in top-notch designer handbags, extravagant stilletos, and the one bit of fashion allowed to them: a head scarf. Some tips from the ladies? By Cavalli scarves if you want to get noticed. Stocking their fashions in closets Kimora Lee Simmons would envy, they have turned shopping into a minimalist art form: when there is no choice, the chosen must be exquisite.

For more burka-related humor, I did find the last few minutes of an American Dad repeat rather ingenious, complete with a Roxie-Hart style song and lots of gyration. I will quote only the last lines:

"If you have a vagina, clitoris or labia
Don't relocate to Saudi Arabia."

The truth of which I cannot verify, so no hate mail please. But I thought the rhyme was rather neat.

Fashion, rebellion and rhyme. Some of my favorite things.