Last week was rough. As you know, I was assaulted by some random thug on the mean streets of Culver City. To ease the ensuing pain, good ol' doc prescribed Vicodin.

The moment I mention that I'm on Vicodin, I get open palms shoved in my direction giving the universal gesture for a free handout. I knew Vicodin was popular, but I didn't know that 50% of my contacts are junkies! They all come out of the woodwork, reminiscing on the good times with their old friend Vic, and longing for a reunion. Jeez, and you think you know a guy...

Anyhow, being doped up out of my mind has made blogging quite difficult; though I managed to bust out a few novel entries. Could you tell I was intoxicated while blogging? Did you leave scratching your heads? I mean, I guess I could have blogged about the deliciousness of Vicodin, but I figured everyone knew that!

It's neither here nor there now; I'm now completely sober and drug free. Let's just hope I don't become some boring sod who doesn't know when to shut up. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to become the next Hunter S. Thompson. --Shane Redsar

Shermar Moore must be on damage-control duty after being photographed in the nude on a gay beach in Hawaii [link NSFW]. Our intern-about-town spotted the “Criminal Minds” star at The Joint on Saturday night and not only was he flirting with all the ladies, but he also kept lifting up his shirt, probably in an attempt to show people that he has a hard time keeping his clothes on whether he's on a gay beach or a club.

The word 'douchebag' and its many derivatives ('douchey', 'douchefest', 'douche-a-rama' or just plain 'douche') have so completely proliferated the contemporary L.A. vernacular, I was moved to further explore the origins of this seemingly ubiquitous diss.

 I discovered this fascinating paper by a Katie Keenan, a student at Columbia university, in which she not only outlines the origins of the word, complete with photos, but goes into a deeper study of what 'douche' really means to young people today.

Various excerpts:

"In object form, Douche bag is rather benign. It is a cleansing device. It holds therapeutic water. Aside from its bodily associations, (the douche bag may be used for giving enemas as well as vaginal lavage), there is nothing overtly sexual, sensual or dirty about the thing. It is mundane. Although perhaps, hanging on the back of Grandmother’s bathroom door, also a little mysterious."

Vaginal lavage?? Are you kidding? She then goes on to provide a more detailed pop-cultural definition of the term:

"Multiple entries defined a douche bag as someone who:

·     Has an unduly high sense of self-esteem,

·     Is a “fake” or a “poser”,

·     Is discourteous and untrustworthy,

·     Thinks he or she is cool, but whom everyone else actually hates,

·     Frequently wears a pink polo shirt with a popped collar,

·     Is John Edwards of Crossing Over."

Um...fake posers who everyone hates? Untrustworthy polo-shirt wearers with overly high self-esteem?

In L.A.?

Nope. Never seen one.

Who knew the Beverly Hills Hotel had such a kinky side? I went to the hotel’s new posh Bar Nineteen12 over the weekend and behold a page from their menu:

Rawwwr.

Friday night was an evening of epic people/goblin watching at the Labyrinth of Jareth Masquerade Ball.  Have a gander at the photo gallery here to see what we mean. From my scrawled, giddy notes, I present the best overheard comments of the night:

10:14 p.m., through the stalls in the ladies' room:

"I can tell these wings are going to be a pain in the butt!"

"I know! That's why I took my cape off." 

11:32 p.m., a man in a loincloth, talking to himself next to a mirror (in a quasi-faux-British accent):

"I have been glittered!"

 

From our photographer Timothy Norris, as we headed to the car, on the "Eyes Wide Shut" vibe:

"I'm a little disappointed we didn't get in a three-way with a goblin." 

Ahh, the serpentine labyrinth of fantastical masquerading! The mystical nature of the ego! Rubber elf ears! Good times.  

Saturday night involved a stop at the Gary Baseman show at Billy Shire. I spied Luke Chueh, Natalia Fabia, and Matt Mascaro among those in attendance, as well as pyrographer Jason Houchen, who's prepping for a solo show. But back to Basemen: plenty of bodily fluid, cartoons and blood:

Not in the crowd, necessarily

But in the work

Sunday, I smeared on sunscreen and skipped over to the Lotus Festival with my trusted comrade, Gemini. We ate a bunch of stuff we shouldn't have, and peeped some boat racing. Anyone who knows Gemini is aware that he enjoys Situations of the Ridiculous, such as proposing "What do you think the boat racers would do if I, like, jumped in Echo Park Lake, and yelled, 'I'm gonna win this thing!'"

Your answer is not important, as he's usually too busy laughing. 

Dragon boat smackdown: 

Hot dogs n' hipsters 

Gemini grubs a snowcone

And then, a $1 mistake:

We make the very bad decision to buy a bag of wheel-shaped mystery from a street vendor. I've always wondered, from a culinary and scientific standpoint, what these were. When the vedor asks: "Limon?" "Chili?" I say yes to both, only to discover that they taste like foam peanuts bathed in Tabasco.

We left them in a urine stained corner of a parking lot as a gift for anyone hungry/brave enough to finish the bag.

(If you have knowledge regarding their chemical makeup, enlighten me. I think they're made of corn?)