Phyllis Lyon (left) and Del Martin, lesbian activists who have been together for over 50 years, embrace during their marriage ceremony at San Francisco City Hall in 2004. (Chronicle photo by Liz Mangelsdorf )
It’s a beautiful, balmy evening here in the east bay, but the mood in my neighborhood is uncharacteristically quiet, even somber. In a few hours, the California Supreme Court will publicly rule on the legality of this state’s ban on gay marriage. The tension is palpable.
In 2004, in a remarkable act of civil disobedience, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom allowed thousands of gay and lesbian couples to wed before the courts stepped in and disallowed the marriage licenses. Debate has been raging ever since, with civil rights activists and SF city officials challenging the state family code law that restricts marriage to a man and a woman, and a SF trial judge declaring the ban unconstitutional. In 2006, a conflicted appeals court upheld the ban, stating that it should be up to voters or legislators to legalize same-sex marriages, rather than judges.
Conservative interest groups and the state attorney general are defending the ban, and the justices have remained divided. It could go either way. Regardless of what happens at 10am, Pacific Standard Time, it’s going to be a historic day.
The muses of fashion sing again as we enter spring here in Angel City. To celebrate the turning of the tides agent Yoon and I had ourselves a little roadside picnic near the ever-fragrant LA River.
For this momentous occasion I picked a simple knit dress, leggings and high heels with steel-plated toes - a sensible choice should one need to escape the local packs of roaming hobos on foot. In daylight hours these [equally fragrant] folks keep to dark shelters under bridges, with only glowing eyes indicating their whereabouts. Still, one can never be too careful when choosing footwear.
Eyes: my usual cobalt eyebrows in a Ben Nye shadow, a hint of drugstore iridescent green shadow on the eyelids to echo the shoes, liquid liner, Urban Decay “Heavy Metal” glitter highlights Skin: Pür mineral powder Lips: Nyx coral lip gloss Nails: NYC enamel in Times Square Tangerine Creme Dress: Final Touch $30 at Angel on Melrose Ave Leggings: H&M Bag: shop near Asakuza Temple, Tokyo Gloves: Harajuku, Tokyo Shoes: Naughty Monkey $30 on Amazon
My parents complained the other day because they actually visited the blog and thought that Mr. Pearl was “a scary man.” Mom and dad, no. This is what a scary man looks like!
Readers may remember the face above from BoingBoing, November 2007. Turns out his name is Zombie and that since his last appearance on the web, he’s gotten even more decrepit flesh inked into his dermis, including an exposed brain at the top of his skull. For the first time ever, he speaks! Here are some choice bites from a hilarious interview with BME:
BME: You’re kind of an internet celebrity — what do you think about it? Zombie: Not much, I don’t even own a computer. So fuck you assholes.
BME: Facial tattoos are a big step from “regular” tattoo placement. How long had you thought it through before you started your facial tattoos? Zombie: Never really had to think about it… I’ve been white trash my whole life…
BME: Are you single? Zombie: Yes… Very single… I’m not very dependable… Girls cut into beer time.
BME: What did you family think about your transformation? Zombie: My mom told me, “You started it, you better finish it.”
His mom’s right. Also, I think he’s kinda cute! Ladies, what say you?
On Sunday I had the heavenly pleasure of discovering another one of those LA places you won’t hear of too often. Olympic Spa is a women-only retreat in an otherwise barren stretch of Koreatown. Believe it or not, I’d never been to a spa unless you wish to count trips to the banya as a kid growing up in Russia.
Banya is one of those unforgettable [read: traumatic] quintessentially Russian experiences I’ll always treasure. At its core a bath house/steam room, the banya employs some interesting props and tactics, beyond the expected towel or, perhaps, loofah. Take, for instance, the venik. This is a bunch of actual fresh n’ leafy twigs with which one is expected to self-flagellate in order to achieve some ultimate softness. You have not known true confusion until you’ve seen a nude 70 year old babushka operate one of these things inside a packed steam room. An impressive explanation of banyas can be found on Wikipedia, where I chuckle at the writers’ innocent explanation of the term “podjopnik” as “something to sit on”. Pdjopnik, literally, translates to “under-ass-nik”. I’ve never actually heard anyone use it. But I digress.
Russkaya Venera [Russian Venus] by Boris Kustodiev
My banya experiences left me comfortable with the idea of a hall filled with nude wet women of all shapes, sizes and ages. Once the initial panic subsides, it all becomes relaxing and comforting in a primal way, as was the case at Olympic Spa. I began with a proper dry steaming, followed by a dip in a glorious tea pool, then a mineral pool and salt steam room. A very small lady called me from the salty vapor to begin the main event. As I followed her to the massage table my cobalt hair and tattoos earned a few sideways glances, but just a few - everyone was much too busy luxuriating to concern themselves with my towel-staining.
For the next two hours this tiny hurricane of a lady did things, things unlike any I’d experienced until that point. This involved an extremely vigorous scrub, buckets of seaweed water, what felt like at least a gallon of oil and more. I don’t want to spoil the actual magic of what their signature Goddess Treatment entails, but take my word for it - so worth it. Suffice to say within 20 minutes I was convinced I was in a harem filled with beautiful slave girls, being prepared for the Sheik [really]. And no, there was no happy ending, you perverts - just a very intense massage and exfoliating treatment that left even my elbows and knees velvet-soft. It would have been criminal not to share this place with the good women of Coilhouse and I fully intend to drag a few friends next time I go. Velvet-flesh for all!
We had a few requests recently for a favorite spots in LA post, prompted by the sad departure of cafe Nova Express. Here’s one for your Monday nights, especially good for those who simply refuse to believe the weekend has to end somehow.
Held downstairs at Catch One - the same place as LA’s top industrial club Das Bunker, Ground Control’s song books list music by your favorite alternative artists, including Kraftwerk as you can see above. Industrial, goth, metal, indie, 80s and more are all here in a friendly boozy atmosphere.
It doesn’t get crowded, people are genuinely nice and no one is afraid to make a complete arse of themselves, as I personally proved last night at the pajama party. And for those curious about what one wears to a pajama party held at a bar there are two options - sexy or hilarious, as modeled by me and my lovely roommate. So yes - check out Ground Control - it’s fun, even if you don’t sing.
