Hunter Moore, Isanyoneup and Cyber Rape

This is the blog post I made anonymously on Feb 21, 2012 this year. This post was immediately hacked (within two days). And then someone tried to give me a computer virus. Someone apparently got a Google alert and was upset that I was releasing this information. Since only three people had seen the post (according to website statistics), I have a pretty good idea who the hacker was or to whom he or she was connected.

I am posting the information again, although not anonymously this time, because the website Isanyoneup.com has been removed from the Internet. I hope Congress will pass legislation, so people are no longer victimized in this way.

Thanks,

Charlotte Laws

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The information below was originally posted anonymously on Feb 21, 2012 on an obscure website.

Cyber rape is a disturbing trend in which websites upload copyright-protected naked images in order to trash reputations and end careers; and of course, make money. I spent a heart-wrenching week consoling victims. Some whimpered into the phone and begged for help. All had small and terrified voices, but psychological trauma is common after rape. Although the perpetrator had never touched their flesh, he had inflicted violence in much the same way as a traditional offender might. 

The cyber rapist is Hunter Moore of the website, IsAnyoneUp.com. Some of his most ardent supporters proudly label him this way. Moore posts naked photos of ordinary people, which he links to their Facebook or Twitter accounts, often indicating their hometown and place of work. Beneath the pictures, Moore’s followers post crude and misogynistic remarks. Victims might be taunted as “fat cows,” “creatures with nasty teeth,” “ugly whores,” “white trash sluts” and “whales.” One commenter says, ”Jesus, someone call Greenpeace and get her back in the water.” Moore has posted pictures of a partially blind paraplegic, a kindergarten teacher, and a mentally incapacitated woman, among others. The website is not about pornography; it is about hurting others. 

Moore brags that he is a “professional life ruiner” and “scummy” and that his website is “pure evil”; and he maintains that his victims—both male and female—asked to be abused. In his view, those who snap sexy pictures in the privacy of their bedroom are sluts and deserve to lose their jobs, embarrass their families and find themselves forever ruined. When a person’s name and naked body gets indexed into Google and other search engines, it is almost impossible to remove. Like an infectious disease; it spreads quickly and can prove fatal to reputation, especially when foreign websites snag the images and further disseminate them.

Moore chooses his victims carefully. He does not post well-to-do, A-list celebrities—although he claims to possess such photos--because he fears they could nail him with a pricey lawsuit. He preys on the vulnerable: those who lack resources or “connections.” Copyright lawyer Marc Randozza says that bringing a lawsuit to fruition against Moore could cost $60,000. Although a judge can award a victim as much as $150,000 per copyright infringement and although Moore would most probably lose in court, Randozza thinks Moore might hide his assets. This would leave plaintiffs with nothing and feeling further exploited.  

Mainstream media is often wrong about Moore because he has a whimsical relationship with the truth. Moore does not live in San Francisco, nor does his lawyer live in Las Vegas, as he claims. Moore rarely removes photos when asked, begged or served with legal letters. He ignores copyright infringement; and his website is not largely a platform for “revenge porn,” as most articles say. “Revenge porn” occurs when an angry ex submits nude photos of a former boyfriend, girlfriend, husband or wife in order to trash the other person’s reputation.

I embarked upon an investigation of Moore and his website in January 2012. I randomly chose 25 individuals who had been uploaded onto the site within a 14-day period. Most of these folks were difficult to find. Victims of cyber rape tend to blame themselves, crawl into an emotional fetal position and shut down their above-board online presence. They may close their Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn pages, not realizing that these accounts serve as a partial buffer against the disturbing data from Moore’s site. When all positive information about them vanishes, only the negative remains. It becomes easier for their employer or grandmother to do a Google search and to find the nude photos and offensive comments. 

My findings were astonishing: a full 40% of the victims I located had been hacked only days before their photos were loaded onto the site. In most cases, the scam began through Facebook and ended when the thief gained access to the victim’s email account. The hacker did not nab credit card information. He or she seemed to have only one goal: to steal images for “Is Anyone Up?”

One victim had never shown her photos to anyone, nor did she intend to. She had taken the shots in the mirror alone with her cell phone and sent them to her email account in order to store them on her computer. Another victim had emailed her topless photo only to her husband; another had sent her shot only to her doctor. All victims promptly asked Moore to remove the illegal material from his website; he would not. Although the victims owned the copyright (in that they had taken the shots of themselves), they registered the pictures with the US Copyright office in Washington, DC, and their lawyers sent “cease and desist letters” (DMCA takedown requests) to Moore; he ignored these as well. 

In addition to the “hacked” victims, I found three people (a full 12% of my sample group) who claim their names and faces are posted next to nude bodies that are not actually theirs. “If my ex-husband finds out, I will lose custody of my children,” a middle-aged woman wept into the phone. “I have sent 20 letters to Hunter Moore. It’s not me. He won’t take the photos down; and I don’t know what to do.” Toronto Maple Leaf hockey player Mike Zigomanis (who was not part of my investigation) also claims that the faceless penis pictures next to his name on the website are of someone else. The scandal is negatively affecting his career; a Google search with Zigomanis’ name plus the word “nude” garners 30,000 results.

Through my investigation, I found nine victims of revenge porn (36% of my test group) and three “self-submits” (12%). “Self-submits,” of course, are not victims at all; they are individuals who willingly sent their images to Moore. In the end, it was disturbing to learn that over half of the folks from my sample group were either criminally hacked or posted next to body parts that were not theirs. In addition, copyright infringement on the site was pervasive. Besides the nude shots, it was clear that many fully clothed photos were owned by professional photographers and media outlets.

Moore is not the only cyber rapist in town. IsAnybodyDown.com and WalktheShame.com have popped up in recent weeks, no doubt with hopes of elbowing in on some of Moore’s profits. With an increase in “life ruining” sites, there will no doubt be an increase in victims.   

Although I thought the recently-shelved Stop Internet Piracy Act (SOPA) was problematic; I urge Congress to draft an amendment, which I call “SOPA: SEX.” This legislation would pertain only to images and videos depicting nudity or sex; and it would require websites to immediately remove questionable material (when alerted about copyright infringement) until a court rules on the issue.

“SOPA-SEX” legislation would shift the burden onto website operators, and away from cyber rape victims, who today must embark upon a costly race against the fast-paced web in an effort to preserve their reputation. With passage of “SOPA-SEX,” naked and copyrighted images would not multiply in the cyber sphere for weeks (or months) while lawyers attempt to haul Hunter Moore and his ilk into court. “SOPA-SEX” would be supported by Silicon Valley and Hollywood, by Republicans and Democrats, and most of all, by regular Americans. It is an area in which everyone—except predators—can agree.

Let’s end the shame game. Let’s stop cyber rape. And let’s make Hunter Moore find a new career. 

Miss Hooker Beauty Pageant: Naked Facts about Women and Equality

The “oldest living profession” was the backdrop for the oddest existing beauty pageant.

Nine gals were vying for the nation’s most coveted award: Miss Hooker 2012. The competition was held at the Dragonfly Bar in Hollywood, California. Questions darted through my head. Where was the tenth shady lady listed on the event flyer? Was she strolling down the runway at the county jail? Was Donald Trump her “one phone call”?

Was this a battle of beauty, brains and bedroom skills; or something altogether different? And if turning tricks was a pageant prerequisite, what about an arrest record? Would this mean bonus points or disqualification? Might someone win Miss Congeniality; or were all gals deemed “congenial” by thriving in this “people person” profession in the first place?

After arriving at the contest, I learned my preconceived notions were premature: none of the girls were hookers. In fact, during backstage interviews with several contestants, I learned they had never even met a call girl.

“Frankly, I’m more qualified to be Miss Hooker than you,” I told Miss Anthropy, a tall brunette immersed in silver sequins. “At least, I’ve known prostitutes.”

Another competitor told me she had a serious crush on Johnny Depp, thus if given the opportunity, would charge him zero for her services. I informed her she clearly lacked the business acumen to work in this specialized field.

The talent competition was another area of consternation. One girl ate a hot dog. Another read a book on stage and still another twirled the hula hoop--clearly not the skills I expected from Heidi Fleiss wannabes.      

Yet, when contestant Miss Kitty Cadillac worked the stripper pole and set her breasts on fire, the show climaxed. The crowd roared; and the judges were mesmerized. Then Kitty purred through her interview question with a raunchiness that made her the ideal candidate for the crown. She was asked at what point a girl becomes a woman, and replied that it required mastering a particular sexual position (details which I cannot disclose without alarming the moral majority). Kitty’s erotic answer sealed the deal. She had come from humble beginnings in her lifelong quest (or rather her two-month quest) to be Miss Hooker 2012; and she had prevailed.

However, the competition was more than frivolity, gigolo jokes and roasted mammary glands. It was an opportunity to explore the deeper questions of life, such as “Where the heck is contestant number ten and can she meet bail?” I was told she’d never shown for rehearsals, thus proving two things: she had not taken prostitution training seriously, and she’d opted not to “show up” in life.

“Showing up” is a field of study unto itself. I’ve been informally examining it for the past eight years--since being elected into local political office and working as a Los Angeles city commissioner. Although women comprise 51 percent of the population, they are glaringly absent from political, legal and community events. Women fought tirelessly for the vote during the 19^th and early 20^th century, and they yearn for equality; but today they earn 77 cents on the male dollar. They claim to want leadership roles in society; but comprise only 16.4 percent of U.S. Congress and only 22.1 percent of executive positions—a number that has decreased in the past decade, according to the Center for American Women and Politics at Rutgers University.

Politics is where the power is, so if women desire that power, why does testosterone consume the room when it is time to affect change? Why are political events crammed with dudes? Do most ladies lack interest in these matters? Are they secretly content with letting men lead? Or are they intimidated by a society-wide “males only” mentality?

Miss Demeanor, who had hula hooped her way to a loss in the Hooker pageant, told me that women don’t “show up” because the world is a boys’ club. Women are quietly edged out of the arena. “My mom said I could be whatever I wanted, but not every girl gets this sort of encouragement.”

Regardless of whether Miss Demeanor is right, the first step towards true equality is realizing where the power is and “showing up” to grab it. Females must burst into the public sphere, frequenting political meetings, community events and legal forums. They must run for political office; and elect each other. They must assert their opinions, rather than let males dominate the conversation. They must stop muffling their voice.    

I was glad I “showed up” to meet the beautiful and empowered women who participated in this admittedly bizarre pageant; they were independent, stylish and strong. I congratulated the winner Miss Kitty Cadillac, who flaunted her leg tattoo, leopard print leotard and rhinestone wand from the edge of the stage. She gave me reassurance that she was the right gal for the job, confiding that she had once met a call girl and had no interest in Johnny Depp.

“Good for you,” I smiled. “You’re as qualified as I am to wear that crown.”
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The contest was sponsored by The Corey Helford Gallery. 

Is Happiness History?

Is there a connection between happiness and History--the tedious, sleep-inducing subject that I was forced to study year after year in school? I was generally a good student, but I remember the “D” on my fourth grade report card as if it was a pimple on my chin.   

My dislike of History did not wane when I began college at California State University, Northridge. Why memorize dates, battles and the names of dead white guys, who had no relevance to my life? In retaliation, I invented jokes about these dead white guys with my accomplice in crime: classmate Bill Berle (comedian Milton Berle’s son). Like inmates in adjacent cells, we made the best of our stay in the slammer--Western Civilization class--by whispering, by passing notes and by generally disrespecting the material--always careful not to draw unfavorable attention from our warden, the professor. The subject matter was highly conducive to ridicule because it included details about the sex lives of Greeks and other ancient peoples. Let’s just say Rick Santorum would not have condoned their behavior. 

This brings me to Colin Quinn, the magically funny and devastatingly handsome (but since I am married, I naturally did not notice) comedian. He was performing his brilliant one-man show “Long Story Short” to a sold-out crowd in Palm Desert, California. From my seat behind bird lady (some annoying woman with a peacock feather hat), I watched Colin explore the messed up cultures of the past and masterfully connect them with the messed up cultures of today. He joked that “Ancient Greek kids were just like us. They watched 40 hours of theater per week.” He said that democracy had disintegrated into “Lil Wayne and Girls Gone Wild” and that the Holy Roman Empire was mostly about priests and lots of jewelry.

In addition to nonstop laughs on historical topics, the show offered profound insights. I was particularly intrigued by Colin’s observation that (the pursuit of) “happiness” is part of Declaration of Independence, yet “no other country has made it their policy to cheer people up.” How ironic, I thought. The one country that aims to link history with happiness is largely comprised of folks who believe studying the past is dreary and a waste of time.

Apathy naturally leads to ignorance. According to a Newsweek poll, 29 percent of U.S. citizens cannot name the vice-president and 73 percent are hazy about the reasons for the cold war. In a separate study by the Intercollegiate Studies Institute, test takers knew more about American Idol than the Gettysburg Address, and only half could list the three branches of government: executive, legislative and judicial. In the end, 71 percent of study participants were graded “F”—a pretty big pimple, if you ask me.

According to even more studies, Europeans outperform Americans on “historical facts about the world”; and there are traditional explanations for this: our broken educational system, the ever-widening income gap in the U.S., the abundance of dull and somniferous textbooks, the more intellectually oriented European culture and the fact that America is a large land, separated from most other nations by a whole lot of water. There is an “out of sight, out of mind” mentality--it is difficult to care about stuff so far away.

But I have a final theory, which I call “cut your losses and run.”  Since Americans start the race 200 paces behind Europeans, why try in the first place? As a nation, we feel disadvantaged historically speaking, so why further embarrass ourselves? We are arguably reluctant to expend effort. We are a new country; we lack the rich traditions and delightful 500-year-old structures. We are better at state-of-the-art and innovation. We fizzle when reminiscing over gray-haired institutions, outmoded customs and long dead ancestors. Why play a game we cannot win?

As a competitive and success-oriented people, we’d rather focus on our strengths: being specialized and making money. History is sort of like Latin. It leads to unemployment. History is for old codgers wearing ascots and lapel pins. America is about youth, energy and advancement. It is about bulldozing the old and making way for the modern. Many of us shoved History into the coat closet years ago; and when confronted by polls (or Jay Leno in a “jaywalking” gag), our apathy becomes evident. We pull dusty, moth-eaten ideas from that closet; and mostly end up with wrong answers and blank stares.

Colin made me realize that although I cannot say happiness is History, learning about the past can add texture to my life. To make a long story short, I now realize I am a “17^th Century Holland” gal, just as someone else might be an Iron Age enthusiast or a Shang Dynasty devotee. History can transport me beyond today--it can be a form of spirituality. While life is casually reading a book, studying the footnotes can add a dimension or richness that I might not otherwise know.

After the show, I went backstage to schmooze with Colin and to tell him that he’d succeeded in his policy to cheer people up. Pursuing happiness is easier when he is in the room.

Plus, he’s devastatingly handsome (but, of course, I did not notice).  

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Real Thoughts on Fake Lives

“Fake” evokes a number of images: reality TV, brush on tans, social snobs, email solicitations from Nigerian “princes,” and Jim Carrey’s surroundings on The Truman Show. In the 2011 movie Albert Nobbs, actress Glenn Close plays a pretend guy, living a pretend existence. She resides in a tiny room with few possessions and a lot of misery. Her life belongs to her employer, although she stashes hope under the floorboards in the form of cash for a someday business.  

I’ve felt like Albert Nobbs myself; perhaps everyone has. At age 23, I applied to be a no-day-off nanny at a Beverly Hills estate; but when handed the job, I bolted. I suddenly realized I’d be living someone else’s life, dressing someone else’s kids, and endlessly focusing on someone else’s activities. I figured I’d rather be the main course on a table of hardship rather than a side dish on a smorgasbord of plenty.  

Then there were those moments of celebrity suffocation. As an accomplished party-crasher in my younger years, I hobnobbed with the rich and famous at award shows, on movie sets, at VIP parties and backstage at concerts. With most stars, I could breathe just fine; but there were a few who sucked all air from the room. Dr. Drew Pinsky would call them “narcissists,” a term he uses in his 2009 book, The Mirror Effect, to describe those who engage in unhealthy self-absorption and who strive to attain godlike status. He says the noteworthy rank higher on the narcissism scale than the unknown. As for the underlings and employees of egocentrics, I felt sorry for them; and sensed a deflated demeanor and emptiness in their eyes. I figured they’d lost themselves years prior. Narcissists permit only one balloon at the party: their own.

Apart from those who take jobs unaware of the “soul devouring” consequences, I wondered about those who intentionally live someone else’s life and headed to the 2012 Celebrity Impersonator Convention and Awards in Las Vegas. I wanted to know how “Sean Connery” and “Johnny Cash” felt about being Sean Connery and Johnny Cash. Could they retain a sense of self while playing 007 or a boy named Sue?

The answer seemed to be yes, with some exceptions. “Dolly Parton” told me she was living her own life; but added that in another sense she was living nine lives. “I’m like a cat. I can portray Dolly, Elvira, Charo, Mae West and five other vamps. It’s all about the wig.”

“Michael Jackson,” “Angelina Jolie,” and “Bono” said their essences were intact; and a hippie wearing round sunglasses concurred, “I am living my own life. I just want to make the world better.”

“But you’re playing Ozzy Osbourne,” I said. “Even the real Ozzy Osbourne doesn’t want to make the world better.”  

“Bette Midler” said she didn’t feel absorbed in the role of The Divine Miss M., but added, “Of course, some people are delusional.”

“Whitney Houston” agreed. She told me about an “Elvis,” who when off-duty, wore sequined pantsuits and curled his lip like “the King.” He’d break into Kentucky Rain during a downpour; and into Blue Suede Shoes when sliding on his Hush Puppies. “He was living in a time warp,” she said. “It was pathetic.”

There were three Elvises at the Convention; and according to a clearly unreliable Internet source, there are an estimated 85,000 Elvis imitators in the world. This source says that by the year 2019, Elvises will make up one third of the world’s population. Oh, well, I suppose it’s better to have three billion Jailhouse Rockers than continents full of starving kids.  

A look-alike booking agent told me about a “Natalie Wood” who suffered from severe depression and who predicted she’d one day drown. And she mentioned a former “Marilyn Monroe” named Kay Kent, who got surgery to look like her idol and who once said “It's almost as though by taking on her appearance I've inherited her troubles." In 1989, this woman committed a copy-cat suicide, dying exactly as the real Marilyn did. 

The booking agent also revealed that impersonators who are in high demand are more likely to lose their own identity. “They can get caught up in the character, and don’t know how to snap out of it.” 

Due to the economic downturn, few are in high demand these days. There’s less money, but more sanity. Regular nine-to-five jobs keep many impersonators grounded. “Bret Michaels” told me that he worked as a truck driver, and “Dr. Phil” was a manager at Home Depot, advising the lovelorn on power tools. “Barack Obama” earned his living as a materials scientist, and “Tim McGraw” handled loss prevention at K-Mart.

Unfortunately, I was unable to locate “Alice Cooper” for an interview; “Britney Spears” told me he was backstage having a sex change operation. And award nominees “Tom Cruise” and “Will Smith” never showed; they were probably on a mission impossible or saving a planet from aliens.

The Convention taught me that you can impersonate someone else while “living your own life” or you can impersonate yourself  while “living someone else’s life.” And it is mostly a matter of perception; it is a subjective and relative enterprise. What is tolerable to one person may be intolerable to another. Although I cringed at the thought of becoming a full-time nanny, others fulfill their dreams in this very field. Although I darted from narcissists, others were surely energized by super-sized personas. 

Shakespeare said “all the world’s a stage,” and it is possible Albert Nobbs agreed. Although I deemed her life “miserable,” perhaps she saw it as her own. Perhaps she was disguised as herself, hoping that today’s real Albert could eventually escape and become tomorrow’s real Albert, a freer version of herself.

I left Las Vegas, realizing that it is important to have real thoughts and avoid a fake life. Whatever that may mean to you.   

Natalie Portman’s $600 Carton of Eggs: The Black Swan and The Chicken

(Actor Jason Alexander with one of Natalie Portman's eggs)



You may have heard of the goose who laid the golden egg. This time, the goose is a chicken named Mae Poulet, and her eggs sell for $50 a pop. All proceeds go to a nonprofit organization that benefits poultry in need.

I adopted Mae a year ago from Craigslist. The ad read, “Free. Would make a good dinner.”

“It’s either you or some lady who wants to make chicken stroganoff,” I was told when I phoned.

I am an animal rights advocate like Natalie Portman; and recently heard of the vegan actress’ dilemma: she wanted to consume eggs during her pregnancy. Portman is a compassionate soul, so I wanted to help her with a compassionate alternative, plus factory farm eggs are filled with toxins that could harm an unborn child.

I offered to provide Natalie with eggs from Mae and the other five, happy hens who roam my half-acre property in Los Angeles. The others were adopted from public animal shelters. My hens will never be killed even though chickens can live 10 – 15 years and typically stop laying after three. Commercial egg businesses usually slaughter them at one and half, which is equivalent to killing a person at age seven. It is a fowl situation indeed.

Chickens are probably the most exploited and tortured species on earth. Each hen spends her entire life in darkness crammed into a space the size of half a sheet of 8 x 11 paper. She is treated like a disposable food machine. And when baby boy chicks are born, they are ground up alive. The factory farm has no use for them because they don’t make good meat. The whole thing is heart-breaking.

I put an extreme price tag on the eggs to mirror the extreme conditions that hens endure; plus I want to raise funds for chicks in need. However, Portman need not crow about the high price, at least for the first dozen, because two, generous LA businessmen have already paid the tab.

Members of the public are invited to buy eggs for Natalie. Proceeds will go to Animal Acres, Farm Sanctuary and the League for Earth and Animal Protection. Donors names will be listed on this blog at their request.

The first $600 carton of 12 eggs is ready for delivery, but it seems Mae’s feathers will be ruffled if she cannot meet her favorite actress. She has always loved black swans.

From the perch on her nesting box, Mae whispers, “Tell Natalie to come up and see me some time.”

Oprah, Me and Reality TV

Did I botch the casting call? Is my 16-page application lining Mark Burnett’s bird cage? Is my piddling number of video votes causing late night laughter among production staffers? These twenty-somethings, incidentally, are way too young and thin to be making weighty decisions, such as who gets to be on TV.

I submitted my three-minute video online--as did thousands of others around the country--with hopes of winning a spot on Oprah Winfrey’s new reality program, Your Own Show. Ten contestants will compete to host their own television show on Oprah’s new network, OWN.

To increase my chances, I also auditioned in person in Laguna Niguel, California. By 6 am, the line topped 1000; it looked like a string of hungry ants marching towards a single breadcrumb.

A bouncy female applicant with a two foot billboard of Oprah on her head told me she was channeling the star. She said she stalked Perez Hilton for two years before landing a job with him. “Hire me. I’m broke,” was the line that finally dazzled him into submission.

I had no signage, no aptitude for channeling and no patience for stalking. I would have to work “in a suit” as they say; in other words, “without props.” I stood with 11 other hopefuls in front of casting director Scott Salyers and pitched my ideas in my usual Italian way, hands flying around like a traffic cop on speed. I am only one quarter Italian. If I were 100%, I probably would have slapped my competitors into San Diego.

My show is about news and current events, but my real strength is my interesting life, from my traumatic childhood and fight against racism to my long line of intriguing occupations. I have been a private detective, cab driver, aerobics instructor, Los Angeles Commissioner, FBI lecturer, backup singer for an Elvis imitator, and author of a popular book on how to get invited to the Academy Awards or meet the President. I also have extensive experience as a television commentator; coincidentally my first TV appearance was on Oprah’s show in the late 1980’s.

Casting director Scott was as hard to read as a calculus textbook. I left unsure whether my pitch had hit the right note with him.

But later that day I received word that I been chosen for a callback. An email followed, instructing me to come to a certain address, to enter the back door only, and to speak to no one. The cryptic message could have doubled as a ransom note or CIA communiqué.

I tiptoed into the audition warehouse where I encountered a college-age kid who asked my name. I ignored him. This must be a test, I thought, and I will not succumb.

“Excuse me. What’s your name?’ he asked a second time, then third.

Finally, I whispered, “I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”

He whispered back, “It’s ok. You can talk to me. I work here. I have to check you in.”

Other applicants, seated nearby, chuckled at my blunder. I had already gotten off on the wrong foot. Speaking of feet, I had mistakenly worn my cheap shoes, and a nail from the sole was beginning to pierce my right heel. They may say Payless now, but it’s pay later when you’re at a make-it-or-break-it audition and your foot gets skewered like a tomato at odds with a “Rock n Chop” knife set.

I gave my name to college boy and hobbled to my seat. There were two interviewers: a female and a male, both in their 20’s. The female spent lots of time with applicants, but the male--a no-nonsense dude named Dave--whisked people in and out as if he were a contestant on Minute to Win It. I was matched with Dave, which meant I needed to be in turbo mode.

Dave led me to a chairless room with a camera and announced. “I love to stand, even when I don’t have to. Donald Rumsfeld is the same way. I’m just like him, You know, the former Secretary of Defense.”

Rumsfeld’s name has been connected with torture. Guantanamo Bay interrogators would induce stress in prisoners by forcing them to remain standing in the same position for hours. Rumsfeld would shrug it off with an attitude of “Heck, no big deal. I stand 8 to 10 hours a day.”

Dave was my Rummy, and the room was my very own Guantanamo Bay. The good news was that I would be out of the joint before my foot could turn blue and fall off. The bad news was I had a minute to win it.

The on-camera interview got off to a rocky start when I was asked to state my age two times. Trust me, it’s an age I wouldn’t want to reveal once, let alone twice. All in all, it was a typical Hollywood audition: I assume I said all the wrong things and forgot to say all the right things. I was told I would hear in two weeks.

If a skinny college kid doesn’t call with good news, then I am a reality show reject. And frankly, I’ll blame the whole thing on the shoes.
________________

You can view and vote for Charlotte's audition video at this link.

Clowns, Casinos and Men Full of Cash

I recently visited Las Vegas and found it had morphed from a hay ride into a bullet train, and from Hookers-ville into Kids R Us. When I lived there in 1980, it was all about high rollers, call girls, comps, 1950’s décor, being laid back and knowing everyone who worked on the strip. It was a small town in big city clothes. Today, freebies are rare, and fast food is plentiful. Billboards reveal “ostentation in overdrive” with flashing fluorescents and snappy video presentations. Casino tables are relative “dead zones,” so hotels charge for everything else, from shows to monorail rides. It’s a supersized theme park with focus on the family.

Thirty years ago, I might have stumbled upon the Dirty Old Man Delegation, the Boozers Brigade or the Strippers Symposium. But during this trip I naturally found a kiddie-land favorite: the Annual Clown Convention, which was held at the Orleans hotel. I confronted a sea of painted faces, kooky costumes and bulbous, red noses; and got to root for my favorite contestant in the “Top Clown” competition. Most had “silly billy” names, such as Cricket, Snickers and Krinkles.

“I love kids. I had three for breakfast,” veteran clown Jim Howle told five children sitting before him on a makeshift stage. He pulled paper from his shoe, “Here’s a footnote.”

A pink clown whispered to me, “I’m a beginner and earn a living as a waitress and construction worker.” A brightly dressed Charlie Chaplin said, “I’m full time with a business license. I do 300 performances each year.”

Tables in the back of the room offered novelty items for sale from lime green wigs to Technicolor costumes, magic tricks and books. “Here Comes the Clown,” “Talk like a Dummy” and “Stop that Heckler” were a few of the titles.

As I watched clowns compete, I remembered my first visit to Las Vegas in 1977 when I was a sweet seventeen. I surely looked underage with my bouncy pigtails and running shorts as I trotted through Caesar’s Palace where I was staying with my aunt. An “over 60” man named Fred stopped me.

“I just won 13-thousand dollars gambling and would like to buy you a diamond bracelet. No strings attached.”

“Yeah, right.” I flashed a skeptical grin.

Fred led me to a hotel shop where I was gifted an $800 trinket. Then he wanted to gamble and nudged me from table to table stuffing chips in my purse, which I later tallied to be $2900. After this, he bought me clothing totaling $4000 at a Caesar’s boutique and topped off the two hour adventure with the words, “Well, it was nice meeting you, young lady, but I’d better be going.”

I sprinted back to my room and dumped the loot at my aunt’s feet. She shook her head, “I wish I were young again.”

I wondered whether this was a common occurrence or a fluke. Did people just give away money in Las Vegas or did the gambling-town gods have a special crush on me?

My answer came a few days later when a man named Craig asked if I’d like to gamble with him. He was determined to hit the jackpot and stalked a row of slot machines like a 12-step program dropout, popping coins obsessively into one, then another and another. I agreed to play an adjacent row with a bucket of his coins. An hour later, I said good-bye, and Craig handed me a hundred dollar bill for my time, which I promptly showed my aunt.

In the 1970’s and 1980’s in Las Vegas, the generosity of strangers—or more specifically middle-aged men--was as predictable as buffets, headliners and showgirls; and the biggest recipients were those whose jobs involved tips. Small town Americans would relocate to Sin City for a year or two to accumulate big bucks, working as blackjack dealers, bartenders, bellhops, waitresses or even prostitutes. As a University of Nevada student, I met dozens of these folks, who outlined their ultimate goal: to return to their home state to buy property or start a business with their “winnings.”

Over the years, Vegas has shifted from big spenders to tourists in order to stay afloat. The scores of “high rollers” from the 1970’s and 1980’s have either stopped coming due to the deteriorating economy or have gotten snapped up by competitors, such as Indian casinos. Nineteen states permit casino gambling. The growing gap between the rich and the poor has statistically led to fewer wealthy folk, and thus fewer big time gamblers. Casino owners over-borrowed and overbuilt, and the city now has the highest foreclosure rate of any major metro area in the country and the second highest unemployment rate at 13 percent. In an effort to pinpoint a new and steady revenue stream, the family was targeted. Today, the city caters to mothers, fathers, kids and even clowns, who are mostly middle-income and careful with their cash.

Seventeen-year-olds looking for a golden gift from the gods are probably out of luck. A veteran Vegas waitress recently told me, “You used to be able to count on the kindness of strangers. Today, tips are probably the same as in any other big city. Men full of cash are a thing of the past.”

It’s My Party and I’ll Crash If I Want To

Michaele and Tareq Salahi crashed more than a White House state dinner. Like other publicity stunt architects before them, they crashed through the barricade that mainstream media erected long ago to keep out common folks like you and me. With the advent of the Internet and reality TV, these barricades have been re-examined and reconfigured so that ordinary people can more easily get their 15 minutes of fame. With luck, perseverance and a crafty publicist, this can be parlayed into 15 years or more.

I am pleased that the media who once hoarded the most valuable commodities in America—information and ideas—have been forced to pull extra chairs to the table and share some of the bounty with the potato peelers in the kitchen. The backdoor has been unbolted, giving America’s “seemingly unremarkable” masses a chance to bypass the golden plated guest list and join the party.

After all, if William Hung—the kid who gained fame in 2004 for his painfully bad American Idol audition—can end up with a Wikipedia page, a fan site and a record deal, anyone can do it. Our “Reality TV-Internet” age means new career opportunities for those who might otherwise feel hopeless about a chance of fame and success.

Apparently, my car is the only one exhibiting the “Go Salahi” bumper sticker. In online articles and blogs, seething anger lashes out like flames from a pissed-off fire pit. Words like “narcissistic” and “superficial” are used to describe ordinary people who seek fame or reality show careers. One comment reads, “I’m tired of these stupid celebrities with no talent. I hear they get six figure incomes on Reality TV. That money could feed an entire village.” Maybe but that does not explain his anger because he has no problem with the executives or actors who make seven or eight figure incomes which could feed 100 villages.

I contend it takes a “je ne sais quoi” quality to be watchable, entertaining and catapult to stardom for merely “being you.” Appearing on reality TV is much like acting or hosting a show because the medium is highly scripted, despite appearances to the contrary. And it is a talent in itself to drum up a million followers on Youtube or amass a swarm of fans while competing on Survivor, Project Runway or Top Chef.

Capturing the attention of the media with relatively harmless publicity stunts is a highly paid skill. Every major corporation and celebrity utilizes the services of a public relations firm. The Rose Bowl, the Miss America Pageant and the Academy Awards all began as publicity stunts.

The Balloon Boy ploy wasn’t harmless. It wasted law enforcement’s time and taxpayer dollars but the verdict is out on the whether it will end like the Jerry Lewis movie, King of Comedy. In this flick--which solidifies the age-old message that “any publicity is good publicity”--an aspiring comic kidnaps a talk show host in order to get a few minutes of TV airtime so he can perform his act. The stunt lands the comic in jail for a short time, a small price to pay for the stardom and wealth he finds upon release.

The gate-crashing Salahis with their panache and chutzpah weren’t the first to maneuver past Secret Service. I have done the same thing. Twice.

In addition to gate-crashing numerous events and award shows in my late teens and early 20’s, and writing a “how to” book in 1988 called Meet the Stars, I crashed two “Secret Service-guarded” events.

The first time was to meet and interview President Reagan at an elite Walter Annenberg party in Palm Springs in the 1980’s. Like the Salahis, I went through a metal detector and my purse was checked. I got into the event by making friends with a White House employee a couple of days earlier and finagling an “invitation” to the affair. I say “invitation” because my name was never placed on the guest list. At the entrance to the event, the employee somehow convinced a Secret Service agent to give me entrance.

My second Secret Service encounter took place at a 2004 Senator John Kerry fundraiser in Los Angeles when he was the Democratic candidate for president. Some attendees had paid as much as $25,000 for the dinner and star-studded show. A few lucky ones including me were able to attend a very private party afterwards. Present were: Senator Kerry, Robert De Niro, Barbra Streisand, Ben Affleck, Neil Diamond, Billy Crystal, Ben Stiller, Jamie Foxx and Leonard Dicaprio, among others. Of the 50 or so people in the room all were well-known figures and their spouses or Secret Service agents. And me.

Like the Salahis who in the words of Secret Service director Mark Sullivan, went through “magnetometers and other levels of screening,” I underwent a rigorous check confirming I was weapon-free. But no one asked to see my ticket. I had escaped detection in the excitement of the moment and the collage of colorful party gowns. True, I had intentionally shimmied into the center of a group of the wealthiest donors who all seemed to be thinking, “Durn it, I paid big bucks for this shindig, and I’m not about to wait in line.”
During the past few years the Secret Service has protected the President and other officials at more than 10,000 events with 100% success. Apart from initial screenings, the organization has multiple security procedures in place, and I do not believe for one minute that someone with nefarious intent could gain entrance or cause harm.

According to studies conducted between 1998 and 2009, 30% of Americans (and 51% of 18- to 25- year olds) wish to be famous as do the same percentage of English, Germans and Chinese. But only 1 to 2 percent of these people seek fame for its own sake. Most are looking for fame to lead to a stable career, wealth, power, influence, social distinction, good works or a place in history.

Fame-seekers are not pathetic, shallow, self-centered souls as many would have you believe. Fame-seekers are your neighbors, your friends, your business associates. They are people who hope to feed their families, live the good life, benefit their communities and effect positive change. With fame one can be a positive influence. Feeding a hungry child as a private citizen is good but feeding a hungry child as a public figure is better because it can induce others to do the same.

Whatever you may think of it, finagling your way into a VIP event can be an effective stepping-stone and a means to a positive end. And regardless of security changes, the Salahis will not be the last inductees into the Party-Crashers Hall of Fame.

Religion vs. the Sprinkler Police

Does your Rain Bird no longer fly? Are your PVC pipes feeling neglected? Has your city hung your lawn out to dry and given your timer a time-out? If so, you probably live in a place that restricts landscaping watering. Due to devastating dry spells, dozens of cities have implemented ordinances aimed at water conservation.

When I grew up in Atlanta, it was so rainy a fish could survive on land; but when I visited last year, I found straw-like lawns and a total watering ban. In Los Angeles, where I now reside, the City Council has implemented a partial ban: residents are restricted to two days per week for outdoor irrigation and no more than 15 minutes per watering station.

I understand the need to conserve and have always been a “waste not, water not” woman, whipping the faucet on and off while teeth cleaning as if water were pricey champagne. In my college dorm, I won the coveted “Snappy Shower Award,” and I treat my dishwasher like a roller-coaster ride: it doesn’t leave the station unless it’s full.

However, when it comes to my yard, a middle ground is unachievable if it means a dead ground. My religion and moral value system require healthy greenery; which in turn, benefit the animals and insects who depend on my yard for sustenance. I live in a fire hazard zone in Woodland Hills—the most sweltering part of LA--where watering two days per week is as effective as healing third degree burns with a Band-aid and where dead foliage is an invitation for flames to “come up and see me sometime.”

My lot—which abuts undeveloped acreage--may appear fully suburbanized, but it serves as an oasis for rabbits, bees, skunks, raccoons, coyotes, gophers, snakes, bees, owls, and birds of every kind. Saint Francis of Assisi would not want for feathered friends.

I am not a Christian like Assisi, but practice Jainism, which is often described as the world’s oldest living religion, originating in India around 500 BC. Adherents follow the principal of “ahimsa” or non-injury to all living beings. Although practically-speaking it is impossible to be perfect, a Jain does her best to make sure no living being is injured by her action or inaction. Compassion is extended to mammals and reptiles as well as flowers, grass, insects and trees. As a Jain, I have a duty to protect the life forms on my property, and any ordinance which interferes with this is at odds with my First Amendment rights under the US Constitution.

How interesting it would be for this water-related dispute to percolate into court. Santeria--a religion with Afro-Cuban roots which has approximately one million followers in the US—condones killing animals in ritual. In 1993, Santeria adherents in Hialeah, Florida won a “free exercise of religion” case: the Supreme Court ruled in favor of the religion and against a local ordinance, which sought to ban animal sacrifice. Although the case had an unfortunate outcome for nonhuman victims, it illustrates the power of the First Amendment. One must assume the Supreme Court would protect the critters in my yard under the same rationale used to deny them protection in Florida.

Apart from religion, my moral value system dictates that I maintain a verdant yard. I hold that all living beings have interests, as evidenced by their efforts to flourish and survive, and to disregard these interests would be arrogant, self-serving and speciesist. Speciesism is a form of prejudice, much like racism or sexism, in which humans deem themselves superior to other species. To adequately recognize the innate value of nonhumans—which policy-makers rarely do--and shake off speciesism, our democracy would need to be more like an omniocracy or government with representation and consideration for all living beings. An omniocratic system would, at the very least, be mindful of the needs of other species before intercepting their lifeline with an overly restrictive water ordinance.

Some LA City Councilmembers--as well as misguided environmentalists—suggest homeowners rip out their grass and lay synthetic turf in order to save H2O, despite the exorbitant cost. It is $7000 for 600 square feet. This would, of course, solidify Tinseltown’s image: plastic surgeons could have plastic yards, and every street could look like a movie set. But real grass is essential because it serves as a carbon offset, absorbing 13.2 million pounds of CO2 per year. One would have to plant and maintain 1861 trees for a decade to compensate for a football field of fake turf.

Artificial grass is not what I would call “environmental” or “animal friendly” with its lead-content problems, the extensive energy and raw materials needed to produce it, and the risk that synthetic materials may leak into the water table and that rubber infill crumbs may become airborne and inhaled. Installing make-believe grass is akin to moving your home office onto the driveway in order to save a lightbulb. In addition, horrifying images come to mind: rabbits ingesting green shag fibers and tiny life forms roasting under an airless blanket of toxins. Turf temperatures can climb to 160 degrees on summer days.

As a vegan, I could maintain a lush, English garden at my home and still use less water than a meat-eater in a condo, a fact the ordinance fails to take into account. It takes 300 gallons per day to produce vegetarian food, while it takes 13 times more--4,000 gallons--for a carnivore, the difference between night and day or a bathtub and a pool. This is because it is so costly water-wise to raise and feed each of the 55 billion farm animals slaughtered for food.

Apparently, not many sprinkler scofflaws or hose hogs exist; officials in both Los Angeles and Atlanta have revealed significant declines in water usage since their ordinances were put into place. There has been an 11% reduction in LA since June, and residents consume the same amount of water today as they did 25 years ago, despite a population increase of over one million people. Atlanta has realized a 20% reduction over the past eight years despite a population boom of 30%.

It is hoped Los Angeles, Atlanta and other cities will continue to explore and implement conservation alternatives, when viable, such as desalinization processes, smart irrigation systems, recycled water programs, urine diversion toilets, groundwater replenishment systems and rainwater capture plans.

In the meantime, I hope you will conserve when you can. But don’t let the water ordinance rain on your parade or kill your “living yard.” Lots of creatures count on you.