A few years back, when I was a budding young film student, technology was not what it is today. In order to edit video on a computer, you needed an AVID, or something similar, which consisted of about the biggest Macintosh tower you could buy along with what amounted to another computer that was just the AVID hardware. The AVID components were additional processors, memory cards, video cards, and a bunch of other things I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Retail on a system like this was, I believe, minimum $60,000. And that didn’t even include the hard drives, video tape machines, sound system, monitors, and on and on.

About two years later, however, things started to change. Computers began to get so powerful that we no longer needed all that expensive hardware to store and edit video. Software-based systems with lots of RAM became accessible to the average individual. The “PRO-sumer” grade video camera was born – which offered rather striking high-quality video at a fraction of the cost of a traditional broadcast television camera.

And then came the very collegiate debate… Available technology would soon give everyone the opportunity to become motion picture and video artists. But should everyone have the opportunity to be an artist? Or would access to affordable, powerful technology overrun us with an endless supply of “bad” or “self-indulgent” video art?

I have always maintained that the advancement of technology is a wonderful thing. And if people are compelled to shoot a video and edit it and display it for all the world to see, then they should go for it! Listen, elitists will always be elitists, and they will have their reasons for excluding people from their little clubs. Hollywood has shown time and again that just because you have access to tons of money and the newest and fanciest tools, doesn’t necessarily mean that you that you have good taste or even the ability to produce something worth watching.

So why not celebrate the fact that the latest technology has given anyone who has a couple of thousand dollars lying around the ability to make something fun and eye catching? I think it’s great, and I also think it’s fabulous that the internet has provided a means for people to distribute their work easily and basically for free.

Keep the creativity coming!

“Really?” I scoffed. “You really go hear her speak?”

“Yeah, she’s great. She speaks every Tuesday. You should come if you’re free,” he said in a tone that was neither defensive nor effusive.

It was the kind of take-it-or-leave-it statement that always piqued my interest. I wondered just who this Marianne Williamson was and how she’d managed to get the attention of Brad, someone I’d never known to be exceptionally new-agey or metaphysically feel-goodey.

Side note: Los Angeles is at its core a small town, so when one generates any amount of controversy, as Marianne had in the past, people hear about it. Before I really knew anything about her, I’d decided that she was the kind of self-help guru who sold a very commercial message of canned hope and faith to masses of desperate people, in the midst of mid-life crises, clamoring to find some kind of meaning in their lives. In other words, I had a little contempt prior to investigation.

But I digress.

Anyway, I met Brad at Marianne’s lecture the following week. The theater was packed. About 900 people quietly waited for Marianne to take the stage. When she ascended the stairs and stepped into the spotlight, she looked exactly how I thought she would. Very attractive, fit and camera-ready, with $700 hair, wearing what looked to be a $2500 suit, complete with Christian Louboutin heels. Okay, I admit the shoes surprised me. I suddenly thought she was fabulous. But again, I digress.

Once onstage, she sweetly asked if the lighting was OK and if she looked all right. The audience reassured her. She graciously blushed a little bit. “This woman is good!” I mused. Then, we prayed together. And then she started to speak.

Immediately, she caught me off guard. This was not a lecture for the faint of heart, nor was it a lecture for those who were waiting to be spoon fed something mindless and easy to digest. This was a call to action. This was a careful, oftentimes what I would call PhD level, analysis of metaphysics in everyday life, with occasional references to leitmotifs in fairytales so that her points could be more clearly understood. She even discussed Albert Einstein. I was totally blown away.

Then came the questions and answers. Some people asked about what she’d spoken about. Some people asked about very specific issues in their lives. She received each question with kindness and grace and provided a direct, clear and personalized answer, while at the same time relating the issue back to a larger theme. What struck me, though, was that she was not about to co-sign anyone’s BS. In fact, she actually said to one woman, “You are 33 years old. It’s time to stop behaving like a Ditzy Dora and start living as an adult.” Oh, yes she did.

At the heart of her lecture was a simple truth. We are currently living in fear. And fear cannot be wished away. The only way to get rid of fear is to replace it with love. Love for ourselves, love for others, and love for the world around us.

It was then that I remembered something my high school English teacher had said when asked about the rumors that a man named Shakespeare didn’t actually write all those plays. Were they written by a group of people? Was Shakespeare a pen name for a man called Francis Bacon?

My high school English teacher’s response was simply, “It doesn’t matter who wrote these plays. The fact is that they exist, that they are wonderful, and that their impact and influence continue to be felt centuries after they were first published. Whether or not a man named Shakespeare wrote them is immaterial… At least to me.”

And then I thought about Marianne. I related to her message. Thousands and thousands of people around the world related to her message every day.

So, at the end of the day, does it matter who Marianne the person truly is? I think what matters is that her message is clear, positive, full of hope, meaningful, impactful, and potentially life-changing for all those who care to listen.

Sometimes, when we get so busy scrutinizing the fallibility and very humanity of a specific messenger, we often miss the message.

I had to smile because, as you can see, much to my great amusement and delight, there is actually an entire website devoted solely to asshole parkers appropriately entitled, youparklikeanasshole.com.

In the past I have been known to entertain an impure thought or two about people who park like assholes here in Los Angeles, and I usually am as considerate as possible when parking my car. Today, however, I guess I got a little reckless, and that was my bad.

And though I wish I could claim all the credit for my admittedly asshole parking, in the interest of fairness, I should give credit where credit is due. When I pulled into the parking lot of Joey’s, the entire lot was pretty much full, and I was running a few minutes late to meet Joe. Luckily, there was a woman leaving, who was occupying a space that was in reality two spaces. You see, there was a large BMW parked over the line on the right side, and a Toyota Forerunner parked over the line on the left side. Joey’s lot is really only designed for smaller cars, so sometimes these things happen.

Anyway, I had a choice: I could park in the two-space space, or I could circle the block for street parking. I chose the former. I even had a pang of guilt about it, but I didn’t want to keep Joe waiting. Then, of course, I got busted by the asshole parking enforcement team of West Hollywood, but I guess that’s the risk you take when you live on the parking edge.

Thanks for keeping our parking spaces safe, guys!

Guy: You know, you’re really cute in an exotic sort of way.
Girl: Yeah, I’m a Persian girl from Newport Beach.
Guy: That’s cool! You could be on Jersey Shore!

And with that, my drinks arrived and I headed back over to my friends. I can only imagine where the evening took these two crazy young things…

In this day and age, where corporations grow stronger everyday and are able to manipulate Congress like puppeteers, how could the Supreme Court, the institution charged with interpreting our Constitution and defending our system of government, decide to allow corporations potentially unfettered financial access to the Democratic process? In my opinion, they have simply legalized corruption. Instead of working for the people, many more politicians will begin to cast their allegiances toward the corporations that exploit the people.

Equally disappointing for me was the Obama administration’s participation in the Senate election in Massachusetts. I honestly believe that had President Obama not campaigned alongside Democrat Martha Coakley, she would have had a much better chance of beating Scott Brown. The results are very clear. Voters want change. They want action. They are sick of speeches and excuses. Obama’s platform of change was and is just that. Change. If he and his administration cannot provide it, the people will look elsewhere. That is what happened in Massachusetts, and that is what will continue to happen across this country.

In my opinion, the mistake the Obama administration continues to make is that they posture themselves as if Obama’s win and subsequent popularity are about him. It has never been about him. It has always been about the HOPE and CHANGE that he represented. Those were his campaign promises. He was the new guy in town, and he was the exact opposite of George W. Bush. And that, I believe, is why Obama won.

Days before the election in Massachusetts, I started to get the usual mass emails from Camp Obama. “We’ve got an important election coming up.” “Call here.” “Send money there.” Yet, instead of being motivated by their repeated calls to action, I couldn’t help but wonder where the Obama administration was during the important gay marriage election in Maine. Or where they were when New Jersey voted on gay marriage. Or New York. Where were the supportive emails for the LGBT community saying, “Please stand up for equality”? There were none. Obama and his administration stood silent and watched as a community of his most ardent supporters was repeatedly kicked to the curb. Take a look at Maureen Dowd’s piece this week on Gavin Newsom. He has some great observations about Obama’s position on gay marriage.

The sad irony today is that the fear-based forces who have pumped millions upon millions of dollars into the hateful doctrines of “separate but equal,” “don’t let THEM redefine marriage for US,” and “keep the gays away from our school children,” are the same people whose money bankrolled the campaign of Republican Scott Brown in Massachusetts. The National Organization for Marriage’s latest press release proudly announces, “The National Organization for Marriage spent $50,000 in the closing days of the campaign to identify marriage voters in Massachusetts and make sure they turned out and supported Scott Brown.”

Believe it or not, I still have a lot of hope, though! I have hope that maybe now things WILL start to change. Maybe now the Obama administration will see that when they support equal rights for all Americans, they also take a stand against the hateful PAC’s that aim to slowly undermine them, too. Maybe now, when the corporations begin pumping millions of dollars into the campaigns of various elected officials, the publicity generated by those donations will keep the politicians more honest and accountable to the people they are supposed to be serving. I hope so. It is truly time for some CHANGE.

But I digress.  On Sunday night my best friend Nicole and I shared a quiet evening at her place in Tribeca with her two-year-old daughter, Lexi, who enjoys apples, chicken nuggets, chocolate milk from a box, and of course Finding Nemo.

Lexi calls me “Uncle Peter,” which, when she does, creates in me an infectious smile that starts in my heart and then fills the entire room with joy.  Yes, I just wrote that sentence, and no, I am not on lithium.  It’s 2010, people!  Lighten up!

Anyway, our evening also included a visit from a new friend of mine, whom I met on New Year’s Eve. Lexi liked him immediately, which made me smile again because if you pass the Lexi litmus test, you are definitely good people.

And so the three of us played with Lexi for a bit, and then when Nicole put Lexi to bed, I ordered us some good old-fashioned New York Thai food. After dinner we all piled onto the sofa, hid under blankets and watched Julie & Julia.  Every moment of this movie is wonderful.  Except, we all agreed, for Amy Adams’ hair.  I mean, why?

When the movie ended, Nicole headed off to bed, and my new friend headed back uptown.  I was sad to see the evening end.  On a cold New York night, there is nothing better – at least for me – than good friends, good food, a good movie, warm blankets, and a comfy couch.  I am headed back to LA tomorrow with warm memories of cold city.

Now, before I continue, here’s a little background. My Dad, while actually very modern (he has an iPhone 3G-S), is still of another era. An era where scalloped potatoes made with mostly butter, heavy cream, oh and a few potatoes, along with a barely seared T-Bone steak, was considered a heart healthy meal fit for a champion.  And an era where men wore suits all day and carried handkerchiefs instead of pocket Kleenex and Purell.

Believe it or not, when we eat in a restaurant, he is still able to call a young waitress over to our table and say something like, “Can I just tell you one thing?”  She’ll nod and lean in.  ”You.  Have GREAT. Eyes.” And instead of a look of disgust, he gets a smile, a genuine blush, profuse thanks, and outstanding service.

Side Note: This has yet to work for me with either men or women.

But I digress.  Anyway, without thinking, I naively texted back, “Sure! I will get you one.”  And so, I left my breakfast meeting and headed off to find my Dad a handkerchief in New York.  On the way out the door, I asked a friend where I might find one in the area.  I got a blank look and an “I don’t know” shrug.

Suddenly, I realized that I hadn’t the foggiest idea where to find one, either.  I thought back to being five, when I wanted to be just like my Dad.  I remembered my Mom giving me a lovely box of three Christian Dior handkerchiefs in different colors for Christmas that year.

Back on 15th Street, I wasn’t anywhere near Christian Dior, but I was a block away from Paul Smith.  Surely, I thought, Paul Smith would have them.  I walked in and asked for handkerchiefs.  The sales gay directed me to the back room, where amidst the scarves and the leather gloves, there sat a few beautiful, delicately folded, brightly colored, polka-dotted handkerchiefs.  For $45.  Each.

I picked one up.  It was translucent silk.  I thought, “My Dad will actually sneeze into this.  I can’t.”

I proceeded onto Banana Republic.  J-Crew.  Kenneth Cole.  Agnes B. All the same story.  Silk “pocket squares” priced between $40 and $105 each.  No cotton / linen machine washable, please-sneeze-into-me, old-fashioned handkerchiefs.  Anywhere.  Someone finally suggested Brooks Brothers, but I was out of time and couldn’t make the trek uptown.

Finally, I remembered this sort of Men’s Warehouse-type store on the Northeast corner of Union Square.  I ran over there, desperate.  I walked in, terrified.  I felt like I was in that scene in Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion where Lisa Kudrow tries to get a job at that bargain basement store and finally, pathetically says, “I need to get out of here.  Now.”

They even had a sign with an arrow pointing downstairs that read, “20 Steps to a GREAT suit!”  I’m not sure if they meant 20 steps as in the number of physical steps on the staircase or 20 steps as in the number of steps in the process of fitting the suit.  Either way, for me, I have narrowed it down to one simple step to a great suit.  Prada.

But once again, I digress.  I walked up to the woman behind the counter and asked her if she had handkerchiefs.  With a warm smile, she reached behind the counter and retrieved a rather large package containing not one, but 13 handkerchiefs.  The kind you sneeze into.  For $20.  SCORE!  I paid her, thanked her profusely, and ran off to meet my Dad.

As an addendum, once I arrived at NYU and handed my Dad the handkerchiefs, I noticed a Purell dispenser by the elevator.  “Dad,” I asked, “Did you Purell today?”