Spector deflowered and Prejean dismissed.
The synchronicity of a rug-less Phil Spector prison photo released by the CA State Corrections Department and the news that big hair-sporting Miss California USA, a.k.a. Carrie Prejean, opposite marriage defender, getting her ass fired by none other than architecturally-coiffed Donald (“You’re fired!”) Trump for treating people “like shit” probably doesn’t say anything about the Power of Hair.
But I’m sure glad I got mine cut last night at Rudolphos, the upscale branch of the Rudy’s chain on Melrose and Orange. To my exacting requirements, it may have cost nearly twice as much as a cut at the low-end shop, but it looks twice as good and it took four times longer, clocking in at 40 minutes.
Two reasons for my haircut: Saturday’s Hot Dog Death March and Sunday’s Gay Pride blow-out in WeHo– another sort of weiner parade.
Phil Spector’s tragic trajectory finally reached its nadir today as he was sentenced to 19 years to life for the 2003 killing of Lana Clarkson.
Did anyone ever actually believe Clarkson committed suicide in front of him, like his defense team claimed? No.
During the first trial (declared a mistrial, due to his attorneys’ skillful hi-jinks before the jury, closely followed in LA Weekly by Steven Mikulan) I read He’s A Rebel, an exhaustive biography of Spector by Mark Ribowsky. It deconstructed Spector down to the lowly, cruel, powerful weasel that he apparently is.
That being said, it’s an action-packed history of early rock and pop music and his undeniable contributions to how the music is written, recorded, marketed and consumed to this day.
According to the multitudes that Ribowsky interviewed for the book, among them Spector himself, the legendary producer seems to have never passed up an opportunity to extract humiliation from those he dealt with, from collaborators to wives. My thoughts when I finished reading it? Lock him up and throw away the key.