Costume contest at the Key Club Monday Night

Havent been back to Metal Skool's Monday mash since I used to deejay the VIP room, and thankfully nothing's changed. KISS wanna-bes, half-naked nymphos, ironic 'staches, lil creepy guys trying to look up my dress... Okay it was their annual Halloween party, but if you've ever been to see the Skool, you know there's always some hairy hi-jinx to be had.

You'll have to wait to read all about it in NEXT week's Nightranger, but here's a lil scoop to hold ya over til then: the whole place was a reality TV star ruckus with members of VH1's Rock of Love (Lacey, the bitchy redhead's band played, and yes they sucked), The Real World, The Pick-Up Artist (yes, "Mystery" was there and no, he is NOT hot). Stir in Jackass's Steve-o, aging metal men Rikki Rachtman and Warrant's Jani Lane, and you've got one scary-ass cauldron of kooks.

More Strip bits to be had in THIS week's Nightranger (out tomorrow) too, including my take on the Sex Pistols show (see Randall Roberts review here for a decidedly different view) and the SanDisk Block party featuring Common, Z-Trip, Cut Chemist, Linkin Park and The Cyrtstal Method.

Happy Halloween!

When I finagled the invite to the Murakami Gala at MOCA, my girlfriends bombarded me with the same question:

"What are you wearing?"

It was a legitimate one, considering my sparse excuse for a wardrobe, overrun with tattered t-shirts, baggy jeans, moth-eaten sweaters and a few other shapeless things, all dappled with holes, stains and snags.

Kanye West was performing and Marc Jacobs was attending, which meant a slew of fancy fashionistas would inevitably be there, wearing designer frocks and high heels and jewelry.

Seeing how there was no way to compete, I decided to go DIY. Inspired by Isaac Mizrahi's ball skirt circa 1994, I headed downtown and found a deep red/black tafetta that I could kind of afford. I brought it to a seamstress I found on the Craigslist who had a thick South African accent and knack for brutal honesty.

She wrapped a tape measure tight around my waist. I pushed it down to my hips, explaining the look I was going for.

"Honey, you're short-waisted. And short. It won't work," she explained, moving the tape back up to my waist.

My mother implored me to have a professional do my make-up.

"Don't try it yourself," she said. "You're such a spaz."

It's true, I don't wear make-up. In fact, I don't even own make-up, but there was no way I was going to pay someone to paint my face.

"Go to Nordstrom," she said. "Pretend you're going to buy something and have one of the sales people do it."

The thought of going to Nordstrom was as hateful as the thought of wearing make-up. I told her I'd think about it.

In the meantime, I googled "How to make a bun," in preparation for the big night and found out that aloe vera gel makes an excellent volumizer. The technique seemed a little complicated, and I recruited my writing partner/friend for help.

She asked about the overall look I was going for and I broke it down, explaining what I was wearing and how I intended to do my make-up.

"Go to Nordstrom," she implored. "Let a professional do it. Don't try it yourself."

I woke up the morning of the gala with a veritable set of luggage beneath my tired eyes. My mother called to check in.

"Go ice your eyes," she instructed.

"I'm making jewelry, " I replied, attempting to make eleventh-hour onyx and rose quartz bracelets out of two of my roommate's necklaces. "You told me I need to accessorize."

"Un-puffed eyes are more important," she said. "Prioritize!"

After fifteen minutes under a bag of frozen peas, the swelling kind of subsided, though the spooky dark circles remained.

"We can fix that, honey," soothed Colby, the only sales person I could find at the MAC counter who didn't look overdone. Turns out he actually was wearing make-up, he'd just gone for a very natural look.

I told him I had no idea how to put on make-up (true). I told him I had a lot of holiday parties coming up (it could happen). I told him my mom was going to buy me make-up for my birthday, which was coming up (lie, lie). I told him I wanted to look so beautiful that Jason Schwartzman would cross the room to introduce himself (true).

I brought my own lipstick - a dark bloody berry stain from Whole Foods made of organic ingredients. Colby frowned as he painted it on, trying to sell me on a "Christina Aguilerra red" (as if that was a good thing) instead.

I bought a concealer out of guilt, and promised that my mother would be in sometime next week to purchase the rest (LIE!!!).

I met my girlfriend back at my apartment and she spent forty-minutes scraping the glitter off my eyelids. She sculpted my hair into a delightully fat flower sort of bun and supervised as I paired my new tafetta ball skirt with a sample from my t-shirt line, Perv, and a pair of black patent leather ballet flats. My date was running late, which gave me a few minutes to make a couple more bracelets.

The gala was fancy and fabulous (read: boring). No one gave a shit about my red tafetta skirt, my fancy flower bun, or my Perv original, amidst all the supermodels, the movie stars and the art, which drew far less of a crowd than the bar. Local art star Gary Baseman gave my tee a giggle. An otherwise cranky novelist told me I looked like a "stone fox," which almost made the whole ridiculous hassle of preparation worth it for a few seconds. But in the end - a mere three lackluster hours of "fabulous" - I just felt stupid for having gone to so much trouble, and Jason Schwartzman was nowhere to be found.

Fashion week is officially over, but that doesn't mean the strutting has stopped completely. Thanks to a power outage in my area, I missed the David Yurman menswear show at the Paramour mansion last night (cant get dressed in the dark!) but I hear it was, as Kimora Lee Simmons would say, pure fabulosity. The Bravery played, and ironically (for me at least) guests were escorted to the bash in pure darkness (blindfolds). The Paramour is only up the hill from my pad too!

Anyhoo, gotta say a big, big bravo to Linda Immediato, who tirelessly covered Fashion Week down to its smallest thread, here on Style Council and in the paper, the past two weeks, and of course seasons past. Alas, it was her last hurrah, as my dear S.C. co-hort has left the Weekly to do more exciting things in the world of journalism. You go girl!

Look for some cool changes and additions to Style Council. Plus, I'll keep on giving you ramblings, tidbits and photos from my alter ego Nightranger's after-dark misadventures right here.

Like, did you know that Chris Crocker (the "Leave Britney Alone" You Tube guy) is now living in LA and in talks to do his own TV show? Big shocker I know. I chatted up the androgynous boy toy, hanging with Rock of Love contestant Brandi C (that chick is everywhere!) at the T Mobile Sidekick party and he told me the working title is "15 More Minutes."

Not terribly original, but surprisingly, nobody's used it yet (that I've heard of anyway). In this age of reality TV, isn't everybody going for just that? Was Andy Warhol psychic or something?

Read more post-fashion week fodder, plus stuff about the uber-stylish screening at the Paul Smith store and the Sidekick bash (the photo on top is from the hipster makeover table -free mustaches and headbands!) in this week's column.

From www.weaknights.com

There was something that made me feel sexy about the unveiling of Brian Lichtenberg’s Spring and Summer Collection at the Museum of Architecture and Design. The being in a lingerie store kind of sexy: with a mix of the accomplished and the young shining in everything from classic blacks to outrageous feather head bands, funky let-loose glasses and over-sized fur hats, it was an arousing night. Things got even more sexed up when the designs took stage. The California fierce models had their snap-your fingers faces on and particularly worked the Briangular swim suits. The bathing costumes were fun and functional—with sleek Art Deco-style curves of color.

This swim suit, as well constructed as the model’s abdominals, was applauded with a healthy amount of satisfactory hollers from the crowd.

Top on our hit list was this cotton shift. We would kill to have it as a beach pull over. The back of the dress was super cute too, with a hole for your shoulder blade to peek out of. There were also some hot grey and black stretch pants, a wonderfully androgynous black sleeveless hoodie with bright overlapping colors paired with skinny jeans, a mermaid style glittering blouse, and a sleek transparent black dress over footless tights layered with lace to name a few of the eye catching pieces.

After the show, things got a little kinky at the after party. The night came to a full swing with boozing and boogieing upstairs. I paused, from some serious hip-shaking on the dance floor, to tell Brian Lichtenberg looking more shy than proud, how much I enjoyed the show. He was still downstairs demurely accepting the zealous praises of every one that walked by. The California native designer was sweet and gentle. He looked like someone who you wanted to hold your hand.

Here the red hot redhead Brian is with his handsome friend and the saucy Lisa from “America’s Next Top Model.” Lisa was so friendly she had me feel her ass not once but twice. “No, you have to touch it where it meets my leg!” she scolded. Lisa was set out to prove to me that models do have asses (even though I never really asked). Her bum felt nice though; I scored.

(Photos by Patrick Range McDonald. Above: Aaron Savvy)

On a chilly Wednesday night, the swanky West Hollywood nightclub Eleven hosted a promotion party for Frontiers magazine to celebrate the gay bi-weekly’s newest issue: “L.A.’s most eligible” singles. It was a theme that instantly alarmed and amused me when I received the invite a few days before, so I decided to walk over to Santa Monica Boulevard—the undisputed epicenter of Boys Town—and see what all of the hubbub was about.

Even at six-thirty in the evening, the club was brimming with an increasingly well-lubricated Happy Hour crowd. They seemed totally indifferent to the shirtless guy handing out glossy fliers at the front door, so I approached him. He introduced himself as Aaron Savvy, who was recently the cover boy for the “Sex Issue” of Frontiers' sister publication, In magazine, and now worked as one of two finely buffed models designated as the evening’s eye candy.

What many of the partygoers and barflies didn’t know about my new muscle-bound friend, however, was that “Aaron Savvy” was a stage name. He was also a Mormon, a former Ultimate Fighting Championship contestant, a personal trainer, and a former porn actor who was obsessed to succeed in the mainstream—a deal for his own TV reality show, according to Aaron, was already in the works.

“I don’t want to name the networks,” he said confidently, “but they have expressed interest.”

Check out next week's LA Weekly for continued Smashbox coverage:

including, Evidence of Evolution, JEREMY SCOTT and PETRO ZILLIA!

www.laweekly.com

Yes, one half of Whitley Kros is Mrs. Beck, Marissa Ribisi. The other half is Sophia Banks, Marissa's long-time friend. Beck was of course, the musical director for the show. He did a great job as you can imagine, with two turntables and a microphone, he stayed up int he DJ booth and let his wife have her time in the spotlight. Friends of the Becks', including Marissa's brother Giovanni, Jason Lee and his mustache, Kirstie Alley and Juliette Lewis in skinny jeans, a sparkly sequined vest over a white tank. Lewis has really stayed true to her style. NO matter what she has on, she always manages to look a little quirky. But on Lewis, quirky is so adorable.

The collection was really colorful, big, bold and bright. Most of it reminded me of Working Girl you know secretary-ware circa 1980. Cobalt blue, high waisted silk skirt with a paler electric blue silk blouse. There were a lot of blouses in the collection. The kind of stuff that even hipsters didn't buy when they were raping vintage shops for 80s rejects. Who knows, maybe all those hipsters are now rethinking those Joan Cusack blouses... maybe white sneakers with skirts will be the next big thing at nightclubs across the city.

But there were some very sexy pieces, shift dresses, a caftan, there were leggings with over-sized tops, and striped sweaters all in day-glo colors and my fav the guitar t-shirt.

Somehow seeing Ribisi and Banks in Whitley Kros at the end of the show made the collection seem a lot wearable than it did on the models.

Grey Ant hasn't been seen on an LA runway since 2005.
And thank God for its return!
It was my favorite show so far this fashion week. It seemed to incorporate the ecological zeitgeist of our post- An Inconvenient Truth lives. It was hippy but through a Japanese filter. It was future-bohemian— tie-dye shirts and dresses, floppy bonnet-hoods, hemp and khaki. It was Kubrick meets Haight-Ashbury. Designer Grant Krajecki said he had been spending a lot of time in Seattle and the vibe of the place started to influence him. It was hippy, but not dirty hippy. "More...preppy hippy," he said. "A little more conservative." Think Tevas not Birkenstocks. Grant did. The boys walked the runway in standard issue all-terrain Tevas, while the girls wore Grant's own design, platform heels with velcro Teva straps. They were kind of genius. The models also donned Grey Ant shades, sort of futuristic versions of the classic Wayfarers.

Ok, I've finally gotten out of my Heatherette-induced K-hole. I've had a lot of time to think about what I saw. If you asked me yesterday what I thought of the show, I'd have said it was like someone ate a Jo-ann's Fabric store and threw it up all over. Then ate a fourth of July church picnic , tablecloths, napkins and all, and then threw that up. I mean that's what I would have said yesterday. I've given it a lot of thought and have changed my mind. There was fringe, on top of appliques, on top of doo-dads and doo-hickeys, they were almost Suessian. Heatherette was like doing every drug you ever took— all at once.
Richie Rich, was a real honest-to-God club kid from New York City. Remember when clubbing and raves were hot shit in the 80s and 90s. The club kids were kind of like the disco era's dumpster prom baby. I was one of them, for a little while. So I started feeling nostalgic. I had just watched Party Monster, (I never watched it before because we sorta knew those guys the movie was about. We knew mostly Freeze, the hammer weilding drug addict. ) And I was thinking how back then kids glue gunned their clothes together and created "fierce" looks just for that night. It was their art and self expression, and I pictured Traver Rains and Richie Rich running around with glue guns.

Getting of course Patty Hearst's daughter Lydia and pornstar Jenna Jameson to walk in the runway. But even if it wasn't for the guy dancing, er rolling, in the aisles, the main tent felt at that moment like the fiercest party of fashion week. Heatherettte is about fun. It was so much fun that even now, it's all a blurr... You know what they say, "If you remember Heatherette, then you weren't there..."

Jenna Jameson

Lydia Hearst

Lydia, Jenna, and Richie Rich, on rollersaktes...