Normally I don't like listening to the radio when I am working. It is, frankly, a distraction. But oh what sweet distractions were to be had on last night's edition of internet radio show GTFU (stands for Get The Fuck Up). The show featured Giant Drag singer Annie, (see the story on her in this week's Weekly), and ne'er was there a battier soul – Annie spent much of the show singing about farts and vaginas and then inadvertently causing host Aaron Farley to get in a full-blown on-air bitch fight with 'bondage pin-up fetish glamour model' and space cadet Dana Dearmond.

I tuned in just as Farley (pictured) and his co-host Jeremy Weiss were checking out Dana's website, because Annie had said how much she loves looking at Dana's butt. On the site you can indeed see Dana's butt and all kinds of other shaved fleshy pierced 'n tattooed delights. Aaron then made the mistake of saying that he'd been told Dana was a bit crazy. Bad move Aaron, bad move. Suddenly Dana's on the line, and she's super weird.

"Who is this?" she asks.

"It's Aaron."

"Oh. Who are you?"

"Er…I'm Aaron".

She then insists that she's not crazy. "I'm not crazy, I drink coffee," she deadpans. Aaron, an amiable kind of chap, tries to cajole Dana into playing along with the joke. "So even though you like posting pictures of your asshole on the internet, the fact that you drink coffee means you're not crazy?" he asks. This makes her even madder, which in turn makes her come across even more deranged. For a second I wonder if, like Hamlet, Dana is aware that she's a bit bonkers. After a few minutes listening to her, I think not. It doesn't really matter either way - this is the funniest radio I've heard since Jonesy had that guy from Saturday Night Live on.

After a while Dana gets all huffy and says she doesn't want to talk to Aaron anymore, so they put Annie on the line and the two girls start talking about pregnancy. "Babies are gross," says Annie. "They shit inside you." Dana then starts plugging her new porno movie which comes out in the New Year - "I get fucked in the ass and then I give this guy a BJ and he cums all over my face" - at which point Aaron and Jeremy wisely pull the plug and start talking about religion and Marxism instead.

But it's not over yet…half an hour later Dana shows up at the studio, acting weirder than ever. She insists that she knows Aaron ("I've never met you I my life," he swears) and gives him more shit about calling her crazy. (What was it they said about the lady protesting too much?) Anyway, by this point the poor radio host has had enough. "You know what – FUCK HER," Aaron tells his audience, receiving a round of applause. From me at least.

The whole exchange gets me thinking – Dana Dearmond doesn't conform to the porn star stereotype - she's brunette, her boobs are real and she's Silverlake hot…but she has more in common with her bleached-blond silicone buddies in the Valley than she may realize. The vacuousness, the tenuous grasp on reality, and the stone cold detachment so often found among strippers and porn stars. Some, like Dana, are more detached from the universe than most…and what a treat to be able to experience it in its full demented glory, live and uncensored, thanks to the (relatively) unregulated beauty of internet radio.

And guess what – GTFU is due to have their buddies from Dirty Pretty Things (ex-The Libertines) on the show next Monday. Hooray! They're good at getting high profile guests without even trying – not so long ago Franz Ferdinand dropped by. "We didn't have a clue who they were," said Jeremy. "We just thought they had funny accents."

Posted by Caroline Ryder

Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Black Friday is my idea of hell. I would rather pay more money to have less people in my way while I shop. Who are all these people who get up at 3 am to buy dusty DVDs and discount bedding? I fear them, I don't even want to share the roads with them. Black Friday is a dangerous day so I did what any self-preservationist would- I avoided leaving my house ALL weekend.  I pulled a Garbo. I had enough leftovers to last me for days, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, greens, pies, and wine, lot's of wine. All thanks to my fabulous guests (fellow council members and friends) who came and contributed to my first ever non-family thanksgiving dinner and witnessed my first turkey. I am truly thankful for them, they so generously enabled this sublime shut-in. A full evening that ended in singing Bon Jovi till 2 am was a nice send-off into reclusivity.

I admit, at times, it felt a little like Last Days as I played guitar (I learned Beck's Lost Cause) and slipped through my house in wool socks and a bathrobe, eating cold turkey carcass, but with the roommates gone for the holiday, there was also a bit of celebrating having the whole place to myself, picture a Risky Business floor-slide-to-couch dance in my socks but replace Ol' Time Rock n' Roll with an Arcade Fire song. Passing out naked in the mid-afternoon heat on a chaise lounge can simply be described as glorious. One night I actually slept outside on a couch in my lanai with my dog, under a crisp sky and warm blankets. You can't do that in New York in November!  I missed my family but I was pretty happy.  And you know, although I also missed joining in the mayhem of a post-holiday Los Angeles weekend, I imagined Boo Radley singing to himself, or JD Salinger plucking his guitar, and maybe even Howard Hughes kicking up his socks and for a moment completely understood the beauty of self-imposed exiles... Of course if I start saving jars of my own piss, I do hope someone would come and save me.

Posted by Linda Immediato

Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night I attended a party at my friend Zoe's teeny-tiny adorable Silver Lake cottage on a hill, which comfortably holds a maximum of maybe fifteen people, if all the rooms are utilized.  (Note: this word will be discussed at greater length; read on...) By midnight it was so crowded one had to snake one's way through the guests, sort of like modern improv Twister. At one point I found myself thrust into the middle of a conversation between four or five people, including Damian, the fine, fancy lad in this picture (who was there with his equally irresistible girlfriend, so settle down everyone).Damian was a bit of a cunning linguist (sorry, I just had to), and he was talking about the annoying redundancy of certain words. He was particularly stuck on the utter uselessness of the word utilize, which he insisted was merely a more officious (his word, though I kept hearing efficious, which is not a word at all) way to say "use." "There is no time when the word use will not suffice," he insisted. I disagreed, asserting that there is a subtle difference between the two. "Trust me, I've researched this one," he said. Dictionary freak that I am, I climbed over a few people to try to locate one on the shelves, but I didn't think an Italian phrase book would help me prove my point. So that topic pretty much fell flat, and I was left to admire Damian's charmingly mismatched sartorial joie de vivre (last night's outfit was a cacophony of plaids and stripes in shades of blue and green), cursing the fact that I'd forgotten my camera. But then I heard him say (since he was still standing about a foot away from me), "Yeah, we're called OK Go."         Bingo! So he's google-able (second only to the dictionary in its, um, utilizability). I'd just heard the Chicago band's song, "A Million Ways," on Jonesy's Jukebox, and its Elvis Costello-fronts-Gang of Four groove is pretty infectious. And the one-camera video is even better; whoever choreographed this cheesy backyard disco line dance has a long career ahead of them. Kudos to the boys for (almost) keeping a straight face the whole time.

    Damian, this is for you, straight outta the good book:

Usage Note: A number of critics have remarked that utilize is an unnecessary substitute for use. It is true that many occurrences of utilize could be replaced by use with no loss to anything but pretentiousness, for example, in sentences such as They utilized questionable methods in their analysis or We hope that many commuters will continue to utilize mass transit after the bridge has reopened. But utilize can mean "to find a profitable or practical use for." Thus the sentence The teachers were unable to use the new computers might mean only that the teachers were unable to operate the computers, whereas The teachers were unable to utilize the new computers suggests that the teachers could not find ways to employ the computers in instruction.

posted by Steffie Nelson

Permalink | Comments (85) | TrackBacks (0)

Hope everyone's having a great holiday weekend. I wasn't able to make my fellow style council-or's T-day gathering, but family obligations for an LA gal like myself mean I usually miss all the cool orphan Holiday parties I'm invited to.Anyway, I'm proud to say I've practically ignored my computer (which I'm usually chained to) for two whole days! But I'm back, and like Style Councilor Caroline (see  post below), I've been letting out my inner shutterbug lately. Check it out.

11/20 

Frantic dancing punk chick (obviously working an Adam Ant look) at my pal Jean's suprise party for her bud named Atom (pronounced Adam... coincidence, I think not) at Swingshouse Studios.

Ginger Goldmine finds the treasure and shares it with the whole dang Swinghouse party during an awesome midnight burlesque performance!

11/22

Minx jewelry designer Carole Shepherd celebrated her company's two year anniversary last Thursday with a bash at the Montemarte (aka the Day After) featuring Obey Giant's Shepard Fairey on the decks, fashion from the super-cool Rock-n-Role clothing line, and a silent auction with proceeds going to charities including the Art of Elysium.

Here's Carole with Pink Cookies models, who were serving and selling her designs on a platter like they were little snacks (wish they were, we were hungry). Yes, the girls are wearing their P.C. air-brushed bootie shorts out in public, and yes the boys there liked it very much.

Rock-n-role designer Ali Maclean and pal (both in her designs). Rock-n-role is having a huge sample sale for the holidays, check her website for more info.

Up for auction: Vans shoes designed by the dudes from Dogtown. Knarly... or is that gnarly?

Up for auction: Art by Efren Ramirez (aka Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite) plus a character doll, button and hat. Vote for Pedro!

Up for auction: This groovy art by... I cant remember. But it's fun trying to name the characters. Can you guess 'em all?

Swag alert:

This bash was not only for a good cause, it had good freebies too, with giveaway bags boasting Minx jewelry, Smashbox lip gloss, a t-shirt from a new website called 80s Purple (check this one out, they've got really cool shit, great for xmas gifts) and super-cute Asian-art buttons from Tokidoki.

11/26

They don't call it Harry POT-ter for nothing... at least that what's my friends told me about the latest installment of the whimsical wizard tale. Indeed, the colorful flick is best viewed in an enchanted, aka enhanced state, though a bunch of stoned grown-ups probably isn't the fanbase author JK Rowling had in mind when she first penned the popular book series.

Before checking out Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire at the Vista, I opted for a couple of margaritas at nearby El Chavo restaurant instead, which more than heightened my viewing experience.

Is it just me or does the new Potter movie conjure a distinctly rock n' roll vibe? Forget about the appearence of Pulp's Jarvis Cocker and Radiohead's Jonny Greenwood as the house band in the school dance (which by the way, has got 'em some legal heat). It's Harry himself that's like a rockstar. The spectacled kid looks more and more like John Lennon, okay more like his son Sean, and the Weasely brothers? C'mon they're straight outta the band Jet, what with their tattered clothes and long-ish hippie hair. And don't even get me started on Professor Snape, who resembles every aging goth dude who haunts LA after dark.

All in all, inebriated or no, this was a fun film though. Wasn't too happy about the line outside (duh, seeing a flick on the day after Thanksgiving aka Black Friday, is like the most popular thing to do after shopping... turned out to be a lot safer too) but at least it gave me the chance to finally have a chat with this guy.

You've seen him, and (I hope) you've honked for him too! I mean, he's been standing at the same corner of Hillhurst for over 3 years, "every Friday between 5 and 7, since Labor Day 2002" he tells me, with this sign, jumping up and down and encouraging drivers to honk in the name of peace and love.

His name is Stephen K. Sharp and according to his business card, he does astrology, tarot and runs a publication called Heresy magazine. 

With the holidays upon us, we need to recognize people like Mr. Sharp, people who embody the kind-hearted spirit we should all aspire to. Next Friday evening take a little spin by the Vista and give this guy a big ol' honk, and maybe even a hug. He deserves it, doncha think?

Posted by Lina Lecaro

Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Tom Vek, aka The British Beck, had a strange and powerful effect on the indier-than-thou womenfolk at the Troubadour on Wednesday night. First their cheeks began to flush. Then their eyes glazed over. It seemed like the girls with the heavy bangs were being hypnotized by Vek, a pretty 24-year-old thing from London. Initially I don't get his Manson-like powers (all I can think is MmmBop! when I look at him) but a few minutes into the show I start to feel the shamanic power of his minimalist, ecstatic electro-geek-rawk.

It really hits me during a New Wave-inspired number in which he chants the words "Music, Television, Music, Television," over and over for four minutes. Somehow he manages to make it sound good. Really good. Methinks there be some powerful magick at work here...

So get this - not only is Vek a mystic, he's a multi-tasking mystic, drumming, playing guitar and singing all the songs on his debut album We Have Sound, recorded in his Dad's garage in south London. Following some heavy hype back home, he recruited four musicians to accompany him on a tour of the States, but the drummer quit shortly before the LA show, forcing Vek back behind the snare.The drummer (and friend) had apparently threatened to quit several times during the tour, and Vek finally called his bluff just before Seattle show on November 18. A statement issued by his press people said Tom was "disappointed that there wasn't more of a chance to prepare this new performance style" and that he was keeping his chin up "in the face of difficulty". I thought he did very well, although it was a shame  we didn't get to see the nifty Talking Heads-style dance moves audiences enjoyed during previous shows, back when he didn't have to play drums. AND play guitar. AND sing.

At the end of the show, my friend declared her undying love for Vek and suggested we stalk him to the Beauty Bar in Hollywood. Apparently he was due to be playing a DJ set there later that night. So we head east to Rose Apodaca's infamous hairsalon-turned-bar and camp out in front of the DJ booth, eagerly awaiting Vek's arrival.

An hour later, and no sign of Vek. To alleviate the boredom (and take my mind off the really bad hip hop), I pretend to be a female Mark the Cobra Snake, and start snapping random photos of the groovy Hollywood kids. My first victims are these two young libertines. I ask them to touch tongues with each other and Mr Right says yes but sadly Mr Left can't stomach it...

I channel the cobra and happen upon these these fine lookin' lassies who are more than happy to stick out their tongues for me. Ms. Right's exceptionally broad and well-proportioned licker deserves its own My Space page, wouldn't you say?   

Suddenly, I become aware of some powerful medicine entering the room...is it Tom Vek, finally??? No, it's an infinitely more powerful magician - meet Jyota Om, energy healer for punk rock bands. A real-life shaman, in the Beauty Bar no less! That's me pouting next to him.

Jyota Om is his real name - his parents are hippies who converted to Hinduism. The New Yorker was that night assigned to watch over garage rock band The Willowz, working as their spiritual consultant and keeping up the happy vibes on the tour bus. The Willowz, who got their big break when one of their tracks was featured on the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind soundtrack, had opened for Vek that night. In fact, the whole party at the Beauty Bar was for The Willowz. It was nearly 2am and Vek was clearly a no-show but at this point I didn't care. Who needs Tom Vek when you're talking to a real-life rock 'n roll shaman, all thanks to my new vocation as a nightlife paparazzo!

But then I spot this blue-eyed little fella making stabbing motions at me - it's the mighty Cobra Snake himself. And he ain't happy.

Cobra Snake is a young but powerful wizard capable of conjuring great things from apparently very little. He was watching me from a corner by the DJ booth, wearing a yellow t-shirt bearing an eerie drawing of a Thanksgiving turkey with a Mark the Cobra Snake head (you can order the limited edition tees for $30 a pop on his website). And he is clearly wondering who this Style Council chick thinks she is, trying to move in on his territory. I lay down the camera and high tail it outta there before he can continue with his incantations. Cobra Snake is one kind of shaman I don't wanna be messin' with...

Posted by Caroline Ryder

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I never understood the appeal of big, beefy Fabio type guys. Getting frisky with a muscle-y man seems about as appealing as rubbing on a rock, and me and my girls are pretty much all in agreement in our preference of the lankier male frame. Check out the KISS flick Detroit Rock City (in which Edward Furlong rocks out with his uh, shirt off in a strip club) or our pal Stephen Hauptheur's 'Skinny Boy Burlesque" night at his Wednesday club Radio at Star Shoes, and you'll get the idea.

Needless to say, when my friend Stacy organized a girls night out gathering to celebrate her "liberation" (she just quit a job)  at the Hollywood Men show at Arena nightclub this past Saturday, I wasn't exactly aroused about the idea. I'd seen the male strip show Thunder from Down Under and the result was more like "laughter from the rafters." But I figured, what the heck, could be good for some more giggles.  I was in for a surprise though…

Hollywood Men does indeed feature some big n' bulky boys but it also has an impressive mix of multi-racial fellows of various builds and looks. There was definitely something for everyone; the ladies in the house's deafening screams made that clear. These two were hottest in our humble opinions:

"If you've got a husband or boyfriend at home….. fuck 'em!" proclaims host Scott Layne,  the fit, 44-year-old dancer and promoter of the long-running show. The screams get louder!Looking around, I see that each table (except mine) has a bride to be… White veils abound, some even have little penises dangling from them. One, who is led up on stage for a "private" lap dance is wearing a beauty queen sash that says "sexy little thing." "Are you ready see the same 'little thing' for the rest of your life?" shouts Layne, as the music -and the screams-  get louder.

The show that proceeds offers a slew of choreographed dance performances showcasing every male fantasy figure imaginable. The rough ridin' cowboy, the dashing muskateer, the wild 50s greaser dude, a Dracula-type masked man, a fireman, a Top Gun flyer, and our two favorites "the officer (who is definitely not a gentlemen) and the obligatory cop ("you've violated penal 6969 and you will need to be frisked")…. It was sexy, but all pretty tame, i.e, no actual jewels were unveiled.

Then it was time for the guys to come into the crowd, and seriously, I was scared for them. A room full of drunk and horny ladies screaming their lungs out…not pretty. But these dudes are pros. Heck, they even seem to like what they're doing and shockingly, none of 'em seem gay to me, unlike the Thunder guys who actually have to advertise that they're "100% straight" (me thinks they doth protest too much).  These ladies were all from my table…Dollar bills were waving, sweat was dripping, and temperatures were definitely rising. It was pure, lusty chaos. 

By the way, no lap-dances for moi…  Hubby's not the jealous type, I'm just not the nasty in public type. It was fun to watch though,  even if I did battle a brief bout of prudeness at one point (I mean isn't this kind of sexual objectification of men just as bad as that put on women?).

Then I remembered the two girls I know who do strip. They seriously love the attention and in a bizarre way,  it makes them feel powerful. Maybe it's insecurity, or sex addiction or just plain exhibitionism, but either way, people give up hard-earned cash to be entertained by them- and they make damn good money too.The Hollywood Men (who leave the stage with bills bulging from their speedos on our night) turn the tables on the whole concept in a fun, and theatrical way , and that's why they're still going strong after more than a decade.  It's a good deal too because the admission price includes entrance to either of the two dance clubs that follow on the premises: the electro-o-rama  at Circus called Spundae and the Latin gay night called Club Papi in Arena.  Guess which one my group chose to cha cha with more shirtless hombres at til 4 a.m.?

Posted by Lina Lecaro

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

This is an example of a WordPress page, you could edit this to put information about yourself or your site so readers know where you are coming from. You can create as many pages like this one or sub-pages as you like and manage all of your content inside of WordPress.

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I am a comics illiterate, and maybe even a comics Philistine. In my entire life I have never purchased a single comic book. When I was a kid and still reading newspapers that had funny pages, I liked Nancy and Blondie and Archie - which is probably as cool as saying your favorite musician is Ashlee Simpson. During college I would chuckle over my friends' copies of Peter Bagge's HATE, and I truly believe that Matt Groening has made the modern world a better place, but for the most part I just don't get it. The realm of comics seems like an exclusive boy genius club that communicates in codes and dialects I can't be bothered to learn.     However, "party" is a language I speak, so I happily attended Friday and Saturday night's opening soirees for the massive Masters of American Comics exhibition at the Hammer Museum and the LA MOCA, bringing along Andrew, a certified comics geek, to do the translating for me. I think it's safe to say I've been schooled - which doesn't mean I suddenly relate to American Splendor or that I'll be funneling my lunch money into the latest graphic novel - but the 20th Century spanning survey was almost like a window into the American unconscious. I came away thinking about childhood fantasies, our changing ideals of masculinity and femininity, and the ways we confront life's challenges, both the grand public ones and the secret, personal ones.     At both events the celebrity quotient was just about nil (blame that dorky image thing), but the bigwigs of the funny business were definitely in the house. Despite my ignorance I managed to snap this picture of Gary Panter, Chris Ware, Sunday Press publisher Peter Maresca, Art Spiegelman, and Matt Groening at MOCA. The thing about all these guys is, they seem like people you want to know. Gary Panter, in orange, joked that he'd shook so many hands the night before, he had a blister on his finger. "I felt like Eisenhower," he said.    My friend Andrew, pictured here with the show's curator John Carlin, was definitely a little star struck. "I met Matt Groening, I can leave at any time," he said with a loopy grin. Groening, a longtime LA Weekly contributor, jokingly complained that in all his years of working for the Weekly he's never once been invited to the office - and he lives in LA! I think this would be a fine time to have him up for tea - or roast beef sandwiches, which perplexingly were the sole item served at the MOCA fete.Andrew asked John about the somewhat controversial exclusion of  Daniel Clowes of Ghost World fame, and John said that was one of his biggest regrets of the whole show. "We only had fifteen artists, though," he pointed out, explaining that he'd cut the list down from forty. Carlin said his next exhibit will be a retrospective of the work of Art Spiegelman, who was awarded a Pulitzer in 1992 for the Holocaust tale Maus. Standing before the haunting, beautiful drawings, I did experience a moment where I was pulled into the imagery and the decades of pain that had found catharsis on the page. For a second or two there, I think I was fluent in Geek.     posted by Steffie Nelson

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Cor blimey guvner! T'was a merry night of Dickensian delights on Thursday when kooky Brit-rockers Art Brut played their very first LA show. You could practically taste the bangers and mash, so elevated were the Limey-ness levels in Spaceland that evening. Even supporting band Every Move A Picture, despite being from San Francisco, looked and sounded like a 21st century Blur. As an experiment, I decided to count the number of British accents in the room and was immediately drawn towards this young Oliver Twist lookalike...

I was right! Turns out his name is Jasper Future and he's from Queen's Park, London. And look, here's his Artful Dodger friend, who goes by the name Eddie Argos!

And together they're...Art Brut!

Once on stage, Eddie made himself right at home, hanging his hat on his mike stand and kicking off his boots - literally (nice socks Eddie!). The lads, who are supporting Oasis for a couple of shows on their European tour, told me they were really excited to be here. And so they should be - their most popular song is called 'Moving to LA', after all. A two-minute work of genius that I heard for the first time this summer (thanks to Brandon Fuller from Indie 103.1FM show Passport Approved), the track beautifully explains why LA is so goddamn Limey-infested... Hang around with Axl Rose / Buy myself some brand new clothes / Everything is gonna be just fine / I hear the murder rate is in decline /When I get off the plane /The first thing I'm gonna do is /Strip naked to the waist /And ride my Harley Davidson /Up and down Sunset street /I may even get a tattoo / I'm drinking Henessey /With Morrissey /On a beach /Out of reach /Somewhere very far away... The boys told me they were staying at the Hyatt West Hollywood - "'cause that's where Led Zep drove their motorbikes up and down, right?". Their greatest ambition is to appear on Top of the Pops and charismatic Eddie, who likes to refer to the band in the third person ("are you ready Art Brut?") led the crowd in a delightful "Art Brut - TOP OF THE POPS!" chant for several minutes, occasionally throwing in names of people he likes, as in "Axl Rose - TOP OF THE POPS!" and "Morrissey - TOP OF THE POPS!".

The band already has a huge following in Germany (maybe something to do with bass player Frederica Feedback being German?) and have appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone there. Former Libertine and Baby Shambles frontman Pete Doherty is also a fan, but lead singer Eddie, who spent much of the set dangling off the front of the stage and taking questions from the audience, warned the fans to "stay AWAY from the crack, unlike Pete Doherty, stay AWAY from the crack".

All this shortly before Jasper tripped up and fell on top of the drum kit.

Makes you proud to be British...

Posted by Caroline Ryder, Certified Brit.

PS: Art Brut plays a second show at The Echo tonight (Friday) and will be performing on Passport Approved, Indie 103.1 FM tomorrow morning at 11AM.

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Okay, I gotta fess up. Before I got hitched, I dated my fair share of band dudes. The talley includes one singer, two guitar players, and oh yeah a drummer, who now just happens to be my spouse. No he doesn't pound the skins anymore, but he is still a rockstar, both in my heart and in his chosen profession: a chef. I know, lucky me huh?

While I don't think I was ever a "groupie" or (sadly)  a "muse," back in those days, I will admit to carrying the occasional amp into soundcheck, and handing out a flyer here and there, and ok, selling merch a couple of times too. This was way before I became a serious music journalist so there was no danger of tarnishing my rep by supporting a boyfriend's band that sucked (and there were a couple). Thank god that's not an issue anymore because looking back, I know love is not only blind, but deaf when it comes to hot musician types.

Anyway, my rock n' roll past isn't nearly as juicy as that of a few of my pals, but suffice to say, me and many of my LA-bred girlfriends have each left a few famous (well mine were almost-famous) brooding punkers and long-haired glamsters in our wake. Sorry, I aint naming names though.

Pamela Des Barres did names names and they were HUGE. She's from a different generation, sure, but I think we could all relate to the awe and lust she conveyed for her rock god lovers in her literary confection of a book, "I'm With The Band." I mean, this woman had relationships with (and yes, the respect of) everyone from Jimmy Page to Mick Jagger. And you know, she wasn't just about the guy all the time. She was creative and musical and poetic all by herself. Still is.

Des Barres inspired my pal Leslie Gardner, designer of the Smashing Grandpa t-shirt line from the very beginning, so it was like fate when a mutual friend brought them together for a new line inspired by prose and themes from the book- which was just re-released with additional text last month.

The two had a party at the Chateau Marmont last night to celebrate the collaboration and, lets just put it this way, if I was a groupie, my head would have been even more in the clouds than it already was (the party was in Marmont's  penthouse). My pubescent crush, John Taylor from Duran Duran was there, looking all tall and sophisticated. Shit, he looks better now than he ever did when he starred in sexy videos like "Rio" and "Girls On Film"... and in my schoolgirl fantasies. Didn't get a picture of him though… Guess I was just too damn shy.

But look who I did get a picture of? None other than the Style Council's #1 fan, Mr. Dave Navarro (thanks to council member Caroline). I've actually met Dave a million times before, like back in the Jane's Addiction/Club Scream days, but decided not to mention when we spoke 'cause you know, he was a junkie then and stuff. If I barely remember those days, he surely doesn't. A friend of mine (not at the party) actually dated him for a couple of years.  Again, didn't mention it.I did, however  thank him for his support of the blog and tell him -with my hubby right behind me- that I didn't think the "Style Council naked" thing was gonna happen (although I can't speak for everyone, so keep checking the other gal's posts). He was super cool and even put on this spiffy jacket for the pictures, because "if I'm gonna take a photo for the Style Council, I should look stylish." And indeed he does. The hat is a sharp touch but I think his best accessory was his so hot-you-want-to-hate-her-but-you-can't-cuz-she's-totally-sweet wife Carmen Electra, who posed for a pic with our girl Ginger Goldmine.

Imagine a  party with all your closest friends and some of your favorite rockers mixed in, and you'll get the idea of what  a fabuloso bash this was.  Here's a few more hot shots featuring a bit of both.

Our hot pal Heidi Richman (of Heidi's Night of Beauty- who supplied Urban Decay lip gloss for the goodie bag) with our fave Indie 103.1 radio host (along with Dave, of course) Steve Jones of Jonesy's Jukebox. He's making a face because my camera didn't work at first and, cranky but cute Brit he is, he tired of holding his smile.

Our favorite K-ROQ radio host Rodney Bingenheimer with  actress/singer India Dupre.

Our favorite rock club DJ Joseph Brooks (Bang!) and the glamorous Kim Goddess.

Read the full party report in my Nightranger column next week, and read all about Bang!'s temporary new home, Urb mag's new tsar and a couple of females who aren't just "with" the band but leading it (The Sounds and Dirty Harry) in this week's column. 

Posted By Lina Lecaro

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm not sure what Frida Kahlo was doing in her grave last night as a hundred or so people gathered in a real estate tycoon's backyard to sample tequilas that bore her name and iconic image. Was she rolling over or salsa dancing? There WAS a mariachi band...

...and bartenders poured shots, shook pomegranate margaritas and filled flutes with yummy champagne cocktails mixed with peach nectar. Cute waitress dressed in colorful Mexican style skirts and blouses, revealing flat tummies, pawned off shrimp tostadas and papaya chicken salad nibbles. But the odd thing was, everywhere you looked there was a hoochie mama, I'm talkin' boner-fide strippers, you saw a lot of shoes like this...

Frida, who was no stranger to sapphic entanglements, might have been pleased by the bouyant breasts and beauty, in that heavily made-up way, of the crowd. But I just couldn't figure out what was up with all the hookers, I figured maybe slutty girls just like tequila, after all me and my friend Shari were here.

But then I remembered the photos that lined the entrance way. They each featured women popping out of bikinis and had labels on the outside of the frame that listed the event (like "Pool Party April 05") it was so Martha for a Benny Hill type guy. I had to find out more about Michael Scott, owner of this Beverly Hills Man-shun. And boy did I find the right guy, Jay, Scott's pal and videographer, hired to film all of Scott's parties on hi-def (private screenings are held after, I guess to relive the magic). Anyway Jay gave me the skinny, the house was owned by Eddie Murphy, it was built in 1991, and Scott is in the process of building a grotto to rival the one at the Playboy Mansion. I was even introduced to Michael Scott (below), who apparently has a girlfriend, somewhere, but he has trouble telling her apart from all the other girls.

Jay took me past the dart board, video games, basketball hoop game, and pool table on a tour of the private bowling alley, and later promised a tour of the inside. I was mildly dissapointed when that tour began and ended in the garage, looking at Scott's brand new Rolls and a Harley. "Get on," Jay goaded me. "There is no way he has ever ridden this, " I say, inspecting the squeaky clean tires. "I bet he can't even ride a bike." Jay disagrees as he snaps pictures of me. And here's where I have my Arnold on Diff'rent Strokes moment... Me, like a dumbass poses for him. "Arch your back. More... more...more," he says. And yeah, I'm a little creeped out, but I do it. Then he says, "Hike up your dress a little more....show some leg." Ah, no. Here's where I draw the line. "Ok, buddy, that's as high as this skirt goes, " I say flat out. "You don't trust me? I'm a professional," he says. That's exactly what worries me. But it's when he makes the "vrooom, vroom" noise mimicking a motorcycle that I bolt. I feel dirty like I was trapped in an American Apparel ad.

When I get back to the party, I find Shari and Adam and Dan. Adam claims to play professional racquetball. Examine this photo carefully--I had no idea when we played pool that he carried his own stick! And I'm not talking about the thing around his neck. Is it just me?

Shari and I wander away from the crowd, we decide to do a little investigative reporting and sneak into the main house and up the grand staircase. We creep in room after room, some are occupied, we can hear ladies voices, some aren't but there are closets as big as department stores filled with all kinds of stripper ware, more clear heels and bikini tops that could hold bajungas the size of my head. It becomes clear to me that at least 6 different women live here. Michael Scott is like the friggin' Talented Mr. Heffner!

We turn one corner and there is Adam. He followed us! We don't have time to chastise him before we hear footsteps behind us. We grab his hand and have our own Breakfast Club moment running down the hall opening one door, hiding inside until the footsteps get closer. We joke that this house is so big someone could be living in one end and you wouldn't even know it. And sure enough, we turn down one corridor and see a door ajar, a movie is playing on a big screen TV, Shari sticks her head in and a girl spread out on a bed asks her if she is Dez? "NO, I'm Shari," she says innocently. "Oh," says the voice, "you can come in if you want." I can see Shari debating, but I pull her away. "I could have had a lesbian affair," she says as we skedaddle, "how Frida is that?" Here's Shari (below) god love her, as a dinner spread. "Ok, Linda, now you hop on the table," says Adam. Yeah right. Fool me once...

In the end, we had a great time wasting away in stripperville, some people say there's a woman with one eyebrow to blame, but I know, it's my own damn fault.

Posted by Linda Immediato

Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Kitten heels, ballet flats, even spiked pumps, they're all are for wimps. I mean why be dainty when you can be powerful? That's why I love me some platform shoes. I grew up in the 70's, and I could be wrong but I think the whole big shoe craze had a lot to do with the Women's lib movement. In platforms you could be sexy, but you still had good balance so you could go charging around, doing whatever the hell you wanted, plus they made you taller. Designer Allison Burns showed off her colorful new line of strong and styling platform foot wear and sumptuous purses and clutches, last week at Chateau Marmont (See Nightranger for the full party report). We're loving the high-end stompers below, but Burns is best known for starting possibly the biggest acessory trend of '05, the metallic purse. We recently asked the style maven some questions about what's next on the fashion horizon.

1. What or who is your number one style inspiration? Right now I am really into Rick Owens. But over my lifetime it has been Vivienne Westwood and Diane Von Furstenberg, amazing women!!!2. How did you forecast the metallic craze? At the time I felt like women wanted more decadence in their fashion. Metallics are always in style in the Rock and Roll world and that is where my inspiration lies.3. Were you pissed when you started getting knocked off everywhere? I was at first, but then I remembered "imitation is the highest form of flattery"4. How do you feel about it now? I am fine with it. My name is a known brand name now and I am known for my style and amazing quality. My customers would not settle for anything less so I know all is fine.5. Describe the worst knock off of one of your designs you've seen...They are all equally as bad as the next!6. Tell me about your new line. My "deluxe" line is elegant with a classic punk edge. All the embellishments are plated 14karat gold Safety Pins and Pyramid Studs. I am in love with it!7. What will be hot for Winter and next Spring? I am thinking Jewel tones and heavy leathers and....well you will have to wait, I am not going to give away all of my secrets. But I will tell you, there will be ALOT of changes!8. Is rock n' roll fashion and style over now that you can buy it Mervyns and Walmart? That is like asking if Rock and Roll will ever die, and you and I both know you can't buy true Rock and Roll style at Mervyns. 

Yummy, no? Big bags to lug your life around during the day and cute little clutches that are a perfect handful for night. You'll probably see these styles copied at your local mall next year, but take our word for it, they wont be as luxurious and well-crafted as these Starburst candy-colored babies.Posted by Lina Lecaro

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"How many boulders can we possibly have to climb over?" I chuckled to my friend Julie, when she warned me that her boyfriend David's friend Ben had asked if I were "sporty" enough to handle the Malibu hike we were about to embark on. The answer? Too fucking many.     You can't tell from the photo, but my knees were a-knocking, I was hyperventilating, David was coaching my every move, and I fully believed there was a good chance I might split my head open on a river rock.     There's no question that Malibu Creek State Park is jaw-droppingly beautiful, but I'll admit I'm more into the "walking up gentle grassy inclines" concept of hike, than the "gripping rocks so tightly I strain my triceps" type of hike. We made it past the scary vertical stretch of volcanic rock-face jutting over the river (two feet deep, but who cares when you're doing everything in your power to claw your way to safety?), but during the fact I was none too fond of Ben (in the red shirt), an actor who's been in I Heart Huckabees and Lords of Dogtown. Before we set out, Ben had compared the imminent feat to climbing along a Coke machine, so I practiced...on a Coke machine. Believe me, the real real thing wasn't the same. Shortly after returning to safety we met some serious rock climber dudes with ropes and clips and picks and other things with names that I don't know. One of whom read my t-shirt (I heart BKLYN: a farewell gift from Julie when I moved to LA) and said, "I've heard of that, it's in somewhere in New York, right?" And then when I tripped over another rock and whacked my shin into a larger rock, he said, "Oh, that's really gonna hurt. You're not even going to be able to walk."     I smiled and offered him my best New York salute as I limped to flat land. Rock on!posted by Steffie Nelsonphoto by Julie Almendral

Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

I'd be lying if I said I didn't check out the Babeland goody bag (see Where Do You Get Off? post below) while waiting in line at Pinks. I'd be lying again if I said there wasn't an 8-inch red vibrator that resembled a shift stick from a European sports car inside of it and that I planned to do nothing with it. (I even sent my friend back to the store to figure out how to put the batteries in.) Also in the bag was a CD, a collection of erotic stories "to quickly get you in the mood" and some unflavored (which really is just as well) personal lubricant. So I left my friends feeling empowered, though slightly nauseous from the cheese fries, and ready for a little "dancin' with myself" whoa-oh-oh-oh...

Unfortunately, however, my car had other plans, mainly, to go to sleep while I was careening down the 10 freeway at 80 mph. I wrestled the car across two lanes without the help of power steering. Once there I flashed my hazards, and since my cell had run out of juice, I debated how I would send up smoke signals. But mostly I just cried. Cars wizzed past and I remembered a story about a girl who was raped near my hometown because she didn't know how to change a flat tire. Well, she was raped because a man took advantage of the fact that she didn't know how to change a flat tire. After news had spread about this woman, I remember my high school boyfriend taking me out in the parking lot with a lugnut wrench and a jack and watching as I proved I could change my own tire.

Now, I got out of my car and peeked under the hood, this same boyfriend drilled in all kinds of car knowledge, (like how a carburetor mixes air and gas, but I had fuel injection, so no carburetor.) the engine turned over so that eliminated battery, alternator and spark plug concerns, what the hell was it? Maybe I didn't have enough gas, it was really low. While I was under the hood staring into the black abyss of my engine, I became aware of a car slowly sliding onto the shoulder, I could see two men get out, silhouetted by their headlights, they had left their car running. "Fuck," I thought to myself. I could hear the voice of John Walsh from America's Most Wanted in my head, "She was last seen carrying a blue bag filled with a vibrator and personal lubricant, if you have information leading to her whereabouts please call..." One of the guys spoke up "You ok?" he asked. "Yeah, I'm fine. My boyfriend's on the way," I heard myself say. None of those statements were true. "Well," he said, "I can take a look." He had a flashlight on his keychain and he pointed it at my battery, checking cables as he asked me what happened and tried to convince me to take a ride with them "just off the next exit," he knew a mechanic there who could help. It was after midnight, I assured them that my boyfriend would arrive momentarily. They both looked kind of drunk, the quiet one was the drunkest, he just leaned against the side of my car and didn't say anything. Finally after a bit more urging they left.

I got back into my car and locked the doors, I searched my bag for mace, damn, it was in my other bag. I tried turning the cell on and off, it would power on only for a split second before the screen went black again. Finally, I leaned against the steering wheel and cried some more. What the hell was I going to do? Another car slowed down and stopped in the lane, a dude in a trucker cap was asking me if I was ok. His music was loud, all I heard from his radio were the words "god" and "lord" and it wasn't gospel music, I rolled down my window and said that my contact lens fell out and motioned for him to keep moving. Luckily, he did.

Finally, another car pulled over, this time in front of me and a small girl in her early 20s approached. To say she was an angel sounds cheezy, but not when you take into consideration that I uttered the words "dear god please help me" at least a hundred times. "Are you ok?" she asked. "Yeah, my cell died. Do you have one I could use?" I asked. "Oh of course," she said," this happened to me once." I called the towing company, and Liz the patron saint of dead cell phones talked to me outside for a bit, but it was cold and late, and after a half an hour, I made her leave.

I eventually got home to discover my dog was missing (don't worry- turns out the neighbor found her running down the street, kept her cause no one was home and left a message... on my cell. I got her the next day), but as I curled up in my bed, car-less, dog-less and phone-less, I reached into the bag and pulled out Werner, the stick shift weiner, "I'm sorry dude, I'm going to have to take a rain check. I'm just not in the mood." I rolled over knowing, at the very least, I didn't have to contend with hurt feelings...

Posted by Linda Immediato

Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

"I'm gonna tell you what my friend told me-- never expect a man to be able to do this for you," my friend says as she hold up a model that gyrates, as pearls spin inside, and a koi fish flicks its tail-- talk about bells and whistles. She says this is rule number one for battery-driven self lovin'. "Got it?" she asks. I got it. She's managing my expectations as we vibrator shop. (This would be my first.) We're at the grand opening party for the Los Angeles store Babeland (formerly known in NYC as Toys in Babeland) and the place was packed with lesbians of every variety, a few hetero men, a smattering of gay men, a gaggle of lycra-loving pregnant women, there just to prove this shit works, and a few unsavory characters, myself among them.

There was an open bar and passed hors d'hoeuvres. I was starving but the last thing I felt like doing was eating while perusing items like "Boy Butter" a cream developed for "fisting" and diagrams for locating a prostate gland should you be interested in diving the man cave.

There were rows and rows of dildos and vibrators ranging from cutesy caterpillars, rubber duckies, and discrete faux plastic lipsticks to full on replicas of family jewels of impressive girth and rigidity, some of which if you squeezed and closed your eyes, would have you completely fooled. (I fell in love with one, and told him that I'd be back, I imagine him now curled up in the dark, like Juliette Binoche in The English Patient.)

We sipped wine while leaning against a wall full of strap on harnesses and collars and leashes, and flipped through books with all kinds of hints and tips, one called "The Women's Guide to Anal Sex" clocked in at 140 pages... We suggested summing it up in one- a shot of something strong, a deep breath and try to relax. We slapped each other with rubber-stranded whips, and riding crops, we fondled phallus after phallus, sniffed scented "personal lubricants" and to top it all off there was a burlesque show, so every 15 minutes another beauty would shimmy out of a sparkly outfit, flash the pasties and disappear.

But the best thing about the night was the frankness of the staff, and the feeling you got from them that that there really is nothing wrong with polishing the door knob, petting the kitty, or stuffing the box (solo or with company). They're required to show up for in-store sex-ed and biology classes and are taught to make people feel totally comfortable asking, while pointing to a thingamajig hanging off a rubber dick, "what the hell does this do?" And just as comfortable when the response is "it may tickle your asshole, it may not." To punctuate the feeling that "we're all alright, we're all alright," is the fact that there were children present. Lily (photo below) told me later she liked "the ladies dancing."

I didn't ask her what she thought about the maids a milking... this one brought the "suicide girls" concept to a new level...

I left empty handed except for a fairly large goody bag, and we all agreed that there really was only one place to go to assuage our hunger after our appetites had been worked into such a frenzy...

Pink's, of course, for a foot long.

Here's us with the remains of the day...

Posted by Linda Immediato

Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

A movie about a 12-year old prostitute in jazz-age New Orleans may seem like an unlikely inspiration for a new spring line of clothing, but when the prepubescent in question is Brooke Shields (Pretty Baby, 1978), it actually makes perfect sense-- remember what her nubile body did for Calvin Klein jeans? Maxine Dillon (above) designer and creator of Figmint wanted to capture the sexual allure of innocence, so her new line is filled with really pretty and youthful touches like lacey pantalets and eyelet tanks as well as shimmery jazzy dresses. I went to her trunk show at Aero & Co. (8403 W. 3rd Street) to check out the goods. A suited pianist jellyrolled the ragtime tunes and I snacked on sugary white frosted cupcakes...before discovering the absinthe. I had never indulged in the prefered poison of the original Bohemians and the milky lime green colored liquor looked so alluring. Just holding the glass I felt like a Toulouse-Lautrec courtesian, but I just couldn't stomach the licorishy taste. I left disheartened, I so wanted to chase the green fairy. But my night was young and there was more debauchery just around the corner. So I dashed off to meet my friends at the sex-toy shop opening (see my next post above)....

Posted by Linda Immediato

Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Gag me with a glove. The only reason I saw the "romantic" "comedy" Shopgirl, based on Steve Martin's novella of the same name, was because my friend and I got lost on the way to Pasadena and it was too late to see The Squid and the Whale. Now, I can appreciate a good chick flick as much as anyone, particularly one set in Los Angeles, but the entire premise of this one  - that  the oddball depressive Saks Fifth Avenue glove salesgirl Mirabelle (Claire Danes) is going to fall for the rich, suave computer something-or-other Ray Porter (Steve Martin), who in turn is going to crush her with his cold cold heart - seriously made my skin crawl. We are asked to find Ray the pinnacle of urbanity because he wears shiny black shoes, drinks wine on his private plane, and lives in a modern house in the Hollywood Hills that he bought already furnished. On their second date, he asks the schoolmarm-styled Silver Lake resident Mirabelle if she has a good relationship with her father (wink wink), and then says he has run out of "date questions." Already?! But she is smitten because he takes her to THE IVY and uh...did I already mention the house?     Their love making scenes reduced me to a fourth-grade maturity level. "Eeew!" I screeched, peeking through my fingers. How could they? How could A.O. Scott of the New York Times describe this film as "near perfect"? Jason Schwartzman's almost-lovable slob Jeremy was the best thing about the movie, and thankfully Mirabelle does end up with him in the end after Ray informs her, via handwritten note, that he cheated, causing her to sob bitterly, beseeching, "why don't you love me?". Meanwhile we're expected to believe that Jeremy's two-month tour as the amp tech for a shitty rock band, much of which he spent listening to self-help tapes, has turned him into some kind of sensitive guy who can afford Helmut Lang suits. Oh, and Mirabelle, who makes two charcoal drawings a year (she's "quirky," remember?) has a show at an elite Beverly Hills gallery. Ray shows up with a new, appropriately aged girlfriend and Jeremy is turned out in another $3000 suit. Such is the poetry of life.     I read reviews of this movie that said to "bring tissues"; why? To wipe the oily film off my eyeballs? I cringed for poor lovely Claire Danes. I mean, who doesn't love Steve Martin? He's a wild and crazy guy, but he is not Marlon Brando. The very reason Lost in Translation (which this received many comparisons to) was so poignant and romantic was because Scarlett Johannsen and Bill Murray didn't go there. And we didn't want them to. Clearly, this is Steve Martin's mid-life crisis movie, but it just seems to me that the Emperor has no clothes. Now could he please put them back on?

posted by Steffie Nelson

Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

When bored, browsing Craigslist is a great way to while away the hours. The Rants and Raves section is always fun (one poor fool moaned "why do women in LA hate white Republican working atheltic males?". Der. Move back to Texas, you musclebound corporate facist.) Missed Connections is good for a laugh ("I made out with you on Saturday night at Shelter and then I went to get a drink and you disappeared...").

But this posting by a gang of down-on-their-luck studs entitled Five Dudes Looking for Sugar Mamas has to win the Style Council's first "Craigslist Post of the Week Award". It tells the sorry tale of a bunch of "classy and successful guys" desperately seeking a Mrs Robinson to help pay the bills. These wannabe gigolos promise to treat their benefactresses "like the knight who wanted Rapunzel to 'let down her hair'", adding, "We will be your knight in shining armor (especially if that armor comes in the form of a nice BMW, bought by you, for us, to drive)."

"We will feed you grapes, dote over you, fan you with feathers, rub your feet, be the dashing hunk by your side as you walk down Rodeo Drive. We will style our hair (those of us that have it) in the latest fashions. We will tan our bodies, suck in our guts all day long, and generally do everything to make you happy. In return, you must fund our lifestyle when we're not with you, not ask too many direct questions about who we're with when we're not with you, and don't ask us where we were on friday and saturday night (if not with you)."

I contacted the guys and it seems they have only had one response so far, which reads thus:

"If you five f'ing lamos are "successful" than you don't need sugarmamas. You five queens need to just hangout with each other and leave the women in this town alone. What a pack of fucking losers. You can smell the cheese through the computer."

Life is cruel.

--------

Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

"More boobies, RIGHT NOW!" roared the crowd at the El Rey theatre as alternaporn starlets the Suicide Girls jiggled their pastied jubblies during the final show of their burlesque tour of the US.

Despite recent Suicide Girl defections (the girls apparently get paid peanuts per photo set while owners Sean and Missy Suicide rake in the cash from subscriptions) and a subsequent media backlash (read Kate Sullivan's story in this week's Weekly), on Saturday night the tattooed lovelies waved their boobs proudly in their air, like they just didn't care.

The crowd was an odd mix of metal geeks, pierced lesbians, and frat boys yelling "Go Reagan" (that's the tall, skinny blonde SG - go figure). The middle-aged perv quotient was worryingly high - I found a balding guy in a shiny shirt who was there because he likes "exotic, erotic chicks". Then he offered to buy me a drink. Er, no thanks. No sign of Courtney Love, once a member of the site.

As for the show itslef - think Jumbo's Clown Room minus the pole. Basically, good, unsophisticated fun but hardly Cirque de Soleil production values. Essentially it's just a bunch of young girls, some of whom have lots of tattoos (although the tattoo count was lower than I had expected) getting naked and making out with each other.

The sexiest moment was when small but perfectly-formed Chloe Suicide peeled off her Marilyn-style white silk dress to the sounds of Portishead's "Sour Times". Then an impressively limber SG got nasty with a can of whipped cream and some cherries. (Dessert, anyone?) Then they recreated the scene from Reservoir Dogs where Michael Madsen cuts off the cop's ear - except here the girls end up straddling each other and French kissing. Much more civilized.

 

But the question on every boy's (and girl's) mind is...are the Suicide Girls making out for real, or is it just for show? We cornered Chloe Suicide after the show and Style Councilor Steffie asked the burning question: "So you girls are all straight, right?". "Well...some people are just more open with their sexuality than others," said Chloe, adding "and we do have fun on the bus." Conversation over.

What was for real was when the bassist of Japanese headbanging pop grrrl trio Tsu Shi Ma Mi Re (they opened up for the SGs) broke down in tears during their set. She was sad because it was the last show of the tour, and started sobbing uncontrollably on stage. "Arigato Suicide Girls, arigato!" she sniffed. The audience loved it, as did the Suicide Girls who came out and gave her an enormous group hug. Awww...

A happy ending indeed.

(PS: The Tsu Shi girls are playing at King King in Hollywood tonight (Sunday). Well worth a look)

Posted by Caroline Ryder

Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

A few minutes ago I had a conversation with tattooed rock superstar Dave Navarro. I was listening to his Camp Freddy Radio show on Indie 103.1FM and he was complaining about only having nine listeners. Well, this Style Councilor has always enjoyed helping out tattooed rock superstars in their hour of need...so digits were promptly dialed, and after a few moments I found myself live on the air with Navarro, one-time Jane's Addiction guitarist and his co-host Billy Morrison, formerly in The Cult.

"Hi, I'm Caroline."

"Hey that's a cute accent," says Navarro, (I am British).

"You wanted poeple to call in, so I am. I want to plug the LA Weekly's new blog. It's called the Style Council and er, I'm on it."

I heard a slight groan as the rock star deejays realized they were being exploited by this pesky Style Councilor for the purpose of free advertising (c'mon guys, this is LA, what do you expect?). But then Navarro's notoriously frisky mind started wandering, and his tone changed.

"So...do you guys post naked pictures of yourselves online?" he asked.

"No... But I can if you want us to!"

I regreted the words as soon as they left my mouth. You see, as an honorable and upstanding Brit, I am bound by my word. So this means that I now have to get the Style Council girls naked and take pictures of them. 'Tis a hard life, to be sure...watch this space.

PS: Dave thanked the LA Weekly for inspiring a segment in their show where they call up the lovely ladies from the back pages of our publication and talk to them about their careers. Hooray for the Women of the Weekly!

Posted by Caroline Ryder

Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

My friend Anne was moving back to San Francisco from San Diego, and she wanted to spend one night in a swanky L.A. hotel by the beach. Only problem was, everything in Venice and Santa Monica was booked. I did a google search, and one of the options was the brand-new Belamar in Manhattan Beach, whose website showed portraits of chihuahas dressed like Charles Lindberg hanging in every room, and boasted the tagline "experience the fabulousness." She booked it, and invited me to experience it with her. As we followed the directions past office parks and fast food restaurants and strip mega malls I had my doubts about just how fabulous this place could possibly be.  But then we pulled into a driveway swarming with people and fancy black cars and spotlights everywhere. How fabulous! "There's some kind of a shoot going on," I observed like a true investigative journalist, and set out to find out what it was for. "G-Unit video" I was told by a guy w