LA Weekly

I just got back from New York, New York, and since I spent much of my winter holiday hanging with my nieces Flora and Ava, twins aged 18 months, the biggest fashion trends on my radar were of the turtleneck onesie and snap-crotch corduroy pants variety (very chic, I thought; very Vivienne Westwood). But on one of my last nights in town, noshing on baked oysters and artichoke dip at last winter's hot spot Freemans (I may be living in the past but you can't beat the taxidermy menagerie), a cozy Anglophilic hideaway in an alley off Rivington Street, I sniffed out a bona fide trend in its infancy.    Are you ready, gentlemen? Forget trucker hats, cowboy hats, and, as already noted in the SC, skull caps. The latest hipster headgear is none other than the top hat. While my friends and I were waiting for our table a very cute long-haired boy showed up, dressed in camo, a white hoodie, and limited edition Nikes, accessorized with a snappy grey felt top hat appropriate for an Edwardian dandy.     And his was the second stovepipe I'd seen that day. In the afternoon I'd noticed another downtown urchin type strolling along St. Marks Place, wearing bondage gear and skinny jeans capped off with a black top hat. His look was more punk chimney sweep than Lord of the Fly Boys, but both were equally eye-catching. How can you go wrong with a hat that adds eight inches in height and references Abraham Lincoln, Fred Astaire and, yes, the New Year's Baby in one fell swoop? Unfortunately Lord Grey needed to be seated immediately so he split before I could take his picture. Instead I'm offering two possible recent sources of inspiration for this mini trend. (Please feel free to share your own top dawg sightings!)Lars Von Trier's Dear Wendy, a supposedly cautionary love letter to American gun culture, was a bit of a misfire, but the pistol-totin' teens looked sharp indeed. Dubbing themselves The Dandies, they dressed in antique clothes and fired at targets in their shabby chic lair while listening exclusively to the Zombies. Jamie Bell, of that hit boy ballet movie I never saw, is a stunner. I'll concede his chapeau has a slight pilgrim slant, but hey, it's close enough.

    The political activist performance troupe Billionaires For Bush were a very visible presence on the LES scene for almost all of 2004, leading up to that dark day in November. Seemingly taking their wardrobe cues from boardgames like Monopoly, and owing to the aforementioned flattering nature of top hats, almost all of the male "Billionaires" rocked that look. Pictured here is Phil T. Rich, leader of the pack.     Of course this all begs the question: where can you get a top hat to call your very own? A website called Top Hats seems like a good place to start, and flea markets are a pretty sure bet. I lucked into a genuine beaver beauty at a flea market in Brooklyn for 20 bucks, but they generally run in the hundreds. Hell, if you don't care about the quality, buy a plastic one at a party supply store for $2.99. Now if you're just looking for an excuse to don such a dandy topper, what better occasion than New Year's Eve, baby?

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Last night I went to a party thrown by Ian Gerard, co-founder of Gen Art with my friends Ildiko, a prolific and amazing writer; Jenn, a singer, the voice behind the "Wanna Fanta" jingle and back up vocals on many albums; and Stuart (not pictured), a successful screenwriter, who lives in NYC. The apartment, though art-ily decorated and complete with a large picture window that included the Empire State Building, Credit Suisse, and Met Life buildings in its view, was as big as a shoebox. I do not miss the teeny apartments. The place quickly filled with all sorts of people—most wearing black. Ian dusted gold glitter on his face because it was "festive." Most of the guests weren't too friendly, the two girls below refused my invitation to mingle.
In fact, most people were startled by my willingness to talk to strangers. But these two men were not. The dude with hair is a hairdresser in his native Australia, I have no idea who the other guy is. And I don't know what they were looking at, but this picture does make me a little uncomfortable.
After a bottomless glass of wine, we left to go to a Brazilian nightclub and danced our asses off, I got drunk, gloriously sauced, because I could. Because I was a cab ride, not a 10 West ride, away from bed.

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One of the great things about New York is that it doesn't really change. Sure restaurant names change but I found all of my old haunts still there, happily haunted by other women in their twenties who want to set the world on fire. But besides certain restaurants and bars, one of my favorite places to visit is the Museum of Natural History, and no trip to NYC is complete without a visit to the landmark. I saw the Darwin exhibit there and it was awesome (I'd have posted pictures, but cameras were forbidden), complete with 2 live Galapagos sea turtles, a live giant iguana, tons of dead finches, his love letters, and his pro and con list for marriage. Seems the naturalist was plagued by the same issues as most comitment phobes, on his con list, less time with the boys, less money. His study at the Down House was recreated, only 5 objects on display were actually his, one was a black knotted cane. I spoke to one of the guards who told me, his sole job was to watch the cane. The exhibit is there until May 29, 2006.  If you're in New York, you have to check it out. I couldn't help posting this pic for anyone out there who also communes with the big blue whale every visit to the big apple. It's comforting to know he's always there—a constant reminder of how small we are and the majesty of nature. His smile is as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa's. He knows something.

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Happy holidays everyone! More to come soon, but in the meantime, a little slice of roadside art in upstate New York...

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I just woke from a food coma. I went home for the holidays to see my family in NY. For us Christmas means lobster, shrimp, crab, lasagna, and proscuitto and figs, sopressata and the good parmesan, stuffed hot peppers, rainbow cookies, and a steady flow of wine. And, ok, it's not all homecooked artisnal goodness, there was so much candy-coated chocolate you'd think we owned stock in Hersheys.

It's been two years since I was back and I was scared to go home, not just because I will undoubtedly get fat, but I was afraid when I walked on the city streets I would fall in love with NYC all over again. Kind of like an ex, you hope you didn't make a mistake leaving, I wanted to be sure that my move to Los Angeles was right and that New York wouldn't woo me to want to live there again. Manhattan is a great seducer, a sweet talker who sweeps you off your feet with its history, with its art, culture, and pulsating life all around you. And on my FDR cab ride, past my old apartment on 91st Street, past the building where I used to sneak in the back entrance to have an affair, past Stuy Town where I cat sat for 8 months, all the memories came flooding back, and yet, I didn't feel any different. The city was dirtier and gloomier than I had remembered but other than that I felt no different. No different riding the subway, no different walking 20 blocks in the pouring rain. And I realized the city is just a part of me, it never leaves me, even when I'm 3,000 miles away, when I'm stuck in traffic on the 405, when I'm walking my dog on the beach, New York is in my blood, makes sense I guess I was born and raised here. My New York friends think I'm crazy for living in L.A. they think they're the true New Yorkers for staying, but a true New Yorker can live anywhere, kind of like Superman living away from his planet Krypton, or like Frodo and the Shire. I heart New York, but between us, I can't wait to get back to LA...

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This Christmas, I had hoped to fly back to London, gorge myself on Mum's turkey and sip sherry with my long lost Brit posse. But Fate, it turned out, had other plans in store...

24 hours before my Christmas Eve flight was due to depart, I wandered in to a psychic's den on Hollywood Boulevard in Little Armenia (323 464 7478). I gave her $45 and she looked deep into my eyes, examined my crinkly writer's palms and proceeded to tell me many interesting things...

Firstly, my love life is likely to be fucked for, like, ever, unless I make some major changes. "Fair enough," I thought. "I didn't need a psychic to tell me that". Then she laid out the tarot cards. Death - upside down. The Tower - upside down. The Hanged Man - upside down. I'm no Nostradamus, but even without my trusty tea leaves I know that any of these cards, even on their own, are bad news. Let alone all together.

"There is a man...and he is burning dark candles against you, using urine and hair in his rituals," she told me. Grrreat. "I see alot of sadness at night." Awesome. "And you should under NO circumstances travel during the next six weeks."

What?! I hadn't uttered a word about my impending travel plans to her. Suddenly images of planes crashing, terrorist attacks and me getting flattened by a double decker bus flashed into my mind. As soon as I got home I called my mum in north London. "I'm sorry, I can't come home," I told her. "The psychic told me not to."

My family, predictably, thought I had lost my marbles. "Ever since you moved to LA you've been behaving strangely," sighed my dad. "You've got loads of presents under the tree," said my brother, trying to entice me, but even that didn't work. I was terrified and decided to cancel my flight. I was staying put.

As I dialed British Airways I contemplated yet another lonely Christmas in LA, with no idea what to do, or where to go. I recalled a passage in James Frey's My Friend Leonard where he points out how LA always seems to be full of sad young people staring out of diner windows, eating alone. "That'll be me on Christmas Day," I thought forlornly.

I comforted myself by thinking about last Christmas, which was spent sleeping on a friend's floor after my boyfriend kicked me out of our apartment. "At least it can't get any worse than that," I thought. WRONG! A few hours later my current lover and I had an enormous barney, and we broke up. "Jingle bells my arse" I thought, picturing a pube-covered candle with my name on it, burning in a rancid puddle of piss.

Luckily, my good friends Roger Gastman and Sonja Teri were on hand to pull me out of my bitter holiday wretchedness. Roger is the editor of Swindle magazine, a publication he founded with the OBEY GIANT artist Shepard Fairey. Sonja is Roger's girlfriend, and advertising director of the magazine.

They took pity on my poor cursed soul and invited me to share matzo ball soup and latkas at their house in Los Feliz on Christmas Day. They presented me with several pairs of socks ("We noticed you only ever seem to wear one sock," Sonja said.) and let me take photos of Harley, their adorable golden labrador whose sorrowful face would give Tiny Tim's a run for his money.

Even though my blood family was about 8,000 miles away and the love of my life had just dumped me, Roger and Sonja's warmth and good cheer was starting to restore my faith in Christmas. After Sonja's 15-year-old cousins sang a wonderful rendition of Dreidel Dreidel, my inner Ebenezer Scrooge had almost entirely melted away.

Even so, I couldn't quite relax. Disturbing thoughts of Dark Candle Man still lingered in my head and I was unable to make them go away. Then just before midnight, as I was on my way home, my estranged lover's name popped up on my cell phone...

Turned out to be a Happy Christmas after all... :)

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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Happy (whatever holiday you celebrate) Style Council readers!

The other gals are all back in their respective homelands (NYC and the UK) so I'm holding down the fort in sunny LA- and I'm lovin' it!Sure am glad the present pressure is off though. I cut it close this year doing the whole she-bang in two days: the Glendale Galleria on Thursday and Amoeba Music on Friday. I know, I'm insane right? Yup, it was hectic and a lot of people out there were really crazed and some were downright mean, but in general it was pretty painless. Waited in some lines, lugged a few heavy boxes, spent too much money on family, friends, and ok, myself... The usual. Didn't mind the crowd though. I actually like 'em (if you've read my stuff in the paper, that's probably obvious). I embrace commotion and chaos because in a strange way, it makes me feel alive, particularly during the holiday season. Here's what Amoeba looked like (the dude standing under the "line forms here" sign got pissed and made me put my camera away after this shot.) Notice the ball of stress floating over this head.

Wish more peeps woulda been like these two (below) who probably smoked too much mistletoe (or something) but were nonetheless in the right spirit... They were spreading good cheer outside of Amoeba, inviting everyone to a party at the Lava Lounge that night and singing carols near Cahuenga. They asked me my favorite one, and when I told them that I no longer celebrate Christmas since becoming a Jew, they were nice enough to sing me a rousing rendition of "Dreidel, Dreidel" which definitely caught the attention of the music nerds who came in and out of the place. Holiday time in Hollywood. There aint nothin' like it....

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I went to Metal Skool at the Key Club again last night. I've had three hours sleep and feel like an Anne Rice vampire with a hair band fetish. I knew Lina was DJ'ing in the VIP room and then I got a message from the lead singer of the Towers of London (who I had played Pamela Des Barres too a while back) to come out and meet them (the towers are going to be on the Mighty Morning Show this morning from 8-10 am).  One problem, when we heard from them, they were partying in Silverlake— I was all set to cut class at Metal Skool,  skip out early , and meet them, when Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson showed up! That's Pam in a sexy Santa outfit, she danced on a stripper pole, while Tommy played the drums and afterwards they appeared to be quite comfortable playing Santa at a corner table upstairs, but as comfortable as I was when I sat on his lap during fashion week? Uh, yes, I'd say more comfortable, and I was slightly heartbroken, but it was refreshing to see them together again, in a way. We are living in the days of "Team Jolie, Team Aniston," it gave me some hope to see a couple who has survived domestic violence, addiction and Hepatitis C. And you know what this could mean... another sex tape is not out of the question...

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Peaches is one hot bitch. I had the pleasure of interviewing her for the cover of Bust magazine (on stands in January) a couple of weeks ago and yeah, I've been known to break into one of her songs at inappropriate times, singing lyrics like "sucking on my titties like you wanted me" or "my labia majora soft as angora" out loud at the bank or something, but I had never seen her perform live until tonight. Yowzers. She gives it up, she works for it like a multiple orgasm attempt, beaded with sweat and determined to get us off.

Peaches performed for a seated and contained audience before John Waters Christmas Show at UCLA . She opened with her yet to be released track "Two Guys For Every Girl" dressed in a hot pink padded push-up bra and silver short shorts. But it was AA XXX that completely won me over, I always thought AA referred to batteries for vibrators but she's actually talking about her breast size. It reminded me of another small breasted champion— Shakira who sings "lucky that my breasts are small and humble so you don't confuse them with mountains." Only with Peaches she saves the poetry and instead goes for "Only double A, Thinking triple X, Licky licky sucky, sucky Nobody here can tell me they don't wanna fucky fucky."

The crowd was into it but stayed seated. Even two chicks dressed loosely as roosters, with showy tail feathers and headdresses, ripping each other's clothes off, and rubbing each other down during a "cock fight dance" AND a team of pastied dancers simulating all kinds of sex, couldn't inspire anyone in the crowd to get the fuck up, but you could feel the heat building, they were about to explode, and when Peaches (who also treated the crowd to some Hebrew holiday songs) finally gave them what they wanted— her get-over-it anthem "Fuck the Pain Away"— about 100 college students rushed the stage to jump-dance and shout along with her. I felt free to indulge, "sucking on my titties like you wanted me..." though the people next to me looked like they were waiting to check their balance....

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I got 5 minutes. That's it. 5. To ask John Waters whatever I could. But you may have to wait for the LA Weekly "list issue" to read what he had to say, he gave me all kinds of advice, about man-o-pause, how to get over a heartache, and what grosses out the Prince of Puke himself. Stay tuned...

I went to his Christmas Show tonight hosted by UCLA Live! and can tell you the man is nuts for Christmas. He was saddened that it has become un PC to say "Christmas." According to him, it's become the new C word, it may even be the new N word, but he suggested maybe like gangsters say "my nigga" we can refer to it as "Christma"...

Oh and Waters advises the best present to give is a book. "And if the person next to you doesn't read," he cautions, "don't fuck 'em."

and do yourself a favor buy his Christmas CD, if you're sick of those damn carols like I am (now I know why some people jump off bridges this time of year) you will find his the perfect tonic. You'll be humming "Santa Claus is Black Man" while you wrap gifts...ho, ho, ho...

merry christma everyone...

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I ran into Tammie Brown at the John Water's Meet & Greet before the mustachioed director's Christmas show tonight at UCLA's Royce Hall. Tammie is a long-time Waters fan, and he told her he liked her curls. Ms. Brown helped me work my drag queeny open-mouthed smile and gave me some make-up tips.

Meet & Greets feel dirty. All these people pay money to be in the proximity of a celebrity and follow that person around trying to get their picture taken with them and use those shutter release waiting moments to recall some stupid story about meeting that person years earlier at some such function. I can tell you right now, I wasn't one of those people. Ok, I was... as far as the picture goes
but I can guarantee if I ever see John Waters again I will assume he has no earthly idea who I am.

This is Frank and Corey, I'll let their T-shirts say it all...

and this is Celeste
I'd say something nasty but I'm afraid Santa is listening and I so want to be on the nice list this year...

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I ran into Tammie Brown at the John Water's Meet & Greet before the mustachioed director's Christmas show tonight at UCLA's Royce Hall. Tammie is a long-time Waters fan, and he told her he liked her curls. Ms. Brown helped me work my drag queeny open-mouthed smile and gave me some make-up tips.

Meet & Greets feel dirty. All these people pay money to be in the proximity of a celebrity and follow that person around trying to get their picture taken with them and use those shutter release waiting moments to recall some stupid story about meeting that person years earlier at some such function. I can tell you right now, I wasn't one of those people. Ok, I was... as far as the picture goes
but I can guarantee if I ever see John Waters again I will assume he has no earthly idea who I am.

This is Frank and Corey, I'll let their T-shirts say it all...

and this is Celeste
I'd say something nasty but I'm afraid Santa is listening and I so want to be on the nice list this year...

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I ran into Tammie Brown at the John Water's Meet & Greet before the mustachioed director's Christmas show tonight at UCLA's Royce Hall. Tammie is a long-time Waters fan, and he told her he liked her curls. Ms. Brown helped me work my drag queeny open-mouthed smile and gave me some make-up tips.

Meet & Greets feel dirty. All these people pay money to be in the proximity of a celebrity and follow that person around trying to get their picture taken with them and use those shutter release waiting moments to recall some stupid story about meeting that person years earlier at some such function. I can tell you right now, I wasn't one of those people. Ok, I was... as far as the picture goes
but I can guarantee if I ever see John Waters again I will assume he has no earthly idea who I am.

This is Frank and Corey, I'll let their T-shirts say it all...

and this is Celeste
I'd say something nasty but I'm afraid Santa is listening and I so want to be on the nice list this year...

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Still recovering from Paper mag's slew of events last week at Acme gallery, though I missed the Saturday night fevah of Los Super Elegantes (which I hear was one raging fiesta) and Sunday's super exclusive "last supper" gathering featuring grub from Fatburger. Damn, I love those big ol' greasy things, especially late at night after a booze binge.

Fridays Paper event was called "Sabbath Showdown" but thanks to a hangover and a hungry hubby I didn't stay too long. Looking back on the week though, the thing I loved most about the LA Paper Project was the mixture of peeps and treats, typified by the lovely Layla (the gal on the right in the pic below) and her pink Hearts Challenger ice cream truck, which as cheesy as it sounds, is all about sharing yumminess and love. Funny how it took a New York magazine to remind us Angelenos what a fabulousy freaky, and yes friendly, town we live in, huh?

Speaking of which, remember Bobby Trendy? (pic, right) Okay maybe he aint that friendly, at least to Anna Nicole, but he is flamboyant and was happy to mug for me at Paper's arty party. I'd be his hag, if I didnt already have too many gay boyfriends.

Anyhow, Saturday I did my Double Elle deejay thang at a private soiree and Sunday, it was the Smashing Grandpa sample sale (at which I bought everybody tees that say "I Shagged the Guitar Player" …just kidding girlfriends, but that was a hot seller).

That night I got merry at KROQ's Almost Acoustic Xmas show (or should I be PC and call it "Holiday" show?) and though there was a mix-up with my VIP wristband, I ended up working it backstage anyhow with the help of my pal John Roecker, who's like the funniest, wittiest dude I know and just happens to be buds with every rockstar on earth. Here he is flanked by AFI's Davey Havok and Rancid's Tim Armstrong- two foxy fellas who star in his upcoming flick Live Freaky, Die Freaky about Charles Manson and the apocalypse. Seriously, check out the website here. 

The show had its up and down moments-- Jack Johnson really did an acoustic set (rare!) which was pretty groovy, though the Bravery lived-up to its name more fashion-wise than sound-wise (singer Sam Endicott had on an argyle sweater, leaving us to wonder what happened to his neo-wave goth look).

The White Stripes rocked their red socks off and Depeche Mode were simply fucking amazing.  Dave Gahan is still my own personal Jesus (see pic below) while Martin Gore -in a black leather skirt, black (Dior?) mohawk knit hat, black wings and eyeliner galore- hasn't lost the meloncholy mojo.

Their set made me kick myself for missing the band's recent Staples gigs. If ya havent noticed by now, when it comes to the raging rock shows and frenzied fetes, I just can't get enough.

If you cant get enough either, check this week's Nightranger, with more scoop on Paper, Paul Smith's store opening, the New York Dolls new rock doc and Sweethearts of the Rodeo.

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Looking for the perfect holiday gift for your cheating boyfriend or sleazy boss? Well here's one that says it all - the Voodoo Knife Holder. Made in Italy, it is the biggest seller at the newly-opened A+R design store in Silverlake (just a hop across the street from Spaceland), and costs $150, including knives. "I had some resistance from friends about selling this because they thought it was too violent, but everyone who comes here loves it," said A+R's owner Andy, who gave me a guided tour of the store at the opening party last week.

The intimate bash was co-hosted by Andy's girlfriend Rose Apodaca, West Coast Bureau Chief of Women's Wear Daily. Despite being one of LA's most well-connected fashionistas (she and Andy are spending the holidays in London with Vivienne Westwood's son, the founder of Agent Provocateur), Apodaca is nice as pie, and was taking care of guests, pouring champagne in plastic cups for everyone. The couple has been dating for around a year - they met through an ex-girlfriend of Andy's who was also friends with Rose. No hard feelings though - the ex showed up and there were happy hugs all round, and Voodoo Man's knives remained in place.

Andy (a Brit) and Rose share a pad near the Grove but Andy says his heart has always been in Silverlake. "I lived here for 12 years, so when this space became available I knew I wanted to take it." Formerly a vintage furniture store, Andy originally planned to build a restaurant in the space, before changing his mind and opting for a design store instead, adding to the growing cluster of independent lifestyle accessory stores in the 'hood, like nearby Yolk and Rubbish.

Other items that caught our eye included this collection of sterling silver bracelets plated with, er, beer cans, made by an artist in Portland.

And check out these Garlic Cards from Sweden. You peel the garlic and rub it on the card, meaning you don't need a garlic press (which makes your garlic bitter apparently).

We also loved this bendy metal leaf customizable lampshade, which you can twist and meld around a light bulb which ever way you like.

Way sexier than Ikea.

A+R store, 1716 Silverlake Blvd., CA 90026. Ph. 323 913 9558

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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    If you read my post about the Billion Dollar Babes sample sale then you know that I really didn't need to buy any more goodies. But there was one shiny golden bauble that this New Yorker-who-just-moved-to-L.A. simply could not resist: Maya Brenner's Bi-coastal necklace.     A California girl who lived and met her husband in New York City, Brenner wanted to create something to represent both sides of her life. She'd already made a California necklace with a diamond that could move along the coast, so it was a natural pairing. However, the designer didn't think the shape of New York state was "cute enough," so she picked the apple instead. We agree: it's much cuter. (Unfortunately California is flipped around in this picture so it looks a bit like New Jersey.)    And we're not the only ones who think so: the necklace (available in 14 karat gold and sterling silver) sold out at BDB and is a huge seller in - of all places - Japan. "I think there's a little fantasy within all of us about being bi-coastal - you know, having the house in Malibu and the apartment on Fifth Avenue," says Brenner. "It represents the American dream."     And it's much more affordable, too. (Sign up for her mailing list so you can snap it up at a sample sale instead of paying retail!)

photo by Lina Lecaro

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Last night's Paul Smith store opening bash on Melrose was a rousing and rosy affair befitting its pink exterior and attracting a huge crowd full of fashionable and friendly people, many of whom were actually there to shop as well as schmooze.

It was so relaxed in fact, that I really didn't even need to change from the Converse and tee ensemble I had on earlier that eve. I mean Steve Jones, who hung with the designer (left), for a good portion of the eve, was wearing a North Face ski jacket!

He would have looked a lot spiffier in one of Smith's exquisitely tailored suits, though some of the designer's brightly striped shirts were a bit much, and I'm not just talking about the pricetags.

The store marks the first time the UK style king's women's line is available in the US, and it was all very beautiful, with a decidedly vintage feel, especially the accessories. Even the housewares and curios on display were cool: elegant and pricey, but with a rock n' roll flair. Check out the Ziggy Stardust plate set (below).Speaking of rockstars and fashion, couture t-shirt designer Leslie Gardner is having a sample sale featuring her Smashing Grandpa line, THIS SUNDAY at her studio downtown. If you read my post about her raging bash at Chateau Marmont with Pamela Des Barres last month, you know her stuff rocks! Here's the deets from the invite, below, for you, my loyal Style Council reader. Keep checking the blog for more posts about fun stuff you don't wanna miss.

**********Smashing Grandpa{ Cocktail Sample Sale }Sunday, December 11, 200511 AM – 4 PMCome join us for a fabulous afternoon of music, cocktails and fun! { Most samples will be $10!!! }We will also be joined by Heidi Richman featuring: "Heidi's Night of Beauty" & "I Like Wine"The ultimate rockin' wine tastin' beauty extravaganza.Complementary Urban Decay manicures & makeovers are available.Our Address is:818 South Broadway, Suite 801 Los Angeles, CA 90014Parking is located behind the building on Spring Street in between 8th & 9th. Parking is $8. Please bring your parking stub for a free t-shirt on us!Please call at the door by pressing #42 and you will be buzzed in.**********

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The East Coast vs. West Coast beef is so jerky now, baby. Paper magazine has invaded LA, and its founders Kim Hastreiter and David Herskovitz have planned a week of gatherings and events designed to uncover the "other" Los Angeles, going beyond the over-played myths and facades and bringing together the various tribes and vibes all in one place-  a "cultural storefront" they've created on Melrose. Read all about it in their own words right here.

I luv it. Finally, New Yorkers willing to look a little deeper, and discover the LA that I've known and loved all my life, the city full of creative, clever, fun, fascinating, culturally and artistically diverse people, connecting in interesting ways, doing fabulous things and simply celebrating life. 

I've been on a mission to pop into the makeshift house of haute-ness at least once each and every day or night, and let me tell ya, it's been a blast so far, even if I've been chugging energy drinks every night just to maintain an NYC hustler-style endurance. Still I've missed stuff; Mark the Cobrasnake is leading an aerobics class as I write this (he'll be screening Richard Simmons' "Sweatin' to the (Disco) Oldies" during the class….Talk about snazzercize!

Anyway, it all began with a media gathering at the Hollywood Adidas store Monday night.

Can you spot our colleague the Cobra in the photo to the right?  It was kinda like "Where's Waldo" trying to find him when the store was packed. He blended in so well with the sporty rainbow wear there in fact, that he got left behind and had to hitch a ride with yours truly to the dinner portion of the eve,  held at the cozy new eaterie in the Avalon nightclub, called Honey, and we've got one word for this new nibble nook: Yum!

And by the way, the Adidas store is real cool and if I had a hookup, I'd totally wear their clothes/shoes as often as Cobra does (hint, hint sponsors!), even if I don't (literally and figuratively) have the balls to wear shorts in the winter like him.Thats' Paper's leading lady Kim Hastreiter (right) toasting the start of whirwind week ahead at the dinner on Monday.

Paper's very-lovable Mr. Mickey (who covers a similar beat to moi in my Nightranger column, only with more stud muffin action) and Audrey Kuenstler, the creator  of Fashion Wrestling, below.

*Sidenote: My Ugg-ly little revelation (see my last post) has caused just the kind of debate I expected , even earning a mention on LA.com's ClothesHoarse blog. Wonder what they'd say over there about Mr. Mickey's sequined flats from Forever 21 (above)? I think they're uber-glamorous, particularly on MM.

Anyway, our pal Giddle Partridge kicked major booty during fashion wrestling in a '20's-era dress and corset on Tuesday and Wednesday it was none other than former MTV VJ Jessie Camp tumbling about with some chick in a sexy dress- which of course ended up over her head by the end of the bout.

Four drinks, two ice cream cones, a few games of air hockey, and countless air kisses later, Day 3 of the Paper Project is over. Four more to go!!! I'll be back with more reports from Paper's LA HQ soon, but in the meantime, see the mag's own blogs for daily La-La land news from Kim, David (who'll hopefully get his cell phone working before he leaves Cali!) and Mr. Mickey.

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When it opens this weekend, Rob Marshall's adaptation of Memoirs of a Geisha will already be trailing a long stream of scandal: the Japanese community is up in arms because the three female leads are played by Chinese actresses (admittedly a bit perplexing), and a certain faction of militant Chinese believe that the film's star, Zhang Ziyi, deserves to be stoned or something because she kisses a Japanese man onscreen. And supposedly Anthony Minghella was brought in last minute to write a voice over that would give the Hollywood-ized story more emotional heft. Fortunately none of this has anything to do with Memoirs' costume designer Colleen Atwood, who was honored at a screening at the Pacific Design Center earlier this week. In fact, the biggest scandal of the evening was the glacial pace of the sushi line and the fact that the bar ran out of sake.     Atwood spoke before the screening, and the multi-Oscar winner admitted that it was "humbling" to tackle what is regarded as a national art form - the kimono - within only four months time, no less. However she also said a film such as this was "a gift" for a costume designer, and the lavish visuals simply cannot be argued with (though there are, predictably, historical sticklers who claim that the geishas' faces are not white enough, their coiffs not laquered enough, etc. etc.).     I'm already a sucker for period dramas; I love the '20s and '30s; and I, like so many, am drawn to the "Asian mystique." So I'm basically Rob Marshall's dream audience member, and I left satisfied. Give me fluttering cherry blossoms, glowing red lanterns, and a ravishing, love ravaged bad girl played by Gong Li (in black, above), and I'll call that a good flick. The "geisha training" scenes felt like privileged access to a secret world, and frankly I don't  care if these were westernized geishas; they looked amazing. All the product tie-ins currently overflowing out of stores must be doing a swift Christmas business: they've got everything from sake bubble bath to kimono-style doggie raincoats. And you know how much we all love our flip flops...I just hope nobody's banking on the paleface look, though, especially here in L.A.

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Dear Men of Los Angeles, I am declaring a moratorium on the knit skull cap. I'm talking about the little beanie things seen on the likes of Wilmer Valderrama, Colin Farrell, countless producer wanna-be's, and jobless actors in this town. They are to dudes, what a Juicy Couture jogging suit is to starlets. Maybe worse, they might be man silicone. Trust me, when I see you wearing one, I know you are trying so hard to be cool it's painful, or worse, you can't come to terms with your hair loss. If you really want to be cool, bring back the rat pack fedora, or if you really need to keep your noggin warm, try a rugged fisherman's hat. Do you really want to look like this?

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If you weren't there, it sucks to be you. The LA Weekly hosted a kick-ass show at Spaceland last night to celebrate their new music issue featuring The Class of '05 saluting "the rebels, the loners, the dreamers and the stoners of L.A. indie rock"... On the ticket— Ariel Pink, The Adored, Tsar and The Prix. And our girl Lina was jockeying the discs....

The marquis, however, had to be immediately adjusted, Ariel Pink cancelled right before he was scheduled to appear. A rumor spread like wildfire that he bagged the show because the LA Weekly didn't airbrush his cover photo. 

The Adored played first and I kind of wanted to listen to them, the crowd looked like they were into it, but there was just so much catching up to do with my fellow Council members, and being able to smoke WHILE drinking was like a gift from the goddess of vice herself. Though when I asked the ho-hum bartender for an ashtray, she said there weren't any (Oh, how indie) so we ashed on the floor. Here we are adoring each other (the part of Lina was played by Katie, second on left)..

And then the pool table with its Jack Daniels-branded felt was calling me. Steffie paired up with a hunky Brit named Jonathan. But my partner was none other than the Charlie to our Angels, the Michael Patrick King to our Sarah Jessica Parkers, Style Council creator Joe Donnelly, deputy editor of the Weekly, and an amazing writer. We lost. But it was just as well, Tsar was about to take the stage.

So we emerged from the fish tank of a back room to find the main lamé-curtained room wall-to-wall writers, musicians and artsy types, distinguished by their footwear, chuck taylors or scuffed black boots, their jaded expressions and unkempt moppy haircuts.

And here was Tsar, the name in lights...  I've heard plenty of you whispering about it, so here goes... It may have come to your attention that the LA Weekly's music editor is dating one of the guys in Tsar, and that band is on one of the covers of its latest music issue (there are 3 different cover versions circulating Tsar, Giant Drag, Ariel Pink, collect 'em all!).  But let me set the record straight— the music editor Kate Sullivan didn't want to feature them. Joe Donnelly, the aforementioned pool shark, did and he was the one to push to get them on the cover.   Still, I wasn't sure I would like them. I didn't... I LOVED them.

Their energy was so infectious I got a shot of penicillin today just to be safe. They were so rank with rock star cock, confidence, and ball sweat that they totally out-rocked the humble physical stage at Spaceland. It was like watching the Rolling Stones play in my high school gym.  The skinny lead singer with his ass-less jeans even oddly resembles Mick Jagger.

But it was when he led the entire crowd on a full-blown sing along of Neil Diamond's Cracklin' Rosie, that I decided I wanted to have his abortion. My toes tapped without my approval, my pelvis kept time like a uteral
metronome. SO why should a great band be penalized for coincidence? And if that
prohibits you from seeing a great band give a panty-wetting
performance, then it REALLY sucks to be you.

I ran into Kate Sullivan in the ladies room where Steffie was giving me a make-over, mainly introducing me to purple lipstick??? (I'm going to trust her, though we were trashed at this point) we congratulated Kate on a great show and an amazing issue and convinced her to take part in an impromptu photo shoot in the crapper.

And I did airbrush our pictures, take that Mr. Pink!

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I accompanied Miss Steffie to the annual Billion Dollar Babes sale yesterday, and just so ya know, it was only pure guilt that kept me from doing the same kind of pocketbook damage (I'm trying to buy a house right now in my native Silver Lake, which is like the new Beverly Hills market-wise, but don't even get me started).Still I did pick up a top from Mon Petit Oiseau (sort of a sexy Hollie Hobbie deal with little pink flowers all over it) and a foxy 70's-style halter frock from Petra Anvarian in a burnt sienna color (I just need to figure out how to avoid the dreaded nip exposure that comes with wearing it. Can't do a bra, so I guess I'll just wear it in warm places).Anyway, BDB is awesome and if you're a label whore you can definitely get some great deals on the likes of Catherine Malandrino, Michelle Mason and even Vivian Westwood. A lot of their items were half off. The problem is, some of the stuff started at like, 600 smackers, and once you get up in the serious double digits, it all feels the same. It's kinda like what I'm dealing with house hunting. Shop for a while and suddenly $600,000 doesn't seem that much different from $500, 000... Yeah, except for uh, 100,000 hard-earned George Washingtons.I left the sale $105 poorer and without the Petro Zillia jacket and Oliver Peoples shades I coveted. But I'll survive.

Oh by the way, this seems like a good place to tell ya about my favorite shopping footwear, which, I (shamelessy) wore to the sample sale yesterday. This may cause some shock, horror and possibly a little controversy, but, I'm just gonna say it:  I (still) like Ugg boots. I know the name of the damn things says it all, right? Okay, they aren't the prettiest and yes, I do live in LA so they are probably a bit unneccessary. But I DON'T CARE! These things are fuckin' COMFORTABLE! They're like your favorite house slippers but you get to wear 'em out in public. For those who don't know, the real ones have sheepskin that surrounds your feet so you don't even have to wear socks! As you can see by the photo my Uggs are worn out and old (they've been with me through a flood in Mexico, snow slogging in Northen Cali, and numerous mall jaunts). I bought them back just before they were "in." But I love them even more now that they aren't. Now before you call the fashion police on me, please understand that if you're going partake in the wearing of the Uggs in '05-'06, certain rules do apply.1. No imitations. Get the real thing or forgetaboutit.2. Strictly casual day wear only. NEVER, EVER wear 'em to a party, club, bar or restaurant (unless it's like In-n-Out or a low-key food joint).3. NEVER with a mini-skirt, shorts or gauchos.  Long, casual dresses are ok, especially if they have a comfy, boho vibe.4. NEVER fold down the top part to form a sheepskin donut around your calf. This is not only unneccesary but it's totally unflattering. A lot of the fakes have this icky detail built in, so you have no choice.5. Black or brown only. No baby blue, pink, fuchsia or whatever. These things were designed to be utilitarian, and that's why they were around for many years before a couple of over-photographed celebs made 'em trendy. An Australian surfer designed them for fellow wave-riders back in 1978 for godsakes.6. Wear them only in the winter.

So yeah, now that it's cold out, I'm sporting my comfy friends once again. Maybe I will retire 'em eventually (like I did with cowboy boots in the '80's, motorcycle boots in the '90's and Doc Marten combat boots before both of those) but it won't be because a magazine or some flamboyant fella on TV tells me to. I wear -and buy- what I like and can (sometimes) afford, and to those who judge, all I have to say is, who are the real ugg-ly ones here?

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    After four hours at this afternoon's Billion Dollar Babes media/celebrity preview sample sale, I felt a bit like the Babes' patron saint Alice Cooper (whose Billion Dollar Babies tour from 1973 is now on DVD) in this picture: fiendishly clutching my precious things, with big dark circles under my eyes. Don't get me wrong: the sale was totally pleasant and friendly; more so, in fact, than I had any idea it would be. I fully expected to be titling this post "Welcome to my Nightmare," and writing about wanting to strangle some bimbo with a python over a silk chiffon top.     But as it turned out there were more than enough silk tops to go round, not to mention python accessories and wool blazers and cocktail dresses and cool jeans and sexy tees and eyewear and even vibrators...all at drastically reduced prices. It rocked.    The problem was me. And my greed. Ask Lina, she witnessed my shallow breath and flushed cheeks. I roamed the rooms, oohing over adorable paisley corduroy coats for toddlers, stroking cashmere scarves for men, thinking of the wonderful Christmas gifts I could buy. And in the end, everything I left with was ALL MINE.    In my defense I needed some basics: a black military-style coat with  gold buttons, chic black trousers by Petro Zillia, a gray swingy dress from Mon Petit Oiseau that could conceal an entire turkey, a black silk top with a crystal sunburst that admittedly isn't basic at all, and yellow Catherine Malandrino wedgies that are perfect for summer. I know, it's winter. Maybe I didn't exactly need those last two, but I'm a New Yorker, and it's really hard for us to resist a bargain. Impossible, evidently.     Which reminds me of another little item I may need to go back for tomorrow...yes, I did say need.

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The LA Weekly's "Class of 05" music issue is out now (check out my local class favorites piece here) and the yearbook-themed edition sure took me back to those loathsome days of pop quizzes and unrequited crushes, when I was so unsure of what the future held. Still, it also made me feel nostalgic for the high school years. Everything was so damn simple then, even when it seemed complicated. A lot of the imagery for the special ish was scanned from my old yearbooks and digging out the dusty old things and re-reading the entries blew my mind. Where did all these people go? None of my old high school pals are in my life anymore and I wondered what happened to them. I live not but a few miles from where I went to school (the big, beautiful brick-walled Marshall High campus off of Franklin in Silver Lake/Los Feliz) and I never run into old boyfriends or enemies or even acquaintances while doing my thing around the hood. Is everybody married with 2.5 kids doing the daily office grind in Burbank or the Valley or whatever, while I'm still slithering about Hollywood and S'Lake's loudest clubs and seedy soirees? Is it time for me to join them and uh, maybe grow up now?Nah....................No Nightranger column this week due to the music issue but check out last week's  if you havent already here.Also check out the LA Weekly's Class of 05 live show featuring Tsar, Aerial Pink, The Adored and The Prix at Spaceland THIS SATURDAY, Dec. 3. I'll even be deejaying, spinning oodles of local -and not so local- rock in between sets. Nightranger will be back next week (right next to Snakebites as always) with reports about The Black Eyed Peas Pea Pod benefit, The Living Things suprise show at Ruby Tuesdays, The Subways from the UK (who played a kickass set at Steve Aoki's birthday party at Cinespace this past Tuesday), Jewish rappers Chutzpah and much, much more. Here's some images to hold you over til then.      

Fergie shows off "her humps," while the Black Eyed boys work out the bumps.

The Living Things' Lillian Berlin, who is nearly as cute as Ok Go's Damian  and maybe even more literary- he's got a book coming out, called "Post-Mortem Bliss," which deals with social and governmental politics. Yes, all the hot, smart guys ARE taken by the way, he's married with a kid.

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