"So, did you get hit in the face with a ball yet?" one business casual fellow asked another on the interminable line for drinks at last night's Nike-sponsored celebration of "the beautiful game," soccer. Apparently that was the proof that you were really there, dude. "There" was Electronic Arts, a video gaming and graphics megalith on Lincoln Boulevard in Playa Vista, in which the sportswear giant had built a mini soccer field. Corporate teams from "the industry" (that would be the entertainment industry in case you were wondering; I was) kicked around with semi-pro teams from somewhere, maybe Brazil, while a DJ played terrible electro dance music.     "I'm really starting to hate this party," I told Linda, after fifteen minutes in the drink line. My irritability was periodically appeased by the passed appetizers, some of which were Brazilian yummies like chewy cheese balls I could eat dozens of. "There are cute boys here," she pointed out. And it was true, but most of them were playing Nascar 06 or chasing the coolers full of beer the planners dragged out when they realized the drink lines were a buzz killer. (By the way, why do men pour beer into the side of their mouth? Is that supposed to look cool? Is it to protect their capped teeth? I am so not impressed.)    Ten minutes later (yes, we were hitting the half hour mark), it became apparent that something had brought the line to a screeching halt. Three very thirsty girls were ordering drinks and then chugging them at the bar while the poor overworked bartender mixed their next round. I'm sorry, but that goes against all cardinal rules of free booze etiquette, so I'm outing them right here. If you see them coming, form one of those human wall barriers like soccer players do for a penalty kick. And be sure to cup your balls because they'll be angry.     Finally in possession of the hands-down worst caipirinha I've ever tasted, I went over to check out the action on the "field." I don't know if there were any genuine futbol superstars out there but it was kind of exciting for a minute.    I was especially impressed with the numbers on the backs of the jerseys made of little tiny skulls. How tuff; how un-industry. I took this photograph and then said to myself, I think I went to high school with that guy.      And sure enough it was Josh Oppenheimer, now a successful Hollywood screenwriter. We talked about the recent high school reunion in Westchester that I did not attend, thankfully having just moved across the country. Josh said that he had a big realization that the source of a lot of the insecurity and pain he suffered in high school was all in his neurotic Jewish head; in fact these former torturers and tyrants were actually just nice, good folk. I told him I was glad that he had made peace with it, but the fact was, many of the people in our high school were total assholes who wanted nothing more than to drag others down, and he had good reason to feel insecure. Happily, neither of us are bloated, balding alcoholics whose glory days are long over, though Josh did remind me that our varsity soccer team was county champ way back when.     After a pseudo-Brazilian carnival number performed by four uncoordinated dancers in feather headdresses ("When are they gonna break into 'Who Let the Dogs Out'?" wondered Doug, another friend who had somehow wandered into this scene), Linda and I went to the "historical" area, where vintage photographs and facts about soccer were confusingly interspersed with current Nike products and catalog imagery. The actual reason for this event had been effectively veiled until this moment. "Ooh, I want those!" said Linda, descending upon a really cute pair of off-white suede Nike soccer shoes with a red satin swoosh. We schemed about forming an LA Weekly soccer team that would naturally require us to own cute soccer shoes. Maybe it was the caipirinhas talking or just a true, sudden love of the beautiful game, but somewhere over the samba strains I definitely heard the ka-ching of Nike's cash register.

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This is what I woke up to this morning.

In my inbox, in between press releases about Josh Homme's new side project called 5:15 (how many side projects can a man have? ritalin anyone?) and something about a Culver City art 'manutailer' (personally I prefer the traditional "a manufacturer who also retails") was this photo of my friend Brian Carlin having a ball in Iraq, or 'the sandbox' as he likes to call it.

I met Brian two years ago when he was 19. He moved to LA from El Paso, Texas, leaving behind his wife and three year old daughter to move to Venice with his dad and take up a job as an art director. Despite becoming a father at age 16 and quitting school to find a job, he had managed to teach himself all kinds of fancy computer programs like InDesign and Photoshop and Quark. As such, he landed himself a job at the El Paso-based monthly magazine RV World, geared towards motor home enthusiasts. When his dad invited him out to the left coast to work on some magazines in Beverly Hills (I was editing them) he was excited, starry eyed. Things between he and his wife were breaking down and he was ready for a fresh start. He hung out on the beach, marveled at the pretty girls, started exercising and did his job faster and more effectively than any other production designer I had worked with. It seemed that California was treating this wunderkind well.

Privately, I often felt proud that we had offered this talented young man a lucky escape from a hellish life of RV magazine layout with a dullard of a wife who apparently likes nothing better than watching Oprah and gorging on cheese quesadillas.

But after less than a year, it became clear that the laidback Venice lifestyle just wasn't doing it for young Brian. "I want to becaome a man," he told me. "How do I become a man here?" Hmmm. Well, part of LA's charm is that the living here is pretty easy, at least compared to other cities, especially if you are a young caucasian. Angry young white men who do feel the inner ancient warrior instinct have created their own urban rites of passage, through the subcultures of graffitti, skateboarding, surfing. But Brian didn't surf, didnt own a skateboard and certainly didn't believe in breaking the law. So he decided to go to Iraq instead.

"I leave in the morning for the sandbox," he wrote me at the end of his bootcamp training. "It hasn't really hit me yet, but I'm excited about walking into the adventure of a lifetime." A while later I got another email which read "Been in country about a month now but it really doesn't feel like it. I guess time flies when you're having fun." A few month later, he sent me this photo, humorously titled "what I wear in the showers".

Brian may be in the middle of a desert, presumably dodging bullets from day to day, knowing that many of his countrymen (his father included), are adamantly against the pointless and unjustified war he is fighting. But to him, the army provides something that fatherhood, LA, and a well-paid job didn't. I wish he hadn't gone, but when I imagine Brian still here, I see him drinking alot of beer and getting into fights on Main Street.

So Brian, I wish you safe passage through the sandbox...may you have your fun in the sun.

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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I was not stoned for the High Times sponsored comedy night at the Hollywood Improv tonight. I repeat, not stoned. At first I was mostly just pissed off. After work I went to purchase a bed frame from a dude off of craigslist. Yes, I buy my furniture off craigslist, I found my house and roommate, and my first car here in LA off of craigslist. Craig— the  patron saint of the broke. It was a queen bed frame, I was looking forward to sanding it and  staining it, and it was only 50 bucks. But the dude had given me the WRONG address, and never called, until it was too late.  I wound up with a few hours to kill until Caroline met me out. I decided the best place to go was the Beverly Center. The disgusting monument was built as a pantheon to time wastage. What I didn't expect was to actually PURCHASE stuff there. Dear God in Target, I spent way too much money lolly-gagging around the Beverly Center. I hate malls, I usually want to vomit as soon as I walk in but I'm a sucker for a salesgirl who remembers my name, and showers me with thin compliments when I come out of the dressing room. I WANT to spend money and they smell it. For me shopping at the mall is like menstruating in an ocean filled with sharks. Anyway, when the time comes (way too much money later), I head to the Hollywood Improv, but only after I find my Jeep. I can't remember where I parked it and have to go floor by floor till I see it. And I'm NOT stoned.  Then, already sore from my consumer rape, I get to the comedy club, where I am again abused, taken advantage of and hurt. They make me wait. They say they don't have the table they promised they reserved for me. I'm in a bad mood by this point, though I do have some lovely tops in the car I just bought.  But the Maker's Mark, neat, is working its nimble fluidity through my brain. Remember Chris Rock's bit about no sex in the Champagne Room, well there's no pot at the High Times Comedy Show. And before I know it, I'm LAUGHING.  Hard. Host Ngalo Bealum (above) made me forget my worries, his warm up included suggestions for curing racism— "we all need to fuck til we're the same color... (beat) Hmmm... I may have to go twice," he said to cheers. "well, it WAS my idea..."  Louis Katz, first up, told how some chick asked him to take his glasses off during sex, "I feel like I'm fucking my college professor she said. I told her when I take off my glasses I feel like I'm fucking an impressionist painting." But he won me over with his poll of ass men vs. breast me, an overwhelming number of the audience were ass men, measured on the Hootin' Holerin' Scale. The general consensus is you can do more with an ass, for instance, you can slap it around. Then Doug Benson took the mic, and discussed the success of Supersize Me, and said he was going to do a film called SuperHigh Me, which would inevitably feature McDonalds. The ever energetic Greg Proops (from Whose Line Is It Anyway) poked fun at fat Hawaiians and meth heads and threw a million other jokes rapid fire at the audience, that if you were stoned you'd have missed. Drew Carey followed, he was ok...then Drew's all star Improv troupe performed a dizzying array of improv games, it was like watching the Harlem Globetrotters playing charades. I laughed my ass off. I completely recommend it.

The latest information about the HIGH TIMES COMEDY NIGHT AT THE IMPROV can be found at http://hightimescomedy.blogspot.com.

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Last night I went to see Wendy & Lisa. Remember them? After Prince ended his Revolution, guitarist Wendy Melvoin and keyboardist Lisa Coleman, co-wrote a bunch of songs with him (post-Apolonia, pre-Vanity). Well, they went on to score movies and TV shows (Carnivale, and Head Cases) and still record together. Last night, they played at to a sold-out crowd at Largo, a bunch of non-ticket holders were even turned away. Luckily, I was on the list. Well, I was my friend Stuart Blumberg's anonymous "plus one." Stu's a screenwriter (Keeping the Faith, Girl Next Door) who just co-wrote a script with Wendy's wife writer/director Lisa Cholodenko (High Art, Laurel Canyon).  In fact, I had the honor of being present at the 101 diner when Stu and Lisa (Cholodenko) actually decided to co-write "something" together. Now, shooting is set for the fall and Julianne Moore is attached to star. I had witnessed a Hollywood moment. Cholodenko now a few months preganant and glowing watched from a booth, as Wendy & Lisa (Coleman, the other) jammed away, performing a song for Chris Penn, who passed away this past Tuesday. I have to admit I was distracted throughout the performance by another only-a-first-name-is-needed guest— BECK!! (sorry I don't have pics, they threatened to kick me out when I pulled out my camera). Beck looked like a cross between Tom Petty and John Lennon, in a felt hat and round gold wire frames, and a big mustache. His Yoko was there too, wife and Scientologist Marissa Ribisi (Giovanni's twin). Two other dudes were sitting with them, I didn't recognize them.  I caught this moment where Beck reached across the table and grabbed Marissa's hand, it was so sweet. At one point Beck got up ubruptly and stood next to Stu and I. I have no idea why. Moments later he returned to his seat in front of me. I tried not to stare. Really, I tried. But it was BECK. And he's dreamy.

Photo creds: Wendy & Lisa (http://www.geocities.com/tornado_lynn/BOTH.html)Beck(posted by Kid A http://www.scoutisaband.com/blog/archive/2005_06_01_archive.html)

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Ahhh, the problem with me, a neophyte, blogging... I just found out an image I pulled off the Survival Research Lab site for my post "Saturday Eve of Destruction" belonged to one Mack Reed. If there was a credit posted there, it wasn't obvious, I didn't see it. In fact, I can't even find the image in the archives now. Maybe in my kerosene clouded blogging, I got it elsewhere? I do see the image though, on LAvoice.org posted with Mack's review of the show, which was an awesome, a very thorough report, you should read it here. But still Mack didn't credit his own image.  I've gone back to the original post to give him proper credit. Sorry Mack, I in no way meant to steal your image without crediting. We loved your images (now that we know they're yours) and your reporting!

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So I've been thinkin' a lot about babies.

Yes, I've been grappling with the pressure and possibility of taming my wild life to make room for a family soon (not because I'm necessarily ready right now, but because if I wait too much longer I'm told I may not have a choice). Even with all the loud rock shows I go to, it's the tick tock of the ol' repro clock has been blaring in this married 30-something's ears most lately.

When (and if) I do have a kid it will be one well-frocked li'l femme/fella though.  I just know I wont be able to resist styling him/her up in groovy outfits. What fashionable gal hasn't thought about it, right?

I did a story for the Weekly a couple of years ago featuring various rock n' roll infant clothing designers and Space Baby was one of the companies that really stood out.

The line combines retro-ish images and witty slogans in a unique un-baby-ish, but not tastless way. "Hand Over the Tit and Nobody Gets Hurt" is particularly popular. They recently  got the license for goth nymph character du jour Emily the Strange (see pic) and company head Michele V just emailed to tell me that this lil number was seen on none other than Zahara Jolie-Pitt. No photos of the tyke actually wearing the tee were available though... guess the message worked. Wish they had one in my size. I'd wear it every time a doctor/parent/pal asked me when I'm gonna get pregnant.

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(photo credit: 2005 SRL show by Mack Reed, see new post,  )Nothing could have prepared me for what I was going to experience on Saturday night. When was the last time you had to jump a fence for art? Or stand on a dilapidated building that was in danger of collapsing to get a good view of a performance? When was the last time you had dolls and dead fish thrown at you?  Such was my luck last night. And I mean luck. I loved every stinkin' minute of it. Steffie and I headed down to Chinatown (to the awesome Chung King Road) to catch the latest Survival Research Labs show at Fringe gallery. Well, it actually took place in a parking lot nearby. There were some robots (one armored with a REAL decayed petrified pit bull) in the gallery, with TV screens that showed previous SRL shows, but they didn't hold a flame thrower to what being there is really like. When Steffie suggested we try to get on the balcony of the abandoned building above the roped off parking lot, I half-heartedly agreed to humor her. But racing down dark alleys, past others who had a similar notion, gave me such giddy satisfaction that when faced with the 8 foot chain link fence, I didn't hesitate for a second to climb it in my new boots. We nestled in to the perfect spot, and all of us who made it on to the creaking balcony weighed the very real possibility of it breaking and our bones along with it. But unanimously we decided it was ok, enabling each other like kids trading candy bars at fat camp. Then all hell broke loose. Below us, robots crawled across the lot, one with huge pinchers lunged toward the crowd, stopped only by the wooden barricades. Screams rose from the crowd. The machines fought each other with ferocious intent, all the while a noise that sounded like it came straight from the pit of hell raged on. (If you've ever been to a County Fair, you might think it sounds like a tractor pull.) It was dark. A giant dragon-dinosaur thing stabbed the head of a robot man, Leaf man, writing at his desk and we watched from our perch like Roman emperors at a gladiator show, delighting in the carnage, reveling in the wreckage (which by the way I think I'm going to name my memoirs that, "Reveling in the Wreckage").  These robots carrying red hot irons broke through the barricade threatened to singe the crowd. Then came what we thought could only be gasoline, spraying up on us, the flame throwers menaced us, but they turned and lit the dinosaur thing-y's head a blaze, explosions, smoke, destruction. Fish heads were tossed at us and little white dolls, that had been strewn about soaked in parking lot grime, flew up over the rail. We each caught one. I hope Steffie blogs about this, because we took pics with her camera and she has a lot more to add to the story. So, I'll end my tale here. I have never had more fun feeling like I was in mortal danger in my whole life. The whole experience made me think about the banality of war and its casualities, and examine that morbid curiosity that built Roman coliseums....

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Is it Sunday already? Well, I attended the Photo LA opening reception last week. It was hosted by Diane Keaton but I didn't see "Miss-I'm-Gonna-Milk-This Annie Hall-Look-Til-I-Die" anywhere. I'm sort of grateful. The Santa Monica Civic Center was turned into the Beverly Center for art, maybe worse, it may have even been Costco (if super-rich people shopped at Costco) this weekend for a gallery extravaganza, art houses from all over the world came to hawk their goods. The commerce outweighed the art at every turn. If you listened close you could hear cash registers cha-chinging to a measured beat, like that Pink Floyd song. As I slid into gallery nook after gallery nook, I was acosted each time by pushy workers, who like Rodeo Drive shopgirls working on commission, tried to strike up banal conversations about the photographs. The sad thing was, I saw a few galleries even sold prints of the same photos (see the Kim Zwarts print above) and it reminded me of the Gap, or shopping on Melrose. There were a handful of safe bets, like the boring little black cocktail dress, can you go wrong with a Dorothea Lange or Walker Evans? But it wasn't all bad. I actually saw some images I liked. This one below is by a woman named Lalla Essaydi, it captures a preparation ceremony for a Muslim wedding. The women have writen all over their gowns and burquas in sepia ink, at their feet lay eggs covered in arabic letters, some are cracked open. Something about the women standing before the broken shells caught my eye, these women will walk on eggshells for the rest of their lives. The eggshells also mirror the women themselves, their eyes peer out from their burquas, their new shells. So though it was sad to see some great art reduced to such a dirty commodity, it could be a good chance for an emerging talent to have their work seen. Photo LA was like picking through any sale rack, you can find some gems if you know where to look.

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    Quelle bummer! On Friday night I'd just enjoyed a lovely meal with a group of friends at the Sunset Junction French bistro Cafe Stella (I had the duck; I recommend it), and we were in high spirits, all set to continue the froggy revelry at El Cid, where the faux French pop band Nous Non Plus was scheduled to play at 11pm. But when the eight of us arrived a few minutes past 11, some holding tickets, some (like moi) on the guest list, we came up against a depressingly long line of frustrated would-be concert goers who had been waiting too long in the unseasonably cold night. They told us that the one line was the line for everyone, ticket holders or not, and when we walked up to the front to check out the situation for ourselves (as is my inclination as an inquisitive, i.e. pushy, journalist), some of said line waiters became very angry, mumbling threats about burning us with cigarettes (I'm not kidding).     Among my party was Pink Frankenstein, producer of the Bardot-A-Go-Go events in San Francisco and director of the French '60s pop documentary of the same name, and he tried mightily to wield his honorary French medal of honor or whatever doing all that tres Francais stuff gets him, but they would only let him in sans us. The bouncers told us that the venue was at capacity (which is 130), and that we would be let in on a one-in, one-out basis. But when a group of six left, nobody was let in. And El Cid's courtyard, which was in clear, taunting sight of the line-waiters, was virtually empty. Around this time the angry masses started descending the steps, making threatening remarks about "no way in hell anybody gettin' in before me."  And then the bouncers made the announcement that nobody would be let in for the rest of the night, it was over, finis, and we should all just go home. Huh?    With bad vibes emanating from almost all directions, we did decide that the best option was, unfortunately, to hit le road. So, with a couple other friends who'd also been turned away, we walked next door to the appropriately named MALO where we made a swift switcheroo to Margaritas and the Buzzcocks. I'd love to claim that the story I wrote about Nous Non Plus in the current issue of the Weekly was responsible for the mass turnout, but I can't really take credit for the fact that the band is somewhat shockingly in the #6 position on the CMJ charts and is getting play on Indie 103.1.     According to the Fold event producer Scott Sterling, the promoter of the show, "The root of the problem was that we had miscounted how many walk-up customers we could allow in. I had left word with the door staff that anyone who had advance tickets would get in. That for some reason didn't happen." He also said that those who stuck it out for 20-30 minutes did eventually get in. And if you want to know what he's gonna do about it now, Sterling is offering refunds to anyone with a ticket who was denied entrance and allowing them to come to the Nous Non Plus show at Tangier next Sunday for free. It sucked, but what's a good French band without a little scandale? I said it once and I'll say it again: Vive Le Rock!

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It took a lot to get me out of the house last night in the rain. It took Viggo Mortensen. I was supposed to go with Steffie to Track 16, Bergamot Station in Santa Monica to see the opening of Viggo Mortensen and Georg Gudni's new show called "The Nature of Landscape and Independent Perception" Steffie, however, bailed and for a fleeting moment I thought that meant I was off the hook. I thought it meant I could stay in and be my loser self and sand things with my new sander while listening to random Internet radio shows like Mountain Apple Radio: Sounds of Hawaii or David Byrne's Playlist. But then, suddenly I got all Helen Reddy about going out by myself. So I dressed up and headed over to Santa Monica, my pretentious neighboring town, arriving an hour before the gallery closed. It was easy to spot the Santa Monicans because I have a sword that turns blue when they approach. (if you got that then you're a big LOTR loser too).  The parking lot was rank with them as they spilled out of the gallery, heading for their SUVS, their expensive shoes clicking like cloven hooves on the inky pavement. Still, I found a fair number of people milling about inside. I grabbed a Grolsch and joined in on the milling, starting off near Georg Gudni's large abstract landscape paintings. Just horizons, wide expansive horizons, but they make you fill in the space that's missing with your memories, the empty mist that blurs the horizon above reminds me of being on a lake, I was 14 or 15, in a small rowboat, I was with my first boyfriend and it was a heavily-clouded day and this mist crept in and suddenly we were surrounded by a fog as thick as lentil soup (as they say in some parts of this country I am sure). The world had disappeared around us. He stole a kiss, just a kiss, and I didn't ask for it back. Ah, young love.I don't know what the painting meant to anybody else and I didn't care. That's exactly what that painting was—that memory. I wish I could afford that painting. Not all of Gudni's landscapes recalled an event that happened in my life specifically, but they all stirred some kind of feeling, some take on isolation, it seemed to me, a happy isolation, an isolation filled with regret, another self-imposed and retrospective.

It was so perfect that Mortensen's photographs were paired with those paintings. His photos were canvases colored with light, with slow shutter speeds and photographic tricks I won't pretend to know about. I thought of them as Rorschach tests, it's what you see in them that reflects your memories and thoughts.  The one with a bunch of white wispy circles (not pictured) reminded me of the smoke rings my Gramps used to make when exhaling his cigarillo.  Nestled in the back at the end of Mortensen's wing, you'll find a wall filled with square framed fish eye photos. They look like snow globes. And the thing about snow globes is they seem to magically capture some moment (usually with snow or glitter fanfare). These photos did the same thing, finding a bleached jaw of an animal in a desert —a frozen moment of discovery (not pictured).  Or  below, running through the woods right before your mother calls you in for dinner—a frozen moment of independence. That's what I see. You should go and see what memories they stir in you.

The show runs until Feb. 18Th. I wound up gallery hopping but nothing spoke to me as deeply, but there is some pretty cool shit over at Bergamot right now. I'm glad it's so close. I guess Santa Monica can be pretty cool. Sometimes...

(for more on Viggo, check out Seven McDonald's piece about a fairy queen obsessed with him in this week's LA Weekly).

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Put horror king Clive Barker in a room with some naked people and some body paint, and you've got an enraptured crowd of "art lovers" in your gallery. That was the offering at Bert Green Fine Art Thursday night when I finally checked out the Downtown Art Walk, a monthly happening on the misleadingly (or perhaps hopefully?) named Gallery Row. I don't care for Barker's garish grotesqueries but the scene was lively. As one woman put it, "at least these boys are packing!"    There was also a neon sign in the window that read "shelovesmenot" or "helovesmen" depending on what was lit up. At Pharmaka across the street, the exhibition was about the process of making art, and what that meant to the various members of this non-profit painter's collective.    

    To one artist it meant creating an altar of talismanic objects.         To another it meant bringing his entire studio into the gallery space.

    Other galleries showed everything from macabre, technically astonishing digitally manipulated photographs to butt-ugly pottery figurines that *might* make it into the Adult Ed art show. The 626 Gallery had a chocolate fountain and all sorts of dippables, but no snails, unfortunately.     The Hive Gallery and Studios not only sells art that is interesting and seriously affordable (I may go back for a fun little painting priced at $100), they also offer free yoga four days a week.

    I wish I could say I have high hopes for the downtown art scene, but it's still pretty rough around the edges. There is a ton of potential and a few pockets of genuine inspiration, but with most of the fresh new talent setting their sights on Culver City, it's hard to believe that patrons are going to keep choosing to roam these dim streets where there are almost more SROs than galleries.    

I think I speak for my companions (here at the Los Angeles Center for Digital Art) when I say that the best show of artistry we saw all night was on our dinner table at R23, a hidden away sushi restaurant that has been a Los Angeles favorite for a decade.

    There we sat on architectural cardboard chairs by Phillippe Starck, drank sake poured from a blown glass vessel, devoured a table-wide platter of insanely fresh fish, and discussed lofty matters like Lindsay Lohan's career. "Have you seen Freaky Friday?!" asked Ivy (in the white shirt) by way of defending her (granted, he'd enjoyed a good amount of fine sake). Apparently Lindsay was seen in New York City with a not-so-rehabbed Kate Moss, where the two (what else?) made out on the bar of some strip club.     Actually, I think Clive Barker and downtown L.A. win this round.

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I love power ballads, power naps and power tools! When I was 15 I asked for a power drill for Christmas, everyone laughed and I got some suede blue pumps and a few Limited sweaters. Most kids ask for a pony, or a puppy and get shot down, the Makita torque drill was my puppy year after year. I've managed to make my drilling and sawing way through life with the help of boyfriends. But today, this morning, at Home Depot, I finally purchased my own power tool— a sander!  I love it. I was torn between the Black & Decker (though DeWalt is my all time dream brand) and the RYOBI, each had ergonomic hand features (B&D had a gel pad). The RYOBI was more comfortable in my hands because it was smaller AND it had a bag to catch all the dust (sanding creates lots of dust), it vacuums as it sands! It even has a triangle tip so you can get into corners. I went home and stripped my desk, sanded it and restained it a dark teak color (Wood Stain, Dark Walnut). I might just buy a new desk anyway, but I can't tell you how satisfying it was to refurbish my old one. I'm on a sanding frenzy, I'm stripping an old trunk next! This is some geeky Martha shit I know, but I have a tip too, buy gloves. I got some cute Stanely ones made for chicks that aren't too girly (god forbid) though you could get rose bedecked ones too— if you have to. I also bought separate gloves for staining/stripping, my fingernails and hands are in great shape (I am still a girl) Stripping stuff is real nasty but there's this new thing on the market called Citri-Strip it's safe enough to use IN the house and even comes in a spray can, you spray it on and scrape it off. In my case I'm using my power sander with a steel wool attachment. Oh, I forgot to mention the sanding pads are VELCRO'd. You just stick 'em on and sand. I also found this mag called Do It Yourself, its like Ready Made but with better ideas. One is using an old ladder cut in half as a pot rack, I'm thinking chainsaw next...This is an ambitious undertaking for a rainy Saturday afternoon, don't worry I made up for it by doing one of the laziest things imaginable— Starbucks drive through...

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The fact that it was Friday the 13th and there was a full moon only compounded the creepiness of certain co-incidences I found myself entangled in last night at Spaceland. First, all three bands I had come to see began with the word "The." Ok, not so creepy, wait... The King of France kicked off the night, and I found out that the lead singer Steve Salad is the brother of musician and old NYC acquaintance of mine Peter Salett. Peter has recently move to LA and was at the show last night. Turns out Steffie knows Peter too. With Peter was Ed Norton, another old acquaintance of mine, though he spent the night chatting with my former best friend who is now just a housemate, and so I didn't know she was going to be there either! Got it so far? Salad was great to watch. He was goofy but his music was heartfelt like an ironic John Mayer. When Salad twitches and bugs out his eyes, you laugh, you connect with the pain of being an involuntary goofball, and you DON'T want to slap him like you do when the "I wanna run through the halls of my high school" crooner does the same thing. Next up was The Can't See, a young band from Seattle. That's me with the lead singer above, We agreed he looks like Manson in this photo, guess that makes me Squeaky.  I found out that he is the stepson of a good friend of mine, a Venice-based artist who uses my garage to create amazing stage masks and props. I found out because she was there last night too! They may be young, but they sounded so good that any preconceived MmmBop references flew out the window in the first three chords. Not enough coincidence for ya? How about this—I ran into my heretofore unknown twin sister, who told me our real parents had divorced and we had to get them back together! Oh, you're right. That wasn't me. That was Haley Mills in The Parent Trap. Well, the last band The Helio Sequence, didn't have any coincidental relation to me, but the two membered band had such a big sound, it felt like sorcery was at work, some kind of white magic shit. I kept trying to peek backstage to see if there were other dudes hiding, playing back there. I half expected a booming voice to call out "Pay no attention to the lead guitarist, bassist, and cellist behind the curtain. We are the great and powerful wizards of the Helio Sequence." They brought the thunder, they filled the room with the sounds of instruments I hadn't heard before, staccato-ed vibrations I had never felt, and a bass thump that my heartbeat followed like a detective on the trail. I went home happy and high on coincidence.

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I'd like to think that I'm way more popular in real life than I am on Myspace. I've only got like 50 friends, but that's probably because I only say yes to requests from peeps who truly are friends. Call me a weirdo.

Anyway, the pals I do have, happen to have thousands of friends and way too much time on their hands. This means I get a lot of funny reposts, surveys and misc fodder from people stuck at their computers all day, some of which are truly hysterical, some  thought-provoking, some just an amusing waste of time.

One of my '06 resolutions is to share more, so in a new feature I'll call my "MySpace Taste of the Week" I'll be giving you a little repost of my faves....Disclaimer: These are the opinions (and grammar/spellings) of random Myspacers, most of whom I dont know... I probably only agree with about a third of the list. What about you?

What bands do you despise?Everyone has a band that they hate, that everyone else seems to think are fucking awesome. Who's yours? Copy and Re-Post.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------1. Tom: I hate The Damned and their fake vampire clown horseshit.

2. Stuart: I hate The Velvet Underground. Can't exactly say why, other than the fact that their music makes my skin crawl.

3. Andrew: Fucking Van Halen! The only thing worth a damn in that steaming pile of shit is Michael Anthony. Those background harmonies fucking kill! Not to mention the Jack Daniels signature model bass!

4. Jennifer: Interpol. I can't stand them. And for some reason, everyone thinks I'm crazy. WTF? Thier lyrics are so bad that they are distracting-- and I am not one of those people that really pays attention to lyrics-- that's how distracting they are.

5. Hardy: The Talking Heads. I mean, they're just...no. Fucking no. I don't know of one even mildly intelligent person who listens to this buttfucking pap. This doddering, tunesmith verite jackoff bullshit is the soundtrack for middle-aged fuck-ups who STILL worry about what others think of their respective musical "tastes." Good Lord, even New York City faggots don't listen to this shit.

6. Coco: Yo La Tengo. Give me a break. The encore was so long I sprouted 25 more gray hairs before it was over. And come on...anybody who's dancing to that shit is full of shit. Let the tomato throwing commence, you hipster doofuses!

7. Bob - The Rolling Stones would be a bit more respectable if they kept pace of dying members on par with the Beatles or even Lynard Skynard for that fact. Brian Jones was on the right track, but they shoved him out or was that into the pool? Fuck this band and fuck all you denim activists who struggle to keep it relevant. The Rolling Stones have been like musical Silly Putty for the last 40 or so years. They did a disco record to keep current, way to go bad asses, those lips deflated when Gerry Ford was a goddamn Senator.

8. Karli - Kraftwerk - Oh, you suck. You can point to the other bands you influenced that don't grate my nerves but every time I hear Autobahn I die a little. Also, I hold you single-handedly responsible for the tech rats and electronica jackasses that haunt the local record stores looking for break beats so that they can 'flavor' my favorite Otis Redding songs with digital chatter. Unforgiveable.

9. Joel - The Minutemen - Your precious sainted D. Boon is a sham, and Mike Watt is the biggest sack of shit dull-ass bassist in the history of indie rock. I don't know how somebody can make a seventy-five-second song overstay its welcome by two minutes, but these overrated goombahs managed to do it consistently. The same goes for Minor Threat!

10. Ollie- First off let me say that Karli has just killed me a little bit. I need to listen to the full 23 minute version of Autobahn.The one band I just don't get is The Who. 4 generations of people now swear by the band but when it comes down to it they just plain have nothing going for them.Don't get me started on Led Zepplin.

11. Tatiana- I don't get Elvis Costello and the people who go nuts over him. Also, like ..7- I hate the Rolling Stones. Oh I could go on and on but I'll spare you all.

12. K- The Pretenders! Krissy Hine singing "Brass in Pocket" or anything else for that matter makes me want to kill people!

13. ICONOCLAST- This is a long list but The Smiths are on the top with too much PC and too little talent.

14. Kim - Jimmy Buffet. The soundtrack to HELL ...

15. M - That John Maher guy is pet peeve o'mine ...WTF are ya dude ...some weepy fucking emo balladeer or are ya this week's versh of Jimi Hendrix incarnate ...make up yr freekin' mind ya twitchy fuckwit ... and don't get me started on Bright Eyes or that annoying fucking Dashboard Confessional boo-hoo/woe is me teenage angst sing-along and slash yr wrists bullshit ...or Interpol ...or Franz Ferdinand ... or Strokes ...or White Stripes ... all that sorta/kinda/but not even close/pretenders to throne of all things done BETTER before crap the kids today are all so over the moon o'er ...and then there's Dave Matthews and that carload of happy horse shit ...yeah, I got issues! I'm a loser baby ...so why don'yt ya kill me!

16. Mothgirl ~ The Beach Boys - OMG hate hate hate hate hate - have met Brian Wilson and he is a sweetheart, I am thrilled for him he has recovered from so much hell in his life and I know he is very brilliant and all that - but their/his music makes me want to beat my head on the wall and it is like fingernails scraping torturously on a blackboard - Arrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh!!!

17. IRIS- THE DOORS-YES I SAID IT AND I MAY HAVE JUST LOST A FEW FRIENDS...SORRY NOT MY BAG.

18. Carrie- Sublime~everyone likes them for some reason, even some friends of mine. Just a shitty bro band I just don't like them, most others seem to not sure why. Basically most of the bands listed on this thing are really good you guys are crazy, the Damned, Velvet Underground, Kraftwerk, Led Zep, the Doors, Beach boys what the hells you guys are crazy.

19. Mick- THE SMITHS........YES....THE SMITHS............. I SAID IT

20. Collin - The Ramones are crap. As dumb as the Beach Boys but with "street cred". Give me Buddy Holly any day. OK yeah and the Strokes. Its almost like you can sound like anything if you're cool enough.... (insert jerking off hand gesture)

21. Johnny- Collin, I love you, but you're a fucking child. The Ramones are fucking amazing. It boggles my mind that they are over your head. The first Strokes record is brilliant. As far as bands that can sound like anything if they look cool enough (insert jerking off hand gesture), I believe you played bass on a couple of national tours with one of them...

22. Topher - Led Zeppelin (you already knew).

23. Oh god, just one? Cat Power. God I'd like to punch her in the face. Ellen

24. *frog* ~ Heart. Not much of a Rush fan, either. I grant that everyone is Rush is an awesome musician, but the music does NOT speak to me. Sorry. Lots of great technical skill but no soul. Kudos to Johnny - the Ramones are totally amazing... I won't even go on a tirade about how great The Damned are... my all-time favorite band for 20+ years ... *grrr*

25. Mel- At the risk of sounding very unpopular...JOURNEY sucks. I would rather be stung repeatedly by wasps and then thrown off of a cliff rather than listen to Journey. Sappy, pop garbage. Ok... but, for some reason everyone I love -> loves them and it is slowly eroding my soul having to hear it. ugh. My idea of hell would be : having to teach 8th grade, while being stung by bees with Journey as the background music.

27. Dave Matthews ...Nuff Said!- thesatelliteoflove

28. Van - PAVEMENT - yeah I said Pavement. Get yourself a haircut. whoa.. i can't believe people hate: 1. The Damned, 2. The Velvet Underground, 7. The Rolling Stones,16. The Beach Boys & 19. The Ramones

29. Brian -Iron and Wine, makes me ill

30. Carey - The Cure...they should try writing a song that doesn't sound like the last one they wrote.

31. Maim - She isn't a band, but I hate Gwen Stefani and anything that has any relation to her in any way. Please fall off a cliff into the fiery pits of hell, Gwen Stefani. Please?

32. Tex - U2! I hate U2! And if you want to get in my pants you'd better feel the same! I'm so sick of meeting dudes who have every last damn album.

33. Mikey - So hard to pick just one, but I've always said my soundtrack to hell consists of Creed, Lenny Kravitz, Limp Bizkit, Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock--GOD! just thinking of all 5 of them hurts my ears.

34. Jason - first off, this list is fucking awesome, although i wish no bodily harm to gwen stefani, but it would be great if she would shut up....

35. I second the Who. And I dislike the Mutantes only for secondary reasons. Like, them not having that much great material, and all these dudes being like, "Dude, are you into Brasillian music, have you heard Os Mutantes?". Get off, fuck yourself, no, seriously, die.

36. Kate- Ok, this list is quite possibly the best thing I have ever seen on Myspace....but really, 13 and 19...THE SMITHS? Do you not HAVE ears or a heart? Crazy!! Anyway - this is a tough one - I could go on listing for hours but for the sake of listing one and Im gonna get crucified but seriously......what the fuck is Bright Eyes all about? Boring boring boring frog in throat, dull, phlegmy hipster crap!!

37. jb - sweet kate. Dear, thats why we're friends! i have to 2nd that Bright Eyes selection. Can we also add: James Brown, Goo Goo Dolls, Matchbox 20, Secret Machines, Kings of Convenience (sorry kate), Rolling Stones & Phish/Grateful Dead. And almost every band on any of the MTv channels and Fuse. Quite possibly any band that has a video on tv. Whoa.

38. Dave - Radiohead.

39. Jenna-Sorry, I know some of you will hate me for this, but, MORRISSEY. Maybe it's not so much hate, just general dislike.

40. Liam - Social Distortion: Music for homophobic jocko-homo assholes when they get drunk and maudlin. Remember the movie Another State of Mind when Mike Ness says he likes to smear his eyeliner before he goes on stage so it looks like he's been crying? Boo fucking hoo Little Orphan Annie. They make me hate the working class.

50. Codec xo - I hate Moby. A lot. Stop.

51. Dawn - since as far back as I can remember.....Phil Collins.....I don't even know how the hell he shows up on half the shit he does but it's hard to avoid when your kid watches Disney movies....PURE TORTURE!!!!!!

52. Deanne- I can't believe none of these people said FUCKING BRITNEY SPEARS! Nails on a goddam chalk board! As well as GooGoo Dolls, 3 Doors Down, Matchbox 20 (especially that lead singer), a lot of Rap, and definitely Country. I have some issues. But Britney Spears and Clay Aiken for sure.

53. Brooke - Since Gwen Stefani and Sublime were already mentioned(DIE SUBLIME!!! Oh...wait...), I am going with 311. I don't feel it needs an explanation, they are just a terrible band. The other one is U2, blah. Here are some others I currently hate:The Strokes, My Chemical Romance, Fallout Boy and fucking Green Day! grrrrrrrr......

54. R.L. - First of all some of you are just plain crazy! but keep on going though, this is fuckin hilarious! Ok as for mine I think we should all just start another Bulletin on how Bright Eyes just plain sucks. Im sick of all the attention this guy is getting. He is NOT the next Bob Dylan. He is NOt a great song writer. Hes just a lil emo punk that thinks he has some relevance and for some reason all print thinks so too.

55.Rachel - Rush sucks!

56. April- I have to agree with Rachel on this one. I have always hated Rush (especially since my annoying ex-boyfriend used to worship the drummer- you remember Andy Rachel!) I have never felt that they rocked because their music sounds so gay.

57. Ian - Sadly I didn't read all that is here so I don't know if anyone has already mentioned "Bright Eyes." If so I wonder if it is for my reasons: the man is like the Henry Ford of the maudlin; his vocal stylings are like a parody of real human emotions; his subject matter (just can't get over "fill in this blank" I mean I just can't!) makes him the world's oldest teenager. The vanity of this musician would be appalling even if it were to be found in one with actual, significant talent.

58. Jen- listening to the beatles makes me want to do vicious things. sorry, they're fucking terrible. listen to better music, please. i don't care how cool you thought john lennon was or how much you like "hey jude"...btw, that song blows. hard.

59. Jake - Kelly Clarkson. she really boils my potatoes.

60. ChillOutdickwad - Good Charlotte, those are the biggest group of whiney fags i've heard or seen in my life. Rachel must die for her insulting comments to rock legends and gods RUSH!

61. Mr.Q - i would have to say that AFI is the shittest of all bands and are the most annoying pieces of shit!!!!

62. JgerMonster - System of a Down. They fuckin' blow. I can't even tolerate hearing the first notes of one of their songs. And I can't stand The Beatles or the Doors. Sorry... I'm not a hippie on acid. That music doesn't do shit for me.

63. charlie~ Tom (see ..1) is an idiot

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I'm relatively new to the whole blogging thing, and today I learned a lesson —never delete a post because you got a bad comment. I had posted "My Mid-Length Crisis"—ruminations about the futility of new years resolutions involving my recent bad hair cut, in which I compared myself to Marky Ramone, said I paid money, a lot of money, to look uglier, and offered someone 150 bucks to break my nose. Bottom line was: resolutions suck. When you break them you feel bad, and sometimes keeping them (cutting 6 inches off my hair) makes you feel worse. Anyway,  I got this comment from reader She-Ra: "If the only thing you have to worry about this year is your hair, you should have your ass kicked. And making reference to the Ramones doesn't make up for your whining or make you any cooler." For the record, my hair isn't the only thing I have to worry about (it just happened to be directly related to a New Years resolution), the thing I really worry about is that I eat whatever I want and can't gain weight, it's just awful...

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Waiting for Bowiedot Act I

Caroline: Let's go!

Linda: We can't

Caroline: Why not?

Linda: We're waiting for Bowiedot

ok, that's my interpretation of the Beckett-like evening we had last night at the Cult of 8 Book Club. The Club claims to be "bringing culture back to Hollywood" and holds readings every Monday at Avalon's Spider Club, Skylight brings in some books to sell, someone reads excerpts from them, and a Dj spins thematically linked music. This past Monday, the books were A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking, (Cult of 8 spelled his name wrong on the invites, they wrote  "Steven" maybe they can work on bringing spelling back to Hollywood) and Bowie's new book Moonage Daydream (with the DJ spinning Bowie all night). The connection— they are born on the same day. Rumor had it Bowie was going to turn up to read passages from his own book. And a handful of people waited more than three hours to see if the rumor was true. I thought it was highly unlikely, but what if he DID show I'd never forgive myself, so I waited along with them. But, as I suspected, the God of Glam never arrived. 

I loved these guys (left), huge Bowie fans, they're in a band I forgot the name I had been waiting so long. And the chick reading above runs a shop called Smooth 'n Purdy. The hosts of the show kept all of us there until the bitter end with promises of a surprise guest. The surprise guest came alright. Let me preface this by saying, I've seen a performance artist eat his own shit, I've watched Faces of Death, I like a good retard joke now and again,  I am not easily offended. but I was completetly disgusted by the dude they wheeled out who pretended to be Stephen Hawking doing stand up. It was revolting. It was about as clever as the upcoming list of book reading events, all tied to someone's birthday, how lame! next week is Edgar Allan Poe, one my favorites but I could care less if it's his birthday or hearing the best Goth music from the last 25 years, then it's Robert Burn's birthday on the 23rd.  I think I'd rather watch someone eat their own waste. Cult of 8 is a good idea poorly executed.

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Caroline and I swung by Get The Fuck Up Radio last night, check her blog, coming soon, I'm eating leftovers, working, drinking cheap red wine, and blogging while she is still out on the town. Anyway, one of the dudes from GTFU asked me to take photos of them drinking Red Stripe, some kind of deal he worked out.  I did. Red Stripe reminds me of Jamaica, of smoking blunts the size of my forearm, and now gonzo radio shows. God I love Red Stripe.  I have to let Caroline tell this part of the story, but here is Annie from Giant Drag, using all her might to hold up that glass bottle, she seems so frail like her doppelganger Fiona Apple.  I love you Annie. Especially since your dad fucks just like mine. oh, you'll have to listen to the podcast to get the reference....

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Missed encounters: You—driving a white BMW with "CA Bunny" vanity plates, didn't use your turn signal. Me—aggro driver on my morning commute, politely calling you a "fuckface." You on your cell phone logging in minutes, me logging the reasons I hate you: 1.) lack of blinker usage 2.) CA Bunny 3.) you don't know how to drive 4.) you're a dildo, batteries not included 5.) and you chafe 6.) and uh, wait, is that you getting out of the driver side? You trying to be tough. Me, pretending to be scared.

Call me. You're my reason for living.

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So I finally got round to seeing Brokeback Mountain, on Sunday at the movie theatre on Vermont in Los Feliz. I went with two girlfriends, one of whom has two real-life gay cowboy uncles living in the mountains in Colorado, so she was especially excited to see this movie. Unfortunately, it was hard to concentrate thanks to the elderly gay men sitting behind us. Every time the young male stars started frolicking there were giggles, sighs and breathy twitterings of "oh my GOD!" Almost as distracting was the flap of skin on Heath Ledger's right cheek, which crinkled up like crazy every time he smiled/grimaced/frowned. Anyone else notice that? (Ledger's character was called Ennis - although at first I could have sworn he said his name was 'Anus'.)

As I am sure you all know, this is an extremely sad movie. I cried twice. Other highlights include the scene where Ledger beats the crap out of a couple of Hell's Angels (them bikers was messin' with the WRONG queen) and the part where the two flocks of sheep get mixed up. And of course, there's the movie line of 2005/6 – "I wish I knew how to quit you!". Here's how it goes:

Jack Twist (Gyllenhal) "I can't make it on a coupla high-altitude fucks once or twice a year! You are too much for me Ennis, son of a whoreson bitch... I wish I knew how to quit you!"

"I wish I knew how to quit you" looks set to become the "You complete me" of the new millennium, although personally, I almost prefer "son of a whoreson bitch".

On top of all this excitement, something really weird happened at this movie which I would like to share with you. It has to do with the phenomenon commonly known as coincidence.

The last time I had been to this particular movie theatre in Los Feliz  (to see the Johnny Cash movie) I recognized a girl who I have seen around. She was a friend of friends, works in fashion, no-one I knew well enough to say hello to. I privately acknowledged her presence and thought no more of it.

Then at Brokeback Mountain, I saw her again, sitting a few rows in front of me. "Curious," I thought, but it was nothing that warranted an emergency appointment with my psychic. After seeing the movie, and continuing with the day's gay theme, I went to my friend Sonja's house to watch the first episode of season three of The L Word. I arrive at 10PM sharp, armed with bottle of vino, and guess who I find sitting onthe couch? The girl from the movie theatre. Now I'm spooked. Who is she? Why does she keep popping up everywhere?

Me, Spooky Girl, and Sonja sip Chenin Blanc quietly and watch lesbian drama. (For those of you who care, there are two things you need to know about season three of The L Word - first, the opening music by atrocious lesbian band Betty is sadly, very much intact. Second, Shane's hair, once an inspiration, has taken a dangerous turn for the worse - think Goonies-era Martha Plimpton, with shaggy perm).

Halfway in to the show, Spooky Girl mentions that she had seen Bareback Mountain that day. I didn't say anything. It's disconcerting that she seems to be crossing my path so frequently, and I don't know what the hell it means.

According to James Redfield's Celestine Prophecy (best read when young and gullible), coincidences are signs from the universe, guiding us toward our destiny. Level-headed Dr. Spock types, on the other hand, argue that humans, thanks to our innate egotism, tend to overestimate the meaning of coincidence.

"Believing in the significance of oddities is self-aggrandizing," says John Allen Paulos, professor of mathematics in Psychology Today. "It says, 'Look how important I am.' People find it dispiriting to hear, 'It just happened, and it doesn't mean anything.'"

Hmmm. So maybe Spooky Girl and I just have similar taste in movies? And maybe it was sheer coincidence that brought Jack Twist and Anus, I mean Ennis, together on Brokeback Mountain? Had they not bumped into eachother that fateful day, perhaps Ennis would have married his wife and never thought of men's bottoms as anything other than anatomy?

Who knows - but as a wise cowboy once said: "Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction."

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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I got some flack a while back after dissing (does anyone say dissing anymore? we probably shouldn't) the knit skull cap, a co-worker even wore one in defiance. But ever since the post, Colin Farrell hasn't worn his usual hollywood douchebag cap. Coincidence? Probably. First he was spotted in a fedora. I thought I'd be happy but it was worse, much worse. He paved Bogart paradise and put up a Federline parking lot. He managed to make the fedroa look desperate for attention. I can only imagine the hoards at haberdashers city-wide as all the hollywood "producers" rush to jump on Farrell's new bandwagon. But they'd be too late, Colin has already moved on to a newsboy. So, I guess, it's safe to wear knit skull caps, and fedoras again. If Colin's doing it, don't, that's the rule—The Farrell Factor.

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I've been missing in action for a week and you don't wanna know why. It aint glamorous or seedy or anything, but let's just say I've been in a post-NYE slump, both physically and mentally. Writing a year-end recap of Clubland meant I had a break from Nightrangering for a while and all I wanted to do for the past few days was catch up on DVD watching, mag and book reading and some serious couch potato-ing with my dog Marley. No getting dressed up, no putting on makeup (my lips are literally cracked from lip gloss withdrawal), and no cocktails for a whole week!  Talk about diva detox. It was easy though. Take a gander at this shot of me and the hubster a few minutes before the clock struck 12 at the Little Radio NYE warehouse party and I bet you can guess that I overdid it that night, and I wasn't even sipping a Purple Reign! Nope I went for the bubbly, even though I know it makes me feel like pure hell for days after. But I did it, cuz well, cuz I could.The party was actually super-fun (check the Weekly homepage for a review of the festivities that should be posted today). My original plan was to go to the big Giant Village street party but that (along with the much-touted Pamela Anderson hosted bash at Paramount Studios) got canceled due to the day's downpour. Lucky for me,  I actually found out early during the day when a pal who does sound for the Flaming Lips text-messaged a mutual friend who fwded it to me... Gotta love that technology. Thousands were not so lucky.Anyway, it all worked out because the deck dude we were going to see, Z-Trip, ended up at the LR party anyway! He was awesome, and Dave from Little Radio sure knows how to throw a party (though the rumored suprise guests And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, never did leave one... nor did the night's rumored suprise set from The Flaming Lips ever materialize). Oh and Dave, I'm sorry I popped your cork before midnight! Seriously, I hugged him at like 11:55 and pop!!!!! went the bottle of champagne he was holding. I apologized to his wife by the way.... Guess I don't know my own powers.

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Even if they weren't my friends, I would still think Jenna and Oliver from Materials and Applications were totally rad. Their Maximillian's Schell installation (aka the Golden Vortex) has lent an aura of majesty to Silverlake Boulevard, and in a real nod to Utopian ideals, the space is open to the public 24 hours a day. Here are the work's creators, Gaston Nogues and Ben Ball, standing under their masterpiece.

    The best part is, not only do the folks at M&A care about art and beauty and the planet - and actually DO something about it - they know how to throw a kick-ass party. Past events have featured architectural towers of food and beer custom-brewed just for the occasion, and the New Year's Eve fete celebrating the end of the golden era was equally gourmet.    There was a fountain of chocolate that had the couple kids in attendance going majorly ga-ga over their Willy Wonka fantasies come to life, while the adults sipped fine champagne and gobbled garlicky escargot in a very civilized fashion until the whole kid thing became totally contagious...and...Voila! Chocolate-snail fondue! Would you believe it was actually quite tasty? We decided it was kind of operating on the mole sauce principle, but to be honest, nothing can taste too terrible when you're washing it down with Schramsberg Brut Rose, my new favorite bubbly. (And yes, the Style Council does need an alcohol sponsor.) Here I am with Cecil, who brought the lovely pink stuff, and art world scene queen Fumiko Amano, whose Atelier Zero event listing tells you absolutely everything happening downtown.     Once the escargot and champagne ran out (the chocolate was still a-flowing) we headed downtown (thanks Fumiko) en masse to a party in one of those run-of-the-mill 5, 10, 20,000??? square foot spaces that have enough roller skates to outfit everyone and the pool table from Al's Bar in the basement. Wow!    And so I rang in my first New Year in Los Angeles with roller skates on my feet and pink champagne in my glass. I can think of worse things.     By the way, Jenna and Oliver (pictured here in the foreground) are currently hosting some crazy ice sculpture invitational on the frozen tundra, but when they return to La-la they'll be seeking volunteers to help with their new installation, so if one of your resolutions is to get involved with groovy art stuff, contact them.Happy 2006 to all!

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Whew! What a New Year's Eve celebration! I was invited to an Upper East Side mansion, think Mr. Drummond from Diff'rent Strokes, no, think Silver Spoons in a Penthouse, to dine on Italian food catered by a fancypants restaurant, then head downtown to see friends Amy Miles and Craig Wedren (of the late Shudder to Think, and Baby) play a gig at the Living Room.  After that it was on to Seth Herzog's  annual shindig at the Bowery Bar (at the last one I went to my friend swears Bruce Willis followed me around). Seth's parties are known to be star-studded events, there was an infamous one two years ago, where Famke Jansen lost her "FENDI" bag and flipped out, another where, (as Seth told me later) Sam Rockwell was going to ask me to dance when Seth lied and told him I was a lesbian in a relationship. I still haven't forgiven Seth completely. I 've watched Billy Crudup dance his tiny cheater heart out, and the cast of Wet Hot American Summer and Stella are regulars—the list goes on and on. Who was there this year?

I wouldn't know... Instead of glamming it up and reporting back to all of you, I spent the holiday in the Bronx, in my PJ's drinking non-alcoholic sparkling cider with my cousins, (ages: 19, 15, 9), my little sister, and my 94-year old Nonna (Italian for grand mum) the special hard-of-hearing wonder we call "Nanny."  I didn't make it to my friend's dinner, or the show, and definitely not the party. I was torn— I missed my NY friends so much and was dying to see them and I knew it was going to be an evening to remember, but I haven't seen my family in so long. And did I mention my grandma is 94?!

When I was a little girl living in the Bronx, I spent every New Year's Eve with her. We'd play Parcheesi and when the ball dropped, we'd bang on pots and pans out on the porch to "ring" in the new year. This year Apples to Apples (a word game) replaced the Parcheesi, we sang Green Day's American Idiot instead of Auld Lang Syne. But the sparkling cider was more than I could bear. I searched high and low, the only booze I could find in my aunt's house was White Zinfandel. Desperate times, desperate measures, I cracked the sucker open and filled one of those huge red plastic cups. And despite all of our fancy cocktail advice in this week's LA Weekly, I rang in the new year with some Sutter Home. Yep, a very un-Style Council New Years—white zin, PJ's, deaf grandmas and kids playing board games.  But you know, I don't think I'd want it any other way... I'll see my friends next year...

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