LA Weekly

So I'm thinking about suing the city of Hollywood. I'm not kidding. The Hollywood Walk of Fame might be pretty to look at under the reflection of the boulevard's twinkling street lights (especially while inebriated), but whoever thought it'd be a good idea to make the glitter-specked sidewalk so silky-smooth wasn't thinking about LA's often relentless, albeit rare, rain showers, which make it slicker than an oil patch on an old driveway.

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have been running in the rain, but last night I had one of my typically tight-ass schedules, and despite my complete intolerance for driving around during a storm (yes, I am an LA native) I had to adhere to it.

First it was the Paper magazine LA issue party at Cinespace. Couldn't miss this one, especially since I contributed to the thing. I parked in the questionable little side street just west of Ivar, pulled out my trusty umbrella and made a run for it around the corner, just past Star Shoes, when slam! I slipped Dick Van Dyke-style and fell hard on my right knee, dead center on somebody's damn star. Was a little too pre-occupied to see whose it was, but it wasn't Johnny Cash's (pictured)... I know because Steffie and I shot this photo a few weeks back, and it's closer to Vine St. Anyway, my 99 Cents Only umbrella got thrashed but I still tried to use the crooked thing (it was raining bullets!) as I struggled to stand. "Dont get up," a sweet Joan Jett-lookalike said as she walked by. "You could have broken something."

True. But I was embarrassed and I wanted to play off my clumsiness. Still, it was so slippery and my knee was so weak, I actually couldn't get up on my own. I had to ask some burly security dude for help. "You're not the first person to slip right there," he said comfortingly.

So there ya go. The Hollywood Walk of Fame is not only fucked up in it's selection process (I mean, c'mon they just gave Judge Judy a star but they can't give Rodney Bingenheimer one? ) but it's also a health hazard! Luckily, I didn't break anything but today my knee is five different shades of purple and pink (pretty actually) and as big as a grapefruit (not so pretty)....Anyone know a good lawyer?

Hobbling, I still made it to all of my engagements. The Paper party had to be a quick hi/bye thing unfortunately, but I did get an Addidas goodie bag (too bad I'd never wear a terry-cloth headband!). Then it was on to my sit-in at Indie 103.1's studio. If you heard "Blue Spark" last night about 9:45 p.m., it was moi who "programmed it"... well my new pals T.K. and Jose (pictured), who work the boards there actually put it on for me, and just for the record I requested the more obscure "We're Desperate" but they didnt have it.

It was pretty cool to be in the tiny room where I listen to Jonesy jam everyday, kinda like when you go to someone's house for the first time and then the next time you talk to them on the phone there's a new visual element to the conversation. Blanks are filled in.

(On a not-really related note, I met Chloe Webb, who played Nancy Spungen in Sid and Nancy last week at Pop Tarts, see pic, and she's so rad! See photo by Conrad Starr.)

Believe it or not after my Indie adventure (I hung out with Brent Bolthouse for about half of his show "Feel My Heat") I actually returned to the scene of my stellar collision, Cinespace. Of course I walked very slowly along the boulevard to get there, even if it meant missing The Cult, who were scheduled to play a suprise set at 10. They didn't go on til midnight as it turned out (shocker!), but it was sooo worth the wait: they played all the best tracks off Electric, and ended their short set with the very appropriate later hit, "Here Comes The Rain." Too perfect.

For full reports on the Paper party and The Cult show see Nightranger NEXT week. This week's column will feature reports on Jumbo's Clown Room, LAX, BFF at Beauty Bar, Rokbar, The Spider Club and Privilege. Yeah I've been busy beotches!

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When three quarters of the Style Council (Steffie, Linda and myself) decided to go to Joshua Tree for a weekend of high desert jinx, we knew to expect the unexpected - after all, this is the land of UFOs, shooting stars and the Integratron (a strange acoustically-perfect dome supposedly designed to communicate with alien beings).

But while we were more than ready to deal with Martians, we were utterly unprepared for our supernatural encounter with rock legend Robert Plant.

"Er...that's frigging Robert Plant," someone whispered as he strolled into Pappy and Harriette's, the dusty ol' biker bar/music venue where we were throwing back a few desert brews and watching rockabilly queen Wanda Jackson play some favorites. But it was no mirage - the swirl of blonde ringlets was unmistakeably that of Led Zep's godlike lead singer. Word spread like wildfire...necks craned as everyone strove to see if the rumors were true. Sir Zep seemed relaxed and was happy to engage in conversation with the patrons. He told our friend Karen he was going to join the local musicians in their regular jam session the next day. "You should all come down," he offered.

When Sunday evening rolled round we piled back into Pappy's and waited for Plant to reappear. I wasn't convinced it would happen. Even when one of the guitarists teasingly played some Stairway to Heaven while tuning up, I still tried not to get too excited. Having seen Robert Plant once was random enough - for him to apparate twice in the same little biker bar in the middle of the desert would have defied all laws of rock probability.

But lightening can strike twice - Plant stayed true to his word, and beamed himself back to Pappy's. I grabbed a CD and a pen and followed him out back so he could autograph it. He was talking on his cell phone. "This place is great," I overheard him say. "I'm so sick and tired of all the sycophants in LA. This is very refreshing."

When he got off the phone, I got him chatting for a few minutes and he told me he was heading back to LA to meet with his old band mate Jimmy Page on Tuesday. They are checking out an aerial ballet troupe that wants to use some Zeppelin tracks to accompany their routine. We chit-chatted some more and I was so excited I totally forgot to mention information which could have further prolonged our conversation - like the fact that I interviewed Led Zep's former tour manager Richard Cole not so long ago ("back in those days we didn't have fax machines or email, " Cole told me. "We booked world tours by picking up the phone and saying 'don't fuck with us, this is Led Zeppelin'").

And I forgot to mention that I had lunch with legendary British producer and manager Peter Asher last weekend, who told me about the time he hired Jimmy Page as a studio musician, and how John Bonham liked to yell at his drum technicians ("make them fucking LOUDER").

And I forgot to tell Plant that between the ages of 16 and 19, nearly every time I lay in bed with my boyfriend, it was his voice I was listening to.

All these things flew out of my brain the second I set eyes on the craggily majestic face of one of the greatest musicians in the history of rock...but it didn't really matter - he seemed to enjoy the conversation anyhow. The only time I noticed a flicker of irritation in his eyes was when I thanked him a little too profusely for taking the time to talk. I guess even rock gods get tired of being worshipped all the time.

Then he stepped on the tiny stage, belted out three numbers for an ecstatic and slightly bewildered crowd, stepped off the stage and hung out some more.

As an ancient Greek once said - the best-loved gods are those that choose to walk among us...

Posted by Caroline Ryder

Postscript: Style Councilor Lina, possibly one of the best-connected (and nicest) gals in town, has just informed me that the name of the aerial ballet Robert and Jimmy were checking out is Led ZAerial "an elaborate trapeze and aerialist tribute to the songs of Led Zeppelin". They saw them at an 'industry showcase' at the Key Club today. Here's some more info:

"The show runs about 50 minutes, and includes trapeze, rope, fabric, ballet and hand balancing numbers. These numbers are presented to the original music from recordings of our favorite Led Zeppelin songs. There are also 2 live music numbers, performed by 2 acoustic musicians, who present their own interpretations of the songs. http://www.ledzaerial.com/"

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Sitting still has never been one of my strong points, unless, of course, it involves nodding off with a work of literature delicately balanced on my nose. So when portraitist Don Bachardy offered to paint me in 2004 it was a mixed blessing - on the one hand, it meant I would be immortalized by one of America's best known portrait artists. On the other, I knew a certain amount of torture would be involved in order for my immortalization to take place.

Bachardy is known for putting his models through their paces - namely, he likes to finish each entire painting in just one sitting. Which means each sitting can last several hours. In my case, almost six. Listen - I've done a 32-hour economy class flight to Australia, I've chugged along the tourist-jammed roads of Yosemite National Park on Labor Day, I've even watched Dances With Wolves - but nothing, NOTHING could have prepared me for the almighty headfuck of sitting motionless for Don Bachardy.

I had assumed a comfortable position, one I thought would feel OK for the duration of the sitting - but foolishly chose a stance that involved me tucking a calf beneath a thigh. Within 15 minutes my leg had siezed up. Half an hour later I had lost almost all feeling in my right side. "Sitting for Don is kinda like taking acid," author Carolyn See had warned me before my big day, and she was right. Strange things were happening in my brain. The peaceful silence of my thoughts had degenerated in to a deafening neural cacophony and I found myself constantly fighting feelings of panic, all due to the simple fact that I was not moving a muscle. "I'm not gonna get gangrene, I'm not gonna get gangrene" I chanted beneath my breath, praying that it would all be worth it in the end.

Which, of course, it was - I forgot my discomfort moments after finally being able to stretch my limbs. I was so excited to see the results of his colorful brushwork I barely noticed my pins and needles. It's a day I'll never forget, and an honor I'll take to the grave. Bachardy even went on to use one of the portraits of me in a retrospective of his work at Huntington Gardens.

You can see a short film about Bachardy by Academy Award-winning filmmaker Terry Sanders at UCLA James Bridge Theatre (Sunset Blvd and Hilgard Ave) tonight, at 7.30PM. The film is called The Eyes of Don Bachardy, and Terry Sanders will be there in person. In the meantime, for your viewing pleasure, here is one of Bachardy's portraits of yours truly (he did three in the end). When I saw it for the first time, I told him he'd made me look like a spoiled little princess. He looked at me, raised an eyebrow and laughed...

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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After my dinner debacle last week (see my last post) I was ready for a little plushness and pampering, and I got a lot of it with three Alexis Carrington-style days filled with diamonds and pearls, limos and lots 'o champagne.

A burly Men In Black-looking bodyguard stood by the door at Erica Courtney's pre-Oscar party last week, guarding millions of dollars in bling that sparkled from gleaming cases throughout the Beverly Blvd. store.

The pearl-themed bash unveiled Courtney's new "Mystery of the Black Pearl" line with spiked bubbly (an iridescent powdery substance was poured into each glass) and goody bags that included pearly nail-polish and a shimmery candle from Illume. As I admired  the beautiful jewels  at the event (which was basically a preview soiree for celebs and their stylists to check out and plan for their Academy Awards ensembles… actress Alfree Woodard was there… love her!) I thought back to my own jewelry- making days. See, I used to have my own line and for a short time, and I even worked for Courtney, though it was way before she started doing the pricey diamond stuff for the likes of Julia Roberts, etc. or had a second store next to the Ivy on Robertson Blvd. I miss creating beautiful, unique things for people to wear, but who has the time these days?

The party was fun and the food divine…okay I'm a little biased as my hubby's company Deuce catered the event. I got to sneak back to the prep area and pig out on savory and sweet treats like mini-creme brulees and yummy shrimp spring rolls. No wonder I can't lose those five extra pounds huh?

Well I think I definitely overdid it 'cause the next day was my big limo experience (Hard Rock Hotel is opening a new space in San Diego and they sent a black stretch to pick me, and just me, up!). Ginger Goldmine accompanied, and we were stoked to see the shiny monstrosity roll up my Silver Lake street, that is until we got going and the ride made me totally nauseas! So much so,  I had to have our {hot} limo driver Sal stop about half way there so I could toss my cookies in a Vons bathroom.

Anyway, we stayed at the Omni hotel which was just as beautiful as the one in LA but with a more reliable restaurant, McCormick and Schmidt's. Turns out the Hard Rock isn't even built yet… though we did get a great view of the hard hats toting wood planks around the lot where it will be from our hotel window.There's nothing like blasting great tunes and getting all dolled up in a leisurely manner with your girlfriends. It's a ritual I relish sometimes even more than the event I'm getting ready for. Maybe I've watched too many makeover shows but I really get a kick out of the transformation process. I think I even try to look especially grungey (see icky photo, ok I think I had just barfed though) the day of a big event so the "before" and "after" is more dramatic.

Anyway, Ginger wore this gorgeous Marc Jabobs frock with (vintage) fur and pearl-embellished heels while I went for one of my newer Furstenburg wrap dress and silver platforms (after visiting the store with Steffie last week, I'm all about the DVF again). Now we looked like we belonged in our limo.

Sal dropped us off right in front of the red carpet, so of course the paparazzi were stumbling over themselves to find out who we were.

Geesh. I could never be a celebrity. I hate when people stare! But Ginger, ah Ginger, she worked it, getting out of the limo all slow and sultry. Just then, she had a wardrobe malfunction!

No, not a Janet Jackson or Tara Reid-type catastrophe.  Her shoe broke. Suddenly a Carson Kressley lookalike -who has a show on the Style Network, he said- came to her rescue, tying the strap around her ankle and making some kind of intricate boyscout type knot (don't ask, don't tell!) "I did this for Sarah Jessica Parker once!" he bragged. 

So the bash was fun I guess. Loud. Packed. And filled with blondes, blondes, blondes! The Ying Yang Twins got crunky and Hoobastank got stanky. Funny thing is the lily white ladies there (and there were many) were definitely more into rubbing rumps to the crunk than shakin' boobs to the Hoob. I mean these bleached babes knew every nasty-ass Ying Yang rap and rant! They were so into it that they started bumping into us with their booties quite aggressively below the stage. It was a little too much for us glamour girls to take, so Ginger and I retreated to the downstairs area of the club, called On Broadway, in a quest for a more opulent environment and we found it, sipping champagne and munching on chocolate covered strawberries.  Yeah it was great, but we were pretty much done after that... and hungry for real food since we hadn't had dinner. We wanted to pull a Mary Kate and Ashley, and take the limo through a Taco Bell drive-thru but we couldn't find one, so we settled for a pizza joint on the way back the hotel.

I had a sicky stomach on the ride back to LA the next day too! Might have been all champagne and snackin,''  but I just think I OD'd on too much fabulousness.  Guess I'm just not the Dynasty type….See my Nightranger column tomorrow for more reportage on the Hard Rock event.

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    Q: What's the best thing to do on a cold, rainy Saturday night? A: Go to the movies with your friends and drink hot chocolate! I almost stayed in with a book, but when my friend Charon called with an invitation to see a late show of Wild At Heart at the Egyptian Theater – complete with door to door service - I couldn't refuse. I'd never been to the Egyptian, and I can say now that it is quite possibly the best place to see a movie in Los Angeles. The screen is enormous, the ceiling is decorated with an elaborately carved, gilded Egyptian relief, and the stadium seats are brand-new and comfy. And that's just the theater.     We had about 20 minutes to kill before the film (it was part 2 of a double feature; yeah, they have double features!) and when Charon's husband Gaston announced a hankering for hot chocolate, we popped in to Lickety Split next door, where they have sublime, truffle-y cocoa almost as good as my mom's. Riding the sugar high, we romped about on the fabulous columned plaza with painted hieroglyphs. It's like being on the set of Cecil B. Demille's Cleopatra or something; just being there inspires overacting. Here, Charon vogues like an Egyptian.    And speaking of overacting, Wild At Heart, which I last saw 15 years ago, is indeed wild. Nicolas Cage's over-the-top Elvis send-up is definitely one of his best roles, with no hint of the doughy caricature of a cool guy he would eventually become. The version we were seeing was X-rated (yeah, the Egyptian shows X-rated movies!), and it didn't take long to figure out the difference between X and R: in the opening scene, Cage's Sailor bashes some guy's head into the floor and leaves his brains gruesomely strewn across the marble. "Saiiiiilorrrrr!" shrieks Laura Dern hysterically, setting the tone for a film that, like most of David Lynch's work, dances uncomfortably on the edges of sanity, sick subconscious urges, and pure evil. There are few things creepier than the image of Diane Ladd convulsively weeping with her face completely smeared in red lipstick, but a later scene beats even that: Sherilyn Fenn, the bloody victim of a car crash, is wandering among the wreckage, looking for a bobby pin. It appears that she's just in shock, has only suffered a flesh wound, because she's walking and talking. But then she complains of sticky stuff in her hair and starts scratching at her head, making a squeaky sound that lets us know the sticky stuff is her brain, poking out of her skull. I didn't know whether to cover my ears or eyes so I just squealed and gripped Charon's arm.     The next day I was talking about the film with a friend, and I pointed out how strange it is to think that David Lynch is a total peace-loving transcendental meditator whose main mission at the moment is to help people tune in to their bliss. She replied that it didn't surprise her at all, that he just got all the dark stuff out in his art and so was able to live serenely and contentedly. "It's a testosterone thing," she added, meaning: men have certain primal urges that women don't, based on our internal chemistry. Does that mean my perception of morality is different because I'm a woman, without testosterone creating base urges to fuck and kill which I need to somehow release through artistic catharsis?      A onetime Twin Peaks freak, I truly admire David Lynch for his ability to so completely envelop the viewer in the dark vapors of his universe, and for the most part I dig his twisted humor and bizarre faces and places (give me Isabella Rossellini with bleached yellow hair and bubblegum pink lips any day). But a part of me wonders: is it healthy to have visions of brutality and horror floating around in your head? Is creating them, in some way, an act of violence? And would that then cancel out inner peace? It's almost enough to make your brain hurt. No, wait, I didn't mean that. Just give me another hot chocolate like my mom used to make and I'll go peacefully off to dreamland. Won't I?

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It's friggin Sunday, I want to finish the book for my book club (Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Garcia-Marquez), I want to finish painting my living room, I want to eat ribs and drink beer, the last thing I want to do is go to Kitson on Robertson for a schmooze fest. But I am lured by the promise of a good gift bag, and some cool new duds to inspect. As soon as I approach the store  I seriously debate turning around and going home— there's a tent pitched outside housing a pack of paparazzi on media risers, and a red carpet (it seems they throw one down for anything these days) has been rolled out.  But I press on, in the name of work— Kitson has a new partner Guy Oseary and Rebel Yell is launching an extended line. Inside, there are so many people huddled here and there, slumped over clothing and display cases, it feels like an airport after a snow storm, people seem stuck, bored, waiting for the layover announcement. I ask the waitress carrying mini-mac and cheese bowls if there is going to be a fashion show. She wrinkles her nose, "I don't think so," she says. Another waitress comes by with jello shots, and they confirm, no fashion show. I head to the bar for a red bull and vodka, and pass Samantha Ronson who is the DJ for the event, this is the second time I've seen her in four days. I think that somewhere in the world that means we're dating. I think it's time she met my parents. I get stuck in an unmoving pool of people, and I see why every one is still hanging out at a non event such as this— Demi and Ashton are curled up in each others arms. Can they really be that much in love? It looked like it. I spot two of Demi's daughters, the one that looks like Bruce and the one that looks like her. Jeez, nothing like Kitson to really bring the generations together. Demi and her daughters could be the poster gals for the store. Kitson is a total MILF mecca, on any given day you can find 40 year old moms shopping for themselves and their 12 year old daughters, for things like Juicy Couture charm bracelets, True Religion jeans, and now Rebel Yell tees and hoodies. Demi is wearing a hoodie from the youthful Rebel Yell line, an

old varsity fleece zip-up with unfinished seams. I don't know what to make of the whole thing. I once went on a family trip with a boyfriend and I was wearing a Juicy Couture dress and his little 11 year old sister had on the same dress and his mom was wearing a Juicy hoodie. Three generations of Juicy. Is that right? Maybe it is. I mean does a woman have to head to Eileen Fisher after 30? after 40? And if Desperate Housewives has made 40 the new 30, does that make 30 the new 20?

I wait an appropriate amount of time before lining up for my gift bag and it's filled

with cute stuff— knee socks, a hat and a jersey tee. Great! but now, I'm wondering if I am too old to wear this shit? I feel like maybe I'm too old.  The very fact that it came from Kitson
makes it suspect.  My friend says the stuff is cute and that I
could totally
rock all of it at different times, though not, under any circumstances, all together as one outfit. For shits and giggles she convinces me (coaxed by Coronas) to do a few American Apparel-type shots of my goodie bag goods. All items by Rebel Yell. You see the results of our folly here.

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Maybe it was payback from the hater gods for being too happy and too much in love on Valentines Day, but the romantic dinner I  bragged about having with my hubby in my last post turned out to be the dinner date from hell.

The space, Noe in the Omni hotel is headed by a noted chef known for inventive Asian-meets-Parisian faire. I'm not a foodie but my guy is a chef so I try to know whassup, and by that I mean I ask a lot of questions about stuff that I cant pronounce. After reading a piece on the guy in Gourmet or something,  he thought he'd take me there for good meal. Not…

NOE WAS A BIG NO!!!

We'd had such a great day too. Let me digress a bit. In addition to the roses on my desk I mentioned before, I got to go shopping with my man who would usually rather endure Chinese water torture than step foot in the mall with moi. I am always so jealous when I see gals slinking in and out of the dressing rooms at Rampage or Forever 21 or whatever  to model for their men, who then lovingly offer advice and praise. "Take the red one, honey!"

My man has no patience for such things, so this was huge. But I was only allowed one store. What would it be? As we walked in, I saw pink bag after pink bag whisk by. What the heck I thought, let's go with the obvious. Victoria's Secret.

To be honest, I actually picked V.S. more for the entertainment value than the merch. Sure enough, the place was filled with dozens of anxious, clueless dudes fumbling with g-strings and brassieres and trying to find the right ones for their ladies.

"Just pick out whatever  you want," said the hubby, "I'm gonna go have a smoke." So much for modeling for him…

Anyway, I passed on all the lacey, frilly, red/pink stuff (got enough of it actually) and went for a decidedly plain new style of bra for everyday, Angel's Secret Embrace  (Victoria's best selling new bra, the salesgal said).

This one's highly recommended ladies! Seemless, tagless and sooo comfortable. Oh and if you haven't been measured in a while, do it, even if you haven't  gained weight.  I've been wearing 34 B for years but when they checked my size, much to my surprise I am now a 34 C!

So new bra, favorite dress on, and hair all done up, I'm feeling pretty great as we get  to the restaurant at the Omni downtown.

After an HOUR though, we still haven't been seated. The cocktail waitress in the bar over charges us and then gives us attitude about it and I never get the glass of water I request to soothe the cough I've been fighting all week.

We finally get seated and, tick tock, tock tock, I watch the clock, as people seated after us get their first and then second courses while our place settings remain empty. Our waitress is nowhere in sight. Finally the first course comes out. Then like, no shit, 20 minutes later,  still no second  course. Then the third course (mine was pumpkin soup) comes out. "What happened to the second course?" my hubby asks. The waiter has this dumbfounded look on his face and runs back to the kitchen, taking the soup with him as I suck in the saliva from my lips. "You… can… leave… the …so…" Oh well, guess not.

An hour later we're at about the fourth course (this was a six course meal) and my potato tart is cold and hard as a hockey puck. I send it back and a few minutes later the waitress comes out, menu in hand, showing me how it says "room temperature" for that dish. "Yeah but this is ice cold and it's like a rock!" I stab it with my fork to show her. Now I was pissed.

Isn't the customer always right, especially in these fancy schmancy joints? Would a top chef argue if a diner was not satisfied? I guessed that Mr. Bigtime chef man probably took Valentines Day off and had no clue what was going on here this eve.  I was right.

After a polite but perturbed conversation with our waitress who we realized wasn't really at fault and another more intense one with the restaurant manager, we ended up leaving early (well if you consider midnight early) with doggie bags full of food that we didn't even really want. No we didn't get our food comped (we got free drinks…which we sure needed at that point) and 10% off the bill. Not good enough I think in retrospect.

Still, we sipped our drinks slowly before leaving and just sat there and laughed together for a while. Loudly. "I'm just happy to be with you even when everything goes wrong," I told the hubby in between  giggles. I meant it.

Just then a pretty green-eyed black guy comes up to our table and says, "Excuse me,"l ooking at hubby. "I don't mean to evesdrop but I just overheard what you said, and thank you. I've been complaining to my boyfriend over there all night about this place and I just really thank you for speaking up. He didn't want me to say anything because its Valentines Day." He looks at me, " I agree with everything you just said too."

The boyfriend, a well-dressed 40 something white guy sitting a table away,  looks over and smiles at us.

So that was my V day. I got a new bra, had a shitty dinner and made a couple new friends. More importantly though, I spent some much needed quality time with my man, who is out of town as I write this. He's been traveling a lot lately and I've been bummed about it and I think that's why he really went overboard this year to make the holiday special for me.  Funny thing is I would have been just as happy at Mickey Ds sans bra.

***Coincidence alert: My next post will be about the Omni Hotel in San Diego where my pal Ginger Goldmine and I had a fun lil two-day adventure that included our own private limo, the Yin Yang Twins and Hoobstank (?) and lots of champagne. Check out this shot of miss thing to hold ya over.

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It was a night of music, fashion, charity and...children of celebrities. Express launched their new Spring line during a runway show at Smashbox studios last night with a few confusing tie-ins (a charity, the Center for Innovative Education, was mentioned in press handouts though no one was asked for any money, and a "Legs Gallery," curated by the Resurrection boutique owners hung on the walls- it seemed pretty random). The party in the black tent with red light-bulbed chandeliers,  filled with an unprecidented amount of sidekicking,  was hosted by a few celebrity offspring, including Kidada Jones, Zoe Winkler, Savannah Buffet, and Oliver Hudson. In attendance were more star progeny including Smashbox owner and Max Factor heir Dean Davis, Devon Aoki, Nicole Richie, and Samantha Ronson played DJ.  (Also spotted were Philip Starck, and Saturday Night Live player Seth Meyers.) These kids of celebs really stick together, it's like a cult. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be raised by a famous daddy or mommy and how that screws some kids up. I thought of that March of the Penguins movie, and those fragile eggs, a child of a celebrity probably has similar odds of survival, but in the end, it's hard to feel sorry for them when you see how much opportunity they're given, and in some cases, regardless of talent. Case in point: The worst part of the evening may have been the performance by yet another child of a celeb,  Alan Thicke's son Robin Thicke who was recently signed to Pharrell's new label. Talk about growing pains! Thicke the younger, sang R&B hip-hop songs that were embarrassingly bad, squeaky and strained notes escaped from his mouth while he hid behind a solidly confident demeanor.  His dad watched from a seat below, and models traipsed down the runway. I saw a few eyes roll, and Nicole Richie even left half-way through, though the guy next to me was into it as much as Pharrell was, who was dancing and clapping. I was so confused. Pharrell? Signed Alan Thicke's son...??? Who sings R& B? Wha...? I heard if you give Pharrell half a million dollars, he'll produce your record too.   But the main event was a fashion show and I managed to catch a glimpse— from what I saw Express is doing the same shit it always does and it is doing it as well as any brand can when designing for the masses. The tailoring might not be fabulous, but they manage to rip off the right designers, the body-suit with jeans look came right off the Ashley Paige

runway show last fall and I saw some Marc Jacobs and Trina Turk knockoffs too. Not horrible but I haven't worn Express since the 8th grade, and I'm not convinced I should start again now. The best part of the night was—the dirty martinis, the mini-hamburgers, and watching Devon Aoki work her way backstage, "I'm a model!" she told the security guard. At least she didn't say, "do you know who my father is?"

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I remember going to see L7 at London's Brixton Academy as a teenager. It was 1992, I was 15, and L7 were, in my opinion, the crown princesses of grunge. The show was pubescent riot grrrl heaven...I wore black eyeliner, torn fishnets and DM boots and wished I could look like them, an angry mess of lanky hair in faded hues of green and blue. I had recently watched their legendary live performance on the British TV show The Word, which culminated with Donita Sparks pulling her jeans down at the end of Pretend We're Dead. As she stood there, proud and defiant in her bushy glory, guitar hanging from her shoulders, I knew I was smitten. This is a photo of Donita and her tampon at the Reading Festival that year, shortly before said tampon was hurled into the crowd.

You can imagine my excitement when I heard that Donita was opening for X at the House of Blues last night, a show for which Steffie had blagged free tickets. We were running late, and as Steffie argued with the doorman about not being allowed to bring her camera in to the venue, I raced inside to catch the last moments of Donita on stage with her new band.

And there she was, same ol' attitude, same ol' voice...but with a hairdo so wrong it sent shivers down my scalp. Those majestic greasy locks of yore had been replaced with a heavily layered, peroxide mushroom mullet that looked like it belonged on the set of Dallas. It didn't help that she seemed dressed for the national drumline championships, in glittery blue cheerleader shirt complete with epaulettes.

From L7 to Loni Anderson - Donita, what happened?

Donita Sparks

Loni Anderson

(Photo of Donita Sparks by Sean Murphy, Photo of Loni Anderson by hissandpop.com, tampon pic from thenextleft.com)

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I love those nights that don't feel planned or forced in any way, but just become brilliantly memorable, seemingly of their own accord. That's kinda what happened at Bar 107 downtown on Wednesday. It was a party of some sort - can't remember whose - the guys from Killradio's GTFU were supposed to be DJ'ing but I think they didn't bother in the end. "I'm a terrible DJ," admitted GTFU's Aaron Farley. "I'll do things like play an entire Iron Maiden album."

But the sounds were great thanks to the very weird God's Gang which played on the bar's teeny weeny little stage. Picture one guy wearing Orbital style torch goggles yelling weird shit into distortion mikes. Then another dude playing a drum machine, yelling more weird shit. And a chick playing an electric guitar with a drumstick. It really shouldn't work, but it did. Everyone was rocking out.

Then the entire cast of Lucha Va Voom turned up in full regalia (they had just done their Mexican-wrestling burlesque show at the Mayan theatre nearby). One of the ladies was wearing a bikini made entirely of sweetheart candy. She invited me to lick her bra, which I did. Yum.

Then there was this weird guy giving people haircuts outside the bar. A mobile sidewalk salon, if you will. He even had a professional cape for his clients. I saw him cut one guy's hair - both of them standing up - and I must admit, he did a damn good job.

Amidst all this was an artist sitting on the kerb, quietly doing pencil sketches of the bar patrons who had come outside to smoke. He did a rather special one of my friend Alexis. It looks nothing like her, but I gave him $20 for it anyway, in the name of eclecticness.

It was only the first time I have been to Bar 107 but if every night is as fun as that night, then I will definitely be going back.

That was a really cheesy ending. Sorry.

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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Last night at the Brit Awards, Paul Weller was honored for his Outstanding Contribution to British Music. Now 47, the Original Style Councilor (OSC, like OG) formed The Jam in 1977, which means he was just a lad of 19 when the band released the brilliant All Mod Cons!     In interviews surrounding this big Brit to-do, Weller proved himself to be an eminently sensible man.     He told the BBC that a Jam reunion "will never, ever happen." Weller said reunion tours are "sad" and that "Me and my children would have to be destitute and starving in the gutter before I'd even consider that, and I don't think that'll happen anyway."     Weller also commented on the twisted nature of celebrity in an interview with Britain's Arts and Books Review: "I hate that whole celebrity culture thing, that thing where you can be famous for getting your tits out or going on some fucking reality TV show. It's a sad message to send out to the young generation." [via femalefirst.co.uk]    And regarding his fellow Brit Awards performers, Coldplay, Weller said, "They bore the shit out of me. I've met Chris Martin before and I don't want to slag him off because he's a lovely lad, but his music is too fucking bland." [via contactmusic.com]    I heart Paul Weller! Wonder if he's a single dad...

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I won't be joining my fellow Councilors at Taix Lounge tonight. Sorry, I love them, but I am a little sore around the aorta right now. I had met this dude. He was funny, smart, and talented (when he sings his voice is smooth and creamy like expensive French butter). He drives an enviro friendly car. He spent an entire weekend with me a couple of weekends ago. We held hands and talked about string theory, freewill vs. fate, we rolled on the sand at the beach at midnight, I sat on his lap and he put his arms around me and we played guitar like that. We drank copious amounts of Jim Beam and engaged in copious amounts of other activities, all weekend. And...I never heard from him again. I did the preliminary benefit of the doubt type stuff, he never got the emails, (oh yeah, I sent emails, I'm that much of a loser) or my favorite he's out of town and the town he's in doesn't have internet service.  A friend tells me to stop kidding myself, "you had your Before Sunset moment, enjoy it and move on," she says.  I know I only knew him for 3 days but I thought there was potential, I guess what I thought was, I'd like to get to know him better. Maybe I'm impatient, maybe it's Valentine's Day. This holiday has long been the kiss of death, the death toll, the grim reaper of my relationships. I never liked the holiday. When I was a kid, I was the buck-toothed big-headed girl who never got one of those silly pun valentine's day cards, you know the ones that have something like a bear on the front and when you turn it over it says "I like you bear-y much."  Other girls got them and the conversation hearts that read "be mine." No one wanted to be mine, I was still growing into my teeth. Then in high school, my boyfriend was a Jehovah Witness, celebrating holidays was against his religion, I was shit out of luck on the Whitman Sampler, funny though, how God managed to look the other way when we made out in his car. But it was my post-college boyfriend who really set the Valentine's Day jinx, we dated for three years and once a year, a week after Valentine's he'd break up with me. On Feb. 14th I'd get flowers, nightgowns, chocolates and cards that read things like "I can't live without you. You are the most beautiful woman..." by Feb. 18th, he'd break up with me. I'd whip out the cards as a joke, as if they were evidence in a trial, exhibit A: "Do you recognize this handwriting? Is this your handwriting? Did you say on Feb 14th that you (reading) can't live without' me?" We'd eventually get back together but each year, right after Valentine's Day, he'd do it all again. By the time I moved to LA from NYC, February 14th was like Friday the 13th to me.  So when this producer I had fallen for (I really thought he had made the moon and hung it)  asked me out on my very first V-Day dinner date, I scoffed at the idea, "we'll never get in anyway, Valentine's day is so gross, gross candy and tacky flowers" He had, though I did not know it, already made the reservation, and flowers (tuberoses and big fat juicy roses) were already on their way to my house, but at the last minute he had to leave to go on location for his film, and dinner was canceled. I quickly burned him a CD, a soundtrack of our two and half year build up to a relationship to take with him. I knew I shouldn't have put Peter Gabriel's In Your Eyes on it, cause a couple of weeks after Valentine's Day, he broke up with me. Never put In Your Eyes on anyone's ipod, cd, itunes, nothin' unless you've known that person 50 years. That song is intense. No one has the balls Lloyd did in Say Anything, they just don't make guys like that anymore. I think it has something to do with the death of parachute pants, but I could be wrong. I realize I am a common denominator here, and truth be told, I'm still growing into my teeth. But something about the holiday freaks guys out, I don't blame them, it freaks me out too. Maybe for all of us commitment phobes the idea of being forced to do something on a specific day goes against the freedom rattling in our bones.  But I have found ways— tried and true ones to fly solo on VD:  order expensive takeout, buy a bottle of really nice red wine, and watch some unromantic movies— never pick a happy ending movie (forget Walk the Line, The Notebook,  or Love, Actually) stick to movies where the couple either kills each other, like War of the Roses, or where they don't get together in the end like Irreconcilable Differences, or Shampoo. These schadenfreude flicks will do wonders for you, Kill Bill comes highly recommended. The other way to go is just to laugh — The Big Lebowski never fails, Super Troopers (High Times magazine rated this the #1 stoner flick of all time) Kings of Comedy. Me, I'm gonna have a couple of beers and work on my screenplay, maybe create a modern day Cusak character, minus the trenchcoat maffia jacket, of course...happy valentine's y'all xoxoxo L

Photo courtesy of 20th Century Fox (John Cusak, Say Anything still 1989)

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So I forgot to mention in my last post that Steffie and I also popped into the ol' Short Stop last Sat for an end-of-the-eve nightcap (tip: Going to bars really late is the best because everyone is totally drunk and jolly plus you always get a rockstar parking space!)

Anyway, I had been to the S.S. on Thursday as well and took some photos in their old school b&w booth with my pal Michelle (who you may know as the hot bar-mistress from Jumbo's Clown Room on weekends). We waited and waited but never got our photos, and finally gave up. Apparently this happens a lot...

I happened to mention it to the manager on my return visit Sat and he proceeded to give Steffie and I a fat stack of unclaimed photo-strips to look through. Unfortunately mine wasnt in the stack but look at this cute holiday-appropriate one that was.

Felt bad that this sweetie-pie went thru all the trouble of making signs in the bar and didn't get her payoff, so we stuck this in the little plastic window on the photobooth for everyone to enjoy (bet it's still there!).

I know "VD" day can be tough if you're single (I think we've all felt what Caroline feels -see post below) and I'm very glad to have someone I love in my life, but seriously, I'm the odd man out this holiday. All of my gal pals are single and they share a certain commaraderie that I can't relate to. I'm not complaining though. My girls never get resentful toward me even when I don't join in on their "men suck" rants...

Love is love and I'm glad to have so many people in my life that make me happy. That's what I tell my pals to focus on and that's what this day should be about.

That said, I still want all the benefits of being in a relationship and my hubby knows this so yes, I have roses on my desk as I write this and yes, I'll be going to a nice restaurant tonight (it's called Noe) and absolutely, I plan to be rumpling the sheets later. I know, I know so typical...

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This will be the second Valentines Day in a row I have no official object of affection. But this year, February 14th singledom feels perfectly OK,  compared with last year's Valentine's Day trauma. Back then I was stuck in the middle of a horrible unrequited love affair, my first of that kind.

Contrary to the Chaucerian notion of courtly love, there really is nothing diginfied about unrequitedness. All it does is turn you into a total cheeseball, making every song sound like it's for you; my favorites were 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' , The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face and  'Beautiful' (Gordon Lightfoot's version, not Christina Aguilera's).

Unrequited love makes you analyse your beloved's tiniest gestures because you're always hoping they may signify some deeper emotion...I'll always remember the afternoon she and I drove up the PCH and she fell asleep with her little finger tucked inside my belt loop...I didn't change gear for several miles for fear of disturbing this rare display of tenderness...

Sadly, the object of my desire at the time was in no mood for relationships. She was happy to 'hang out' but made a point of reminding me constantly that she had "nothing to give". "I am an empty well," she would sigh. I thought I was strong enough to provide enough love for the two of us, mainly because I truly believed in every bone of my body that this was the person for me.

She always commended my devotion and persistence, as did my friends. "Wow, you must really love her," they would marvel when time after time, the love of my life would decide it was all getting a bit heavy and back out. She and I must have broken up around 20 times in the year or so we were 'hanging out'. That's a personal record. Each time it got harder and harder, every separation would plunge me into a deeper state of lovesickness. My problem was, the writing was on the wall - I just chose not to read it. You can't make a person love you, no matter how much you give them, no matter how much they 'like' you. If they don't - or won't - feel it, it really is a losing battle. Thing is, I'm one of those people that hates giving up. I became addicted to the cycle of misery, the highs that came with each crumb of affection, and the lows that ensued when that affection was taken away.

She, in turn, became consumed by guilt, because she enjoyed my company but knew in her heart of hearts that her feelings were not the same as mine. It made her dislike herself, and it made her dislike me. So Valentines 2005 was spent drunk and teary-eyed with a friend at Jumbo's Clown Room, looking at strippers and wondering what my lover was doing and whether I would ever hear from her again. I did, and after two weeks she got cold feet, something that would happen again and again and again throughout the year.

My lows during 2005 were medicated by tequila and flings. Mainly innocent kisses, affection fixes. Some of those - one in particular - could have turned into something really nice but I was too confused and preoccupied to realize it at the time. At the end of the year she decided that actually she wanted to give it a go. She said she had loved me all along but was too unsure about me to admit it. We lasted about a month before she read my diaries and discovered I had made out with "half of Los Angeles" as she put it. She wrote a song about how slutty I was. She said she could never trust me and that she wanted to go back to how things were before. I knew that this would probably make me lose my mind so down we went in a blaze of glory, one last time, in a sea of tears and broken crockery.

There is a happy ending - I know that Valentine's Day 2006 will be spent in an altogether happier vein than Valentines 2005, with my good friends from the Style Council, at Taix lounge in Echo Park. If you're in an unrequited love affair, or if you're feeling blue, remember this - love only comes when it is ready to, you can't force it. And in the meantime, I suggest you come join us for a happy Valentine's Day drink - with cheap champagne we shall salute those lucky souls whom Cupid has blessed, and revel in the company of our dear and lovely single friends. Salut!

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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So the DVF party on Sat was a fun lil fete (see Steffie's post below) but heck, I haven't even told ya about my Grammy week craziness…. Well you can read the condensed version in my Nightranger column this Thursday (and by the way, please read the old columns here and here to catch up on my activities…sorry I've been MIA lately).

So first off, what does everybody think about the new Style Council banner? Can ya tell who's who? We were going for a kinda Charlies Angels type feel but if you no likey please let us know… there's been some debate about whether or not we'll be keeping it.

Anyway, Monday was like the most bizarre action-packed night ever, and for me that's saying something (ask Steffie... after the DVF party I dragged her to not one or two, but three more parties/clubs that night, including a full-on drag club…see pic of my longtime BBW BFF "Momma" and her "twin-sista" below).

So Mon., I had to sneak onto Hollywood Blvd to see The Fugees who I didn't even know were playing but just happened to have set up their stage right outside Basque, the club where  The Crystal Method were having their premiere party for London starring Jessica Biel. Jess was there looking hot of course, but I didn't recognize anyone else so I went  to the dressing room area and hung with the TCM guys (so nice!) in a fur-covered room that I'm told is the same space where Brad Pitt and a bunch o' young Hollywood types played cards in in Ocean's 11. Cool hang but I'm actually kinda on the fence about Basque itself… it's a bit cheesy and Disneyland-land-like, and the bartenders wear corsets which look so damn uncomfortable,  I even excused a rude bar-maiden who bitched when I ordered the sponsored drink of the night, "If you guys keep ordering mojitos, you're gonna have to wait longer dammit!" she scoffed as she crushed mint for my cocktail and I played with the party "prop" on the bar - a bowl of white powder and rolled up dollar bills. Either they do a lot of coke in the flick or they were just inspired by the electro duo's moniker, but either way, I think it disappointed people to find out it wasn't real, especially the really fucked up ones.

Next, it was onto the Henry Fonda for The Black Eyed Peas benefit. Great, melodious music by the group and the legendary Sergio Mendes, but you wanna know about Justin Timberlake doncha? Well he sang like bird and he looked handsome, not like a boy but a man. Here's a shot of him with Will-i-am (below). Next, it was onto Avalon where Kanye West performed. Kinda think he's too full of himself but I gotta give him props- he rocked the house. Loved his DJ too who spun Al Green and James Brown  midway thru the set. So the next day I got a buncha emailed gossip from my spies about what went down for inclusion in Nightranger, but I never have room for all the dirt I get really, plus I like to see stuff with my own eyes. Still, it was pretty juicy stuff so I figure I'll just post it here for you special blog readers. Gossip blogs are all the rage these days right?

Interesting happenings:Tom Cruise raised hands in approval when Kanye sang about the need for a pre-nup when getting married – he was there without pregnant Katie Holmes. Tom heaped praise on Kanye throughout the performance – yelling out 'Wow' and 'unf**king believable' – Tom was rewarded by a shout out from Kanye.During Kanye's performance Tom Cruise climbed up onto a balcony, using ropes to pull himself up, to escape crowds. By hauling himself up he joined Kanye's friends and family to watch the rest of the concertBritney Spears and Kevin Federline watched the performance from an opera booth above the stage. They actually got into a fight and Britney stormed out of the club. Kevin stayed at the party, drinking. Jessica and Ashley Simpson attended, but didn't want to walk the red carpet so they entered through the back. Maroon 5 singer Adam Levine, rumored to be dating Jess, was also at the concert .Paris Hilton partied in a private opera box with friends overlooking the stage. She was busy dancing but soon moved to the front of the box when Kanye took to the stage. She spent a lot of time kissing and cuddling with her fiancée Starvos. She was also busy checking her glitzy silver blackberry.Jeremy Piven was on the Spider Club dance floor drinking and chatting with several blonde women, after Kanye's performance.Jay-Z was there to support Kanye. He was keeping things under wraps - walking around Spider Club with his hoodie on after watching Kanye perform.

Okay, and that was just last Monday people. I'll be back in tomorrow to tell ya all about the other parties I went to this week, but right now I have to go spin my wheels like I do every Monday night (if you know where, come see me!). Speaking of which I've got some amazing gigs lined up for the coming months and I'll posting them here first! Be on the lookout!

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On Saturday night the Diane von Furstenberg store in West Hollywood hosted a benefit for the Silverlake Conservatory of Music, the non-profit music school founded by Red Hot Chili Pepper bassist  Flea in 2001. The 100 or so guests included musicians like Perry Farrell, fashionable folk wearing DVF, a smattering of gas-passing teenage boys (don't ask), and several supermodels toting their genetically blessed babies - most notably Flea's fiancee Frankie Rayder and their four-month-old daughter Sunny Bebop. (Yup, daddy's that into music.)    Justifying the event's $150 ticket price was a half-hour stripped-down set from three of the four Chili Peppers. The boys were in prime form, fresh off the recording of their new album Stadium Arcadium, due in May. A still-foxy Anthony Kiedis joked that they'd rehearsed for all of 37 seconds for this gig. "Next week we're at the laundromat," he said. And then the guy whose most famous outfit was a tube sock claimed that "Diane requested that everybody get naked." Maybe Kiedis hoped we'd all start wildly Californicating, but the only orgies I saw involved clothing and credit cards.    The trio did a crowd-pleasing version of "Under the Bridge," while a song from the new album got Frankie Rayder singing along with those amazing, pouty lips of hers. And speaking of lips and hotties, check out sexy Style Councilor Lina Lecaro, dressed to the nines in a vintage Diane von Furstenberg dress. Obsessed with all things lip-shaped (you should see her office, with its Dali-esque lip couch), Lina saucily struck a pose in front of this groovy Warhol print backdrop.      And if we'd had a spare 300 bucks, Lina and I both would have walked out with new wrap dresses in DVF's original 1970s animal prints. I had my eye on a slinky snakeskin number in shades of brown and beige. Neither of us tried our luck with the raffle (a dress was one of the prizes), but one extremely fortunate fellow took home three of five prizes (fair's fair, said Flea, in response to the protests of a party organizer who didn't think one guy should score all the booty.)     However the real action seemed to be going down outside the store. Finishing my champagne and trying to surreptitiously observe John Frusciante, whom I used to have a big crush on (for me, talent always trumps mental instability), I watched Anthony Kiedis mysteriously take off sprinting down the street and around the corner, never to be seen again. I tried to chat with Flea about the school and its needs but the new dad was just a little distracted. Our conversation went something like this:Me: Do you have two seconds?Flea: Not really...my wife...Me: Well, I don't want to bother you.Flea: You know, this has already taken more than two seconds.Me: Um, yeah. Well, I write a blog for LA Weekly and I was just hoping to get a quote from you about the Conservatory.Flea: Well, we just want to keep providing free lessons and musical instruments to children. Gee, really? And with that, Flea hurdled the barrier separating the invited guests from the Melrose riff raff, grabbed his bass from the valet, jumped in his car, and drove off. Apparently this is what it takes to keep Frankie Rayder happy. And you know what? I can't really blame him one bit.

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Coming down from the Grammy lemonade high, I was faced with the fact that the requests I had made to be added to lists for post Grammy parties had never been confirmed. Steffie was going to EMI, by total coincidence she was her friend's plus one. I called Caroline to ask her to be my date. She answered the phone, "Please tell me Cinderella gets to go to the ball!"  I gave it to her straight— we may or may not be on the list. The girls from the show were going to a Kanye West party at Vine Street Lounge and had invited us to tag along, but I had to take my chances with the Paramount Gates (the EMI party was on the studio lot) first. I'm a huge fan of Bob Evans, and watching The Kid Stays in The Picture turned those studio gates into symbols of something greater, of reaching some level of success. Gates, are designed to open. So I put on my women's fitted tux (sans shirt), picked up Caroline, who looked gorgeous in a purple wrap dress, and drove to the gates. We were ushered to the list master who asked for my name, she scanned pages and pages, I grew nervous, "I was a late edition, but I should be on there," I said haughtily, to disguise my anxiety. "No worries," she smiled, "Linda, right?"  Linda, yes. Whew. And we were in. There were tables set out in a fake NYC street, with a sushi bar, and a bar bar. We got a drink right away.  I saw the stage manager for the Gorillaz show and gave him a piece of my mind about the bait and switch. He seemed genuinely sorry, he told me to bring the Gorillaz to life cost 90 grand. Holograms ain't cheap. We sat down next to the guys from Arcade Fire. God I love Arcade Fire. I leaned over and told the dude I locked myself up for a month and did nothing but play Funeral. He smiled, said it was nice to hear, but I could also see he felt uncomfortable, not as uncomfortable as his girlfriend, who got up suddenly and said rather sternly, "I want to go dance!" He got up and followed her.  "I thought he was a waiter at first" Caroline said.  We made our way into a soundstage that was dressed for the occasion, where Joss Stone was already boozing it up. I saw Wanda Sykes at the bar and told her she cracked my shit up. "thank you sweetie," she said as she walked towards her friends. Suddenly a swarm of people descended up on us, and you could see Sir Paul McCartney in the eye of their swarm storm, Caroline made eye love with him (read her post). We met cute rocker boy after cute rocker boy, but they were all so serious, so indie, so... sober. What happened to rock n' roll? Where were the drugs, the slutty dressed chicks, the drunken meglomaniacs? Just as I was thinking we had gotten into possibly the lamest Grammy party ever, I made eye contact with Jakob Dylan, but before he could penetrate me with any kind of eye love thrust, I turned my head. I slowly turned my head back, and I caught him and his friend looking at us again! "Steffie," I said. "Jakob Dylan just looked over here." "Where?" she said as she turned her head to face him. "Oh my god, he was looking and he caught me looking." He was looking again. Oh sweet Jesus. Rumor has it he ended his marriage this month (though I haven't been able to confirm this). Something had to be done. What? I went through my list of acceptable ways to approach celebrities, Ask where the bar is? Nope, I had a drink in my hand that I wasn't willing to part with. Ask a brilliant question that shows you're a huge fan. Couldn't think of one that didn't have to do with his father. Tell them you like their outfit. Not applicable. In the end, after a few more glances, I came up with asking Jakob Dylan where the john was, and made for him, but Steffie grabbed my arm, "no you can't. It's too late now, we've made too much contact." And I lost Jakob Dylan like Apollo 13 lost the moon. Maybe one day we'll meet again and drive it home, with one headlight...

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I had the good fortune of meeting these three, Laura, Heather, and Ariel on the bus on the way to the Grammys (we're in full costume at this point). These chicks don't mess around, a security guard checking our bags on the way in discovered a pink water bottle in Laura's bag. "What's in this?" he asked. Without batting a pretty eyelash, Laura said, "that's my diabetic solution." The guard nodded and let us through. "what's in the bottle?" I asked not sure of what I heard. "Vodka," she whispered. "And you can totally have some." That was the beginning of our beautiful friendship, also the first in a series of lessons we learned about how to get around the Grammys like you own the place. With the dutch courage they smuggled in, and my leadership, we went everywhere and anywhere we wanted, thinking often (ok, once) of the other poor krak club kids watching from the ripped curtains.  We left our room telling our keepers that we were going on a "smoke break." Our real mission: to get backstage and on the main floor to watch the full dress rehearsal. Fuck that ripped curtain shit. With drinks in hand, we headed out, here's what we learned on the way:Lesson #1: No One Knows Shit at the Grammys This really is the golden rule. There are so many guards, security, staff, red coats, blue coats, black coats, and none of them communicate with each other. This can be manipulated and abused allowing you to ride the misinformation magic carpet to wondrous places...Lesson # 2 The Power of the WristbandWe popped into a super VIP room (hoping to catch a glimpse of Beck or Brandon Flowers) just by flashing our orange bracelets at a speechless guard. When we entered a woman with a clipboard approached the guard and asked "who were those girls?" The security guard shrugged and said, "they had wristbands." "What color were they?" He didn't know because see Rule #1. "You can't just let anybody in." Then flipping through the thick pages on her clipboard, she said, "red bracelets are ok, blue bracelets, ok..." "What about green?" asked the guard, "Are there green ones?" Frustrated of flipping the woman said, "Ok look, if people ask or look like they don't know, then they don't belong." Lesson #3: Just Add "Again"Pretending you belong seems obvious, but it's a lot harder than it sounds. One second of insecurity, a slight hesitation and the door closes. Besides a confident strut, when you pass someone with a clipboard walk briskly as if you do not have time for them, and say "Hi, AGAIN" even if it's your first time seeing them. They can't remember everyone plus see Rule # 1. By adding "again," they'll think they've already let you in once, therefore, you belong. Another thing that works time and again, "The Smile and Wave." When approaching a guard, we'd repeat the mantra under our breaths, "smile and wave girls, smile and wave." It worked like a charm while we were working our way down to the stage.Lesson # 4: People Don't Like to InterruptIf you aren't great at lying, you have two options AVOID EYE CONTACT altogether and chat away with your friends. As soon as we spotted a checkpoint, we'd start having an in depth conversation about god knows what, one of us would start talking, the other two would chime in, like an improv round in Whose Line Is It Anyway? If you're alone, grab the cell phone and pretend to have a heated debate (the more heated the better). This helped get us into the ultimate,  the pit of celebrities, the backstage area and green room, referred to as "the tunnel," the hall that led to the main floor. This is where we said "Howdy" to Tim McGraw, a favorite of Heather's, where I told Terrence Howard I liked his glittery gold jacket. "Thanks," he smiled before getting accosted by another rabid fan; where Teri Hatcher bumped into us while walking and practicing her lines. She said sorry. Ellen DeGeneres and Portia rushed past with a team of guards. And then slithering down the walkway, we saw her— Madonna, we were about to share a stage, but there she was, inching closer!  It broke my heart when she looked at us like we were made of vomit and pulled her hands to her chest, lest we get on her. I hate to say this cause I love Madonna, I was extolling her amazing ass during practice, but here's the truth—  in the cold light of the tunnel, her ass looked better than her face.  It was time for us to move on, if I wasn't mistaken I'm pretty sure that was Paul McCartney's voice I heard coming from the main room.Lesson # 5:  Talk to EveryoneYou never know who is who or who can help you out later. I chatted up a dude in a long ponytail wearing a headset earlier in the elevator. Who knew he'd be the guy outside the main room, the guy in charge of the production! This time "hi, again" wasn't a lie. "hey ladies," he waved. And in we went...Mission accomplished! We sat down in seats reserved for TV and movie stars and watched the show, U2 and Mary J., Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, Eve, Bonnie Rait, did I mention U2?... the house lights were up the whole time but we were still treated to a show of a lifetime!

And we still had our "performance" to look forward to.  We got back just in time, to gather for touch ups (though after watching the show I wondered why they bothered). We were brought to the stage, took our places, I got kind of nervous as I waited for the curtain to rise. And when it did, thousands of heads peered back at me, though they weren't looking at me at all, I'm sure they were marveling at the expensive holograms behind me, still, I was stage furniture at the Grammys and they can't take that away from me.

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So by now you've seen the Madonna-Gorillaz performance at the Grammy's on Wed. Holograms of the animated band rock-stared it out above what looked like a crumbled curtain, but what was, in reality, me and a bunch of 20-year olds who were chosen to play club kids passed out after a night of heavy everything. De La Soul came out and did a little rap around us, before heading off stage, then a Madonna hologram appeared and shook her ass a bit before running stage right where the REAL Madonna emerges from the other side of the stage and performs her hit, Hung Up. If you look at the feet of  Madonna hologram you will see a head in profile, that is me.  Only two people said they spotted me, but I was excited when my friend called Wed. night and said "I saw you! You just moved your head!" I saw it today and you could barely make out that we were human. A major news publication referred to the duet as "the most confusing opening act ever." They got it wrong. It kicked ass, though I will agree that our presence lying around the stage confused even us. But the stage designers for the Gorillaz had pitched me and the other 20 kids something else. What we got was the Grammy bait-and-switch.  The initial email said we would play dress up around the stage, in full costume and make-up, then we'd be able to hangout backstage and watch the Grammy's from a seat. Of course, we all jumped at the chance. Then things changed...When we got to rehearsal we became club kids, no longer moving around a stage, but passed out, and the day of the event, we were referred to by everyone as "dead people." Even our Grammy room plaque read "Gorillaz: Dead People" (we joked saying we found the dead people thing very offensive, and someone in charge felt bad and sharpied over it "club kids" and later a prankster scribbled the word  "krak" before it. The day of the show we were told we COULD NOT watch the full dress rehearsal, and we would NOT have backstage access. The kids were crushed and upset. We weren't getting paid, at this point they hadn't fed us, and we'd wasted two days (some of us three days) of our lives. A few of the kids ripped holes in the black fabric that turned a sky box into our dressing room, and were content to peer out to watch the backs of performers during practice. Not us. I had met three kick ass chicks who came prepared. The Grammys had handed us the cliched lemons and we were about to make sweet lemonade... 

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Even though he's a millionaire rock star, it totally sucks to be Sir Paul McCartney. I know, I saw him last night at the EMI Grammy party on the Paramount lot, and rather than enjoying the usual trappings of rock stardom - hot girls sitting on your lap, mountains of cocaine, vegan gourmet canapes - poor Sir Paul had to deal with literally dozens of old A&R men with sad Monkees haircuts jostling around him, desperate for their moment with Sir Beatle. Rather than stand in line with the losers, I went straight for the kill, and made eye contact with Sir Paul.

I smiled, I waved.

He smiled, he waved.

I smiled, I waved again, accentuating the pout a little more this time, working the cleavage.

He smiled, he waved back.

Then it got boring, so I walked away. Clearly the relationship wasnt going anywhere. Still - I reckon I was the hottest action he got all night.

I also made friends with Rodney Bingenheimer which was fun. He was standing talking to someone and I really wanted to say hello but thought to myself "I dont want to be that annoying girl who interrupts a celebrity's conversation with a dear friend just to make some inane gushing comment". Then I thought "you know what? fuck it".

I gently tapped him on the arm and apologized for interrupting, before telling him how much I admire him and all he has done to promote good music in Los Angeles. "Thank you for being you," I told him, and I totally meant it. Sincerity is a rare commodity in this town, and I guess he enjoyed it because he gave me his biz card and told me to tell everyone back in my home town of London that you can listen to him on the web now, at www.kroq.com. I guess they are podcasting his show or something - about bloody time. The man is a hero, a legend, a prince. I was very happy to have met him.

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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Talk about hot wheels: look who channels ONJ in the new video for her song "Sorry." I guess that makes it official - roller disco is back, baby! Not that anyone needed to tell me: I've been waiting for this moment since I was ten. Looking at the photos posted on Madonnalicious, I'm 99% sure that this video was shot at the Roxy in my hometown of NYC, which in its heyday even got Andy Warhol and Halston lacing up the brown rental skates.

Want more roller action? Read about my recent rink exploits with the LA Derby Dolls in the current issue of LA Weekly.

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I love Art Brut as though they were my own children. This band has it all - the wit, the hair, the affable cockney charm...they also have tickets and boarding passes for a plane back to the US, following their brilliant show at Spaceland last year. According to their publicist, the boys and girls from Art Brut - who penned my favorite song of 2005, "Moving to LA" - will be playing shows at SXSW, Coachella and right here at the Troubadour, on Sunday March 19.

As you can tell, I think they're rather good, but don't just take my word for it - here's what the proper music journalists at Spin magazine had to say about my fellow Londoners:

"In the spirit of sex you're too drunk for, drugs that don't work, and rock cliches that should be sharpied to your forehead, these Brits deconstruct bombast via bombastic guitar riffs. Sing speaking like he's working through a Learn to Read Handbook, frontman Eddie Argos makes fun of star-fuckers and meatheads. Star-fuckers and meatheads will totally headbang along"

Star fuckers and meat heads? This band was clearly destined for LA.

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Anyone watch The L Word on Sunday night? I have just three words for you - Rosanna Arquette, Shane the Hairdresser, and a strap-on. OK that's more than three words. More like three concepts, which go together delightfully.

When did television get this good?

(PS: Re-runs all week, boys and girls...)

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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I have a confession to make - I sat next to the rather famous LA artist Gary Baseman on Saturday night and I had no clue who he was. He mentioned his Emmy's, BAFTAs and all kinds of fun stuff and I still didn't catch on - I mean, after a while in LA you start to tune out to peoples' awards and stuff. It's like, if you don't have an Emmy, then what the fuck's wrong with you?

Anyway - I had just been to the opening night of the Friends Like Us exhibit at the Merry Karnowsky gallery on La Brea. Friends Like Us are two Miami-based artists who create fine art and plush toys that look like a cross between voodoo totems and Japanese anime characters - very spooky and totally great. Afterwards, the gallery owner Merry invited some guests for dinner at the nearby Amalfi restaurant. Among the group were jewelry designer Tarina Tarantino and her partner Alfonso Campos, (complete with reality show camera crew that is following them around for the next six weeks), Richard Colman, the brilliant artist who warned me he was a "fucking weirdo" and Gary Baseman, who was seated to my left. I asked him his name and he pulled out a little postcard bearing his work. On the back he wrote a message reading "To Caroline, Toby Loves You". Toby is a little clown-dog character who regularly appears in his work. Baseman had drawn Toby and a character looking suspiciously like me, naked, in the Jennifer Aniston Rolling Stone cover pose. Cute. I showed it to my artsy friend sitting