Right now, this very exact second, I am listening to the Eagles of Death Metal playing "I Only Want You" as they perform live on top of the Arclight building in Hollywood.

How is this possible? Is it because I have a super dupa Blackberry or Sidekick allowing me to blog remotely?

No.

Is it because the LA Weekly joined forces with the Arclight and set up Style Council blogging stations at strategic points around Hollywood?

No.

It's because the Eagles of Death Metal are quite clearly one of the loudest bands on earth. I can hear every beat of Sam Maloney's drum, every Little Richard-esque squeak from lead singer Jesse "Devil" Hughes - even though I am sitting in my garage...in Los Feliz.

Did sound always travel this far in Los Angeles? Maybe EODM aren't the loudest band in the world - maybe it's just that Angeleno ears are abnormally senstive to even the faintest trace of rock n roll. Like sharks and blood, maybe?

Who knows - either way, I got one step closer to the action when I spoke to The Gray Kid (real name Steve) on his cell. I had called him about something else, and he happened to be there, soaking up the party atmospshere. "There's models and bands and egg rolls," he told me. "I don't mind getting my Gucci dirty for this. Let's rap tomorrow, OK?"

And with that he hung up, leaving me sitting alone in my Los Feliz garage, wishing I was some place else. Love that kid.

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Walking into the shopping mall with the big pink cherry blossom on the corner of Alameda and 3rd at 8pm on Saturday night, it didn't seem possible that somewhere past the fake stone columns, broken escalators, and closed sushi restaurants the L.A. Derby Dolls were whipping around a track, knocking each other to the ground in the name of fun and sport. But the dayglo signs reading "Derby," with helpful arrows, assured me and my friend Alexis that we were in the right place. Once we got to the top, the tuff tattooed boys and Betties on wheels announced that while we might be in Tokyo Town, we were on the Dolls' turf now.

Saturday's bout was a showdown between the Fight Crew and the Tough Cookies, whose logo is a girl scout emblem crossed with switchblades. Short skirts that fly up to reveal lacy panties and bruised butt cheeks are part of the appeal, and from our trackside vantage point in the press area, I saw it all. Panties aside, I also began to finally understand how the game works: points are scored by the jammer, who must lap all the members of the other team, and then gets a point for each one she passes the second time. Talk about the fast and the furious! Falling flat on your ass and tumbling down the track is par for the course; at one point Markie D. Sod, glammed out with stacked cleavage and blue eyeshadow, barreled straight into the railing, pulled herself around in a full somersault, landed on her back, and skated away without breaking a sweat. I think we were more scared than she was. Tough cookie indeed.

Yeah, the cute girls are irresistible, but it took a shemale to bring me and Alexis to our knees. Karis, that skinny hipped hula hooping enchantress, was the half-time entertainment, and we howled like wolves as s/he stripped down to a sparkly g-string (he is, in fact, still a he). Frankly, I was more floored by his post-performance outfit: tight boy scout shirt, high-waisted plaid pants, and high-heeled boots. The lust I felt was a little confusing, I have to admit, but I liked it.

By the end of the night, Alexis was ready to sign up for roller derby, and not just so she could impress Karis. I fully backed the idea, "but you need a derby name," I pointed out. She paused, blinked her eyelashes, and responded, "Alexa Cution." And there you have it. Look for this tough cookie on the track real soon.

photo by Wendell Llopis

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Corey Haim and Corey Feldman.  A & E has apparently picked up 8 episodes of The Coreys: Return of the Lost Boys, the former teen stars will fill you in on where they've been. How they went from that(above) to this (right)....
I guess not that much has changed, not even their hair... Except A & E, does anyone remember when that network had intelligent programming, sure you'd avoid the Bob Villa crap on the weekends, but usually there was something well-produced and smart, before the days of Dog the Bounty Hunter, and Gene Simmons.

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Cause not all pedophiles like girls...Wait a cotton brief minute!!!  Do you think that's Dov Charney's crotch?

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Baby's first words: "You're fired."

I've seen dogs in Chanel. I've seen cats with diamond collars, but I never thought I'd see this— Baby Toupee. The first ever wig company for infants. I am not shitting you. Styles include, the Donald, The Bob (as in Marley), The Lil Kim and The Samuel L. Jackson.

Press release: "Having a baby doesn't mean you have to stop having fun or do everything by the book," said Graham Farrar, Proud Parent, Founder & Big Wig, BabyToupee. "At BabyToupee, we don't take ourselves or our products too seriously. In fact, BabyToupees are just the first of many fun products designed to give that special baby a little extra personality and to ensure that parents retain theirs…along with a sense of humor."

I guess they just want to take the edge off being a parent. Some people are calling it "cruel" or "sick." I don't think so, but laugh now, when little Gina is later arrested for smoking dope, does jail time, or shows up to Christmas dinner wearing naught but a pastie, that wig might come back to haunt you...

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Maybe it's my "nesting instinct" kicking in or maybe I've just been watching too many home-improvement themed TV shows (I'm somewhat of a packrat but the piggish horders on programs like "Clean House" and "Neat" make me feel downright organized and minimalist by comparison)… Whatever the reason, I've had the urge to purge lately.

So my pal Michelle and I had a huge yard sale on Sunday at her place on Vermont Ave. in Los Feliz. For days before, I mercilessly scoured thru my stuff, much of it dusty and even unfamiliar, as it had been in storage long enough for me to forget about it. Like a visit with old friends, I was happy to see a lot of it: past Halloween costumes that might make a comeback, journals from my wild twentysomething years ( a book someday?) and stuff I'd like to pass on to my daughter (my doll collection featuring Cher, Charlie's Angels and the very glam "Superstar Barbie" complete with boa and diamond jewelry).

Still most of the stuff I unearthed just looked like trash to me and I wondered why I had held unto it for so long. I wanted the shit out of my life now.

I collect stuff with lips (it's a Warhol/Rolling Stones thing) and lions (I'm a Leo) mostly, but I've also got a hefty load of 70s swag (clothes and décor) and uh, purple stuff. Yeah I said purple stuff… as in anything purple: plastic boxes and doodads, fluffy faux fur and fabric, basically useless junk that I always thought I'd have use for some day, like when I got that big house with a "craft room."

Alas, I'm all about the here and now these days and my current place is too small, especially with a new addition on the way. I needed to make more room in my outdoor storage bins so it was time to ask myself some serious questions about the crap I had accumulated. Out went half of my lion collection (including lots o' Disney's Lion King items… that film was huge for me when it came out), any Rolling Stones things that I had two of (there was a lot) and clothes that I haven't worn in 2 years (the one year/6 month rule really isn't applicable to us pregnant gals).

You'd think it'd be painful to part with stuff I've been holding onto for so long, but with a few exceptions, it wasn't. As waves of Latino families, trendy teenyboppers and old ladies plowed thru my colorful items and took them away throughout the day, I felt lighter and lighter. Clothes that I had long ago rejected, gotten sick of or regretted ever purchasing were now going to gals who totally appreciated each piece and that felt good (even if they paid $2 and I paid $20 and sometimes $50-80). Toddlers carried away my fuzzy, well-cared for stuffed animals and toys, old men walked away with piles of books I planned to read but never did (many of which I got from the Weekly gratis) and at the end of the day one lucky fella got a giant box of CDs (some of them actually good) for $5... okay they were Amoeba rejects, but still.

There were a few overzealous bargainers who just got on my nerves, and my friend Michelle's. She had a load of pricey jeans (Frankie B, Seven, etc) that she was practically giving away at $5 each, and some people actually had the nerve to say "One dollar???" She promptly snagged them out of their arms and said forget it, opting to try her luck at a resale store like Buffalo Exchange instead. The same thing happened between me and and old bat over a mint condition purse from the 1960s, I wanted $8; she wanted to pay a buck. It came back home with me and I'm sure I will get at least $20 for it on Ebay.

My toughest sale of the day will probably sound like the strangest- that of my once beloved Ronald McDonald cloth doll.

I carried that damn thing everywhere as a kid and I loved it. I'll never forget the day I got it either. I was to meet the "real" Ronald McDonald at a Glendale Micky D's after begging my mom to take me, but when I got there and actually saw him in all his garish, red and yellow glory, I was terrified. I started crying and hiding but the persistent clown was determined to make me like him. Despite a long line of kiddies who wanted to meet him, he focused on me, talking slowly and patiently as my tiny, teary face peered thru my mother's knees (in retrospect, I think the dude had a crush on her- my mom was/is hot). Anyway, I really liked him after that and cherished the doll he gave me in his likeness. I later got the Hamburglar Doll too and though he was supposed to be a bad guy, I liked him just as much.

Both were dingy and tattered when I found them at the bottom of an old box recently, filled with years of tears and joyful moments, though their later years were spent in unlit garage exile as I went on to prettier baby dolls and plusher, cuter stuffed animals. I thought about keeping 'em but Hamburglar's head was water-damaged and Ronnie was downright brownish and a bit stale smelling. Still, I knew he'd sell, and sure enough some foreigner, French I think, wanted him.

A brutal bargaining bout ensued. I asked for $10, he offered $5. I offered to give him the Hamburglar too (really, I didn't want to separate them) if he'd just gimme the 10 spot, but the guy wasn't having Hammy's shredded head. "Six dollars," the Frenchman said, adding that Ron Don wasn't in the best condition himself. "Eight," I countered, telling him about my past with the thing. We had a deal.

By day's end, I made about 200 bucks and was able to pack all the unwanted stuff into three boxes. Though none of it came back home with me, I have to admit my place is still pretty crowded. I could definitely use another purge session, though sitting in the sun all day aint gonna happen anytime soon. I'll probably just go straight to Out of the Closet, where the remaining stuff from our yard sale is now available. By the way, if you happen to be thrift shopping and see Hamburglar, give him a kiss for me will ya?

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I had the distinct pleasure of hanging out with half of Ima Robot a few weeks ago, Timmy Anderson and Alex Ebert. Ok, maybe "hanging out" is a bit misleading. I could slightly mislead you further and say that it ended by the pool with Alex Ebert in a bathrobe, to find out more check out the link below:

http://www.laweekly.com/la-vida/la-vida/the-myth-of-the-mc-hammer-pants/14497/

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On Sunday night or was it Monday? I had the opportunity to accompany my boyfriend to the Ray La Montagne show at the Troubadour. "Who?" I asked him. "Dunno, but it's sold out and supposed to be amazing, and I got free tickets" he replied. And free tickets are free tickets, so I agreed to go, sight unseen, or whatever that expression translates to when referring to hearing. Song unheard? Whatever. My first indication that people really dug this guy was the chick who approached me as I was walking up to the venue to ask me if I had an extra ticket offering me double the face value. Turns out folks were willing to pay upwards of 100 bucks for a 25 dollar ticket. Crazy. That really piqued my interest and also made me feel pretty lucky for the freebie. Who was this guy to command such a mark-up?
Welp. I found out in the first two minutes. He reminded me of a 70s era Cat Stevens a bit, intensely lyrical. Or an introverted James Taylor. The songs were all like lullaby tales of love and longing, you know, exactly what you'd expect when you see a singer songwriter with an acoustic guitar. In between songs you could hear a pin drop. The audience hung on every word, had there been any words, in-between song banter is not La Montagne's thing. But he was so revered by the crowd, he could give Jesus a run for his crucifix. People shushed even someone's involuntary cough.

The place was wall to wall couples, all vertically spooning, and nuzzling, and kissing. My boyfriend kept a hand on me, but when he attempted a reach around embrace, it made us both laugh, given the sappy love we were already drowning in, so we headed upstairs for a scotch and vodka.

It was there I saw Morpheus. Sitting above the crowd in the reserved side mezzanine was a tall Laurence Fishbourne. I only briefly made eye contact, my passing had apparently disturbed his rapture.

My boyfriend and I nabbed a comfy couch in the VIP room and listened to the music, heads drooping with fatigue. Until two LOUD and very drunk lesbians (I know they were lesbians cause they kept talking really loud about how they were REAL lesbians as they made out on the couch next to us) squealed, not kidding squealed so loud my heart jumped. "OH MY GOD YOU'RE MORPHEUS! I LOVE THE MATRIX!" We turned to catch the less fat one accosting the actor who had come up to use the restroom. He seemed more embarrassed for being the impetus for the gaping hole in the sanctity of the performance, than for any celebrity stalker moment. He quietly smiled and hurried back to his spot. But the ladies couldn't let it alone, they kept going on and on, yelling "CAN YOU BELIEVE? Morpheus!!" Then they grabbed their over sized handbags and went to chase the poor man. With them gone we nestle back into our seats, and went back to sleep. Not bad for a free Sunday. Or was it Monday?

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Me. 11:30 pm, in bed, my glasses are taped together on the left side with electrical tape, somewhere, as I click and clack on the laptop, the thought goes through my head, I don't have enough money for gas and the reserve light is on. some cheap ass mulit colored jalapeno shaped Christmas lights bought for 50 cents at a yard sale, surround my bed, providing some kind of ambient lighting. and I'm clutching my stuffed Charles Darwin doll, Chuck to me, like a cherished childhood toy. Like a good luck charm. I'm working on a script. How fucking lame is that? How cheesy? How LA? But I have to say two years ago I was sitting in a similar situation, same glasses, minus the tape. And I was working on a script in New York City. That one was re-optioned this year. That one, for a paltry sum, someone bought the rights to shop around and help set up with a studio, so that they can make more money than me on it later. That one has sat on a shelf in a few agent's offices, and if the people who bought the rights to it are to be believed, sat on a lot of shelves. Two years now. How much dust could collect, if left undisturbed, on a three-hole punched, brass brad-ed pile of words, I wonder. What, maybe a half inch? I can't imagine. But this script ,the one I'm working on now, well this script has been half done for over two years. Yet, despite the dire situation, my prior laziness, and even as I hear rent's winged chariot hurrying near, I'm kind of glad, that at the very least, I am working on pursuing some dream I have, and for the first time in a long ass while, I'm not just sitting around talking about it.

Oh, and I'm pretty sure my cell phone just got turned off.

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Summer Strummer

A funny thing happened on the way to Summer Strummer on Sunday night.... Lina Lecaro's baby shower was the baby shower of the year. And this proves it: My plus one got to the show before me and was denied entry, he complained saying he couldn't reach me since I was at a baby shower. "Oh, is she at Lina Lecaro's baby shower? I wanted to go to that!" exclaimed the chick at will call, who then let him right in... I arrived later to find that the festival was a bit of a non-event. At least by the time I got there, crowds had thinned to a mall show level low. And we hopped from one stage to another, but the Bergamot Station parking lot where it was held was so small, the Coachella like exodus after each set felt a little ridiculous. Highlights for me included checking out the chick ahead of me at will call, cute shoes, cute dress, cute hair, only to discover I had been giving the once over again and again to Susanna Hoffs, I probably came off like some Bangle-starved fan, it was very uncool, I also had the good fortune of catching (actually picking up off the floor) the guitar player from Bangkok Five's pick, which he had tossed at us. My friend Sarah and I saw it assailing through the crowd landing on the asphalt between us. Neither one of us really wanted it, but I picked it up to save the fellas feelings. Bangkok Five sort of rocked, the lead singer's posturing a la Mick Jagger and bug eyed expressions got us riled up a bit, but then it was on to see the Donnas. I spent the entire set trying to decide which Donna I'd go for, in the end my friend Steve and I decided on the guitarist. But there is a Belinda Carlyle charm to the lead singer that's so fetching. My friend Sarah was all for the drummer. But it was unanimous the bass player has to go. Not cause she's dowdy, but because she's sour, I'd be having a great time rocking out and I'd look over at the bass player and she'd just bring me down. She looked like she'd rather be somewhere else. In any case, I was battling an extreme bout of hair envy. My thought of thir wavy thick virgin hair were interrupted by my friend Sarah's observation— these girls could be selling out and selling their bodies through their music, oversexualizing themselves to get radio play, but they don't. They just came here to rock, like old school rock, you can't have their bodies, they won't even let you think it for a second, but they'll spoon feed you their music. I want their hair. The Donnas finished up just in time for us to catch the last Matthew Sweet and Susanna Hoffs duet. It was so soft and lulling but I was distracted by how fat Matthew Sweet has gotten. The quiet rambling was finally put to rest as we walked the final foot shuffling walk over to see rawk-ous Kinky take the stage. Within a few minutes we were hooked. We danced like possessed people in a trance to the rock, dance, latin beats. We loved the funky accordian, and the Freddie Mercury meets Cheech dude who came out and danced his skinny hippy ass off across the stage. I wanted mas y mas!!

(note) We hear Kinky is set to tour the Northwest with Gram Rabbit in early October, which is perfect, two desert bands, double the rock-electronic-funk. I'm sure that will be a good time. Look out for LA dates...

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While a few pals questioned the choice to have my co-ed baby shower bash at Boardner's in Hollywood, they soon saw that it wasn't quite what they expected.

This place sure aint the rock dive of yore!

First of all, owner Tricia Labelle has really classed it up, adding and revamping the art deco touches that were always there and putting in a pretty new bar counter top, fireplace and booths. Other changes, in the adjoining dance room, include stained glass like murals and a new layout. It's really quite dramatic and beautiful, but not in the blingy, over the top way many new clubs in Hollywood (which shall remain nameless) are these days.

My soiree was outdoors in the New Orleans style patio with tables surrounding a giant, candle-filled fountain. Yeah, this is the place where goth types roam about in black vinyl on Saturdays (Bar Sinister) and jailbate hipsters smoke and flirt their brains out on Wednesday (Club Moscow) but Sunday it was decidedly unclubby, more like a cheerful garden party thanks to my pal Stacy's sweet flower and balloon decorations; I might be untraditional but I still like pretty things.

Speaking of untraditional, the first gift I opened, a teeny weeny push-up bra and g-string set (for the baby) and matching set for moi was definitely that.
This was a joke gift…I think.

Got tons of adorable clothing, some with images of my fave band, The Rolling Stones emblazoned on the chest (she will like the Stones, trust me!) and some with more girly heart and bow motifs.

"My daughter has more clothes than I do and she's not even born yet!" proclaimed my hubby when we got home and I started organizing her new ensembles. Well, of course she does, she's gotta if she's gonna be a mini-Style Council member!

Speaking of which, all the S.C. gals we're in attendance at once yesterday, which was really nice and believe it or not, pretty rare. Here's the proof...

My party favors sure were a hit: I burned a special DJ Double L baby mix cd featuring the following tunes (it will be posted as an official iTunes iMix tomorrow).
BADASS BABY MIX
1. Expecting- The White Stripes
2. Crazy Mama- The Rolling Stones
3. Sugar Magnolia- Grateful Dead
4. Cry Baby- Janis Joplin
5. Changes- David Bowie
6. No Sleep (Til Brooklyn)- Beastie Boys
7. Pretty In Pink- Psych Furs
8. Charlotte Sometimes- The Cure
9. Sweet Child o' Mine- Guns n' Roses
10.Baby Doll- N*E*R*D
11. Papa's Got a Brand New Bag- James Brown
12. ABC- The Jackson 5
13. Push It- Salt n' Pepa
14. Can't Take My Eyes Off You- Lauren Hill
15. Family Affair- Sly & the family Stone

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A friend recently asked me, in a mildly condescending manner, "You were into the Smashing Pumpkins, right?" I took that to mean, You were the kind of girl so attracted to troubled, sensitive boys with guitars that you'd forgive criminal degrees of neurosis and whininess, right? To which I could only respond: "TOTALLY!"

There's no getting away from how much I loved the Smashing Pumpkins. No matter how much of a freaky chrome-dome megalomaniac zero Billy Corgan turned into, or how much of an insufferably precious poet he may even have been from the start, there was a time when I was deeply moved by his tortured fairy tale-meets-self help lyrics. Of equal or greater importance, there was a time when he fucking rocked my world…and I do mean ROCK: monumental, explosive guitar riffs that fill your body like a truck rumbling by and make it hard to concentrate on anything but the heavy arc of your head, banging. And holding on to your beer, of course.

It all came back to me yesterday afternoon in my car, when Indie 103.1 dropped "Today," from 1993's Siamese Dream, into the playlist. It's the Buddhist Pumpkins song ("Today is the greatest day I've ever known/Can't wait for tomorrow/I might not have that long"), and I probably hadn't heard it for a decade. Here's the stanza that really kicked it home those many years ago: "Pink ribbon scars/That never forget/I've tried so hard/To cleanse these regrets/My angel wings/Were bruised and restrained/My belly stings." [insert wailing solo] I know, it's enough to make anyone cringe, but I was a Gen Xer and NOBODY UNDERSTOOD ME. Billy did, or at least I thought I understood him.

Tragically, I was away for the summer in 1991 when the Smashing Pumpkins played in Port Chester, New York at my local bar, The Beat (capacity 100), so when the Siamese Dream tour happened, there was no way I was going to miss that show. Except, I didn't get tickets. I thought some friends who knew Billy from Chicago were going to get me on the list, but they didn't, of course, so I went to the sold-out show at Roseland with my best pals Katie and Barry, planning to scalp. I don't recall if there were no tickets or if they were just way too expensive, but we had no luck. So I decided that we were going to have to talk our way in; more to the point, I would talk our way in. We went around to a side entrance for artists and VIPs, where a big black man was planted at the door. I shared my trite saga with him: love the band soooo much, didn't get tickets, soooo sad. Please mister please. Uh, yeah right. Except he didn't act mean or tell me to get the hell out of there, he said to wait. And waiting was something I could do. People came and went, my friends hung back by the curb, annoyed and filled with doubt. "Get up here you guys," I hissed. Suddenly, five or six people came through the door and as it swung wide I could see the hazy purple stage lights and hear the roar of the crowd. My eyes met the doorman's, and I nodded to him, meaning, "Now?" Without waiting for an answer I grabbed Katie's hand and slithered past him, through the cluster of people, straight into the light and right smack into the VIP section on the side of the stage. It was a miracle. We were ecstatic. But where was Barry? He wasn't with us. I pictured him forlorn on the sidewalk, a big iron door between him and Pumpkinland, and let's face it, there was no way I was going back out onto the cold New York City street. He'd understand.

Okay, but I wasn't that much of a bad friend. I summoned all my will like a superheroine whose power is getting into sold-out shows: I would get him in too. I looked around for the nicest seeming person I could find, and settled upon a handsome, grinning bald fellow with weird glasses and big sideburns. "Can you help me?" I asked, and for whatever reason, he too had sympathy for my plight. That guy – who would turn out to be Craig Wedren of Shudder to Think, the opening band – went outside, asked for someone named Barry, and slapped a VIP sticker on his jacket. "Come with me," he said, leading Barry to me and Katie within five minutes. All was right in our universe.

Of course, that was before I ran into a boy who'd broken my heart that summer and then smoked a joint laced with PCP, but those things were still just phantoms of the future, more bruises on my angel wings and regrets I would try so hard to cleanse later. For a fleeting rock 'n' roll moment the purple light rained on me, those majestic riffs seared through my body, and I sang along to every precious word with my best friends at my side. It was truly smashing.

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Imagine if Peter Pan had been a fucked-up teenage vagrant with a permanent hard-on, Wendy had been a cum-drenched junkie living in Brooklyn and Captain Hook had looked something like Mickey Rourke - you'd think to yourself, "I bet Larry Clark had something to do with this". Well guess what, he does - I spoke to Larry this evening and he told me he had just come home to LA from NYC where they are casting for his new movie called Blood of Pan, a modern, Lost Boys-esque update on the classic fairy tale.

"The script is very, very dark and it is very good, and I was just in New York talking to Mickey Rourke about playing Hook" he told me. In the movie, Wendy is living in Brooklyn when Peter comes and finds her. "Let's just say Peter has been with a lot of Wendys," he chuckled. I forgot to ask him whether Peter and Wendy actually do end up fucking - but put it this way, I'll definitely stop beliving in fairies if they don't.

Clark is also casting for another movie called Shame, which he co-wrote with David Reeves and is a re-make of Neil Jordan's Mona Lisa, this time set in New York City. "We wrote it three years ago and are ready to make it now," he said.

Coincidentally, I ran into Kiko, one of the kids from Clark's last movie The Wassup Rockers on Sunday. He was skating down Hollywood Blvd. with two buddies and I was in my car on the way to Boardner's, where my fellow Style Councilor Lina was throwing her baby shower. I pulled over and we had a quick chat, and Kiko told me he is still skating everyday with Danny Minnick, the film's choreographer. He is adorable, so I took his number and plan to use it in two years when he is legal.

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The line of literally hundreds of kids outside the Shepard Fairey "Rise Above" art show opening on Saturday reminded me a little of Dirk Diggler's penis in Boogie Nights - as in, "is this the longest thing in the world?"

Thankfully I write for Shepard's magazine, Swindle, which meant me and my homz could bypass the craziness outside and walk straight in. Inside there were approximately a million people, including Jared Leto (still rocking his teen goth look 20 years too late), The AFI's Davey Havok (Jared Leto's style icon), graffiti artist SABER (who created the biggest piece of graffiti in the world in 1997 on the cement banks of the LA River) and our very own Mark "Cobra Snake" Hunter, who used to be Shepard's intern. I caught up with Jeff Penalty, lead singer of the Dead Kennedys and frontman of Black Fag, a gay Black Flag tribute band. Their campy interpretation of 'Wasted' WILL change your life. Jeff told me his ultimate dream is to get Henry Rollins on stage with Black Fag, in drag. I don't think it will ever happen - I mean, how is Rollins ever gonna get a frock over that gargantuan neck of his?

The exhibit, held at the Merry Karnowsky gallery on Beverly and La Brea, was called "Rise Above", in reference to a Black Flag song. "Jealous cowards try to control... rise above, we're gonna rise above." The art was classic Fairey, a collection of striking, politically-charged collages in reds and blacks exploring the fine line between art, mass media and brainwashing. A number of portraits provided tender homage to some icons of our time - from Malcolm X (the largest and most expensive piece in the collection, priced at $7,500) to Steve Jones (the only piece which had NOT been sold when I checked).

The most amusing comment of the evening came from an unidentified hipster who was overheard saying "so was it Shepard Fairey who came up with the whole 'Obey your Thirst' thing?" I'll check with Sprite's coprorate branding office, but somehow I think not...speaking of drinks, top marks to the whiskey and apple juice cocktail being served up front, nil points to the fucking horrible green 'Mescal Mojito' which we immediately renamed the "Home Depot Mojito" thanks to its uncanny resemblance to paint stripper.

The gallery was so packed that  - horrors - the bars actually ran out of plastic cups. There weren't even any price lists for the art  - "We printed, like 80," said the gallery girl. At this point there were still hundreds of kids outside waiting to get in, so Shepard's wife Amanda took control of the situation and loudly requested that all the lounging schmoozers (us included) please leave so that actual fans could get in and see the art before the show closed.

After that we headed off to the Kibbitz Room for the Neckface opening after party, and as we walked down Fairfax towards the bar we bumped into none other than our favorite pixie of rock, Rodney Bingenheimer. I chastised him for not calling me back after I met him at the EMI Grammy party in February. I had left two messages on his machine and he never called me back. He insisted he never got them and we made pixie friends again. 

Inside the Kibbitz Room was a crowd of wasted baby hipsters chowing down on free Canters sandwiches and coleslaw, and making full use of the open bar. I saw Cobrasnake again, who was bummed out because the New York Times had written shitty things about his girlfriend Cory Kennedy, who I wrote a story about for the Weekly a couple of months ago. I have not read  the piece, but can only imagine what an easy target Kennedy would have been for the pretentious schmos at the NYT. It really irritates me when journalists take the high moral ground - we have no right to. Everyone knows us writers are nothing more than sniveling alcoholic freeloaders who never pay for their own drugs or cigarettes and are generally much shittier and more shallow than the shitty shallow people we write about. Rant over... 

I spotted the artist Gary Baseman milling around the sandwiches and he berated me for making him out to be a conceited asshole in a story I write a while back. We made friends again over one of his new Gary Baseman Hint Mints, which feature his art on the packaging and come in cinnamon, mint or chocolate.

Then he introduced me to the luscious blond artist Natalia Fabia who paints portraits of pretty young tattooed things. I was floored when she asked if I would be interested in sitting for her. Even if it means I have to get a full sleeve and be disowned by my mother - Natalia, the answer is YES!

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I dont know if I am the only one who finds it amusing that Tai, the 37-year-old elephant that was the star of Banksy's Barely Legal show, has been booked to star in Christina's latest pop video. Aguilera is, after all, merely a more talented version of Paris Hilton, whom Banksy ruthlessly disses on his website.

My super secret source informed me that Christina will be singing songs on top of Tai, clearly the hardest working quadruped in Hollywood, at a shoot this coming week. I never thought I'd meet an elephant that earns more than I do but - hey, this is LA...

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The Banksy show ended at 8. Already I knew in my heart of hearts that I would not see the elephant. But I was glad in a way. I don't trust elephants anymore after watching an episode of the Animal Planet, about pachiderms who had had enough and went on rampages, killing their handlers at circuses, crushing villagers in India. Nobody knows what sets them off. Their rage is completely unpredictable. Anyway, I might've miss the whole damn thing. It was 7:35 and I was lost Downtown. What proletariat artist has a show during the day, when people have to work?  After calling 5 people, none of whom could tell me if Alameda hit Santa Fe,  I resorted to the 10 and found it right away.

At least I thought I found it. I wasn't sure if I was in the right place, the warehouse was heavily peppered with beautiful people. Not only beautiful but well dressed people, well dressed in expensive clothing. Girl with manicures, Boys with shiny shoes. This was not at all what I expected from a Bansky show. Sure there was a handful of malcreant graffitti kids, a few tatooed rable rousers, but by an large the crowd was gorgeous. Everywhere I turned my ears were flooded with "brilliant," "amazing" "genius" blah blah blah "important." I liked what I saw. It was like a Highlights game, "Find What's Wrong in This Picture."  It was humbling and humiliating. Yes, my society was hypocritcal, capitalism is evil, democracy is a joke.  I felt shame and I loved it,  the way a Catholic guilt laden person only could. But after a while, the game grew tiresome. Banksy is a lot like the guy drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa, again, and again, and again. Like his Bob Ross like paintings of villages and panoramas, that he so cleverly altered with modern touches—  surveillance cameras in a clearing in the woods, graffiti tagged old world cabins. His pranks ran on a video loop in another room, depicting how he doctored Paris Hilton's CD cases and put them back on shelves, the CDs now on display in a case covered with large hissing cockroaches and piles of their shit speckling a de-nuded Hilton. Then I heard Brangelina was there opening night, and a roster of celebrity types. And someone else muttered about how much money Banksy was making.  And suddenly it all seemed so hypocritical. Like the painting of the people lined up to buy tee shirts that read "capitalism sucks." They said a print was going for $500, that Paris CDs fetched 700 quid, which I guess is something like $1,400? Was he any different? Is the joke on us? Would we later see some revamped portrait of Brad and Angelia? is everyone fair game? I'm still thinking about all this two days later. Secretly I wished that the pink and gold colored elephant would have freaked out and began stomping at will. Somehow that would have felt honest and real.

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I wasn't at Banksy's Barely Legal opening party last night, but I did bump in to OBEY artist Shepard Fairey later on at La Cita downtown, and he told me all about it. He said that it was 'amazing' (not an unexpected response from Fairey, who believes Banksy to be one of the most important artists alive), and that there was an 'elephant'.

Curious to find out what he meant by 'elephant' (new RISD terminology for stenciling, perhaps? the latest argot for video installation?), I went online and googled "Banksy elephant". To my surprise, I discovered that by elephant, he meant an actual elephant, one with big flappy ears and a tail, albeit painted in shocking pink and gold in the style of a dingy gay pub in London's East End.

I found a story on the BBC website showing photos of the 37-year-old pachyderm and of KCRW dance music DJ Jason Bentley, who was at the opening. Jason Bentley, by the way, is the one and only interview subject I have ever bawled in front of - I had PMS and cried like a little baby when he started talking about the ecstasy of playing for festival crowds. Anyway - the BBC journalist (who referred to Bentley as 'an American radio commentator') quoted him as saying "I'm not sure what the point of having an elephant in a warehouse in downtown Los Angeles is."

Jason - we're not sure what the points is either, but seeing an elephant in a warehouse in downtown Los Angeles is something that everyone should do at least once in their life. Fellow elephant hunters - you can find Nelly hiding out on Hunter Street near Santa Fe (although the elephant is apparently only there for an hour a day).

Art lovers also should note that Shepard Fairey's biggest show of the year opens on Saturday night at the Merry Karnowsky gallery - be there or be totally L7. I caught Fairey just as he and wife Amanda were leaving La Cita, the venue for Dance Right, a weekly shindig where Fairey DJ's each Thursday under his turntablist moniker, DJ Diabetic (he is a real-life diabetic). DJ Pubes is also resident.

The soiree is organized by Matt Goldman who works at Shepard's design studio, Studio Number One. Tonight's theme was Prom Night - so there were slow dances, shoulder pads, corsages, a prom photographer, songs from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack, and puke.

In true laidback LA style, only 50% of attendees actually bothered to wear prom costumes - although those who did, went all out. A man in a top hat with a massive curly moustache who looked like a cross between Philip Seymour Hoffman and a walrus was pronounced prom king. I was most distressed that my roommate Alexis Florio was not named Queen, so fabulous was she in her red lace and silk beribboned 1980's Debbie Gibson gown, purchased that very afternoon at Goodwill in Los Feliz.

Outside in the smoking area I ran into Dave Conway and Jimmy Brayle who run Little Radio, and they told me that they plan to throw Little Radio-themed parties at festivals around the country, from SXSW to CMJ and Slamdance. Back inside I saw Lisa D'Amato of America's Next Top Model fame, sadly not in prom attire, dancing up a storm on the stage. At one point she became so excited she tore down the glittery disco ball from the ceiling, played with it for a while and then threw it into her adoring crowd. Thanks Lisa - it aint a party until a drunk model starts playing with your balls.

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I've been writing a screenplay called "Crack Love" about a mismatched couple who despite their drug induced states continually show their deep love, loyalty and affection for one another.  Bobby and Whitney were often times an inspiration. And, as unhealthy as it was, their relationship did seem to me to be made of the stuff of romantic legend, of the Taylor-Burton, Sid-Nancy, Kurt-Courtney variety. So, it came as a bit of a shock when I heard yesterday that Whitney had filed for divorce. If you're going to be an addict, it's nice to have someone to love and relate to, even if you're living in squalor in a shell of a mansion. Now, I know, supposedly Whitney's cleaning up, making a record with Clive Davis, and moving on. I'll believe it when I see it. And I'll even be glad for her, truly. I just hope this isn't all for Bin Laden, who according to his, ex Kola Boof, had the hots for the Bodyguard star. That Bin Laden in fact, "couldn't stop talking about her..." Hmmm... "Terrorist Love" interesting ring to it...

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In an email conversation yesterday, Velvet Revolver and GnR rock god Slash confirmed that he has STOPPED drinking Jack Daniels, something that had been suspected for some time after sharp dips in sales of the Tennessee liquor. Once his most trusty companion, Slash's ever-present bottle of Jack has been cast aside as the curly-haired guitar legend focuses instead on smoking several hundred French-brand Gitanes cigarettes a day.

Before he quit, Slash's intake of JD had been the stuff of legend - Q magazine once estimated that Slash had guzzled 1,543,384.5 bottles in his lifetime and would often conceal empties inside his hat. And in 2003, Slash told readers of Rolling Stone that "there was actually a point where all I needed in my life, besides my guitar, was cigarettes and Jack Daniel's." Looks like those happy days are over.