LA Weekly

Alan McGee, legendary British record exec, (referenced in an earlier post about the LA version of his Death Disco club night), posted the following rant as a MySpace bulletin, in which he calls himself a "46-year-old Luddite, but even I've been dragged into the digital world".

"Last month, I went into a record store in Japan. It felt like a museum. I'll always love vinyl, but how much longer can they last?

Nothing will ever beat vinyl for me, but digital technology has changed our world, and for the better, though it would be great in the future if some genius could copy the Japanese and get the artists paid. In Japan it's all about the telephone and getting it downloaded to that. I'm a 46-year-old Luddite, but even I've been dragged into the digital world. It's easier and more fun than the way we've been getting served for the last 20 years. No wonder record shops feel ancient."

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I interviewed Alicia Silverstone yesterday at Real Food Daily, a vegan organic restaurant in West Hollywood. What a great lass. It was for a cover story for a new mag called WNWN (I wrote their cover story on Heather Graham last issue). Alicia was wearing a cute floaty little blue dress. I asked her where she got it. "Oh, my grandmother gave to my mother, who gave it to me," she said. Alicia told me she doesn't really care too much about fashion, and thinks society is far too consumerist for its own good. And it's not just lip-service - she was totally psyched when describing the clothes line and pegs her husband Chris Jarecki (singer with local band Little Wolverines) gave her for her 30th birthday last October. "My sheets feel so soft!" she enthused.

She warned me early on that she's no good at small talk, so we stuck to pleasantly non-superficial topics, like animal rights activism and veganism. She recommended I check out the punk rock PETA website, Peta2.com, and told me she would totally love to have a MySpace page to help her spread the word about veganism - except she's not great with computers.

We munched delicious organic vegan seitan and shared a chocolate mousse as she gave me hints on how to be a healthier human.

"But I get windy from beans," I said.

"Don't worry, that goes away after a while," she said. "It's just your body expelling bad stuff."

We chatted for nearly two hours. On her way out she said a quick hi to a heavily-bearded Steve Jones who was enjoying a meal at the counter.

I stepped out shortly after, breathed in the fumes on La Cienega, feeling inexplicably healthy.

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In this week's Nightranger I wrote about hanging with The Kooks at Jimmy Kimmel Live, but here's some tidbits you didn't get:

My camera was confiscated after I took this shot.... but I got it back.

Also, the band had actually planned to meet us at Death Disco LA -the offshoot of Alan McGee's uber-cool London hotspot- after a "quick" drink at the Formosa (see Caroline's post). Maybe I was "Naïve" but I really thought they'd make it, so I told the door guy to expect them. Of course, within an hour the whole place was buzzing about about their impending arrival. "They're English guys at a bar," noted my companion about an hour after we arrived and they didn't. "They wont make it here." She was right. Oops. They were obviously having too much post-show fun to leave anyway. As we drove back past the spot on our way home, I spied singer Luke Pritchard hanging outside and chatting up a cute American bird. A new smiling sweetheart perhaps?

The Kooks missed Alan McGee and Dirty Harry spin at Death Disco LA, but Amy Winehouse and Kelly Osbourne didn't.

I also mentioned the new Silver Lake boutique Matrushka, which held a night called "Global Weirding." Here's more:

Right in the heart of the Junction (where Silver Lake Shoes used to be) the shop had a build your own t-shirt party, with lots of Green-minded patches that were sewn onto tees right there. One machine was powered by a bicycle (the guy who built it said, "I just looked it up on the internet"), plus Al Gore's Climate change slide show (depressing) and an "adopt your own Sequoia tree" display. "Can I take one home?" I asked of the cute little stalks sitting near the entrance. Duh, they grow to be about the size of a high-rise, maybe not a good idea to plant in my backyard. Plus, as the kind gent explained, weather conditions aren't right in the city. Basically they plant them for ya up in the mountains. Nice. I used to go to Sequoia National Park every year with my family for vacation. These giants of nature are truly awesome.

As for the shop, it will officially open on April 20th and judging from the sassy collection of dresses that hung from racks in the back of the store, the clothes are simple, flattering and flowy. They also offer sewing classes! I'll be back. Of course I'll ride my bike there too.

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Inspired by Joe Donnelly's awesome new blog, I just had to let y'all know what I'm feeling today:

-I'm sad my girl Sicily got booted off of The Search For the Next Pussycat Doll last night. Actually, I'm happy 'cause hopefully that means she'll go back to her band of (real) badass babes-- The Holograms.

-I'm confused (probably with the rest of America). What is the deal with Sanjaya Malakar? On American Idol last night the kid sported a very big and bizarre faux-hawk. He sang No Doubt's bubbly hit "Bathwater" and he changed the words so it was sex-appropriate: "You're My Kind of Man" to "You're My Kind of Girl"…. but… uh… what about this limp hula hands a couple of weeks ago? Is he straight, gay or too young to know which yet?

-I'm embarrassed because I obviously watch too much TV.

-I'm impressed with my colleague Daniel Hernandez. This blog post from last week is fucking brilliant.

-I'm mad at myself because every time I have big deadlines, I procrastinate and do stuff like clean my closet (which always needs it), check my MySpace and post blogs that could definitely wait til tomorrow.

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Indie 103.1 has been playing Amy Winehouse's Rehab on constant rotation. I fell in LOVE at first listen. I immediately Youtubed it with my roommate. I thought Amy was of mixed African American and Caucasian decent, I heard others thought Middle Eastern, my roommate who is Jewish, took one look and screamed, "oh she's a Jew, I know my people." Turns out she's right, Winehouse is English-Jewish, and grew up in North London, and was part of rap group when she was 10 that she called "a little white Jewish Salt n Peppa." And the more we googled and delved, the more we fell in LOVE, eventually purchasing the album on itunes. We found out that Ray and Mr. Hathaway, references in the song Rehab, are nods to Ray Charles and Donny Hathaway.

Last year Winehouse was all over the British tabloids for being drunk on the Charlotte Church Show, heckling Bono at an award show (who can blame her for either of those), and cancelling two huge shows in London only to be spotted in the booze section of her local supermarket the next morning after one. She was dubbed Winohouse.

We discovered Winehouse's favorite cocktail is called a Rickstasy
Three parts vodka
one part Southern Comfort
one part banana liqueur
one part Baileys
"By the time you've had two of them you're like, don't even try and go anywhere. Sit down and stay down, until the birds start singing," she has said. I'm not sure but it sounds like a recipe to vomit. No wonder she puked half way through her first song at one gig. But you gotta love a party girl, one who puts her pain into her art, who is talented and sings it out, a tough chick who doesn't rush off to shave her head in a Tarzana salon.

Turns out Back to Black, her latest album's title, isn't about heritage or musical genre at all, it's about drinking. The lyrics on Rehab, "Yes, I've been black, but when I come back you'll know... know... know." Oh Amy, we know. We know.

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One thing keeps puzzling me...Why was Porn Star Queen Jenna Jameson at so many LA Fashion Week shows? She got a lot of front row action this fashion week, I saw her at a threesome of events including Jared Gold and Corey Lynn Calter, and 2 B Free—and totally copping a Jenny McCarthy bob. Is she planning a line? Just what LA needs, more slutty clothes for bleach bottled blondes with plastic boobies. That's not fair, I actually like Jenna, and have often thought about purchasing one of her best selling rubber models of her vag. To use as a vase though.

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"Air Guitar Nation," a brand-new documentary about the real art of air guitar, winner of the audience award at SXSW this year, is premiering at the NuArt Cinema in Santa Monica this Friday. Later that night, air guitar virtuoso and "Air Guitar Nation" poster boy Bjorn Turoque (pictured above) will host a free Aireoke after party at the Westwood Brewing Company. Despite his busy schedule and undoubtedly cramped fingers from so much shredding overtime, Bjorn Turoque (apologies, Bjorn, for the dearth of umlauts - sp???) answered several deeply personal questions just for you sexy Style Council readers.

Name your top three air guitar songs.

Motörhead – Ace of Spades, Sweet — Set Me Free, and Motley Crüe, Kickstart My Heart

What song is so easy even your dad could pull it off?

My dad only listens to Frank Sinatra...so he couldn't really pull off much in the way of air guitar. But, I find that Deep Purple's lugubrious-yet-rocking "Smoke on the Water" can usually be handled by the most novice of air guitarists.

What's your ace-in-the-hole air guitar move that makes the girls cry?

The young girls cry? That'd be my "Flying Buttress" - it's a leap through the air with a front kick, which ends with me landing on my knees. I've only attempted this once. The results were both painful and powerful.

What life experiences prepared you best for this whirlwind journey?

Few things in life can prepare one for going to Finland to play an invisible instrument in front of 5,000 people, and then appearing years later in a documentary about it—but I will say that drinking helps.

For the novice, what are the benefits of doing Aireoke?

Aireoke is an excellent training ground for competitive air guitar, much as Guitar Hero is proving itself to be. Aireoke is really the farm system for the majors.

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I'll be there on Friday, laughing and crying my ass off. Watch the trailer at the film's website, and you no doubt will be there too.

Buy advance LA tix here

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Back in 1983, I was a Madonna wanna-be. It wasn't just the black rubber bracelets, the rhinestones, and the tattered lace in my hair, though; it was Madonna's whole projection of what womanhood meant. So it was very appropriate that as I celebrated my 40th birthday on Saturday night, I was dressed in Madonna for H&M. Let me tell you, people flipped for this little sequined micro-mini, which is on sale at the Beverly Center and other stores until mid-April.

If I needed any proof that life doesn't end at 40 (as if!), the fabulous people who came to my birthday fiesta would be it. My Style Council sisters were all in the house, showing off their culinary skills as well as their hotness. Linda, a former editor at Gourmet magazine, is so skilled in the kitchen she could run a catering company. She not only arrived with the most decadent, divine, unique chocolate mole cake decorated with red roses (which must have weighed in at a full ten pounds), she found time to julienne the vegetables, blend pitcher after pitcher of watermelon margaritas, and de-vein the shrimp! Caroline channeled her Brazilian side and whipped up a big pot of black beans. I *could* take credit for the chicken, because guests were very impressed, but I cannot tell a lie. When someone asked me, "What did you do to the chicken? It's amazing!" all I could say was, "I opened a package of Trader Joe's Simply Chicken and poured Trader Joe's enchilada sauce over it." And even that's kind of a lie; Linda did it.

Other friends who graced my little isla bonita included Ben Ball and Gaston Nogues, who were just awarded P.S.1's Young Architect commission to design this summer's Warm Up installation (if you don't know what that is, and you're in New York this summer, run to P.S.1's wonderful Saturday afternoon parties); the crew from Materials and Applications, who have spent the past month building a felt igloo in their courtyard and are having an opening this Sunday; and the entire cast of "The Beastly Bombing," the supposedly very politically incorrect musical comedy written and directed by Julien Nitzberg, which is playing at the Steve Allen Theater. They offered me a ticket as a birthday gift, so a full report will come in the future.

Truly, the amount of beauty and talent that passed through my humble doors was kinda mind-blowing. There were artists, writers, musicians, fashion designers, stylists, entrepreneurs like David Jargowsky, whose extreme pogo stick, called the Flybar, is featured in the next OK Go video, and so many others, including two of my dearest friends who flew all the way across the country to be there. I can only hope I justified their love.

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I've been unnoticeably absent from Fashion Week this season for no real reason other than I have been doing lots of random shit. It's not 'cause of any beef I may have with Smashbox (even though I am on Fern Mallis' shitlist after accidentally misquoting her in a piece I wrote for the LA Times - she said 'lobby fleas', I heard 'lobby sleaze', next thing you know we're on LAObserved.com under Correction O' the Day...oi vey).

But life has been distinctly unfashionable these last few weeks, and actually, it's not so bad. 

Today, for instance, I witnessed the deeply unfashionable spectacle of a grandma wearing nothing but an old yellow bra wandering around the changing rooms at the Desert Hot Springs Hotel, yodeling at the top of her lungs. And then there was the older fella in the mineral pool with the huge booger hanging out his nose, telling me about the time his friend's nephew's cousin talked to Jessica Simpson. "Have you met any celebrities?" he asked me, shortly before launching into a story about meeting an editor from Teen Vogue who brought a bevvy of Russian models to the Desert Hot Springs Hotel. His fingers trembled and the threadveins in his cheeks glowed as he recalled the day.

I was with my best friend from London, singer-songwriter Lara Frankel, who has been staying with me these last few weeks. She and I had dinner in Palm Springs with George Englund, author and best friend of Marlon Brando for five decades (he directed Brando in 1963's The Ugly American and wrote a book about their friendship, The Way It's Never Been Done Before. He was also married to Cloris Leachman.) George is  someone who has been  a father figure to me during my most shitty moments. "Time to get your game face on, kiddo," he said, dispensing the usual kernals of wisdom, trying not to grimace at the plate of tuna-stuffed papaya being shoved in front of him. We talked for hours, until the waiters started vacuuming around our table, rudely interrupting our debate on whether all lesbians have the same hairdresser.

My run of unfashion stretches even further back into the week - a few days earlier I went to a school play, an hour-long production of Peter Pan with a cast of 150 children from University Elementary School, held at UCLA's Freud Theater. The kids were fabulous, as was the audience, populated by the sorts of parents you only find in LA - Richard Gere's brother, Gabriel Garcia Marquez' son, Bob Dylan's son...

From the play, we headed to The Echo to pick up my cell phone, which had been there since early February (I left it on the bar during a Black Lips show). Beck had played an early evening set that night, which we missed, but we did catch the tail-end of synthpoppy Ultraviolet, fronted by a Fergie/Gwen Stefani wannabe with a misplaced sense of irony (unironic Joan Jett covers, ironic Eighties keyboard player).

Then we got a text from Johnny Kaps, publicist for The Kooks, who had just played the Jimmy Kimmel show. "Come to the Formosa for a cocktail," it said, so we dutifully complied. Kaps is a charming 'fro-haired mogul-in-the-making in town from Brooklyn. He represents The Kooks, Editors,  Ambulance LTD (Marcus from the band was also at the bar), The Subways, Monsters Are Waiting and stellastarr*. We bonded over a few vodka tonics while he told me about the new band he is working with, Illinois...he is sending me the EP, so a full report to come.  

Yet another unfashion-related incident last week:

We went downtown to the Desert Eagles/Bobby Evans new DJ night at Redwood bar. Jamz, rapper from Brother Reade was supposed to be hosting but he never showed. Not sure why - we had seen him earlier that day, when he picked us up from an auto-mechanic shop in Silverlake after my new secondhand Mercedes Benz developed an enormous oil leak. Jamz drove us to Pazzo Gelato on Sunset where we ate marscapone and raspberry swirl ice cream, and he told us about Brother Reade's new album, Rap Music, coming out in July. He gave me a copy and I really really want to listen to it, but it is heavily shrink-wrapped and I am unsure as to how to open it without destroying the cover. 

As mentioned, Jamz wasn't at the party that night, but we did chat to Matt Goldman, who runs DanceRight at La Cita on Thursdays and works at Shepard Fairey's design studio.  Goldman told us that there are packets of Doritos bearing his likeness currently in circulation, all thanks to a design job he recently did - although he had no idea his face would end up on the product. Fame at last! 

I do plan on being slightly more fashionable in the coming days, and will dispatch a report from the Flaunt magazine party downtown on Wednesday but, as you can see, it is easy to be effortlessly unfashionable - especially during LA Fashion Week.

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Junker Designs had Alice Cooper prancing the runways at Avalon, 2B Free did its Paris thing at Boulevard 3 (see earlier post), Society for Rational Dress offered something at Basque, Frankie B is showing new designs at a Westside eaterie as I write this and Jeffrey Sebelia unveils his new stuff downtown on Wednesday. All of which proves you really don't need to venture out to Culver City to get a fashion fix during LA Fashion week anymore.

One of the most fun "Smashbox-alternative" shows I attended came from local designer Maggie Barry, who presented what can only be called a rockin' rainbow on the runway at the Henry Fonda Theatre on Saturday.

Barry, who's made clothes for celebs and TV shows like Dancing with the Stars and Deal or No Deal, definitely designs for the gal who wants to stand out in the crowd – no minimalism or subdued sexiness here. Bai Ling and Tracy Lords, both of whom sat in the front row, are fans. You get the idea.

The show was full of glitz, sparkle and skin-tight metallics. Standouts included stretchy space-girl jumpsuits and dresses worn with glitter booties, slinky black dresses with leather appliqués and bondage-inspired, leather and knit ensembles for men and women.

Rhinestones, beading and studs popped from rayon and jersey frocks, while many of the simpler designs were complemented by the flamboyant hats of local designer Drew Bird.

The show and after-party on the roof of the Fonda served as a launch for Barry's new perfume Dangerous Love and the spokemodel for the product, sultry torch singer Morganne, told us she wrote the song performed at the end of the show specifically for the scent. A video presentation of the tune, which had a Madonna "Justify My Love" feel opened the show.

I have a thing for smelling edible (Vanilla and Caramel are my sig scents), but something about Dangerous Love really entranced me. I looked at the ingredients and discovered Tuber Rose, Vanilla, and Amber were dominant ingredients. Potent but not too flower-y.

Later Barry told me that each component has a specific meaning (love, lust, etc.). Indeed anyone fond of essential oils or who's dabbled in a little candle n' oil witchery knows these aromas and their power. They're seductive and yes, a little dangerous.Just like Barry's clothes.

Above, hat lady Drew Bird, designer Maggie Barry and songstress Morganne party on the roof of the Fonda.

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Sometimes I feel like I need a shower after I read it, but I'm gonna be honest right now and admit that Perez Hilton's gossip blog is a fairly frequent guilty pleasure. Still, I'm just not sure what I think about the guy as a person. I usually love me some chatty/catty gay boys, but sometimes a bitch is just a bitch.

After last night I will say this, the Perezell does know how to throw a par-tay!

Here's just some of the highlights from Hilton's birthday bash at the Roxy Friday night: Donovan Leitch in Hedwig drag singing "Season of the Witch," with his dad '60's crooner Donovan; Dave Navarro jamming on Suffragette City with his shirt off (okay, that's nothing new I guess); electro-rockers Ultraviolet singing Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation" to the newly blue-haired (see pics) media queen; The Gossip's Beth Ditto stripping to her skivvies, writhing in the audience, on stage and later in a mountain of smashed cupcakes; Dita Von Teese showering in a bird cage....

I'll elaborate on all of these in next Thursday's edition of Nightranger, but for now I'll leave you with these dueling shots of P.& P. and P.& me. Paris may have inspired his name, but I think we make a much more colorful couple.

PS: I'm interviewing him tomorrow and if he pisses me off, I'm gonna draw snots coming out of his nose.

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Elisha Cuthbert might have bigger problems than her latest billboard controversy (poster ads for her movie Captivity featured images of her being tortured are being taken down because a lot of folks found them offensive). Her new on-the-town pal is Paris Hilton. Elisha was seen front row at the 2 B Free show supporting Paris who walked in the show. We all know Paris goes through on-the-town pals like tampons on a heavy flow day, and what's worse— look at what happens to them— Lindsay ends up in rehab, Britney flashes her fanny, Nicole nearly dies starving herself to death. What will happen to Elisha?

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A motorcycle shop might be an unlikely space to hold a fashion show, but designer Susan Cianciolo, isn't your average designer. Her pieces are individual hand crafted works of art and she says she chose Choke Motocycle Shop because she thought "it was a gorgeous little place." A rack of her clothing—for purchase or just to stroke—hung next to the coffee table littered with delicious mini tacos (I had three and if nobody was looking I totally would have stuck a few in my purse) and nachos and a wine bar. Desite potentialy greasy hands, you were invited to touch away at her clothes, textures are an important part of the fabrics she uses as well as color— her textiles are dyed by artisans, like an indigo specialist, and a Japanese silk expert.

Out back a screen displayed the movie 1960s Butterfly Girl, starring model Frankie Ryder. The movie was meant to be the fashion show, a visual illustration of her new line, Queen of Hearts. It was an arthouse film shot in Santa Monica, with Ryder and a baby draped in colorful exotic fabrics. The look was royalty meets New Age, and looked very westside bohemian. The collection was based on lots of research, including the stories and customs of 17th century queens and kings around the globe.

She discovered that Queens often wore a scent on their clothes and tucked scent-soaked fabrics into lockets, and so did their children. Along with a regal feeling to the fabrics, Susan had sewn little pockets into the clothing, the perfect size to hold the little gold perfume compacts by a company called In Fiore. In fact she collaborated with the perfumer and they came up wth a scent to match the line, the perfume is called Chavelier, as in knight. As in shining armor. I didn't see any armor but there were quite a number of super hot dudes gathered out front of the bike shop, and around, well, the tacos of course.

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It was billed as "the wildest front row in all of Fashion Week." You sometimes get a tranny or two in the audience at Smashbox Studios, site of L.A.'s official Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, but never in the numbers or caliber of the sparkling array of gorgeous cross-dressers in falsies and heels that turned up Friday night at Jared Gold's Quiet Army show. Equally as shiny were the stylish men who sashayed this way and that in the lobby, including the event's producer, the now-lithe Clint Catalyst, writer and contributing editor at Swindle, who was wearing a Jared Gold jacket adorned with multicolored horseback-riding ribbons.

"I'm a size queen," he said as he handed us our tickets. "Believe me I've rode some horses."

It's hard to say what was more opulent — the crowd or the Los Angeles Theater, with its cathedral-coffered ceilings, gold molding and dripping crystal chandeliers.
But the men weren't the only ones who put extra effort into their outfits. Women in gloves, tiny veiled hats and home-crafted dresses populated the old movie house. Stylist Charon Nogues (below) showed in a one-of-a-kind original. "I was going to have butterflies fly in the sleeves, she said.

Dame Darcy turned up in a wide-brimmed hat holding a parasol and one of her own, kind-of-creepy handmade china dolls.

This was a palace of underground royalty, with the kind of artsy throng made up of so many creative individuals that we felt like Sears-suited paint-by-numbers accountants in comparison. It was no Culver City fashion show.

And it was all brought to you by BOXeight, basically three men with no luxury-car sponsorship who plan to take over the world. Or at least to bring the heart of L.A. Fashion Week back to its birthplace downtown — to promote shows that demonstrate true artistry in clothing instead of the corporate-machine runway scenes that they say have taken over the other end of town.

The three of them look a bit like the Village People: Peter Gurnz, a hipster artist with a shaggy haircut is the driving force behind BOXeight; downtown advocate and neighborhood council president Brady Westwater, a.k.a. "L.A. Cowboy," who comes complete with prerequisite hat, is well known to metro news types; and Gary Warfel, in a suit and tie, actually looks a little like a paint-by-numbers accountant, but is really a big downtown developer. They dreamed up the idea of competing with Smashbox over drinks just a little more than six weeks before Fashion Week was set to begin. The idea was to produce their own L.A. fashion weekend of sorts, with shows at the Standard and the Los Angeles Theater. And so far the crowd and the location is already much more appealing than the Smashbox scene.

What about celebrities? Jared Gold's show was filled with reality-TV stars, you know — those celebrities created by the people. Clint Catalyst got beauties like Top Model's Lisa D'Amato and Joanie Dodds as well as J.P. Calderon of Janice Dickinson Modeling Agency, actress Mageina Tovah, and the now fucshia-haired Jeffree Star of MySpace (whose EP Plastic Surgery Slumber Party is, according to a fan, currently No. 1 on the iTunes dance chart right above Justin Timberlake).

Old-school reality-TV veteran Bobby Trendy, who made a small name on the small screen as Anna Nicole Smith's interior decorator, watched the spectacle from the front row in an oversize blouse worthy of Patti LaBelle, and a pink-and-rhinestone choker. I asked if he wanted to share any thoughts about Anna.

"It's very sad," he said, the light flickering in his lip-gloss. "But her legacy lives on. She touched a lot of people. And I just want to say that I never accepted any money for interviews. The only reason some people are talking now is because they want money, but I haven't asked for one dollar. Ugh, that Howard. The truth will be revealed."

How X-Files. The front row also contained the likes of Jenna Jameson, Eric from Hole (remember him? He actually lived through this), directors Daniel Stein (Color Me Olsen) and Amy Heckerling (Fast Times at Ridgemont High), White Oleander author Janet Fitch, and many other "fancy folks" as they're known in certain circles.

But this crowd didn't really care. Here, the lovely sculptress Elizabeth McGrath and other artist-utantes rule, and designer Jared Gold is the king du jour. Gold has shown to the underground for many years, cultivating a cult following with such ephemeral themes as light and shadows and aural vacuums.

Finally it was showtime, and with a Palace of Versailles–worthy hallway of dark wood paneling and candle sconces-- as runway backdrop, his clothes took center stage.

The theme? Mormon chic.

Yes, Mormon.

Despite the devil's water being poured at the bar upstairs, on the runway it was all high-ruffled collars, modest hemlines, golden honeycombs and bees. Gold has just moved his company's Black Chandelier headquarters to Salt Lake City, Utah, and his new home has clearly inspired him. But there were also touches of Girl Scout green and military emblems.

A fashion militia?

Gold smiled and said, "I'm building a small army."

And special mention to Tarina Tarantino, the original pinkhead. The models were draped in her designs.

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We ask, why be in a leaky tent when you can be here?

It was noted on LA Observed that the Style Council has been quiet this LA Fashion Week.

But that's not to say we weren't out and about...there were several new fashion weeks springing up around town. (Ok, mostly downtown) and we decided to try them out. Last season I was so bummed to hear about the best shows taking place in wine cellars, and exotic locations, while I still sipped treacly vodka drinks with embarrassing names, and shlepped back and forth on a commuter bus to see a Walmart show. But this is nothing new. So this season we got our boyshort panties in a bunch over BOXeight's two nights of fashion shows in the gloriously splendid Los Angeles Theater, that has the kind of lux feeling and golden light that makes you feel gorgeous and fashionable in a way no herding back and forth from Lightbox to Main Tent can. (But we haven't completely forsaken Smashbox, Lina went to the Imitation of Christ show held at the Culver City tents, which we suspected would be the best of the bunch, see her post.)

Watch this for space for coverage of upcoming satellite events all over town like tonight's Susan Cianciolo show held in a bike shop, Project Runway winner designer Jeffrey Sebelia's latest collection, held at an off site event featuring the band Ima Robot (see my sneak peek at his designs in the latest LA Weekly!) and more!

So stay tuned, this season is different, the best shows are going on outside of the "official" IMG fashion week and reports will come in daily...

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Geesh, a lot of songs have the word "Black" in them don't they? Okay, this is my last time using one as a headline. Promise. The above is the best, anyway.

Forgot to mention that the "goodie bag" for the Imitation of Christ show was Smashbox makeup: a magenta lipstick called "Enchanting," black cream eyeliner in "Caviar" and black mascara. This is the kind of makeup you've gotta be pretty pale to pull off and luckily I've only been going out of the house after dark lately, so it works for moi. But am I too old to pull off the witchy look I used to wear a decade (ok, a bit more) ago? I'll let ya know.

And just in case you're wondering how far this whole Goth resurgence might go, check out The Horrors, a much talked UK act wh0 played The Echo last week to much fanfare. They apparently made quite an impression at South By Southwest with their Cramps-inspired "Goth-surf," though it wasn't necessarily all good. Check out the PR peeps take:

If you were down in Austin for SXSW, chances are you heard alllll about The Horrors. You know,even if you were smart enough to stay out of that redonkulous mess of delayed flights, you've probably heard alllll about The Horrors. Good or bad, it all depends on who you're talking to and what that person's level of openness is. It is all too easy to write off The Horrors. However, as more and more of America gets exposed to their classic brand of chaos, it becomes harder and harder to justify the hatred.

The Horrors have won over fans and editors alike - resulting in excited reports from Austin and selection as "CATCH OF THE DAY" yesterday by KROQ LA's music director, Lisa Worden.

And now, thanks to the the May/June Black Rebel Motorcycle Club tour, The Horrors will reach even deeper into the bone and sinew of our continent. Revisit your love all that's exciting in rock music - just er, keep your head up down in front.

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Need more proof that goth looks are back from the dead (again)?

Take a gander at these pieces from the BOXEight shows this past weekend at Los Angeles Theatre.

Read more about the downtown shows (including plenty of coverage on Jared Gold's uber glamorous presentation) in this Thursday's edition of Nightranger and A Considerable Town.

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Goth always seems to rear its gloomy head up from the graveyard every couple of years or so, and even though the abundance of the black nail polish and peg legs on every fashionista in town kinda prepared me for its resurrection about now, I had no idea it'd be so blatantly retro-vamp. At least that's where Imitation of Christ's Tara Subkoff's head is buried with her new collection.

Closing the first night of LA Fashion Week at Smashbox Studios last night, the NYC designer (known for her offbeat vintage inspired and reconstructed pieces – not to mention unconventional fashion shows) presented a full-on gloomy, doomy glamorama, complete with bones strewn about the catwalk, pasty dark lipped models and '80's era gothic music, climaxed by, what else? Bauhaus' "Bella Lagosi's Dead." Cliché? Yes. Campy? Yes. Intentionally so? Not sure.

Luckily, the clothes and the way they were put together were neither. This wasn't the frilly Victorian romantic goth or futuristic fetishy goth we've seen before. Tall black pumps -which none of the models seemed to be able to walk in- chunky cross necklaces, super-sparkly sequined dresses in champagne and jet, and body-hugging pants all brought to mind the decade of decadence and (s)excess. Very Dynasty meets Dinah Cancer.

Above, a more casual I.O.C. look. (Note, celly in hand and bones on the floor).

The strongest pieces melded '80's edginess with a flapper-esque sass. Some of the swingy, ornate frocks were truly gorgeous and wowed whether worn over pants or alone. I noticed the celeb-specked crowd –including Elisha Cuthbert, Ali Larter, Jenna Jameson and Jenny Shimizu- get noticeably excited for those pieces. Actually Shimizu (Angelina Jolie's ex) got most excited for a see-through lace number, as did the dudes in the audience.

Speaking of excess, a very "now" element of the show– cell phones which models punched text messages into as they strutted- came off straight up silly. We hoped they were just ironic props, but realized that wasn't the case when we saw Samsung listed on the show program.

I wasn't as bewitched by the I.O.C. black celebration as most in the audience seemed to be, but maybe that's just because I'm a jaded former ghouly girl who's cut it up on one too many death rock dance floors.

Still, I'd die to haunt 'em again in one of those sequined numbers.

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It's St. Patrick's day and I'm working my regular shift at new Melrose hotspot, The Village Idiot, which is a welcoming haven on this Saturday night for emerald-clad alcoholics, despite being an English pub. Oh, I'm in the throes of food poisoning, which has turned my skin a festive shade of green (NOT from Idiot food, rather a K-town tempeh burger with a mean streak). As you can imagine, hijinx ensue. Some highlights…

A buffed-out, squinty guy loiters near the front door. He looks familiar.

"Is the new door guy famous?" I ask Dean, owner/Aussie/food expediter/Libra.

"No. Would you like him to be?"

I roll my watering eyes, shuddering at the thought of all those biceps crushing in on me.

"Nine-oh-two-one-oh," whispers Natalie, actress/waitress/doppelganger. Customers (and Eric, the busboy) are always confusing us with one another, despite her sunny disposition and my bad attitude.

"Really?" I squeal. "Who was he?"

"The guy that Brenda almost married."

I knew he looked familiar.

At the height of the dinner rush, a moussed-up geek in pointy black boots yells into a Bluetooth while he clogs up the walkway leading to the kitchen. I squeeze by balancing three plates of food and a splitting headache. I catch his elbow en route.

"OH!!!" he hollers. "Excuuuuuuuse you!!"

"Oh yeah. I talked to my mom. She wants to do with acid with you."

The chubby girl at Table 15 asks if the grilled chicken comes on the bone.

"Yes."

"Can you take it off the bone?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

A hissy-fit ensues. She's a former vegetarian. On-bone bird carcass freaks her out. I hover, holding hippie-dippie vegetarian space while she indulges, sputters, spazzes-out and ultimately, resolves(ish) her icky-chicky issue. She resigns herself to the dish with an exaggerated sigh.

"I guess I'll just have to deal with the bones."

"I'll help you," her tipsy friend offers.

Later, I drop by to check-in on them (Read: sell them more booze). She seems to be coping just fine. Her date's beer glass is empty.

"Would you like another beer?" I ask.

He lifts his glass dramatically in front of him.

"Can you guess what I want?"

I have nine other tables and a growing need to vomit.

"A blowjob?"

He's speechless. When I return with a fresh pint of Pilsner, his girlfriend glares flaming daggers at me. They leave me a gigantic tip.

A straight sort in stripes stands in the clearly delineated waiter's station at the bar, waiting for his vodka cranberry.

"Having fun yet?" he asks.

"No," I wheeze, clutching my ailing belly while waiting for a round of tequila shots which will ultimately be spilled on an innocent bystander's frayed faux-fatigue jacket by a drunken, though appropriately apologetic blonde with a fantastic nose.

"I'm not a cheesy weirdo," he explains later, taking a break from tongue-wrestling his girl. Turns out he's a writer named Brad Listi. He rode his bike to the Idiot and wrote a novel! Attention. Deficit. Disorder. He encourages me to buy his book and to post on his blog. He introduces me to his fiancee (Hudson jeans don't look good on me, either).

The later it gets, the uglier it gets. Drinking reaches a crescendo. Words are slurred, drinks are spilled. Desperate lotharios eye scantily clad fashion victims through myopic beer goggles. Spit is swapped. Numbers are punched into Blackberrys. Walkways clog with five-deep bar overspill. Barflies hover between tables, surrounding late-night diners with wall-to-wall ass. Serving morphs into a different shade of nightmare, as traversing a route from bar to table becomes a logistical shit-storm – ducking elbows, leaping over outstretched legs, tip-toeing around wildly gesticulating sorority girls, all the while trying not to spill overloaded trays of drinks.

I zigzag through the bar crowd loaded down with pint glasses. Some guy taps me on the shoulder.

"Can I get—"

"No."

A drunk and meaty brunette straight-arms me in the face. I'm so annoyed, I kiss her.

Rolling in on midnight, Chris, a freakishly tall professional something-er-other saunters in with his rowdy crew of cohorts. Chris and I became fast friends the week before when the following exchange ensued:

"What do you think of the pork sausage, Dani?"

"I think it's disgusting," I deadpan. "I'm vegan."

Chris went onto order those specific dishes I deemed the greatest carnivorous atrocities with gusto and pizzazz. A ribeye, a steak pie and a pork shank later, he asked for a whiskey neat.

"What's this?" he sneered, still reeling in face-contorting wince from his last sip.

"Southern Comfort. What's wrong with your face?"

"I asked for a Knob Creek."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did."

"Oh. I must have tuned you out."

Clearly, it was love.

So, Chris the friendly giraffe, rolls in with his boisterous Barney's-outfitted friends and orders a ton of food from the bar, kicking off a catfight between the bartenders, who already hate him, and the waitress who's now dealing with him (the issue being: the waitress gets the tip, but the bartenders put in the order ). Late night deep-fried flesh now fetid and rotting in his belly, Chris stands between tables, chatting with friends, hurling empty promises and making faces at me as I pass. Waiting for my last table to pay, I join the trio, present my back and demand a massage. Chris happily obliges, digging deep into my virus-strewn brick wall shoulder blades and cracking my back with the ease only a trained professional or giant could muster while I chat with his buddies about the Year of the Flamingo and our yet-to-be-paid-for USC "overgraduate" degrees . This was to be the three-minute highlight of my St. Patrick's Day 2007, especially in light of my one-thirty a.m. homecoming when I slipped out of my still damp, tequila-drenched Dickies, salivating for unconsciousness, only to discover I'd brought a customer's credit card home. I trudged back to the Idiot in my nightgown, cursing St. Patrick all the way.

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I passed on South By Southwest this year, but that doesn't mean I'm not there in spirit... and apparently some minds. I've already received 5 text messages from fellow music heads asking if can get them into this or that party and one asking for a promoter friend's cell #.

SOS: band missed flight! Yikes.

I got loads of invites to bitchin' Texas shindigs (Dim Mak, Filter, Urb, IHeartComix, NY2LA, my pal Heidi's Night of Beauty). So many in fact I'm shocked there's anything to do in LA this weekend. But, as always the music fest happens upon the beginning of fashion week so yes, the calendar is full, though it shouldn't be as grueling as last year when I literally hopped off a plane from Texas and drove to Smashbox for the Agent Provocateur show.

Anyway, as I've been doing for the past few weeks now, I humbly direct you to this week's edition of Nightranger, where I celebrate my ol' friend Rodney Bingenheimer's better-late-than-never Star on the Walk of Fame and fab Canter's lunch afterward (see pics), get manhandled at The Strokes Albert Hammond Jr. gig and visit a not-so-secret Silver Lake beer bar.

Oh, and if you want to soak up the smokey rich SXSW vibes, check out Kate Sullivan and Siran Babayan's groovy blog here. God I'm craving BBQ...

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I had a real-life Cheers moment last Friday night when some friends and I happened upon a  cool, unpretentious and non-douchey new bar in LA. Crazy, I know.

It opened  its doors in Silverlake around 5 months ago, and I'd heard whisperings of its existence. It's tough to spot...a barbershop swirly pole on the wall is the only sign of life you'll find on an otherwise nondescript exterior. It used to be a leather bar (backroom fisting was a prefered pastime among the harness-clad patrons), but things have changed - pull aside the heavy entrance tarp, and you'll find yourself transported into a colonial gentleman's library, complete with real crystal chandeliers and hundreds of legal tomes lining dark wood shelves along the walls. The only things missing are a length of rope and Professor Plum.

There's also a very dignified chess table, an upright piano for singalongs and a wooden stage for tap dancing. Plus a cinema screen perfect for watching hardcore punk documentaries. Well, that's what they were playing that night, the punk-doc American Hardcore. Half way through an Ian Mackay monologue, the DJ, dressed in a Turbonegro t-shirt and fedora, decided to switch it off because it was 'boring', and threw on some records instead. Think Modern Lovers, Van Halen, Henry Rollins...

By the end of the night we were on first name terms with everyone in the joint. The bar manager even offered me my own night. After much deliberation, I decided to start an old-skool British rave night there, one Friday very soon. I already have my DJ lined up,  music journo and grumpy punk OG Brendan Mullen, who also happens to have a shit-ton of late 1980's hardcore rave white labels stashed away in his house. 

How often is it in LA that you find a bar where everyone really does know your name? Or more to the point, a bar where everyone cares what your name is, and will remember it for more than five minutes?

Not often. And that's why I'm not going to tell you where this one is.  I'm selfish like that.

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Silverlake's own ever-revolving ashtanga yoga studio celebrated its one-year anniversary as Ashtanga Yoga Los Angeles (AYLA) Friday night. The usually muggy and sweat-soaked shala was transformed into a rollicking party train all dolled up and disco-ed out with fresh flowers, Indian fare, and the usual Mysore crew, barefoot and semi-recognizable in street clothes, instead of our usual stinky lycra, and showered and groomed to boot. DJ Mattnifique spun sultry and low-key from his corner post, while we sucked down Thai coconuts, sipped milky Chai and introduced ourselves to the people we Ujjayi breathe and grunt next to every day (except moon days and Saturdays, of course).

Naked Rhythm took the "stage" as the food frenzy died down. A loud and furry collective, the band played electric Asian while Monica, a knock-out blessed with heavenly hips and an astounding command of their movement, gyrated and churned, shook and shimmied, mugged and beamed, and won the hearts and base lower chakra longing of everyone in the room (specifically DJ Mattnifique, who watched with mouth agape, frozen and drooling, from his corner post).

Yelling over the music took its toll on my enthusiasm. Monica left the stage to unofficially instruct interested yoginis in the art of the belly churn. Clearly, it was time to move on.

I snuck out and headed to automobile showroom turned uber-loft, Marvimon, where British singer-songwriter James Webber was headlining an invite-only acoustic shin-dig celebrating the birthdays of a gaggle of Pisces' (including Erewhon Tonic Mix-Master Randall Zamcheck and Webber's very own mom), and the impending release of Webber's new album.

The space was impressively lit and spacious. Tonic bar regulars and Rodeo Grounds "home team retards" (to quote partygoer/artist/genius/weirdo James Mathers) smiled warmly and met glittery gazes head on while delighting in the sensory treats abound. Fragrant flowers lent their sweetness to the space. Tonic Bar Guru Truth, along with his grounding and ever-grinning (business) partner, Chris, manned the bar, mixing herbal tonics infused with Maca powder, Reishi mushroom, and an infinite litany of magic potions - all natural, all legal.

An orgasmic array of organic food was set up in the kitchen, while raw chocolate infused with Cordyceps (for energy) and Agaricus (for immunity), coated in black sesame seeds (for adrenal oomph) made its way around the party. Like the proverbial pig in shit, I was in optimal health geek heaven.

Alex Iverson, an AMAZING sleight of hand magician, clearly empowered with those well-kept secrets of the Universe whispered about in esoteric occult circles and underground covens, wowed tiny enclaves of crowd with levitating cards and slick illusions, armed with portals to alternate dimensions up his sleeve.

Hopped up on herbal love and organic bliss, we gathered cozy and close on fluffy pillows and long comfy couches to soak in the song-stylings of the evening's line-up.

Robbie Briggs, our host and Master of Ceremonies, opened with an abridged set of simple melodies. Daisy McCrackin, known as much for her extroverted exploits as her monstrous talent, took the stage with uncharacteristic trepidation and, in the span of four songs and some nervous filler, stole the show and transformed, right there in front of all of us, into a bonafide rock star.

James Webber strummed a long, toothy set to an adoring crowd. Johnny Moezzi followed with an upbeat tempo and an interesting array of sounds coaxed from the side of his guitar and between his lips. But it was an undiscovered teenager named Robert on cello along with classical guitarist Grady who cut through the cozy herbal haze and the whispered murmurs, beelining straight to the guts of every last one of us with the sweetest sounds of the evening. No words, no pretense - just strings and heart, infused with ache and beauty.

As goodbyes were exchanged and candles extinguished, I spied a couple lingering on a couch, high on chocolate, magic and music, lending credence to Maca's purported aphrodisiac effects.

Buzzing on my own cocktail of Maca-infused treats, I stepped out into the shadows of the downtown skyline to power up my veggie-mobile and head to my (un)boyfriend's house to test the effects myself.

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Elf cafe, located at 2315 Sunset Blvd. in Echo Park on the same block as American Apparel and next to the abandoned movie theater, has no phone or website, but since this teeny vegetarian bistro is owned by the members of the band Viva K., they do have a myspace page. Elf, just so you know, is 18 years old and has 112 friends.

I don't know if the name refers to the restaurant's small size or its leanings toward leafy green things one might find in forests; probably both. The menu is very vegan friendly, if a bit plain. The other night I had a roasted carrot puree that tasted like carrots and not much else (which is fine!), and a kale salad that was tossed in a nice citrus dressing but presented without any fanfare as a gigantic pile of raw kale that definitely seemed a bit unmanageable. As one of my yoga teachers pointed out (because of course who else does one discuss the new veggie spot in town with?), the place is really a huge leap for east side restaurant kind, but there are those moments that you think to yourself, I could actually make this better. Like, MY carrot soup would have had a drizzle of cilantro chili oil to give it a little zip. And I barely even cook. And it's not like it's some macrobiotic minimalist thing. My friend Zoe had a polenta and roasted vegetable dish that I thought was delicious, but she characterized it as "total Santa Cruz," which means bland hippie food in her book.

However, even if the food were much less palatable, I would still dig this spot for its great chocolate brown walls and cozy ethnic chic decor, its BYOB policy, its limeade, and its fantastic potato and garlic puree that arrives on the table with crostini the moment you sit down. And did I mention the patrons? Definitely a place to meet a cute stranger or covet an imaginative outfit. One word of advice: arrive before 8pm, when everybody else is meeting their date, and you'll snag one of the prime window-side tables for two.

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Didn't get to see the actual art at WACK! Art & the Feminist Revolution at MOCA in Little Tokyo this past Sat., but the party was awesome. Ran into old pals I haven't seen in a while, including the hair wizards from Purple Circle salon, who tell me that a Pinkberry just opened on Vermont Ave.!

I don't know what all the fuss is about with this yogurt place but I'm gonna find out. I'm planning on popping in, maybe this weekend, and I'll blog with a review some time next week.

Funny, I used to work on Vermont Ave. at a store called Y-Que for several years (it's under new management now) and at X-Girl (back when it featured frocks from Kim Gordon).

When I was on the block, the thought of a chain of any kind was considered a sign of the apocalypse. In fact, there was quite an uproar when Starbucks came in to the space at the corner next to the bank, which happened soon after the Onyx (an indie coffeehouse where Beck used to jam) closed down. Now all the ratty tatty types hang at the 'Bucks with their laptops like it aint no thang.

Yup, things have really changed in LA in the past decade. The Pretender's My City Was Gone comes to mind. But ya know what? It's alright with me, especially when I see old comrades who've evolved and grown and are doing great things here. At the MOCA bash I walked straight into one of my more flamboyant friends from the Melrose days (I was a true retail slut… I worked on both Vermont and Melrose -for designer Teri King, at dead stuff store Necromance and vintage boutique Click Click Bang!- all at the same time. Basically the mid-90s).

Anyway, it was the groovy Asian guy to the left (pictured with his boyfriend and my fab date Heidi Richman- another LA gal whose seen and done it all here and parlayed her savvy into a successful biz). His name is Kenya and he is the definition of sweet. He definitely looks different from when I knew him, so much so that I didn't recognize him in a shot Steffie posted on the blog about a T-Rex-themed party a few weeks ago. He used to be a total 80s boy toy, but I'm loving his new 70's look. Anyone who knows me and my collection of platforms and Cher maxi dresses (both of which which are "in" again… hello!) knows why. I'll be bloggin about his new Sherman Oaks shop soon.

And speaking of old familiar faces- ran into two of LA's best known door guys from way back when: Chris Rommelmann (Lava Lounge (RIP)/Power Tools) and CC Skusa (the original King King/ The Derby) at the new club Bordello, formerly Lil Pedros downtown. Rommelmann still rules the door and Skusa's the manager. Talk about a flashback. I fooled both of 'em w/ my bad fake IDs in the 80s. Or did I?

Check out this week's Nightranger for more on the MOCA bash and Bordello plus the Beauty Bar's 7 year anniversary and Lindsay Lohan's DJ gig at Les Deux (is she even 21 yet???).

Oh, and as a woman who relishes her freedoms -especially the right to say and write whatever the hell I want- I definitely plan to go back to MOCA and check out the WACK! exhibit. See the Weekly's review here.

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The search for the next Pussycat Doll is on and it begins tonight! Why do I care you ask? Well, I like bad reality shows for one. I actually give 40 min (TiVO'd) of my precious time to "I Love New York" okay? But that's not why I think the premiere which airs tonight on the CW at 9 p.m. deserves a post.

There's two reasons actually. One, a singer from a local all-girl band who I've championed in the paper on a few occasions, left the group to vie for Doll-dom.

And two? Well let's just say the gals in the premiere episode not only shake their cookies, they toss them.

The band is the Holograms, a group of cute bubblegum punkettes who were/are the whole package. Wild outfits, fun songs, loads of attitude. They've gone through their share of singers and when they found Sisely Treasure, it seemed to all come together. Read about that lineup here.

Sisely, (second from bottom left in pic) ends up being one of the final nine (get it: cats… 9 lives…) and we wouldn't be surprised if she gets the gig. We're not doggin' her either. The new member will probably make loads of dough and get to travel all around the world. Who wouldn't go for that vs. the life of a struggling local band chick?

As for the other reason. Apparently, a stomach virus makes the audition process quite, uh sticky. Hairballs any one?

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What's gayer than Jeffree Star turning up at the Abbey on Friday with a Tarina Tarantino haircut and Perez Hilton on his arm? Or gayer than the parents of Mormon teenager Rebeka Rice, who are suing her school because she used the phrase "that's so gay"?

I'll tell you - it's when Curve magazine , the biggest-selling lesbian consumer mag in America, runs a double-page spread entitled "10 Women in Film and TV" and 'forgets' to mention Ilene Chaiken.

Chaiken, for those living under a very straight rock, created this little thing called The L Word. You know, the first show in the history of television about lesbians. It stars Jennifer Beals, Pam Grier, Cybill Shepherd and a few other actresses you may have heard of.

Could the omission have been pure oversight? Not sure about that - I mean, they did remember to mention Clara Kim, who is of course famous for her work as Senior Vice President of Business Affairs at Spike TV. And Monica Chuo, Vice Prez of Acquisitions at Paramount, who can't walk down Santa Monica Blvd. without having to autograph someone's tits. 

It's not like the story focused solely on lesser-known power lesbians - Christine Vachon (one of the biggest indie producers in the business) and her haircut were definitely up there on the list. Which all makes the Chaiken bitch-slap seem all the more...calculated.

Look at the evidence - Curve mag was dissed on The L Word not so long ago when one of the characters, a journalist named Alice, snidely referred to it as a little magazine that 'no-one even reads'. Then they picked Heather Matarazzo - the dorkiest, least attractive human being on the planet - to play the role of a Curve magazine writer (Matarazzo played the uber-loser central character in Welcome to the Dollhouse).

I can understand why Curve might be a little pissed at Chaiken - but I wish they could have kept the drama off their pages. As a reader, how can I trust a publication which seems so obviously subjective in its coverage?  Does this mean that, if I happened to be a famous lesbian writer, musician or producer, I would have to kiss some big Curvy ass just to stay in the editors' good books?

As they say in Weho - bitch please...

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No, I'm not talking about the surfing, though I did take a lesson with "surf teacher to the stars," Tide Rivers, whose dad founded the Maui film festival...and I got up on the first try! Nor am I talking about communing with the gods at Haleakala, aka House of the Sun, the summit of this volcanic island. I am not even referring to the copious quantities of Ahi and Ono and other heavenly local fish I gorged myself on, raw whenever possible, or the very much alive reef inhabitants I swam with on my last morning. I speak, Style Council friends, of the Salvation ARMY. In Hawaii, that joyous thing called thrift shopping still exists, and I had so much fun poking around the racks, digging up a few genuine treasures among the standard stained tees, and, as you might expect, a disproportionate number of Hawaiian shirts.

Please pardon my sad little still life, but I wanted to share my finds and gloat over the nostalgic prices: one blue straw '70s beach hat with attached scarf accent, $2; one pair of coral leather Italian sandals, circa late '60s, $2; one floor-length pink-and-green mirrored dress from Pakistan (early '70s?), mint condition: $3. The playing cards aren't vintage but they look it, don't they? The fake flower leis, also new, were only 99 cents, but I did get lei'd for real (as in orchids) by an adorable waiter named Raji. He told us he visited his mother before she was pregnant during a meditation and announced his arrival: "I am coming, my name is Viraji." His explanation, which is a common refrain among the young people born on Maui: "hippie parents." Speaking of hippies, the only thing I didn't get to do was visit Charlie's, a bar/restaurant co-owned by Maui resident Willie Nelson. Next time...and there will definitely be a next time.

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