LA Weekly

Coachella: Day Three

10:00 a.m. I can barely wake-up, I'm in complete denial that there's another full day to go. The press band and the ID bracelet that proves I'm over 21, have become like shackles. But somewhere in the exhausted recesses of my mind, the thought of seeing Willie Nelson gets me out of bed.

3:00 p.m. We are making the trek to the field, there's some drama. A tiny woman is chasing her BIG boyfriend, yelling and berating him. She waits until she's right in front of the cops to smack him about the face, having to jump up a few feet to do it. The cops put her in hand cuffs and for the next 20 yards it's all the crowd can talk about, re-enacting the slaps.

4:30 p.m. I finally get an interview with a band. A very persistent publicist smuggles me in to the backstage area. I feel cooler with the fancy cloth wrist band, less chaffing. The trailer area for the talent, looks like a really cute trailer park, each one has the name of the band written in glitter, that looks like they were done by a second grade class. There's white picket fences in front of each trailer, making little front yards complete with plastic lawn furniture and a tent in the center with red velvet and leather couches. I'm here to interview Placebo, but singer Brian Molko is walking around somewhere else. The publicist gives me the ok to snoop around while Brian makes his way back. I see Lily Allen's trailer, the door is wide open, and two young girls are giggling as they type into sidekicks. I try to have a closer look inside without being creepy, no sign of Lily. The Happy Monday's doors are closed and their yard is empty, while the guys from Crowded House are tucked into a corner, playing cards. I make a full circle, and Brian is back. We sit to chat about their cover of Kate Bush's Running Up That Hill that has been getting a lot air play recently. "That song was recorded 3 or 4 years ago, but people were asking for it, so we re-released it. We're kids of the 80s," he says behind dark sunglasses. He's wearing a collar shirt, a vest, and long pants in over 100 degree heat, that's a commitment to style. "We liked the experimental nature of 80s pop, now pop doesn't push the boundaries, it feeds the lowest common denominator. I blame the whole American Idol karaoke thing." Placebo had some big hits in the late 90s in the UK, but recently Dj's and radio stations have been playing them, last summer Indie 103 and KROQ, were playing the single Infrared. "That song was picked up by the OC and it became an instant digital hit," he says. I ask him if he's playing LA soon, "You can't, they don't let you play." The "they" is Goldenvoice, Coachella organizers. To play Coachella bands have to agree not to play before or after the festival, according to Malko, "for like three months or something."

6:37 p.m Willie Nelson. The crowd is feeling Willie, he's really one of the last classic country musicians left. When he goes, we will have witnessed the death of an original genre of music. Willie smiles out into the audience, his soul seems calm like the Dalai Lama. He sings Will The Circle Be Unbroken, it was an old gospel performed by the Carter Family. But now the song feels like a lament, like a warning to not let these songs and music and traditions be forgotten. Lucky for us, Willie is joined on stage with his two sons, Mike who plays drums and Lucas who rips on guitar. Lucas also sings just like his pop, the crowd goes wild for him, with Willie's genes clearly carrying on, maybe there is hope for real country music? Johnny Knoxville think so too, the big screen showed him in the front clapping and singing along.

8:00 p.m. Crowded House. at first there wasn't much of a crowd houses for them, but as they went through their set, I watched more and more people lured to the music, They sounded great, and I did get some pangs of 90s nostalgia, and a little longing for my college days when they played "Locked Out" which was on the grunge era romantic comedy Reality Bites soundtrack. And then I felt old realizing that many had no idea who this band was. As if the band was right there with me, they played Something So Strong...
I've been feeling so much older
Frame me and hang me on the wall
I've seen you fall into the same trap
This thing is happening to us all

Something so strong
Could carry us away

8:50 Lily Allen. We make it in time to hear When I See You Smile. I have to say we've had good luck catching the singles. I decide to push the boundaries of crowd attrition in the tents (Judith had mentioned this in her post). I grab my boyfriend's hand and we plow through the crowd. I was amazed to find the tent a lot less packed that it appeared, and if you smile and say excuse me, and it helps also to sort of dance through, you won't be denied, we make it about 10 feet away from the stage. I couldn't believe how easy it was. Allen did an awesome rendition of Heart of Glass, and ended with her song to her baby brother.

9:14 Air. When we arrive we're about 100 feet from the stage. A hail storm of white inflatable balls rain down on us, we punch them into the air toward the stage and watch them bounce their way down. Feeling empowered by our recent success in plowing through the crowd, we exert our dance-walk to about 15 feet away from the stage. We had to step over a bunch of people who have staked their claim by laying down blankets. I watch the guy ahead of me glare at one group. If they would only move, he could move closer. They're like the little old houses who refuse to sell to big business, all around them huge developments are going up. They cant even see the stage, but they're not selling the real estate. There is a bright yellow light that really has me distracted, I find it hard to connect to the music. Due to a promise not to miss the Happy Mondays, we work our way out of the crowd and head toward the tents.

9:50 p.m. We are distracted by the Teddybears, giant teddy bear heads on musicians, a screen in the back shows some haunting animated teddybears in suits. We get caught up in the music and stay til we hear their Iggy Pop cover, I'm A Punk Rocker. Oh shit, I can't miss the Happy Mondays.

10:00 p.m. We sneak on the side of the nest tent, and catch the Happy Mondays near the end of their set. I 'm not really familiar with these guys but their instrumental dance groove-riffs were catchy. I dunno I was expecting some kind of depressed emo band, thinking the band's name was ironic, kind of like calling a fat guy slim. But they were poppy and dancy and happy, at least the music felt that way, I couldn't make out all the lyrics. But big thanks to Joe Donnelly, deputy editor at the Weekly for making me check this band out, it was a lot of fun.

10:40 p.m. Rage Against the Machine is on, but I really don't want to see them. I don't know why. I saw them at Lollapalooza back in the day, back when I was an angry teen, moshing, and kicking up my Docs. I went alone and a crowd surfer wound up kicking me in the mouth, knocking me briefly unconscious and splitting my lip open. I was dragged to the side by a few strangers, and when I came to I had a fat bloody lip. I guess you can say I'm kind of Rage shy now. So we head to see the Lemonheads...

11:00 p.m. At 10 minutes before 90s hearthrob Evan Dando is to take the stage, there are maybe 15 people lined up. The entire field is empty. Everyone is going to see Rage. I mean there is a very small percent of the population who aren't watching, but by and large the other stages were deserted like an Area 51 bomb test site, just littered with bottles and papers, evidence that something had happened here (I can't speak for the dance tents). I went to the VIP area to see if we could see Rage in safety. Normally a walk that takes 5 minutes took over 15 because the crowd was so dense, we had weave back and forth. Even the VIP area was packed so tight. The aggro yelling and shouting made me nervous. I guess that's the point of Rage, I know, but as I got older, inner rage seems useless, yelling at a concert and slam dancing for an hour is ineffective. We go to see how Evan Dando's gotten on instead, more to appease my curiosity. To see how an unrequited crush is doing after all these years.

11:40 p.m. Evan Dando is wearing a hard hat. We joke that maybe it was in case people throw stuff at him. But that would mean there would have to be people actually watching. This was the least attended performance I saw all week. It was kind of depressing. And he wasn't all that good. I feel like Angela going back to find Jordan Catalano and having this moment, like what was I thinking?

And this is the way Coachella ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

On the way out to the car, Rage Against the Machine is still screaming away. The guy walking ahead of me says to his friend, "I don't know I never got into Rage, I guess I've never been that angry."

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Arguably the most interesting part of the Coachella experience is the drama of getting there and back, and what happens at night when the gates are closed. I had never been. My fears of large crowds and glo-sticks are too intense. But for the last few years I've been blessed with rolling updates from friends about their misadventures. Who got lost where? Who ran into who? Who got into who's after party? Who slept with who, where? This year, for my first trip to Coachella, my ride Travis Holcombe picks me up in Echo Park at 10:30 a.m. and says right off that as long as we make it in by 4:00 p.m., to see Hot Chip, we'll be fine. 4 p.m.? That's five-and-half hours. Uh-oh.

The drive is pleasant. We pass what appears to be a fresh, six-car collision in the super-fast carpool lane on the West I-10 right around Montclair. We talk about Osaka, the Monterrey scene, French electro, Los Super Elegantes, Cafe Tacuba, Diplo, being underwhelmed by London, exorbitant ticket prices for shows in Tokyo, and something called Baltimore Club. "What does it sound like?" I ask.

"It's the same tempo as house, like Ass 'n Titties, Detroit ghetto-tech, it's similiar, like Spank Rock."

First stop, a frightening new subdivision of identical stucco houses outside Palm Springs called Mountain Gate or something like that, to pick up Alexis Rivera. He found his way here somehow in the middle of Friday night and lost most of his crew in the process. This is the Mountain Gate office. We couldn't find "Alta Vista" street and the old guy showing off the model homes didn't know the street either. Get us out of here.

With Alexis in tow, our next stop is the El Pollo Loco at a shopping center featuring a Trader Joe's. Some hipster kids are in there too, eyeing us competitively. Notebook says: "I'm at El Pollo Loco and I hate Coachella already." Here's Alexis.

I take a nap between the El Pollo Loco and the Coachella parking zone. This is roughly 45 more minutes of driving. The traffic is horrendous. We see people shedding layers of clothing as they walk toward the polo fields. Lots of guys. Did someone trick us? Are we heading to a tailgate party at U of A or something? "The meathead factor has gone up," says Alexis. "It's all these meathead guys and perpetually 20- and 21-year-old girls." We park and pass what appears to be the Coachella campsite on our way to the entrance. The tents are clustered uncomfortably close together on a wide field of arid dirt smelling curiously of horse shit. "Hipster Guantanamo," Alexis says. The word most commonly associated with Coachella is "survival," and now I see why. The walk to the gates feels like a death march:

And we're in! Alexis doesn't have a ticket but Travis and I are confident he'll find a way in. He always does. We make it to the tent where Hot Chip is playing just in time. Seeing live music should give you something to do, e.g. make you dance, so we scheduled a rough day of hard electro and dance-rock/dance-punk, starting with Hot Chip, then waiting for !!!, then Justice, LCD Soundsystem, and The Rapture. In between we decide to make some efforts to see Ghostface Killah and The Good, the Bad, and the Queen. Hot Chip is amazing live, much better than on iTunes. Those spacey, driving beats. Everyone is dancing. This is my view of the stage. That's right, people's backpack straps.

Alexis makes it in. Now we're heading to the "beer garden," which turn out to be more like a holding pen. Here's a guy who seems sad he couldn't get inside the fence. Lucky him.

Generally, the fields are jammed with people. Many find a spot of grass and pass out, overwhelmed by the heat. Clothing is optional:

Finally, a winner. Meet The Coolest Person at Coachella 2007. A big guy wearing a T-shirt that says:

Here's a close-up. Take note, ladies!

!!! is incredible as always. The singer says they just got back from Europe and that it's great to have the first thing you see once you get back be California. He's fucking right. The palm trees behind the tent and the sexy heat and the brutally hot breeze makes me feel glad I'm here, too. And now we dance.

Dusk approaches and the Coachella Valley starts feeling a little magical. The landscape is truly breathtaking. The crowds are not. I'm getting nervous. Too many people! Too! Many! People! Time to take in some of the Burning Man-esque art. These are sculptures generally understood to provide entertainment for people on ecstacy and psychadelic drugs. This dome also housed an array of DJs. The security guards the DJ areas especially dilligently to watch for dealers, surely.

This guy is pressing some buttons on some light things, just because the buttons are there, I think. Looks like fun.

The Arcade Fire is playing on the Coachella Stage, which means unless you're very close to another stage, you have to listen. Alexis is not a fan. Throughout their whole set, he's complaining. "This is the Dream Center house band. ... It's like 10,000 Maniacs covering Chk-Chk-Chk ... They're really Christian. ... I'm ovulating just listening to this. " So we spend some time watching this weird trapeze lady.

The cleaning crew ladies take a break from picking up after the drunks and are mesmerized.

Dinner time. So far I've had a whiskey and soda, a margarita, a hard soft pretzel, three beers, and I've dropped like $50. Garlic fries will do.

We make it back to the tents to see Justice ("This is the new Daft Punk," Travis says) and LCD Soundsystem. The psychadelic factor is intensified.

At a certain point in the night you just want to grab the nearest douche to you and just start making out with him.

Here are some typical Coachella fashions. Notice the adherence to cargo shorts and faux cowboy hats.

Coachella is really good about giving you things to do. Here, people are standing in line at about midnight waiting to redeem 10 empty water bottles for 1 free bottle of fresh water. Yay!

Somehow Tiesto is spinning and even the VIP holding pen is sloppy and depressing. I want to go but my crew is lost over at The Good, the Bad, and the Queen. We meet up and make it out in one piece, with adequate room and not too much traffic. There's some kind of party in Palm Springs somewhere but without saying much we all decide just to drive back to L.A. It's 4 a.m. by the time we fly off the 101 into Echo Park. I immediately make my way to shower and attempt to scrub off 8 hours of desert heat and 50,000 strangers. I am exhausted, but sleep easy and grateful to know I won't be around for the awesome awesomeness of Sunday.

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Lessons Learned Day One: Don't be a hero and fuck fashion.

I'm in flip-flops. Fuck it, that half inch of high density foam is better than having to trod barefoot, through discarded food and spit, s I flippity-floppity my way to the main stage.

3:55 p.m. Regina Spektor, has all the red-hair, milky skin, and voluminous breasts of a Jane Austen heroine. I am mesmerized by her heaving bosom larger than life on the screens. "It's so fuckin' hot, I'm sorry !" she offered her condolences. Spektor is like a humorous Joni Mitchell, in a way, a softer Liz Phair, but with a good voice, and there's a touch of Tori Amos, though that's an easy comparison, red-hair, piano, but where Amos is fragile, Spektor is tough, less like a fairy and more like a hearty barmaid. In her song "Bobbing For Apples" she sings "someone next door is fucking to my songs" and then there was the crowd-rousing Mariane is a Bitch, about a girl who doesn't put out. I decide being on your feet for over 12 hours is misery and try to sit often. This is the perfect mellow sun soaked set to lounge on the grass and listen to.

5:00 p.m. Travis. "Hell is tuning a 12-string for ever and ever," says the lead singer frustrated with his instrument. I'm not that familiar with this late 90s band, but the crowd seems to adore them. "Y'all look so attractive," the lead singer says in his thick Scottish brogue. Flattery always works. And then there's water. The group up front is dancing so much, the singer worries about their hydration and has the security guards toss them some bottles of water. Apparently the bassist's classic move is a little hip swing that looks as if he's screwing his instrument. That was fun to watch. Their sound is hard to describe, Brit pop, a little folky, a little pop-y but not as shiny as most pop, there's a little more nutrition in the songs than the high fructose pop we're used to nowadays.

5:45 p.m. Panasian. Ok, I get the food court thing sort of, I found three distinct eating areas named after different cuisines, European, Panasian, and Americana, though once you get inside, there's basically all the same stuff. Eating now turns out to be a bad decision. DON'T EAT AT DINNER TIME. I was salivating watching all the Hawaiian BBQ roasting on large pits. I had paid for a plate, and went to stand in line, but after 15 minutes I noticed the Gobi Tent filling up fast. My eyes shifted from barbecued meats to the now crowded tent. I abandon the crazy idea of eating, got my money back, and ran to try and nab a spot to see Andrew Bird.

6:03 p.m. Andrew Bird , the jazzy violinist, is playing inside my head. That's because I'm standing two feet from the tower of speakers in front of the stage. There's a weird two sided phonograph looking thing on a red box, and another black and white striped phonograph on stage, kind of looks like sculpture but I hear they may actually be speakers. Bird, a skinny dude in jeans,and glasses and man-dals, trades back and forth between the violin and the guitar, swinging the latter behind his back while he picks up a bow to assault his violin. Two young girls in front of me record him on their digital cameras, then immediately share their pictures with each other. While they giggle, I notice every time Bird leans in toward the mike to sing, he kind of whips his head back and grimaces. I realize he's being shocked my the mike. After repeated shocks I can't watch it anymore. It's like watching someone being tortured for your enjoyment. And besides, the Decemberists just began their set across the field.

6:32 p.m. "Just so you know, seersucker is the perfect fabric for this type of weather," says Colin Meloy, his band the Decemberists are playing Coachella for the first time. Somehow I knew he'd be in seersucker. The whole band look like they're at a Gatsby garden party, crisp white linen and fedoras. They play mostly songs off their new release Crane Wife, but you kind of never know what you're going to get at a Decemberist show. For this one, we carved huge circles into the crowd so that Meloy could host an impromptu dance contest. "You never thought you'd have a dance contest at a Decemberists show did you?" He asks. Fans have come to expect the audience participation, maybe even crave it, and clap rhythmically without any prompting from Meloy, "watch your tempo," he warns when the claps quicken. He makes us wave our fingers during "The Perfect Crime #2," he makes us jump up and down as if we were on pogo sticks. I know we are doing all of this in some reason to appease Meloy, but it is kind of fun, and gives even the uptight an excuse to bounce. For the last song, they play an oldie, off their first EP, the Mariner's Revenge, you know, back when they were drama nerds. And I think to not disappoint, Meloy instructs us to scream as if our lives were in danger, when Chris Funk, pretends to be a whale. They jig, and dance through the sea chanty, and the big pay off, a giant fake whale comes out on stage and swallows mellow while we screech in mock horror. And that might sound really dorky to a lot of people but it was actually the most engaged with a band I felt so far at Coachella, but I realize not everyone wants to be that engaged.

7:40 p.m. The Arcade Fire. I don't even know what to say. So far, if I had to write about only one band this would be it. They are a force, there was so much raw power coming off that stage, I felt that cars could be fueled in the future by Arcade Fire. And even if it weren't for the organ on stage, the religious sort of altar, it would still feel like going to church. Win Butler, the lead singer, was like a preacher singing to us. He was intensely focused on delivering the message of the song, and only that. The rest of the band looked like his disciples, they were enraptured, they looked possessed, speaking in tongues, taking on different instruments, trading one for another, running around the stage channeling the song like possessed musical mediums, but always getting to their part on time. The Napoleon Dynamite looking dude smashed a keyboard in his fervor. One of the girls squatted low and looked out to the crowd, put her hands up to her mouth in astonishment. It looked as if she were savoring the moment. They played a few songs off of their latest release, Neon Bible, which is getting great reviews, but the crowd really got into it when they played stuff off their last album, Funeral, I felt this unity in the crowd, the mass of moving bodies, without instruction, getting it. We were all getting it, and the power's out in the heart of man," Butler sings, "take it from your heart, and put it in your hand." It felt like a call to arms. And when he sang, "Scare your sons, scare your daughters...every time you close your eyes, lies, lies," it felt like this band was speaking to my generation and for the moment we were all hearing it, feeling it, feeling empowered, and connected, like we have control in our uncertain days. At one moment, the energy of the crowd and the band, whose members sang and wailed, moved me to an ecstatic state, I'd never gotten high off a band before. I never felt so connected to my generation. The crowd became a congregation, and for a while in the desert we believed we can be saved, and more than that, we have the power to change. As I walked through the crowd, it was apparent , at least to me, everyone was feeling this. From the bare chested frat boys slapping five, to the indie kids, we walked around smiling at one another. To prove the unity was there, when a guy knocked over my wine, only a little spilled but he offered to buy me a new one.

9:00 p.m. We had a lull in our schedule, so we walked around all the art installations. There is sort of a big Burning Man feel to the festival this year, from the steam powered and bike powered rides, to iron fire breathing dragons. We walked through this fabric coiled snake, we walked into it not expecting much, we had passed it all day long, not realizing the tube hid a surprise, as we walked around the tunnel shrank, it felt like Alice in Wonderland, all of a sudden we were bent at the waist walking with our heads ducked until we actually had to get on our hands and knees and crawl for a while. The shrinking was hidden from the outside cause it coiled inside itself. It was a lesson in commitment, crawling through this tunnel, a line of people a head, a line behind, there was no turning back. Your expectations were fucked with, your commitment and trust, trust that there was a safe exist, was tested, At the end, there was a dome filled with people, talking and hanging out. But the experience left us excited to see what else was out there.

9:30 p.m. We went to go check out some music we ordinarily wouldn't listen, We checked out the DJ, dance party known as Girl Talk in the Gobi tent, it was cool to watch people having so much fun, dancing to their thing, but then the giant screen lit up with the words, "that's all I need to know about that" and it pretty much was how I felt, so we moved on to the dome to check out some live rapping, a battle between these two dudes. A couple of girls ran up on stage, looking pretty ecstatic, it may have been drugs, or it may have been that these guys were sort of their Arcade Fire.

10:00 p.m. Sparklehorse. We found a passive civil war inside the Mojave tent, half the crowd was sitting, the other standing as close as they could to the stage. Once we got inside we realized why, you could hear the Chili Peppers in the quiet spaces of songs. And depending where you were, the Peppers might be all you heard, we heard them from the other side of the festival. It was so hard for us to focus on the Ariel Pink like band, with all that Red Hot invading our sound space,h we threw in the towel and went to see them on the main stage.

10:15 p.m. We sat on the edge of the crowd, watching Anthony Keidis in a Dr. Spock hair-do do his thing, we caught Under The Bridge, and a pretty good cover of Donna Summer's I Feel Love. But if you've seen one Peppers show you've seen 'em all. All of a sudden a strong wind started picking up. You could see large dust clouds blowing.

11 p.m. Not really all that anxious to sit in the car again, we walked around, sat and watched the tesla coil, which I was surprised to hear, gets lots of applause. All of a sudden we heard this booming voice, and we followed it. It was Tiesto,I don't know anything about this guy, cause I'm not big on the Dj thing, but he was like a maestro, a conductor, leading a symphony of artists, cutting between Bjork and Moby. The crowd was huge, I had no idea so many people came out here for this sort of thing. We wound up dancing and I gained a whole new appreciation of this kind of music, it's sort of our modern day symphony.

12:30 a.m. We find the Jeep relatively easily, though I feel like I'm choking on the all the dust.

2:00 a.m. I fall asleep on the couch to Adult Swim, deciding to transcribe my notes, tomorrow.

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(Brief note regarding Lina's very complete Do and Don't list: I'd like to add one thing: DO bring your tickets!
I overheard someone saying they got within a half hour of arriving here before realizing they forgot their tickets, they had to turn around to go all the way back to LA.

2:00 p.m. Stuck in traffic on the way to free event parking lot, I rolled down the window to feel the desert air, its like sticking your head inside a clothes dryer. I can't help but feel a bit of schadenfreude for those who don't have AC.

4:45 p.m. We finally get our ID's checked, and our tickets, OF MONTREAL is playing, or so we think, we take off running full speed toward the Outdoor Stage. We get there 10 minutes early. The lead singer is dressed like an indie Elvis in a white bedazzled suit and his guitarist has pink feather wings. My body temp raises 10 degrees just looking at them. "All I want is a drink and to be left alone, " are the lyrics, "is that too much for Britney Spears to ask," he ad libs. He changes into a green and white bib shirt, I can't tell if it's glam clown or pirate . I stay long enough to hear Helmsgate blah, blah, my favorite song of the moment, you know the one he wrote in Iceland, that gies "Chemi-ca-a-a-als, gone mess me up inside" I dance and sing with such reverie and joy only to sort of be buzz killed by the fact that it's still over 100 degrees and the rest of the crowd is lethargic and unmoving. I realize this band would have been kick ass at sundown, but as daytime outdoor rock, not so much.

5:20 p.m. SILVERSUN PICK-UPS. I love this band. Lucky me, I make it right in time to hear Little Lover So Polite, my favorite song! I'm two for two. These are new bands to me so I'm lookin' forward to hearing these guys live, instead of on Indie 103 stuck in my car in all the bullshit Hollywood Blvd. construction. We had a split second decision to make, and decide to sacrifice Gillian Welch, on the the logic that we'll see her next week at Stagecoach Country Music Festival. Silversun Pick-ups, though we can see them anytime, is a really great outdoor band, the energy radiates, we watch the lead singer sings. Lazy Eye, the song with a four-minute build, makes us shake off our laziness especially with the pay off when the singer croons, "sunshine, sunshine." I have to be pried away.

6:00 p.m. Smoking Lounge. We head over to the swanky air-conditioned Smoking lounge to get our free American Spirits, and too cool off. We are checked for ID twice, our driver's licenses were scanned inside. We grab a couple of 7 dollar beers before booking it across the polo fields to see Amy Winehouse at the Gobi Tent.

6:30 p.m. AMY WINEHOUSE, has a couple of dude back-up singers, dancing in unison like the back up girls of old Motown. (I love her, I've already blogged about my deep love for Amy Winehouse, and see Judith's post below for a great review of her performance, I didn't want to repeat too much.) She has a live horn section, which really amps up her bluesy soul drenched style. "Where are you guys going to go next?" she asks, pausing for a second to add, "Peaches! Go see Peaches!" We try to move closer but clearly, the organizers underestimated the draw of Miss Winehouse who is one heavy rotation on indie 103. The sides of the Gobi tent bulge and spread .

7:06 p.m. RUFUS WAINWRIGHT. At this point my attempt to be fashionable and wear wedges goes proverbially south, I decide I need the additional two inches to see over the crowd and sacrifice comfort. The bottoms of my soles feel like they are peeling off. Ruffus open to big applause, wait! That's not Rufus at the piano. Some spiky haired dude is tickling the ivory, and we all know Rufus doesn't use gel. Rufus eventually comes out in a PJ/Muslim/Hoodie floor length thing, his chuck taylors peeking out, he plays Hollywood Is Over, the takes his place at he baby grand, I hate these tents, and find myself thinking of the small earthquake that hit 29 Palms yesterday, 3.3. on the richter scale and wonder if my last moments will be spent listening to Rufus. Who now is taking off his weird floor length parka. He's wearing red white and blue striped tiny boy shorts with matching collar. "I feel like a faggy Sinatra" he says. Ok, if I'm gonna die soon, I'd like to to be to something a bit harder, a bit more masculine. I run to catch Peaches who is just starting at the Outdoor Stage. I kick off my killer shoes to facilitate this.

7:35 p.m. PEACHES. She's wearing a signature pleather one-piece, a metal mask and is holding a lightsaber like an erect penis. Her first number is Impeach Bush, and she sings it, I guess we call it that, while standing on the kick drum. She's playing with a few chicks from La Tigre, the crowd thinks they're young boys, which I guess I did too, mistaking the faint mustache for a sign of prepubescence. I'd love to stay, Peaches is getting hotter by the minute, but the Jesus and Mary Chain is starting in 10 minutes...

Overheard: dude! How old are you? (to the chick with the mustache from Le Tigre) You're like 12!

7:55 p.m. JESUS AND MARY CHAIN. They open with Happy When I Pray and Candy Talk. His voice hasn't changed that much, and neither has his stage presence. This isthe original shoegazer band, he's 48, but with his mellow stage presence he can play til 80 without having to change much, unlike Mick Jagger. He caresses the mike and stares intently out into the audience, and the rumors were true, SCARLETT JOHANSON joined them singing back-up in a paisley shift dress and a fedora on Just Like Honey. "Miss Scarlet Johanson, I love her," he said as she left the stage. It was hard to really hear her chops, she only sang one word "honey."

9:01 p.m. Jarvis Cocker. They started a late, but the crowd, die hard fans, could care less. He's sort of like Leonard Cohen, not the greatest voice, but poetic, and those who get him kind of think they're better than those who don't, that they're keyed into something special the rest of us don't understand. Personally, I just wanted to hear Common People. Some people must have thought the same thing, cause we left in droves to the VIP tent. Though I did overhear a fashionable chick say, "He better NOT do any Pulp covers."

9:40 p.m the first time I sat down for more than 5 minutes. My feet won't go. They burn.

10:00 p.m. I eat my first bit of food all day, a slice of pizza. I want so bad to see Sonic Youth, but I can't walk back to the outdoor stage, I can't.

11:00 p.m Bjork. Judith did a great job posting about this already. When I got into the photo pit to take pictures it was impossible to move. Another photographer commented it was the most photographers he's seen in a pit in COachella ever Bjork wore a corset with bones on it and multi-colored dress. The neon female chorus horn section with flapping fans was very dramatic, especially when the first song was her new single Earth Intruders. It felt like we were being take over. I sat through the set because of the shoe situtation and towards the end we left to try to beat the crush to the parking lot.

12:00 a.m. We are wandering aroud the parkign lot, I'm hobbling, looking for our car, all of the cars are covered in dust, and becuas eof the lack of lighting you can't tell one from the other.

12:20 a.m. I find my Jeep.

1:30 a.m. We are stuck in the Jeep, no cars are moving. We've sat for an hour, people have given up turned their cars off right in the driving lanes and some have gone to sleep.

2:00 a.m. Two ambulances race toward the Polo Field and we finally move.

3:30 a.m. I finally get home to go to bed.

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"How's my do-doing? Sometimes I'm dancing and my hair'll be on another stage." -- Amy Winehouse

"I may look great, but I smell like shit." --Rufus Wainwright

"Tsenkuveerymush!" -- Björk

We (aerial maestro and serious Björk fan Eric Newton and me) got here just in time for Amy Winehouse, who sounded even better refusing to go to rehab live, and better on every song than she does on her record. It's a sure sign that she ain't fakin' it. She's teeny tiny, wore short-shorts and a midriff top, and then there's that hair. We learned from this experience not to despair if you're stuck in the back of the Gobi tent -- the attrition rate is high. You will work your way up.

Eric went to see Rufus Wainwright at the Mojave stage while I stayed for Julieta Venegas in the Gobi. Eric on Rufus: "Resplendent in his hooded caftan, which he removed to reveal matching striped shirt and shorts, he referred to himself as 'faggy Sinatra.'" He did mostly new stuff, reportedly. Me on Julieta: She decided to say everything twice, in English and Spanish ("it's a bilingual place, Coachella"), played all her hits ("Lento"; "Quiseras Andar Con Migo"; "Limon y Sal"; "Me Voy") and jammed hard on that accordion. She looked cute in her purple dress and stringy hair. Two pigs in suits briefly joined her on stage.

We took in a little of each of the following: Brazilian Girls (for "Sexy Asshole"); Jarvis Cocker (for "Cunts Still Rule the World" -- see a pattern here?); Faithless ("Mass Destruction," fine to dance to, and so good for you -- politically speaking. Fear is a WMD, all right.).

Björk lined up a 12-woman brass band behind her (I kept calling it the "breast band," by accident) and the sound was immense, twisted, complicated, perfect. Especially on "Bachelorette" and "Joga." To be so far from the stage and still know you saw a killer show, like something from another planet . . . astonishing. Inspired art direction, too, though we would have liked more of her on the screen and less of the hands managing imaginary sound levels and playing roulette with digital runestones. Eric counted four new songs ("Earth Intruders" came first). She ended with "Pluto" and came back for an encore, "Declare Independence" (which is also on the free CD someone stuck on Eric's car, and which he will burn for me later).

Other notes: Don't think just because you're a vegan you'll get up to the front of the food line fast. This place is lousy with hippies -- the wait for the tempeh and tofu wraps was three times any of the others.

Try the wine margaritas in the little beer garden -- they're stronger.

The grounds are magical and beautiful -- we recognized a bunch of stuff from Burning Man, like the Victorian-era train. Also check out the renewable energy "energy store" exhibit. I mean, I didn't (beyond the "Nuclear Energy" panel: "Remember Chernobyl?" Yeah, 21 years ago yesterday . . . ). But I already know all that stuff.

And, finally, it isn't hard to get your car into the Coachella Festival (we got in fast on Monroe). But it sure is hard to get out. Björk wrapped up at 12:30; we didn't get out until almost 2. No lie. I'm not sure the way around this but there's got to be one. Please share if you know it.

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Admit it. If you're going to Coachella, you've been thinking about what to wear for days now. You want to look good, but you also want to feel comfortable and not seem like you're trying too hard. There's the heat to think about, of course, but overexposed isn't always the way to go. This year you've got an extra day to outfit yourself, and let's not forget all those corporate-sponsored pool parties to attend!

I've been to Coachella every year except the first and as a veteran, I've learned a lot about what to wear and what's essential to bring. Though the extra day this year means re-evaluating some dos and don'ts, in general, it doesn't call for a bigger suitcase. After all, we always pack more than we need, don't we?

I've compiled some helpful suggestions just for you my fashionable friends. Read it, learn it, live it, and love your Coachella experience with no regrets….

Do bring as many pairs of shoes as days of the fest (this year, that would be 3). Even your comfiest sneaks will be suffocating your soles by the end of the day, which means anything else (even less walk-friendly styles like sandals, slides, flip flops) will seem refreshing the next day.

Do bring a big-ish bag with a strap long enough to cross from shoulder to opposite hip. I started doing this when backpacks weren't allowed at the festival (now medium sized ones are ok) and it worked so well, the bag I took became my "Coachella bag." I just dug it out this week and it obviously hasn't been washed since last year. It smells like dirt and alcohol (you can't take cocktails from VIP out onto the field and my attempt to sneak one last year didn't quite work out). I'm game to try again though!

Don't buy a whole new flashy wardrobe for the weekend (unless it's vintage—see Linda's previous post). That cute polka-dot frock with the heart buttons from Forever 21/Rampage may seem perfect for the high temps, but some other trendy gal probably thinks so too. Ya don't want to be line at the bar behind your dress doppelganger.

Do wear large sunglasses. I know, they're everywhere. But big-as-coasters Jackie O's (I still adore my Diors) not only offer maximum protection from the harmful UV rays, in a weird psychological way, they make ya feel protected from the music-manic masses.

Do bring leggings -if you're wear a dress or skirt- and a thin but tightly woven sweater. I've been bringing leggings to wear under my dresses after dark since my first Coachella, way before leggings were back "in." It's so nice to slip 'em on when the desert chill sets in and the sweater is also absolutely worth bringing, a hoodie even better.

Don't wear too much makeup chicas. It will melt. Matte lipsticks will peel, liquid eyeliner will fade. Glosses are good, as they keep things moist. Sunblock is obviously a must. Of course, if you have a VIP pass, care nothing about the bands, and plan to hangout on a couch near the bar area, this does not apply to you.

Do bring a hat (floppy, baseball cap, etc) or scarf. When it gets really hot, my trick is to pour cold water into it. Let it soak in, put it on your head and you're easily 10 degrees cooler. This has saved me during afternoon sets, particularly those at the second outdoor stage, which sizzle. The year before last, I remember the heat actually melted the band Atmosphere's wax, but I was chill as a pill.

Don't wear all black. Bjork, Interpol and Jesus and the Marychain will not notice you better. But the sun will.

2005 desert get-up: shades- $12. Hat- free from Rockstar energy drink. Halter top- vintage cheap. Sunscreen- $6. Guy taking my photo (in sunglass reflection)- priceless.

More hot tips:

Dress yes: sundresses, t-shirts of bands playing that day (preferably a really old one which shows you're not a newbie fan), loose skirts, shorts, jeans, tanks, anything cotton, and (please!) deodorant.

No Go: High heels, too much black, too much bling, studs, spikes, ironic t-shirts (I know a lot of you dudes will), or bathing suits (I know a lot you ladies will).

Pack: Tylenol/Aspirin, sunscreen, minimal makeup, camera, mints, hand sanitzer (for after the port-o-potties- eech!), cell phone, ear plugs, Airborne, the leggings, sweater and hat, and ID/ATM cards (but bring cash, the ATM lines are nuts).

Wack: Drugs (unless they're easy to hide), booze (or any kind of liquid for that matter; they will make ya dump it), weapons, or anything else under under the "No" section from this page.

And while you're on the site check out the set times and their nifty "Coachooser" feature which lets you tailor your own personal schedule and email it to your pals. See ya there!

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I don't know about you guys but I am so excited for Coachella this year. I feel like Larry Birkhead after the paternity results. But last year, I was completely under-prepared, marching through nasty piles of half eaten pizza and discarded cups in flip flops, only a thin layer of high-density foam separating my feet from regurgitated goop. I lost my sunglasses and got sunburned. This year I'm going prepared. If you're looking for a one-stop place to shop (after all you only have a few days!) head to Immoni on 3rd Street, a little gem that some fashionistas will kill me for telling you about.

But you can find all kinds of adorable vintage sundresses ($40-$60), sunglasses ($15), and feet-saving boots ($60-$200), they even have the cutest vintage floral overnight bags and suitcases ($60-$100), and a genius pseudo-military "fanny back" that clips onto belts or waists of pants. They have lots of scarfs ($14) , so you can cover your 3-day party bedhead, and cute music inspired accessories like 80s keyboard earrings and turntable belt buckles ($10-$25), and the most adorable little hand-made bloomers, meant to be worn under super-minis or tunics ($28), perfect for popping a squat on the grass. Watch out for food wrappers!

Immoni, W 3rd off Crescent Heights

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How great is the show House? Fuck Grey's Anatomy, that show is so lame, I feel bi-polar watching it— is it a farse comedy? a serious medical drama? It can't make up it's mind and just as we're supposed to be freaking out about some pandemic, we're thrust in to some love triangle we could give two shits about. But House, House is really good. It reminds me of Law & Order: CI, where Doctor Dr. Gregory House is like Vincent D'Onofrio with a medical degree. House is a thoroughly flawed human being, who knows other thoroughly flawed human beings, well enough to cure them.

Well now the hit medical drama is selling t-shirts to raise awareness for mental illness. Proceeds from sales, which begins today at www.housecharitytees.com will go to NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness.

The shirts bear the series catchphrase "Everybody Lies" and they cost is $19.95 each. The sale begins today (Monday, April 23rd) and runs for a limited time only.

Maybe they can do something for all the mental damage inflicted by Grey's Anatomy....

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I just got back from the Folk Yeah festival up in Big Sur this weekend, having journeyed up the PCH with my man to attend the two-day gathering in the redwoods. We found an ecelctic bunch of music lovers hanging out among the trees, with a heavy bearded contingent (Devendra Banhart's included), as well as some tweaked-out raver types and lots of bemused Big Sur old-timers. Classic rock revivalists Citay - originally a studio project between Ezra Feinberg and Tim Green from The Fucking Champs - stole the two day show, held at the Fernwood Restaurant (you MUST try their lasagne if you're ever up there, and their Caroline Salad is pretty bitchin' too). Citay frontman Ezra, it turns out, is completing a PhD in Psychology at Berkeley, but I think he should put off being a shrink for a few years and continue making awesome music instead.

The Folk Yeah fest (which has nothing to do with LA's Fuck Yeah fest), started last year, and there are plans to make it bigger next time (a weekend in Fall 2007). That would be a very good thing, in my opinion - the event seemed to revived the original beatnik spirit of a now heavily bourgeois Big Sur, which is dominated by overpriced New Agey hotels and retreats, the kind where you'd have to sell incense sticks for a good year to afford a night's stay.  Folk THAT.

 Britt Govea, the man behind Folk Yeah, has been keeping it real and organizing lots of events at the Fernwood in the last year - next up, Black Crowe Chris Robinson and his band The Wooden Family, in late May. Who needs Commer-chella and their Heineken sponsorship when you got beards, patchouli and lasagne just up the road???

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When it comes to blending girly with badass, Tarina Tarantino is the master. Although these Terminator-esque little skull faces attached to barettes are a little too smiley for my liking. Creepily cute!

www.tarinatarantino.com

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I stopped by Taste of the Goddess on Beverly for an overpriced sub-par smoothie. A failed parking meter brandished its very own torn Dior scarf. A glimpse of my reflection in the passenger window of my car confirmed that three days no shower does not a happy hairdo make. I thanked the Universe for the generous gift as I transfered the scarf from parking meter to skull.

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He might be a crazy character, but it aint from GHB!

All charges against Germs drummer Don Bolles will be dismissed after additional testing of the peppermint-scented Dr. Bronners soap found in his car came up clean… pun intended.

A field test allegedly showed traces of GHB, but more thorough tests done by the Orange County Sheriff's Department crime lab detected none.

Read the full scoop here, where amongst other things, we learn that the drummer's real name is Jimmy Michael Giorsetti.

But he'll always be Kitten Sparkles to his friends!

Celebrate the local legend's freedom tonight at Hyperion Tavern, the not-so-secret Silver Lake bar where he and pals throw the weekly oddball gathering Club Ding-A-ling.

The Dr. Bronners peeps will in the house giving away freebies, but uh, you might want to keep 'em in your bathroom, not your car.

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AXE, yeah, that men's body spray whose commercials are in heavy rotation, featuring panting women attacking men in elevators, a full on epic battle scene between brunettes and blondes over the affection of one freshly sprayed dude and various other two minute clips illustrating the power of their libido raising scent. According to AXE, this shit is like roofie perfume. "Spray more, get more" is their slogan. And the get more is of course, pussy. The company says on their website that their men's body fragrance "stimulates the clothing-removal section of the female brain. Which means you can fulfill more of your manly desires." Well, as if all that wasn't enough to sell cheap smelling cologne, AXE is relaunching its new and improved bodysprays with the help of K Fed. Yes, Britney's ex is going to jump around inside a 60 foot inflatable AXE can in the middle of Hollywood and Highland tomorrow. I always wondered what spell K douche had on poor Brit, maybe it was the AXE bodyspray that kept him "smelling like man candy all day" or the AXE deoderant that according to the site " comes out as easy as cherry pie." ew.

See K Fed jump in an inflatable can
WHEN: Wednesday, April 18, Noon to 1PM
WHERE: 1724 N Highland Ave. (just north of Hollywood blvd.)
Los Angeles, CA

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A few weeks ago I posted about a new bar in Silverlake that was so awesome I didn't want to tell anyone where it is. Well...today, I'm spilling the beans, because this Friday April 13, I'm having a night there. It's called "all Right", and you'll have to check yo' ironic moustaches and neon 1980's fanny-packs at the door, please. 

DJ Brendan Mullen will be spinning choons (LA punk to 1980's goth to acid house...yeah!) and there will be film projections (Quay Bros. I'm thinking). Mullen founded The Masque, L.A.'s very first punk rock club, in 1977, where bands like The Germs and The Nerves first played.

My friend Rachel Bevis, photo editor of Artrocker magazine in London, is gonna come down and shoot some photos of the night.

 Oh - and the location is....THE HYPERION TAVERN!!! This Friday! Be there, and be square!

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The Drama Runneth Over at Arthur Mag.

Arthur II: The Resurrection
posted: 10:54 AM, April 10, 2007 by Keach Hagey

"The whole thing is that he will return in our time of need," Babcock said. "He is supposed to die and come back."

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In case you haven't heard, local legend Don Bolles (The Germs, 45 Grave, Celebrity Skin) was busted this past weekend by the Newport Police. They say they found GHB in his soap, but Bolles denies even knowing what that drug is. An email campaign put together by friends and fans managed to raise dough for his bail but he still needs help with legal funds. To learn how you can contribute email deernora@yahoo.com.

The alleged cleaning agent was Dr. Bronner's Peppermint soap (good stuff) and it looks like the company are good peeps as well. We hear they're gonna help him with some of the legal fees. The company put out an official press release about the soapy situation today, see below:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

"Germ" Wrongly Jailed Over Soap

Absurd GHB Drug Charges for Don Bolles, Drummer of the "The Germs", Stem From a Bottle of Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Soap Found in Van During Police Stop

ESCONDIDO, CA – The Bronner family, makers of the popular organic Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps are shocked and disturbed by musician Don Bolles' April 4th arrest for felony drug possession after police alleged an 8oz bottle of peppermint Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap tested positive for the illicit drug GHB (Gamma Hydroxy Butyrate). The notion that anyone would put GHB in a rinse-off liquid soap product is beyond belief, and the police field test used must have been flawed or tampered with. GHB, which produces euphoria and is an alleged aphrodisiac when ingested, of course has absolutely no effect in a soap product that is rinsed off the hands and body.

Mr. Bolles, drummer of the legendary punk band The Germs http://germsreturn.com/, was arrested following a police traffic stop and spent three and half days in various jails in Orange County before being released early Easter morning. During a consented search of Mr. Bolles vintage 1968 Dodge A-108 van, Newport Beach police found a bottle of peppermint Dr. Bronner's soap which is made with organic coconut, olive, hemp, peppermint and jojoba oils. Felony drug possession could mean 20 years in prison if convicted. A pretrial hearing is scheduled for Friday, April 13, 2007 at the Harbor Justice Center, 4601 Jamboree Road Newport Beach , CA at 8:30am.

"I've used only Dr. Bronner's soap for 35 years," says Mr. Bolles. "I use it for everything - bathing, washing my hair, washing my clothes - it goes everywhere I go. I'm scheduled to go to Europe to tour with The Germs this summer, but these felony charges could keep me from traveling out of the country. This whole thing could be really devastating to a 50 year old guy just trying to make a living. I told the officer 'its soap, it smells like peppermint soap,' but he seemed intent on arresting me."

"It is totally outrageous that the police could be this malicious and idiotic," says Michael Bronner, Vice-President of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps. "This clearly is a case of profiling by the Newport Beach police of a person who doesn't look like the people who live in that town. We are paying the cost of Mr. Bolle's lawyer, and we demand the charges be dropped or proof from the police forensics lab of GHB contamination be immediately provided to us," said Bronner. Adds brother David Bronner, President: "We cannot imagine anyone putting GHB, or any other drug for that matter, into a rinse-off soap product that is lathered and rinsed off the body immediately. The Newport Beach police should see how much of a buzz putting beer in their shampoo gives them, and get a grip and apologize on their hands and knees to Mr. Bolles."

At the time of the arrest Mr. Bolles was driving his girlfriend, and fellow musician Cat Scandal to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in Newport Beach . "I had heard of GHB but the police had to tell me what it was," said Bolles. "I'm going to fight these charges."

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Drop that accoustic guitar hippy! Start beatboxing for peace. Check out the Make Hip Hop Not War Tour tonight at Clothing of the American Mind shop in Echo Park. There will be beverages, plenty of free street parking, and you'll be treated to an array of performances by DJ Chela, Akir Always Keep It Real), the hip hop artist who has toured with KRS One, Mos Def and the Game, and Seattle-based soul songstress Choklate (picture above).

And you can shop for Clothing of the American Mind's politically charged tees and undies while you bounce and hey-ho.

There will also be guest speakers like the President of the Hip Hop Caucus Rev. Lennox Yearwood, and Mimi Kennedy, Steve Cobble, and Dr. Bill Honigman of Progressive Democrats of America who, according to their press release, hope to "provide the anti-war movement with a "surge" that could transform current public opinion which opposes the war into powerful mobilization against the war. A stronger and more diverse mobilization is critical to force our policymakers to take concrete steps to withdraw our troops from Iraq and to prevent an attack on Iran."

Tonight, Tuesday, April 10th, 6:00 – 8:00 pm
1284 W. Sunset Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90026
In Echo Park a few blocks East of Elysian Park Ave. (Dodger Stadium)

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Okay, I may be the biggest Rolling Stones fan I know (except for maybe Falling James) but I'd defend my hero on this one regardless. Snorting his pops? It's soooo Keith Richards to say something like that. I've studied him, I've met him, I know.

But c'mon even if you're just a casual fan, you're familiar with the rockstar's wry, nothing's sacred zaniness, the one Johnny Depp copied for Pirates of the Carribean (If Jack Sparrow said he snorted his father's ashes would anyone believe him?).

Yes Keith was a major druggie but his dad died since he quit (snorting that is, he loves his booze and we're guessing his house in Jamaica smells um, nice). He was probably just bored when he said it -he's surely been asked the same questions a zillion times- and decided to have a little fun with the reporter. I don't blame NME for putting it in the story, I'm just shocked it became such a big deal.

Anyway, it's not true. Read here. But ya know what's really silly about the whole hub-bub on this one? Disney got so freaked out, now they're saying Keef wont be allowed to do press for the next Pirates movie which he has a cameo in, depriving us all of seeing Depp and his movie dad go at it at the junkets.

Hey Disney, if you're gonna stike a deal with the devil, shouldn't ya have some Sympathy for him?

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As usual, there were a bevy of bare boobies on the runways during LA Fashion Week a couple weeks ago, and it got me thinking- why does anybody get boob jobs anymore? After all, clothing falls so much better on small chests. And Playboy models aside, it's so much more chic to be a member of the itty bitty titty committee.

I was always satisfied with my mid-sized 34 B's and now that I'm a breast-feeding mama with ample 36 Ds (yes Ds!) I am none too happy. Low cut blouses look downright vulgar, and all my vintage tops and dresses barely zip up the back.

So when I got a product review sample of "Fashion Stick Push Up Cups" in the mail I thought, hell no! Then I remembered that I did need something to wear under for all my strapless and spaghetti-straped frocks. Would these sticky cutlets give the girls the support they need right now?

Unfortunately the anwer is no. Push-Up Cups, which adhere to your clothing, not your skin, are solely for the gal who wants a bigger bustline. In fact on the box it says to wear with bra or a "shelf top" for best results.

I tried them with a tank and a few dresses and the problem is your humps (See Linda's post below!) don't really stay put, which, with minimal activity, means you just could end up looking like ya got 4 boobies all in different places. Not cute.

Thousands of women swear by these things according to the brochure, especially brides to be who need to "fill out" their gowns, but the only clothing items they looked right on for me were empire waist pieces, which have a seam (the shelf) near the ribcage to hold them in place. Still, the improvement wasn't all that dramatic.

Padded bras are good enough (Victoria's Secret Embrace rocks), and really, when you get to the point of putting foreign objects in your bra –whether it be cutlets or socks for that matter- isn't it just false advertising?

Still, if you're looking for a little lift, the manufacturer has all kinds of other enhancement products with names like "Iron-a-Cup", "Perma Cups" and "Adhere A Cup." If yours runeth over like mine, the last ones seem the way to go.

Check it 'em out here.

Oh, and speaking of boobages, check out this week's Nightranger, where I get into the litterbox with a brief history of the Pussycats Dolls, give ya the buzz on Buzznet.com and so much more.

Ta-Ta (s)!

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I met with Dustin Beatty, the editor of Anthem magazine last night over drinks and dinner at Malo, with hot-stuff photographer Kristin Burns. He told us how his mother, a former flight attendant (and one glamorous dame by the sounds of things), used to bring home copies of British magazines like The Face and i-D after longhaul flights, sparking Beatty's life-long obsession with print media. He now keeps boxes and boxes of old copies of i-D and Dazed and Confused and The Face at his home in Echo Park (close to where Shepard Fairey will be reloacting his entire design studio to in the near future).

Beatty founded Anthem five years ago after studying rhetoric and oratorial science at grad school (yeah - he's a smart cookie), his plan being to create a pop culture digest along the lines of i-D or The Face for America. Intelligent editorial, he says, is key - a noble goal in the landscape of ad-driven vapidity that dominates magazine racks these days.

I loved their gender-bending last issue, featuring male models in girlie swimsuits (a hot look I plan on recommending to all my male friends), and a piece by an editor at Playgirl magazine, who insists that "Playgirl is not read just by gay guys." An interesting read - check it out!

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I love this adorable little skirt by Mexican artist/fashion designer Amor Munoz...Even though it does feature a naked masturbating girl showing her cooch to a couple Gary Baseman characters.

I'd wear it. 

Munoz also makes porn shoes and weird panties with trompe a l'oeil period stains on them. And why not?

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