LA Weekly

So Paul McCartney is playing Amoeba TOMORROW, and despite my connections, I'm not gonna be able to see him. My pal who works there actually sent out an email yesterday to head off the inevitable flurry of requests. She said it's a circus down there and that people were camping out as of Monday night and she had no pull on this one so don't even ask. Oh well. I've seen some pretty crowded shows there and you can't see anything above the CD racks anyway! Love The Beatles but not enough to camp out in hopes of hearing a classic or two. (Sir P is sure to play mostly from his new CD right?)

Now Prince is another story. In case ya havent heard, the purple one is playing seven exclusive dates at the Roosevelt Hotel.

Dubbed the 3121 sessions, the Artist will debut new music including "Guitar," the first single off unreleased album, "Planet Earth." And you know there's always some corporate tie-in right? 3121 guests can download "Guitar" right at the venue for free courtesy of Verizon Wireless' V CAST Song ID program.

Anyway, VIP packages, including dinner at the Dakota (tax, alcohol, and gratuity excluded), will be limited to 130 seats, sold in pairs (65) for $3121.00. An additional 70, standing room only tickets will be made available for $312.10 each.

He already played last weekend, he's got two more shows this weekend and the rest of the dates are TBA. We're seriously gonna "Get Crazy" if we don't work it into one of those gigs! We'll keep you posted.

As for P-Hil, yeah she's outta jail. She's changing her life, her image, blah, blah, blah. She'll gab all about it on Larry King tomorrow night, looking gorgeously groomed (today's TV "news" reported she's already gotten a facial and new hair extentions! And no, I have no idea what's going in Iraq today). I'll probably watch it and I'll hate myself for it.

But ya know what I'll hate even more? If I see paparazzi photos of the reformed party gal at one of my Prince's shows! Then I'll really get nuts.

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Today is your absolute last chance to score some deals on cool wax and CDs at Echo Park's Sea Level Records, which is letting stuff go ridiculously cheap before it closes its doors for good tonight.

While Tower Records on Sunset enjoyed new life (if only for a night) as Icky Thump Records courtesy of the White Stripes last week, the real Indie crowd bid adieu to the the much smaller record store last Friday night at Safari Sams, which was by all accounts a sad affair, though we hear sets by The Switch and Division Day helped brighten the buh-byes.

We're just waiting to see what SL's Todd & Sylvia will do next. After their DJ sets on Little Radio last week, we think a show on the station would do swimmingly.

By the way, LR's "Summer Camp" BBQ's are in full swing again, though they are no longer free since some jackasses stole stuff from the warehouse a couple weeks ago. But 10 bucks is totally worth it for blow-up pool fun, free drinks and bands like Burning Brides (who played this past Sunday) and The Raveonettes doncha think?

Check out these slip n' slide pics we took there last summer.

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"Are you writing?" asks my mother.

"Are you drawing?" asks Joe.

I'm a little preoccupied with not dying, but thanks for monitoring my (total lack of) creative output.

No one asks "What are you working on?" in Santa Fe. Everyone's too busy laying adobe or inlaying silver to care.

Between acupuncture, four-hour shamanic healing sessions, long nights spent getting to know the toilet (cradling, embracing, teetering over, squatting atop, kneeling in front of, and racing to get to), and days at a time in bed, I've slipped out and sniffed around a bit. A few observations:

1. New Mexicans are directionally challenged and addresses are a highly guarded secret. Ask anyone how to get to Place X and they'll give you a rambling monologue wholly devoid of street names or accuracy, instead urging you to "go left at the Sonic – or is it right? Well, it sort of loops around and then look for a blue pickup truck next to a tumble weed and turn there."

2. There exists here a phenomenon known as "weather. " The vast expanse of sky is like an ever-changing abstract installation worthy of wonder and lengthy stints spent watching and appreciating. When those clouds move and morph, it generally portends a change in atmospheric conditions which manifests in sudden downpours, hail, thunderstorms, lightning, tornadoes.

Global warming is very exciting here in the Southwest.

3. Ten Thousand Waves sucks. I know it tops all those "Things to Do in Santa Fe" lists, but trust me, as far as spas go, it's overrated. The setting is lush and pristine and breathtaking, high up in the Santa Fe Ski Summit. It's set-up like a Japanese spa with private baths and communal baths and treatment rooms and whatnot, and overrun with uptight tourists, saggy and bloated, tittering nervously in (and out of) stiff standard issue kimonos, waiting for massages and body wraps, testing out the murky waters, all nervous and twitchy around the exposed genitals (Did I mention it's clothing optional?) and the lightning (Did I mention I visited during a hail storm?).

I got a half-hearted massage from a big, beefy dyke who claimed to "love working on the neck," and then spent the next fifty-five minutes avoiding mine. I called in my complaint a day later and was rewarded with a fluffy robe and an eighty-five minute "Masters Massage," that proved delightful, in spite of the spa's stilted vibe and total lack of flow.

4. The Whole Foods has little in the way of organic produce, but boasts a bitchin' bin food section. It's much harder to steal from New Mexican Whole Foods than the ones back home - security, and all.

Score one for L.A.

5. The sweetest spot I've found is a little cabin up in Trout Springs where red-tailed hawks soar over lush, oak-dotted hills, fat snakes sun themselves on the windy road that takes you there, and a rocky, rushing river lulls you (as in me) into the sweetest sleep you've had in years. Rhonda the set dresser invited me up to her family's compound where I spent two days lolling beneath a fat shade tree, watching birds, slapping at horseflies and experiencing something like serenity, with some itchy sprinkled on top.

I enjoyed it so much that I'm heading back up there today, provided I can find the jagged wooden fence next to the yellow bush that indicates a turn of sorts.

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It dawns on me this groggy, windy morning that Santa Fe Time (SFT) is one hour ahead of Los Angeles Time (LAT). I rationalize a lazy day to acclimate to the time difference and adjust to the altitude, which manifests mostly in my nostrils.

I soak up some rays by the pool, taking advantage of Santa Fe's intact Ozone layer. The Vitamin D goes to my head and, for a moment, I relax…until, four teenagers come cannonballing into the pool. I flee the scene while hoping they drown. Back in the hotel room, I rearrange the furniture. I unpack. I make dinner for my boyfriend, hide it, and craft an elaborate scavenger hunt which will ultimately lead him to his food.

I am well-rewarded for my efforts.

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I plow through a sleepy night drive from Sedona to Santa Fe. Twenty minutes into the six and a half-hour trip, I realize this latest cockamamie scheme is flawed.

I call Joe.

Help me stay awake.

"Pull over and find a motel."

No. Talk to me.

"(Yawn) What are you wearing?"

Plaid skate shorts and a t-shirt.

"…(yawn)…Drive carefully."

Click.

I sing myself awake and arrive at my boyfriend's hotel just after three in the morning (he's shooting a movie there – a movie I cannot name, lest Studio X's publicist start once again foaming at the mouth and convulsing to the tune of "confidentiality agreements" and "closed sets").

I awake to an empty bed (early call time), gusty winds and a strange click-clacking on the roof, which I assume to be a herd of rabid scorpions.

Boyfriend left directions to the set. I take a languid drive to the tiny time warp of a town where they're shooting. From the sidelines, I watch the special effects guys prepare a vat of vomit (chili with oatmeal - a binding agent), the make-up gal paint lacerations on a Bad Guy's hand, and the star, a puffy Shatneresque version of his former heart throb self (those luscious lips, those swinging hips - yes, he is that desert reptile King) preen, prance and wisecrack around the set like a spoiled petulant child.

He introduces himself as he stumbles out of an old-fashioned saloon, just before the director yells "Cut!"

"Hi. Who are you?"

Dani.

"Actress?"

Writer.

"New Mexico gal?"

L.A. gal.

"Are you visiting a friend?"

My boyfriend's the D.P.

"No wonder he's so chipper today. What's the attraction?"

That's a longer conversation.

The on-set P.A. interrupts to tell Movie Star they're ready for him.

"I'm not ready. Seriously, that guy?"

Movie Star procees to lay down on the concrete and stretch. The crew stands by.

"What's Dani short for?"

Danielle.

"Can I make him jealous?"

He doesn't get jealous.

"He should."

Movie Star grunts his way to his feet and saunters inside for his next take.

"THIS ONE'S FOR DANIELLLE-UH!" he announces.

"Whatever," boyfriend mutters, rolling his eyes.

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I spent the better part of the afternoon looking for an unpeopled swimming hole.

Four hours, three U-turns and two bottles of Smart Water later, I'm still in my car.

I drag my red-faced, sun-soaked, soggy self into Enlightenment, a tiny book store on the side of Highway 179. I ask the middle-aged sprite behind the counter if she can recommend a scenic chill spot off the tourist-y Teva-trodden path.

"You should check out some of the vortexes. They're very healing."

She hands me a a Sedona vortex guide book. I point to an overstuffed chair next to a display of Dreamcatchers in the corner, and ask if I can take five and skim through it. She snatches the book out of my hand and sends me down the road to Circle K for directions.

The Circle K is like 7-11, only the cashier is white and chipper. A giant crystal dangles from her neck(s).

"She probably sent you here because she knows a lot of us that work here are psychic."

Probably.

She directs me to a nearby vortex, which looks a lot like a hill - rocky, red and cactus-strewn - but a hill, just the same.

It's pretty. It's hot. It's crowded.

I think I hear Santa Fe calling my name...

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Fashion is more of a mish-mash than ever right now: 70's silhouettes, plastic 80's jewelry, 60's haircuts. It seems the only decade that's not being heavily regurgitated at the moment is the 50's. Of course, rockabilly chicks are still out there with their perfect red lips and skin-tight leopard prints, but it's a very specific club.

Like the love of Morrissey, cool cars, and homemade tamales on Christmas, a lot of us Latinos have a particular affinity for the 50's look. With my penchant for platforms and maxi dresses, I am definitely an exception. Still, it definitely looks good on my sistas.

For them -and for retro-greaser types of all ethnicities- designer David Contreras has opened Tarantula, a new shop in Boyle Heights. The opening party last Saturday was swingin' to say the least, with a live performance by Chuy and the Bobcats (at his house next door to the shop), mexican food (yeah, the tamales were amazing) and a friendly, family-feel that will surely remain in the space long after the opening.

Contreras, who I knew back in the day when he was big drag queen named Queen Esoterica, has always had an eye for style (he ran with a fabulous posse of boy's boys that included hot hairdressers, designers, club kids and fashion forward types like singer Tommy Chiffon and Grey Ant's Grant Krajecki aka Krakt Wheat).

Now that he's taken the Fonzi and Pinky look to the Heights, the hot rod crowd is sure to flock there. Everything in the store is a reproduction of classic 50s piece: full skirts, pencil skirts, cropped jackets and peddle pushers for gals and pendleton jackets and loose slacks for guys. The prices are reasonable too.

I may always be 70's glam gal, but I can definitely see the Tarantula look creeping back onto the style forefront. Stay tuned dolls.

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I cruised into Sedona a little after 8 p.m. I'd arranged to stay at a private residence I found on the Craigslist.

The three-bedroom house is decorated rote New Age - crystals, angels, fairies, affirmations, candles. The backyard has a gratitude wheel (I'll explain later) and a killer view of a giant rock formation.

Jeanette, my hostess, told me she'd been channeling Melchizedek before I arrived. She handed me a Peruvian crystal that vibrated intensely in my hand.

"I was told to give it to you."

We chatted for a bit while I nibbled raw chocolate and, upon Jeanette's prodding, pulled my Angel cards to determine my purpose here: Beauty, Inner Power, Vacation. Sounds about right.

I showered off the road grime and crawled into bed.

It's a thousand degrees here and I can see a zillion stars. A boom box outside my door is playing a recorded miracle chant in an ancient language that sounds a lot like Hebrew.

Can't wait to see this place in the light of day.

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Brilliant PR tie-in of the week--

PARIS CUFFED!

Just got a press release with the above subject line for the Linz hangbag line. The bags feature "police grade" handcuffs and chains and apparently Mz. Hilton bought 'em in every color, way before her arrest.

And while some might find it ironic, we're not suprised girlfriend likes her cuffs. Sex tapes, naked celly pics... C'mon, everyone knows she's a kinky pinky!

She's probably not getting a cut for her endorsement of the carry-alls, but the latest is, the Simple-ton will be getting a cool mil for her prison diaries. Oh the injustice...

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