style council

Starstruck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy Shit It's Robert Plant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by Caroline Ryder

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

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

The Eyes of Don Bachardy...On Me

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by Caroline Ryder

The Glamorous Life

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

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

The pearl-themed bash unveiled Courtney’s new “Mystery of the Black Pearl” line with spiked bubbly (an iridescent powdery substance was poured into each glass) and goody bags that included pearly nail-polish and a shimmery candle from Illume.

As I admired  the beautiful jewels  at the event (which was basically a preview soiree for celebs and their stylists to check out and plan for their Academy Awards ensembles… actress Alfree Woodard was there… love her!) I thought back to my own jewelry- making days. See, I used to have my own line and for a short time, and I even worked for Courtney, though it was way before she started doing the pricey diamond stuff for the likes of Julia Roberts, etc. or had a second store next to the Ivy on Robertson Blvd. I miss creating beautiful, unique things for people to wear, but who has the time these days?

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

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

Anyway, we stayed at the Omni hotel which was just as beautiful as the one in LA but with a more reliable restaurant, McCormick and Schmidt’s. Turns out the Hard Rock isn’t even built yet… though we did get a great view of the hard hats toting wood planks around the lot where it will be from our hotel window.

There’s nothing like blasting great tunes and getting all dolled up in a leisurely manner with your girlfriends. It’s a ritual I relish sometimes even more than the event I’m getting ready for. Maybe I’ve watched too many makeover shows but I really get a kick out of the transformation process. I think I even try to look especially grungey (see icky photo, ok I think I had just barfed though) the day of a big event so the “before” and “after” is more dramatic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brain Candy and the Karma of Art

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

Any Given Sunday

It's friggin Sunday, I want to finish the book for my book club (Memories of My Melancholy Whores by Garcia-Marquez), I want to finish painting my living room, I want to eat ribs and drink beer, the last thing I want to do is go to Kitson on Robertson for a schmooze fest. But I am lured by the promise of a good gift bag, and some cool new duds to inspect. As soon as I approach the store  I seriously debate turning around and going home— there's a tent pitched outside housing a pack of paparazzi on media risers, and a red carpet (it seems they throw one down for anything these days) has been rolled out.  But I press on, in the name of work— Kitson has a new partner Guy Oseary and Rebel Yell is launching an extended line. Inside, there are so many people huddled here and there, slumped over clothing and display cases, it feels like an airport after a snow storm, people seem stuck, bored, waiting for the layover announcement. I ask the waitress carrying mini-mac and cheese bowls if there is going to be a fashion show. She wrinkles her nose, "I don't think so," she says. Another waitress comes by with jello shots, and they confirm, no fashion show. I head to the bar for a red bull and vodka, and pass Samantha Ronson who is the DJ for the event, this is the second time I've seen her in four days. I think that somewhere in the world that means we're dating. I think it's time she met my parents. I get stuck in an unmoving pool of people, and I see why every one is still hanging out at a non event such as this— Demi and Ashton are curled up in each others arms. Can they really be that much in love? It looked like it. I spot two of Demi's daughters, the one that looks like Bruce and the one that looks like her. Jeez, nothing like Kitson to really bring the generations together. Demi and her daughters could be the poster gals for the store. Kitson is a total MILF mecca, on any given day you can find 40 year old moms shopping for themselves and their 12 year old daughters, for things like Juicy Couture charm bracelets, True Religion jeans, and now Rebel Yell tees and hoodies. Demi is wearing a hoodie from the youthful Rebel Yell line, an old varsity fleece zip-up with unfinished seams. I don't know what to make of the whole thing. I once went on a family trip with a boyfriend and I was wearing a Juicy Couture dress and his little 11 year old sister had on the same dress and his mom was wearing a Juicy hoodie. Three generations of Juicy. Is that right? Maybe it is. I mean does a woman have to head to Eileen Fisher after 30? after 40? And if Desperate Housewives has made 40 the new 30, does that make 30 the new 20?

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

No No No...

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

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

NOE WAS A BIG NO!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children of a Richer God

It was a night of music, fashion, charity and...children of celebrities. Express launched their new Spring line during a runway show at Smashbox studios last night with a few confusing tie-ins (a charity, the Center for Innovative Education, was mentioned in press handouts though no one was asked for any money, and a "Legs Gallery," curated by the Resurrection boutique owners hung on the walls- it seemed pretty random). The party in the black tent with red light-bulbed chandeliers,  filled with an unprecidented amount of sidekicking,  was hosted by a few celebrity offspring, including Kidada Jones, Zoe Winkler, Savannah Buffet, and Oliver Hudson. In attendance were more star progeny including Smashbox owner and Max Factor heir Dean Davis, Devon Aoki, Nicole Richie, and Samantha Ronson played DJ.  (Also spotted were Philip Starck, and Saturday Night Live player Seth Meyers.) These kids of celebs really stick together, it's like a cult. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be raised by a famous daddy or mommy and how that screws some kids up. I thought of that March of the Penguins movie, and those fragile eggs, a child of a celebrity probably has similar odds of survival, but in the end, it's hard to feel sorry for them when you see how much opportunity they're given, and in some cases, regardless of talent. Case in point: The worst part of the evening may have been the performance by yet another child of a celeb,  Alan Thicke's son Robin Thicke who was recently signed to Pharrell's new label. Talk about growing pains! Thicke the younger, sang R&B hip-hop songs that were embarrassingly bad, squeaky and strained notes escaped from his mouth while he hid behind a solidly confident demeanor.  His dad watched from a seat below, and models traipsed down the runway. I saw a few eyes roll, and Nicole Richie even left half-way through, though the guy next to me was into it as much as Pharrell was, who was dancing and clapping. I was so confused. Pharrell? Signed Alan Thicke's son...??? Who sings R& B? Wha...? I heard if you give Pharrell half a million dollars, he'll produce your record too.   But the main event was a fashion show and I managed to catch a glimpse— from what I saw Express is doing the same shit it always does and it is doing it as well as any brand can when designing for the masses. The tailoring might not be fabulous, but they manage to rip off the right designers, the body-suit with jeans look came right off the Ashley Paige runway show last fall and I saw some Marc Jacobs and Trina Turk knockoffs too. Not horrible but I haven't worn Express since the 8th grade, and I'm not convinced I should start again now. The best part of the night was—the dirty martinis, the mini-hamburgers, and watching Devon Aoki work her way backstage, "I'm a model!" she told the security guard. At least she didn't say, "do you know who my father is?"

Donita Sparks' Mushroom Mullet

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

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

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

From L7 to Loni Anderson - Donita, what happened?

Donita Sparks

Loni Anderson

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

Evenings Become Eclectic

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was a really cheesy ending. Sorry.

Posted by Caroline Ryder