style council

Memorial Daze

My legs hurt. My arms and torso ache. I never excercise, ever. But on Sunday, Steffie, Caroline, and about 10 of our friends played a full-on game of rounders (see Caroline's post below). I pitched a British inning, which takes 9 outs and has no balls (kind of like some dates I've had). I hit a home run and even switched hit, and ran my ass off. So if you see me hobbling around like a newborn colt, this is why. And so much for healthy athletic stuff, after running the cones, everyone (and more), headed to my house for a funtimes BBQ, which featured a clown (our friend Monica swung by after a gig in full clown regalia and even made animal and sword balloons for us); a professional hula hooper (Mr. Dizzy Hips); a quick appearance from Sponge Bob Squarepants; darts; badminton; and an original Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine (we made vodka spiked watermelon ices). I made Jamaican jerk chicken and coconut ice cream ( Recipes from my Gourmet magazine days) got some Red Stripe beer and a friend brought his turntables to play a little dub and reggae. And to think I almost went to Topanga Days instead. I had wanted to go listen to bluegrass bands and hippy out, but the thought of driving on the crowded PCH, and spending way too much cash on booze and eats, was just not my idea of fun in the end. Memorial Day is the first official day of BBQ season, why not kick it off proper like.  And now, I'm a 'cue addict. Living in NYC, a "barbecue" involved sticking my head out the window and grilling on a hibatchi on the fire escape, while 10 people sat like sardines in my shoebox of a living room. But here, with a big backyard, "BBQ" is a different animal. And now I can't get enough. The next day, even after picking up bits of patties and cigarette butts from my yard, I did it all again, I grilled, guac'd, and gorged. Tonight I'm gonna do it again. Long live briquettes and lighter fluid! Huzzah to Summer!

Here's Mud in My Eye

I just returned from a trip to New Mexico with my mother. It was the first extended vacation we ever took together (by that I mean just the two of us; that's not counting family trips in the station wagon, etc.), and we had a ball. In one action packed week we hit Taos, Ojo Caliente, Santa Fe and Albuquerque, and we did it all: We hiked, we shopped, we rode in a balloon at sunrise, we visited pueblos, we ate southwestern gourmet fusion cuisine seasoned with chipotle and cactus, we drank margaritas good and bad, we visited the Georgia O'Keeffe museum, we looked at hundreds, if not thousands, of turquoise necklaces and clay pots, and for two fabulously relaxing days, we spa'd.
    Ojo Caliente Mineral Springs, a favorite spot of the seasoned traveler/supermodel Lauren Hutton, is not a spa in the contemporary feng shui-and-facials sense (although they do offer standard treatments); it is more a spa in the ancient Roman sense (the word is an acronym for "salus per aquam" - health from water). One of the oldest health resorts in the U.S., it's a place people go to "take the waters" and there's quite a variety to choose from; there are four different types of geothermal mineral springs that flow from the earth at this once sacred site: iron, soda, arsenic, and lithium. All are all meant to be consumed internally, and I can confirm that the fizzy soda could conceivably be mixed with alcohol - if you don't mind bits of algae in your cocktail. I only had one glass of the lithium water, and then I found out too late that it was a natural sedative. "Drink a gallon of that stuff, and you'll be on another planet," said the host at our B&B. Not that I really needed to get any more mellow. They say natural hot springs are so relaxing because the mineral content is similar to the mineral makeup of the blood, so it's like your body is reaching equilibrium.
    During the summer season, May-October, there is a pool of detoxifying Moor mud at Ojo Caliente, and I slathered myself from head to toe both days, still in detox mode after a recent 21-day trial by deprivation, which you can read all about in an upcoming issue of the Weekly. The only thing I didn't do on this trip was find a Native American shaman who could perform a spiritual cleansing ritual on me. The closest we got to authentic Indian rituals was a visit to the Taos pueblo, where you have to pay 5 bucks just to take pictures of the site, which is a little bit like a beautiful, ancient adobe hut shopping mall. They do hold traditional ceremonies, but tourists aren't invited. I probably should have bought the painted prayer feathers one guy was selling at the pueblo, but I guess I'll have to be content with the organic sage body lotion I picked up on my way back to L.A.

We Get A Round. Ers.

Look, just cause we're the Style Council doesn't mean we have to be out quaffing champers every nite and destroying our livers for the sake of our readers. All us Style Council members have been endeavoring to minmize our alcohol consumption - Lina because she is preggers - and the rest of us because our ageing bodies are shriveling all the more rapidly thanks to our decadence. So when people ask me what I will be doing this weekend, it does not involve parties in the hills. It does not involve free drinks or gift bags. It inolves...Rounders.

What is Rounders? It is the British version of baseball designed to be easily played by nine-year-old girls. Which pretty much equivalents the state of mind of me and most of my friends. Myself and the Adventure Team - a collective of Eastside rejects who have decided to band together and do nothing but have fun www.myspace.com/adventureteam) - shall be descending upon Penmar Park in Venice for a game of said rounders in an attempt to combine health and Englishness (still so en vogue - did you hear about Lindsay Lohan's newly-acquired British accent?) on Sunday.

We like rounders because if you miss the ball you still get to run. And if you run, you also get to drink a pint of beer and smoke a Parliament once you make it back to home base. What better imperative to win? That's how the English play their sports - and we like it.

Concessions on a Dance Floor

Perhaps, the Material Girl (see post below for back story) had another reason for creating the temporary Madonna Gallerie— to sell her wares outside the LA Forum, where her sold-out shows are scheduled to be picketed by locked out stagehands and fans. According to a press release  sent out by Local 33 International Alliance Theatrical Stage Employees:

"Stagehand veterans have been seeking a new contract with the LA Forum for two years. They were locked out after their paychecks were slashed by more than 35 percent for rehearsals and other types of work. Janitors had their contracts terminated in February. The Building Engineers were forced out of the Forum last year."

Local 33 is asking fans not to purchase Madonna concessions, since the Forum gets a portion of these proceeds. The press release for Madonna's stores made no mention of supporting Local 33, or the alledged upcoming protests. Is Madonna just afraid of losing money if fans do support the stagehands? Does she just want to make more money? it would be great of she did come out and support the workers. In the meantime we just have to assume it's because we are...

Living in a material world, ma-ter-ial-huh...
(repeat and fade)

Material Girl Returns

First, she suspiciously played at a indie festival, now I get an email about Madonna Gallerie, a store set up in the lobby of W hotel, selling Madonna art, Madonna clothing, Madonna wines, and no doubt, her latest CD.

The press release read, "Madonna, the multi-Grammy winning cultural innovator has defined our era with a sound, style and vision that has inspired countless artists and millions of fans around the globe.  Having sold over 200 million albums worldwide, her most recent CD "Confessions On A Dancefloor" debuted at No. 1 in 29 countries and has sold over 5 million copies.  Her upcoming "Confessions Tour" was an instant sellout."

To me, it smacks slightly of desperation— do you really need to tell us who Madonna is? But maybe, just maybe it really is, as the release said, "For the fans who just can't get enough of the Material Girl." Afterall, Madonna said it best in her 1984 hit,  "Experience has made me rich, And now theyre after me..." The store, which opened on May 17th, will close on May 20th —fear not, Wild About Music (1450 2nd St., Santa Monica) will sell the same items and is open until the 25th.

You can buy limited edition hand-painted canvases, and photographs of Madonna that span her career. And yes, I did say wine, a Cabernet and a Pinot Grigio, and a non-alcholic wine will be available for purchase as well as tees and buttons and "other apparel."

A portion of the proceeds will go to "various children's charities" though none are listed in the press release. Maybe she meant Lola and Rocco?

Weed Patch

O'Briens pub on Main Street, in an area of Santa Monica I like to refer to as "Venice Adjacent" was host last night to a sweet band called Weed Patch, whose folksy rhythms— think part Bob Dylan, a dash of Soggy Bottom Boys, and healthy dose of good ol' feedbacked rock 'n roll— got everyone's toes tappin' and hips shakin'. If you've never heard the band before you might assume, given the name, that it's a bunch of hippies, who kick a knit ball around, forget what they were just laughing about a minute later and are followed by a cloud of pungent smoke like Charlie Brown's Pigpen is followed by dirt. But you'd be wrong. Think "weed patch," as in the unruly things that pop up unabated in flower beds and in cracks of sidewalk cement. Singer Neil Weiss has called the sound "fucked-up folk" and that sounds about right, but fucked up in the most beautiful way, like a really pretty girl who stumbles around drunk. I sat next to stylist Charon Nogues (check out her work in this week's LA Weekly and look for Weed Patch bassist Robinson!). Charon has big plans to make over the band, including Brad Richard—lead guitar and keyboard, who was intensely into his craft, at times his focus on his instruments was almost masturbatory— and Robinson—who thumped it out on bass, his solo drawing cheers from the crowd and his voice is smooth and sugary like Italian ice cream.  Drummer Marty Rosamond smiled and grimaced through the set reminding us of the pleasure and pain of good music. If you get a chance, check 'em out. They'll grow on you...

 

Life's a Rollercoaster

Riding rollercoasters at midnight with a crew of teenage skate kids was the last thing I expected to be doing tonight, but hey - sometimes you just gotta go with the flow.

Here's how it happened - I had MySpaced Danny Minnick, the pro-skateboarder turned cinematographer, to ask if he would talk to me about choreographing the skate sequences in Larry Clark's upcoming movie The Wassup Rockers (I'm writing a story for the Weekly about it). Minnick wrote back with his phone number and I called him at around 10PM tonight. "We're about to go to Six Flags, you wanna come?" he said. "Er...Six Flags...as in Magic Mountain, the theme park with crazy rollercoaster rides?" "Yes, I'll be with all the kids from the movie, we're taking our skateboards. You comin'?"

15 minutes later Minnick picked me up outside the House of Pies in Los Feliz with his buddies and a truck full of skateboards in tow. We took the 5 North and Minnick, 28, told me about how he's getting sober after the death of his good friend, Kids actor Harold Hunter from a cocaine overdose in February this year. These days, rather than getting high, he spends most of his time skating down Hollywood Blvd with The Wassup Rockers kids, a loveable posse of El Salvadoran teenagers from South Central, with whom he bonded in a big way during filming of the movie.

When we arrived at the park I saw a big red carpet, a bunch of limos and a press check-in with a 'Brent Bolthouse Productions' placard beside it. Ahh...this was to be no ordinary night at Six Flags. In fact, it looked like the whole of Hollywood had been transplanted to the usually ultra-cheesy tourist attraction. I spotted Petro Zilia designer Nony Tochterman wandering around, LilJon (at least I think it was him), and Indie 103.1 DJ Matt Sorum (formerly of The Cult and Guns n Roses), came over to talk to Kiko, one of the Wassup Rockers.

I noticed many of the party-goers seemed waaasted, in a suspiciously wide-eyed sort of way. Added to the beautiful full moon, it all made for a pleasantly insane atmosphere. Oh, and I have never seen so many hot, scantily clad girls at an amusement park in my life. As you can imagine, my new teenage skater friends were literally in heaven - hot chicks, candy floss and rollercoasters, all in one place. "We have to come back," said Wassup Rocker Milton, aka Spermball, who seemed under the impression that Six Flags is always this glam.

Meanwhile our Pied Piper-like leader Danny Minnick led me and his proteges to the biggest and scariest rollercoaster I have ever seen. We stood in line and I played Mom, looking after the kids' Ipods and beanie hats. I didn't pussy out completely, and did have a go on the ride, (I can't recall its name, it is something Chinesey), which, it turns out, was the whole reason the event was being thrown in the first place. Once on it, you spend most of your time being flung through the atmosphere upside down. And if you're brave enough to keep your eyes open, you get to enjoy some rather lovely views over Los Angeles.

And to think I almost stayed home tonight...

What's Cookin' With The Black Panthers

Today, I spent two and a half hours on the phone to Bobby Seale, the 70-year-old co-founder of the beret-wearing, gun-toting, Little Red Book-waving Black Panthers, the small group of civil rights activists dubbed 'the biggest threat to American security' by J Edgar Hoover in the 1960's. I was interviewing him for Swindle magazine's Icons issue, which will be a shit-hot collection of interviews and photos with 50 living legends from across the spectrum (I'll be contributing a few good 'uns like Larry Clark, Larry Flynt, Slash, Seymour Stein, Brian Grazer and Elvira).

Bobby told me all kindsa cool stuff about his years fighting the racist pig police, first in Oakland and then across the US. He told me about how he and Huey Newton (the Black Panthers Minister of Defense) sold copies of Mao's Little Red Book to students at Berkeley so they could buy more guns. About how the FBI planted agent provocateurs in their midsts and made them do 'dumb shit' to discredit the group - "This one guy who was supposed to be one of us held up a gas station for $42 and drove off in a truck that said 'Black Panthers' in big letters on the side," he said. He told me how he still gets hate mail from people who call him a black racist, even though he insists "the Black Panthers were always about power to all the people, black, white, yellow and polka dot..."

We were talking for so long he had to hang up for a 15-minute bathroom break, and when he called back he told me some more exciting news - he plans to revive Barbequ'n With Bobby, his collection of more than 250 outdoor cookin' recipes to make your mouth water. He wants to re-issue the book and maybe do a cooking series for TV, as soon as he finds the funding. I asked him if he has a manager or an agent and he said: "When I talk to agents they always say 'Bobby, tell us the dirt behind the Black Panthers, give us the sleaze' and that makes me so mad. It's time to move on!"

I wholeheartedly agree - why dish dirt when you could be dishing BBQ spare ribs instead...mmmm...

In Defense of Da Vinci Hair

Let me first say, I have always loved Tom Hanks. We both stuffed our bras, though for him, that was during a spell as Buffy on Bosom Buddies, and not before homeroom in 7th grade. I saw Big 24 times one summer. I even own Joe Versus the Volcano and sat through You've Got Mail without vomiting. You name it I've seen it—more than once. I cried when he got AIDS (Philadelphia), and again when he lost the moon (Apollo 13). The highlight came one summer,  I was interning for Columbia Tri-Star (now Sony) Pictures in their promo dept. and was invited to attend the premiere of  Sleepless in Seattle. Scorsese was there, Madonna was there, but who did I want to talk to? Tom Hanks. Mostly cause he was the kind of celebrity you could approach, and me being the kind of girl who stuffed her bra obviosuly lacked the self-confidence to step up to the likes of the then Material Girl. He was polite, kind, and asked me if I'd seen his wife after autographing my reserved seat sign. I still have it. It reads, “Linda, God Bless. Love, Tom Hanks”  I keep it in my jewelry box next to my great grandmother's locket and my baby teeth.

So I feel it is my duty to defend him and his coiffure choice. I mean, sure when I saw the posters for The Da Vinci Code, I thought “what the fuck?!” Same as you. Test audiences were hung up on his hair (they hated it), some fear the movie will suffer because of it, and it's being trashed all around the country. It may be the biggest  career-wrecking hair move since Kerri Russell chopped her locks mid-season of Felicity. But Hanks puts a lot of thought into the looks of his characters. And when I went over his most successful roles, a pattern emerged. I realized, quite simply, there is genius in each follicle, each strand is an actor telling a story. There is emotion and depth in every wave, flip, and poof. His is hair is like Nicholson's eyebrows. If Meryl Streep were a head of hair, she'd be Tom Hanks'.  Here's what his hair says in each film:

Forrest Gump- I am retarded but lovable...Look at me. I don't even have the guile to hide my receding hairline. I'm guileless.  And so damned wholesome. And loveable. And retarded.

Castaway- I'm a wild man. The sun has bleached my flowing locks, and no, I don't have a brush. I have a volleyball. I am battling insanity, who could think about hair brushing at a time like this.

Big- Oh boy, I'm a big boy. Ain't I cute? Trapped inside me is a little boy. Where do you think this mischievous grin came from? I got pubes!! overnight!

Bosom Buddies- Yes, I'm the kind of guy who would dress up like a chick to save money on rent. Really, I look like half a chick already. You know how many dudes got perms in the 80s? This is all natural...

And just what does his hair say in the Da Vinci Code? According to Hanks, all scholars have long flowing locks. His hairdo says,  "I'm smart. Smarter than you. I know things. Things you don't."  But ultimately, as one Newsweek source recently put it, "On the list of controversies that movie is going to have to weather, I think hair is probably pretty low." Let's hope so. Let's hope so. God Bless YOU Tom Hanks, Love Linda

The Year of the Dog

I had two life-changing experinces the other night at the Jade Cafe in Silverlake, near Sunset Junction. Number one, I realized that raw vegan food (the only kind served at the Jade Cafe) is actually rather delicious. Number two, I got myself a dog. Or, more accurately, the dog got me.

I was with Style Councilor Steffie, who had invited me to dine with her. She was on a strange detox diet that required her to consume nothing but liquids for one week (mmm, green juice for dinner), raw foods the next (mmmm...more green blended shit, just colder) and then a series of colonics and a galactic healing session (for her galactic healing, an energy guru channeled the Archangel Michael and several alien beings in order to unblock her lower chakras. "It really works," she later told me).

As we were sitting there enjoying pretend noodles (they were made of shredded carrots) we noticed a small white fluffy dog strolling by the front door, its leash (actually, a piece of rope) trailing behind it. He looked lost. We stepped outside to investigate just as an enormous drunk man wearing a sweatstained wife beater barreled over and scooped up the puppy. We guessed it was his, and sat back at our table. "Poor little puppy, having a horrible stinking drunk daddy like that," we lamented. But what can you do - you cant choose your parents, right? Well, actually it appears you can, at least if you're a dog.

Half an hour later one of the stinky drunk guy's buddies from the park across the street walked into the Jade Cafe holding the puppy in his arms. He said he had just stolen the dog from his friend. "He's a bad man, he beats up his girlfriend and he's a drunk. I don't think he can look after this dog, he only found it today. Will you take him?" And with that, he placed the little canine on my lap and left the restaurant.

Our waiter, whose name is Kurt and who I ran into at Coachella a few weeks later (another story), had seen all this and came over with an amazed look on his face. "What are you going to do?" he asked. I thought about it for a second. "Well, it is the Chinese Year of the Dog," I thought. Kurt the Waiter and Steffie helped me smuggle the sweet little puppy, who was quiet and friendly as a mouse, back to my car.

I sat in my 1994 Acura with a panting furball staring at me from the passenger seat. Maybe his owner is looking for him, I thought, so I checked for tags, there were none. "OK, so I have a dog," I thought. I have never owned a dog in my life. What do dogs like? They like food. I drove to the 7-11 on Hollywood and Van Ness. Pedigree Chum. Dogs like Pedigree Chum, right?

As I walked back to my car with two bags worth of dog food, a large man with gold teeth approached me and complimented me on my puppy dog. I told him the story and he seemed intrigued. "He's pretty cute, and so are you darlin'" he said, flashing those 24-carat gnashers. "You should give me a call sometime, maybe I can take the two of you out." As he said this he handed me a business card, printed on flimsy white paper. It said "International Romeo". I laughed to myself and looked at my new best friend as we drove home. I had just figured out my new puppy's name - Romeo.

I took Romeo home with me, and like the true gentleman that he is, he slept on the couch the first night. The second night, he climbed into bed with me and rested his furry white head on my pillow. We've been inseparable ever since.