I Know What I Did Last Summer

Just in time for the Halloween run of the thrice-a-year sassfest known as Lucha Va Voom, I developed the photos that I took at the bout I went to last June with Emili and Steve. This is me and a burlesque beauty who had stripped to one of Ennio Morricone's spaghetti western theme songs.

This is a finger puppet that was guarding the women's bathroom at Brite Spot, the Silver Lake diner where Steve and I flushed out the tequila in our blood with a midnight breakfast.

Pumpkin Party

Paolo and Ronnie threw a pumpkin-carving party at their swank Hollywood apartment on Saturday. It was a lot of fun. We feasted on pizza, red wine, smelly but yummy cheese, slices of Bartlett pears and fistfuls of chocolate candy. This is Ronnie's pumpkin, which is an homage to the many tattooes of butterflies fluttering on his arms.

This is Jack's pumpkin. It is a Mexican whore. Considering that Jack wore white patent leather fetish boots during the carving, it's no surprise that he opted for a kinky theme.

This is my space-themed pumpkin. I was listening to David Bowie's "Major Tom" earlier that day. I painted the entire exterior of the pumpkin blue and stuck two fluorescent lights in the middle.

Ronnie ordered everyone to take their art project home because he didn't want to live like a farmer in a pumpkin patch. After I left Paulo and Ronnie's place, I set my pumpkin atop the hood of my car to open the passenger door. The blue blob rolled off the Prius onto the street. Some of the blue paint chipped off. But it was still pretty enough for me to leave on the stoop of my apartment building for my neighbors to enjoy.

The next day, I took a break from writing a story that I needed to file by Monday morning. I walked to a local cafe that had an adjacent gourmet shop. I bought some fig jam from France. For a snack, I slathered butter and the sweetly earthy jam on a mini baguette. The Boule chocolates were part of a goody bag from a fashion event.

I also put on some lipstick. Never mind that I was on deadline and had no plans to see anyone that evening. A writer for The New York Times blames the decline of Western civilization on lip gloss. I'm a big fan of lip gloss, which I think is more fun, fresh and easy on the smackers than lipstick. But I recently discovered a tube by Nars that left a sheer stain without any sticky goop and vulgar wetness. Gipsy left off the "y" but came packed with moisturizer. It's my new favorite lip color.

Breaking Bread

Seven days into the 12-day fashion week, I had to take a break from the shows by breaking bread with Eileen, who returned to civilization from her month-long sojourn in the desert. Last Wednesday, we checked out Suzanne Goin's AOC, which, if you have a very long arm, is a stone's throw from my office. I decided to get some exercise and spare myself the hassle of finding parking on Third Street near the ever popular Grove shopping complex by leaving my car parked in my office building and walking the half mile to the restaurant. The first thing I did after being seated on the covered second-floor balcony was treating myself to a champagne flight, which included a rose. I asked the waiter if it were too late in the season to drink rose champagne. Before he could reply I answered my own question by saying that we live in Los Angeles so it doesn't matter. After all, Angelenos popularized Uggs with cut-off shorts and flip-flops with jeans and long-sleeved Ts.

I'm so glad the Atkins diet is declasse. Bread is resurfacing on dinner tables across SoCal. AOC served its carbs with a sundried tomato paste and black olives.

Eileen and I shared an apple salad mixed with arugula, goat cheese, shavings of Parmesan cheese and walnuts.

I love kabocha, the Japanese pumpkin that has a richer texture and sweeter flavor than acorn squash. Goin prepared the winter vegetable with dates and bacon. The dandlelion greens offset the sugary composition with a bit of bitterness. Eileen and I also split the cauliflower cooked with curry, which was AOC's version of aloo gobi. But the yellow-tinted cauliflower wasn't too photogenic so I ditched the photo op.

Off My Game

I've been off my game this week. Sometimes I refused to speak and grunted to give an affirmative response to people's questions. When I did talk I spitted out profanity like the true hardnosed reporter that I am. But this morning was the topper. Peruse this transcript of a phone call between me and a publicist who was coordinating an interview with a celebrity:

Her: Hi. I wanted to see whether you and your photographers are nearby. The fashion show is going to start in five minutes.
Me: I just dropped my photographers off in front of the studio. I am parking my car and will be there in two minutes. But I didn't realize there is a fashion show. I thought the interview is at 11 a.m.
Her: The fashion show is at 10:30 and your interview is at 11. Are you at the studio in Santa Monica? That's where the fashion show and interview are.
Me: No, I'm at the studio in Culver City. Wait--the interview is in Santa Monica? [I look at my watch. It's 10:40.] OK; I'm going to miss the fashion show. I'm sorry. I will be there for the interview.

Frantic, I picked up my Italian photographers who were sitting on their camera boxes in front of the locked doors of the Culver City studio. "Nobody's here," one of them told me in their Florentine accent. "We're at the wrong place!" I told them as we loaded their gear into the trunk of my car. I have never missed an interview and I never will. So I sped onto the highway, weaved through a traffic jam and cut to the top of a bottleneck at the exit ramp. I was worried that my passengers would get carsick but I thought there are worse drivers in Italy. We pulled up to the valet at the Santa Monica studio at 10:59 a.m. I did the interview, got a scoop along with a fantastic portrait from my photographer and filed the story for the next day's paper.

JT!

Justin Timberlake proved that he is first and foremost an entertainer in the debut fashion show for his denim line in Hollywood on Tuesday night. After most of the models finished sashaying, 10 dancers commandeered the catwalk to grind in front of Timberlake's girlfriend, Cameron Diaz, and flip the bird at the seated audience. JT's famous pals dotted the front row. Most of them have dabbled in fashion themselves: Nicky Hilton (Chick by Nicky Hilton), Paris Hilton (former Guess girl), Nick Cannon (PNB Nation), Eve (Fetish), Diaz (former model), the Black Eyed Peas' Will.I.Am (I.Am) and Maroon 5's Adam Levine, whose father owns SoCal's M. Fredric specialty store chain. Photographer Mario Testino and stylist Rachel Zoe were also in the house. JT was so cute that Missy said she wanted to dress her hubby like him in a sweater vest, fitted dress shirt and dark skinny jeans. At the after-party, JT sang, dance and jammed with 11 African-American musicians and singers. They moved between riffs of the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" and Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" and hits from JT's two solo albums. Someone told me that it was Prince's back-up band.

Prince didn't hop onto the stage, but Will.I.Am, 'N Syncer J.C. Chasez, Levine and Timbaland did. In this photo, the rapper who produced the kick-ass "SexyBack" on JT's second solo album addressed the white boy, who was shaking his booty at the crowd.

Ooh La L.A. Fashion Week

Fashion week is a misnomer because the parties, runway presentations, trunk shows and all-around schmoozefest run for 12 days this month. The workday extends past the 12-hour mark and the waiting in between events would equal enough time required to learn a romance language. You also need the diplomacy skills of a United Nations ambassador and the iron balls of a police detective to track down CEOs, grill them about sales, store expansions and product development in between sips of champagne and remember what they said accurately so that you won't get sued later for libel. But there are perks, such as reuniting with other members of the traveling fashion tribe whom you see twice a year during the seasonal presentations, knowing now what the rest of the world will wear six months later and bonding with ultra-cool co-workers who help blur the line between work and play. There are also the goody bags. Check out the Dr. Peepers sunglasses that I received in a gift bag from one fashion show.

None of my other three buddies got the glasses, which were packed in a Chinese take-out box filled with a long glass bead necklace and fortune cookies. The shades went perfectly with my red collarless coat and retro silk scarf printed with green blocks (another present from a previous fashion party I attended). I look like the lovechild of an Asian Jackie O and Willie Wonka.

I also picked up two bottles of bodywash at the show for the beyond-hip Japanese brand called Evisu. You might recognize the abstract seagull drawing that Evisu prints on the back of all its pricey jeans. I always score so many bath and body products, shampoo and conditioner and makeup that I can set up a beauty salon and never have to restock inventory for a couple of months. It's a good thing that I've become girly the past few weeks. In addition to quizzing my friends about the best mascara that won't smudge (Christian Dior), I've been experimenting with eye shadow and deep-conditioning my hair. Soon you will see me smacking my lips in Smashbox's Sassy red lip gloss tinted with a bit of gold (let's set up a pool now to predict how often the media will use the phrase "the gilded age" to describe how gold will be an important accent for next spring). Still, I have only one body and one head. That's why I always try to redistribute the wealth to my pals.

Barbezians at the Gate

Last Monday I walked four blocks from my house in Los Feliz to Steve Allen Theater's Center for Inquiry, where New York-based Barbez was the headliner for a trio of bands that promised "a peculiar auditory delight," according to the venue's fall/winter showbook.

Indeed, the first act -- Becky Stark, who performed with the same pianist and drummer who usually accompany her in Lavender Diamond -- conjured the little match girl with her set of songs about hungry misery, poor tinderstick sales, self-immolation and rebirth. With an ethereal voice that tried valiantly to hit the super-high notes and a vintage-shop wardrobe, she resembled Holly Hobbie who had stepped out of a time machine and found herself in the middle of Los Angeles' Silver Lake neighborhood. The second performer was Hans Fjellestad, a castaway from the Osaka noise/art rock sect who used an old-school Moog synthesizer to bombard the audience's ear drums with very loud screeches, sirens and stumping. Because I forgot my earplugs, I kept my fingers in my ears during the entirety of the two long songs.

Barbez was fortunately lower on the decibel scale. Pamelia Kurstin, the musical collective's resident theremin player, opened with a solo enhanced by a loop and sound distorter that let her pile on melodies and harmonies evoking cellos, clarinets and other classical instruments. Speaking in a high-pitched baby voice, Kurstin had a fancy-schmancy Moog theremin that stood by itself and was as large as she was. I picked up some cool hand techniques. In addition to doing karate chops with my hands, I can now mimic a duck quacking and a foot banging a steady beat on a bass. My FAB bandmates are always dropping hints that I should play the flute or another instrument because not every song needs a theremin. But I offer Kurstin as proof that the theremin does add essential flavor to songs. Barbez also had a guitarist, bassist, drummer and dude who played the cow bell, clarinet and tenor saxophone (albeit not all at once). I have to confess that I got bored with Barbez's habit of starting a song slow with the clarinet, sax or theremin and then building up to a hard-driving jam that evoked a klezmer band in a horror movie. For Barbez's encore, a cover of David Bowie's "Heroes," Kurstin switched to the electric bass and the guitarist reqlinquished his instrument to the bassist. Again, the band started off slow and easy. The singer prostrated himself on the ground in front of the drum kit. I thought he was suffering from a nervous breakdown. He quickly got himself up and the band rocked out to the rest of their Bowie tribute. At a quarter till midnight, I walked home a little sleepy and stupefied.

The Joshua Tree

I could be tempted to integrate the lyrics from U2's "The Joshua Tree" into the culinary chronicle of my recent four-day holiday in Yucca Valley, where my pal Eileen is renting a house for the month. But I don't feel cliched, ungrateful or angry enough to rail that "in the howling wind comes a stinging rain, see it driving nails into souls on the tree of pain, from the firefly, a red orange glow, see the face of fear running scared in the valley below." We simply had too much fun, even as asphalt-gray clouds loomed above the parched earth, threatening to damp our dark hair.

At sunset, the mix of colors in the sky reminded me of the deadly gaseous atmosphere on Mars.

On my first night, I draped myself in my black cape and explored Pioneertown in the dark with Eileen and Colin, who was visiting from the Big Apple. My crummy cell phone camera couldn't take any good photos of our roast chicken, barbecued baby back ribs and beef coated in a spicy dry rub. But I managed to snap a picture of the postcard advertising our restaurant, Pappy & Harriet's. So what if our waitress messed up our order and gave us mashed potatoes instead of Southwestern red rice. Pappy & Harriet's offers Stella Artois on tap in the middle of the desert. You can't beat that!

This is one of the various nooks at Eileen's house where we could kick it, smoke it and rock it.

I know taste is subjective and I try not to be judgmental. But I couldn't quite comprehend the owner's predilection to decorate his mustard green stucco home with 3-D art showcasing at least three different media, whether it be oil paint, metal inlay or wood.

After a night of soaking in a hot tub, cooling off in a pool, getting high and swinging in a hammock, Eileen, Colin and I grabbed lunch at Crossroads Cafe, which is located near the Western entrance to Joshua Tree National Park. Crossroads Cafe reminds me of an artsy-fartsy joint in a rural college town that is the only place where you can get vegetarian food and rub elbows with dudes who wear black plastic-framed glasses and talk to girls who don't use styling product in their hair and smell like patchouli. I ordered the BLT with white bean soup.

Colin opted to return to the house after lunch to work on his screenplay. Eileen and I headed to Desert Springs, which is somewhere between Joshua Tree and Palm Springs, to soak in the naturally hot water and get a massage. This is me modeling the cool Selima Optique sunglasses I scored at the Barneys New York outlet in Cabazon, Calif.

In Palm Springs, Eileen and I lived the lush life, figuratively and literally. In the back of the Parker hotel, we clinked our martini and margarita glasses as we lounged on marble benches that reminded me of "Alice in Wonderland."

Eileen noted that it's hard to put a handle on Palm Springs because so much of the city is hidden behind thick, high fences. This is one of the Parker's rooms facing the back courtyard.

We snacked on salmon roasted on a wood plank with a Balsamic vinegar reduction.

Stoli martini. Dirty. With olives.

Alone in the desert, Eileen and I feasted on leftovers from Pappy & Harriet's and a bottle of Benziger syrah that I brought from Los Angeles. Owned by the same family for more than 20 years in Sonoma Valley, Benziger is my favorite winery on this side of the Atlantic.

Lest you thought that I was abandoning my francophilia by pledging allegiance to a California winery a la Benziger, I packed my crepe pan from Los Angeles and made crepes for Eileen for breakfast. I would have eaten more but I read the back of the Nutella jar and discovered that each tablespoon has 100 calories and 5 grams of fat.

Solange, from Marina Del Rey, Calif., joined us on Saturday and we grabbed lunch at Pioneertown Bowl, which is across a sandy parking lot from Pappy & Harriet's.

You know you're far from civilization when your drink costs more than your food. My Corona put me back $4.50 while the grilled cheese sandwich and French fries cost $3. To think that Corona is the PBR of Mexico!

Built decades ago as an entertainment center for the folks who were filming cowboy movies in town, Pioneertown Bowl still has functioning lanes. This senior bowler had silver earrings in his left lobe. He kissed his girl for good luck.

We burned off the calories on a hike in Joshua Tree National Park. Solange noticed how the rock climbing dudes were cute. I was too pragmatic and asked Eileen to turn around and abandon the detour she was leading into the heart of the park. We had about 30 minutes before sunset and I didn't want to kill a roadrunner or Pinyon quail for dinner or yell for the cute rock climbers to save us.

Solange made us banana pancakes and turkey bacon for breakfast.

There are a lot of cute antique shops and vintage stores in Yucca Valley. I bought this one chiffon blouse in a pink swirly pattern that my friend Emili said reminded her of Jefferson Starship. I think the shirt was homemade, because the snaps on the sheer blouson sleeves had primitive pink stitching. The round-neck style was so neat that I wore it on Monday for my interview with Justin Timberlake. But I decided not to buy this coat, which reminded me of a hatchet job on Oscar the Grouch. Eileen looks great modeling it, however.

I look as if I was gobbled alive by a monster from Joshua Tree.

NYT Noshing

R.I.P. R.W. Apple Jr., who, according to his obituary, "wrote about the topics that really compelled him — bourbon and bacon, potatoes and tomatoes, langoustines and mangosteens, barbecue and Bouillabaisse, New Orleans and New Zealand."

Let's compare my write-ups of Joel Robuchon's L'Atelier (two visits, to boot!) and The Mansion at the MGM Grand with Frank Bruni's review of the Manhattan outpost of L'Atelier in The New York Times. I'm not surprised that Robuchon transferred the smoked eel-and-foie gras layer cake from Sin City's Mansion to the Big Apple's L'Atelier. It was that yummy!

Desert Dog

My pal Eileen fled to the desert. She took her dog with her. George has nothing to do with food and music, although he loves to eat and tolerates tunes that aren't loud as firecrackers. So why did I include him on the blog? As the old journalism rule goes, you can always land on the front page with a story about pets, kids or sex.