I Love The Nightlife by Carla Ridge

Party People in the House Get Hyped!

What an odd confluence of nightlife events greeted Carla Ridge this past month: a Grammy celebrity infestation, a watering hole-in-the-wall encounter, an intimate magazine mixer, a horizon-broadening theater production and breakfast, breakfast, breakfast.

Sleazy/feared music industry trade magazine HITS hosted its annual Tuesday Night Hang on Erev Grammy Awards. The space was cavernous and the security was tight (you can imagine my horror at holding up the freakily beautiful Beyoncé, lead singer of Destiny's Child, at the metal detector, divesting the pockets of my many-zippered motorcycle jacket of keys, notepad, compact, lipstick, Kleenex, pill box: you didn't think Carla survived all these functions on towering platforms without Advil, did you? - etc., etc., ad nauseum). Submitting to the walk-through, wand and pat-down was expected, though, considering the guest list.

Spotted that night: All of Destiny's Children; Backstreet Boys A.J. and Howie - best line of the evening, from the irreverently sardonic A.S.: "I just got blown off by the ugliest Backstreet Boy" - Kid Rock; Snoop Dog (Carla's hero for, among many other things, once greeting a reporter's question, "Where are you gonna put that award?" with the answer "Up in ya."); Limp Bizkit frontman Fred Durst; Howard Stern and Stuttering John; Macy Gray; Rob Zombie; Sixpence None The Richer; Oliver Stone; Martin Scorsese; Keri Russell; Amy Jo Johnson; Metallica drummer Lars Ulrich; Red Hot Chili Peppers drummer Chad Smith; Orgy; Heather Graham; Warren G.; MTV TRL host Carson Daly (who, wanting to save it for marriage, apparently was not adequately servicing girlfriend Jennifer Love Hewitt, who thus left him for that blonde guy in LFO); burgeoning teen sensation and Don Ho progeny Hoku; Leif Garrett; sample-eschewing, Grammy-winning rap outfit The Roots; reggae deity Beenie Man; Doritos girl Allie Landry; jazzman Rahsaan Patterson; former En Vogue siren Dawn Robinson (Carla's favorite En Voguette - and so sweet when I bum-rushed her) and former Tony Toni Tone singer Raphael Saadiq (he and La Dawn have teamed up in a promising outfit called Lucy Pearl, which also features Ali of A Tribe Called Quest, who was also at the party); rap pioneer Doug E. Fresh; radio personality Big Boy (if you Angelenos aren't listening to Power 106 - wake up!); and DMC (apparently Run couldn't make it). All I can say is, thank God Hanson were not there or that tasty Tay would have received much unhinged love from Miss Carla).

My head was indeed spinning as I availed myself of duty-free cocktails and trays of tantalizing tidbits.

Obviously not said attractive bartendress ...

I saw no celebrities at The Burgundy Room a few nights later, but I did further confirm the widely held belief that Man is utterly flummoxed by Woman. The place is notorious for allowing its patrons to smoke avec gusto on the premises and letting them remain after hours. The Burgundy boasts one of the most gorgeous girlie barkeeps in the city and a nightly ritual of setting the bar ablaze (said bartendress douses the perimeter of the bar with lighter fluid and then throws the match). The DJ played nothing but rawwwk hits all night - you should have heard Carla singing along with Pat Benatar on "Heartbreaker." So, we're standing there and A. and I are suddenly confronted by three fellas, whom we will now call The Boxer, The Cute Guy and The Other Guy. Led by The Cute Guy, these swains were exerting great force trying to take us home (could they have been more out of their depth?). I grew tired of their constant urging for me to recognize The Boxer, a diminutive Latin gent ("He's famous," they repeated). Now, I might recognize Muhammad Ali (and A. said she's actually a fan of Prince Naseem), but really. I made my exit when the opportunity presented itself. A. came along shortly, telling me this little story: "So Cute Guy tries to slip me his card by running it surreptitiously up my arm. I say, 'What are you doing?' So he hands me his card and starts up this conversation with The Boxer. Other Guy takes this moment to tell me what a smoothy Cute Guy is, how he always pulls this card trick. So I nudge Cute Guy and say, 'Other Guy tells me you're a real player.' He totally freaks out, so Other Guy says, 'I never said that, bro. Seriously, I don't know what she's talking about.' They start yelling and Cute Guy storms out of the bar. How hot is that?!"

Later, I'm in line for the ladies, chatting up the beguiling girls milling about. Some chap comes up and opens the door to the men's room and abruptly shuts it. "What's going on in there?" I ask. He looks at me with utter horror and responds befuddledly: "Some dude's takin' a leak," at which I comment, "Sounds about right." This innocent reflection inspired him to gape at me, fully slack-jawed. Suddenly rendered aphasic, he could only back away. Huh? Word to the wise among my readership: When a hot tamale like Carla deigns to chat you up unsolicitedly at the bar, it behooves you to graciously receive the gesture as the priceless gift it is.

Some days hence, Alexander and I attended a party thrown by the publishers of the rightly acclaimed glue magazine, which covers "style and action in Los Angeles" (www.gluemag.com). The casual event was mounted at an elegant East Side flat. We were invited by the spectacular L. , whom we've adored for years now; her fabulously barbed outlook - among the other countless attributes that recommend her - slays us every time. We hovered near her all eve and, in fact, did not get a good look at the most recent issue of glue until we arrived back at The Park Central. The March/April ish is typically packed. Feature subjects range from "The Lifestyle," David Schisgall's documentary on real live Middle-American swingers; NYC's Downtown Costume Institute - got clubwear?; aggressively bespectacled eels frontman E, who recently unveiled the divine Daisies of the Galaxy; the upcoming biopic The Mayor of Sunset Strip, about perennial rock-culture fly-on-the-wall Rodney Bingenheimer; and Los Angeles' blessed art salons (yes, Virginia, there are art salons). Also absolutely engaging are a brief shout-out to behind-the-fashion scandal sheet Chic Happens (find it at hintmag.com) and columns by the incomparable Vaginal Davis (so sad s/he's dropped her middle name, Cream) and cult actrice Mink Stole, as well as a bevy of super-hip, must-clip listings and reviews. And let's not forget that flexidisc of "Beautiful Day," by Len. I'm not such a Len fan, but the song features one of my all-time loves, Newark's own Clown Prince of Rap Biz Markie. If these aren't reasons enough for you to become a glue devotee - did I mention that the feel of the paper alone is worth the price of admission? - you really shouldn't be reading this.

Lest you think Carla's 12-seater Jacuzzi-with-a-view is shamefully shallow, Alex and I took in a bit of legitimate theater recently. The play was "The Akhmatova Project," staged by Critical Mass Performance Group at The Actor's Gang Theater. Anna Akhmatova (1889-1966) was one of Russia's greatest poets; she is still widely read today. She spent most of her life in the cursed/charmed city of St. Petersburg. Her first collections, mostly love poems - "I asked, 'What do you want?'/ 'To be with you in hell'/ 'Ah, then, for both of us you prophesy calamity'/ 'Tell me how they kiss you/ Tell me how you kiss'" - spoke to both the peasantry and the bourgeoisie and thus made her an instant celebrity.

Watching a dramatization of Akhmatova's life is like watching a play about gay men in the '80s - you're just waiting for AIDS - or in this case that pesky revolution - to ruin everything. Her work was condemned as "decadent" - praise Jebus we didn't live then - and her only child, son Lev, was sentenced to the gulag, retrieved to fight in World War II, then summarily escorted back to Siberia. Much of his mother's life was spent trying to free him. This is indeed a grim story, but there are some uplifting messages here, among them the importance of witnessing and representing (Akhmatova's poem "Requiem," a testament to those who suffered the terror of Stalin, was written over the course of 20 years. So dangerous was it that it could not be written down and was instead memorized by the poet's trusted friends until its publication in 1988).

Creative staging (and deeply evocative music) made for a lively presentation (despite a slow start and too-long finish). At one point the large cast stood at the front of the stage and addressed the audience directly, telling tales of Akhmatova in brief, overlapping monologues. Cabaret star Olga Glebova-Sudeikina (the bewitching Candace Reid), stepped blithely across the laps of her many suitors, parasol aloft. The Bolsheviks stomped in with push brooms to announce the revolution ("Citizens, comrades - all power to the soviets!"). Poet Mikhail Guzman takes a shower onstage. Akhmatova and a confidant discuss tea while writing their real conversation on scraps of paper they burn immediately after they are read (underneath their table is a KGB agent recording the decoy chat). A blonde hardwood floor, beige muslin backdrop, scant furniture and minimal props constituted the set design. To be sure, the challenge of making much from little was met with great ingenuity.

Thank God the theater served pieroschkis and vodka at the concession stand; these provisions helped ease the post-show heaviosity. I couldn't help but notice the audience was peppered by women in red jackets and men in black sweaters conversing heatedly in Russian. Clearly, the play struck a nerve (it resonated for me as well). Allowing one's thoughts to be provoked, dear friends, is also a superb way to take in the night.

Oh - about breakfast, stay tuned (and remember the mantra "a nice slice of ham").

Kisses,

Carla