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I LOVE THE NIGHTLIFE by Carla Ridge Hallo Luvs, Birthdays, birthdays, birthdays - it seems like EVERYONE'S having them. We all know that a natal anniversary is cause to venture out, and the fabulous K.'s., more than most, is reason to eat, drink and smoke to excess.
We began this noble quest at Vida, in Los Angeles' tony Los Feliz section. We were greeted by a lovely hostess with a disarmingly familiar manner. I entered with K.'s gift in hand, which caused her to exclaim, "Oh - you remembered!" The bar was still largely unpopulated as we settled into a sunken corner booth. Alex indulged in straight tequila (Chinaco, of course), and I quaffed my usual bubbly (every night is New Year's Eve in Carla's world). Truly beautiful arty types filing in all around us, Alex and I engaged in a lively discussion about deaf strippers and Bertelsmann's alliance with Napster and possible merger with EMI. As if on cue, Bill Bennett walked in. He's president of Maverick Records, Madonna's label, and a terrible flirt. He was there with his wife - I happen to know they live in the neighborhood as I once had the pleasure of working with Mr. Bennett. Another bit of serendipity ensued as I spotted a young man with whom J. and I had taken a yoga class long ago. He was so comely that she and I were forced to distract him throughout the class, staring a hole through his well-muscled form during tadasana (that would be mountain pose to you), among other postures. Then K. arrived in all his rakish glory, upon which he unburdened himself of some recent heartache. Poor dear had found his stars crossed with those of his lover and alas, they had no choice but to part ways. Clearly devastated, he nonetheless managed to remain philosophical about the end of the affair. Perhaps time would allow their love to be rekindled someday. After a beat, the always charming and adorable S. (resplendent in a black turtleneck) and R. (reminding us, as ever, that it's all about her) graced us with their collective presence, joining us in the drink pit for a round before we retired to our table. As chance would have it, our table was situated next to the Bennetts'. Bill and I had a long moment of eye contact. I was about to say hello when he looked away, having failed to recognize me (and in truth, it has been an age). I took this as license to glance over at him now and again, as if to tweak him with my existence. (A tad of ire lingers as he was always promising me lunch at The Ivy and never made good on the invitation.) I sensed he finally made the connection when he heard me order another glass of champagne (as you've surely ascertained by now, Carla's voice is unmistakable). We never did speak, but it delighted me to have been seen by him on a particularly gorgeous night in the company of such fine folk. Living well really is the best revenge.
Among our numbers at K.fest was supertasty bounder E., who showed up late, encountering me and R. out front, cigarettes between fingers. She and I had been chatting about her new production, "Eve Of Paradise," a play she wrote and will be directing. I was fortunate enough to attend a reading of the work earlier this year and was amazed that R. could actually match the brilliance of her previous effort, "Will Strip For Food," which she co-wrote and starred in with UCLA-trained S., among others. S. will portray the new play's titular character. "Eve" begins its 12-performance run on February 8, 2001, at Silverlake's Glaxa Studios. I'm particularly looking forward to S.'s nude sex scene (with the alien in the garden). I know I digress, but DO NOT MISS THIS SHOW. It is sure to be a prime slice of nightlife. While tearing into a large, puffed-up dream of bread, drizzled with molé and filled with cheese, we reflected on the interesting times in which we live, citing the Supreme Court's decision to take up the medicinal marijuana issue. A lengthy reminiscence about a previous hot tub gathering - E. was fixated all night on encouraging S. and R. to get their Jacuzzi up and running - led to E's impertinent question to Alexander about his splendidly manicured nether regions. I love it when boys acknowledge, even in a roundabout way, that they've noticed other boys' assets. We then dove into a paper bag full of calamari, which was accompanied by three witty sauces. This inspired S. to ask, "Do you know that on the streets of China you can get tentacles for breakfast?" We just stared as she continued: "Just tentacles on a stick - no batter. They eat them like popsicles." This made the veal cheeks in our ravioli seem somehow less barbaric (and the flaky cones of raw tuna downright ordinary). R. then told the story of her erstwhile pet pig, the cleverly named Porky, whom she tended at the riding facility she frequented as a pre-teen. One morning, she strode in ready to mount her favorite steed when, to her horror, she discovered that Porky had become dinner. She was 11 and has been a vegetarian ever since. If I didn't eschew vulgarity at all costs, I'd tell you about the superb pooping-pig keychain S. gave R. when she bought her new car.
K. proceeded to open one of his gifts, the book "Deviant Desires." I scanned it for mention of my favorite fetishists, The Plushies - folks who become aroused at the very idea of stuffed animals (or soft toys, as they are called in the U.K.) and have been known to dress in full furry regalia in and out of the boudoir. Always in the know about such things, K. imparted that the raccoon sidekick in "Pocahontas" is reputedly the most stimulating of The Plushies' love objects. Crabcake towers, artichoke-goat cheese fritters and Yorkshire pudding (on which E. felt it necessary to spend a preposterous $28) began to melt into one another as the champagne flowed. I do, however, remember Yoga Boy opening K.'s Mayan Temple, an architectural marvel of sea bass, mussels and banana leaves that requires special attention. "Let me take care of that for you," Y.B. said to K. as he gently unfolded the dish's leafy exterior, releasing a fog of fragrant moisture. "Well, I don't want to get squirted," K. assented, at which E., sitting next to K., chimed in, "I don't want to get squirted either." This prompted the waiter to respond, "How about later?" Oh, the deliciousness of the quip (and outrageousness of the overture). Before we knew it, the singing of "Happy Birthday" had concluded and we were off to Cheetah's (yes, a gentlemen's club), less our distaff darlings, who declined due to fatigue. This next phase of the evening got off to a slow start as Carla was inexplicably receiving NO LOVE WHATSOEVER at the rail.
That sorry circumstance was quickly mitigated when a towering ebony vixen named Carly made a beeline for me, leaving a dark lip print on my pale shoulder (no, I will never wash it again). She suggested Alex and I have a lap dance with her, which proved to be a capital idea. Mid-dance (for once I was pleased that techno songs - and I use the word "songs" loosely - go on FOREVER), she pinched Miss Carla's nipple and licked Miss Carla's inner thigh (good thing I'd donned panties that night), apologizing to Alex that "they let us get away with more with girls." As the evening progressed, I chatted up some of K. and E.'s boytoys, with particular focus on J., a budding rock star with whom I'd had the pleasure of working some time ago (and who, I must admit, has bewitched me utterly). At one point I noticed K. getting a lap on the banquette next to me and was thrilled to discreetly slip him a twenty in a small birthday gesture.
J. had consistently declined offers of similar lappage, until an enterprising blonde approached our large party. After having been rejected by all the gents, she remarked, "Well, I really just want a dance with HER," at which the boys immediately began ponying up bills, generous J. leading the way. I took off my jacket with a hint of self-conscious sexiness, prompting Alex - dear boy - to look me up and down and call me "Killer." She hiked up my hem and got down to bidniss, and I must say we put on quite a show. What the fellas didn't realize was that she was periodically reaching down the back of my skirt to tug on my own g-string - the scamp. Soon it was after 1:00 and thus time for Carla to head toward her beauty sleep. We said goodbye at length, La C. taking time to kiss K. - and what a kisser he is, Lordy - and E., whose lean frame (among other prodigious charms), pressed up against my curves, made me want to divest him of his clothes right then and there. Our embrace was not lost on Carly, who, K. informed me later, approached E. afterward to chat him up and ask about moi. Now, that, little darlings, was a birthday party. In fact, it may as well have been CARLA'S birthday party! And to think, YOU stayed in that eve. Pity. Many happy returns, XO Carla |
