I Love The Nightlife by Carla Ridge

Welcome, Children of the New Millennium!

Bet you're wondering what fabulous folderol befell La Carla on Dec. 31. Not to worry, all will be revealed in my next column--and as you know, it will be worth the wait. Suffice to say, much partying ensued prior to the big night, and it's these hijinx with which I occupy your eyeballs presently.

Oh, the holiday season--where does one begin? How about by sucking on the corporate teat? The sublime Ms. K. invited us to her company's open house and with visions of duty-free libations and sumptuous morsels on sticks, we readily accepted. The company in question oversees one of the world's most lucrative music publishing ventures and the all-mighty Jive record label, home to Ms. Britney Spears, The Backstreet Boys and NSYNC. This going concern's offices were mobbed with music industry revelers who feasted on tiny Philly cheesesteaks, mini Mexicana and spicy sausages, among other nibbles; an entire room was devoted to desert. I spent most of the evening waiting in line for my henna tattoo (a tasteful heart on my shapely bicep bearing Alexander's name), while others enjoyed caroling, palmistry, legerdemain and gaping at the corner offices of various fat cats.

We left only because we had tickets to see that sex pastry Chris Cornell perform at L.A.'s gorgeous Wiltern Theater (at the corner of Wilshire and Western--get it?). Alas, some box-office underling did not understand who he was dealing with: Alex and I were dismayed to discover our seats were the absolute worst in the house. It didn't help that the smoldering Mr. Cornell--whose current album, Euphoria Morning, is one of the best in recent memory--lacked stage presence and mic technique and allowed his vocals to ride well below the mix all night. Oh well, it's only rock and roll.

This disappointment was allayed the following evening by a spectacular production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch--the compelling tale of a frustrated East German transsexual rock star--a full review of which appears elsewhere in these pages.

As I was all tarted up in black vinyl trousers, KISS boots, red silk camisole trimmed in black lace, eye-popping cleavage (thanks to my new water bra) and red crystals at the outer corner of each eye, we decided to extend the evening with a visit to Spice Lady, our favorite local bikini bar. We tipped a saucy brunette named Electra quite lavishly. Unfortunately, the long curly locks streaked with Bride-like swatches of green soon fell back to reveal shaving up the sides in what Alex and I refer to as "monster hair." (By the way, A. and I are huge fans of The Bride--yes, of Frankenstein--and I quipped that that particular "monster" would never be caught dead with monster hair.) Ms. Electra made up for this shortcoming of the cheveux with mind-bending contortionist moves, one of which involved stretching her comely leg behind her back so that the foot of her black, patent thigh-high boot was actually resting against her scapula (she even turned her head to suck on the eight-inch spike heel--deeply unsanitary but seriously titillating).

Spice Lady was a bit slow that night (it usually is--I don't know how the place stays in business), so we retired to the topless Sunset Strip. That joint was jumping, with more girls than I--or Alex--could shake a stick at. Lots of buxom black beauties and luscious Latinas, including a darling dancer named Reina. I emerged from a trip to the ladies room to find Alex sitting at the rail with this quicksilver queen in his lap--you gotta love a girl who offers a little advance taste of her lap technique. The little businesswoman was surely making book that night, a hunk of which came from Alex, who addressed the minx in Spanish. He recalled dreamily of his dance with her, "She asked me if I was Mexican. Of course, I had to say, 'No, Jewish.'"

The next night we partied with our friends S. and A., two of the best songwriters around, at their lovely Hollywood Hills abode. The fête was notable for the appearance of Matthew Lillard (of "Scream" fame); the acquaintance-making of the delicious N., who delighted us by simultaneously eating a fun-sized Hershey bar and chewing a piece of Dentyne on a dare and then regaled us with stories of sour milk experimentation; the reading of a letter sent to our hosts by a man whose recently deceased mother coincidentally bore the name of S. and A.'s former band--she died a few days before the band broke up (cue spooky organ chord); and a flirtation with the impossibly minute and criminally adorable P. Alas, S. found it necessary to visit another party up the street, which took a bit of the spark out of his own.

We rested up a full three days before taking in a performance of "White Trash Wins Lotto" at the famed Roxy Theater (preceded by a lively sushi dinner with the always amusing E., D., C., and C.). The show is a Broadway-styled retelling of the Axl Rose story. The lead role was beautifully sung by Brian Beacock and expertly narrated by the exceedingly droll Andy Prieboy, who conceived the musical and wrote all the songs. Dave Foley played the Geffen Records A&R honcho who signed Guns N' Roses and summarily fucked over their original manager. The musical depiction of this event was a highlight of the show. Much of the music was, in fact, top notch. Other standouts included a tender solo turn for Beacock that begins with the words "Yes, my name is Axl" and a dramatization of Izzy Stradlin calling on the muses to help him come up with a nickname--"Take the I from Iggy and the Z from Ziggy ... " Some of the numbers, however, could use a bit of melodic oomph, and the scene at Jim Morrison's grave went on forever. Another problem was the curious absence of Slash. Overall, though, this is a very worthy entertainment and with a bit of trimming, it should be a smash when it debuts on Broadway later this year (rumor has it that no less than Rex Smith is dying to play Axl).

Which brings us to a holiday party hosted by the delightful J. and sexy-innocent G. (not in attendance was J.'s housemate, who happens to be the drummer for The Goo Goo Dolls). We got there rather early (so as to be able to meet up with E. and D. at Cherry later on) and things were not yet happening. We did have a splendid time bending G's ear, though--it had been so long. He's so on the list of men I want to violate before I die, and the poor dear doesn't suspect a thing. He introduced us to a diminutive South Boston punk rocker whose music is so hardcore I daren't listen to the CD he gave me. He was a funny/strange sort of elf who left our conversation prematurely to smoke. We also had a lovely chat with H. that night. She's notable for having worked in publicity at Epic Records for eight years (an eternity in the music biz) and for now representing these fabulous neon pendants called kryptolights. She said she was wearing them at an event recently and was assailed by Snoop Dogg and his large posse, who all wanted to get in on the action. As fate would have it, the party got truly rocking just as we sailed out the door.

Next we hit the disco known as Cherry, where the line to enter gets ugly by 10:00. But the club had changed its location and at 9:45, not a soul was in sight. We simply could not bear the sidewalk freeze (yes, it gets that cold in L.A.) and thus headed to our car (much to the bemusement of the valet). D. and E. showed up promptly 15 minutes late (as is their custom), but the club still wouldn't let us in, though they supposedly open at 10:00. What they were doing to ready the venue is still a mystery (perhaps the door staff's collective attitude needed a few more minutes in the icebox). So we scampered off to The Lava Lounge, where the holiday tiki thing was in full swing. It's a well-appointed little bôite with a most charming doorman and an amusingly arch DJ. It provided very welcome refuge.

After finally being granted admittance to Cherry, we cozied together on a couch upstairs and surveyed the scene. The co-ed go-go dancers were in fine form (though I must admit I was only interested in the boys, particularly the baby boxer surprisingly free of makeup, piercings and tattoos--he slew me). The new space was cavernous but comfortable and the sound system excelled. Too bad the '80s damage was as thick as ever. To be sure, almost anyone can shake it to The Go-Go's' "Head Over Heels," but I'm sorry, there's no dancing to The Psychedelic Furs. There was a merciful '90s moment where the deej spun both Fatboy Slim and one of my all-time favorites, Björk's "Big Time Sensuality" (to which my boy toy mimed the words in dramatic fashion, including the Icelandic one's celebrated growls). The dearth of danceable tunes and preponderance of "normal" people (really, we can see them anywhere) led to a fit of peevishness on Carla's part and we left the club dissatisfied and vowing never to return.

The next night redeemed Cherry in spades. Saturday was a most elegant do at the spectacular home of M., a colleague of Alexander's with much juice in the radio biz. The divine Miss M. (who must be the most eligible bachelorette in all of L.A.) greeted us with great, tight hugs and graciously assented to give us the tour. After all, she lives at the very tip-top of the Hollywood Hills with a 180-degree view of the ocean, the city and the eastern mountains in a three-bedroom, traditional Spanish-style house dating from 1930. Only the best, left-leaning hip-hop blazed from the speakers as she ushered us into the living room, where we were greeted by the darling/powerful J., who later whispered that what M. had paid for this palatial manse qualified as the real estate coup of the century. The ceilings were vaulted, the fireplace was baronial, the space was decorated with silver-painted cornucopia, candles and flowers, and the buffet was laden with the finest soul food and garnished with an ice-sculpture Christmas tree. We heaped our plates high and tucked in.

In one of the best connections of the evening, we met M., who prepared the night's peerless feast. We discovered to our utter shock that cooking is only a hobby for this man, who by day is a high-powered record industry player (and former manager of some child divas whose mothers drove him into radio promotion). He was fabulously funny and something of a dog (or as M. said later, "Something of a dog?"). Lord knows, I love anyone who can take the gloves off and comment incisively on the Clintons' sex lives.

The tour continued with a visit to the tile-resplendent kitchen, the indoor pool (glassed in, of course), the spacious patio, where our friend L. was spinning tunes that put those clowns at Cherry to shame, and then the upstairs. Ascending the terra cotta steps, we found M.'s office (festooned with platinum plaques and pictures of her with all the biggest hip-hop stars), which led to a balconied bathroom. The bedroom was massive, with a beckoning fire, and the master bath featured a round Jacuzzi tub. To top it all off, M. is a first-rate decorator, having treated all the walls herself and furnished the place in classic casa Mexicana style. This extensive account of the house should in no way diminish the incredible warmth of the people in attendance and overall good-will-toward-men-god-bless-us-everyone vibe of the proceedings.

The next evening's festivities took place in a big ole funkily outfitted house in Echo Park. It was the arty crowd, as is usually found at our friend M.'s parties--he is, after all, a poet. As is also often the case, the do was seriously marred by the all-night jam taking place in the living room (too much rhythm, too little melody; of course, the sitar and tabla players started up as we were leaving--that I would have enjoyed). The goings-on were also compromised by the absence of the sprightly C., whom we'd had our hearts set on seeing (she is also a resident of this house on a hill).

However, one of my greatest crushes--another entry on the aforementioned "list"--was there. P. greeted me with great enthusiasm, but it wasn't until well into the party that we fell on each other with glad cries and chatted in earnest. I hadn't seen him since J.'s birthday party in April. I mentioned something about having been dressed like a strumpet at a previous event that weekend and he said, "Oh, were you wearing the cowboy hat?" I said, "No, but I do have a cowboy hat." He countered with, "Yes, I know--you were wearing it the last time I saw you." I responded, "I can't believe you remember I was wearing that hat," at which point he confessed that said chapeau had caused a disturbance in his trousers. Music to my ears! I remembered that someone had stolen his coat that night and asked if he'd gotten it back. "No," he lamented, "which was terrible because I loved that coat and it had my keys in it." He added, "But it was okay because you kissed me that night." Again, the voice of angels echoed throughout my aural cavities. You can be sure I'll be hooking up with this boy sooner than later (did I mention that he laughs at all my jokes?).

Our host led us in a mock countdown at midnight (he would be in South America for the big moment) and a conga-led reading of "Auld Lang Syne"--and Alex and I kissed deliciously.

And that, my darlings, brings us to New Year's Eve ...

XO

Carla