Dear Fiends,

Miss Ridge recently enjoyed an opportunity to see her chief role model. Yes indeed, Alexander spirited me away on a surprise excursion to Los Angeles' tacky/fabulous Staples Center, where we soaked up a performance by The Queen Of All Our Dreams, CHER, and O! what a show. The Divine Miss C. ran through a dizzying retrospective of her tried-and-true hits (including a medley of "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" -- remind me to tell you about the time I picked up a boy just south of Mobile -- "Half Breed" and "Dark Lady"). Such a pleasure to sob openly in public. La Sarkisian trotted out more than a half dozen spectacular costumes, looking like the goddess we have all come to know and love. She sounded better than ever (especially during a canny cover of U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For"), worked the stage like only she can, and looked marvelous.

One of the key elements in the enjoyment factor of this show was the crowd: women in their 50s accompanied by their thoughtful husbands; gay men; club kids; teenagers with their parents; yuppies; cholitas (if only I could pull off those pencil-thin brows and Sharpie-thick lip lines). All were clearly having the time of their lives -- no butt was left unwaggled during the neo-disco hits.

And this is really the crux of the nightlife issue: It's the people, stupid. This was borne out by a recent visit to Trader Vic's. Black feather boa draped around my sculpted shoulders, sparkly black Chinatown quasi-stripper shoes on my feet, I entered the august establishment with visions of tiki nirvana. Alas, my posse and I were shunted to a very un-tiki-like conference area just next to the main bar (okay, the room did have an enormous clamshell chandelier hung from a rattan patchwork ceiling). The very expensive drinks were tasty, but not strong or large enough, and the service was abominable. At one point Alex was heard asking indignantly, "Do I have to grow some potatoes and make my own alcohol?") These shortcomings melted away, however, in light of the scintillating badinage emanating from our table (not to mention the presence of Tori Spelling -- whom we casually stalked -- somewhere in the building).

Once we'd settled in with our Blue Hawaiians, Piña Coladas, Mai Tais, Honolulus, Zombies and Peach Tree Punches -- and gotten past The Senseless Rib Incident, in which the ravenous K. and J. mistakenly consumed E. and D.'s hors d'oeuvres -- we reveled in the kind of cross-table exchanges that lose something in the translation, but which are nonetheless worthy of inclusion here. First there was the realization that several of us had recently seen that episode of "CHiPs" guest-starring Robbie "Cousin Oliver" Rist; you know -- the one where the snake comes up through the floorboard of the car and Ponch reveals his mortal fear of slithery creatures. Then it dawned on us that two of our party looked exactly like Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise.

Your Editors get cozy in the Ladies'

This was followed by the L.A. story told by E. and D. about how they returned home one night after work to find their neighborhood ringed by LAPD. Venturing tentatively toward their building on foot, they passed a cop who was speaking with a young woman. Overheard by said woman: "He just snapped." Approaching their off-Melrose pied-à-terre, the couple were informed by police that some guy had pulled a shotgun and threatened violence against his girlfriend -- the "he just snapped" gal -- and himself. The standoff had apparently ended without any actual mayhem or even an arrest. When E. and D. finally strode up to their apartment door, they found yet another of L.A.'s finest milling about. The door to the flat across the hall was wide open. "Oh, that's where it happened," the policeman said.

Not to be outdone, J.H. told the story of the stench that rudely occupied her 10th-floor apartment last summer. Suddenly, her lovely hardwood-floored, high-ceilinged view apartment (in The Talmadge on Wilshire -- we all want to live at the Talmadge so we can answer the phone "Talmadge") was permeated by a powerful stink, the origins of which were bafflingly unclear. On the verge of moving out, J.H. and her roommates learned that three weeks previously, an elderly gentleman on the fourth floor -- six high-ceilinged levels below -- had shot himself to death and his festering corpse had just been discovered. The manager of the property, also in his later years, went from apartment to apartment gasping, "I saw the body!"

Perhaps you had to be there, but the gaiety attending these multidirectional conversations was palpable. Which is why some of the hottest nightlife in town takes place in people's homes. In fact, Alex and I have hosted some pretty sizzling little soirees at our modest dwelling. I'll let you wonder about those.

Speaking of "the people," Alex and I went to see Elliott Smith at The Roxy last night, where we were guests of the record company. Instead of sitting with the record company freaks, however, we chose to mingle on the floor with the true fans -- the ones clapping and hollering and singing along like us. It was a dynamite show, with Smith assaying oldies as well as material from his upcoming Figure 8. In marked contrast to Cher, he hunkered down in a chair with his guitar and just sang. Nary a pin dropping was heard. As you know from reading MASH's excellent "Music Therapy" column, this man is one of the best songwriters working in America today. Check him out if you get a chance, and make sure to go only with the friends most likely to thumb their noses at propriety and let their hair down.

Accepting invitations to intimate dinner parties,

Carla