Glad Tidings Glitterati!

Can a body ever achieve a surfeit of glamour? I think not, but those of us fortunate enough to live in Los Angeles can give it a go the first Saturday of each month at Makeup.

This justifiably hyped haven for the besparkled masses is held at Hollywood's El Rey Theater. Once beyond the velvet rope -- regulars get there early to ensure entrance as Makeup always sells out -- revelers traverse the will-call area out front, where throngs of smokers mill about looking hot and cool. One need only step a few feet into the venue to belly up to the first of three bars outfitting the theater. Off to either side are staircases leading to the upstairs lounge, which affords cozy seating and views of the stage and dancefloor (another well-stocked cocktail station is situated there as well). The balcony is suitably hung with silver fringe on Makeup nights.

Beyond the foyer is the red-lit main room, where just past the third bar the tremendous dancefloor spills out toward the stage. Up against the walls are rows of chairs, where we hurriedly draped our leathers and feathers before scampering off to gyrate with our fellow superstars. I nearly threw my spine out of joint dancing frantically to Adam Ant's "Goody Two Shoes"; it behooves one to keep up with the others, after all.

And what others. Makeup is about, well, makeup -- and hair and wardrobe and attitude. This particular evening was sponsored by Gloss.com, which mounted a makeover station in one corner (though with this crowd, makeunders would have been more of a challenge). A spectacular time could be had simply by sitting and watching.

Beneath projected stills of Marc Bolan, David Bowie, Iggy Pop, Robert Plant, Donovan, Divine, Debbie Harry, Diana Ross, et al, I bumped and ground a cross section of the world's most beautiful people: delicate geishas in full regalia; drag queens in rear-bearing ensembles; off-duty strippers in stage togs (one of whom, complete with scary man-made breasts, joined the go-go dancers on their pedestal); budding actresses in vinyl, leather, lace and latex, candy-colored wigs and light-up accessories (one actually carried a discreet black light to maximize the effect of her glow-in-the-dark gown); nouveau Rat Packers in dark shirts and ties; rough-hewn Russian Mafia and their stunning American molls; head-to-toe silver disco guys and dolls; a bandage fetishist in a truss and double-chin-preventing headgear (at least that's what the handsome devil told me it did); a menacing fellow in large, black contact lenses (like the guitar player in Limp Bizkit and those poor souls poisoned by the black oil on "The X-Files"); The Thin White Duke; and a foppish extra from some as-yet-unfilmed Merchant-Ivory picture. Chainmail and crinolines, Dave Navarro, the requisite midget -- this crowd had it all.

We worked up a powerful thirst eyeing these specimens at close range, shaking our shapely asses to T-Rex, Lou Reed, Bowie, Abba, Placebo, Roxy Music, The Sweet, Blondie, The Runaways and a host of other "Velvet Goldmine" soundtrack-worthy stalwarts. And the eye was returned. This was a very friendly crowd, prone to neighborly dirty-dance workouts and masher-style advances more likely met by a kiss or a reach-around than a slap. All walks of life passed like vertical lap dancers in the night. And honestly, how could it be any other way? The place was packed (though I commend the promoters for preventing it from becoming The Black Hole of Wilshire Blvd.).

This dream gave way to a set by The Toilet Boys, who assayed satisfying covers of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid," The Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" and Rocky Horror Picture Show's "Sweet Transvestite," among other numbers. The Boys were also notable for their front person, a shiny black drag queen in a crew cut and drapey lamé dress. They were the perfect live entertainment for this event; not so for follow-up act Jayne County. Despite her impeccable pedigree -- the former Wayne County is a first-generation punk rocker and erstwhile Max's Kansas City scenester -- her songs failed to delight. I'm so over the punk branch of the glam family tree. Call me blasphemer, but I've always thought The New York Dolls were overrated as musicians (if not personalities) and that's where Jayne was going. This half-hour would have been much better spent on the dancefloor, to which we retired as soon as Jayne had kicked out her last jam. And then, before we could only begin to grasp the volume of shattered plastic cups at our feet, the lights went up. Off we scattered into the night with firm plans to return May 6 (see you there at 9:00 sharp).

Alexander and I woke up the next morning (okay, afternoon) wrecked and starving. All that sweating, drinking and imagining you like people better than you do can create some punishing resource depletion. If you never take another piece of Carla's priceless advice, please heed this one: A solid breakfast is critical the morning after, especially on Saturday morning, when the smirking specter of continued partying looms large.

We were rewarded for dragging ourselves beyond the leopard-skin blackout shade with two of the best breakfasts we've ever had. We partook of these at the original Bob's Big Boy, which sprang up in Burbank in 1949 (they still have car service). Bob's actually features a menu offering that combines waffles, eggs, ham and potatoes (I almost always have to cobble that together from à la carte items). Not sure I'd be able to eat all this, I asked the waitress how large a piece of ham I could expect. "A nice slice of ham," she replied. The reality was a ham steak that by all rights should have earned its own plate, if not its own table. I was able to enrich two additional meals with this luscious slab o' porcine pride.

Thus sated, we headed back home for a much-needed nap, determined to keep our strength up for that evening's adventures.

Reminding you not to do anything I wouldn't,

Carla