Edited by Kateri Butler & Libby Molyneaux
GOOD GOLLY, MR. DALAI
Do you know who BILL MAHER is? If not, you're qualified to be a doorperson at CHERRY, TEMPEST or other hot-shot clubs where the late-night TV host has posed that same question in the first person over his shock at not being immediately recognized and welcomed in. Maybe the big-headed one (and we're not just talking about noggin size) could teach the DALAI LAMA (pictured) how to scam on his celebrity. We can just imagine what would happen if Maher and the Lama — in town making appearances at various WORLD FESTIVAL OF SACRED MUSIC events — went out for a night on the town (hey, even the D.L. is allowed a taste of the profane after midnight). The politically incorrect one could show the enlightened one the velvet ropes: He'd demonstrate how to bully past the crowd in line, how to position one's floozy to get the doorperson's attention, and at what strategic point to pull out the “Do you know who I am?” line. Though he may encounter a dress-code issue at places like LUSH and MAKEUP, Mr. Lama would probably be a much better sport about forking over the 10 bucks. That leaves only one question: Where does he keep his wallet?
LAST OF THE MOHICANS
A tiny, extremely nerdy, 13-year-old boy with a giant Mohawk nearly half his height stood on the edge of the pit at the T.S.O.L. show at the TROUBADOUR, pumping his fist in the air and shouting along to their timeless anthems of misspent youth. But then he was gone, tossed into the pit by a shirtless baboon the size of a professional wrestler with the body odor of a wet poodle. It was a rowdy crowd. Especially impressive was one average-size bouncer's expertise at successfully pinning in an inescapable headlock and ejecting from the club any of the beer-soaked ruffians who were fighting. Though the songs sounded exceptional even with slightly dated refrains like “President Reagan can shove it!,” the band was trying awfully hard to live up to its former punkness. Singer JACK GRISHAM pranced around the stage like a leopard, swearing like a 10-year-old and exhorting the sweaty masses to climb up the towers in front of the stage and dive off them, which they did repeatedly. All the music was sufficiently fierce, and everyone had a swell time bashing into one other except for that poor, little nerdy boy with the smushed Mohawk.
LEAVE IT TO BIBBE
Apparently, a few of the middle managers at LA QUINTA, the swank resort famous for its PGA golf course, must have taken hospitality courses at the Hanoi Hilton. Now normally we're not the type to dish out 300 bucks a night for a room, but we splurged: A friend was celebrating his birthday, and the hotel was a mere five miles from the COACHELLA MUSIC & ARTS FESTIVAL (cheers to Goldenvoice promoters RICK VAN SANTEN and PAUL TOLLETT for putting on an event that was both creative and classy — loved those toilets with running water!). We arranged a birthday bash at the hotel bar for Saturday night, and then headed off to enjoy the festival. Imagine our dismay when we returned for the after-festival party, showed up at the bar and were told that it had been canceled — with no notice to us (like they didn't know our room number!). And furthermore, one particularly officious manager told us, we couldn't even have our chums who weren't staying at the hotel come to our room — they wouldn't be let onto the property. Dejected, we called it a night. But all was not lost. Our intrepid pals SEAN CARRILLO and BIBBE HANSEN, whose son BECK put on a razzle-dazzle set, managed to get past the guards, and took us to the luxe Presidential Suite, where NANCY BERRY, the charming vice chairman of Virgin Music Worldwide, was throwing a post-show party — or trying to — for big-beat titans THE CHEMICAL BROTHERS (pictured). Evidently, however, $1,500 a night doesn't get you more than $300 does at La Quinta — the hotel wasn't letting in her guests either, although art critic and Paper senior editor CARLO McCORMICK and superagent and tour manager GERRY GERRARD were among the celebrants there. Well, it's the first time we've ever been treated like rock stars. But our tale of woe ends happily: After complaining to the hotel upper management, we were comped for that night.
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“I am a woman, a woman of God, I am the woman with the hot, hot bod . . . Salicia, Salicia, Sa-lee-sha!” So went the chant of St. Salicia Tate with her Vestal Virgins and Altar Boys, the second performance piece at RON ATHEY and VAGINAL DAVIS' (pictured) monthly theme soiree called G.I.M.P. UNLTD., which drew an awesome assortment of scenesters past, present and future when it debuted at Zen in Silver Lake last Friday night. G.I.M.P., says Ms. Davis (a.k.a. St. Salicia), is an attempt to get away from the “loud, mindless clubs so popular right now” (she plans to retire Sucker, her weekly club at the Garage, in December). The eve — which celebrated “Pitch Tent Revivalism,” complete with a healing pup tent at the entrance — began with the tweaked-out violin sounds of JULIE FOWELLS and BERNARD ELSMERE and ended with the alienlike body mutations of the nude (and well-shaved) OSSEUS LABYRINT. Among those sweating it out in the stuffy upstairs performance space were Dragstrip 66 don PAUL V., Hai Karate/Hard dudes JEFFREY HILBERT and ENRIQUE “Marie” PRESLEY, Makeup maven JASON LAVITT, Glue mag's LAURIE PIKE with Al's Bar booker TOAST (in matching leopard outfits), “Plush Life” player DIVINITY FUDGE, art tarts SKOT ARMSTRONG and JAMES TALLON, producer STUART CORNFELD, former Fibonacci JOHN DENTINO, glamour gal LISA TEASLEY, bon vivant CARRIE FABER, music-whiz duo WEBA GARRETSON and MARK WHEATON, Being John Malkovich headtripper SPIKE JONZE, yam grande dame KAREN FINLEY, Meow Mix-er JENNY SHIMIZU, femme fatale TRA LA LA, country boy GLEN MEADMORE, DJ/club pioneer-turned-hairdresser HENRY PECK and vocal vixen JOSIE ROTH, plus a staff which included EPILADY SELENÉ at the door, CRYSTAL CROSS on security and BRENDAN MULLEN spinning discs. Next month's theme: Menstrual Hut She-nanigans, featuring Lydia Lunch and Nicole Blackman. Don't forget the Midol!
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