Rolling Stone After Party for the American Music Awards

A couple of nights ago, I was at the American Music Awards after party, hosted by Rolling Stone. It was a great time, but my takeaway is this: Rock and roll is strange

College-educated music executives and groupies alike stuffed themselves into mini-dresses that resembled sausage casing, coupled with patent leather platforms. They wobbled around trying to rub shoulders with musicians; even unwashed ones who donned ponchos and tangled beards. Some were bony with over-teased, flammable hair that made them resemble matchsticks. These women overlooked neon green eyeglasses and exposed midriffs. These maladies would be deal breakers in the real world, but this is rock and roll.

Music thumped on the packed dance floor, and in addition to the open bars, Pitbull's vodka, Voli had promo stands literally pouring with orange-vanilla cocktails. Nokia did promo photos for the guests inside. Usually at big parties, you have to lurk near the kitchen exit in order to snag the beautiful-but-fleeting canapes. Rolling Stone would have none of this. Servers streamed from the kitchen wielding trays, which floated through the rooms like a flying saucer invasion. We were inundated with truffle pizza slices, crab cakes, heirloom tomatoes with burrata, Kobe sliders, mini tuna melts, mini baked potatoes and cupcakes from Magnolia. For the first time I can remember, I had to turn them away. Modern Family's Eric Stonestreet danced alongside Hollywood's top beard, Stacy Kiebler. Jenny McCarthy rocked a pompadour and Gavin DeGraw still didn't take off his hat.

me with Hilda Nathalie-Roque
All the while, I thought about how lucky the men of rock and roll are. While beautiful women primped the entire day for this event, rockers showed up stinking of whiskey and slurring orders. And of course, they were surrounded by giggling, adoring fans. This is the world that made Kid Rock a ladykiller. In the real world, women would not scramble for a redneck who got arrested for beating up a guy at Waffle House. Just sayin'.


Such Great Heights

Anyone driving north along the PCH has been curious, if not captivated by the grounds of Malibu's Pepperdine University.

The rolling green lawn evokes Ireland and the campus on the cliffs guarantees breathtaking views and evenings filled with the canyon's coyote chorus. Plus, who wouldn't want to get a higher education in Malibu? No one has access because the campus is blocked by a security toll, but I had the privilege of partying there since my husband is enrolled in the Master's program. This was no keg party with the sour smell of spilled beer. We were at the President's mansion, with a gourmet spread, espresso bar and an unbelievable view of the Pacific.

For all those PCH road trippers who have always been curious, enjoy!


Review: Bad Evidence

People say that being married in L.A. is like dog years compared to the rest of the country. While New York swarms with unattainable supermodels, wives in L.A. contend with attainable girls, who are chestier than their supermodel counterparts, shorter than models so that the men feel bigger, and so insecure from financial instability and bad auditions that they throw themselves at anyone who flatters them and drives a Range Rover. 

That's why Angelenos should see Bad Evidence, playing at The Elephant Theatre in Hollywood. If we thought we were bring tested here in the Porn Capitol of the World,  you should see the mess these New Yorkers get themselves into. I left the theatre both relieved and uncomfortable. Relieved that it was only a dream, and uncomfortable because the characters surge dangerously close to territory that married couples steer far from. When actress Glory Simon confronts her spouse about an affair, or even an attraction that may lead to an affair, you wish she hadn't asked. The air is electrified and they're both so vulnerable. You hold your breath and hope he will lie. Lying is the nice thing to do.

The play has the domestic sparring of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and the antics of Laguna BeachA couple of standout performances include Justin Sintic, who was somehow able to break away from the script in which all characters speak exactly the same. He took the role of Kevin and made it his own; a hard-boozing, aggressive Wall Street type. Ryan Fox delivers an empathetic performance that makes one wish he were given a bigger role. Though he's caught red-handed with the wrong woman minutes after we're introduced to him, the audience roots for him. He looks torn when she grinds against him, almost uncomfortable. It humanized him, so in response the audience hoped he would emerge with his political career and marriage intact. His subtlety also helped reel in actors that seemed too over-the-top for the small space. His sense of moral gravity reconnected his castmates to the events happening on stage.

Angelenos, you should see this play not only for entertainment, but to feel better about your own relationships.  I'm a firm believer in schadenfreude. After all, this is a town where Angelina runs rampant kissing her brother, humping on mentally ill senior citizens, drinking blood and stealing the Lord of the Douches from his perfectly good wife. A land where men tint their eyelashes and a geriatric Playboy magnate enjoys ice cream in bed with teens. We need all the help we can get.



slab city carol
in the throes of freebird

the slab city lothario, and  his "temple" is an old miltary base septic tank