Life in clubLAnd: MyHouse

The scene above is not from a slumber party in the bedroom of my apartment (no, no--not in my tiny studio). It is not from a wild orgy party in the Hollywood Hills (I forgot to RSVP to that party). The dark, blurry image above is from this evening's industry preview of MyHouse, the new venue from David Judaken's Syndicate Hospitality (Mood, Opera & Crimson). Opened in the former home of Garden of Eden, the nightclub is a welcome change from the super-small lounges (i.e. - Crown Bar) or mega-clubs (i.e. - The Kress or Versus, which I suppose we don't have to worry about anyway after it's failed attempts to open) that have become so popular in the last year. My House boasts neither uber-exclusivity, nor magnitude. It's the perfect size--large enough that there's always another person to flirt with around the bend, small enough that you can find your friends when the dude you've met turns out to be a creep.

And, as portrayed in the much superior press shots below, each aspect of the venue really does feel like your house (from the plush bedroom, to the working bathtub, to the sunken living room)...just a helluva lot nicer.

Photo Credits: Interior #1 - Jessie. B. R., Interior #2 + #3 - MyHouse

Mountains: check. Beach: check. Nightlife: umm...

In my old age (yes, the 20s have been rough), I've tired of LA's nightlife scene. In NY, if we didn't like a place, we'd hop in a cab and be to our next opportunity for fun just ten minutes and probably less than $15 later. Here in LA, one bad stop means another 20 minutes of driving, another valet, and most likely another room of badly dressed plastic surgery experiments. (I quote a dear Israeli friend who was in town from NY a few weeks after we ate at Beso: "why are they all strippers who go out here?")

On Saturday night, I was suckered in to what seemed like a promising proposition to venture out. Janelle Monae was performing a free show at the grand opening of Dakota Lounge (formerly Temple Bar) in Santa Monica. My lovely friend DJ Lady Sha was throwing the bash and she was fabulous as always. But did I mention that this joint was in Santa Monica? Much as I wanted to enjoy myself, a Santa Monica crowd is a Santa Monica crowd is not for me. (The one exception to this rule being the folks at Bar Chloe, run by one of my fave nightlife ladies Laurie Mulstay.)

We thought we might have better luck at Bardot, where my buddies throw Hi Fi every Saturday night. The music was great, the crowd just fine. But I'd really like to know when waitresses were given permission to start chewing gum in your face and getting your order wrong? Last time I checked shrimp does not constitute vegetarian fare. And short shorts and long legs do not forgive bad service. If I am ever to open a place, I vow to hire college graduates, even if they've got some cellulite and don't have their pout nailed down yet.

Hoping next weekend treats me better. Oh yeah--it will--cause I'll most likely be staying in and watching online TV!

Photo Credits: Janelle Monae - MySpace, Bardot - Metromix LA

The desert: Ed Hardy, palms and a bride to be.

Nothing says nuptial bliss like the drunken stupid fun the bride and groom are allowed one last time before the big day. (Personally, I don't intend to stop having stupid, if not drunken, fun for anything. And my future-husband--God bless you whoever you are--should know this. But I am not most people and I digress.) And this past weekend I had the great pleasure of helping one of my best friends celebrate her last moments of single, un-attached freedom.

Early on Saturday morning, gal-pal A and I rode the long way East to Palm Springs. The trip should have taken 2 hours. I drove. It took 4.

In transit, we got lost, discovering the wonders of 'cities' on route to the desert. The towns may be small, hot and have a disturbingly high ratio of mullets to non-mullets, but even the DMV office appears tropical and alluring when it's surrounded by sand and palms. Heck, if I lived in the desert, I'd make a point of violating traffic more often to get the chance to return to this government building oasis.

No bachelorette party is complete without the offering of naughty gifts to the bride to be. Even the most demure of girls get gifted with lingerie, oils and sex toys to last a lifetime...or, until the sex stops. Here, the winning gift of the night came from K--a paddle from every bad girl's fave shoppe, Agent Provocateur (that is, every bad girl who can afford to drop several hundred for a corset and a bottle of lube).

Later in the evening, all of us girls had the pleasure of attending the most rip-roaring dance club in all of the desert. (For those who've been to Palm Springs during Coachella, note that the crowd during the off season sports a little less hipster flare and a little more Ed Hardy, but who's counting the bedazzled muscle tees? Oh right--the cougars with the fake tits in the corner were keeping tally all night.) The JW Marriot's Costas Nightclub boasts the title of 'Valley's Nightclub of the Year' and calls itself the 'playground to the stars.' Seeing as the rules at the entrance of the club call for no facial tattoos and no Dickies, it seems that nearly every LA star to speak of would be ruled out, but maybe that tranny with all the work done who was on line before us was somebody--I'm not really sure.

Well, we didn't get in to Costas--apparently the doorman didn't find it impressive that we were visiting from LA, had natural breasts and didn't have anything sparkly on. But the men (pictured left) that we met in the Lobby Bar were enough to remind us all that marriage is indeed preferable to the single life. And I couldn't be happier for my amazing bff D, who's about to embark on the journey toward commitment. (Thank goodness because I am planning on returning next week to Palm Springs to score that muscley fellow on the right for myself. Here I come Don Juan de Mentally Challenged!)