Yesterday afternoon I had drinks--I mean, a serious business meeting--with fashion designer Rachel Pally , a sassy mama if ever I met one. She lives in the 'hood, and owns two homes in the Franklin Hills, one for living in and one for designing sexy jersey dresses and capes and tops in. "I love Los Feliz, I want to raise my babies here," she sighed. She is the spitting image of Natalie Portman, and funny as hell. "I'm not putting placenta on my face," she said, when we stepped in to a spa called being in LA on Hillhurst and were invited to test out face creams called EMK Placental, made with actual placenta donated by Russian mothers. What's up with that, Russia?

Anyway, we hit it off in a big way. Pally was one of the first designers in town to get the jersey bug; in fact, they call her 'Jersey Girl', even though she's a native Angeleno. I forgot to ask if her long cream jersey dress was one of her own. "I always wear dresses," she said. "Sometimes people come up to me in Trader Joe's and ask me if I'm going to prom." Here is one of her creations:

  We sipped prosecco (her) and rosé (me) at Vinoteca on Hillhurst and she told me how she had recently finished up her first plus-size collection, now on sale in Nordstrom . Apparently, not everyone in the L.A. fashion community was impressed to hear she was working on a collection for larger women. "It's kinda taboo," she said. "But I dont care--it was one of the best things I've ever done." She has received plenty of love from curvy gals who were psyched to hear she was creating dresses to fit their body shape.

She's 27, so I told her all about Saturn's Return, the mystical second coming-of-age that apparently hits women from their 27th to 31st years, and turns their lives upside down. "Are you ready?" I asked her, having myself just been royally shafted by Saturn over the last three years. "Yeah, awesome, bring it on!" she said.

Pally told me she had never received any formal fashion training. "I dont think you always need training. What you do need is your own original style, and chutzpah." She started designing and making clothes while studying at Berkeley. Her major was Cultural Geography, her minor was in Dance, which led to her spending a fair amount of time in the costuming department. That's where she first started dabbling with jersey, her fabric of choice. She's been hooked ever since.

She returned home to L.A., intending to become a city planner (!), but fate had other plans. One day, while wearing one of her own creations, she happened to drop by Slingting, the now-defunct gallery/boutique on Chinatown's Chungking Road. Owner Stacey Ernsdorff said she adored her dress, and asked to see more of her stuff, which Pally just happened to have in the back of her car ("Laundry," she explained). Ernsdorff invited her to sell her designs at the boutique ("back then they were all crazy, backless, flower appliqued and raw hemmed and deconstructed," says Pally), and from there, everything snowballed. She showed at L.A. Fashion week twice, built a thriving business and attracted a stellar celebrity clientele--and not a sketching or seamstressing class to her name.

You can buy Rachel Pally at Nordstrom and Bloomingdales, online at ShopBop.com, and at Lake on Rowena, Hilary Rush, and Diavolina. Her favorite designers are Phillip Lim, Stella McCartney and Marni. "I walk into Marni and I start sweating," said Pally, also a big fan of Opening Ceremony.

We asked for her definitive insider's guide to Los Feliz and Silverlake, and here's what she said. (Notice the total emphasis on yummy food--we love a girl who eats!!!)

Tortilla chips at Malo : "make sure to request the old-style ones"

India Sweets and Spices in Atwater

The Red Lion for beer

Fried chicken at The Kitchen

Backdoor Bakery: "the croissants are ridiculous"

Madame Matisse: "for the multi-grain salad"

Hot cholocate at Pazzo Gelato on Sunset: "serious and thick and rich and good" 

Every night, it seems, a new ultra lounge opens up, from Teddy’s to Stone Rose Lounge to my all-time-favorite bar Winston’s, all of which manage to balance exclusivity with the laid-back vibe of a neighborhood bar.

Crimson, which opened last night next to Opera, is the latest bar to hop on board the ultra-lounge bandwagon, but its spectacular design puts it at the head of the pack. Say goodbye to chandeliers! The dance floor here is lit by a mesmerizing blown-glass installation. And that’s just the beginning. The walls are lined with python skin and soft chinchilla fur (both faux, of course!); the ceiling’s tiled with red glass; the mirrors are smoked; and the large, casual smoking patio is one of the best in town.  

For now, Crimson will be open the first half of the week, with David & David and Jean Paul manning the scene on Wednesday nights. Last night, they lured in the vintage-chic crowd; the girls were sexy in tattered dresses paired with headbands and oversize Marc Jacobs purses and the boys were all about their peg-leg jeans and fedoras, except for Danny Masterson who is still all about his beard. Promoter Jean Paul, of course, was sexy in a dress.

 

As for the music: That’s what really sealed the deal into making this best new spot in town. DJs Lady's Love and Temporary Spaces' Sean Patrick kept the crowd going with Blur, Depeche Mode and Prince; and they brilliantly ended the night with Tommy James and the Shondells’ “Crimson and Clover.”

Was there a full moon or something last night? For once, paparazzi-hater Avril Lavigne played nice for the cameras at Les Deux while Lauren "LC" Conrad and Audrina Partridge, who let MTV film their lives for "The Hills" avoided the paps like the plague. 

Look at me. Wait! Don’t look at me.

Sometimes, you just gotta wait it out. Sure, there are shortcuts you could probably take. But trust me. In the long run, there’s something to be said for embodying the art of patience.

I could write a thesis on the subject after tonight. Because baby, I waited it out. Hardcore. The draw: a Scion party featuring Busy P, Kavinsky and other assorted Ed Banger DJs spinning at the Viper Room with not-so-secret special guests Justice. Big time, right? Right.

So I parked my behind in a massive line a few minutes after 11PM, when the doors opened. And I waited. I watched a cavalcade of L.A. scene stars bypass the line, bro down with the doorman and cruise in. Whatever, that's cool. We all get our moments. Don't be hatin'. I took pictures of Busy P and the Justice guys when they rolled out of a massive limo and entered the club. I watched Kavinsy (clad in a dope Corvette “Heartbeat of America” jacket) put on a whole song and dance in front of the club with this ridiculously fine blonde. After what seemed like an eternity (according to my cell, over an hour. Oh, the humanity), I was at the front of the line. The doorman looked at my ID and made a joke about me being “the other Scott Sterling.” He was actually really nice. I felt good about waiting it out. It wasn’t so bad, and the insistent thump of bass coming from upstairs sounded promising. Let’s check it out…

What can I say? The Viper Room was packed to the back with party people having it LARGE.  The whole assembled Banger posse—Busy P, Justice, SebastiAn, and yes, the last "A" is supposed to be capitalized like that—were all onstage tag-teaming on a pair of CD players. Then again, who wasn’t on the stage at that point? It was looking like a Girl Talk show up there. There were a battery of photogs (including my man Cobrasnake, natch), local DJs, promoters, random kids, whoever. I was trying to take pictures with my valiant little Casio, the trooper that it is. I’ve pushed this sucker as far as it’s gonna go. Last night might have been the kicker. It was HOT. Crowded. From my vantage point, the stage was the place to be. All in the name of better pictures, of course.

Things weren’t much different up there. It’s a little more fun, sure. Cobrasnake took my picture a few times. It was weird, but I liked it. Ha. Whatever. Now that dude has a nice camera. He seemed to get a kick out of mine. I definitely got some cool pictures out of it. Not to mention oddly compelling video of some random hot L.A. woman casually smoking what appeared to be a hand-rolled cigarette with her friend (we're still onstage, remember) while the assembled mass went bananas to the music all around them.

Busy P was working the crowd big time, flashing one of the new Justice tour shirts for their upcoming American jaunt. Oh look, there’s DJ AM on the other side of the stage. Going OFF. His face looked the way I think mine looked at the Daft Punk show. Homeboy was seriously feeling it. I love that this dude who could totally just stand there and be all cool about it (breath) was rocking out as hard as any fan in the house. Respect is due. That’s a music head right there.

And so it went. They dropped all manner of monstrous tunes, with Justice tracks getting the biggest cheer of them all. Irene Cara’s “What A Feeling” seemed to scare the shit out of everybody. It was hilarious. “Waters of Nazareth”—forget about it. Awesome.

When all was said and done, I hung onstage with the Ed Banger posse and half of the hipsters in L.A. I didn’t have a single drink (unless you this count this can of Tilt, which is like a ghetto version of Sparks. I wouldn’t recommend it…), and feel surprisingly lucid for it being three whatever o’ clock in the morning that it is right now.

That was kind of a lot of words, huh? Well, it was a long night. But a good one. I’m going to say nice things about Scion, the Viper Room, and rock-your-face-off DJs from France all in one sentence. I’m probably going to be really late for work, er, later on today. But damn it, I’m going to sleep well. Thanks, L.A. Sometimes you’re not such a pissy bitch, and it reminds me why I love you all over again. Just keep on dancing, babe.

How to escape a life sentence in a public toilet

 

Ohhhhh, dear.

The other night was an eventful one, with a stop at the lovely and thirst-quenching Broadway Bar for little Metromix-sponsored mingling/free beer. On the way home, my comrade Gemini and I were thisclose to stopping by the Swink Magazine event, but passing a sketched out Mexican fishmonger, we decided to stop in for some shrimp tacos. 

Heading to the ladies room to warsh me hands, I dug around my purse for one shiny quarter, necessary to gain entry. But upon leaving the restroom, I encountered the following door hardware.

Please note the brassy stump, and lack of "knob." I was locked in the public toilet of a fish shack.

My first instincts (cursing, doubting the existence of God) soon gave way to some desperate fist pounding, a pathetic yelp, and then texting the following S.O.S. to comrade Gemini, who was outside sipping a horchata or something: 

 

Let's just say, the good fella had a quarter.