We're pathologically social. We're professional leisurists. We're burrito lovers, bar flies, art whores and music nerds. We dish the good dirt, and we'll risk a parking ticket for a cheap sample sale. Sometimes, we blog drunk.
Ward on the Street: Metromix has its privileges
I have just been oddly, wordlessly ushered backstage at the Avalon.
A lighting technician, overhearing me ask about press check-in, gave me a conspiratory nod, pulled me past security and then into the VIP wings for the Zodiac Show without saying a word. The theatrical, musical affair is partly the brainchild of former Pussycat Doll Carmit Bachar and I have no idea what I'm doing in her dressing room.
I stand awkwardly in a corner, keeping an eye out for red-carpet urchins likely to attend: Dita VonTeese? I don't see her. Paris Hilton? Not back here. Dancers are getting caked with fairy dust by the wardrobe staff, and I contemplate grabbing a costume, joining them onstage, and seeing how long it takes before I am arrested. I also consider eating a piece of pizza from the craft service table.
As showtime approaches, the vibe gets more frenetic. Headdresses are being fastened on, and I slip into the audience to watch the show as it's intended to be seen, from a plebeian point of view. Lights dim and a statuesque drag queen wearing metal shoulder pads and a glitter-rimmed mouth bursts onstage with a song and dance routine to Zeppelin's "Black Dog." The Avalon explodes with color and movement through 10 acts involving aerialists, rap, leather bust harnesses and choreography.
It's a welcome instance when the show is actually more exciting from the audience than from backstage. Go figure.
-Alie Ward
Miss Alie Ward
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