I’m packing to come home, and for the first time ever, I will be sad to leave LA. I either just got “it,” or “it” changed enough in my direction to have meaning. I had a great time, and I swear I will never use this old joke again: “If its 10pm in New York, it must be 1998 in LA.” It just doesn’t ring true, as NY has become less and LA more. Back in the big wormy apple I hear that Santos’ Party House is reopened, and Gina Sachi Cody is still dearly departed. Gina will be put to rest following wakes and funeral services 2pm to 4pm and 6pm to 7pm tomorrow at the Barret Funeral Home in Tenafly, New Jersey. I’m going, so if you expected to see me, fogetaboutit. I’m sending my sweetness off, even if I must go to Tenafly—wherever that is. I would walk a million miles for one of Gina’s smiles, but will have to settle for a photo on an easel.
The Halloween Bash at the Hudson Hotel had me spinning with my friend Paul Sevigny. I hadn’t seen him spin in ages. He’s one of the last DJs to still use vinyl, and it was wonderful to watch him work. He has great hands, and he mixed seamlessly—from one fun track to the next—and the crowd roared. Paul gets all sorts of ink as a club mogul these days. In fact, I wrote about him and his partner Nur Khan for the November issue of BlackBook. It’s easy to forget that the second thing Paul should be remembered for is his DJ skills. His heart of gold is obviously first. As he spun, a strange smiling character would come up to praise this Ceasar. Paul gave him a card and told the dude to call him so that they could talk about music. I asked Paul what number was on the card, and he told me his cell. I gave him that are-you-pulling-my-leg? look I usually reserve for girls who tell me I’m hot. He answered “Why not? Who the fuck am I?” Paul remains down to earth, and a great DJ, despite a million words that might swell another guy’s head.
I finished up at 4am. I heard the Suzanne Bartsch soiree at Good Units was raided and closed down by the city’s finest, and that she was “devastated.” Over 3,000 people had showed up, and the party was brilliant fun—until its abrupt end. Paul and I were away from the mayhem, but we could hear the commotion and see the flashing lights outside. I felt like those kids from Cloverfield: barely aware and slightly informed of the disaster and craziness just over there, waiting for it to come at us. Alas, we got by.
I slept for 20 minutes and rushed to the airport for the Hollywood/Bollywood BlackBook event at the Standard. The event was sponsored by Russian Standard Vodka and brought together a team of DJs who made their mark in NYC. I was joined by the always-gorgeous Christine Renee and the always-debonair Ethan Browne. The Bollywood dancers did their thing to that unforgetable song from Slumdog Millionaire that we all thankfully forgot. The Lady Miss Tigra performed as well. Tigra used to work with us back in NYC. She is the sweetest thing in the world, and it was crazy to hear her sing lyrics that belied that innocence. That’s, as Murray Hill says, showbiz! The whole shindig benefited the Zeno Mountain Farm.
We couldn’t stop eating at the 24-hour diner-like restaurant at the Standard. I don’t know its name, but I suggest it should be called “24 Hour French Toast,” as it has the best I’ve ever had. [Ed Note: It’s called The Restaurant at the Standard]. We visited old friends at the Chateau Marmont. While the rest of the town was jammed up with celebrities, Chateau was packed with movies stars, and there’s a difference. I won’t name names, as that would be impolite to my hosts, but it was a wondrous evening that I must find a way to relive.