tokyohardcore Blog and Journals

LOVE, FAME, MURDER, SPARKLE:
TARINA TARANTINO UNLEASHES “TOKYO HARDCORE” ON THE MELROSE/FAIRFAX DISTRICT, 11/15/07

“Oh please,” scoffed the adorably outspoken Lisa D’Amato. Surrounded by incandescent neon baubles in display cases situated alongside the new season’s dark sparkle of legendary jeweler Tarina Tarantino’s visionary take on the “Gothic Lolita” craze—essentially, a love letter to Japanese avant garde fashion—D’Amato’s words seemed fitting for a soiree named “Tokyo Hardcore.”

“I’m here to hang with my boy Cisco”—Cisco as in Cisco Adler, burgeoning musician and former boyfriend of Mischa Barton; not Cisco as in the bargain-bin alcoholic beverage—“So we can just chill, check out the collection.”

“I’ll talk to you about the sweet new deal I have with Geffen,” she added with a flip of the aquamarine sequined collar on her Jared Gold jacket. [The breaking news of which is: she’s a signed artist…and for a healthy sum, I’m happy to say.]

“Just don’t associate me with that show. O.K.?”



Then in the flick of a false eyelash, she shifted gears to exchange pleasantries with a more-charming-than-ever Nicky Hilton, while I took a hot second to absorb the almost-too-hip-to-be-Hollywood scene around me and feel those final two words resonate.



“That show” —as she called it without ever calling it, one of the tactics I classify as “So L.A.”—just might have been a little reality TV program that claimed to be in search of “America’s Next Top Model”: a title contrary to the fact that its squeaky-clean corporate sponsors might as well cut the crap and call it “America’s Next Top Cover Girl.” Oh, you know the one: that diminutive CW series now in its tenth ‘cycle’ (such a menstrual choice of verbiage for the estro-fest, doncha think?) that airs in over 110 countries—and that’s excluding the franchise spin-offs (“Austalia’s Next Top Model, “ “Canada’s Next Top Model,” ad nauseum).

Well, apart from ANTM’s monstrous syndication that’s supersaturated VH1 and MTV to the extent that I avoid both creatively-challenged networks like a contagion, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the dichotomy of how a mega-hit series with millions of viewers can’t seem to launch the legitimate career of one single “walking stick.” I mean, let’s face it: for a country populated with over 250 million people—the majority of which are of the female persuasion—are we completely devoid of breath-taking Amazons blessed with exceptional DNA and the ability to strut “from the hips”?

Of course not. According to stats on Models.com, this week’s “Top 50” of the blue-chip beauties includes Jenny Sweeny from Altoona, Iowa; Rachel Clark with the claret-hued hair who hails from South Florida, Hye Park—the Korean American beauty who was discovered in Salt Lake City, Missy Rayder from Wisconsin, Chanel Iman from Los Angeles, and the highly-coveted Hilary Rhoda from Maryland. And let’s not forget the red, white and blue sirens who’re listed in the Top 15 “Working Icons”: Amber Valetta, Christy Turlington, Angela Lindvall, and Carolyn Murphy.

A self-professed “finger-counter,” I’ll be the first to admit that math is not my forte’. Regardless, as Tarina’s shopgirls scuttled about the boutique looking cute-enough-to-squeeze-the-guts-out-of, with their miniature top hats and signature ‘Pink Head’ jewelry, I had a flash of logic: Ten percent of the world’s “Top Models” are American, and the series “America’s Next Top Model” is in its tenth season. If 10 to 14 girls kick off each season of the competition, then what gives?

What gives, Ty Ty Baby? What gives?

Another flash, that’s what. Then another, and another. And another. Davey Havok—lead singer of AFI, whose album DecemberUnderground debuted last year in the number one spot—had arrived, and the shutterbugs were all a-flurry.



Maybe the sight of him and all the other rock stars in attendance (the svelter-than-ever Jessicka, lead singer of Scarling and formerly of Jack Off Jill; Nick 13, vocalist and guitar player for Tiger Army; Morgan Slade, founder and bassist of the band Miss Derringer; and Samantha Maloney, who’s drummed for everyone from Motley Crue to Eagles of Death Metal to the potty-mouthed Peaches in her prolific career) inspired D’Amato to turn back to me and add an after-thought… or maybe she simply couldn’t resist the urge to wriggle her pierced tongue-in-chic.

“Didn’t Tyra try to make it as a singer?”



(Pictured Above: Samantha Maloney, Pauley Perrette, Tarina, and Jessicka—
also now known as Jessicka Addams)



I shrugged, eyeing a black lace necklace fashioned into a men’s tie. Killer, I thought.

“Hmph!” D’Amato added with a smirk. “How’d that turn out?”

As far as I know, the album didn’t. What did turn out, however, was a continuous stream of celebutantes and bold-face names at last night’s party:

Actor Andy Garcia hub-bubbed with Tarina’s husband and business partner, Alfonso Campos; actress Pauley Perrette was feckless and fun—despite one fanboy who followed her every move and insisted on calling her “Abby” (her quirky, caffeinated character on the CBS series “NCIS”); the extraordinary Ileana Douglas “held court” among a huddle of fans who couldn’t resist themselves,



celebrity photographer Albert Sanchez and his art director Pedro Zalba (the duo responsible for the new catalog's impeccable imagery and—in the words of one party reveler, "making everyone look the best [they've] ever been"), writer/director Darren Stein (mastermind behind cult classic Jawbreaker, festival-darling documentary Put The Camera On Me and the short "Color Me Olsen"), producer/actor and all-around man-about town Joel Michaely, hunk-a-saurus screenwriter Abdi Nazemian (The Quiet), photo surrealist extraordinaire Austin Young and what could easily be described as his polar opposite, photo realist Kate Romero, visual artist/clothing designer/Show Pony gallery owner Kime Buzelli, performance artist/androgyne extraordinaire Karis, the ever-outrageous Go-Go Giddle from the Partridge Family Temple, and the adorable actor Ray Santiago ("My Name Is Earl"), who hung out in the installation/dance room next door with a group of his compadres.

And what a remarkable extension to the boutique that adjacent space was…

Remember earlier when I went all SoCal with my vernacular and said “killer”? Well, that’s how dead-set on glamour Alfonso and Tarina went with the décor.

From the Swarovski crystal-encrusted handgun in a glass case to crisp and cutting black-on-white-wall excerpts of Alfonso’s text dispersed with a surgical precision from the gorgeous 46-page glossy “Tokyo Hardcore” catalog, the correlation between Tarina’s intricately-detailed jewelry and the duo’s presentation for the soiree was undeniable.

Well, that and the coup de grace center stage: mega-beautemous model Sunnie Shakur feigning death just like the cyanide-sweet “murder scene” portrayed in the catalog. A case of life imitating art—contrary to rumors that during the extensive photo shoot, the inverse among particular cast members was the case.



Call me ornery; call me a perversely curious little shit. Whatever the case, I couldn’t resist the urge to fake my own death scene over..and over…and over again, testing the model’s will by throwing the full weight of my corpse mere inches from her game of Make-Like-A-Mannequin. Sure, it was obnoxious and juvenile of me, and I loved every friggin’ minute of it.

Pro that she is, the process took a while…but she finally broke character to sigh and roll her eyes to the heavens. Worked for me. Satisfied, I pushed my weight up and began to walk away.



Within the span of a stride, I heard a rushed query over the—and I rarely say this—‘choice’ (translation for any anti-hipsters: really great) D.J.:

“Is that your friend?”

I matched the voice to the face of none other than Perez Hilton: noting first his hair—a bluish-purple shade from the Manic Panic pantheon—then the central accessory for his ensemb: a price tag dangling from his Dior sunglasses.

Um, Minnie Peal much?

‘Cause gangstas don’t need bodyguards.

They also don’t puss out after confessing the desire for a personalized (read: forced…but WHATEVER) “accomplice” photo of their own. I coached and coaxed him along, but he scuttled away… afraid of an Asian girl who barely breaks the hundred-pound mark?

Or, the epitomization of persona versus actual person?



That was the last I saw of him, but I entertained myself with a bit of “interviewing” a pair of web celebs still gracing the place. Nonetheless, I’ll have to expound upon my fascination with the whole contemporary “ceWEBrity” phenomenon at another date… Gotta bold now, babes.

My rendezvous wrapped this fine eve with an abundance of air-kisses and ass-kissing—Oh, who am I kidding? It was open-mouthed, or not at all—with genuine congratulations extended to Alfonso and the inimitable Tarina, truly the belle of the ball with her exquisite beauty and estimable grace.

♥