Bah humbug. I want my city back!

Last weekend I pulled a bit of a disappearing act, heading back up to Utah for a quickie ski trip at Brian Head and it was ski-tastic, as always. The snow began to fall just as we arrived and stopped just in time for me to hit the slopes the next day. I am pleased to report I only half-fell and only once. But we wont talk about that...

I returned Monday evening to find MAGIC still in full swing. Tuesday night I got my first peak at the Panorama Towers, where designer Christine Price was showing off her Haute Moms Rule line of designer maternity and postpartum wear and luxury diaper bags. Now don't get any crazy ideas--I am not planning to reproduce any time soon (thank gawd!). But I did get to meet some amazing designers from all over So-Cal who were there to celebrate the Las Vegas mother of three's successful debut at the Pool Show! Later that night I met up with friend and former editor Martin Stein at Pure to say goodbye to a beloved friend. Candace Carrell leaves this week to assume control as GM of Pure Management Group's Aura nightclub at the Atlantis Resort. Sniffle.

Yes, Wednesday night was Valentine's Day but dammit, I had stuff to do. Kanye was waiting! Actually it was I who did all the waiting. I held out for as long as I could at the Fusion concert at the Aladdin, and very much enjoyed Gnarls Barclay's short n' sweet performance but when the clock struck 11:30 p.m. and Kanye still hadn;t taken the stage, I just had to split and head over to V Bar. Wouldn't want to miss my Midnight Snack, now would I?! Fortunately I arrived along with the runway for the fashion show. But you can read more about that this Thursday in the Weekly...

Thursday ushered in All-Star Weekend and like a lamb to the slaughter I followed the masses. Thanks to a little misinformation, I missed The Vincent Black Shadow's oddly placed performance at Tangerine. As the last of the MAGIC parties, I really wanted to see the punk band perform but I guess I'll have to catch them on March 3 at the University Theater. Prolly a more appreciative and appropriate audience there anyway.

An hour later I was penned into a VIP section at a basketballs to the wall All-Star party at Voodoo. Let it be said now that All-Star is not for me. I don't watch basketball, I wouldn't know an NBA player if he stepped on me with his size 14s and I really don't care if he's hosting a party. Phew. What I do care about is the business each convention and big event brings into our fair city. Still, as texts and emails about shootings and riots and Grey Goose bottles being used as bats began to flood my inbox, I decided to protest All-Star the rest of the weekend. I staged my first sit-in at the Artisan Friday night. Nope, no riots there. Just DJ Shinky and 'tini time!

Saturday afternoon, I submitted to some long-overdue pampering at the Drugstore at Wynn where I sat for a complimentary makeup and fragrance consultation by Fresh. Sugar face scrub in hand, I left exfoliated, buffed and downright dewy. And just in time for Paris Hilton's birthday that night at Body English. Just seconds after Paris swooped in ahead of me on the pink carpet, former Beacher's Madhouse host Pete Giovine grabbed me up and brought me right in with him to Paris' VVIP friendtourage. There, with Nicky Hilton, Stavros Niarchos, Brandon Davis, Scott Storch, Jeff Beacher and DJ Jon Alagem, I was just inches from the birthday girl as she danced on the table at the centermost of her three VIP booths and as actor Joel Moore and friends chanted "Chug, chug, chug" to the starlet downing her bottle of Patron. Also fueling the fire on the table that night were Grey Goose, buckets of Coronas, and of course, the ever-present green glowing bottle of Ty Ku which only Pete was daring enough to press his lips to after it had been passed around the group for swigs. At 3 a.m. we moved up to the Hard Rock's Bowling Alley Suite where Paris and Beach disappeared for a while for a photo shoot while Beacher's Creatures and DJ Swift entertained Harry Morton, Ian Ziering, and the rest. Paris spent a strange 60 seconds standing next to me at 5 a.m. in the foyer holding herself up and staring deadpan into her own eyes in the mirrored wall before taking off, a coutured, blonde missile.

Please, God, let me never get that toasted.