JUST! SAY! YES!
Double the fun (and quadruple the flights)
In 2021, I was at lunch with a few friends in Malibu. Our quartet was working our way down the cocktail menu, our own version of an “around-the-world” party (you can take the girl off Greek Row but - you get it) when I got a text inviting me to a weekend in Napa. Joe and I were block-apart neighbors when I lived in West Hollywood, and we had a standing weekly Empire and Bravo date. He’d whip up his mom’s famous tortilla soup and if we were feeling adventurous we’d try our hand at DIY queso. The main attraction, however, would be the excellent bottle (or three) of wine we’d gulp down while Cookie or LVP were up to their antics - Joe worked for a wine-and-spirits distributor, and he was now calling in a few favors. Joe is a true bon vivant, an Energizer bunny in both energy and unbridled enthusiasm, and I knew any trip we took together would be a blast. But we were technically still in a pandemic, I wasn’t working and a trip out of town felt indulgent and unearned (feelings I don’t relish reckoning with).
As a round of mai tais (we’d made it to the tropics) got dropped off at the table, I voiced my concerns to Monica, seated next to me. Mons, a mother of two small (and adorable) children, with a thriving and demanding full-time job, looked me dead in the eye as she imparted her sage wisdom:
“You’re going on this trip, Perveen. Until you have kids, you just! Say! Yes!”
That was all it took. By the time I got home, I’d booked a flight. And we had a time! Joe and I “tasted” copious amounts of Napa’s finest. Belted “Como La Flor” in the backseat of the sucker’s car we hitchhiked from Sonoma to our hotel in (one thing about us, we’re not great with phone battery). When my manager emailed me, midway through the trip, encouraging me to submit to SNL (spoiler: I didn’t get it), we workshopped ideas in our robes late night, Joe offering up his coveted wig stash (you should see his Halloween archive). Most importantly, it was on this trip that I was learned about Wine Away, a life saver after I unceremoniously dumped an entire glass of cabernet down my white peasant blouse. All in all, a rousing success!
Three years later and I’m still taking Monica’s advice, which is how I ended up at two music festivals in the span of one weekend. Just! Say!Yes! Per my Coachella post, you’ve likely deduced there are touring friends who’ve generously been letting Peter and I tag-a-long on the road (we’re good company)! Our destination this time? Vegas, for Life Is Beautiful, a festival I’d never been to but whose excellent lineup included both Neil Frances and Leah (LP Giobbi). Because there’s no rest for the wicked, we pre-gamed the weekend with the Fontaine’s DC show the Thursday before (very brat for boys).
The next morning Peter and I arrived at LAX bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, like two deviant sugar gliders. We touched down in Sin City around lunchtime and headed straight to our hotel on The Strip. The most remarkable thing to me about Vegas hotels is never the theme nor the casinos, nor is it even the sheer variety of clientele. It’s simply how much perfume is pumped throughout the premises, an assault on your senses the second you walk in. It says even if you use your nose for anything other than breathing this weekend rest assured it still won’t be the worst thing you do to it.
Nasal cavities in remission, we prostrated ourselves on the pool deck, having a very adult lunch of chicken tenders as David, our (welcome) third wheel for the weekend arrived from San Francisco. DPop has logged his fair share of hours in the desert but even he seemed agog, Vegas tends to have that effect (a dizzying combination of shock, awe and trepidation). Later, back in the room, I marveled at the nothingness that laid beyond the parameters of Vegas excess. I’d had a similar feeling years ago, when driving from San Sebastian into Bilbao, and seeing the Guggenheim come into view amidst the rolling hills. This was admittedly less (way less) lush but equally startling. I paused my musing for a disco nap. Then it was time for a quick martini huddle before we were off to meet the rest of the crew.
Downtown Vegas is unfamiliar terrain but Circa was crackling with energy when we linked up with Leah and her fiancé Chad (a former festival founder). Chad and Leah are old friends we rarely get to see, but with whom it’s always easy to pick back up with, a trait I don’t take for granted the older we get. The buzz of initial hellos out of the way, talk quickly turned to the devil-on-your-shoulder kind.
“Why aren’t you guys coming to SF with us tomorrow?,” they chimed, a hedonistic Greek choir. Invigorated by cosmo (and casino cacophony), I began to wonder the same.
We walked the short distance to the grounds as the buildout came into view. No overlapping sets meant two side-by-side stages so you could pivot from one show to the next without having to leave your spot. Kinda genius tbh.
I’ve known Leah for a while and am embarrassed to say it was my first time seeing her live. Her onstage energy is infectious, seamlessly getting us into the groove. Backstage, the SF sentiment was growing - Vegas was increasingly morphing from sexy adult playground into soon-to-be desolate wasteland. I was chewing on my strategy to get us to up north, which proved to be unnecessary once Peter heard the tea on Soulwax: “Not a DJ set! Full band!” (Just! Say! Yes!)
I left the boys to hash out the details because a woman’s work might include a lot of things, but on this trip, it didn’t include logistics - I was there for vibes! Besides I was getting dangerously close to breaking my own personal rule that one should only spend 24 hours in Vegas. It was time to flee.
FLIGHT REROUTE #1
Next-day-flight or not, nothing could deter us from a Golden Tiki stop, a bar I was admittedly lukewarm on before I first visited in back in May and subsequently fell in love with. Our motley crew had grown in size to two SUVs by the time we were greeted by the imposing-but-charming bouncer, decked in metal jewelry, a technicolor hawaiian, and a spiderweb tattoo spanning his skull. A round of bone-chillingly-boozy tropical bevs ordered (Painkillers, Blue Lagoons, drinks of that ilk), I had the good sense to sneak in an order of hot tots & fries (call me a spud som). DJ duties impending (a pool party the next day) Leah nipped off while Chad, David, Peter and I ended our night with a parking lot heart-to-heart and some pho.
Feeling dangerously fine the next morning (the healing powers of broth), our trio caught a car to Harry Reid. Shoutout to the guy behind us in the rideshare lane who yelled “to Paris” with such verve I did for a second have to make sure I wasn’t back on the continent. An hour plus and an airport quesadilla later, we were boarding. I was feeling rather Teflon while maintaining the facade (via group chat) of staying in Nevada with all our friends already at Portola. We were reminiscing about two years prior, when we’d all been together for the festival’s inauguration. Neil Frances played that Friday, just as the sun was setting. What followed was 48 hours (a perfect amount of time for a festival, although I was about to break this) of power bonding over bucket list artists, (the Chemical Brothers set is still one of of the best I’ve ever seen), unhinged afters behavior, and dim sum.
One small snafu - we’d packed for 100+ degree weather, a 180 for the Bay marine layer we were bound towards. We’d have to thread the needle perfectly on a brief shopping stint and getting to the festival on time. Our concierge directed us to a Ross that was popping OFF and I had just enough adrenaline to emerge victorious with a slinky black sweater. Just! Say! Yes! Our energy began to wane during the ride across town - thank goodness for the pedicab that deposited right at will call where angel/Portola mastermind Danny Bell had graciously left our passes.
We sprinted to the Ship Stage (but not before a quick tiff on semantics, stage vs tent, that’s the fun thing about marriage, you really can argue about anything). Neil Frances had just launched into “Some Kind of Static,” which felt like kismet (it’s inspired by aforementioned 2022 trip). We snuck side stage, spotted the girls, and pushed our way through the crowd to give them a little scare surprise. Sorry to anyone in our general vicinity who endured the next five of shrieking and hugging. Now reunited, the very idea of us sitting out Portola felt even more preposterous. How could we have missed this! The energy surge was quickly making a meal of our next day 2 pm departure. Peter and I exchanged looks and once again made the call to push our travel day to late Sunday evening.
FLIGHT REROUTE #2
Were you aware that Natasha Bedingfield now tours exclusively playing 15 minutes sets? Turns out, it’s all you need to bring the house down. Peter’s newly-scored New Balance vest made him look like uber fan #1. We stayed put for Soulwax, which predictably melted our faces off, and would’ve been worth at least ten more flight changes. As night one ended, I stuck close to Chad, who navigated the terrain as only someone with intimate first hand festival knowledge could. We tumbled into a van like a degenerate SWAT team and zipped across town. Leah, in an attempt to democratize her music, was test piloting a new idea - she’d post up an AMA and offer a free DJ set in exchange for a hosted afterparty. And we were now barreling towards one.
“Do you know these people?” I asked. She didn’t, but someone was about to let our motley crew take over their home. Who were we to complain?
We arrived at said address and peered into the empty glass lobby. We must’ve looked like a pack of wild lemurs when a gentleman dressed in a canadian tuxedo and Steve Zissou beanie came to get us. After a little bit of negotiating, we were escorted upstairs. It quickly became apparent that the gorgeous apartment didn’t belong to him, but to his girlfriend, who was running around playing hostess. Because I love a gender flipped dynamic, we instantly felt at home and sprawled on her sectional, melting into one giant human centipede (likely as terrifying). The girls put on their press campaign - the men were all leaving tomorrow and there’d be open beds in their rooms.
“You’re not leaving,” they chimed.
”I’ll see how I feel in the morning,” I said. I looked to the angel on my other shoulder but it seemed I’d left her behind at LAX. We finally trudged home at some ungodly hour, the SF bay mist doing unspeakable things to my hair
As Sunday morning crept into our hotel room, I rolled over and waited for Peter’s eyes to open.
“I’m staying.”
”I figured.”
Just! Say! Yes!
After showering (and maneuvering my hair into a claw clip), I wished out loud for a Real Housewives-style glam team.
“I can’t help you there,” Peter said, half asleep. “But I’ll give you a hand with your flight.”
FLIGHT REROUTE #3 (for me)
A call to American and we popped down to the lobby to see Leah DJ. The thrum of the untz untz untz sent the lift car into a wobble, before suddenly feeling like we were heading directly into the bowels of the Big One. When the metal doors parted, we were thrust into a throng of activated party monsters, nary a coffee in sight but plenty of spritzes and espresso martinis. Priorities. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a mother-daughter duo check in on what was clearly intended to be a relaxing getaway. As their eyes bulged, I realized if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em and slipped into a glass of champagne. Chad motioned for us to follow him upstairs and wouldn’t you believe it but lo-and-behold, there before me stood a glam station (sadly no Just! Say! Yes! tats). Since I happened to be in a backless jumpsuit, (and that angel was OOO) my shoulder blade felt ripe for artwork.
We rocked up to the festival, Peter with a massive suitcase in tow. I know the good people of San Francisco see lots of crazy shit but something about a man in a blue silk tiger shirt wheeling a suitcase into a festival seemed to be a real showstopper. Suitcase stashed, we met up with our friend Latane, fresh in town from an Austin wedding. We scuttled around with him to see Falcon x Braxe x Busy P and Barry Can’t Swim before it was time for Peter to turn into a pumpkin (head to the airport).
I kissed my husband goodbye and watched him wheel off his suitcase into the sunset. With him off to LA and Neil Frances in San Diego, the girls and I were about to have a real ladies night (well, we had two guys with us but energetically, it was a sister hang). The time had come for our problematic principessa M.I.A. Oh Maya. This was a real case of having to separate the art from the artist but Bad Girls still slaps so hard (and had us dancing like a bunch of deranged Powerpuff Girls). In the interest of equal opportunity, I guess let brown women be toxic too?
Anyway, with that bay chill rolling in, it was getting to that time to take over someone’s trailer. On the way I heard the strains of “Genesis” go off for the second time in 48 hours, followed by thunderbolts of shrieking. I have a theory that there are two songs that activate the elder millennial sleeper cell (the other is “Deceptacon”); thank God the festival was coming to an end or I might’ve felt called for a fourth flight change.
Remembering that Danny kept his trailer stocked with excellent red wine (all roads lead back to Napa), we burst in, to the chagrin of anyone trying to wrap up their work day, and fell into a cashmere-and-wool heap. Then came the scheming. Somehow crowned the de facto leader (I did have three changed flights to my name), I sent a quick text SOS (day 3 of partying, I was shameless at this point). Afters-guest-list secured, off we went into the night. You know that saying, nothing good happens after 2 am? Don’t know her!
Sof and I woke up Monday morning, wrapped in our duvets. The party train had pulled into the station. Perfect time for my phone to be stuck in SOS limbo. Turns out Verizon was on a little bender of her own, in the form of a nationwide power outage. There’s something unnatural about heading to an airport without a functioning cellular device, although intellectually I know people did do it once (and in my lifetime). I said ciao to the girls (we were all on different flights and thus, different terminals), printed out a paper boarding pass, and hustled to my gate. We all know rules don’t exist at the airport, so shrouded in Monday am anonymity, I tucked into some breakfast mac-and-cheese and thanked the powers that be that the flight would only be an hour, max. Plus the Industry finale awaited me, and no matter what kind of day I was having, everyone at Pierpoint would certainly be having a worse one.
We are now firmly in mid-October. Summer has truly, officially come to an end (my puka shell anklet finally disintegrated in the shower), but part of the weekend never dies! Writing this flooded my body with some much needed serotonin, even if it took longer than I expected. I have to be honest - the horrors of the world are weighing on me, as I imagine they are on you too. It feels so frivolous and silly to write about a party weekend, but then I remember that everyone’s time is finite. Why not give in to your base desires, why not just! Say! Yes!
WHO’S THAT GIRL
I’ve been cat-obsessed since I can remember. As a kid, I begged my mum for a kitten, then chased down strays on my tricycle when said requests were denied. I adored nature documentaries and always perked up when the big cats appeared. Cheetahs were my favorite - lightning fast, adorable in their chirpiness all while sporting incredible eyeliner (it should be illegal to look that good with running mascara).
Chester was my first true style crush. Lean & lanky, sunglasses on 24/7 in a way that suggested preternatural coolness, sick kicks. Let’s not forget the whole draped-head-to-toe-in-cheetah-print thing (simply born that way). Sure, Chester’s technically male, but he transcends gender, the way true legends do. Seeing him while procuring my abovementioned airport quesadilla felt like a good omen for a great weekend ahead.
FASHION DISPATCH
And speaking of style, yes I’m aware fashion month has long come-and-gone but for inquiring minds, here’s a roundup of my PWF favs:
(L to R)
1-3 I’ve been obsessed with Schiaparelli since my middle school book report on Signora Elsa (hey, did you know she invented hot pink?) Daniel Roseberry has been doing incredible work reviving the house, creating homages to Schiap’s surrealist roots while making it his own. This *cerulean* blue (we love a Devil Wears P ref) to be the best-dressed wedding guest, structured stripes for my next Marseille summer and this sheer two-piece to sip martinis (and glare at people) at Tower Bar in.
4 I’m probably getting too old for babydoll dresses but I’ll risk it for this Dice Kayek taffeta dream. I’ve found myself in a neck-rut (I have to remaster the art of layering necklaces) so this built-in ribbon choker feels like a welcome no-brainer. This is a chic take on coquette-core that I can get behind.
5-7 I’ve been in a Birkin state of mind since getting bangs and I love how these Isabel dresses feel French and mod, but would also be perfect for a night out in LA. If someone wants to timeshare the metallic third look, lmk - but dibs on NYE.
8 Speaking of mod, I love a good stripe + boot combo and the bow detailing on this Sacai gives sailor en route to Teddy’s for an AMF.
9 Ankle socks and loafers are a combo I cannot shake and this knit Casablanca serve is perfect for drinks at the country club (in my case, Penmar).
10 Marigold elegance and divine draping from Bottega.
11 Loewe mini coat for Piscean pantless glamour.
12-13 Inside me there are two wolves - one who wants to dress like Angelina Jolie on a 2000s press tour, the other who lives for a twinset. These Gabrielle Hearst looks feed both.
14 When it comes to Rabanne, I came for the paillettes (getting my hands on an OG disc dress is bucket list red carpet for me), but stayed for this bad-school-girl look.
Accessories roundup
Leaning into Chester-core with these Celine kitten heel pumps (gotta cop the Saint Laurent Bea bag to complete the look).
All the above la Birkin looks call for a basket, and this Hermes is au courant and just the right size.
I’m ~contractually obligated~ to only wear a specific brand of eyewear but I covet these oversized seventies frames from Saint Laurent, very Charlotte Rampling.
As a Californian, I appreciate the ease of a good flip flop. These padded Mame Kurogouchi ones look comfy as hell.
A bolero is always stylish to me (matadors = very sexy), and this velvet Chloé adds holiday season pizzaz.
CATTY CORNER
What’s the saying? The higher the It-Girl rises, the harder the It-Girl falls? It was only a matter of time that the masses would turn on Internet sensation Moo Deng. We have officially hit pygmy hippo fatigue. I should’ve known her days were numbered when a friend (identity protected, no doxxing pls) DM-ed me:
“Fuck her! It’s like get a new hobby! Stop hopping on a trend.”
To which I say - they’re right. We should all be out touching more grass (but finish reading this first).
BOP ALERT 🚨
Seeing Chloe Sevigny absolutely serving on the cover of New York Magazine “on the cusp of 50” made me think of Cher’s iconique line in Mermaids - “a real woman is never too old.”
Real It-Girls retain their essence way past girlhood. I’ve always admired Sevigny’s ever-evolving career, including her detour into spoken word on this Soulwax track (gonna assume full band backing on this one- Peter?).
Hello, it’s Friday again! My attempts at behaving lasted exactly one weekend. Tonight I’m off to dance my little tush off to fcukers & (OG brat) Uffie - you know how little it takes to twist my arm. Toodles!
But did you stay at the Cliff…..