A soft, gentle winter snow fell on Tuesday Evening leading up to gates of the Desmond Tutu Center. Just after 7, the doors were opened, as people tred through the greenery, kicked off snowy boots and climbed the stairs to enter the exhibit.

It was the premier of Edun's 2008 Winter Collection, but the setting was more like an art gallery. Models stood like statues clad in earth tone knits, adjusting only to accentuate the flow of the clothing. A pianist accompanied the evening, as the label's owner sauntered in after 8 — partners Bono and Ali Hewson. The low lights and relaxed atmosphere made for a peaceful energy, in keeping with the spirit of the line that centers on fostering relationships within the African continent.
****

"You're either in or you're out," goes Heidi Klum's deadpan delivery on the adverts for the Project Runway.

For the season finale, Bravo summoned the cast of judges Klum, Michael Kors and Elle Fashion Director Nina Garcia to make the cut, but guest judge Victoria Beckham caused the greatest stir in her orange Versace and open-toed heels at the Bryant Park Tents. Also front and center were Tyson Beckford and Niki Taylor, seated next to bigwig producer Harvey Weinstein. All of this pomp to speculate on Season Four hopefuls - the next big Project Runway designer out of five finalists. Over the course of an hour, I saw five runway shows by very real reality TV cast members, which was the best part, to see their anticipation and unabashed pride. Granted, there are people who are far more involved in the intricate behind the scenes of Project Runway, like Saturn blogger Lisa Gilpin, but for me it was to fun kick back and soak up the glitterati, plumage and ruffles from five very distinct collections. Who will win? I have no idea, but I have to admit that I will be checking out the finale to see who the winner might be!

For More: www.tamarawarren.com/blog

A Movement: Detroit Techno

"Thriller" was the first record I ever bought by myself with my allowance. For my eighth birthday my parents rented a VCR for my sleepover party so we could watch the making of the video.

I was born at the end of the vinyl and 8-track era. Mostly, I was an 80s cassette tape kid. When I got my driver's licence, I had a collector case of mixtapes and favorite soundtracks that went everywhere with me in a carrying case, until someone snatched the box out of my car on the East side of Detroit in the middle of a careless night.

I began to write about music when I was 18. Honestly, I don't remember the first review that I wrote, but I do know I must have agonized over it. It was probably a local Detroit punk band that I followed for my high school newspaper, the Warrior Reader. (charming name, eh?). I'm willing to bet on my frazzled memory that somebody dubbed me a tape of a live show.

At that time, the latest and greatest - CDS - became a hot commodity, and to actually get an advance was a thrill. It was a year or two later at the MSU State News daily newspaper that I discovered the journalist's advantage. CDs safely mailed months before their actual release! All I had to do was have an opinion. I didn't need to rely on my years of vocal training to have taste. (Yes like every music writer, there's some rockstar dream buried beneath the fabric.) Instead, I just had to study the artist's discography and assess their latest contribution, and boom, I was privy to free music before it hit the shelves, the dream life of the fabled critic. It was such a delicious trade, it seemed. Who could ask for more?



Yet, I cherished afternoons scouring the used bin at East Lansing's FBC (Flat, Black, and Circular) , for 12-inch records and $5 copies of recycled CDs. That's also where my friends and I would happen upon the cuties scoping for their music. Perusing for music was what I did for fun, the record store was our 90s salon, where ideas were tossed around and where we found out what band, group, or DJ was performing around town.

When I began to write more for the area zines like Venus, Massive and Groove, the CDS started coming to my house. I continued to go to the record store — Recordtime in Roseville — but my collecting tendencies were not as voracious as my teens. My increase in music coverage, meant that I had more hours of spinning discs than free time by the stereo system. What began as an occassional taste of free music soon became a steady diet. Thus, my frugal music collection of select cds instantly jumped into a haphazard library as my named was added to the magic list for promos. While what I received was more often than not what I would choose to collect, there was a satisfaction in being surrounded by stacks of music. All those CDs had stories of their own, some I loved, some I hated, but always connected to the buzz of the era, and packaged as the next best thing with an enthusiastic press release.

Several moves, roomies, inhertance from lovers gone awry, and a decade or so later, (sans the vinyl copped by an ex-boyfriend) I still carry around the plastic luggage. Thousands of CDS, many of which probably don't play,some unopened though saved for the best of intentions. I've almost stopped going to record stores, preferring the instant gratification of the .99 download, and sadly my CDs sit ignored, particularly after they've been digitized. I long ago left behind my turntable, and even vinyl seems like more work than a NY apartment can handle. I love my old music, and it takes discipline to keep up with the piles of music that arrive weekly in the mailbox. I'm a bit shameful of my behavior — once such a music purist, collector, and indie devotee, and suddenly my stacks are looking like a disheartened assembly of plastic. As I get ready for another view from a new place, I'm eying the CDs I have selected to omit, I am at a loss. What to do with five extra large boxes of old music that was free from the get go? Do I give them to a record store — that seems karmically wrong to sell the blood, sweat and tears of struggling bands? Do I release CDs into the universe that are marked for promotional use only? Or do I set them out to sea in the trash, a discard of memory, of plastic wrap, relics of an era gone by? Suggestions? One friend told me to consider selling the CDS a music industry end-of-an-era bonus. I'm on the fence.

The largest part of the keeper collection are the CDs I bought used for $5 dollars at FBC, the soundtrack of my youth gone by. I'm also sure that my copy of "Thriller" is safely stored in the collection at my parents' house.

Hulk Hogan and me. Generally, I'm not one for celeb photo ops, but something came over when I met the Hulkster for the second time last weekend. The first time was in an elevator in Vegas, when he asked if I was going to the gym during SEMA last year. And yeah, that's me holding my own with the Hulk. Just in time for Wrestlemania in Detroit.

On this particular evening he was playing the role of the supportive dad to Brooke, who was in turn, showing her support for Sobe Entertainment, who she records for along with Scott Storch. Brooke and her dad did their best to blend in, but that can be hard when you tower over the rest of the crowd.

Sobe invited a group of about 30 journalists down to South Beach Miami to check out their new young protegee -$tacks,who is making his big drop with Crazee & Confuzed.

Now $tacks isn't after the money - he's already got it thanks to his biz partner - Pops. Check out these fly rides. www.tamarawarren.com/blog

You'll have to wait for the upcoming piece to get a load on the 100 cars this fam has in their fleet.

Back at the ranch, as my friend likes to say, here's how things are looking on the streets of Brooklyn, where its cold on Clinton Ave., but always undeniably full of flavor. www.tamarawarren.com/blog
Stay tuned for race car driving next week!
tamarawarren.com/blog

Oooohh. That's me in a 1955 Saab Sonnett, driving the former President of Saab at lightening speeds on an airfield in San Diego in this rare British style (read: driving on the right) racing demon.

www.tamarawarren.com/blog


Back to reality -- New York in the doghouse days of February. Everyone is slighly antsy, not cooped by winter, but the short days and the hopeful promise of spring and new beginnings in the year of the pig.

When antsiness sets in, there's no medicine like creative absurdity. Karoake Duets on 35th Street on Friday proved to be a big hit, universally speaking, for a group of ladies and gentleman in a send off of sorts for one accomplished lady.

After the evening, I can say no longer do you have to sit through strangers' renditions of Whitney Houston in order to live out your shower crooning-dreams, but you can dominate the stage with your own private karoake room. Highlights in our set list included "Welcome to the Jungle", TI's "What You Know", and Ike and Tina. I laughed until I cried. That's how it's done, when you want to really get carefree with the spring fever.

Check out this flick that looks like a shoe box.

www.tamarawarren.com/blog

It's actually an entirely edible Jimmy Choo vanilla bean cake for the honorary guest. Geez oh Pete's - a shoe lovers dream. Too nice to eat, right? Well we left the shoe and devoured the box. Sweet Creations, the Long Island based bakers need a few awards for taste and style.

The weekend's most breathtaking moment proved to be the Dining By Design preview party at the Waterfront. Each designer espoused their perspective in table setting for charity, with table after table of sumptuous settings. A table entirely of foliage, holograms of George Bush with a Pinocchio nose, and the decadent Victorian round table were stand outs. As one of the sponsors tables, Lexus produced Arne Quinzes sleek moldings.


Thematically speaking, tables were almost too beautiful for food.

The event benefitted an amazing charity - DIFFA. Can't be mad about this one.


Back on the streets Sunday in the Honda CRV, trying to beat the snow. I spied curious pedestrians inspecting the bumper and my California plates.

My Favorite Things

Sometimes it's okay to act a little RUDE. Especially when you're friends let you crash their party with your birthday crew and stack the guestlist like a Las Vegas table.

That's the name of the party — Rude Movements- these guys are the next big thing to take New York City by storm - DJs,designers, photographers, writers, artists, producers - the whole bunch are talented, passionate, creative, and really good people. If you're in NYC for one of their monthly soirees, don't sleep!!! Take a nap, and go out and play. The lovely Tiombe Lockhart turned it out with a little sneaky peek at her new material. The theme was My Favorite Things, and this rang true for me, as I was surrounded by my favorite people, my favorite thing to do (dance), and a celebration of me. (I love me, as Ned says, see below)
www.rudemovements.net

I used my better judgment and left this sparkly opal Cadillac DTS at home, to go out and have a proper good time. Even my mom said, you only turn 31 once. That's grown-up parental sanctioned partying.

Birthdays are a grand time for a little quiet, self evaluation. That's what I did on my actual birthday –February 11. I filled my body with dance class, and my mind with words.

I went to the best place for inquistive moments — writing class, where the top secret project is gradually taking shape. We had a pizza party after for my birthday and the fabulous Joyce, who humbles me as she turned the wise age of 82. Talk about an inspiration.

Speaking of inspirations, be sure to check the Detroit Free Press Fri. Feb. 23 edition for a piece on Emily Schaller, and learn what really inspiration comes from.

On another inspirational birthday note, the best way to celebrate is sometimes to be the mastermind. My NY dance crew and I honored our fabulous Dunham teacher Ned Williams with a tribute for his 77th birthday on Saturday. We put together a scrapbook for Ned with our reflections and our favorite Nedisms.

I'll leave with you a list of Nedisms to get you through the day

On dance:
Can you dance?
Did you practice? No you didn't practice.
I don't care if you never come back and take my class again.
It's takes you about two years to learn a plie.
There's no mirror in a Broadway theater.
Lift your legs truck drivers.
Don't pick up your leg so high, you don't impress me.
Dancing is only fun when you know what you're doing.
When you go to an audition they won't use you. You don't know position.
The new girl is doing better than you.
You have no rhythm. Detroit you're always off rhythm.
I can tell you're enjoying it, Jodi. I feel it.
The people that know the step are practicing.
90 percent of dancing is pulling up.
40 percent of dancers end up in the hospital.
Give me some hot sauce.
Don't become a dance teacher. Your students will drive you crazy.
Dance is very hard work.
You got a pretty body, but you don't know how to use it.
Take your chest to Paris …
The mirror can't help you.
You look like Dracula's mother.
I love dance. I love my students.
I'm not going to let you hurt yourself.
Keep your knee over your big toe.
Put your hands on my bar.
Don't lean on my bar.
You should be shot with a silver bullet.
Ms. Dunham said no one can do a contraction. Except for Craig.
You've got to pull up for the rest of your life.
Your fingers look like snot.
Straighten your leg or you'll get big fat thighs.
Keep that hip down.
Ms. Dunham would have kicked you out.
The body's got to breathe.
Get your hand off your hip. You're not walking 42nd street.
Give me James Brown, not Willie Nelson.
You look like a bunch of hillbillies.

On life:
If you fall down you better be dead.
If you take dance somewhere else don't use my name.
You know what hurts? Going to the bathroom that's what hurts.
Life is hard.
Grow up.
It's a man's world
Sex doesn't move me.
You don't know me. I'm evil.
You gotta go out and get drunk sometime. It'll be good for you.
I know you didn't roll your eyes at me.
By the time you get the step, Josephine's going to have 20 babies.
It's take you 50 billion years to get into position.
Your mother a very strong woman.
Love, marriage, friendship. You've always got to give, put something in the pot.
Ask questions.
Don't ask me any questions.
You're a thief. Don't copy someone else.
Get your money's worth.

On hard work:
You're going to do 50 pushups after class
What do you think this a do it yourself kit?
100 push ups!
Know the value of the step.
It's going to be a tough class.
You were locked up as a child. I found the key. Don't go back in.
You belong in Bellevue.

On personal grooming:
Wear a bra in class so you don't get lumps.
You look like spinach.
You can't wear a mink coat and a $2 pair of shoes.
You think you look cute, but go home and take off all your clothes and look in the mirror. You look horrible.
Madame Foo Foo.

On bellies:
Pick your bellies up off the floor.
Are you nine months pregnant?
I'm gonna cut those bellies off.
I hate bellies.

Give me thirty knees on your chest.
My teacher wouldn't have to tell me three times.
I am the King!
You have to release before you contract.
Not bad. It's not good, but it's not bad.
Everyone wants to do it today.
Stop lifting your lousy leg so high and looking in the mirror.
Miracles don't happen on 34th street.
I can still hear Syvilla Fort in my head–Ned pull up.
You look like a bunch of nuns
I would have gotten the step already
I'm gonna kick your butt right out of here
Look at Craig- I could feel everything he's doing
You look like a bunch of hillbillies.
Do you ever go out and dance social? No you don't.
What that's called ? That's called natural.
If you do the step right when you come across the floor I will give you a
sucker
Dancers have beautiful bodies
If you are going to die, die doing my step
You look like bow legged cow , that's just how i see it
You have dance training, i know you don't have any dance training
I don't like no man's hand looking like a female
You don't know what the hell you're doing - looking in that mirror.
By the time you get the step Margaret is going to be naked
I love me — muah muah muah
I can dance—I can do modern, african, ballet, jazz haitian, watch me
I would have had the step by now
I wanna see some chittlins and some hot sauce
little bambinos
You went to college and you can't spell cat
Everybody comes back to me because they got fat
I don't play
Get drunk -it might do you some good
You cannot be cute in dance class
I tell the truth

The Look of Love

New Love: Taraach's Lovelution. Ooh, enough to make ya blush! But, hey we all need a little spice to keep warm in the winter.

Red hots: My girl and I on the BQE, rocking the RS4. Sizzle. The Power of Suggestion.
It was a bustling week in NYC. Winter, it seemed, had finally arrived. That would mean that it's almost my birthday - the approaching date in February that is a marking of time I take great delight in savoring. Lucky for me I've had a trusty Suzuki XL7 to keep my girls and I warm and toasty.

A fabulous friend was visiting, and this has inspired the best kind of NYC exploration– jaunting about town, we took full advantage of the seat heaters to ward off the windchill,and the Suzuki has been a sweet surprise, with decent handling, and a whole lot of fixings for the 30k sticker price. The seats could use a bit more lumbar action, but all in all its a solid choice and a good look for four fly ladies to rock.
That Sunday we celebrated my friend's birthday with scrumptious Scopello Italian and decadent chocolate cake, as we mused on 13 years of friendship, and our aquarian ethereal natures.

Monday we eased out for Bobbito's sixth anniversary, with the wafting smell of waffles adding flavor to the ambiance of B's smooth grooves. Liz Fields tried to take the crowd with her as a special performance. Though she is a songbird, folks just wanted to groove to the multi-talented DJ's quick moves on the turntables, that are almost as quick as his movements on the court.


Back in Brooklyn, I was a happy camper with the best kind of visiting friend– the kind who just cooked me chicken curry. Her secret is a ginger and garlic spice blend.
I digress, back to cars. Have you peeped Chrysler's new midsize mutt - the frisky Dodge Avengers.

So instead of talking about the original Dodge Avenger (yawn as any enthusiast will tell you), let's talk about the mythos behind Avenger, which is better inspiration for imagination. Before Marvel Comics was created under the very talented brainteaser Stan Lee, there was the 1939 to 1942 Avenger magazine, published by Street and Smith Publications. A hero to many, with more subdued powers than the Shadow, coincidentally another Dodge mobile. More recently the return of the Super Hero team Avengers has people thinking, and thanks to an indepth explanation from my fellas at Black Enterprise and Allhiphop.com, I actually can kick a little bit of second hand knowledge. But don't take it from me, support your local comic store, and get into the backstories.

Okay, so the sky has cleared to a tender blue, but I promise you that it really snowed earlier today.

I didn't know that Scottsdale was snow country, but in our flip-flopped planet suffering from a heat stroke that's the way it is in 2007.

I am here for the insanely huge Barrett-Jackson auction that has absolutely nothing to do with eco-issues, nor the future, but is more about loving what's already here — the most fabulous vintage cars on the planet. And 400,000 people apparently agree with me.

Give me a 70 or 71 Dodge Challenger, and my pulse races. And the Hemi Cuda and the Firearrows are in my estimation, pure works of art, that haven't since been matched. These are not frilly cars, but sexy in all the right ways. I love a sly British roadster, and a sinewy Corvette, but Chrysler muscle is not about being pretty. It's tough in a bad boy way, that makes your heart flutter with strong, bold design language and engine that makes you blush. And what's ironic is that these working-class steel workers now claim elite status. I got up close and personal with these auction beauties shortly before they sold for over six figures. Zowie!

But the clincher was the barbarian frenzy that surrounded the bidding on the 5.5 million dollar car. Yep, the most expensive car ever auctioned happened right before my eyes, the sterling 800 horsepower 1966 Shelby Cobra with Mr. Carroll Shelby on hand to bestow his blessings on the overzealous bidder.

It's hard to top that, so I'm spending the afternoon in the lovely Scottsdale Four Seasons, gearing up for some football. I'm picking the Bears and the Colts — let's a have a Midwest Super Bowl!!!!


For the flicks: www.tamarawarren.com/blog
*Other noteable moments not to be forgotten in the week of me:

A drizzly Saturday night in New York City. What better way to warm the soul than third row seats to the Afro-Latin Jazz Orchestra's evening performance at Jazz at Lincoln Center?

With compositions by Dizzy Gillespie, Tony Rosa on the congos made it hard to sit still for Cubana Be, Cubano Bop. Swingin' as they say at JALC, while I salsa-danced in my seat.

Twas a beautiful, sunshiny day in the Tri-State Area, a week before Christmas, some 60 degrees thanks in part to global warming and good vibrations.

This holiday week, the Hyundai Elantra is proving a surprising trusty companion for New York streets, sliding gracefully into snug spots, inconspicuous enough to sneak by flashy flash in the pans, but not quite as dull and average as the usual Corolla. One Saturday night backseat rider declared it peppy, and demanded to know what it was before she climbed in the midsize sedan that rolls more like a spunky compact.

After a fun-filled weekend in NYC, checking out the quick-steps of the Eric Reed Trio at the Kitano on Park Ave on Friday night and two celebratory holiday and birthday fetes yesterday evening Uptown and in the Meatpacking Disctrict, Sunday seemed like a perfect day for some football.

After a vigorous dance class, setting out in the sporty Hyundai Elantra, I scooped up my favorite sports buddy down the street in Fort Greene and was on route to Giants Stadium in New Jersey. We were in the car for a good 90 minutes, despite the fact that the stadium is less than 20 miles from my house, and the rigid seats were starting to put a bit of strain on my body as my calf flexed against the clutch in the stop and go. (It is only a $14,000 econo-car, mind you). I love a manual transmission, but a traffic jam can throw adoration out of the window as shifting becomes plain exhausting. Considering the taxing delay, Elantra's laid back gear shifts could have been worse with the amount of time I spent in first and second gear, waiting longingly for a moment to squeeze a few more rpms. However, the get up and go was decent for the baseline sedan allowing us to edge our way in between the snarling Suburbans stickered with Giants paraphenelia.

The moments in the car seemed to tick by mercilessly as we listened to kickoff and the first two touchdowns on AM Sports 660, kicking ourselves for not departing earlier. I've been to Nets games at the Meadowlands, but that was no match for the fanfare of 60,000 fans clamoring to get into the single parking lot off the NJ turnpike. In my belly I had that anxious feeling, like I might acutally miss the party. My buddy declared we were doomed to miss the first quarter. I protested his realism, but secretly hoped we wouldn't miss the whole first half. After all, it's not every day I am invited to sit in the fifth row section 103 of the division rivalry between the NY Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles at Giant Stadium in New Jersey. Finally arriving after undescribeable NY traffic hell, we soon forgot about the delay as the roar of the soldout stadium swept all cares away as I sat just above the Giants locker room, looking over the goal posts and the line of scrimmage.

Football games cause me regress into some kind of juvenile state, probably because I went to my first football game at Michigan Stadium when I was six months old. I hoot and holler and shout De-Fense at the top of my lungs and I jump up and down knocking over hot cocoa with wild abandon, caught up in the moment. If anything, football games remind that deep down, human beings are mammals and that it doesn't take much more than a scoreboard and some hulking dudes to ignite innate primordal fascination. With a view that was as good as the photographers who ran up and down the field buoyed by the eagerness of their supersized lenses, I relished the intensity of the brutish football battle before me as the deafening cheers were colored by the thick accents around me. One fan asked me if the gasoline like cocoa I knocked over was the "pits."

What's up with a feminist chick who likes football? Probably just as weird as a feminist chick who writes about cars, but when you have two sportsnuts in your family - a dad and a brother, and mother who used to coach your winning softball team, I can only reckon this interest is informed by my nurture as much as my nature.

Tiki Barber had our hopes soaring for a brief moment in the fourth quarter, but things quickly unraveled as the Eagles scooped up the ball for two touchdowns in the last three minutes of play, seizing the lead and effectively clobbering the Giants. At that moment my friend swore off Eli Manning, and I followed him up the concrete stair as we left with 3/4 of the fans. I spotted one large grown man weep into into his large hands covering his eyelids. For this loyal Giants fan, his season was, effectively over.

Have to say, as a lifelong dogged Detroit Lion fan, I felt almost at home as I watched my new adopted state's chosen team quickly deflate. I'm happy to cheer for a team that doesn't win. Eventually things swing the other way. Of course, Im till waiting on those Lions. (Another one bites the dust? '83 Billy Sims? Can I get a playoff game?)

What I find so interesting about football is that regardless of the outcome, it is an angry sport. Fan or no fan, it's important to remember that releasing anger is not always a bad thing. When I leave a spirited football game, win or lose, I feel like I just had a fight. I'm not a violent lady, but if I punched someone out, I bet that's how it would feel. While I stuck close to my friend's side to avoid the after effects of ill-willed Budweiser-full football freaks, I could feel the intensity snapping through my nerve endings. While I don't do football every week, a good healthy dose now and then is a good reminder. While my girls and I often chit chat about our upset feelings, this is what a lot my guys do to cool out, they get caught up, they get mad, and then they leave it alone for the next battle, accepting of defeat. That is if they are rationale, adjusted human beings.

But then again, the older I get realize, not everyone is born with a sense of decency.

I wish I would have paid a bit more attention to the outside world this weekend and attended another adrenalin-inspired event, that would have added a sense of purpose to my day, and in a tiny way, made a bit of statement, a response to unleashed, out of control, nasty anger. There was a march for Sean Bell on Fifth Avenue, as 40,000 New Yorkers silently blitzed the city with the strength and comfort of numbers. Sean Bell, who was 19, was senselessly murdered this month by NYC law enforcement officials fueled by the similar drug of power, brutality, and savagery. As is the case with misguided police and military forces, their horrifying aggression is an all-around pathetic defeat.

It's always better to get angry with a purpose, and to make a point, that's why I believe in marching, an action en masse more powerful than mere words. When deep-seeded anger, hate, and resentment manifest into racism, bigotry and lack of respect for human life, it's important to reinforce the rules of decency and morality that somehow still exist in society, as a counterbalance to this shameful nature. When our elected officials are slow to do so, it's most important to act as an individuals and say something. In troubled times, the power that remains with the people are words, feelings, but most importantly actions. There are bad people out there who manipulate their positions and their power for no other reason than to hurt and experience the high of domination, but to what cost? Look at this sad incident, or look on the other side of the world where blood spills everyday, and the root is pretty much the same to me. Anger, the bad kind of anger, mixed with greed, that violates the tenement of respect for humanity.

A barbaric football game is left on the field bound by the confines of rules, penalties and a time clock, but the barbarism of an armed-guard with a gun has much more fatal and chilling ramifications. Sometimes it's good to acknowledge being angry, but most important is how to express it.

For a glimpse of the first and ten check www.tamarawarren.com/blog