You know how something trivial can become the catalyst for something amazing? Like the film Gremlins? They looked all sweet and innocent, but add a little water, then poof! Instant dance party. Myself, I am quite dainty and refined. But add some liquor and some gritty, sweaty rock & roll, and you've got The Night I Touched Eddie Spaghetti.

It was supposed to be a quiet, relaxing weekend in Vegas. Visit my dog, have a couple cocktails at the world famous Double Down, until I received the fateful phone call from legendary Hollywood impresario Jim Freek (of New Times fame). "Did you know the Streetwalkin' Cheetahs are playing with the Supersuckers at the Hard Rock Café?" Holy shit. In the 24 years I spent trapped in the Las Vegas Valley, did the Supersuckers ever grace us with their presence? I think not. (Actually, they've been coming here about every 6 months for the last couple of years, she just moved away before this. - Ivy) The Cheetahs and 'Suckers were playing a hush-hush super-secret show (I think it was just poorly promoted) for Santa Cruz Snowboards. It was my job and God-given destiny to infiltrate it.

Being from the Nancy Drew school of adventures, I normally pack for all occasions. However, I was not prepared for an event of such magnitude and I left my official 'Suckers/Cheetahs leopard pants back in L.A. Luckily, I remembered a scruffy old pair of white cowboy boots from my big-haired, whisky-swilling Ladies Nights at Rockabilly's. So, partner-in-crime Poizen Ivy and I did what all respectable girls would do three hours before a rock show: We headed to Home Base for a can of sparkly-silver spray paint, then to that exclusive French boutique on Meadows Lane, the one we like to call Tar-get.

While I thought wearing sparkly-silver spray-painted cowboy boots would look classy, the night's sudden rainstorm thwarted my oh-so fashionable plan. Some establishments frown upon your leaving a trail of paint on the floor. I settled instead for a bedazzled tee-shirt and Loretta Lynn hair.

We arrived at the Hard Rock, only to be greeted by throngs of stinky, belligerent snowboard boys, which was fine, as long as the drinks were cheap. And, by God, they were (well not really, but definity cheaper than LA, and by the time she had to buy her own she didn't really care about the price).

The first band, the MotoMags, seemed like nice young gentlemen who probably had decent personalities and would help old ladies across busy intersections. However, they could not compare to the night's true draws (but boy, they did seem to enjoy tossing their CDs into the crowd).

The Streetwalkin' Cheetahs took the stage with a ferocious blare of guitars and madness, which was countered with super-sexy rock-star posturing and pointing.

The set opened with Right To Rock, the first track on the band's latest album, Waiting For The Death Of My Generation... the record release party was just a couple of days before and is a WHOLE OTHER STORY. The Cheetahs aggressively plowed through new tracks including the unruly No More, the New-Wavey Automatic and Lookout and the scathing ode to everybody's favorite cross-dressing rock critic, the Leaving Trains' Falling James, with Dirty Mockingbird. The guys also tossed in a couple heavy-hitting standards, including Satisfy and Motor City Rock n Roll. Guitarist Art Jackson proved he is, in fact, the hardest working man in show biz, while bassist/coverboy Jeff Watson and new drummer Eric Hermann, who has such New Wave hair, built a massive rhythmic wall.

My personal favorite Cheetah, singer Frank Meyer was in a beer-infused frenzy and created one of his own when he spewed the cold, frosty stuff on the audience. Frank must have realized what a class joint the Hard Rock Café is, and refrained from that oh-so delightful antic of jumping into the audience, wrapping the mic cord around his arm, and whacking away until the blood splatters "Carrie-style." That's why he's the dreamy one!

After sweaty, soulful hugs and kisses from the Cheetahs, I had to powder my nose. As I returned from the bar, I mean Ladies Room, I had a vision. Not one of the Virgin Mary or our Lord and Savior, but of HIM. Nordstrom supermodel Eddie Spaghetti, standing by the kitchen. While I am normally timid and demure, something possessed me to approach Mr. Spaghetti. "Mr. Spaghetti," I said. "May I ask you to autograph my Christmas 2000 Nordstrom Catalog?" He smiled slyly. "Why sure, darlin'. In fact, let me whisk you away on a rock & roll and shopping spree." Well, those weren't his EXACT WORDS, but did I mention how cheap Jack and Cokes are in Vegas? He did politely smile and shake my hand. That's good enough for me.

Even the Greatest Rock and Roll Band In The World would normally have a hard time rivaling the greatest rock band in L.A., but the Supersuckers tapped into those Evil Powers and went hog-wild. While the 'Suckers hail from Seattle, it is via Tucson, and those boys were hotter than the desert winds (or the mosh pit, for that matter). In fact, the set list embodied Las Vegas, with Doublewide, Creepy Jackalope Eye, Gone Gamblin', Hell City, Hell, and Dirtroads, Deadends and Dust. Boozy and ballsy, just like a rock show should be. I don't think the snowboard boys knew what hit them. Well, except for the one who grabbed my breast; it was my fist that hit him. Like all Supersuckers shows, the multi-talented members took turns on the bass guitar during what is probably the longest rendition of Born With A Tail on record.

Meanwhile, I think the Bud Light went to the heads of the snowboarders who played a rousing game of "Bruise The Girls In The Mosh Pit (I thought it was more like Crush The Few Girls Who Actually Like The Supersuckers... and there sure don't seem to be all that many of us, I wonder why). Poizen Ivy eventually bailed for safety (what she doesn't tell you is that the bar area turned out to be far more scary, so I ended up returning to the relative safety of the pit), but I stood my ground, knowing no matter how many ribs I broke, the heavenly stroke of Mr. Eddie Spaghetti would heal all. Of course, my screaming out, "It's not nice to hit girls," then backhanding some drunken asshole with the hand that touched Eddie Spaghetti didn't hurt, either.

If only I had that Nordstrom catalog with me. I could have done some serious damage.