Summer should be ducking quietly out the back door, but instead it's flopped on the couch, burping, and won't leave.

It's hella sweaty out there, bro.

Some locals may have chosen to fly to Hoboken to hang in their aunt's doughboy, but if you're left stranded in LA, looking for a way to say goodbye to summer with a ferocious kick in its pants or perhaps a soft kiss on its scorching cheek, I suggest:

Friday

Rock Insider's night of gloriously indie LA music at Pehrspace

Chromatics at White Slave Trade- some place behind the Bob Barker puppet theater in beautiful Historic Filipinotown (122 Glendale Blvd--enter in alley off Colton).

Guy's Guys is closing at Gallery 1988 

Spend the night on the roof at Thank Tank, then wake up for a weekend of radtastic seminars about art and transportation and karaoke

Saturday

Jonathan Edle-something's (fine, Edelhuber) shows his effing weird, cool anachronistic paintings at Carmichael Gallery 

"What Ever Happened to Baby Jane" at Hollywood Forever 

As for Sunday, I'll be chillin' on a roof or sneaking into your neighbor's yard to chillax in their hammock, resting up for the Happy Hallows show at the Echo on Monday. Huzzah!

See you near the big bucket of ice and sodas, or over a grill of dead chickens.  

Laborically yours,  

Any lovah of independent publishing may have mourned this year's untimely demise of Arthur Magazine. We sobbed and sopped up our tears on its pages of excellent essays, and there was even a wake held at the darling book nook Family.

Well look who durn rose from the dead! Arthur Magazine scraped together funds, did a lil' restructuring and its newly minted pages were recently delivered to Jay Babcock at his Atwater digs by some dude named George (below).

Catch the new Arthurs on newsstands this weekend, and hop on down to Lilttle Joy for the death-defying celebration tonight.

(George)

I might see you down there, once I'm done interviewing midget chicken wrestlers at Lucha Va Voom. 

Another day on the job, 

    =

The first question is: do people in L.A. like NASCAR?

The second question is: why the hell does Kodak care?

In a PR release almost as bizarre as the one I received about an OJ Simpson manuscript being auctioned online, I just opened an email from Kodak alerting the press that the first 75 people to hit the Kodak Theater on September 1 from 11 am-3pm with their dusty old printers will get free NASCAR passes for the September 2nd race.

I myself have a printer wedged behind snowboots in my hall closet, and the thought of tossing it in a landfill makes me weep. I'm no fan of drunk racecar watchin' but the fact that I could send it off to be recycled, AND scalp some NASCAR tickets to buy new shoes makes me warm inside. Or maybe I'll actually go. Do they have corndogs there? Yes?

I'm in.

Hello peeps!

Here's hoping you had a friendly Monday. I would have blogged about the weekend's goings-on (told tales of road trips and mosh pits, etc.) but I was face down on my carpet wishing I were dead.

Scientists have recently discovered that migraine headaches are categorically not fun. My experience supports that theory. So yesterday was a day of leisure lost, but a lesson learned to drink more water or goat blood or whatever else could possibly make me never, ever have one of those again.

As for tonight: for the theatrically adventurous, you may want to consider scoring a ticket to Junk: A Rock Opera at the Lyric Theater. Full band, tales of love, naive pride and woe. Sounds like my prom! 

(Hey, Junk- thanks for letting us borrow this from your myspace. ) 

If you desire a more "free admission" evening, hit the Sierra Stage in WeHo for Tuesday Night Thunder, starring L.A.'s sharpest comedy nerds. Among them are improv troupe the Fiffle Foofers, including the one and only Chad Fogland (below) who has caused new wrinkles on my face with his improv. I love and loathe him for that. 

Fare thee well. Get out there and show Tuesday exactly who is boss.*

*Note: you are boss.  

The weekend is upon us, comrades, and the last thing I want to see is my beloved allies rumpled on the couch, in a dark room watching golf.

I know you have it in you to be drunk/happy/entertained. There is hope. So please accept these options as my intervention.

Young drunkards, indie rock and Bob Odenkirk: together at last 

Jack daniels and rare beef,

Old cars and campy movies,

Chicks in mini skirts murdering each other,

half-naked pool parties,

7 year Cannibal art itches

Ghettoglossing with crucified bunnies

and maybe even a little bit of peyote dance mania at the Ford.

Now find some pants, lovlies.

Warmest regards,

Dr. WardSpecializing in Non-Lameness

So, I woke up at 5:06 am. Bafflingly alert, I then went for a 6 mile run, and cut my bangs. Predictably, I am now coming down like a tranquilized racehorse.

I just ran into an LA Times comrade in the cafeteria, and he asked which 2.7 events I was attending tonight. Without thinking, I rattled off the Hammer Bash closing party, maybe a stop into the Scene for the  "Now Blog This!" show with the Deadly Syndrome:

But because I would fail a field sobriety check from pure fatigue, I hereby declare my intentions to loaf around in track pants. You heard me. I'm staying in, saving my soul for a wicked weekend of:

Young drunkards, indie rock and Bob Odenkirk: together at last 

Jack daniels and rare beef,

Old cars and campy movies,

Chicks in mini skirts killing each other,

half-naked pool parties, and maybe even

a little bit of peyote dance mania at the Ford.

For now: MacSleeperstein von Wardenhoffer

By tomorrow: Hyperpants o'Wardenstein 

Just say no to 6 mile runs at dawn,

The Ward 

Yesterday, we moved into the LA Times building; I'm giddy, and want to obtain a beret for the purpose of flinging it off like Mary Tyler Moore.

After a long day, I headed west to Whist, where the MMX ladies got our grub on and ate elk. (Check Jiyeon's restaurant page in a week for the full review. I'm pretty sure the declaration: "I'm game for game!" was involved.) 

Defying all odds, I then hit  the Echoplex, and later consumed a 900-calorie Fatburger  milkshake with the bitches from the Pity Party at 2am. 

I've recovered, and am ready to move on to Hump Day:

I think I've adequately trumpeted my love for Mortified tonight. 

But for you peeps who simply can't handle the humiliation of others, I recommned a roadtrip to Awesometown. Hit the Shortstop for some dancey pants ridiculousness courtesy Indie Masher-upper DJ Paul V, and the hotties who bring you Blow Up LA. Hump it up for the ever-lovey Shadowscene for a  new, somewhat indecent, profile pic.

PS- For a second I thought that was my hair on the flyer.

Oh em gee. I fully just wrote a tidy blog for tonight's stew of tasty events, but somehow logged myself out of the blogosphere before it saved.

To recap. We're finally based in the Mother Ship of the LA Times building. Being downtown has me more giddy than someone over 5 should be permitted to be. More later on that.

Okay, go here tonight:

Foreign Born's Dim Mak record release show at the Echo

The Parson Redheads (!), Pity Party (!!), and Earlimart (!!!) at the Echoplex

Taste of Tuesdays at Whist has lured the ladies of Metromix down for some samplings, and given that we generally forget to eat, this could be good. 

Many apologies for the universe eating my good blog, and leaving you with this hasty, soggy scrap.

See you out there, champs.  

 I decided to video blog today. Mistake #1.

Ten minutes later:

*Update*: I still totally look like a bison.

This entire endeavor—from all angles— has been mortifying.

Again, if you're into watching other people's pain and embarrassment, I highly suggest hitting the Mortified show this Wednesday, August 22nd at King King. Adults read from the diaries of their horrifyingly awkward adolescence, and I urge you to check the Mortified website for tickets at once. I plan on attending, as does my afro.

 
And perhaps, with two decades to heal, I will one day be able to handle today's humiliating foray into video blogging with greater aplomb.

Soul deflated, hair as large as ever,

The Ward 

PS- I kind of smell like a deli.

Awww, peeps. If you are sunburned, clinically dehydrated, or sufferring from raw open foot blisters, chances are you hit Ye Olde Sunset of Junction this weekend. I am all three, testament to my having gone both sweltering days. My favorite flashes of blurry memories:

- The crowd oohing along to Eugene Goreshter's falsetto during the Autolux set

- Watching a baby's face change from blank to giggly while it stared at someone playing air guitar during the Buzzcocks

- Running into an acquaintance with an extra (!) bacon wrapped hot dog. I wouldn't buy one, but I sure as hell ate a free one

- Laying on the hot concrete at 10pm for a breather

- The architectural wonders of the mohawks in attendance on Sunday (Buzzcocks)

- The Indie 103 misting tent

- The Smiths night after party at Part Time Punks, which was off. the Hook. One can never ever ever have enough Morrissey, and anyone who says otherwise will be slapped in the face with a gladiola.

Please continue to rock on, and if you have a favorite blurry memory from el Junc-shon, please do share in the comments. Hopefully it's not "Making fun of some redhead's unruly afro from afar." Though I really can't blame you.

Alright people. I really, really don't even know where to start. This weekend is so utterly eager to entertain you, it's standing in the wings praciticing jazz hands. You'd be making a grave mistake to hang at home.

Here are just a few things to keep you occupied. I would elaborate on each, but at the moment, I am sneaking this blog while the rest of the office is packing, in anticiaption of our move back to the glorious L.A. Times building downtown. What this means for you, dear comrades, is more hang-time for us all. Can I get a W00t? Thank you. Can I also get a sandwich? No? Dude.

Onward. What you're doing this weekend:

Friday:

Truxtop

Bukowski Fest

Saturday & Sunday:

Um, hello: Sunset Junction. Here's how to survive it.

Tofu Fest, the Fur Gallery and more options for non-Junctioners 

Video installation about kayaking down the L.A. Concrete Ditch River at Showcave

826LA's Mini Golf for Cheaters. (Vote Team Lone Pine, people. It's for the kids. Do it for the kids.)

Saturday night's got "The Red Shoes" at Hollywood Forever too. 

People, get out there. Get to it. Take pictures. We'll check back to make sure you're not home watching Xena in your underpants.

*UPDATE* 4:13 am
 

 
Had myself a Dewers and Diet at Truxtop, kicked it with Misha, plus our own Style Ryder and then high fived Jimmy Bleyer, who curated the show. 

But as the clock neared midnight, this Ward hightailed it downtown to hit the Broadway Bar for Metromix beeyotch Kimberly Waid's birthday.
 

I could have suh-WORN that they said her party was at the Broadway Bar, but I was simply Wardtarded: it was actually goin' down a block away at the Golden Gopher. I joined just in time to witness Miss Waid get her pout on and sport the most bitchingest necklace ever. Huzzah!
 

On the breezy drive up Western, Ward Patrol spotted some comrades at a little video-game peppered dive called Barcade, and rounded out the night witha solid 3.6 events attended. Not bad for a Friday. 

Does that make sense?

No? I know. 

Okay, tonight, please turn your attention to the Eastern half of the city, and zoom in close, ever closer to Atmosphere, a little garment shop on Vermont. Project: is hosting their Rising Artists series, with an opening shindig tonight.

I know you're busy trying on outfits for Sunset Junction, but this show includes the cult favorite anime-inspired, flatly rendered flat-chested youths by Lisa Alisa, and will likely be a good one. (See her work below: young girls, possible making out, gummy bears. Think what you will.)

We think it'll rock. and if it doesn't,  just grab some Pinkberry or something, and browse at Skylight. 

PS- This has nothing to do with anything, but I just finally went and got lunch, which consisted of a bag of Sour Cream & Onion Baked Lays, and a diet Barq's rootbeer. Sitting at a shady table in a business park, it occurred to me that I was eating the lunch of my dreams. Then it occurred to me that that was really pathetic.

It's far too early in the ay-em to be starting a fresh blogothon, but I did just want to alert you humans far and wide that LACMA's about to open this SoCal-centric exhibit, and so-called-press are invited to pop in a little early to check out the digs, and take a few happy snappy photos.

What this means for you is a fresh review of this fine metropolis' leading art mecca.

What this means for me, is a buffet of pastries in the LACMA courtyard at 9:30 am.

With that, I am hitting the sack, and getting ready to feast my, um eyes, tomorrow morning.  

(Edward Kienholz, Back Seat Dodge '38, 1964)

=

(Pastries, LACMA courtyard, really early in the morning) 

Merrily surfing the interwebs at 2am, leisurley pantless and drinking iced tea, I got a text from a traveling Gemini. Fresh off a mini-tour and laying in some unknown grassy location in San Diego, he asked if I were watching the meteor shower. I texted back, reminding him that I am in L.A., where at any moment, there are more police helicopters visible in the sky than astronomical bodies.

Curious, and not one to miss a party, I located some pants, and propped open the rusty window to the third floor fire escape. The bars were just letting out on Franklin Avenue, and drunk couples were stumbling to their cars, motorcycles were stirring up noise on the busy avenue below. I looked up for an unbroken seven minutes.

Nothing.

I sent a chagrined text to Gemini, and received these words back: "Be patient."

So on my rickety steel basket fire escape, I continued to stand suspended over my street, neck craned, scanning the sky. After a carload of bawdy drunks honked and bellowed up at me, I realized I looked like a 3rd story hooker. I waited another moment, and at the faintest streak of light, ducked back through the window in inside. I'm pretty sure it was a plane, but that was enough.

People: you've got quite a weekend ahead of you. In fact, it's about to start right now. So brush your teeth, put on a fresh coat of deodorant, and whipser a warning to your sweet, innocent liver.

First up is tonight's Beer Chug Championships, which are gorgeously coupled with a Drunk Spelling Beer Bee in the same Bacchanalian evening. Get thee to the MET, proudly present twelve American dollars, and abandon the notion that you will leave with any dignity.

If you're sober and/or a vegetarian goblin, you may instead consider a trip to the Nuart, to catch the Best Worst Movie ever. Don't wank about not knowing about this; I gave you fair warning. 

We fully invite you to get "lit" on Saturday at the Literartisy show in Culver City; we've gone on and on about Stella, so go check out her piece and many other new works inspired by those things called, wait...um...books.  

And if you need to do a little leg stretching come Sunday, hop on your track bike and cruise past the Westside's murals, then tip back some boozehounds at Air Condtioned.

As for me, my weekend will include either:

a) non-stop beveraging, party chit-chat, hand shaking, sitting on the ledge of a moving car window as it speeds through a canyon road, and rubbing elbows with foreign dignitaries.

OR

b) staying home, wearing filthy, paint-stained sweatpants and getting ready for my next art show.

I'll keep you posted.

It's laundry versus Thursday.

Thursday wants me to:

1. Hit Ghettogloss for their Guerrilla Gorrilla night, eat banana bread, drink free beer, watch an "ape-related" film projected on the wall of the building, and get a Polaroid taken with a man in a monkey suit

2. Thursday also wants me to go to the Downtown Artwalk. More free booze. Art. People. Lights.

3. It also thinks i should hit  Charlie O's for the artwalk afterparty, and watch some burlesque chickies do their thang.

4. Thursday also keeps tapping me on the shoulder, asking me if I want to go see Retaurant play at Hot Mess at Three Clubs

Thursday, it is becoming rapidly evident, likes to party.  

On the other hand, a pile of rumpled socks wedged in a corner of my hallway are So. Pissed. I totally said I'd hang with them over the weekened, and fully blew them off.

Stay tuned to see who wins Socks v. Thursday: the battle royale.

It's not Friday yet. Not anywhere close, comrades.

But if it were Friday, and you were toying with which neighborhood bar stool to perch your depressed keester upon, I would give a friendly tug at your collar, and a love-infused reprimand about sitting around alone drinking beer. And then I'd order you to get your ass to the circus.

It's not often that I sustain headwounds, so when I have two in a week, it deserves noting. Let's explore the whys, and the hows so that you may avoid a similar fate. 

1. When leaving the Metromix Club 82 party after enjoying an open bar of lethally strong/delicious vodka, do not text message as you walk the 4 blocks home. This poses the potential of walking directly into a metal pole serving as a bus stop. If this situation were to occur, may we suggest that you pretend it didn't happen, and later, when you are eating pancakes at a diner with friends at 4am, blow off the fact that you have a raised, very red bump that will remain for days.

2.  Situation 2 is a little more tricky, as it involves anticipating the dangerous ways of others. The best advice we can give is this: when you are at a birthday party for, say,  Jonah Ray, and he appears to be highly intoxicated off of Tecate and fish tacos, do not try to obtain a front row position as he attacks a pinata. Doing so might put you in harm's way when he rips off his blindfold, tears into the pinata, and hurls candy at you. And if the candy includes sharp-edged boxes of Nerds, you might get hit with enough impact to sustain a deep cardboard scratch.

So I've concluded: to protect myself from Leisure-related injury, I need to be swaddled in something soft, and thick-- for example, a gorilla suit. Though I won't be the secret gorilla-suited VIP at Ghettogloss on Thursday, I will be there getting my ape on. 

Me: "I'm headed to the Mexican border. I need you to do me a favor."

My listings assistant, George Ducker: "You really know how to start a conversation." 

Me: "I need you to make sure my gorilla article goes live at midnight."

Him: "Uh...Is that code for something?"

My weekend started out in an eventful, but tame, fashion: Friday night involved pit stops at a few shows of a musical nature, and a birthday party. Saturday was the usual fare: I tidied my apartment, and hit a few art happenings.

But at 2pm on Sunday, I was slumped in the booth of a stripmall pizza joint in Atwater , contemplating a to-do list that involved going to Target and buying a mop. It was then that trusted comrade Gemini suggested that we hit a dirty border town, to fear for our lives and eat hamburgers. I agreed.

We grabbed camera batteries, and hopped on the I-10, border-bound. Our destination was Mexicali, Officially Another Country, and a barbed fence away from its American sister city, the transpositionally named Calexico. 

We drove through dust storms, through baked, arid towns with dirty toilets, and into a land called Meh-eeco. Our destination: a thrash metal bar on the outskirts of the city, where metalhead legends Exodus were headlining a show that no mother would want their child to attend.

Walking the crumbling streets, windswept trash huddled in corners, cockroaches scrambled past, and our molars filled with airborne grit. We arrived at our final destination: Jardin de Silencio, a name which turned out to be rife with wicked Mexican irony. It was hella loud. 

The next few hours were a blur of humidity, mosh pits, Flying V guitar solos, sweaty hugs from sweet but really, really intimidating looking guys (including my bro-in-law, Exodus rhythm guitarist Lee Altus) and a burger at Carl's Jr., consumed after deciding that LA residents really have no reason to experiment with street-vendor tortas.

(Ward relation, Mr. Lee Altus) 

(Mr. Gary Holt, of Exodus. Not a Ward relation, at present.) 

(Mr. Rob Dukes, also not related, but cherished nonetheless.)

Gemini and I then navigated the Mexicali streets at 1am, lurched the car through the dense line back into the U.S., were sniffed by drug-seeking German shepards, and rolled 240 miles back to L.A., arriving at 5am on a Monday morning. 

I still need to buy a mop. 

What took you so effing long? 

For those familiar with the struggles of a professional leisurist, you know the crippling indecision that accompanies the weekend. There's simply too much going on, and really, a coin toss couldn't solve this tangle of options.

FIVE ITEMS on the roster tonight:

Jesus La Luz fiver-person group show at Wacko

Oaks play Spaceland

Jonah Ray Rodruiges turns, like, 22 or something. But with that beard, he looks like my dad. (UPDATE: thank the good sweet lord, the lumberjack shaved his mug.)

Also, my close comrade and bitchin' musican Ryan Ward (stage name, Pthalo) has a gig at El Cid.

And Georgia my darlin' is getting dancy pants at the Shortstop. As I type this. D'oh!

It's too much! It's all too much! 

(Hey, Columbia Pictures, thanks for making Thank God It's Friday, and letting me pimp the pic.)

How to escape a life sentence in a public toilet

Ohhhhh, dear.

The other night was an eventful one, with a stop at the lovely and thirst-quenching Broadway Bar for little Metromix-sponsored mingling/free beer. On the way home, my comrade Gemini and I were thisclose to stopping by the Swink Magazine event, but passing a sketched out Mexican fishmonger, we decided to stop in for some shrimp tacos. 

Heading to the ladies room to warsh me hands, I dug around my purse for one shiny quarter, necessary to gain entry. But upon leaving the restroom, I encountered the following door hardware.

Please note the brassy stump, and lack of "knob." I was locked in the public toilet of a fish shack.

My first instincts (cursing, doubting the existence of God) soon gave way to some desperate fist pounding, a pathetic yelp, and then texting the following S.O.S. to comrade Gemini, who was outside sipping a horchata or something: 

Let's just say, the good fella had a quarter.