I know, I know...it seems ages away, but before you know it, August 10th will creep up on you like an evil, razor-toothed gnome in the bushes, and you'll wonder why you didn't already score your tickets for the Nuart's midnight screening of Troll 2, a film about...evil razor-toothed gnomes in the bushes.

The cast will be present to answer questions about why this is the worst (yet most enjoyable) film ever made, but the menacing goblins are still in negotiations with their agents to appear. Divas.

I urge you to view the horrible goodness below, and click here to secure tickets to the screening. Guaranteed the audience will be laughing harder at Troll 2 than that "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" hogwash, or whatever is passing for comedy these days. Bring on the goblins.

Oh. My. Goodness gracious.

Well, Metromix held its first ever party at the Avalon's Club 82 on Friday. It'd had been a steep but awakening journey on the rest-deprived path toward our launch, and we were ready to get silly.

The esteemed Scott Toodlewinks vonSterlinghoffer (aka our bitchin' music editor) had reserved a bottle of BevMo's finest pear cider, Babychams, just for the occasion. We cracked it open, high fived, and passed it around like teenagers before ducking inside. The next thing I knew, Amir was dancing onstage.

No, we didn't drink this in the parking lot. We wouldn't do that. 

Inside, Mr. George Ducker gets his vodka on

Scott, Amir and I bond, as tipsy people often do.

And then...things escalate:

Faithful comrade Gemini tries to keep it together

And I spy a wonderous mullet: 

Saturday, I took a break and hit the road for the weekend, staying at a mountain cabin, and swimming all alone in the American River. (For faithful Ward-on-the-Street readers: I was not attacked by mermaids.)

As for your Monday evening, I predict awesomeness as Eskimohunter wraps up thier residency at Spaceland, with the wildly attractive and powerhouse duo of the Pity Party opening.

The Pity Party, objects of our sycophantic obsession:

Also, karaoke is going down at the Cha Cha (I've been meaning to update my makeout pictures,) and the Madonnalicious event is at La Cita. Patrons are urged to don their favorite Madonna identity, and I'd have to go, hands down, with the Marie Antoinette horsecrap that she wore to the Grammy's that one year. Hands. Down.

Despite all the beautiful redonkulousness happening this weekend, the Ward hit the road solo for an excursion to the wilderness of Nothern California.  

At present, I am writing to you from a cabin in the middle of the woods. The American River is gushing over boulders in front of me. It's so gorgeous, I keep assuming it's fake. Also, I hear there are copious trout in this river, and really, I don't care if bloodthirsty mermaids were chillin' it in-- I'm going swimming tomorrow morning.  

But I've dispatched troops to peep into all sorts of madness this weekend, so stay tuned for photos and eyewitness accounts of Zombie walks, Flip Cup tourney action and more.

Also, stay tuned for my blurry account of Metromix's first ever party, which went down amid a packed, sweaty house at the Avalon's Club 82 Friday. Holy vodka, it was good times:

Mr. Amir Kenan demonstrates the art of The Doublefist 

Miss Ward demonstrates its effect

 Check back for more photos of increased ridiculousness. Now, back to kickin' it riverside...

Ps- In the woods, they have bugs; my glowing Mac screen is currently attracting a moth rave.

People, you've got some good times ahead of you. Save the laundry for next weekend.

Good stuff on Friday:

1. Awww! Metromix is hosting its first event! Club 82, the Avalon , Keith Wilson, a live performance by Ima Robot, and (hello!) free woddkah from V2 before 10:30pm. I'll be the redhead who looks like she's happy to be drinking free vodka. 

2. If you must miss the Metromix party, let it be for this. Please.

Ooooh, Saturday. Why must you be such a many-faceted entertainment temptress? Here are your options:

1. Zombie Walk! Really, try to turn this down. It's impossible.

2. Create:Fixate's annual photography show in a huge hangar on Ivar. Sure there's a cover, but there's also live music and live art, cheapskates.

3. Katrina Leigh Umber's closing party at the adorable little Showcave

4. Flip Cup! Get your booze on in a para-athletic setting. Plus, score a t-shirt, and liver damage! The afterparty is at Cedars Sinai in the Critical Toxcitiy Unit. 

5. Crewest Gallery has Mark Ferem signing his Bathroom Graffiti book. Loff it! 

Sunday, if you're not hooked up to a drip in the ICU, damning the evil-doers who invented Flip Cup, hit the Ballroom Blitz swap meet  in the the lovely Alexandria Hotel for some handmade crafts proffered up by hot chicks with tattoos. 

People: let's get wicked silly.  

Just got this from Showcave , the "feral art space in the heart of Babylon" that I so adore.

On this sleepy, drooly Thursday, I just might grab my co-conspirator, the elusive Gemini, and see what this "Mormon organ and fairy tambourine" bizness is about.

Perhaps I'll shoot down Temple to Chinatown for some grub afterwards! Food! Lights! Tambourines! Egg rolls!  

(And hey, if you're all booked for the night, hit Showcave this weekend for this photography closing party. High five!)

Post script: A glance at the excessive use of exclaimation points in this post can mean only one thing: that yerba mate Jiyoen wrote about is seriously cracking me out.) 

I don't know who Justin Caplicki is, but I do know he's my hero.

Anyone who devotes a website and a tournament to Flip Cup is clearly a motivated individual. But on top of that, his pithy FAQ and snarky rules made me want to high five him, hand over $40, and "get in the game," to quote Dr.Phil. If I must. Which I shouldn't have. But I did. And now I'm embarassed.

If there is a sport born of frat culture, it is Flip Cup. Men hooting in a chorus of peer pressure, cheap alcohol consumed in spine-quivering amounts. I can't say I've played, or that I've ever consumed that much beer, but I do support organized athletics and human bonding.

Peep some Flip Cup below, then hit Justin's site and appreciate the wonders of well-worded Flip Cup description. It might just have you digging up $40 bucks for Saturday.

It's 5:52 on a Tuesday, and already, I'm nervous. There's just too much happening, and no matter where I go, my hair will look awful.

First off, Zach Galfoniknokusberenhoffer (aka Zach Galifianakis ) performs at Upright Citizens Brigade's Comedy Death Ray . Bearded and rotund, he's got a way about him that makes me want to have bearded and rotund baies. Also, he is friends with Fiona Apple and if she is there, and I am not, I would lay upon my sword. Evidence:

As mentioned earlier, Tegan and Sara are also perfoming (for friggity-free) at Amoeba, and Seattle carpetbaggers Mulally play a free show at the delightful Echo Curio.

Also, an artsy little video series is screening that the Hammer , AND Ding-a-Ling night is happening at Hyperion Tavern. Comrades who have attended the latter report that it is rife with hotties. 

The solution: nerdariffic 18-sided dice that are a staple in every D&D geek's life. I would assign each option a number, and roll away. Hair be damned.

Okay. I'll be straight up with you. If I could be anywhere, doing anything, I might not be at this desk, with this hair.

Rather, I'd be sitting on a roof, in the warmish shade of Amoeba Records. And maybe I'd be eating a hot dog or something, waiting for Tegan and Sara to play a free show downstairs. Then I'd go roller skating. Then I'd go to the Mulally show tonight, then suddenly I'd be in Palm Springs in a hammock.

Can someone please get on this? Thank you. 

Ahhh, the weekend. It began with a laptop crammed in my bag, and frenzied bolting out of the office to make the 10pm show of Friday 40:

What's this "Friday 40"? Beers AND comedy? Sounds like a spontaneous, goofy time! Not so much.

The Improv Olympic's quiz show is based on the week's news, and requires that contestants glug from a 40 oz. vessel of malt liquor. 

But despite being staged at the IMPROV, nearly all the material was canned and read from folded and crumpled printouts of a script, much of which was shamelessly homophobic. My comade and I left craving a comedic palate cleanser.

So...walking past the Upright Citizen's Brigade, we popped inside to peer down the isle of the packed house and catch the end of Worst Laid Plans. It involved knee slapping, and wheeze-laughs. 

Saturday had all the best intentions: the NewHigh art opening, and a garden party in Echo Park. But comrade and Front drummah Mizz Kelly Kutasy blasted back into town, and all plans were trumped for her birthday madness.

(A blurry birthday Budweiser)

What followed is a scramble of Hollywood weirdness. First off, we hit the back lounge of Three Clubs on Vine, as the lovely Miss Ruth was tending bar. I demured, but was talked into some kind of shot, and the next thing I knew I was outside talking to a hooker.

Kelly had gone out for a smoke, and a tattered blonde in her fifties strolled up and asked us if we had any crack.

Fresh out, we offered our apologies, and were treated to a monlogue about her first $100 trick, and then, delivering a rare diamond in the hunk of drug-addled rough, she busted out the wisdom:

"Don't let this world go by unaffected by you."

With that, we high-fived, and returned inside for 2.5 hours of jams by Salt n Pepa, Tone Loc, and Justin Timberlake. The wisest of sooth-sayers would never have predicted an evening as whack as this.

(Am I really here?) 

(Contemplating hooker wisdom:)

(Jen, in disbelief that they're paying the same Kriss Kross song from an hour ago.) 

(The Ruth:)

 (One too many?)

Sunday, headed to the Buff Monster toy bonanza at Munky King , where I snapped some photos, and sweated quite a bit in the mob-clotted confines of the tiny toy emporium. In all, good times. 

Oh. Em. Gee.

People, I hope you got your nap on, because to tonight I sense madness.


Saturday:
1. Modular pool party at the Standard on Sunset
2. Lab 101 opening with Albert Ryes
3. NewHigh gallery in Chinatown has an opening! (I'm so there.)

Then Sunday, Buffmonster is having a toy signing.

See you our there, peeps! We'll high five.

Most excitedly,

Miss Alie Ward

Professional Leisurist

Guess which finger!

Two people, one party. Two wildly disparate reactions.

Case in point: the lovely Scott T Sterling and I headed separately to the BPM party last night. He got there early, hit the open bar, and proceeded to get retarded in the best possible way . He's in the DJ booth, rubbing bony elbows with Paris Hilton, texting that Ron Jeremy had just arrived.

I myself had donned a lame-ass outfit (skirt: Ross, 1999), and met loyal comrade Gemini downstairs with a sour-faced frown. I shuffled heavily all four blocks to the Avalon, and gave the bouncer an eye roll when he made me wait in a cattle line for 3 minutes. Sure, he was a d-bag, but what bitchy demon from Medieval lore had possessed me? 

By the time we arrived, there was nothing even close to an open bar. BPM would have won me over with free lukewarm shots of Gilby's gin at that point. Or this .

But I learned two valuable lessons last night:

1. Sometimes, even Professional Leisurists need a nap before heading out.

2. Always bring a flask. 

I'll abide by these edicts, and see you out, transformed, tonight.  

Apparently, an apartment above the Downbeat Cafe erupted in flames Saturday, rudely and smokily interrupting Jed Berk's blimp building workshop at Machine Project. The boutique La Dita and the Downbeat have some serious water damage going on, so they're closed for repairs! Craptastic! 

I just rang up the Downbeat and a defeated-sounding Dan Drozdenko picked up, and told us that the iconic cafe did indeed suffer sog. His primary concern is having the repairs done "safely, legally and properly," so no date of re-open is set. He sounds like he needs a hug.

Machine Project is fine, but sent out a notice saying:

"Enjoy Machine while you can - we're always teetering on the edge of disaster!...That's all for now, we'll send an update when the plague of locust arrive."

If the block has a peanut butter cookie sale as a benefit, I think they'd do just fine. Even if I were the only one attending.  

Oh glorious Thursday: Mister Doug Jones is performing his "People Mover" at the Upright Citizen's Brigade . I wish to be in attendance. 

Doug is lean, boyish chap with a dry sense of humor, and his show apparently follows one bloke on his quest to work.   Being that I spend approx 14 hours per week of work-mandated ass-flattening behind the wheel of a Subaru, I'm fully down for some commute commiseration. Oh, the misery! (And no, cleverpants, I do not live in Norwalk or Bellflower- the Eastside to Westside commute is just That. Awful.)

Last night's Crazy 4 Cult show was indeed a mob scene, with a thick line clotting the sidewalk down Melrose. Inside, the sauna/art show was a sweaty feast of paintings dedicated to cult film favorites, my favorite being an homage to Better Off Dead by Aaron Jasinski. Title? "Waiting for Cusack" Loff it.

Also noteworthy: a Luke Chueh Donnie Darko piece, and a series by Scott Campbell called "Great Showdowns" about epic movie conflicts. Campbell's work is tiny, delicate, and adorable. I want to eat it. I am also very hungry.

I had a Lady Party at the Echoplex to attend, and after a high five with Plasticgod (once known by the less family friendly moniker Plasticfucker) I scooted out, only to be lured by the back parking lot before I left.

A free Dewar's bar and movies projected on the wall had me hooked for another hour. Met the lovely Kari from Truxtop , and saw Misha , who was rightfully giddy from a recent sale to Kevin Smith.

Then it was off to the Lady Party for some chick comedy. Met up with the Esteemed Mister George Ducker, who conducted today's piece on Jerry Stahl and Oprah smoking crack.

After spotting a tour bus the size of Delaware parked in the alley behind the Echo, we made the sound decision to hold our heads high with false conifdence and waltz straight through the back gate of the Echo's smoking patio to catch some of the Black Lips show.

Wilting, I finally hit bed, but not before eating a bag of Cheetos for dinner. 

Wait, Crazy 4 Cult is tonight? At Gallery 1988 ? Eh, I've only been looking forward to it for three months, and have it written in four different calendars, but whatevs. (Note: I am not lying. I have four calendars.)

Obvs: I'm stoked. The opening reception starts at 7, and I ger-an-tee this mother will genrate a line down the block, expecially since its host, Mr. Kevin Smith (the mind behind Clerks and the somatic vessel of Silent Bob) is hosting.

AND he was on KROQ this morning to promote it. I'm sure it'll be pretty low key though.

Check out this interview with Kevin Smith and Leo Quinones:

PS- for anyone who's been desperate to see a Darth Vader scultpture on rollerblades with Gucci eyelids, your time has come:

(Peter Gronquist's "Darth Blader.)

Sometimes a Ward just has to sack out on the couch like a tranquilized rhino and miss Spoon at Little Radio. In such cases, a simple text message can provide as much entertainment.

I've never wanted to be guiltier, but alas the genius remains a mystery. If anyone has information on the evildoer who finger-branded a tour van with hooker shame, the drummer of this band wants answers. Watch out though, she's got sticks, and she hits things with them. 

Friday night was an evening of epic people/goblin watching at the Labyrinth of Jareth Masquerade Ball.  Have a gander at the photo gallery here to see what we mean. From my scrawled, giddy notes, I present the best overheard comments of the night:

10:14 p.m., through the stalls in the ladies' room:

"I can tell these wings are going to be a pain in the butt!"

"I know! That's why I took my cape off." 

11:32 p.m., a man in a loincloth, talking to himself next to a mirror (in a quasi-faux-British accent):

"I have been glittered!"

 

From our photographer Timothy Norris, as we headed to the car, on the "Eyes Wide Shut" vibe:

"I'm a little disappointed we didn't get in a three-way with a goblin." 

Ahh, the serpentine labyrinth of fantastical masquerading! The mystical nature of the ego! Rubber elf ears! Good times.  

Saturday night involved a stop at the Gary Baseman show at Billy Shire. I spied Luke Chueh, Natalia Fabia, and Matt Mascaro among those in attendance, as well as pyrographer Jason Houchen, who's prepping for a solo show. But back to Basemen: plenty of bodily fluid, cartoons and blood:

Not in the crowd, necessarily

But in the work

Sunday, I smeared on sunscreen and skipped over to the Lotus Festival with my trusted comrade, Gemini. We ate a bunch of stuff we shouldn't have, and peeped some boat racing. Anyone who knows Gemini is aware that he enjoys Situations of the Ridiculous, such as proposing "What do you think the boat racers would do if I, like, jumped in Echo Park Lake, and yelled, 'I'm gonna win this thing!'"

Your answer is not important, as he's usually too busy laughing. 

Dragon boat smackdown: 

Hot dogs n' hipsters 

Gemini grubs a snowcone

And then, a $1 mistake:

We make the very bad decision to buy a bag of wheel-shaped mystery from a street vendor. I've always wondered, from a culinary and scientific standpoint, what these were. When the vedor asks: "Limon?" "Chili?" I say yes to both, only to discover that they taste like foam peanuts bathed in Tabasco.

We left them in a urine stained corner of a parking lot as a gift for anyone hungry/brave enough to finish the bag.

(If you have knowledge regarding their chemical makeup, enlighten me. I think they're made of corn?)

The freakishly gorgeous Lucent Dossier, Vaudevillian Cirque

I was rendered stoked earlier today when I got a call from the weird and warm folks at Lucent Dossier, saying they've reserved a ticket for me to head to the Labryrinth of Jareth, a masquerade ball of epic proportions at the Fonda. One caveat: myself, and my photographer, the Esteemed Mister Timothy Norris would not gain entry if we weren't wearing wigs or fairy wings or something kind of magical/drag queeny. My excitement only grew. Mandatory ridiculousness. It's rare, and thrilling.

I have since made a stop at the Vine Party Store and climbed over a heap of life size Fabio cutouts into the forbidden and roped-off halloween section, emerging with some sort of four dollar mask made of feathers, which I will wear on my face. We'll keep you posted on how Mr. Norris looks in my pink wig.

A trial run of feather-faced madness: 

It never fails: everyone walking into the Scene in Glendale awkwardly registers the stench of, as one patron squawked last night, "f@*ckin' beer farts, dude!'

While that sends shivers and nausea through me, there is a light at the end of this stinky tunnel, and one which makes breathing the thick air inside a little easier.

The smell is not generated by anyone's intestines, but rather, the adorable photobooth in the back of the scene. In particular, "sulfur dioxide and some minor ammonia and chloramine which will smell up the darkroom."  Or in this case, a bar.

The text messages are in, and I'm having a panic attck at all that I'm missing tonight. I should text Stephen Hawking and ask him if he's working on any portals in the time space contnuum, and if he wants to kick it with me at the Hammer tomorrow/yesterday/tonight.

The Pity Party plays for free at the Hammer with the Little Ones

Foxy rock trio The Front plays at the Scene, brought to you by the lovely Rock Insider

Worst Laid Plans, tales of enduring really awful bootay is at UCB

And the Downtown Art Walk is in full swing, including this bitchin' event 

I just realized that I'm not at any of these events because I'm too busy blogging about them. Hands up, how many people think that's whack?

Okay, hold on...getting a final count...

Ultraviolet gets ultraviolent

Just returned from the over-capacity Kid Dangerous launch. Given the solid reps of the party's sponsors and organizers, it had a far more Hollywood frat-boy vibe than I was expecting, complete with jocky dudes breathing Michelob in my face. Bleh. 

The Grey Kid did his karaoke-rap thing, but the most notable lesson came when the hyperglam Ultraviolet came on. After receiving a flaccid response, the lead singer (bless her spandexed heart) started getting all drill-sergeant, angrily commanding that people enjoy the set. I totally felt her pain, but you can't force someone to love you. I learned that at my junior prom.

Anyway, I left with a gift bag containing a Monster energy drink, some advertorial post cards, and a tiny keychain of a beer bottle. I won't say they never gave me nothin'. Meh. 

Kid Dangerous is staging a summit of hip for its launch party tonight. Seriously, I have no idea what to wear, and if I could chop myself an ironic mullet on the car ride there, I'd probably be in better shape.

For $12 at King King, filthy/trendy revelers will enjoy a fashion show of Kid Dangerous' "grime couture", a line of ultra distressed fabrics and designs by underground artist and Ice Cream Man photographer Jeremiah Garcia. The truly motivated alcoholics can gorge on free vodka from 9-10, and performances by The Grey Kid and Ultraviolet butt up against sets by Mr Franki Chan himself.

And if you feel photogenic enough, get yourself a shiny new profile picture with the charming Rony at his photobooth. If I hit the free hooch,  I may just get hammy for it myself. And if I get deep into the sauce, maybe I'll chop that mullet, peeps.  

Everyone loves to see women in miniskirts brawl on wheels. Right? Not City Council.

My Derby Dolls info source, the cryptically named Judy Gloom, just delivered the infuriating news that due to event permit hassles with The Man, the space they usually bruise each other in will be off-limits. They were supposed to skate back onto the scene July 21st, to the delight of their rabid fan base, but word just got out that their season is postponed until they can find a new venue.

We're pouting until further notice.

(Photo: Mark Berry)

A little backstory: Instead of dinner, I just ate three columns of Ritz crackers. Doing the math, I realized this was the caloric equivalent to eating four Big Macs. 

Cut to me wondering why, if neon colors and sweatbands have resurrected themselves, Jazzercise hasn't made a triumphant return. Seriously, I'd hit some classes if they had a decent soundtrack. I'm thinking a little Klaxons, some Digitalism, maybe throw in some Robot moves with The Pity Party...

I even seem to remember Cobrasnake getting his sweat on as an aerobics instructor for Paper Mag 's quick west coast lovefest a few years back. Why did it not stick?!

Fist on table, ready to get funky, I say we mobilize our forces and crank up the jams in a dark, disco-riffic workout/club setting. Good for the ears, excellent for the booties.   

(As a prime example of No-Not-Quite-But-Thank-You, I present video of L.A.'s beloved Ditty Bops' induction into Jazzercise fame. Warning: may contain footage of older women shaking their ta-tas. But the payoff comes at the end as Ditty Bop and former model Amanda Barrett is seen in a skin-tight aerobics getup and pink hair. Even as a straight chick, I'll admit that's hot.)

I was on the phone with Jimmy, who works at the Hive Gallery downtown, about the art walk this Thursday. Apparently, folks get on their bikes as a swarm to tour all the radastic galleries, and the Hive usually ends up as the destinaton at the end of the night. This of course, has me dreaming up pretty scenes of me and a bike, joining the gallery tour, then bonding on secret pathways all over the city.

..Me and my bike, stopping for a picnic on the grass, me and my bike, hitting the Bicycle Kitchen for a tune up, spending the afternoon laughing in the grass, me and my bike, sharing an inside joke. My bike would leave me comments on Myspace that only I would get, and at Christmas we'd bake cookies.

Should I just buy one? Should I troll the bike ads, looking for my, um, sole mate?

Seriously, how cute is this? 

I spent a long day at work/play here at Metromix HQ, and with the best intentions, proclaimed I was headed home, and straight into bed. No. Going. Out.  

But all it takes are a few drunk dials on my voicemail and a coercive text, and suddenly I find I'm wiggling through Hollywood side streets peering down alleyways for some elusive party in a parking lot behind Zankou Chicken.

I followed the noise to a dim alley, where a man in a Security windbreaker slid open an iron gate. I wandered past a rented porta potty flanked with impatients, and into the back end of the lot. A stage was roped off, and Eastside trio The Front (the singer of which I find highly canoodle-able) was just wrapping up a sweaty set. Someone was grilling cheeseburgers, and there was free beer everywhere.

Low-tech two-piece Restaurant began to bang on their suitcase drums and licence plate symbols, but the will to stay upright was lost, and I finally had to head off. 

The kicker: I left 5 minutes before a fire dancer arrived. A dude, dancing with fire. Fireballs on chains swung around like flaming maces.  Why must humans sleep? Why?!

Crazy:

Double Crazy:

Then Yvette spun tunes in the parking lot: 

Photo credit:Yvette Dudoit

Photo credit: Juan Ojeda, LA Dodgers

Ever seen a punk legend, and one of Rolling Stone's top 100 gee-tarists, wail on the National anthem? Tonight was your chance, comrades.

Before the the Braves cowered on the field to get their Atlanta arses kicked, Mr. Wayne Kramer of MC-5 opened the game by sauntering onto the field in an all-white suit, with his "Wayne Kramer Signature Series" Fender stars and stripes Stratocaster and a Hot Rod Deville amped up behind him. Sun setting behind the stadium, he eked out the national anthem on the eve of Independence Day.

Ahhh, what a sight.