The boys behind the Dime and Winston's are gearing up to open Crown Bar tonight and, after an exclusive tour this morning, it looks like this will be the brightest jewel in their, well, crown. Starting with tonight's opening bash, the hotshot promoters behind the Alliance will team up with Samantha Ronson to command Wednesday nights. Given their record, expect every celebrity worth an Us Weekly headline.

That's not to say the other nights of the week won't lure in buzz-worthy power players. If you ask me, the owners are even more exciting! Andy Fiscella is an actor signed with Endeavor; Chris Huvane is the West Coast Editor of GQ; and Beau Flynn is a producer. (Their connections help explain how their other venues have managed to stay hip long past L.A.’s usual expiration date.) For this venture, the power trifecta has also brought on Matt Lavin and Charlie Lew from Hardball Productions, which often works with the cool kids at Flaunt magazine.

Unlike the the Dime and Winston's, which both have a neighborhood New York City vibe, Crown Bar is Hollywood glam meets 1940s gentleman's club. Gavin Bordin of Vantage Design made it so there are three distinct areas—lounge, dining area, lush patio—situated around a circular white marble bar. He also gave it a color palette that ranges from milk chocolate (the banquettes) to mahogany (the floors, tables) to amber (the lighting).

Speaking of palette: I got a one-on-one with the very handsome chef Chris Ennis (formerly of Vibrato) who put together a menu he calls "American Bistro Bar." I'm especially excited for the green papaya salad, but manager Emily Maclure tells me it's all about the bacon burger and the celery-and-basil tortellini. Click here for more on the menu from one of my fave foodies.

If you're anything like me, you've already stopped reading this post and are trying to score dinner reservations for tonight. Not so fast! A dinner reservation won't get you past the velvet rope on Wednesdays. For now, restaurant service is available on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. I should also mention that Crown Bar will open at 5 p.m. on those nights for the nearby folks at Quixote Studios and the Lot who're bound to make this their new after-work hangout. How's that for a reason to rush out of work? I, on the other hand, work later hours and will be rushing out more often to catch Michelle Pesce, honestly my favorite DJ in the whole city.

Crown Bar just a few blocks away from Winston's on the same Santa Monica Boulevard stretch east of Fairfax, west of La Brea. It's right across the street from Trader Joe's. (No, this is not their logo.)

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Basque always knew how to heat up a room figuratively (sexy burlesque dancers performed behind windows at the bar) and literally (clubbers had no choice but to walk through the smoking room at the entrance). This morning, however, it took on a whole new meaning when it caught on fire at 5:30 a.m. It took more than 100 firefighters (that's 23 fire engines) and two hours to get the flames under control, according to KTLA. No one is believed to have been trapped inside, but officials can't confirm injuries or casualities at this time. What can be confirmed? The building is under demolition 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

 

Fellow food-philes: I need your help. How the heck do you send back food without looking like a total d-bag?

In the rare instances I’ve found myself in such a sticky situation, here’s my one fallback strategy: politely ask the server whether the offending dish was meant to be cooked/served/mutilated in the manner that it was presented to me. “Is this the kitchen’s version of al dente?” “Is the fish supposed to smell like that?” Passive-aggressive? Yes. But by asking it in question form, it’s left up to the server to do her job and offer to rectify the matter.

But my trick may be losing some of its mojo, as my recent visit to BLT Steak revealed. My date and I wanted the bone-in rib eye medium rare. The steak came stuck with a jaunty plastic tag that read “medium rare.” It should have read “wishful thinking.” Even from across the table, I could tell that it was done—very well done.

When our server finally came by (funny how the wait staff disappears just when you really need them), I queried, “Does this look medium rare to you?”

BLT Steak redefines 'medium rare.'

Our server got down to the level of the meat, peered at it, and replied, “Uh…I think it is…Let me ask the kitchen.” Then disappeared without taking the plate with him.

By the time he popped up again to hurriedly ask if we wanted anything packed, it was practically midnight, and I was too tired to put up a fight. I had no recourse—except to take the offending meat home and now I’m blogging about it. See what I mean about looking like a total d-bag?

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

Ahhhh, Coachella.

2006: Slept on patio furniture outside Madonna’s hotel

2007: Slept in the passenger seat of my Subaru

2008: Stayed in the Hotel Malibu  

You might see a pattern to my Coachella accommodations and assume I’m moving up in the world. After all, the Hotel Malibu is but a year old, and quite exclusive: it only accommodates 4 guests at a time. Georgia, my Coachella cohort, and I were its only residents and we each slept by open window with a desert breeze. The hitch: the Hotel Malibu is a rented Chevy, parked behind a Del Taco.

“But Ward,” you say, “don’t you work for Metromix? Don’t you have the hookup?”

Of course I do. Not only does Metromix have a candy bowl in the office, but we’d even lined up a hotel room for some staffers. In this hotel room was a couch with my name on it. The problem was, after a lengthy day of continuous perspiration, doing the robot to Kraftwerk, singing along to Tegan and Sara, walking roughly 10 miles in broken jelly shoes, and eating more than one deep fried corn dog, we were tuckered out.

After leaving the festival around 11, my partner in grime washed her feet in the sink of a pancake house and we decided to take disco nap in a strip mall before hitting a few afterparties. When we woke up at 2:40 am, groggy, confused and ugly, we realized it would be an unquestionable party foul to ask to crash anywhere. So we shrugged, and spent the night in the automotive luxury of the Hotel Malibu. Beds are for the bourgie, right?

Bringing "low maintence" to new depths,

Ward  

I heart Kid Sister. The burgeoning Chicago rapstress has gone from underground upstart to the next face of inner city pop in record time. As part of the new Chi-town scene alongside the likes of the Cool Kids and DJ duo Flosstradamus (featuring Kid Sis’s little brother J2K), the girl born Melissa Young has in three short years elevated her game tremendously.

Seeing her perform at SXSW this year, imagine my excited surprise when L.A. rap legend Ice Cube rolled in with a posse. Cube and his crew posted up right next to me, watched Kid Sister do her set, and then promptly left. So don’t you be surprised if she pops up in one of the revenue-generating family films that Cube’s been making lately.

At this year’s Coachella, Kid Sister showed that she’s definitely ready for prime time. With a supporting trio of prepubescent girl dancers in brightly colored dresses and her man DJ A-Trak on the turntables, she put on a crowd-moving show that’s already transcended any kind of ‘hipsterism’ and is ready to carve out a genuine career in the merciless music industry.

Running through tunes like “Beeper” and her hit “Pro Nails, Kid Sis simply knocked it out of the park. Possibly one of the sleeper sets of Coachella ’08. Get to know her now before you have to hear Ryan Seacrest tell you about it later.

—Scott T. Sterling 

(Photo by Spencer Weiner / LAT)

OK, it’s officially time to call bullsh*t on this whole “tradition” of having huge artists play in the relatively small “Sahara Tent” at Coachella.

As a huge M.I.A. fan, I was amped to see her show and prove why she’s one of the most exciting and innovative artists working in music today. But after having seen the giant crowd overflowing the Sahara for Hot Chip’s dance-tastic set earlier in the day, I started to worry. Would I be able to get a glimpse of M.I.A.’s roof-raising world party? Sadly, the answer was all Whitney Houston: “Oh hell to the no.”

By the time she took the stage, the crowd spilling out of the tent on all sides was packed as far back as the gate. Pushing to at least get a sightline of the stage, all that could be seen were countless heads and M.I.A.’s color-explosive visuals on the big screens. I waited for shots of M.I.A. to grace the screens that never came. Two songs in (which sounded great, by the way), and it became clear that there would be no footage of the actual performance on the screens. So not only was I stuck back by a gate, but I couldn’t even watch on the big screen. And it sucked. Big time. 

It’s really a bummer for all of the M.I.A. fans (of which there are obviously many) to not get to see ol’ girl at all, even in video form. For those close enough to see, it was a tough trade-off, as the overstuffed tent gave way to lots of pushing and shoving, girls getting roughed up, and security eventually turning on the house lights in an attempt to quell the madness. Not exactly my idea of a good time.

Eventually shuffling over to the Outdoor Stage to at least see Mark Ronson's soul revue, I was able to console myself with a sweet new M.I.A. t-shirt at the merch stand. But what would really make things better would be if an L.A. concert promoter would book Miss Thing for a proper date sooner than later. You know, the kind where you can actually see the act perform. Please and thank you. In the meantime, I’ll just cue up “Bamboo Banga” again, and imagine what could have been…

— Scott T. Sterling

(Photo credit: AP/Chris Pizzello)

Doesn't anybody remember laughter? Prince certainly does. He had to be laughing as he whipped out an extended, atmospheric take on Radiohead's "Creep" towards the end of his epic closing set Saturday night. With so many people grumbling about the absence of Johnny Greenwood and the gang at this soiree, it was a daft move that was totally hilarious.

Well, his set was epic for true Prince fans, anyway. Opening with a one-two double-banger of classics by the Time, complete with Morris Day on vocals, they flipped it into an elastic workout of "Glamorous Life," with Sheila E manning the timbales and microphone on the '80s gem.

Moving through various eras with ease, he ran through fan favorites like "Seven," "Controversy" and "I Feel For You," an early single that was made famous when Chaka Khan remade it back in the day.

Of course, he pulled out big guns like "1999" and "Little Red Corvette," saving "Purple Rain" and "Let's Go Crazy" to end the show. Being Prince, he had to have his moments, like an anti-war jam on "Come Together" by the Beatles. The was also quite the guitar solo over a loose take on the B-52's "Rock Lobster."

But really, we should just be talking about the fact that instead of selling t-shirts at the merch stand, Prince had glossy embossed tambourines. That's just pimp game right there. 

Altogether, the single greatest performance in Coachella history. 

—Scott T. Sterling

 

Maybe I've just come to Coachella too many times. Or maybe the bar for live bands was lowered while I wasn't looking or something, because there was a lot of "average" going on at the festival on Day 1. Ah, maybe I'm just still salty about the whole Aphex Twin debacle. Just DJing? Ugh. Seriously, Richard? You are so much better than that.

All the more reason to praise the spirit-lifting performance from '90s classic rockers the Verve. And yes, you read that right: classic rock. The epic, guitar-powered tunes this band has written are timeless, and should've made them the band from that decade that sold trillions of records even in America, and not those effing dork twins in Oasis (Noel and I official stopped being cool when he started talking smack about my brother Jay-Z).

They ran through all sorts of hits from their storied catalog: "Sonnet," "Weeping Willow," and the eternal "Lucky Man." How "Lucky Man" was never a huge, international hit is crazy. Were people just dumb in the '90s or what?

Still, the Verve will always have "Bittersweet Symphony," one of those incredible songs that never fails to give goosebumps with the swelling strings and Ashcroft's heartfelt lyrics. It was the big set-closer, and had even the casual observers waving their arms with the Verve diehards that were all over the place.

They did play two new songs (since "that's what this band is about," Ashcroft said from the stage). The first one was "Sit and Wonder," a rolling number that fits right along a majority of what the band has already done. But then they ended their set with another new song, this one more of a massive anthem in the line of "Bittersweet Symphony," only with a subtle electro edge and sped-up beat. Sadly, they didn't announce the title, but I'm confident it will show up on their upcoming album. Which means (hopefully!) a tour. I'd angling for a show or three at the Wiltern perhaps? Please and thank you!

—Scott T. Sterling 

As someone whose Prince obsession began at a very young age (thanks to an older brother that left copies of "Dirty Mind," "Controversy" and "1999" in my room when he moved out), I've seen him perform at least a dozen times. Each and every show has been nothing less than transcendental. The man is a musical legend for good reason. From his killer songwriting (I dare any band out there to write a song as simply perfect as “When You Were Mine”) to his string-shredding guitar mastery, which is still underrated in the “rock” world (dude plays better than most of the mooks I see on the cover of “Guitar Player”), there are few artists that can even come near his brilliance.

And for anyone that tries to throw his Warner Brothers contract obligation albums in the '90s up as evidence of his declining abilities, they can suck it. He still whips out killer tunes with ease (check out “Fury” from his last CD).

Regardless, his performance at Coachella tonight should effectively show and prove why he’s among the greatest artists of our generation, and instead of calling him the “black David Bowie,” I think it’s time to start calling Bowie the “white Prince.” Prepare for the Purple Person to make Day 3 of Coachella 2008 a moot point (unless you’re a hardcore old-schooler rolling joints and baking mushroom cookies in preparation for Roger Waters).

Let’s go crazy!

—Scott T Sterling 

For the record, I've seen Aphex Twin perform twice. Once was at an early '90s rave, where he shared the bill with the likes of Orbital and Vapourspace (10 points to whoever remembers Mark Gage!). Aphex Twin closed the show. Sitting on the floor behind a huge bank of weird, homemade-looking gear, he cleared the room in record time with the most amazing and abrasive barrage of electronic madness. The diehard 30 or so people (myself included) that were feeling it crowded around the stage in awe.

The second time I saw him perform, it was a showcase in New York, where he ran through a wide array of tunes from his catalog, with brightly colored dancing bears wearing the eerie "Aphex face" bouncing across the stage. Both performances were brilliant.

But when I fought everything from crappy traffic to getting lost in the endless maze that is the whole Indio/Palm Springs/Indian Wells area to see him play at Coachella this year, imagine my crushing disappointment to find him in a packed tent, listlessly spinning old house records. Where was the battery of analog gear? Where was "Xtal," "Windowlicker" or the eternal "Come to Daddy"? Sigh. It's ony the first day, and already one of the weekend's top acts was a total bust. Oh Richard, why have you forsaken me? At least there was the Verve...

—Scott T. Sterling

Personally, I’ve never really been one for nostalgia. I just think it’s too much work. Also, my pre-college life was essentially an 18-year-long awkward phase—something I was never that fond of having documented. Since graduation, I’ve made progress, embracing the concert pin and the diner matchbook as mementos I may someday put to good use. I may die alone—if my recent romantic excursions are any indication of what is to come—but at least I’ll have a shoebox full of movie ticket stubs to keep me company while I grow old.

 

Something both momentous and more useful I'm planning on acquiring is a t-shirt from the Beauty Bar Collection—set to launch May 4th online—available at De La Barracuda on Melrose. If I could count rhe number of times I've stumbled home from a night out at the original Beauty Bar—located on 14th St. in New York City—then, well, it wouldn't be as fun of a place as it is. I've yet to experience the joy that is Beauty Bar in Los Angeles, so I'm hoping that it lives up to its East Coast predecessor. At the very least I know I'll be going home with a t-shirt, if not a lapse in better judgement that has both a first and a last name.

—Marcos Luevanos

How's this for an incentive to join Crunch? The gym is planning a series of summer pool parties called Skin LA with club promoters Jamie Barren and Ben Beck. It'll debut as a monthly bash thrown at a private mansion in "the hills," says Barren, and will eventually take place weekly at a hotel within close proximity to the WeHo gym.


This is Jamie. He's the promoter.

Aside from increasing their client base, Crunch also sees this as an opportunity to show "member appreciation." If you've ever seen the perfect-bodied members working out here, you'll certainly appreciate seeing them stripped down in swimsuits and greased up with suntan oil. You can also expect to appreciate girls "dressed" in body paint, especially if they fall in the pool.

I guess now would be the time to get motivated and step away from the bowl of mini Reeses Peanut Butter Cups...

...Oh look at that. There are hardly any left. 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

When I say you’ve seen nothing like Kanye West’s fan-freaking-tastic “Glow in the Dark” tour, believe it. I'm still recovering from the second of two sold out shows at Nokia Theatre L.A. Live. I even ran into the guys from Vampire Weekend in the lobby.

Lupe Fiasco opened, sounding like a hip-hop version of Coldplay—and that’s not a dis. Anthems like the hit “Superstar” are more Chris Martin than Ludacris, and his increasing sales numbers prove it to be a shrewd move.

Pharrell Williams and N.E.R.D. turned it into a rock show with mosh-ready new tunes from their forthcoming “Seeing Sounds” album, Skateboard P calling out Lindsday Lohan and Samantha Ronson from the stage. Lohan had already received a hero’s welcome walking through the audience, stopping to hug an obviously enamored little boy that ran up on her.

Rihanna proved to be the potentially perfect pop star, only the right collaborator(s) away from dethroning Gwen Stefani. She’s still relatively new to the game, but like Fiasco, she’s a fast learner.

 

West (here backstage in his GITD gear) played Stanley Kubrick, presenting an elaborate and ambitious 2008 rap odyssey somewhere between R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” and Earth, Wind and Fire’s legendary stage show. The only person onstage, West still managed to own the audience with his non-stop barrage of hits (and a crashed spaceship computer named “Jane.” Don’t ask). His show was rather amazing, and "Glow in the Dark" is nothing less than the best tour to come through L.A. this year, right up there with Ye's "big brother" Jay-Z and Mary J. Blige's outstanding "Heart of the City" tour.

See for yourself when the tour returns to town on June 7 at the Staples Center. It'll totally be worth whatever scalpers are charging for tickets, since this one's been sold out cold for weeks. 

PS: And don’t leave the show without your complimentary copy of Kanye’s new self-actualization book, “Thank You and You’re Welcome.” Again, just trust me.  

—Scott T. Sterling 

 

I’m sure it’s happened to every law-abiding Angeleno. In fact, I’m pretty certain it’s part of this town’s naturalization process to completely make a fool of oneself in front of a celebrity, loosely-defined. But in my many years in L.A., I’ve managed to avoid being reduced to a yammering buffoon in front of some high-on-his-horse muckamuck and his entourage. That was until this job…

So, this is my story (and I’m sticking to it). It’s Metromix HQ, and our crew gets together to talk about the haps. Of course the sequel to “Harold and Kumar” is brought up. A feature? Is Kal Penn available? Does anyone know John Cho’s people?

Cut to later that evening. I’m meeting friends at Ce Fiore in Little Tokyo. While yogurt would suffice on any other occasion, my body is starting to mutiny from lack of sleep and eating a single granola bar for breakfast, lunch and merienda. A civilized, I-need-to-not-be-walking-as-I-eat-this meal is in order; and just my effin’ luck, Haru Ulala is across the street from Japanese Village Plaza.

I enter, and who’s the first person I see, sitting right by the door?

 

Yep, that dude. John Cho. When did the god of humiliation comedy take over the script of my life? Of course this would happen when I’m tired and hungry and feeble-minded. But professional duty overrides my better judgment and I disturb what otherwise would have been a quiet, anonymous dinner of grilled mackerel and yakitori with his lovely wife.

I won’t go into miserable detail. It’s as if the spirit of Ben Stiller possesses me with the vengeance of all 5000 of his movies. (Yeah, it was that bad.)

As it turns out, Cho is a gracious dude and grants me an interview. We end up talking a lot about food—and groupies who accost him in Little Tokyo. (You can find the interview as well as more stuff about the Harold & Kumar sequel online.)

All’s well that end’s well. I guess I was in a comedy after all.

—Jiyeon Yoo

Remember when Vice Magazine was funny? Yeah, me neither. I've always thought it was about as hilarious as a high school class clown who was held back two years in a row because he was too busy quoting the Simpsons and farting in zero period physics to ever bother learning Newtonian mechanics.  Just like neon rave accessories, Adam Sandler movies and Limp Bizkit, I never really got the class clown—or his sense of humor. I guess it's just one more thing that sets me apart from my generation.

It's not my intention to come off as a traitor to my age bracket, because I'm not. Really! I like a lot of things people in their early twenties like; drinking, casual sex, talking about the previous night's casual sex while drinking before meeting someone new to have casual sex with. Still, isn't it time Vice Magazine grew up, or at least evolved? It seems as though it's experiencing a literary state similar to that of Matthew McConaughey 's character in "Dazed and Confused" where the writers get older, but the jokes stay at the same grade school age level. Maybe after years of skewering everyone in their vicinity, Vice's blades have gotten—understandably—dull. Exhibit A: this posting satirizing Los Angeles style. Man, they really "gave it to us" by stating the superficial in a smug tone that was more dull than droll.

Above almost all else, Angelenos are blessed with the ability to laugh at themselves, so why not make us do just that? Why not paint a Todd Goldman-like portrait of us that thoughtfully and intelligently makes us think about what we wear and what it says about us, instead of just stating the obvious? Another issue I had with the posting is that the aesthetic choices it describes as specifically L.A. are just as—if not even more—common in many other parts of the world, including New York's East Village where I suspect this was written from. It reads like someone who wrote a review of a movie having only seen the preview. You can't just throw in references to Korea Town, A.P.C. and Echo Park and call it well researched or authentically L.A.   

Many other outlets execute the bitchy, "point and laugh" style of fashion writing much better than Vice, so I suggest it sharpens its claws—and wit—before it endures the same fate as so many other class clowns before it—cracking jokes as a weekend traffic school teacher in El Segundo. 

-Marcos Luevanos   

 

Some substances are bound to incite chaos. Scarce supplies of illegal drugs will do this. Excess gunpowder is also disruptive to calm. But until I witnessed hundreds of people climbing over each other's bodies and begging—shrieking—for grilled cheese sandwiches, I never knew that humans could be so feral.

The annual Grilled Cheese Invitational on Saturday was not for the weak-nerved or the lactose shy. I'd skipped not only breakfast, but lunch—and dinner—in anticipation of an evening filled with grease and regret. At a semi-secret location in Griffith Park, 140 competitors set up hot plates, lined up bricks of butter and brandished cheeses with unpronouncible names as the public clamored desperately for their efforts. The "missionary" category mandated that only cheese, butter and bread be employed, but the exotic "kama sutra" round allowed all manner of garlic pastes and French onion spreads and other substances that I would burp up later with both disgust and nostalgia.

As contestants in bawdy aprons, hats fashioned of cheese and in some cases, feather boas, scrambled with spatulas and piles of cheese curds, I hovered near a man in a kilt who offered me a bite-size sample of molten gruyere on the condition that I agreed to be hand-fed. My better judgment abandoned me. Before I knew it, in front of hundreds of strangers, I had a mouthful of toasted bread and cheese on my face. I had become an animal. Grilled cheese will do this to you.

 

 

Urging you to check yourselves before wrecking yourselves, 

 

 

Noel Gallagher has a problem. Actually, he’s just scared. That’s how it sounds, anyway. How else can you explain his completely unaware comments regarding Jay-Z headlining one night of this year’s Glastonbury festival in England? Teetering between class-based snobbery and just plain dumb, the poor guy sounded positively nostalgic for 1775. It’s unfortunate, really.

Having just witnessed a positively inspiring performance from Jay-Z at the Hollywood Bowl with Mary J. Blige, I’d think that anyone would enjoy a show so inclusive, engaging and fun.

The widest possible socio-economic swath of L.A. imaginable jammed the Bowl to see it too, and I’m sure to a head not one would say they got less than their money’s worth of slam-bang, capital E Entertainment. Both artists come armed with so many hits and the ability to raise their game even higher on a stage. Oasis, not known for their knockout abilities in concert, could learn much from a master like Jigga man.

Thankfully, Glastonbury organizers like my new hero Emily Eavis have a more modern outlook, promising to deliver Jay-Z along with other ’08 headliners the Verve and Kings of Leon.

“(Jay-Z) has not only become one of the world's greatest hip-hop stars, he is also an artist who has an amazing live act. In truth, we felt honored to have him on board, and believe that he is absolutely the right act for our festival,” she told UK paper The Independent. “Back in 1984, there were similar criticisms made when The Smiths were named as the headline act. Hippies just wanted acts that had played before.” Have that, Noel.

Somewhere, Damon Albarn is quietly having a cup of tea and reveling in a wealth of good ideas...

See Jigga and Mary J. light up the Verizon Wireless tonight. Mary J. fans can get up close and personal with their hero (and Jada Pinkett-Smith!) at the Carol’s Daughter in Culver City next week. 

—Scott T. Sterling 

While just about everyone under 30 vacates L.A. next weekend for Coachella—and the offsite pool parties—there's a chance that the boys behind Winston's will open the much anticipated Crown Bar in the former Tempest spot. I emailed co-owner Chris Huvane last Friday and he said it'd be another two weeks, which would put us at April 25. Right? I'm seriously counting down. Not only do I live around the corner, but Winston's is also on my short list of favorite bars of all time.

Here's the view from the outside...
...It's just a few blocks away from Winston's on the same Santa Monica Boulevard stretch east of Fairfax, west of La Brea. 
 

While I was digging around for more new spots to satisfy my ADD clubbing habits, I also got my hands on a hot little scoop. You know the urine-smelling dive Townhouse in Venice that was bought out by the people behind Temple Bar/Little Temple/Zanzibar? According to the company's booking person Novena, they're opening an "uber lush, private downstairs speakeasy." I don't know about you, but for me that kind of description is like taunting a bull with a red flag. I like anything that sounds like a challenge.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

 

Bear with me: I’m tapping into my eco-roots. (Yes, my natural hair color is green.)

Unless you’ve been living in a landfill—or driving a motorized pestilence known as an SUV—you know environmentalism is hot right now. I would normally cast a scant eye on anything that smacks of hype, but I’m stoked that green is in the limelight. If anything, I’m no longer that freak who’s using scratch paper to print documents or bringing corrugated cup sleeves with me when I pick up coffee (sorry, it’s impossible to carry a commuter mug with me at all times). Okay, maybe I’m still that freak, but I don’t have to explain myself anymore.

All that crunchy nutty behavior closet-environmentalists used to do in private is now going public. This is my current favorite: the PB&J Campaign. The bare-bones charge is simple: Eat a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich to save the Earth. It sounds kind of hokey at first glance, but the classic PB&J represents plant-based products that can viably replace foods with huge carbon footprints. At the same time, the campaign is quite literal: instead of sitting in the drive-thru, idling your car to pick up a burger that caused deforestation, over-grazing and expended so much water and energy, pack a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich!

While the website cunningly proselytizes vegetarianism, it offers compelling points—and pretty applicable ones at that. Sustainability takes time and money. ‘Cause shopping at a Whole Foods on a daily basis? That’s a luxury left for all those Humvee drivers. 

—Jiyeon Yoo

Every year, in the months preceding summer, I delude myself into thinking that if I take the stairs once a week and refrain from eating the crust off my pizza, my body will somehow morph into one resembling Madonna's. It didn't work last year, it probably won't work this year, but at least I make the effort. Doesn't that count for something? I thought so, until I saw Mrs. Guy Ritchie on the cover of Vanity Fair's Green Issue looking as taut as a trampoline.

 

Is it wrong that I—a gay guy in his early twenties—am envious of a body owned and operated by a woman of nearly 50? I say no. I say I make it my mission to find out what exactly she eats/drinks/does/injects to achieve her physique—because when I sold my soul to the prince of darkness, I don't recall there being an "everlasting hot body" clause anywhere on that contract.

According to fitness fiend Tracy Anderson—whose Studio City fitness studio opened two years ago and has only flourished since—Madonna, in part, gets her toned form from her dance aerobics classes. I was recently sent a DVD of said workout, so I made an attempt at learning the routine—maybe my physical fitness pipe dreams would come true this year after all. Needless to say—as indicated in the title of this post—I lasted about four minutes, at which point I went back to basking in the warm luminosity of my computer screen. My legs were sore the next day, and I'll probably make another attempt at learning Tracy's moves as the summer inches closer, but for now I'm quite content taking in Google's glow off of my MacBook Pro. Besides isn't getting a head start on my tan just as important?

—Marcos Luevanos 

 

 

I shuffled out of the office on Friday apologetically early: I had a mission to reunite with my bed, and kick an emerging rhinovirus out of my body. Cut to: me on my way home, making a detour into the L.A. vs War show, then another one to a house party in Echo Park, and then one more detour to the Echoplex, employing the use of a press pass and a desperate expression to get into a secret show by Prince. Who never showed up. So there I was, still in work clothes with a melting, neglected cocktail and a cold getting worse by the hour, surrounded by hundreds of very attractive men of ambiguous sexuality, none of whom were Prince. Friday, you sucked.

Saturday, thanks for taking up the slack. Where Friday gave me frown-provoking anti-war art, Saturday delivered a downtown drive-in with singing transsexuals in "Hedwig and the Angry Inch." While Friday's house party offered disastrous parking, Saturday gave me a spot directly in front the massive, throbbing Local Heroes warehouse party downtown.

And Friday, you purple balled me with a rumored yet unsubstantiated Prince appearance, but Saturday handed me Kate Moss at Little Joy. With her limo idling out front and a chauffeur standing by, Ms. Moss and an entourage of comically fashionable people shot pool while the rest of Little Joy pretended not to notice. While everyone else was succeeding in playing it cool, I was apparently requesting to have my photograph taken in a motorcycle helmet.

The helmet was passed around to various friends. Photos continued to be taken.

And when Kate Moss, in tiny, skinny pants and a silver lamé tunic turned to me and wanted it on her head, what could I do but take a blurry photograph?

 

Saturday—we'll miss you.

High fives,

Ward 

"The Real World: Hollywood" doesn’t air until Wednesday, but I had to get my greedy little hands on the first few episodes and OMG: This season is like watching a circus of inflated egos. The entire cast is looking for fame or celebrity status—and one person (I won't tell you who) has already landed a spot in rehab. That doesn't stop anyone else from partying, though. They seem to be obsessed with Tokio and Les Deux, where Brianna, a stripper from Philadelphia who wants to be a singer, meets club promoter Joe Joe. Here's how that goes…


(Oops. MTV spelled his name wrong.)

Joe Joe: "I’d make a great sugar daddy."
Brianna: "All right, deal, deal, because that’s exactly what I’m looking for."
Joe Joe: "A sugar daddy?"
Brianna: "Yeah"

Then they make-out while Joe Joe makes sure the cameras catch his Chanel cuff. (They also caught his emerging bald spot.)


Brianna invites Joe Joe back to the house, where fellow roomie Dave asks the other two female roommates to, "Talk her out of it because this guy’s name is Joe Joe and the girls that do him call him 'ho ho.'" Good girl Sarah steps in to ask his intentions, but gets distracted by his man-chest. "Where's your shirt?" she asks. "I don't believe in shirts," he responds.


And about his belt buckle, he says, “Nine inches, fully loaded.”

Sadly for Joe Joe, this is as far as he and his nine inches got. (In this scene they're in the kitchen talking to the other roomates, and Joe Joe's taunting Joey, who has a crush on Brianna, by staring directly at him.)

Surprise, surprise! The next day Joe Joe flaked out on Brianna. I could have told her that would have happened! You’d think Joe Joe were raised by a pack of wolves by the way he appears to treat women. His MySpace page (myspace.com/joejoepellegrino) says he’s a "momma's boys," but he has Larry Pierce's "She's a Worthless C-nt" as his song, not to mention photos of him kissing and grabbing dozens of different girls, and dating tips like: "Girls are like dogs. They love to be roughed up."

—Alexandra Le Tellier 

Guns ‘N’ Roses and Stone Temple Pilots are among the greatest hard rock bands of all-time. Velvet Revolver is not. Which is why we’re as happy as a little schoolgirl that Scott Weiland (above) has done the right thing and reunited with his STP brethren. I was lucky enough to attend their reunion kick-off “Panoramic Bonanza” show held at the Harry Houdini mansion high atop Laurel Canyon. It was a bonanza indeed, with giddy contortionists, sword-swallowers and catering by Pink’s hot dogs plying the buzzing crowd that had been shuttled up the hill from Sunset.

But none of it held a candle to the band’s performance. For a group that hasn’t performed live in five years, they sounded remarkably tight. Maybe the DeLeo brothers and Eric Kretz jam on STP classics in their spare time, because they whipped through a seven-song set of their “modern” rock staples like a band that’s been on tour for months. And why Weiland isn’t routinely mentioned as one of the best rock frontmen in the game is beyond me.

It was somewhere around "Vasoline" when the epiphany hit: Stone Temple Pilots are the new Aerosmith. They've survived the big storms, and still have the big songs to show for it. Experience real rock ‘n’ roll for once in your life when STP headline the Hollywood Bowl for the first time on June 24.

—Scott T. Sterling 

Dude. The Stone Temple Pilots absolutely murdered it at the Harry Houdini mansion the other night. I'm still trying to shake the fog of timeless big rock riffs, endless Jack and Cokes and Pink's hot dogs out of my brain today. Whoa. I'll fill in the blanks once my equilibrium recalibrates itself (or something). In the meantime, I'll let you know that the almighty Stone Temple Pilots are playing the Hollywood Bowl on June 24 and it's going to be freaking awesome. Especially if they play "And So I Know." Rock on, lads!

-Scott T. Sterling 

 

 

“Are you a morning person?” the media blast from Jamba Juice blares at me. Um, sure I am if it qualifies that I just saw the sun rise after a long night of battling writer’s block.

 

As if it weren’t enough that the gigantic tanker of Caribbean Passion or Mango-a-go-go has become the most substantive thing we put in our stomach (yes, it serves as both lunch and dinner sometimes), Jamba Juice wants to be the most important meal of our day as well. To celebrate the launch of its new breakfast menu, participating locations (pretty much every free-standing store in the Continental U.S.—sorry, Hawaii) are giving away free breakfast items until 10 a.m. on Tuesday, April 8.

 

So what constitutes breakfast at a place that has cornered the market on smoothies and fruit blends? Aside from baked goods and fresh-squeezed juices, morning “meals”—as the menu calls them—consists of yogurt-based mixtures, whipped up to a flurry in a signature Jamba blender, then finished with a granola topping. And, you’re going to need a spoon! (I guess, that’s where the “meal” part comes from.) It pretty much sounds like Yoplait sprinkled with Trader Joe’s granola. But what do I know: I had five sticks of chewing gum and a gallon of black coffee by 9 a.m. this morning.

 

 

The boundlessly energetic juice company also wants to educate on the importance of eating a healthy breakfast with the 21-Day Challenge. By signing up online, I can keep track of my morning habits—kind of like the troublesome calorie-counting I had to do for a nutritional science class—while also getting dietary tips and having a nutritionist who will answer questions from users. BTW, my participation implies that I’m actually going to eat breakfast for the 21 days it takes to develop healthy eating habits (this, according to “experts” referenced by Jamba Juice, not by me).

 

At the time of this blog, the website had yet to post the 21-Day Challenge, so I can’t vouch for the kind of information that’s available beyond the general Nutrition 101 section. For now, let me provide my favorite breakfast-related nugget: Did you know that sumo wrestlers skip breakfast, which is one important step in helping develop their, um, physique? According to one source, skipping breakfast leads to overeating later in the day and a 5% drop in metabolic function—which, given time plus 10,000 calories a day and a makeshift thong equals this:

 

 

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

House party season has officially begun.

Between a Groove Armada set on the steps of City Hall and the line down the block for Blek Le Rat's show at Shepard Fairey's gallery, you'd think we'd have enough on our hands for Saturday night. 

But the gem in the weekend's crown was this season's first massive, throbbing house party. Some comrades of mine live in a huge, creaky, rent-controlled compound in Angelino Heights for next to nothing. Normally, envy would cause me to despise them, except that they throw really good parties.

The annual double birthday party for ex-Giant Dragger Micah Calabrese and comedy dude about town Doug Jones became packed to the literal rafters with hundreds of miscellaneous fools, signaling the dizzy start of a season of warm weather parties. I mopped the floor with my dress. A mural of obscene drawings on butcher paper grew more complex and offensive as the hours went by. Dozens perched on the steep slope of a rooftop, and someone stole my coat. A fistfight almost erupted as someone threw a wadded up dollar at a skanky girl, and karaoke occurred down the hall. It was a war zone.

When the cops came banging on the door at 4:30 am to discover a living room-turned-discothèque, all bets were off. Folks filed out, and we did the only thing we could do: headed for breakfast.

Happy Spring, folks, and if you happen to have made off with a pea coat at a house party, you'd better call me. 

High fives,

Keith Richards has single-handedly made getting old cool. His defiant swagger and cockroach-like resilience have made him the ultimate rock & roll icon. Like a seasoned blues veteran, time has only honed his musical abilities to a razor-sharp edge. When you look up “rhythm guitarist” in the rock dictionary, it’s just a big picture of Keith.

He’s also sure to have rocketed up the High Times “Pot 40” after telling the UK Daily Mail “I smoke my head off. I smoke weed all the damn time. That's all I take, that's all I do. But I do smoke, and I've got some really good hash.” Party at Keith’s house!

Which could make the Rolling Stone’s new classic concert documentary “Shine A Light” captured by cinema great Martin Scorcese, somewhat educational in the art of growing old, um, rockfully? Opening on the biggest number of IMAX screens ever (like the one at Universal Citywalk), their elegantly wasted timelessness in such relentless detail sounds like the perfect excuse to gorge on popcorn and Diet Coke to me.

It’s pretty amazing that at the center of that legendary brand bordering on it's own culture is a guy like Keith Richards, someone who only stopped doing coke after he famously fell out of a tree in Fiji and smacked his head, drinks Ketel One by the Big Gulp and brags about attending the funerals of more than one doctor that told him he’d be dead in six months. Nice work, if you can get it. See you at the movies...

—Scott T. Sterling 

 
It was a sad day in January when I learned that Cahuenga's Tokio would be closing at the end of March. It'd long lost its original identity as a chic "Lost in Translation"-style restaurant and lounge where sightings of Mischa Barton and Heather Graham were as sweet as the Japanese cocktails. And I definitely wasn't crazy about how it'd become a promoter-driven free-for-all. But the nevertheless, it was my first favorite bar when I moved to L.A. and I didn’t want it going anywhere.

It was an even sadder day when I learned that the venue was getting transformed into a gun-inspired club called Revolver. I love an all-black motif, but seriously: No. Lame.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? The end of March rolled around and Tokio is still going. I'm told the owners have made a 360. The new plan of action is to close Tokio at the end of April and reopen it this summer as an "Eco" club with a "green" theme. Details are still on the DL, but I'm having visions of a lounge that's operated with natural energy and only serves VeeV cocktails—with fresh, organic mixers, of course. Whatever happens, I'm at least glad that the gun theme was shot down.

UPDATE: I just heard back from someone at Tokio who says plans are still influx and that nothing is set in stone. 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Some designers and labels just go together; Marc Jacobs and Louis Vuitton, Karl Lagerfeld and Chanel, Tom Ford and Gucci. It's not surprising that H&M would attempt to tap Comme des Garcons designer Rei Kawakubo to design a one-off collection for the Swedish fashion label. What is surprising is that she agreed.  

 

A look from Comme de Garcons Fall/Winter 2008 collection 

"I have always been interested in the balance between creation and business," Kawakubo said in a statement. "It is a dilemma, although for me creation has always been the first priority. It is a fascinating challenge to work with H&M since it is a chance to take the dilemma to its extreme, and try to solve it."

Following in the steps of Karl Lagerfeld, Stella McCartney, Viktor & Rolf and—most recently—Roberto Cavalli, Kawakubo's line will consist of womenswear, menswear, childrenswear and a unisex fragrance. The clothes will be available for purchase come November, scheduled to coincide with the opening of Japan's second H&M store (the first will open a mere month earlier) to be located in the shopping district of Harajuku—a Gwen Stefani favorite. I'm not sure why I'm so shocked, for it was bound to happen eventually—when you're as avant-garde as Kawakubo, sometimes there's nowhere else to go but mainstream.  

 —Marcos Luevanos

 

I’ve documented my disdain for Starbucks coffee plenty of times, so I don’t mean to belabor the point. But when the company’s bid for charred, over-extracted world domination led to the recent announcement that Starbucks will soon horde all the Clover coffee machines for itself, I knew things were about to come to a head.

And it did last Wednesday, when I made my usual pit stop at my local Groundwork to witness this:

L.A.’s first ever Clover machine was packed off to coffee bean heaven…or perhaps, Seattle.

I asked Sarafina, Groundwork’s empress of espresso, if it was because of the Starbucks buyout. She admitted that while that was part of the reason, the Clover’s demise was imminent. Apparently, the $11,000 gadget was a persnickety P.O.S.—constantly breaking down, making crap coffee. “It’s overrated,” another Groundwork gal chimed in.

With so much trouble and maintenance, the indie coffee group was already planning to transition to a simpler, purer form of brewing the venerable bean. Expect to see the drip bar—essentially the Chemex, before its sexy scientist-y remake—soon for specialty extractions.

I am happily anticipating this latest development—the drip bar is an excellent method, and one that I thoroughly enjoyed at the best coffeehouse in Berkeley. But I can’t say that I’m not mourning the loss of the Clover. Call me feeble, but I believed the hype. I’ll feel better once I drown my sorrows…in coffee, of course.

Update: Within a matter of days, a double-well soup warmer thingy was plugged into the spot previously occupied by the Clover. Groundwork now proudly serves soup and vegan chili. Wonder if that comes in larger 16 oz cup.

—Jiyeon Yoo