Yes, it's late on the Friday before Labor Day and to no one's surprise, Alie and I are once again still in the building. But before you start feeling all sorry for our pitiful souls, just witness what hilarity ensues when no ones around.

The largest lobster festival in the land may be two weeks away (and sure, who can think of anything past the long weekend?), but we've got major lobster on the brain—for Alie, quite literally. Even the lobster gallery is joining in with applause.

Yeah, we know you want in on this late night workahol-party—if you can get past the big, buff bouncer we got downstairs.

G'night party people! Enjoy a labor-free weekend. 

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,  

Getting the flu during the worst heat wave in the summer? Miserable, let me tell you. I've been sneezing and coughing and getting drunk on TheraFlu all week. But I've kept up on the scene, vicariously at least.

First off, did anyone catch Hyde owner Sam Nazarian flex his thespian muscle on "Entourage" on Sunday? I really need to get HBO. Meanwhile at Hyde this week: Mel B had trouble controlling her hormones and LC hid from the paparazzi, which is kind of like going to The Ivy and getting annoyed that there are cameras.

Over on E!'s "Dr. 90210," Les Deux's bartender Brian got his perspiration issues in check by having the sweat glands under his armpits Botoxed. (Umm...) Paris and Stavros, however, probably didn't stay as dry when they reunited at Les Deux this week.

Before I crawl back into bed, I leave you with a photo gallery of Les Deux from last Tuesday's party. Click in.

 I know I am probably the last person in L.A. to get on the romper bandwagon, but when I saw this little turquoise number at American Vintage in Los Feliz, I just couldn't resist. ($32). Then I spotted some bad-ass cowgirl boots for $55 and thought "why not?". And while I'm at it, I should probably get a nice new vintage brown leather clutch ($15). Right?

I asked Robert, the kind young man behind the counter with a wooden spike through his septum, if he thought the romper suit made my bum look...bountiful. He promsied me it looked good. I still wasn't sure.

ME: "You mean it? You're not just saying that?"

ROBERT: "Yes honey, your ass looks great."

ME: "I dunno..."

ROBERT: "Trust me, I know these things."

ME: "How do you know?"

ROBERT: "Because I'm black." 

There was no arguing with that, so I went ahead and made my purchases. I am going to wear my new outfit tonight - Margaret Cho is presenting a preview of her all-new Sensuous Woman show at the Gay and Lesbian Center in Hollywood, and then after that, it's the Arthur Mag "Back To Life"  party at the Little Joy, celebrating the un-folding of our most favorite pretentious music publication.

Mazal tov Jay Babcock.

Oh man, how did these kids sneak up on me like this? I've been watching the Chromatics with an eagle eye ever since I first heard the dark, moody atmospheres of their song "In The City." From there it was a treasure trove of cool tunes via their Myspace page, including covers of Bryan Ferry's "My Only Love" and Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill." The music is kind of drone-y and weird, with singer Ruth melodically talking over the narcoleptic beats and tinkly synthesizer squiggles. In short, they're tops in my book. Imagine my excited surprise to discover they'll be doing their thing in town twice this weekend.

The Portand cuties start on Friday night at the "Weekend Warrior" party. It's happening at 122 Glendale Blvd in Echo Park on the 2nd Floor. Enter in the back alley behind the Bob Baker Puppet Theatre. Other acts include Hard Place and I Can't Read. DJs are Savage Fantasy and Blazing Lazer. Doors at 10PM.

Our deliciously detached anti-heroes will also hit the stage at the Echo on Sunday, 9/1, as part of the Part-Time Punks Party, which we already love. Talk about a nice way to kick off the Labor Day festivities. Word. I'll be the one coveting whatever they're selling at the merch table. 

Look at Seattle getting in on the frozen yogurt action. Obviously the design is a blatant rip-off, but we do like the title, as these things go. We can’t wait until Wackyberry shows up in Portland.

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.

Oh, Trader Joe’s avocados. How we yearn for the old days when you were consistent and delicious. We felt we could count on you any time of year.

But lately, you’re moody. It’s only extremes with you: hard as a rock, or moldy, mushy, and fetid. Where did it all go wrong? Oh well, perhaps this is for the best. This may be our chance to start buying avocados at the farmer’s market. They’re so much more expensive than you, but we know we’re getting quality. Trader Joe’s avocados, you have toyed with our emotions for the last time.

Julie Edwards, drummer for the Pity Party, (on the right there) is unstitching her beloved Little Knittery from its current premises inside Steinberg & Sons in Los Feliz, and will re-open in a hot new space on Glendale Blvd. in Atwater Village.

It was supposed to open tomorrow, but the re-launch was postponed until Sept 5 because of "boring and yukky" technical issues.  I'm not sure for the reasons behind the move. When I spoke to Suzy from Steinberg & Sons a couple months ago, there was no mention of it.

New digs are located at:

3042 Glendale Blvd.
LA, CA. 90039
323.663.3838

HOURS
mon-tue CLOSED
wed - fri 12 - 7 p.m.
sat 12 - 8 p.m.
sun 12 - 5 p.m.

OK, I’ve now officially lived in L.A. longer than any other city outside of my beloved hometown of Detroit. How it is that I’ve done it without catching at least one game at Dodger Stadium is a mystery.

I made my virgin voyage to the stadium earlier this summer to catch the Police reunion concert (awesome show, and Stewart Copeland is among the greatest rock drummers of all-time), and was immediately taken by the grandeur of the place.

So when I got the call that there was a ticket available for last night’s game against the Washington Nationals, I was intrigued. When I found out that the ticket was in the LA Times executive suite, I couldn’t say “oh HELL yes!” fast enough.

The field shot above is the view from the suite. But really, I should’ve been taking pictures of the elaborate and calorie-laden spread inside the room. I mean, the Dodger Dog station alone was enough to bring tears of joy to my eyes (or maybe it was just the onions). The refrigerator full of beer quickly became my new best friend. But then, the magic happened. The dessert cart arrived.

The dessert cart was loaded with piles of the most decadent displays of confectionary magic this side of the last time you got stoned and ended up in front of the bakery counter at Auntie Em’s Kitchen. The Red Velvet cake was divine, and the carrot cake was among the best I’ve ever tasted. I couldn’t even look at the Snickers cheesecake. But this was my favorite treat found on the cart.

A candy apple covered in M&Ms? Is this a baseball game or the munchies room at the Cannabis Cup?

By the time we rolled ourselves out of the stadium at the end of the game, our Dodger heroes had come from behind to beat the Nationals in a blaze of glory. Think Blue!

There are still plenty of games to take in before the season ends. And I hear that they can be as much if not more fun in the cheap seats as they are in an executive suite. Plus you can stuff your face just as righteously as the fatcats upstairs with their all-you-can-eat deal. I’ll try it one of these days, but not before I get my hands on some of that Snickers cheesecake in the suite. And another Dodger Dog. And maybe a couple more Heinekens…

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.  

We left off with Miss Alie Ward in mid-dance. (And yes, eagle eyes, that is a Veronica Mars calendar on music editor's Scott T. Sterling's desk--who showed up late to the party.

The clear favorite seemed to be the white chocolate mousse Pocky with an extra layer of creamy goodness that made it look like the Rolls Royce of biscuit sticks. I personally liked the chocolate with the extra dusting of cocoa: the bittersweet powder both cut through the sweetness and added an extra layer of texture (and I am all about texture in my food).

The A-Ward (ha!) goes to Alie Ward herself for her moment of sheer genius. So consumed was she with the inspiration, she tore her teeth through the next bag..

Pulled out one chocolate and one Tahitian vanilla... 

And made her own Pocky combo. Ingenious.

That's alot of stuff "happening in our mouth" (quoth, George Ducker after trying the strawberry with chocolate) and stepping up the Pocky Party, indeed. Party on.

The Labor Day parties haven’t even kicked off yet and already my attention has shifted to Award Season and all the glamorous after-parties we have to look forward to. The Emmy Awards, of course, will get the party started in L.A. on September 16. The two events everyone’s buzzing about: The TV Guide bash at Les Deux and the Entertainment Tonight/People fete at the Walt Disney Concert Hall.

Yes, I said the Walt Disney Concert Hall. With all of my favorite TV stars. I think I might die and go to heaven.



Here’s the scoop.

The music:
A *surprise* Grammy award-winner is headlining—my guess is John Legend
KCRW DJ Jason Bentley

The drinks:
Entertain-mint mojitos
A-list twists
Paparazzi punch

The food (c/o Patina):
Blinis with caviar and crème fraiche
Mini smoked scallop burgers
Beef tenderloin with roasted garlic
Yellowtail snapper with a passion fruit buerre blanc saunce

The sweets (c/o Godiva):
A chocolate tree with fresh strawberries, brownies and macaroons
A truffletini bar

The party favors:
Maybeline and Garnier make-up bags
A sustainable, eco-friendly Cole Haan bag packed with goodies from Crabtreen & Evelyn, YogaWorks, massage gift certificates and more

Now, the only question is: How will I get myself on the list for this lavish party? Oh yeah: And what will I wear?  

Guy Blakeslee of The Entrance Band slayed on the guitar and was the dominating force of Saturday's Fuck Yeah festivities, as far as I am concerned. His bearded Messiah/revolutionary look got me pretty hot too:

They played at the Rec Center which became engulfed by an overwhelmingly putrid stench shortly before the end of their set. Someone (or multiple persons) had let one go, and it was nuclear. We decided that the poo smell might actually have been the band's fault--what with all that heavy rockin' hittin' our guts, it is possible that everyone in the crowd accidentally emitted a small amount of gas at the same time, creating the resultant cloud of foulness.

NAME-CHECKS:

I bumped into Lavender Diamond's Becky Stark by the artist check-in. She was sweet and spacey and wearing something odd that was covered in opaque mother-of-pearl sequins. Said hi to Erin Garcia of Brother Reade outside the Echo shortly before his set. Saw the organizer Sean Carlson running down the street looking happy. But then he always looks happy. Chatted up A&R goddess Laurel Stearns, who was with her BF, who plays in Joshua Tree's Thriftstore Allstars. Headbanged a little with the kindest, hardest-working young man in music, Josh Frankfort of Shmanagement. And mentally high-fived Metromix's blondely-bearded Associate Editor of Rad, George Ducker, who loaned me ten bucks last week.

I felt bad for all the sorry muthas standing in line behind the Echoplex to pick up their will-call tickets. Literally hundreds of poor humans stood in a miserable line that snaked around the side of the building. But it did prove one thing--just how sexy and popular Fuck Yeah has become.

Which may or may not be a good thing for the event itself.

Crucial news hot off the presses for all you L.A. vintage shopaholics:

#1: Apartment 3, the cute vintage/consignment/emerging designer packed boutique on La Brea, has moved downtown and is now only open three days a week, from Friday to Monday. Presumably this is because owner Kristin is busy putting together her new line, three-la.

#2: B.B.C., the beloved vintage/thrift store on Sunset Blvd. on Echo Park, has changed its name. It is now called "As American Vintage".  We're surprised they went for such a generic name (there's already a store called American Vintage in nearby Los  Feliz), and the new signage is kinda generic, hardly a fitting facade for the den of sexiness inside. Oh well.

#3: Sea Level Records' former premises on Sunset in Echo Park is now a boutique, selling fashiony white trash 80s-inspired hipster apparel by the looks of things. A band was playing inside during last weekend's Fuck Yeah fest, so I popped back today to check out the scene...but it was closed. I don't even know what its name is yet, as there is no signage. Updates to come!

I told you Avalon's quarterly Made in Brazil party was hotter than Gisele Bündchen in a Victoria's Secret catalog. Exhibits A and B.

Miss Saturday night's party? Click in for more photos.

1. Friday night was spent at the Hyperion Tavern hanging out with Metromix style maven Caroline Ryder at her party. It was fun. Chilling outside, met the very cool patrons of a new café two north of the joint. It’s yet to officially open, but they were kind enough to hand me a Red Stripe and make Jessie an exceptionally tasty cappuccino. Good people.  

2. Saturday was super-fun. First up, a tasty morning brunch at Mani's. There was a quick cloudburst over Fairfax while eating. The rare phenomenon made everyone in the area a little giddy. Later, the eternally cool team of Motormouthmedia honcho Judy Miller and her hubby Mark had a little get-together around the pool. The guys from No Age and Deerhunter were there, although Bradford Cox was passed out in the bedroom most of the time. When he finally emerged groggy and in search of In-N-Out Burger, Judy introduced him to everyone. He took it upon himself to replace our names with ones he deemed more appropriate. My Bradford Cox name is “Jimmy.” I’m cool with that.

3. Sunday was kinda awesome. For one, when’s the last time you watched the movie “Singles”? I’m just saying.

4. Brunch at Home is always such a good thing. The food is good, and they have a full bar. I'm just saying.

5. Leaving Home, happened upon what appears to be a killer vegan spot called Green Leaves. Ran into Laura and Kyle who were heading in for brunch. They gave it the highest recommendation possible, saying they hit the spot for grub on the regular. I know where I’ll be noshing next weekend.

6. CENSORED FOR CONTENT

7. Interlude (“Like New”)

8. CENSORED FOR CONTENT

9. Finally was able to pry myself away in time to hit the Echoplex moments before Deerhunter took the stage as part of the Fuck Yeah Fest. Ran into Judy and Mark. Mark tells me that Bradford was up all night burning music from his vast and amazing collection.

10. Deerhunter plays. They are a zillion times better than they were when I saw them open for the Ponys at the Echo a few months ago. They meander through tunes like “Octet” and “Wash Away” in a controlled but still semi-chaotic manner. Bradford does not wear a wig or a dress, but a cool t-shirt with graphics from the 1981 ska documentary “Dance Craze.”

11. I bought a Deerhunter shirt. Yes, I am a music nerd.

12. Can someone please help me secure a copy of the Deerhunter/Hubcap City 7-inch on Rob’s Records? I know there are only 300 in existence, but I need Deerhunter’s “Greyscale” on vinyl.

13. Thanks, and take care of each other out there.

Let's cut to the chase. It's been one tough week: we got the move downtown, tons of coverage of festivalia-galore for follow-up, and well, just sheer exhaustion. Not to the level of "crappy" (though it got damned close) but even Friday doesn't taste as it should.

I'm not one to throw big parties, but a day like today calls for one. And at Metromix LA/HQ, nothing causes sheer giggly delight like Pocky. Yes, I said Pocky. Those rail-thin, chocolate-coated biscuit sticks. You look at those and you know that a culture that daily uses chopsticks was the mad genius behind them. Of course, the Pocky empire expands well beyond the realm of chocolate. 

I hit my local Marukai and cleared the shelves of Pocky varietals and gained some serious lovin' from my colleagues (sorry, dudes, no photos). Come join us on our little Pocky Party (set in two parts), and let's see which creamy-coated dips passed our lips.

DISCLAIMER: In my efforts to resize my photos and with my hateful computer problems today, I realize that the photos are blurry. I'll see what I can do next time.

Bottom row (left to right): Tahitian Vanilla, Honey & Milk, Strawberry, Mango Mousse, White Chocolate Mousse

Top row: Gigantic sack of individual bags of original Pocky, Bittersweet chocolate with cocoa dust

Miss Alie Ward shyly hides her excitment at her first introduction to Tahitian Vanilla.

Oooh....Alie shows off how the pretty bag matches Alexandra's shirt of hotness

Sniff! It smells like cake batter...and tastes delightful! This ended up being the Ward favorite as it tasted like vanilla pudding (and shared the pure snowiness of Alie's skin).

Contributing editor George Ducker isn't afraid to get in on some Pocky action even in his formal Friday attire. "[Strawberry] smells like cigarettes!" Alex cries with surprise. Oh, that was George.

We appreciate guys who coordinate with their favorite Pocky, in this case: Metropolitan white chocolate mousse meet a creamy oxford with a touch of tie (perhaps an "Oxford" knot, if you will)

Alexandra liked the Mango Mousse, which was "enormous!" As she summarizes, the bigger the stick with more frosting, the better. Yes, that was meant to be sexual.

More delights from the party forthcoming—as well as some professional evaluation (I am a serious food editor, after all). For now, enjoy Alie's ballerina flight of Pocky euphoria during the intermission.  

TO BE CONT'D.

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

I went to Green Door on Wednesday and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since.

When you walk in, it’s like you’re whisked away to another world, another century even. It has all the fixings of a turn-of-the-century French castle with red velvet couches, green and gold curtains, chandeliers, a stone fireplace, regal portraits, museum-worthy murals and walls that have been painted in earth tones to give the impression of age. It also has a secretive and mysterious vibe; a bit like the game Clue, but instead of searching for “who done it," the impeccably dressed crowd is looking for who they want to do. The other night, most of the girls were in dresses and the dudes were dapper in vests, pinstriped shirts, skinny ties and loafers—very Jude Law in "The Talented Mr. Ripley."

Here's a quick look inside, though my DIY pics don't do it justice!

With regulars like Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Bosworth, getting in is not easy, but I’m pretty sure that a dinner reservation is a ticket past the velvet rope. The food (available until 1 a.m.) looks good too, especially the crepes and the steak frites.

On a side note:
There's a hair iron for use in the bathroom. Confusing, yes, but I kind of love that you can fix your hair on the fly.

Some teens celebrate their 18th birthday by buying lotto tickets and getting lap dances. Not Hayden Panettiere. Her first order of business this week was to register to vote (with a photo op, of course) and on Saturday she’s hitting the kick-off party for the “young professional division” of the Barack Obama campaign.

Want to go? Here are the details.
Where: Falcon

When: 4 p.m. to 7 p.m.

Who: Um, Hayden! And Will.i.am is co-hosting the event with promoter Pantera Sarah. (Barack, however, will be in Florida.)

Cost: $25

Party favor: Sweet t-shirts silk-screened with graphics like this!

Everyone knows the best tacos are served from catering trucks and mobile stalls. It turns out the most fun desserts may be, too. There’s a truck that parks at Echo Park Avenue right below Sunset on weekday evenings, and it’s got all the sugary fried goodness you could hope for.

They also have fruit, but that’s boring. Unless of course you order it “con crema.” Better yet, try the fried plaintains with strawberry jam and melted, sweet cheese…I guess it’s safe to say those are an acquired taste. And there’s nothing wrong with a classic: The churros here are the best you’ll ever have, but be sure to ask for them fresh-made.

And get them before you hit the bars. The truck leaves around 10 p.m., but nothing’s a better base layer for margaritas at Barragan’s than dough fried in oil.

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 

On my way out of last night's awesome Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, I saw Vincent Gallo kicking it with Eric, the super-tall guitar player that you might remember from his days in Hole. These two drunk girls were hanging all over Gallo, who was nice but didn't seem interested. He happily agreed to pose for a photo, and then struck this casual pose which made me laugh. Chill dude, and chicks dig him. Nice work, if you can get it.

I bumped into the famous Walking Man of Silverlake the other day. A doctor by trade, he somehow finds time to walk 15 miles a day or thereabouts while reading the newspaper. If you live anywhere close to the Eastside and have eyes, you've no doubt seen him, chestnut brown skin, luminous shorts, sweat glistening on his bare chest as he paces furiously along the sidewalk.

So I stopped him as he marched down Sunset Blvd, with one question on my lips:

"Why are you so obsessed with walking around?"

But I was too shy to ask him that, so this fell out of my mouth instead: 

"Where did you get your sneakers?"

He cocked his eyebrow, Sean Connery-like, and leaned in to whisper his secret.

"Thesh are Pumash...I get all my shoesh for free...but I can't shay where from."

How mysterious.

He did tell me his name is Marc, and that the LA Times has written two stories about him. And then invited me to a private gathering at his office. Apparently he hosts rockin' happenings once a week at his doctor's office in North Hollywood. "You'll see a whole different side of me, I promise," he said, adding that there would be Newcastle Brown Ale aplenty. "You'll like that, you're British right?" Then he got misty-eyed and told me how he was once a classical music student at Oxford (or was it Cambridge) university.

Up close, the Walking Man of Silverlake is rather handsome and has a Twinkle In His Eye, so I had to step inside Isac the orchid shop to cool down a little.

There, I struck up conversation with the rather fabulous owner, Isac, who is from Cologne, Germany, but opened up his store in Silverlake a couple years ago.

His two puppies were inside, one whose name is Jack Sparrow, because he "looks like Johnny Depp". Johnyy Depp wishes he were this cute.

As well as beautiful blooms, Isac also sells dresses. He told me he had seen the exact same frocks he sells in a Third Street boutique for three times what he charges in his store. I loved the little Pac Man pinnies and Strawberry Shortcake skirts made by a local designer who repurposes bedsheets and the like.

Then, feeling trigger-happy with the camera, I stepped around the corner to Bittersweet Butterfly and took some photos of the wares inside.

I love their fresh-cut "baby I'm sorry, I'll never make out with your roommate again" flowers, plus garters, panties, lace, frilliness and general girliness.

I bought some garters, stepped back into the midday sun and thought about drinking brown ale with Walking Man.

Karen O and I go way back. No, not like that, Mr. Dirty Mind. I've just been a big fan from the moment I first got my hands on their debut full-length, "Fever To Tell." At some points, you could've called it fanatical. Which is why I was kind of discombobulated around the solidly sold out Yeah Yeah Yeahs show at the Mayan last night. Enough that it took me awhile to actually make my way down there (I kind of committed the cardinal sin of concert-going: leaving the house without my ticket. Doh!). By the time I got there, the place was a giant sardine can of humanity, forming an impenetrable wall between me and anywhere even close to the stage. Not good. Hmmm, time to get crafty.

That’s when I spied the doorway leading out to the smoking patio. Going outside, I see that there’s another door leading back into the theater, only this door opens up onto the main floor area. Score!

I wormed my way into the crowd and got my face rocked off by Karen and the boys. She’s definitely calmed down some since the last time I saw them play at the Fonda a couple of years ago (Karen wore a folding chair that night. You try pulling that look off). But she’s no less intense. Of course, she still broke out her signature moves, like deep-throating the microphone and spitting a geyser of beer into the air. An acoustic version of "Maps" was appropriately weepy. She donned and cast off a variety of killer accessories, like the bowler hat with a veil made of long, glittery ribbon and a giant cape with a detatchable hood. 

So yeah, they were awesome. I’m still stuck on the immediate gratification of songs from “Fever to Tell,” but “Cheated Hearts” and especially “Phenomena” from "Show Your Bones" were epic. Yeah Yeah Yeahs still got it, no doubt.

PS: Will someone over at Interscope PLEASE holla at a player? Seriously.  

Success! The space formerly known as Dublin's has finally, truly been reborn into a club that's sure to be a hit on the Sunset Strip. Last night's opening party of The Beach was packed to the gills with a bronzed crowd—either they lay out at the real beach or, most likely, they fake 'n bake at Sunset Tan nearby.

I wasn't able to stay for the performances (went to The Green Door and it's amazing; more on that later), but I did see the awesome Ryan Silver (right) and his cohort Spike, who stopped by before heading to Opera, where they promote hugely successful parties on Wednesdays.


Some other "highlights" of the evening:


While most people were chilling out downstairs last night, I can tell you that the upstairs lounge, which looks like a living room, will become the best spot in the house, especially during football season. And with a menu like this, how could you not stay all day, all night?

Intelligentsia Coffee, the much esteemed roaster from Chicago, moved into Silver Lake this weekend just in time for the Sunset Junction Festival, which gave it perhaps the biggest opening weekend a coffee shop has ever enjoyed (or not enjoyed: “Everyone wanted iced drinks,” sniffed the baristas about the weekend’s hipster revelers). Now that the hubbub is over, the highly trained, highly motivated staffers were able for the first time Monday to concentrate on what they do best, which is, obviously, crafting coffee. These people know their stuff, and know how to educate a palate.

When I announced myself as a coffee newbie, one of the baristas recommended a latte with agave syrup. So mysterious, and so right. It balanced out the bitterness I don’t like without getting overly sweet like a mocha. But then, the barista is from Seattle. They’re so authentic at Intelligentsia! And as if the Northwestern staff wasn’t proof enough, this is what truly blew my mind: students. Actual students, with charts and graphing calculators and anatomy textbooks and highlighters. Not a script in sight. Oh, I am so in love with Intelligentsia.

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.

Sadness. Trifecta finally bit the bullet and filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. And rumor has it that one of my favorite wine bars, Bodega DeCordova, is closing down too. At least I'll have The Beach's opening party to cheer me up tonight. The party starts at 8 p.m. and food and booze is free until 10 p.m. Steve Aoki is DJing (hot) and Jesse McCartney and Ryan Cabrera are performing (ummm?), but mainly I'm excited to dive into the Wipeout margarita. I also hear that there'll be lifeguard booths out front. RSVP for tonight's bash at rsvp@platformgrp.com.

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.

Looks like lowercase m's are all the rage in the world of logo design:

   (from L to R: Metromint, Metromix)

Meet 'Metromint' (no relation to Metromix), which is essentially water flavored with unsweetened mint. If this water tastes as half as good as we do, I pity the fool who deosn't drink it.

Our suggestion: throw a Metroparty, where each guest come dressed as his favorite Metromix editor, sips some ice cold Metromint, and gets Metrowasted on Medical Metrojuana.

Metromint. It's a good thing. 

I know I know...you're barely over your Sunset Junction hangover and here I am carping on about next weekend's Fuck Yeah! fest...but seriously, you know this is where the real L.A. grassroots awesomeness is going to be at, and you better make sure you have enough braincells in order to jump aboard this two-day sonic mindtrip.

Curated by Keith 'Circle Jerk' Morris and Silverlake's cherubic pin-up Sean Carlson, the line-up is a who's who of L.A.'s emerging talent including: Lavender Diamond, Busdriver, Boom Bip, Entrance, The Mae Shi, Imaad Wasif, Brother Reade, Sabertooth Tiger, Indian Jewelry, No Age, Midnight Movies, The Blood Arm, Darker My Love, Great Northern, Moonrats, Abe Vigoda and more. They even got esteemed underground artist Raymond Pettibon himself to design the poster:

I plan on going and covering it for you, the lovely sweet darling readers of Metromix. And I hereby pledge that in my style reportage from "Fuck Yeah" I will use the word "hipster" a total of ZERO times. I swear it. I'm done with that damn word. No more hipster this, hiptard that. It's OVER (although I may use the word 'scenester' in the interim, until a better alternative is found).

PS: WIll someone please tell me how to spell "Fuck Yeah" this year? The website says "Fuck Yeah" the poster says "Fuck Yea" and the flyers being handed out by organizer Sean Carlson said F*ck Yeah". What's the feckin' deal, yo?

Um, yeah. What can you really ever say about the Sunset Junction the Monday morning after? You're usually doing well if you can say anything at all.

While my mouth is slowly learning how to function properly again, I do remember a few things. Like seeing freak-folkster Devandra Barnhart kicking it on Sunset with a cute girl. I saw two people completely incapacitated on booze (or whatever) passed out on the ground. One was a girl on the side of the street during the Buzzcocks set on Sunday. She had a sweet haircut. Too bad it was plastered with her puke. Not a good look. The other was this dude propped up against a car drooling while his friend pointlessly held his hand. We think getting him somewhere safe and an IV drip of water would’ve made more sense. Yes, it was yet another Sunset Junction.

Lots of good things happened, too. I saw my old friend Joe Donnelly. I made some new friends (wink!). I ate really good food and quaffed really good beer at MMX LA's fearless leader Deb's spot, which was conveniently Junction adjacent.

But you don’t want to hear my silly stories. You want to look at pictures of the cool bands that played. So I’ll shut up for now.

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.

The bar at Malo was the drinking destination at Sunset Junction this past weekend. Their big special was $3 Dewar's, which just kills me because it's such an old man's drink. (Guess they're desperate to hook a younger generation on its booze now that their current customer base is dying off.) Scotch just does not equal party, unless you're Augusten Burroughs before rehab—and even that wasn't so much of a party. What does equal a party? Malo's mojitos, which are so good the bartender actually took a sip of my drink before handing it to me. Normally that'd freak me out, but this time it actually earned her a bigger tip.

Started off at my friend Monica's house in Echo Park where we indulged in her special Master Cleanse Cocktail (lemon juice, cayenne pepper and vodka) and I chatted to two L.A. Times writers ("come visit us on the Third Floor!" they said, upon hearing of Metromix's imminent move to the Times building).

 Then we started trudging our way down Sunset Blvd. with our friend Matt Slovick, aka the original eXtreme Elvis of San Francisco, known for his naked and occasionally scat-tinged stage portrayals of the King. Matt had with him a portable water mister, most useful in the oppressive heat.

We arrived at the festival and saw a huge line snaking from the entrance. Then we walked right to  the front, waving our press wristbands in the air and yelling "suckahs!" to all around. Not really. But we did walk right in, these being the benefits of being an esteemed member of the press.

2007 was the year that Ray Ban took over Sunset Junction. Literally every second or third human was sporting a pair, with frames in various shades of pink, red or Pollock. We saw a handful of skinny jeans in bright colors. And lots and lots of Indian-style leather sandals. There was the expected proliferation of neon fanny-packs although really, this look is getting kinda boring. And did anyone else see the trio of young "wives of Father Yod" girls, each wearing different but equally fabulous headbands a la 1960s Laurel Canyon? One of them is featured in our Headtrippin photo gallery, and was wearing the same glittery silver band...

Sunset Junction is small enough for you not to worry about losing your friends because like it or not, you'll probably run in to them in about 15 minutes. I bumped into teen scenestress Cory Kennedy, hung out with my fellow style writer gals Linda Immediato, Steffie Nelson and Lina Lecaro, who brought her cherubic daughter Charlotte. For Charlotte, it was her first Sunset Junction. For me, it was my fourth. My first was a blur, I remember rocking out to Eagles of Death Metal and the New York Dolls the year after, then last year was a tornado of death metal with Hank III, followed by The Cramps, and then this year...just as much fun.

Sunset Junction may be a nuisance to some, but I feckin' love it, every year.

Despite the $6 beers, it is the closest thing to Notting Hill Carnival (the biggest street fair in Europe) that this fair city has, and it deserves as much love as we can give it.

Anyhoo - back to the fashion. Top marks to the super-authentic plaid-shirt wearing Kurt Cobain crew. And to the guy with long hair and green tinted glasses who looked like a wizard. Did you see him? Who WAS he? We loved the pretty lesbians holding hands, but not the fake "Girls Gone Wild" ones in hotpants making out for the leery photographers. Yuk. There were sundresses aplenty, in pretty vintage designs and short, sqaure, side-parted haircuts in an array of alterna-shades from black to plum to orange.

It struck me that the so-called 90s revival (yaaaawn) which I am obliged to cover as a style writer but which grosses me out a little, is actually a good thing for the folks of Silverlake, many of whom have been rocking the grunged-out torn jeans and green hair look for years, regardless of the ebb and flow of fashion.

I caught the last part of the Seawolf set before watching Autolux,  those poor things seemed to suffer from some annoying sound issues throughout the set, beginning with major feedbackand then ending with a microphone malfunction for drummer Carla Azar, who was sporting her trademark dark bob 'n bangs combo. The crowd didn't seem to mind though.

I hung around and saved our close-to-the-stage spot for Blonde Redhead, my man heading off to search for lemonade, into which a flaskfull of vodka was promptly poured. Blonde Redhead was an exquisite noise machine, with tiny-voiced lead singer Kazuo looking bewitching as always in a black and white, alternately spotted and striped floaty silk mini dress.

Then we left and headed in search of hot dogs (they were found, deliciousness was had), and said 'hi' to Sean Carlson handing out fliers to his F*ck Yeah fest which happens next weekend. I forgot to ask him why the 'u' has been taken out of the "F*ck". I also saw scenester/musician Chris Holmes chowing down at Malo, which was predictably packed.

And then the long but sweet stumble back to Los Feliz. Actually, not so long at all. It took me about 20 minutes and was refreshing, and left me wondering...why don't we walk more in L.A.? Seriously? 

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. 

After four months of essentially taking squatter's land in Santa Monica and building an entire website while sustaining on microwave popcorn, (stolen) diet coke, increasingly frequent Coffee Bean runs, and the occasional meal (but really only once in a while), the Metromix team is moving back to the LA Times Building.

Know what that means...yep, it's time to clean out our refrigerator. I'll spare you the photo (disposable tupperware should not be disposed or left to decompose in company fridges). We all got a hoot out of Alexandra's definition of cleaning things out when she found this tube of green frosting.

That's right. She is eating processed green frosting from a Betty Crocker tube. 

Downtown here comes our frightening eating habits! Can you dig it?

Sunset Junction is this weekend, but before you go drink your brains out, might I pass along there three important things to you?

One: The rules to break if you want to survive the weekend.

Two: Where to get wasted.

Three: The bands to catch in between binge drinking.

I know: We Metromixers are always so prepared. 

Everyone keeps talking about how the 90's are back. Which leads me to wonder--what on earth are we going to do when that decade goes out of style? Start at ground zero with a Caveman Chic revival, and then work our way back up through the centuries, taking sartorial tips from Jesus and Mary (crown of thorns anyone?), then the druids, the Knights of the Round Table and of course, Salem's Witches?

Luckily, the 90s is more doable than most decades. For those of you who weren't cogniscent teen beings during that wonderful time (like I was), here's a run-down of all the small details that will make your new 90s-inspired lifestyle seem totally authentic.
   
1.    Use plum-colored hair mousse or a lemon to add streaks of color to your long knotted hair 

2.    Make sure your entire music collection is made up of compilation tapes

3.    Buy a pair of Nike Air Max

4.    Buy the same Benetton sweater, in 14 different colors

5.    Go away on vacation and return with cornrows   

7.   Talk about when Sweet Valley High was just a  book
   
8.   Wear only Levi's 501s, with gaping holes in each knee
  
9.  Watch early Baywatch re-runs 

10. Wear a Swatch watch

11. Buy a mood ring   

12. Wear shell suits and fanny packs in an entirely non-ironic way
  
13. Wear a black velvet choker with a little pendant hanging from it, even though you aren't a goth
   
14. Move to Beverly Hills 90210
   
15. Listen to Salt 'n' Pepa when your parents aren't around, on your cassette walkman (for bonus points), and share the headphones with your best friend who knows all the words (for double bonus points).

 
16. Wear ear muffs
   
17.Wear leggings with slouchy socks pulled up and hanging down a little

18.Complete the look with ankle boots

19. Pull the tongues out of your LA Gear runner-boots (which have flashing red lights on them)     

20. Wearing cycling shorts with the above mentioned runner-boots.
   
21.Say Scchhhwiiiing!! a lot and talk about how you wish you were hot like Alicia Silverstone    

22.Play with your Gameboy and ride the bus
  
23. Take ecstasy while wearing sweatpants
  

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.

Oh sh-t! It looks like there's going to be a Sunset Strip rivalry between