OK, if you were anywhere near Crash Mansion for the Metromix launch party last night, there's a good chance that you're either hungover or still drunk. From the looks of things on the dance floor, lots of you are waking up with new "friends" this morning as well. Perhaps all of that dancing and romancing has made you hungry for brunch?  All I know is that last night's party was epic, in particular thanks to international DJ pimp Diplo (pictured) who absolutely tore it down on the turntables in a spiffy Morbid Angel t-shirt completely surrounded by L.A. party people. DJ Squeak E Clean flipped Queen’s “Flash Gordon” theme, and new-school L.A. rap crew 87 Stick Up Kids rocked it like the best episode of "Yo! MTV Raps!" ever. We'll be telling you more about that posse in the near future, so stay tuned.

Our favorite moment of the night? At the end of the party, a bunch of L.A. nightlife celebs were just kicking it onstage. Among the scrum were both Steve Aoki and Franki Chan. OK, they weren’t exactly hanging out or anything, but it was nice to see them both in such close proximity so peacefully. Metromix is bringing people together, y’all!

—Scott T. Sterling

Remember all the hype around mega-dance-club Crobar opening an L.A. outpost in early 2008? It seems DJ-driven venues Vanguard and Avalon no longer have to worry about the competition. I have it on good authority that it’s "never going to open" and that the Crobar owners have been shopping it around on the DL for $4 million. According to my source, no one’s biting because it's harder to pack a large venue in Hollywood, where there are so many venues. Repeated calls and emails to owner Robert Vinokur were not returned, but Brad Altman in marketing and promotions at Crobar in Chicago was kind enough to email back: "I'm hearing that Crobar L.A. is officially not happening." The pending status of its liquor license is also a pretty good indication.


Here's a shot from Crobar in Chicago, which is celebrating 16 years of keeping the party hottt—and not very dressed.

On the same note, the Edison's Marc Smith has put his next project, Mercury Liquors, on ice because he lost the space he wanted to have it in. But fear not. I’ve been assured that the bar’s still in the works.]

UPDATE: I just got word from Robert Vinokur. Click here for the update.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Androgynous style isn't anything new—it's been around since biblical times—still, as a girly boy who is literally one missed haircut away from looking like Joyce DeWitt, I never thought I'd see the day it was used as a marketing tool. Leave it to American Apparel to coin the term "Unisexy," a label that is guaranteed to catch on as the "Metrosexual" of 2008. With androgynous style icons like Marlene Dietrich, Katherine Hepburn, Diane Keaton, David Bowie, Grace Jones, and Kurt Cobain, it's a wonder the epithet didn't catch on sooner.

Not all androgynous looks are winning; remember when Dynasty and Murphy Brown popularized shoulder pads? Still, I think what's so appealing about clothing that both men and women can wear is that it's usually well fitted, basic, inexpensive, and made in a gender neutral color. It makes sense that American Apparel—a company known for producing such garments—would take the initiative in championing this style archetype. It does make me wonder if the L.A. based clothing company is giving their customers what they want, or if it's simply a marketing tool to sell twice as many clothes. I just hope I don't someday regret wearing hats, racer back vests and skinny jeans as much as my mom regrets wearing two pieces of synthetic foam, used to level the playing field between men and women once upon a time in the eighties.

—Marcos Luevanos

We're hearing that you have lots to say on this article about the feud between Daniel LeDisko and Johnny Love. Comment away below! 

To promote their first network TV series, "Unhitched," the Farrelly Brothers and Fox are giving away free Pink's hot dogs Friday and Saturday.

I've watched the preview of the show like five times and queried MMX's TV dude, but I can't still figure out how this show about three guys and a girl who aren't in sunny Philadelphia or doing a whole lotta nothing in New York while the main neurotic is making bank off them has anything to do with hot dogs. Oh right, we're talking about the droll Brothers Farrelly. Fine, insert penis joke here.

Either the Farrellys or someone at Fox is really into drawing food metaphors for this one. Here's the opening excerpt from the show's info: "Dating is like going to the farmers market—if you get there early, there’s plenty of fruit, all ripe, juicy and yours for the taking. That’s dating in your 20s. But if you get there at closing time, it’s a completely different story. What little fruit is left has been sitting in the sun all day. It’s been dropped, squeezed and handled by a thousand different people. That’s dating in your 30s. From the creatively fruitful minds of the Farrelly Brothers..."

There you have it folks, dating is like going to the Farmers Market and squeezing fruit. Stopping by my neighborhood collective will never feel the same again.

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

You guys, I swear I am sick. Listen to this wet cough. Observe the fact that I am wearing stretch denim. Does this hair look flat ironed? It is not.

After a week of being sequestered with myself, some books, and millions of lung-swimming viral bodies, I finally made a trek outdoors on Saturday. Sure, I skipped a straight week of work, but I wanted flapjacks.

Poking a cautious toe back into normal life, I go for brunch with a few girlfriends in Silverlake. Seconds into a piece of toast, my editor Deb Vankin walks in. I stammer an explanation: "Oh hai. You know that week I took off? I swear I was sick."

Then I run into Sean, our video editor, on Sunset Blvd. I am starting to look like a fraud.

Later that night, after a stop at the new gallery space Sea and Space Explorations in Highland Park, I take a Subaru full of hooligans to Shatto Lanes in Koreatown for some bowling and stale popcorn. Walking through the door, I encounter Metromix Bars & Clubs editor, the lovely Alexandra Le Tellier. At a dirty bowling alley in Koreatown?, I ask my subconscious. "Seriously," it responds.

(Holligans love bowling)

I wrapped the evening up with a jaunt to a hilltop house party, said to be in Charlie Chaplin's old digs. There were bikini-clad art chicks, the wailing ridiculous synthpop of Hard Place, Dame Darcy walking around in a tattered prom gown and artist Carlos Ramos drunkenly/charmingly calling me the wrong name— four times.  The strangest part? There was no one from work. It was odd. 

 

(Hard Place, bring art-rock back to living rooms city-wide) 

 

Until next time, my esteemed comrades. 

  

 Miss Alie Ward

Nerd isn’t the word that pops to mind when you think about Loyal Pennings, the nightclub entrepreneur behind LAX.  So when I learned he invented the "Wickler," a wireless clicker that stores accurate head-counts, not to mention demo information about clubbers, he had me geeking out with him. Here's what he had to say about it….

"Nightclub 101 is you have a clicker at the front door and a clicker at the back door. In 1997, this was a nominal problem … but when I moved up to Hollywood from Hermosa, it became a real big issue. The fire marshal got in my face: ‘What's your clicker count?’  I wrote a letter to myself in 1997, 1998 detailing my intentions; kind of like the poor man's patent. One [idea] was the digital clicker, but that would have been 'The Dickler.' I didn't think that would really go over too well."

Pennings is opening a second club with DJ AM—slated to open "sometime between now and April."  So while I had his ear, I asked him about that, too. 

"Construction is nearing its completion. It's a big space and it's really delicate in respect of how it looks. [Because] it's in between the Kodak and the Chinese Theatre, we [can't] do it wrong. I mean LAX was free standing, so it would be like if you had to figure out your outfit. If you had to figure out your outfit for your wedding that's one thing; then [you have] all your bridesmaids too. You have seven people you have to deal with—and this is a large building with a bunch of different angles—so it's a lot more complicated."

That didn't quite answer my question about what the space will look like, but given that it's a Loyal Pennings' club, it's bound to be a celebrity-magnet. I hope geeks can get in!

—Alexandra Le Tellier

“I am a DJ/I am what I play.” The refrain from David Bowie’s song “DJ” (found on his stellar 1979 “Lodger” album) has been rattling around my head a lot lately. It’s become the unofficial theme of the recent past, as I’ve been meticulously picking records to spin when I get to play DJ during the Metromix launch party at Crash Mansion on Feb. 28. (And yes, I’m one of those increasingly rare luddites that still schleps around funky ol’ vinyl).  But I’m not here to get all teary-eyed and passionate about how technology and Serato has dirtied up the game. A dope DJ is a dope DJ.

At the same time, a lousy DJ is still just lousy. And there certainly are a lot of “DJs” roaming around out there that have no idea what they’re doing, but have a hard drive filled with tracks swiped from sites like Palms Out Sounds and Fluokids, and think they’re just a guest spot at “Check Yo’ Ponytail” away from becoming the next A-Trak. But put any of those characters next to a real DJ, like master craftsman Z-Trip, and witness sonic carnage akin to “Saw 7: Blood Vinyl.” (See Z-Trip regulate at the Fonda on Feb. 29 and March 2.)

I’m beyond thrilled to see my name on a bill with international DJ gigolo Diplo. I’ve been checking for Big ‘Lo since before he blew up with the notorious “Piracy Funds Terrorism Vol. 1” mixtape made with M.I.A. back in 2004. I’ve seen him ignite more parties than I can count. One of the best (and most surreal) times was a night he spun at the old Conga Room on Wilshire with Brazilian DJ Marlboro. Both DJs positively killed it. The crowd of mostly hot young Brazilians partied like it was New Year’s Eve. I encountered a pissy James Iha and a pimping Kevin Federline, who rolled in with his then-producer, homeboy Disco D (R.I.P.). It was one for the ages.

So during yet another run to Amoeba to unearth that “one” record I can’t live without (at least for the time being), Bowie’s chorus to “DJ” continues to haunt my brain. Am I nothing more than a mix of Daft Punk and Nirvana? Jay Dilla and TV on the Radio? Debatable. But if so, I’m cool with it.

—Scott T. Sterling 

Anytime a celebrity or a "celebrity" announces that they are coming out with a clothing line, I usually tilt my head and furrow my brow in confusion. Why do these people, many of whom barely know how to dress themselves, think that they'll know how to dress me? Don't they have a stylist who all but tells them to lift their arms up and "reach for the birdie" as they pull a sweater over their head like a five-year-old?

Granted there are some exceptions, but they are few and far between; for every L.A.M.B. by Gwen Stefani there are several Sweet Kisses by Jessica Simpson.

That's why, when I found out that OutKast's André 3000 (aka André Benjamin) is planning on coming out with his own clothing line, I let out an audible sigh of joy. I've been waiting for him to do this since my first day of Catholic school, when I looked in the mirror at my ill fitting navy polo/khaki pants combo and openly wept.        

Inspired by college football uniforms from the ‘30s, Benjamin Bixby—the name of André's line—will consist of 70 pieces and will likely be carried by Barneys in the fall.  

It's difficult to imagine a time before Mr. 3000; a time before Kanye West, John Legend, Will.i.am, Lenny Kravitz, P.Diddy and he made it okay for black men and hip-hop artists alike to bust out of the confines of the requisite shirt-as-big-as-a-tent/baggy jeans/baseball cap wardrobe. The only thing left to say is, "Hey Ya!"

—Marcos Luevanos

Groundwork Coffee unearths a cultural relic: The downtown location right around the corner has instituted a frequent drink card. Oh-em-gee, how wired are we!

Since Groundwork is not one to shy away from the latest technology—this particular branch was one of the first coffee shops to get a Clover—the card is a snazzy plastic thing that looks more like a gift card and will be monitored electronically. The barista swipes the card through for every visit, and the 11th drink (as large and tricked out as your opportunistic heart desires) is fine-friggedy-free! The frequent buyer program also applies to Groundwork's fantastic microroasted beans.

It's been a while since we’ve seen the endangered species in the coffee world. Back in the middle-Starbucks era, competitors lured clientele with printed cardstock and hole punches. The tides turned when Coffee Bean summarily ceased its program, citing problems with petty counterfeiters—and people still kept showing up! Wow, you would think caffeine’s a drug.

The discontinuation came without warning—no personal phone call or e-mail, nothing. That was a really sad day for me as I was left holding a beautifully filigreed, but completely obsolete pink card. (Yeah, I was saving it for a “rainy day”—don’t tell me you didn’t do it either. Johnny Drama feels our pain.)

Here’s a little blast from the past: while I couldn’t dig up that historical Coffee Bean card, I found these antiques at the back of my desk drawer.

 

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

Ward’s weekend to-do list:

1. Sweating: check

2. Hallucinating: check

3. Same clothes for 3 days: check

4. 103 degree fever: check

4. Going to the opening weekend of BCAM, LACMA’s new museum: uh, no

 

Despite my best intentions, this weekend recap is much less Ward on the Street and much more Ward in the Sheets. No, not a foray into autobiographical porn, but rather the effects of hosting an off-the-hook virus party that has rendered me, as I write this, little more than a sweat-soaked, mouth-breathing zombie.   

If you haven’t heard, LACMA just opened The Broad Contemporary Art Museum, funded by some really rich old people with a serious art collection. Eli and Edyth Broad gave LACMA $56 million to house their kick-ass collection of work by art celebrities like Andy “Soup Can” Warhol, Jeff “Balloon Dog” Koons, Cindy “I take pictures of myself in disguises” Sherman, and Jasper “I make paintings of flags” Johns. Oh, and there's some "Warhol Prodigy" Basquiat in there, too. 

But rather than ride the 30 person elevator, stare at Hoover vacuums encased in glass, or witness new work by Barbara “Alie Ward’s Hero” Kruger, I stayed in bed for 72 hours, occasionally moaning like Frankenstein and feeling the effects of my brain cooking at 103 degrees, turning rubbery like a slowly poaching egg.

On the upside, BCAM isn’t going anywhere. And opening weekend was likely an agoraphobe’s nightmare, with 15,000 people jamming the galleries like Christmas Eve at the mall. So, as Metromix as my witness, as soon as I stop planning my funeral from under 12 blankets, I’m totally there.

Urging you to snort Emergen-C,

 

 Miss Alie Ward

Dear Lauren,

             While viewing your spring 2008 collection, I was instantly challenged by the New Year's resolution I made to be less of a grade gAy bitch. It's only February and you're making it hard for me L.C. I had to pray to Santa Anna Wintour at least three times before I got through your look book. What would she do in this situation? It's a question I ask myself on a daily basis. It's why I now wear sunglasses on the toilet.

My point is, you created something—for better or worse-and I'm torn; do I take this prime opportunity to ridicule you and your designs, as so many people have, or do I take the high road? Because the former is too easy and the latter is pretty much impossible, constructive criticism seems the best way to go.

The clothing: It looks like Rachel Pally for Target, which isn't a bad thing, if it weren't for...

The price tag: $145 for a generic jersey tent dress that looks like it would fall apart after one wash is ridiculous. Did you think about your demographic at all? You should have started out by designing a line for Forever 21 or Charlotte Russe.

The design names: Naming them after your friends comes across sort of childish, like you're naming stuffed animals or a teacup Chihuahua. Naming something slutty like a fishnet thong "The Heidi" would have made it bearable.   

In conclusion, keep your  dress form up, your muslin fabric handy, and remember: Today is where your look book begins, the rest is still undesigned.

Sincerely,

M.L.

—Marcos Luevanos

I’m shocked that there hasn’t been more hoopla following Swedish pop star/blog sensation Robyn’s first-ever L.A. show at the Troubadour recently.

A two-hit wonder here in the U.S. back in 1997, she wised up and went fully independent in 2005. It’s been chart-topping hits across Europe and an abundance of online love from geeked-out American music bloggers eager to crown her the world’s preeminent pop princess ever since.

Robyn more than delivered on the hype when she whipped a sold-out Troubadour into a big beat love-fest. From the moment she hit the stage, it was dance party L.A. up in there. Here's my favorite of the series of pics I snapped at the show.

From my vantage point, I felt like one of the very few straight guys in the house, and there were a lot of guys in the place (including Perez Hilton and MMX friend Jeremy Scott).

When Robyn dropped electro banger “Konichiwa B*tches,” the party really jumped off, with the crowd screaming every line of the song louder than ol’ girl’s microphone. She seemed genuinely surprised that the audience was so on point lyrically.

So y’all want to know how to save the music industry? Invest in good artists—like Robyn. She’s got mad style, killer songs, can actually sing, and if left to her own devices, is more than capable of being large like Gwen Stefani. It’s so not rocket science. But don’t get it twisted: truly great artists are very hard to find…

P.S. We're pleased to report that the music gods (and my trusty T1 connection) smiled on me this morning with a totally sweet seat for the "Glow in the Dark" show that I won't shut up about. Until now. Not another word. Promise. 

—Scott T. Sterling 

As you might remember, Kanye West made my Black History Month by announcing the (assumes dramatic movie trailer voice): Best.Tour.Ever! Starring Kanye West, N.E.R.D., Lupe Fiasco, and special guest Rihanna! Cue big dramatic explosions and laser sounds. 

Anyway, a second show was just added, and tickets are going on sale, like, now. So I have to don my best digital secret agent mask (OK, there's a cape involved, too) and do battle with the internets for a good seat. Wish me luck! In the meantime, please enjoy this Rihanna moment, taken from the set of her "Umbrella" video. You're welcome.

—Scott T. Sterling

With all the buzz around downtown’s nightlife revival, it's like the Westside renaissance has gotten shafted. But that's changing fast thanks to a slew of bars debuting fast and furious with hot makeovers.

Remember Mor Bar in Santa Monica? Gone! It’s now Main, a sleek, contemporary nightclub that serves fancy drinks like Bellini cosmos and espresso martinis. And, of course, there’s Chloe, which regular Metromix readers know is my favorite new bar. (Check back here on Tuesday for a video tour of the bar. Until then, enjoy this lovely photo of a leggy blonde that is not me.)



Over in Venice, the Garter has gone from gross dive to seductive lounge—think Western saloon meets French burlesque—and Townehouse Cocktails has gotten a deep clean from the dudes behind Temple Bar and Zanzibar; a good thing since it had smelled like urine for decades. (Lore has it that Jim Morrison would hose down the wall after a few too many.)

And this just in: The Arsenal just reopened after a quickie renovation. Property manager Justin Hollingsworth tells me it’s evocative of how the bar looked in the old days, with a black-and-zinc bar, but that it’s also been modernized with HD TVs and a larger patio. (In the old days, you didn’t have to smoke outside.)

How these polished spots will change the Westside scene remains to be seen. I’m just glad girls are making the scene in bras instead of bikini tops.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

"Move your ass!" Look who's back.

 

Gordon Ramsay is casting in L.A. for season two of "Kitchen Nightmares." So if you're looking to go through the reality rigamorale of being told your food sucks, getting screamed at, having a nervous breakdown on national television, getting screamed at, having your entire staff fired, getting screamed at again—only to have maybe one-in-three chance (Ramsay's current record with L.A. restaurants) of saving your baby, then, well, "move your ass!"

If workplace mess halls are eligible, Gordon, we need a bit of your psychotic mojo in our cafeteria downstairs. 

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

OMG, look what white-trash Cupid brought in! Happy Valentine's Day!

 

(Take our Events editor please! She comes with...ham!)

 

 

What do you get when you mix a dressing-room-less warehouse full of discounted high-end merchandise and flabby old men with hairy backs? Besides nightmares, you get what is quite possibly the unsexiest underwear party ever thrown (aka The Barneys warehouse sale). 

I saw a lot of things on Sunday at the Barker Hangar. In addition to a pair of pants that I had seen earlier that day at another retailer for way less money, I saw: 

a hideous bright-orange Prada sweater priced at $200, 

a handbag that looked more like a picnic basket,

and the sassiest sign since, "We don't swim in your toilet, so don't pee in our pool!," but for some reason, I can't get the image of grandfather-aged men parading around in nothing but boxer briefs, shin-high socks and a smile out of my head.   

It was the greatest test of my homosexuality since seeing Will Ferrell's bare ass for the first time.  

The Barneys sale is a great place to purchase big-ticket items (like a sharp suit for a bar mitzvah or a designer dress for a wedding) but other than that, it's slim pickings. I suspect the sale will get better as its end date nears (Feb. 18th), when items will be priced to really move, but opening weekend wasn't so great. In fact, I overheard one of the sales associates mentioning that it's been slow everyday since they opened. Maybe everyone in L.A. already knows that, like most things in life, it only gets good at the end. Then again, maybe they just heard about the old guys in their skivvies before I did. 

—Marcos Luevanos 

 

Luckyfish opens this Friday.  

Having pumped out sushi (Sushi Roku), robata (Robata Bar), sushi-and-robata (Katana) and steak (BOA) restaurants, the tireless Innovative Dining Group (IDG) is putting fish on the move, so to speak. The new Beverly Hills restaurant will serve sushi via conveyor belt. But considering that living in L.A. has taught us galbi rather than "short ribs" or izakaya over "tapas-style plates", I think we can all manage kaiten-zushi, no?  

Kaiten isn't a whole lotta popular around these parts—not too surprising considering that kaiten is really considered low-commitment, fast food in Japan while sushi as a dining experience in L.A. is oft an elevated form. Luckyfish's "polished casual" vibe that IDG's smooth PR talk promises is looking to bridge the disconnect. 

The concept is relatively simple: you sit at an elongated bar as small appetizer plates stream past you. Depending on the concept, they're sometimes in individual compartments or boats or train cars—you get the picture. Usually, the plates or compartments are color-coded to indicate price. You see something you like, you pick it up. You get a tally (yes, like dim sum) at the end of your meal.

 

     

(Generic examples of kaiten, not meant to represent Luckyfish)  

People may disagree, but I find kaiten is an incredibly stressful process. There's etiquette to be followed, whether it's said outright or not. For example: If you touch it, you take it. There’s no going back. It’s sushi, which means it’s usually raw, which means that the risk of contamination is high. Plates aren't covered, so by sheer proximity, your pheromones have already communed with the pinky flesh. 

Another one: “Excuse my reach." Uh, uh. This phrase does not exist here. You must wait until your desired item ambles right in front of you. If someone picks it up before you do, tough sushi. Okay, maybe not so tough: most kaiten restaurants allow special orders if something doesn’t come out again or if you’re really in the mood for tons of market-priced toro. But then, why not go to a traditional sushi bar? 

A more disconcerting proposition is that you’re never sure how long one plate has been making the rounds, picking up every bit of “conversation” at the table…if you know what I mean. Luckyfish has incorporated radio frequency technology to avoid this problem. A microchip is embedded in each plate to compute the popularity of a particular item but more importantly, to determine how long a plate has been out before it’s taken off. Gosh, we can only hope.  

Finally, I must confess that a part of my "irrationale" comes from my college days when this kaiten restaurant down the way became a popular date spot. For whatever reason, that's where I ended up on a couple of it’s-not-really-a-date dates. And every time, the dude and I were so distracted by the revolving food and making sure that we didn’t miss our turn and then realizing that this casual non-date ended up costing about $40 for each of our cash-strapped persons that, well, it never lead to a real hookup.

By the way, did you know that kaiten also refers to a submarine or torpedo from World War II which carried nearly two tons of explosives and had to be piloted by two people on a suicide mission? Why did I mention it? Eh, no reason.

 

(Credit: Jalopnik.com) 

 

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

 

Time: Last Thursday, 7:48 p.m.

Mission: to check out the Cerasoli Gallery

Moral: Don’t talk to French chicks too long

It was a manic day at Metromix HQ, but my striped socks and I busted out of the office just in time to hit Culver City’s gallery row.

Lab 101 (may it rest in peace) closed about a month ago, and in its place, local art princess Freddi C opened up her own little gallery, Cerasoli. It was a VIP preview, which meant manservants offering trays of fruity champagnes and a sneak peek at the surprisingly large-format mix of drawings and paintings for her first group show, "Fresh."

 

I’m more than familiar with Freddi C’s own clean and stylized artwork, but her face? Notsomuch.

So I ended up chatting with some French chick who—as it turns out—was not Freddi C. She had a thick accent! There was champagne! I was confused.

 

Leaving Cerasoli, I ran square into Beau Basse, the owner of Project:Gallery across the street. Based on his ensemble of camo shorts, dirty sneakers and a crisp dress shirt, I assumed he was drunk. Turns out he was just in his grubbies, taking a quick break before painting his gallery’s floor in anticipation for the weekend’s Tessar Lo show.

 

Tessar Lo's work: yummy! 

I lurked around Project: for a pre-preview of Lo’s work and we chatted about stencil artist/Banky’s protégé Nick Walker and his recent sold-out show at the Carmichael Gallery.

Regardless of the mistaken identities, my socks and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening of lurking in closed galleries and sneaking some previews. Not bad for a Thursday.

As for the weekend itself: peeps, I'm not sure where to start. There were maragitas, taco trucks, trips to Home Depot, and a Grammy party at 86 on Sunday that ended with Har Mar Superstar deep throating a piece of pizza. 

For your week ahead, I highly recommend getting redonk at these non-barfy Valentine's options.  I myself am looking forward to a box of Russel Stovers and some McNuggets:

 

McNuggets: I love them, and they apparently love me back. 

High five all round, comrades.

 

 Miss Alie Ward

Sometimes you just need a drink in the middle of the workday, which is why, yesterday afternoon, I kidnapped Metromix’s professional leisurist Alie Ward from her desk and dragged her to the Downtown Standard for an hour—OK, it was more like three hours—of drunken photo booth fun. We ordered a pineapple-vanilla-infused vodka martini, which the bartender dyed blue (it’s the Metromix color) and garnished with five cherries because I hadn’t eaten lunch. Voila, the results:

  

The Rooftop Bar was pretty hot too, with sneaker-clad, shaggy-haired kids sitting on the mod furniture with their silver Mac laptops and bottles of beer at 3 p.m. on a Thursday. WTF?!

Alie and I were pretty woozy when we realized, “Oh f-ck, we should probably get back to the office because we’re launching this print thing in a matter of days.” We sobered up and then as a prank, we thought it would be hilarious to pay the valet guy while I was still holding a glass that was a quarter full. He didn't even bat an eyelash—and then he actually pulled up my car!

Will rooftop bar ABH, above BondSt in Beverly Hills, be as funtastic? We’ll see when it finally opens next month. 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

While we’re deep in the heart of Grammy weekend and it’s dazzling orbit of parties (Mark Ronson tonight at the Roosevelt—hello!), I’m dreaming of summer. More specifically, I’m looking forward to another season of concerts at our beloved Hollywood Bowl amphitheater.

The 2008 schedule is coming together quickly, and it’s already an impressive list of acts. Jay-Z and Mary J. Blige team up for an R&B/hip-hop throwdown on April 16, although ticket prices for the good seats might induce sticker shock at $350.75. Dang! The Cure goth it up May 31. Super Bowl survivors Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers stop by June 25. Cheap Trick reprises last year’s wildly successful tribute to the Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s” album on June 28. L.A. freak-folk superstar Devendra Banhart plays with Brazilian folk hero Gilberto Gil on June 29. Gnarls Barkley will be a party on July 27.

But last night while I was out taking in the first round of Grammy parties, I ran into a “reliable source” regarding the Bowl’s summer schedule. The source let me in on a particular July booking that’s sure to have a lot of Los Angeles very excited, probably none more so that yours truly. Hint: This act was one of the biggest breakouts in 2007, and a Metromix favorite.

But the other booking I was filled in on? Wooo boy. Let’s just say that most of us will be scrambling like crazed teenage girls to be there. No, it's not Hannah Monatana. Hint: Are you feeling lucky, punk?

—Scott T. Sterling 

 

I’m not a huge fan of the Grammys. I associate it with Celine Dion and that’s like fingernails on a chalkboard. I’m always excited about the parties though, especially after Ludacris’ party last year where a rhinestone-wearing Kevin Federline sent his friend to ask me if I wanted to go back to K-Fed’s place. Britney Spears’ leftovers: Totally hot, right?

Can this year outdo that? Let’s see. On Friday, Mark Ronson is taking over Teddy’s and Paul Van Dyk is throwing down at Vanguard. Akon is also taking over Goa on Friday, which you can actually get into if you make a dinner reservation. Ashlee Simpson will be at Ritual on Saturday—but she’s not really considered a musician so much a plastic-surgery addict who dates musicians with her same hair cut. Then on Sunday, Ne-Yo is taking over Ritual for a Grammy after-party. I’m not quite sure who he is, but I do know Common and he’ll be at Opera. As for the best party, I’m torn: Giant is hosting a dance party at Elevate on Sunday with Dirty South and Shiny Toy Guns, both nominated in the "electronic/dance" category. There’s also the Roots’ super-secret party on Saturday night that I’m going to. I wish I could tell you how to crash it, but the location is still on the DL. I do love a mystery.

Where will Daughtry be partying is what I know. Kidding, kidding.

—Alexandra Le Tellier  

PS. Want to skip to the celeb madness but still make the scene? Voila, Whiskey Blue's "Screen & Be Seen" party!

 
UPDATE: The Shins are will be at 86 on Sunday night. So excited!

The cat's out of the bag, folks: the ladies behind A.O.C. and Lucques are moving to parts west.

I had heard a peep about it last month, but sorry, I don't divulge secrets. (I know, I should hand over my blogger's card.)

I caught up with Caroline Styne who gave me some preliminary information. She confirmed that she and business partner Suzanne Goin did indeed take over the space that had formerly housed The Hamlet, née Hamburger Hamlet, in Brentwood.

"Suzanne and I had wanted to do a second A.O.C in some other city, but then, we thought the Westside is essentially like another city."

But as to whether it'd be an A.O.C West (please, please, cross fingers, please)?

"No, it won't." Darn. 

Styne wasn't prepared to talk about concept or name, but she assured me that, especially with Goin helming food, it's sure to be "creative." (That's probably a "no" on the gourmet burger angle.)

Is the Hamlet group involved? Unconfirmed, and according to Styne, irrelevant. "I think people are just reading a lot into things."

Otherwise, the space on San Vicente is going to get a complete makeover (design team is set but as yet undisclosed). Expect the third Goin-Styne/Styne-Goin installment towards the end of the year. Ooh, I'm counting the days. 

—Jiyeon Yoo

Welcome back, poppa.

Twenty years after opening the first, highly-regarded Citrus on Melrose Ave., Michel Richard opens Citrus 2.0 this Friday—this time, in Social Hollywood. It sounds like the interior is lemony-yellow, which seems to suit the name better than the Sunset Blvd. location. Menu is French bistro, helmed by Remi Lauvand, who boasts a illustrious resume himself, even serving under Daniel Boulud at Le Cirque. 

Let's see whether fans of Richard's original restaurant will brave the trendy Boulevard3 crowd to sample Richard's food again. The partnership between Richard and Jeffrey Chodorow is another thing to watch, as this is Chodorow's first outing* with a celebrity chef since the public debacle that was Rocco DiSpirito, or even the more recent smackdown that he gave Frank Bruni from within the critic's own paper. Not to make any assumptions, but a Chodorow-sponsored ad in an L.A. publication? Now, that might be kinda awesome. 

—Jiyeon Yoo

*Erratum: Apologies to Alain Ducasse who has had a "standing relationship" with Jeffrey Chodorow. I still would like to see a Chodorow-sponsored ad, however.

If you glanced at last Monday's blog, you know I that hit the town hardcore last week.

This weekened: notsomuch.

But with good reason.

Up until yesterday, I lived right near Franklin Village (Birds, La Poubelle, Upright Citizens Brigade, Counterpoint Books...), but after walking approximately 0.5 miles to and from my car any time I wanted to leave Franklin Village, me and my 4-inch high heels had finally had enough.

Add the fact that the cranky millionaires who live on the street right next to the Mayfair Market are pushing to enforce permit parking (yes, this means you'd be screwed if you wanted to go to UCB) I sadly searched for a new apartment, signed a lease, and spent the weekend bribing friends with pizza to help me move my couch. 

My new digs are in Eagle Rock, and in addition to having my own full garage, I'm also pretty giddy about all the places I'm going to grub... and drink... and bowl. Mark my words: Eagle Rock is the new whatever. 

Meanwhile, if you have any feelings on the atrocious parking debacle in Franklin Village and want to be able to visit that street without the clusterf*ck of permit parking, I say hop into the Hollywood United Neighborhood Council meeting on Feb. 19 at the Hollywood Presbyterian Church (6054 Yucca St.) and voice your opinion. Do it for the UCB. Do it for the Harmony Gallery. Do it for your 4-inch high heels. 

Miss Alie Ward

 

PS- This is me and my comrades Georgia and Tim attempting to fit me in an Ikea shoping bag. Ah, the wonders of moving-induced delerium.

 

I've always felt kind of shaky about the whole Black History Month thing. There's a definite air of consolation prize about it all. Stuck in the bitter cold of February, only 28 days, I mean come on. My platform is that we move the month to July. Now that would be a party!

And then I saw this:

It's like Kanye said, "you know, my man Scott T. in L.A. is having a rough week. He really needs something to look forward to. I bet this would cheer him up. Fine-a** Rihanna, crazy-a** N.E.R.D. and dope-a** Lupe. I should totally hook it up and have Gabrielle Union host the damn thing. OK, that might be too much. The music will be enough." And then he had a sip of champagne so expensive I don't even know about it, spent $10k at a Ralph Lauren store and promptly went back to sleep. Sigh. My hero. Thanks, 'Ye!

—Scott T. Sterling