Boba has taken on this kind of weird proxy status in my food life. Because I just recently realized that when I say I crave "boba," I'm hardly craving the actual gummy, gelatinous globes of tapioca. Those things get really tiring to eat...and digest later on. What I really want is the excuse to drink cold caffeinated anything at 11 pm. In fact, after witnessing a friend request exactly five boba balls with her iced coffee, I adopted the same embarassing display of specificity. 

Of course, I couldn't have been happier when I discovered that my local Tapioca Express is now offering mini boba balls. (Okay, I know I'm late to this party, so please, no comments about "where have I been?" Well, given that the poor food blog has yet to get a single comment, I guess beggars can't be demanding. But still...)

Seriously, these things are tiny, tiny. And they provide the exact opposite experience from traditional boba drinking which requires a magnum straw, the better to see each dark ball amble up methodically to your mouth. These mini little buggers come shooting at you so shockingly quick, straw diameter be damned.

No wonder they felt it wise to stamp a new disclaimer onto the plastic cup.

Did you catch that? What, that was too tiny? "Please drink carefully to avoid choking on the Boba" (emphasis mine).

Consider your gag reflex warned.  

Madonna night at Spaceland was not always like a prayer, with only two bands (Mountain Party and The Chapin Sisters) delivering the True Blue goods.

Many ladies in the audience had dressed up to cause a commotion (will this punning ever cease?) in black and lace and rubber bangles, clearly expecting some kind of Madonna explosion to go off on stage. What they got instead was a massive dose of Eastside psych-folk, and a rather lite dusting of Ciccione.

Most bands played two or three of their own songs before performing their Madonna cover. Some, like Winter Flowers, didn't even get around to playing any Madonna. "We couldn't get it together in time," they told the audience before launching into another Laurel Canyon-invoking melody.

The whole night was to celebrate the Madonna compliation CD Through the Wilderness being put out by freak folk label Manimal vinyl. On it, Silverlake's finest--including Giant Drag, Lavender Diamond, Bat for Lashes, Lion of Panjshir and Winter Flowers--give Madonna the full-on Eastside treatment.

We saw Mountain Party, led by the awesome Erica Garcia, gave Material Girl the dreamy, psychedelic once-over it has always deserved. Erica, who repurposes thrift store clothing better than anyone I know, was rocking the full-on peasant girl look.
 

When I saw her the next night she was wearing an Eddie Vedder woodcutters shirt with a silhouette of Christiane F. (notorious teen drug addict and prostitute from 1980's Berlin) screened on to the shirt pocket.

Erica, a former Latin Grammy-nominated singer from Argentina, now lives in Echo Park and has her own clothing line, La Luz, as well as running the New High gallery in Chinatown. Oh, and she dated my boyfriend for a year, before I met him. Now we're all one big happy family.

Back to Madonna...so, the Chapin Sisters closed the night with a formidable and highly-polished rendition of Borderline. As my friend Steffie Nelson, an L.A. Times writer, commented "they made the whole night worth it".

The blond Chapin was wearing an awesome Grace Jone-esque jumpsuit with pumps. Coincidentally, she used to date one of the members of Mountain Party and things didn't end well, so it was a little tense backstage.

Brunette Chapin, unfortumately, got it all wrong with her uber-folky and somewhat weird sequined mini skirt that reminded me of old Hungarian accordion players. And, as we all know, it is only OK to look like an old Eastern European accordion player if you are actually playing an accordion, preferably with some kind of monkey on your shoulder. Not when you're prenteding to be Madonna at Spaceland.

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

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

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

When a club wants to open with a splash, they invite one of three DJs: DJ AM, Steve Aoki or Caroline D’Amore. Caroline, of course, isn’t much of a DJ, but she’s hot and she’s best friends with Paris Hilton—so, booking Caroline usually guarantees an appearance by the blonde heiress and a subsequent mention of the new venue in Us Weekly. I bring this up because Ms. D'Amore is DJIng the opening of V Lounge in Santa Monica on August 9. Here’s the scoop on the new spot.

V-Lounge brings a sexy dining atmosphere and nightlife experience to the Westside. Reminiscent of a sleek, upscale boutique hotel lounge, the décor features low-backed ottomans, hidden nooks, and streamlined booths arranged in amphitheater style seating that radiates from the perimeter of their signature sunken dance floor, the largest in Santa Monica.

Sounds hot, but will Paris drive out to Santa Monica?

It was during the first of her two-night (and very sold out) stand at the Echoplex. It was during the encore, when she decided to roll out onto the outstretched hands of the rabid crowd in front of her. Only when she rolled over onto her stomach, it was right on top of me (that's what I get for working my way down into the heart of the pit). If I didn’t do something, the star of the show was going to go crashing to the floor. Not sexy. So I put both my hands up to brace her fall. In my right hand I had her arm. Right there in my left hand? Boob city. The inadvertent grab didn’t seem to faze her. She just kind of rolled back towards the stage, where a handler lowered her back down.

The show? Good times. The crowd was well into it. Enough that I watched a couple of heated exchanges almost result in full-on fights down in the pit (one between two girls). DJ Low Budget rocked the crowd with a mix of Baltimore clubbed versions of current hits. But when it was half past M.I.A.’s appointed set time of 10PM, the natives began growing restless. “Bitch, come out now!” wailed a young lady beside me. The same one that kept nailing me with her huge purse, like some prop out of “The Devil Wears Prada.” But down front at an M.I.A. show? Not so much.

When she finally came out to do her thing, all was forgiven. She ran through hits from “Arular” and numbers from the upcoming “Kala,” with “Boyz” and “Bird Flu” getting the biggest response from the partisan crown. I was partial to “Twenty Dollar,” which rides a slowed-down groove lifted from New Order’s “Blue Monday.” But the real winner of the new batch of tunes is “Jimmy,” a Technicolor explosion of Love Unlimited strings and a disco beat that’s on some Donna Summer “I Feel Love” shit. Awesome. Buy the album when it drops 8/21.

Oh. My. Goodness gracious.

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

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

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

Inside, Mr. George Ducker gets his vodka on

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

And then...things escalate:

Faithful comrade Gemini tries to keep it together

And I spy a wonderous mullet: 

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

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

The Pity Party, objects of our sycophantic obsession:

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

   
I wore my new nipple-revealing Opening Ceremony dress to the LA Fashion Awards Nominations party at the Hollywood Standard.

Jeffrey Sebelia was there with a hot lady friend, as was Fred Segal. I said hi to Tarina Tarantino and her man Alfonso, and chatted with Rose Apodaca's man Andy Griffith about the joys of Japanese chain Uniqlo. Then he told us that he is in the process of opening a new branch of their awesome Silver Lake design store, A+R , in Venice...we can't wait!!!

I spent much of the evening chatting to the delightful Native Wayne, host of Indie 103.1's Sunday night reggae show. He's one of those guys you've definitely seen around, always wearing a bandanna over his black dreads, but I had never realized he was the one and only Native Wayne.

I gave him maximum respeck and asked him what he was doing at the LA Fashion Awards Nominations party, and he said they were passing around tickets at Indie HQ, and he thought he'd come check it out. "So where de fashion, mon?" he asked in his Kingston drawl, looking around hopefully.

He told me about his house in Jamaica which has a 150 foot waterfall in the back garden, where Gwen Stefani recently shot a video. He bemoaned the tough working conditions for Jamaican film crew members.

"The crew from that Jamaican bobsleigh team movie Cool Runnings only got paid $10 a day," he fumed.

He told me about the documentary he is working on with Ondi Timoner (director of Brianjonestown Massacre/Dandy Warhol doc DiG!), all about the history of reggae music. Should be out next year. Then I told him about the secret illegal reggae/spoken-word party that happens every Wednesday in a location I shall not reveal, and he agreed to go check it out with me some time. Jah!

2007 Moss Adams Fashion Innovator Award Nominees:

Paul Thomas, designer Thomas Wylde

Juan Carlos Obando

Jasmin Shokrian

Rami Kashou

Marketing Excellence Award Nominees:

Max Azria for BCBG Max Azria

Paul Marciano for GUESS by Marciano

Fraser Ross, owner of Kitson

LA Eyeworks

Fashion Retailer Award Nominees

Mark Werts, American Rag Cie

Fred Segal

Lisa Klein

Doris Raymond, from The Way We Wore

Fashion Communication Winner

Crystal Meers, LA editor of Daily Candy

Inspiration Award Winner

Project Runway

Wells Fargo Century Fashion Achievement Award Winner

Max Azria 

Are you all sick of me talking about Opera yet? Don’t worry: This might be my last post about the new club for a while because…it kind of sucks.

The whole point of going out is to have fun, but unfortunately the staff at Opera doesn’t seem to see it that way. On Friday night, the black-clad security team treated the people waiting in line like they were criminals—screaming at them to stand still on the narrow sidewalk, looking at the girls as if they’d all committed fashion crimes.

I wanted no part of this scene. I left my friends to hold our place in line while I sauntered up to the bearish doorman—press badge and business card in hand—to explain that I was there to write about the club. He said I could either ditch my friends and come in by myself or stand back in line. Seriously? Who goes to a club alone?

A couple minutes later I saw Suk Sung, head of marketing and promotions, and asked if he'd let us in. Suk, who had given me the scoop on Opera and had asked me to write about the club, basically gave us the hand and ran away. (I should tell you that my friends all looked hot in mini skirts, shiny hair and glossy lips.) Then we called promoter Zen Freeman, who'd put us on the list. And, nice guy that he is, he came out and escorted us in.

Victory!

We walked through the fog "curtain" and "ooohed” and "ahhhed" at the fancy arched ceiling as we made it to the bar. After the hour-long debacle outside, it was time to get drunk. (Maybe that's their trick for getting clubbers to work up a thirst and spend all their money on booze.) Of course, it took 45 minutes to actually order those drinks—which cost $45 bucks for a beer, one vodka cranberry and two kamikaze shots—and by that point we were all annoyed again.

We thought dancing would cheer us up. But my friends didn't like the DJ. I thought he was pretty good, but a little booze goes a long way with me. Instead we watched Rex Lee bump 'n grind; observed the ratio of young girls to old guys (about 70 to 30); and scored some free lemon drop shots, which I have to say were really yummy.

Best part of the night? Crawling into bed.

Ivy, shmivy: Robertson Boulevard's got cheaper options for those of us who are still one E.R. guest spot away from the big times.

Chaya Brasserie is the Kia Rio owner's alternative to weekend brunch at The Ivy. I headed out with my gf and bf (that's my Godfather and Brendan Fraser) this weekend and pigged out on their sun-tastic outdoor patio. A round of flavored lemonades -- peach, mango and green tea -- was followed by ginormous portions of tuna tartare with avocado, chopped salad with popcorn shrimp and an ahi tuna burger. Yum. Favorite part of the meal: when the couple at the next table sent back their brunch pizza (scrambled eggs on a pizza shell with a drizzling of truffle oil) because it was "too truffle-y." Nice style!

When you're done with brunch, shop at Kitson, hit up Newsroom for a smoothie or wreck your car a la Lindsay Lohan. Maybe that'll make you feel like a star.

It’s Sunday evening. It’s taken this long to fully recuperate and get my head around the proceedings of this past Friday evening. A couple of us Metromixers hit up the Avalon for the Club 82 party. And boy, did we ever. The open V2 vodka bar was routinely abused. We blagged our way into the backstage area, upstairs and eventually ended up onstage. Ima Robot played an appropriately dramatic set. Amir Keenan partied like a rock star, dancing onstage during their set until he was basically another member of the band. Shadowscene (AKA “Hotparazzi”) snapped away furiously. DJ Paparazzi chilled out. Drunk people got, well, drunker. The crowd danced and posed and partied. I was a complete idiot. It was lots of big fun. Hooray for Club 82.

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

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

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

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

Mr. Amir Kenan demonstrates the art of The Doublefist 

Miss Ward demonstrates its effect

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

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

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

Good stuff on Friday:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People: let's get wicked silly.  

Yesterday, you were dazzled by the most horrifying flavor combo in recent memory. Today, we've upped the ante:

To celebrate the release of The Simpsons Movie, Ben & Jerry's has created a limited-edition ice cream flavor which combines Homer's two favorite foods: doughnuts and beer. The new flavor, called "Duff & D'oh-Nuts," is probably as gross as beer-and-doughnut-flavored ice cream should be.

But don't go looking for this in your freezer aisle anytime soon: the Ben & Jerry's PR dude informed me that "Duff & D'oh-Nuts" was a one-day-only flavor concocted for the Springfield, Vermont film premiere event.

Press weren't allowed inside new club Opera on opening night, but that didn't stop us from trying. Click here to see all the tabloid-worthy pix taken by our photog Victor Rodionoff, who might never forgive me for making him stand outside with the paparazzi.

Yes, it’s a burrito. And yes, it’s stuffed with nachos.

Although Taco Bell came out with an almost identical monstrosity around this time last year, we expected more of you, Baja Fresh. Take this:

L

And this:

M

And one of these: 

D

Using our mad journalistic skills, we got our hands on a couple of Baja Fresh concepts that didn’t make the cut:

---Burrito Nachos (bite-size burritos, smothered in nacho cheese)

---The Burrito Shake (one part burrito, one part smoothie)

---iNachos (for a quarter, they dip your iPhone in hot melted cheese)

I've always fancied myself something of a photographer. Who doesn't these days? But there’s nothing quite as frustrating as trying to shoot a rock show. The lighting is a bitch, you’re always in someone’s way and most of what comes out are dark blobs of nothingness and the back of some dude’s head. Ugh. I’m sure my point-and-shoot Casio is not helping the cause.

Every once and a while, you get lucky and snap something cool that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing (even if you obviously don’t). This particular snap taken of Tokyo Police Club singer/bassist Dave Monks is one such pic. The show was pretty cool, too. If only the crowd would’ve woken up sometime before the encore… 

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

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

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

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

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

It's no secret that the the Metromix team has been working our little booties off lately. What? Oh, you weren't aware? Well, keeping on top of all the haps in the city is busy work, people!

No sleep, very little food—how do we keep up? I'd like to think our natural charm and effervescence. But taking stock of our desks just recently, I realize it's all about the maté. Lots and lots of yerba maté, a tea infusion of proto-caffeine loveliness that immediately makes you hippy-dippy in love with God's green earth. 

The collective obsession is thanks in large part to our events editor Alie Ward who's pimped her love for maté on her myspace page—so much so that an up-and-coming tea company pimped right back. Pixie Maté has maté of every sort: 100% pure leaf; infused with lemongrass, chocolate, or chai; maté concentrate to blend with your milk or soy alternative. All delicious and purposeful for an afternoon kick in the pants.

Pixie Maté—you with the adorable little name—you've swiftly made your way into our bloodstream. Forget Red Bull; Pixie Maté gives us wings. Just take a look:

Only nine more hours until the opening of Opera, David Judaken’s swanky new club that’s sure to be the talk of the town (and the tabloids) for years to come. Good luck crashing tonight’s event though. The hard-asses at The Alliance are hosting the bash and unless you look like Paris Hilton or drink like Lindsay Lohan, you won’t past their iron rope. (Even I don’t know if I’ll be able to crash because The Alliance is vehemently anti press and the prominent Hollywood club owner I was going to sneak in with just flaked on me because he doesn’t feel like dealing with tonight’s door drama.)

Here’s the scoop:
The club is located on 1650 Schrader Boulevard in Hollywood. Judaken has divided the space into two: Opera and Crimson. Opera is the elegant half, decked out with beautiful archways and fog screens. Crimson, which opens next Wednesday with an X Games event hosted by Travis Barker, is the rock ‘n roll side. What does rock ‘n roll really mean at an A-list club? Snakeskin and faux-fur décor.

Here’s what you can look forward to:
At Opera, The Alliance will hold court on Thursdays and nice guys Zen Freeman and Chris Paul will take over on Fridays; nightclub vets Chris Whalley and Herman Town will preside over Saturdays; and on Sundays, Icon will host hip-hop parties.

Over at Crimson, “David & David” of Teddy’s fame will hook up with Jean Paul to host a “hipster” night on Wednesdays and beginning Monday, August 6, youngster promoters Ryan Cook, Michael Bellisario and Brad Hoss will take over.

Here’s the hook-up:
You’ll notice I linked to just about every promoter’s Myspace page. Go make friends with them so that they'll let you in!

Oh Opera, how I can't wait to see what's behind your plywood shield.

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

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

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

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

What is it about Guy's bar in WeHo that make the girls act so crazy? Last June, Lindsay Lohan screamed, cried and flailed around after getting rejected at the door—Danny Masterson was hosting an upscale jazz night and he allegedly turned her away for not being classy enough. The following month, Nicole Richie partied at the bar dressed in little boys’ underwear worn over her tight black jeans, leaving everyone to realize how skinny she'd really gotten. Then, last night, Paris Hilton made out with Mischa Barton's hairy and seemingly dirty ex-boyfriend Cisco Adler at Guy's. Of all the guys Paris can get and she chooses Cisco? That just isn't right. 

Last weekend I went to a friends house which is notoriously full of swag.  I was drawn to this odd device sitting on the kitchen counter, half resembling a giant can of mace, and half light saber.  “What is it??”  

“Its canned oxygen…”  as she takes it in her hand and squeezes a large puff into her mouth while simultaneously inhaling in an orgasmic manner.

“Canned oxygen?!”

“Yeah, this one is peppermint flavored.”

My jaw was agape.  My friend forced it into my bag and I now have my new accessory.  Lagerfield has a fan, I have a can of peppermint flavored oxygen.  Its going to be hot.

--Shane Redsar 

I’ve seen Hairspray twice this week and all I can say is that I have a hankerin’ for some soul food now.  It’s amazing how many references to food there are in the songs, its awesome!  Theres a whole number with Queen Latifah and John Travolta involving various food items, so much fun!  Yeah, I’m a dork.

--Shane Redsar 

Wyder’s Extra Dry Pear Cider – it does a Blipster good. That would be our slogan of the day. Or anything that has to do with robots. Daft Punk obsession much? Yes. I nearly booked a flight to Berkeley to catch them again this Friday night. There were fleeting moments contemplating Red Rocks. Lollapalooza? And then, like a beacon of hope in the cold, cold night: Daft Punk is playing Vegoose in October. Can I get a what what? Halloween weekend. Las Vegas. Daft Punk. Did I forget to mention Iggy and the Stooges playing the immortal “Fun House” album front to back? It is so on. I say L.A just posse up and take over Vegas for the weekend. It’ll be so much fun! Think about it…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can someone please get on this? Thank you. 

Lindsay Lohan isn't the only one worthy of headline news today. I just heard that Winston's owner Andy Fiscella is opening a new restaurant and bar with Chris Huvane, Charlie Lew of Hardball Productions and Matt Lavin, not to be confused with Matt Gavin, Charlie's partner at Hardball. The spot, set to open in December, will serve comfort food and have a have a timeless, old-Hollywood vibe, complete with large patio and a full club license. "It's not something that will be redesigned in a year," Charlie told me. As for the location: It's still "undisclosed," but I can tell you it'll be located just east of Winston's between Jones Hollywood and Bar Lubitsch, both hotspots owned by Fiscella's nightlife hero Sean MacPherson.

Going to the bank doesn’t usually make me want to party—sigh—but that’s all about to change with Bank Heist, a new North Hollywood club that opens in August. Men.style.com got the scoop: Apparently, it’s located at 5303 Lankershim Boulevard in a ‘20s-style bank designed by John Parkinson, the same architect who designed old-school L.A. landmarks Los Angeles Memorial Stadium and City Hall. This will be followed by Crocker Club and Mercury Liquors, two clubs set to open in old-school Downtown banks. Mercury Liquors, of course, is Marc Smith’s next high-profile gig after opening The Edison in an a revamped boiler room.

Yesterday afternoon I went to Opening Ceremony and experienced joy the likes of which I have not felt in a long time.

As my hands softly grazed the fabrics, as my eyes feasted on the fashion-forward orgy before me, I felt a rush, an old familiar giddiness. Suddenly I was 15 years old again, standing in the middle of Top Shop on Oxford Circus, blissfully overwhelmed by the beautiful possibilities around me.

Opening Ceremony may not be nearly as big as Top Shop, but in terms of pure experience, it packs a sartorial punch, the kind that makes me groan 'again, again!' as millions of pretty shooting stars explode before my eyes.

My friend found a book she wanted to buy, but it was priced $400, so she decided against making the purchase (apparently there is a Magritte book in the back that is priced $2000). I, on the other hand, showed no such self-restraint, consummating the unearthly marriage between me and my inner shopping child, and walking out with a Risto Bimbiloski dress that may seriously compromise my ability to pay rent this month.

And that's OK...

Donuts, with a side of chess, at Sunset Junction’s favorite late-night donut shop, Tang’s. Consider this the geriatric equivalent of Slurpees and Street Fighter II at 7-11.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(A blurry birthday Budweiser)

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

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

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

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

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

(Am I really here?) 

(Contemplating hooker wisdom:)

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

(The Ruth:)

 (One too many?)

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

...OK, Daft Punk melted my brain on Saturday night. That’s all there is to it. You remember “DeadHeads,” people that would follow the Grateful Dead on tour? I’m officially a member of the Robot Disco Army, and would love nothing more than to hop on the Daft Punk mothership never to return. Well, maybe for holidays and stuff, but you get the picture. That would be the best life ever, just going to the most incredible dance party imaginable night after night after night. God bless Daft Punk and “Viva La France” for reals...

...Yes, other stuff happened too. Last night I tried in vain to see Hot Hot Heat open for Snow Patrol at the Greek . But by the time I climbed the hill and reached my seat (which was next to an extreme hottie named Cindy that looked like a turbo-charged version of Amanda Bynes. Nice work, Keren!), there was no twitchy dance-punk for me...

...Surprise surprise, Snow Patrol didn’t suck. They’re not exactly my cup of Yerba Mate, but I can see why their melodic mini-anthems have such appeal. They’re kind of like an Irish Goo Goo Dolls, each song meticulously crafted for maximum radio impact. But the singer has a strong voice and was charming and really funny between songs. The thing with the dead bug on the set list was classic. You had to be there. I’m officially no longer mad at Snow Patrol. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of liked it...

...The real fun yesterday was downtown at Little Radio’s Summer Camp . OK, why haven’t I been kicking it down here every Sunday? Color me moronic. I won’t make that mistake again. It’s an easy sell: give them some money, and you get to eat, drink, listen to good bands and watch insanely hot indie girls chilling out in blow-up swimming pools. Sure, they ran out of booze for a minute – s#!t happens. Spindrift and Dead Meadow played ominous, kind of monstrous sets (Dead Meadow were going for Melvins-level volume overload), lots of good people maxin’ and relaxin’—hooray for Summer Camp, people...

...Friday night was real interesting. Sonic Youth, live at the Greek, performing “Daydream Nation” in its entirety. You can’t front on that. Gemini and I made it to our very posh seats (big ups to you, Judy) just in time to see them launch into “Teenage Riot,” one of my all-time favorite songs by anybody. They sounded and looked great, but something was amiss. For one, the sound was way too quiet. So much so that Gemini and I were actually sushed by these dudes next to us. That’s when I realized people that bought “Daydream Nation” when it first came out surrounded us, and that this was a serious deal and kind of religious for a lot of them. Still, you’d think there could be a little more rocking out and less sitting there like lumps drinking beer. I’m just saying. This is Sonic Youth, y’all. The most seminal band this side of Velvet Underground. Most of what's in the indie rock section of your music collection owes them a huge debt. Thankfully, on the other side of us were cute girls getting hammered and rocking out to "’Cross The Breeze" and "Kissability". Hi Mindy, thanks for the margarita. God, I’m such a whore... 

I hope David Beckham didn't move to L.A. just to go nuts and check into rehab. The soccer player went to Skybar on Saturday night after his first game (and loss) with The Galaxy. And, while no one has reported that he drank a lot, the Skybar has become the last-ditch spot for celebs to go crazy before checking into rehab. Britney smoked butts at the poolside bar after she shaved her head; Jesse Metcalfe "enjoyed" his last bender here; and Lindsay Lohan was here on the same night she managed to wedge her car between a tree and a house.

Photo credit: Wally Skalij  

This weekend I hung out with talented fashion designer and literary anti-hero Savannah Knoop,  best known for being the actress who played  faux-author JT Leroy in public , but whose fashion line tinc is also most worthy of attention.

Knoop wore her tincwear line throughout her years masquerading as JT, during which she traveled the world in a blond wig and hat playing the male former truck-stop prostitute-turned-author. JT's celebrity friends were numerous--Courtney Love, Carrie Fisher, Winona Ryder and Asia de Argento were high profile companions. Knoop told me that De Argento gave 'JT' the balck hat that s/he traditionally wore in public, and that it belonged to one of her Italian relatives.

Knoop and I have been corresponding for a while after being put in touch with each other by Laura Albert, the woman who penned the JT Leroy novels 'Sarah' and 'The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things'. She came down to LA from San Francisco this weekend and we hung like cojones, as they say, visiting Ooga Booga in Chinatown, checking out an art exhibit at Cactus in Eagle Rock, meeting up with my friends author Bett Williams and stylist Charon Nogues, among others. Knoop looked hot in bright red patent leather flats from Japan and a black silk jumpsuit layered over white string wifebeater. 

Today, we are hitting Fred Segal and Third Street  for some surrrrheous LA-style shopping.

Keep an eye on the site for a full-length Q&A with Knoop, a young and fascinating fashion talent! 

Look what looms above the corner of Batali and Silverton:

Yes, due Mozze, we get the freakin' picture.

Recently went to check out The Counter, the gimmicky Santa Monica burger joint with the pencil-and-pad menu that's designed for ultimate consumer customization. More importantly, while waiting for the chefs to handcraft my burger, I spotted someone who looked an awful lot like Beach Boy Mike Love entering the joint with a female companion. He was wearing a black Hawaiian T-shirt and his signature “I’m bald… or am I?” hat. (He is.) Naturally, I tried to listen in on his conversation to see if he’d claim credit to a few more Beach Boys songs in the course of natural conversation.

My burger came (Delicious? Nah.). I continued eavesdropping. If it was Mr. Love, I’m proud he didn’t take credit for constructing my burger. On a scale of ‘Caroline, No’ to 'Good Vibrations,' I'd give the whole experience a 'God Only Knows.'

Because they're all names of Beach Boy songs.

One of the eight greatest dance parties in the history of mankind occurred in Los Angeles, CA, On July 21, 2007. From approximately 11PM until exactly 12:30AM, Daft Punk touched down on the stage of the Los Angeles Sports Arena and proceeded to systematically deconstruct the sold out audience of over 16,000 people into crazed, sweating, blithering, kissing, screaming, smiling, partying, freaking, not-thinking-just-dancing robot disco idiots.  

All hail the robot disco kings. Details at 11.

Once in a digital blue moon, eBay will do something that makes this whole Internet thing make sense.

Case in point: a recent listing for an unopened can of Crystal Pepsi (you remember, the 7-Up-lookin’ wunder beverage of the ‘90s). Once shipping costs are factored in, one can of this champagne-of-Pepsi-products costs $36.

You won't just want to guzzle this at home like any old can of soda; Crystal Pepsi deserves better than that. You're going to need to throw a full-on Crystal Pepsi party.

Here’s how it goes down:

1.    Invite your friends, especially the ironic ones who will ’get’ what you're doing and chuckle about it later while they’re on Pitchfork.

2.    Keep the CP (that’s Crystal Pepsi to insiders) chilled in a wine bucket throughout the party to add drama.

3.    Open at climax of party, and give partygoers a taste of the 15+ year old beverage, which will taste "delicious" and "definitely under a decade old."

Thank you, eBay. You truly are an electronic bay of mystery.

--Amir Kenan

Oh. Em. Gee.

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


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

Then Sunday, Buffmonster is having a toy signing.

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

Most excitedly,

Miss Alie Ward

Professional Leisurist

What’s going on with Chris Breed? Usually, it’s his business partners who work behind the scenes while he serves as the (seriously handsome) face of his venues. Lately, however, he’s been taking a back seat. He was supposed to be the big name behind Ritual, formerly White Lotus, but he sold out of the club just before it opened. Then, on Tuesday, his new spot The Green Door opened next door to Cabana Club, which he also owns, without the slightest bit of fanfare. Yes, Linkin Park was playing at Ritual and Les Deux was having its one-year anniversary party, but still. I’d have thought this opening would have been a bigger deal, especially with Johnny Zander (formerly of Teddy’s) as his right-hand man. I spoke to Chris yesterday—he sounded exhausted—and said he’s expanding his business in Las Vegas and Miami and, while he didn’t say it outright, he seems pretty over the Hollywood scene.

 
He's usually so chatty, but this is all I could get out of him about The Green Door.

•There’s a green door.

•The walls are green.

•There’s a lounge vibe.

•There’s a tapas and crepe menu.

•It’s also outfitted with turn-of-the-century French furniture.

•It has a lounge vibe.

Yep, that’s  it. That's not much of an incentive to go, is it?

Guess which finger!

Two people, one party. Two wildly disparate reactions.

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

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

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

But I learned two valuable lessons last night:

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

2. Always bring a flask. 

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

It was inevitable, I suppose. All work and no play – you know the rest. So tonight, we played. And we played to win. Did it work out that way? Who knows. I barely remember my name at this point. It was all of that organic vodka. Does that mean I’ll have a green hangover tomorrow, er, later on today?

Moving Units kept it angular. DJ A.M. sported the dopest Britney Spears shirt ever. “American Idol” finalist Constantine smiled. Girl Talk sweated like a bastard and had L.A. dancing like goons to Cyndi Lauper and Fleetwood Mac. A man after my own heart. I yelled at a bouncer. I got my way because of it. I tried to start a fight, and almost succeeded. OK, that's not entirely true. I just held up a karmic mirror to some rude d-bag and he didn't like it at all. I did not, however, throw up.

Rob got elegantly wasted. But not before he played the track the Clash made with Futura 2000. Ron Jeremy humored me. Paris Hilton rushed by me. Frankie Chan looked sharp. Ellei took pictures. Joe laughed. Tigarah was sweet. Alexandra was psyched about her trip to Alabama (firearms were involved). I took pictures of cute girls. I traded cards with cuter girls. I’m so effing L.A. right now it hurts. I can’t wait to see Daft Punk on Saturday. Stretch Armstrong played a sweet remix of “Roxanne.” A-Trak was gracious and well dressed. Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Doll was nice (and hot). I met a woman going to New Zealand to compete in the World Bartender Championships. Cristina was on it, and then over it. A drunk couple kept grinding against my back. I was a complete cheese-ball and hung out in the DJ booth during Girl Talk, taking pictures and being so scene. I laughed – a lot. I talked to Steve Levy – a lot. I drank (all together now) – a lot. Alie and Gemini came and went. I heard some amazing gossip. I said "what's up?" to Cisco Adler. I saw some dude that was in the Borat movie. I ran into Shannon's friend that looks just like Vincent Gallo, and took a picture of him making out with a hot blonde. Contrary to appearances, I am not proud. People threw down - hard. 

And then I went home. 

Happy Friday, and can we hurry up with the Bloody Marys already? Dang.  

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Charlie Lew has the worst luck when it comes to water disasters. Two years ago, rain washed out his New Year's Eve party at the Paramount Lot (so much time and money lost!) and, just months after opening his upscale sports bar Trifecta, the kitchen flooded—on a day he was to show the bar to some very important people, no less. (Charlie plans on opening Trifecta locations all over the country.)

Nevertheless, Trifecta has not closed down. For the time being, it’s open for lunch from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. and for special events. In fact, football star Reggie Bush (pictured) just had his birthday party here. Once the plumbing situation gets resolved, the place will reopen in the evenings. 

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

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

How do I love thee, Target? Let me count the ways:

1. For carrying Hellman's Mayonnaise—not its inferior, less-awesomely-named, west coast counterpart Best Foods. The only other place I've seen Hellman's mayo in L.A. is Barney's Greengrass, and there it's like 15 euros a jar.

2. For boldly offering a new, bite-size candy sensation modeled after The King's favorite sandwich (fried peanut butter and banana). Yes, the new Reese's Peanut Butter & Banana Candy is being marketed as an Elvis-approved 'Collector Edition' treat. The big guy is either spinning in his grave, or trying to eat his way out.

3. For teaching me to reach for the sky, but keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground.

I don't know how to quit you, Target.

You. Complete. Me.

--Amir Kenan 

The 10 freeway officially sucks. Because of this perpetually-jammed stretch of evil concrete, I was stuck in my un-air conditioned car while while Hollywood got its designer vintage kicks at the re-opening of Decadestwo , one of the world's premier designer vintage re-sale boutiques.

Luckily, Metromix intern Lauren Fields, who works at Decades, was there. Here's her full report. 

So how was it Lauren? 

It was so awesome--Access Hollywood was there so I was on Access Hollywood, I guess.

What did you say?

I don't know. We were just talking about Decades. I just kinda nodded and smiled. Then Elle magazine took pictures of my mom and I. And then I got to usher Jared Leto in.

How was Jared Leto?

Oh, he's really hot. I was dying. I talked to him. He was really nice. I asked him if he wanted a drink and he said "no, thank you".

What was he wearing?

He was wearing a Morphine Generation long-sleeved thing, one of those long things...you know, they keep you warm...a thermal! And black really tight jeans and a pair of ankle-high Nikes and aviators.

What other celebrities did you see?

Alyson Hannigan from "American Pie", the one with the red hair who was in band camp. She was gorgeous. She was wearing a beautiful white Louis Vuitton dress. She was very pretty.

So what has changed at Decades II?

We have expanded into the building next to us so now we have the entire brown art deco building. There used to be a bookstore there, but it closed down. Now the store is much bigger. The store has been completely remerchandised, so everyone was shopping. There is some really great stuff in there right now. My mom bought an orange Versace clutch.

So what was the highlight of the evening for you?

I was just dying over Jared Leto. And all the other girls were too.

Holy peace signs - a new H&M is opening at Westfield Topanga on July 19. The first 100 customers will get complimentary H&M t-shirt and gift cards worth up to $200. The store will carry women's and men's collection, and will have a lingerie section too. H&M is a corporate brand and therefore doesn't necessarily fit in with the whole hippie Devendra Banhart vibe of the hood, but we're sure you'll find more than a few ladies of the canyon wafting up and down the aisles at H&M, looking to score some bargain flower-power dresses.

I know I'm sort of the long-winded type, so I'll keep this one short. There's nothing quite like a Polyphonic Spree show. It's akin to getting run over by an 18-wheeled love truck. All of that feel-good energy eminating from the stage is kind of amazing. Even after a long, crappy day where I found out that one of my dear friends back home was held up at gunpoint by some random thugs, the Spree gave me "the feeling" and made me smile - a lot.

They essentially played two shows in one - the first as the dark-lit, militaristic "Fragile Army" and the second as the robe-wearing, spirit-rocking peace posse we know and love. There were a myriad of emotions, from dark and sad to all-out elation.

The band is brilliant, but for me the power comes from the choir, a gang of women filling the room with so much vocal sound that it can overwhelm you. I swear I would marry every single one of them. 

Lucky for you it's late (the band played for well over two hours, thank you very much) and I'm running out of steam, because I could go on about this one all day. But I will say that their version of Nirvana's "Lithium" blew the roof off the place. And big props to Tim DeLaughter for coming offstage and hanging with the fans long after the show ended. 

You'll probably hear more about it later though. In the meantime, take care of yourselves and each other. Ultimately, it's all we've really got. 

Deciding on a late night taco in the area, my neighbor decided on Macho's Tacos.  Originally, he was going see if Yucca's was open, but Yucca's is like Brigadoon in its business hours.  Machos however, is as regular as a senior citizen sauced on prune juice.  Personally, I've really only ever had their Machos steak fries, but my neighbor swears by their burritos.  He got a chicken burrito with rice, cheese, guacamole, and sour cream.  it might've been the Oro Azul he drank earlier but he devoured it with reckless abandon.  It was so good apparently that even his friend from down the block came by to have a bite/the rest of it.  I had no idea that this burrito has Pied Piper capabilities, i really should take note.

I just wonder how magical Yucca's tacos are now... 

--Shane Redsar

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