Has it been four years already? I guess time really does fly when you’re drinking Bacardi Breezers and watching Xanadu. It seems as though the Olympics are upon us once again, and while my threshold for watching televised sports is usually as low as Nicole Richie’s BMI, the games are always appointment TV for me. Maybe it’s the suspense of competition. Maybe it’s the excitement of watching history in the making. Maybe it’s the men’s gymnastics uniforms. Whatever the reason—I’m so excited, and I just can’t hide it.

 
To celebrate, Opening Ceremony boutiques in New York and L.A. are stocking super exclusive gear created especially for the 2008 Summer Olympic Games, including gold and silver metallic versions of Nike’s Air Max 1—the first sneaker to offer visible Nike Air technology in the sole. The store will also offer more traditional Olympic souvenir fare including key chains, coin holders, towels, hats and umbrellas. Just like the Olympics, shoes like these don’t come around that often, so for even the slimmest chance of getting your hands on a pair, I’d head over to Opening Ceremony right now.   

 —Marcos Luevanos

Let’s cut to the chase: I enjoyed my dinner at Sugarfish. Yes, I was invited to dine there on the management’s dime, and yes, there were certain elements of the dinner that I could have done without. Like, the extraneous use of ponzu or the douchebag in shorts who, despite being instructed (as we all were) of the policy on minimum orders, sleazed his way out of it and then sported a weasel-y grin for the rest of the evening. I overheard him say to his date, "I usually eat sushi with my fingers." Ew. Go away. 

It was the uni that won me over. I don’t usually order it—one really bad experience can do that to you—but I’ll gladly sample it as part of an omakase or, as happened in this case, the “Surprise Me” menu. And at Sugarfish, uni rightfully deserves to be called a delicacy, so subtle and silken is the balance of flavor and texture.

My endorsement might be controversial, considering some of the backlash that Sugarfish is getting: It’s too bright; it looks like a Pinkberry; service is too quick; it looks like a Pinkberry. In other words, Sugarfish in its high polish and streamlined efficiency doesn’t meet people’s expectations of “authentic” sushi. Which, I expect, involves an aged wooden bar with an equally wizened sushi master behind it—unless, of course, he’s buddy-buddy with Robert DeNiro.

Such plaints for authenticity aren’t unlike the grievances that swirled around the opening of Jian BBQ a few weeks back—and the skepticism I personally endured for Metromix’s favorable review of the high-end Korean restaurant. Is it for real? I’d be asked. Because how could a Korean BBQ with an address so far west of Western and Olympic, a full cocktail menu, and robots be “for real”?

For all of L.A.’s wonderful diversity, there are also persistent—and pernicious—ideas of what makes authentic ethnic experience. It’s expected that hounding after ethnic cuisines involves unfamiliar geography, language barriers and that perfectly ramshackle little spot. Not that this isn’t admirable. Without it, Koreatown or Monterey Park or Artesia wouldn’t have the following that they do. But what happens when Peking duck comes with a moody techno track and a martini glass? Quick, peg it back into its hole-in-the-wall. (For the record: Dining in much of Seoul feels more like a night at Jian BBQ than it does along Vermont Avenue.)

More doubting Tommys, I’m sure, are coming my way, what with Gyenari—a Korean restaurant that bills itself as both California-influenced and a lounge—opening in downtown Culver City late last week. Is it for real? I’ll let you know, but I suspect it’ll be as authentic as grilling meat over an open fire is central to the daily Korean diet.

—Jiyeon Yoo

“Wait, are you near the huge exploding fireball?”

I’m on the phone with my date, who’s waiting for me in the shadow of a circus tent in a field near downtown. Flinching past a crane rigged with a flame thrower and through a crowd of urban hippies in Burning Man bellbottoms, it’s difficult to tell the performers of Cirque Berzerk from the audience. Until I realize our usher isn’t wearing pants. Just a leotard and a top hat.

We nab seats in the front row, the lights dim and so begins an hour or so of choreographed experimental dance numbers, Goth chicks in hotpants, trapeze routines, and cirque members climbing ribbons of silk like monkeys wearing Hot Topic. There's also a contortionist who gives me psychic back pain. When my date notices that my hands are sweating, I’m forced to stammer a hypothesis about the circus and its effect on people with tendencies toward mild anxiety. That woman clinging with one hand to a bar 15 feet above us? I’m sorry, but it freaks me out.

Cirque Berzerk’s run was set to end this past Sunday, but after selling out their first weekend of shows, the L.A.-based troupe convinced the Parks and Rec department to give them an extension for shows this coming Friday and Saturday, August 1 & 2. So if you missed it last weekend, you’ve got one more chance.

After all, it’s not every day that you get to watch a man dangle from his feet, swinging a flaming mace. At least not where I come from.

Click here for a link to tickets »

Click here for a photogallery of this weekend's Cirque Berzerk run »

Click here for a story on the resurgence of the circus...and what it has to do with George Bush »

Click here for more circus troupes coming to town »

And click here for classes on learning the circus arts »

See you under the big top, 

In a world where Vogue is floundering while Elle increases ad pages, what better way to simultaneously bump up revenue and give the people what they want by reuniting the big six supermodels? American Vogue already missed the boat on coming out with an all Black issue (which Italian Vogue did, requiring Condé Nast to print 10,000 more copies—with 30% more ad pages, naturally), so why wait to do something equally as momentous?

Within the ad pages of this month’s “Age(less) Issue,” covergirl Kate Moss can be found along with Naomi Campbell, Linda Evangelista, Claudia Schiffer, Christy Turlington and a model with a mole so similar to Cindy Crawford’s, I’m just going to say it was her. Isn’t that a cover story? The biggest models of our time, who may have gone from editorial photo spreads to being relegated to the ad pages, are still alive and working, breaking the age-old (no pun intended) myth that models of a certain age can no longer work in the industry. It looks like the career of a supermodel is a lifelong calling from which one never truly retires. Anna Wintour, wake up and give us our supermodels.

—Marcos Luevanos 

Oh dear sweet Jesus, is it finally Friday? I’m still recovering from the non-stop mania of the past week. Last Friday night I saw Nas destroy the Roxy with an amazing “secret” show (remember: Nas is the truth!). From there it was N*E*R*D* rocking the HARD festival with classics like “Run to the Sun” on Saturday. Sunday brought the white-girl gospel of Feist with the ass-kicking soul of Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings at the Hollywood Bowl. The infectious disco fever of Hercules and Love Affair at a packed Echo this past Wednesday was the icing on the week’s sonic cake.

So while I go try to revive myself with a Jamba Juice and Red Bull cocktail, please enjoy the greatest music video ever, “Who’s Gonna Save My Soul” by Gnarls Barkley (featuring my hero, music producer to the stars Danger Mouse, above). I do have to warn you, it's graphic in a surreal and bloody way. Proceed with caution!

Starring Aasha Davis (anyone wise enough to watch the NBC series Friday Night Lights will recognize her as “Waverly,” Smash’s girlfriend) and produced by director Chris Milk, it’s nothing short of genius.

Celebrate the brilliance of Gnarls Barkley (and their fabulous album The Odd Couple) when they headline the Hollywood Bowl this Sunday night. Remind your too-cool-for-school roommate that indie sensation Deerhoof is also on the bill, and they’ll surely bring a case of PBR for the occasion (it is a LA Phil show, so those Yogi Bear picnic baskets are more than welcome). Discover true African music with Senagalese singer Fallou Dieng, too. See you there.

—Scott T. Sterling 

Shoestring Entertainment might be the name of Miller Uwanawich and Shan Markosyan's entertainment production company, but when it comes to opening a nightclub, they're all about extravagance! Not only are they renovating West Hollywood bar Seven with $100-per-gallon paint (it's been mixed with real gold), but the new owners are renaming the venue 24K because, they say, "it's the purest of all golds."

You can also expect gold-colored chandeliers and champagne buckets, not to mention a honey-hued backlit onyx bar and staircase when the venue reopens next month. Even more exciting (if you're a design freak like me), will be the sleek wood paneling designed to look like a Bentley dashboard. 

Like Crown Bar down the street, 24K will have one A-list night but then aim for an open-to-all vibe on all other nights. "Obviously we want it to be an upscale crowd," says the bar's marketing guy Clinton Ehrlich, who's working in-house along with Jamie Barren. "But we don't want to [...] snub people at the door." If you really want the royal treatment, though, you can splurge on $2,000 bottle service that includes car service.

What will make 24K different from Crown Bar, and every venue in the city, in fact, is that owners will also use the club as a location for their reality show (CW's shown an interest) that takes the "American Idol" concept to the next level by asking contestants to write their own songs. Since these guys also make films, they expect to use the space for Industry events as well.

24K opens August 31 with an opening bash to include girls dressed in gold body paint, little people pouring free vodka shots, and sexpot DJ Colleen Shannon most likely on the decks.

 
And speaking of new venues…
I'm told the spot formerly known as Forty Deuce will be called Bartleby and have a Brutalist design scheme. And remember Johnny's Cocktail Lounge across the street from Silverlake Lounge? Bobby Green (owner of Bigfoot Lodge, Little Cave and Saints and Sinners) is turning Johnny's into a 1970's style trucker bar. 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

There are some things that drive Events editors nuts: not having the capacity for teleportation is high on the list, but the stuff of nightmares is having an event listed with the unforgiving permanence of print— only to have it moved or canceled.

Modular, why must you do this to me?  

The Modular pool party listed in this week's Metromix has been moved from the downtown Standard on Sunday to the West Hollywood Standard on Saturday due to *very* last minute budget and scheduling problems. Yes, there will still be girls in bikinis and booze and sunburns. And yes, Does It Offend you, Yeah? will still be DJing.

Does it offend me? Yeah. But not enough to keep me from going.

See you on a lounge chair,

Is it a restaurant? Or is it a bar?

Defining the properties is only getting harder, especially with the popularity of the restaurant-lounge—a hybrid that only looks to persist as the economy is getting crappier, and owners have a better chance at recouping costs with multi-functioning spaces.

Lounge? Bar? Restaurant? Yes, yes, um…sorta when it comes to Culver City’s new Rush Street. Despite the early hours and Friday traffic, the huge, industrial-esque space was packed for last week’s launch party.

The bar impressively takes up one side of the dining room—it was supposed to be the longest bar in CC until Father’s Office came along. De rigueur horseshoe-shaped booths line the other side for groups who don’t want to perch at the tall communal tables in the center. A stylish lounge is set up in the loft with a not-so-stylish stripper pole (class-ay!).

Two gorgeous ladies, who totally looked like twins,

manned the upstairs bar while servers—all girls—stood by in, it’s got to be said, some of the most unflattering, body-hugging uniforms.

I was getting the picture. It was becoming increasingly apparent that this restaurant editor didn’t belong—especially since I was only able to score some pretty sad-looking sliders as samples.

Then, as I was making my final notes and taking my last pictures, a guy sidled over. After finding out my raison d’etre, he exclaimed, “I know you haven’t been to the best Italian restaurant in the city!” Uh, where would that be? “My kitchen!” Yep, I didn’t belong.

—Jiyeon Yoo

Robin Antin pulled a Britney Spears on Friday. (No, she didn't shave her head!) On Friday, the infamous Pussycat Dolls founder took over NoHo's Millennium Dance Complex, where Ms. Spears practices her moves and teaches kiddie classes, to host auditions for the next group of Dolls who'll perform at Antin's new WeHo club, slated to open at the end of August. Our intrepid reporter Jane Pham braved the scene where, she says, it was hard to tell the difference between professional dancers and strippers. (Some might argue strippers are professionals…) The one thing they all had in common, besides big boobs and long legs, was an urge to show their skin. One girl even took off her jeans before walking into the audition, hoping that her buttocks would help sway the judges. Click here for a photo gallery from the event, which includes interviews with some of the sexiest girls who showed up. You’ll see the finalists are as diverse as Brangelina's growing family.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

“They convinced fifty thousand people to shove sand up their buttcracks for NOTHING!”

A man is screaming into his cell phone with the furor of someone who has been robbed or wrongly imprisoned. He sounds irate and violated. He is at Glow on the Santa Monica pier.

It’s 3 a.m. and I’m standing on the beach with several thousand people, looking for a reason to be here. The first ever free “Glow” event is mid-swing, and scheduled to last until 7a.m. The planned art installations, which were promised to be mind-blowing, trippy, luminescent and well, glowy, are conspicuously missing. Other than some grunion mating in the moonlight, the light-based attractions consist of little more than scattered Burning Man alumni with glowsticks wedged down their pants and the pier’s ferris wheel blinking in seizure-inducing patterns. We wander over to see some “volcanoes” only to find that they’re a dozen or so foot-high mounds of sand topped with Ikea votive candles. Really, people?

(At least there was a ferris wheel?) 

The scheduled DJ sets have apparently been cancelled due to a brawl breaking out earlier in the night, and now there’s not much to look at, other than other people. The crowd clogs the pier’s entrance, the shoreline is clustered with tens of thousands of people, and the line for funnel cake is staggering. I take an informal poll to find that approximately 50% of my surveyed subjects answer affirmatively when asked “Are you fucked up right now?” The other 50% shake their heads no, with a pang of sober regret.

Shuffling down Pico at 4 a.m., my cohort says in mock wonder “Maybe we were the art.”

What did you guys think: was it a poorly planned mess or an experiment in the futility of art? Or were you just too effed up to notice?

Nas, Pete Townshend, Roger Daltrey—we’re talking legends, baby. All three were in Los Angeles over the course of a 24-hr period, and I was lucky enough to experience them in settings far more intimate than usual.

First came an invitation to the MTV/Harmonix party for their mega-popular Rock Band video game at the cozy Orpheum downtown. The promised “surprise special guests” were none less than the Who. With general admission free-for-all seating, I landed about 12 rows back from the stage, dead center. It was a casual set that occasionally revealed the band’s raw power between good natured-bantering, insider videogame industry humor and old-fashioned flubs. A moment when Townshend (above) launched into another chorus of “5:15” as the song was ending to the bemused smiles of the band was priceless. I could go on (and on), but I’ll leave it at something any Who fan would’ve truly appreciated.  And I did.

I awoke to a text message the next morning from my man KC. “I got Nas at the Zune gallery tonight. Be there.” Since Nas is among the greatest rappers of all-time, and that day being only two after the release of his highly incendiary Untitled album, I was so there. Wifey Kelis watched from the wings as Nas stopped opening song “Hero” after only a few bars. Handing the controls to DJ Green Lantern, he tore through new songs (“Breathe”) and classics (“One Love”) like a prizefighter warming up for a title bout. With an adoring crowd up close and personal in the stark space, Nas seemed to genuinely enjoy getting the hip-hop industry amped with his undeniable skills. Ironically, it was when he dropped an a capella of a certain song from his new album that the show came to an abrupt end. Let’s just say it rhymes with a word that made Elizabeth Hasselbeck cry. With Nas set to take the stage at the Roxy tonight for an exclusive Myspace gig, this could very well have been just such a warm-up. Stay tuned—details at 11... 

—Scott T. Sterling 

I love James Brown’s music just as much as the next motherfunker, but I must admit that his flamboyant sense of style played a significant role in maintaining my interest in him as I grew older. I mean, what musician today could pull off a fox fur coat, a gold jumpsuit and a white leather belt with a rhinestone encrusted buckle that has the title “Sex Machine” emblazoned on it?

               Silver Fox Coat                                                  Kennedy Center Honor 

Okay, so, maybe Snoop Dogg, P. Diddy, Pharrell, and Kanye could (and in some cases have), but probably wouldn’t feel as free to do so had James Brown not blazed the lamé-laced trail before them. More than a year after his death, Christie’s Auction House is selling off some of the Godfather of Soul’s personal memorabilia—including a collection of clothing louder-than-Rosie O’Donnell. Some of my favorites—which I’m adding to my Christmas list—include a cobalt blue cape with the words “My Name Is Godfather of Soul,” a Kennedy Center Honor, and a black mink coat. It’s not animal cruelty if it’s vintage, right?         

          Sex Machine Belt                             Blue "Godfather of Soul" Cape 

“Do you think she’s on ecstasy, or just really nice?

My friend Victor raises a good question. A bubbly blonde in a sundress has approached three of us at Barker Block downtown and she’s a little too… friendly. The new loft space in the middle of an otherwise industrial wasteland is establishing itself as a hangout hub by throwing a summer full of free parties offering sunsets, rooftop views, a cozy Jacuzzi and gallons of free alcohol.

It’s Saturday night and the crowd includes a healthy mix of men wearing too much musk, dreadlocked hipsters and a few wizened, platinum blond cougars. Megan-in-a-Sundress bears the innocence of someone who was on the student body council in high school, but is hovering by our lounge chair with saucer eyes, asking us questions that are laughably clichéd: Do we come here often? Are we having fun? Don’t we like the view? As she bounces away, we’re left debating if she wants to sell us a million-dollar loft downstairs, if she’s rolling on pharmaceutical grade aphrodesiacs or if she’s just hammered on free rum.

Regardless, the view of downtown and the July breeze is worth fiddling with the GPS to find. We wave goodbye to Megan as two of her friends are splayed out on a poolside lounge, making out with the fever of prisoners on a conjugal visit. Perhaps they’re just happy to be here?

Any shred of coolness left in the diseased, rotting carcass known as “DJing” has been pretty much killed off for good, thanks in part to UK celebrity car crash Amy Winehouse.

Winehouse has started a club night called “Snakehips” at the Monarch pub in Camden, England. For the club’s first night, she arranged a “DJ battle” between herself and one DJ Bioux. So while fans and photographer crowded around the decks, Winehouse did what she does best: drink, stumble around and cause a scene. What she did not do was play a single record. Sigh. Remember when she was good at singing?

Between Serato (which celebrates 10 years of existence this year) allowing even a monkey to beat-match (it’s true!) and dubious celebrities standing around getting wasted being constituted as a “DJ gig,” calling yourself a DJ in 2008 (unless you’re a true ninja like A-Trak or Diplo) is just not hot, people. And this is coming from someone who calls himself a DJ, so don’t trip.

All of which is why I’m in the market for a new guitar. As scary as it sounds, even middle-of-the-roadsters like John Mayer will always be cooler than 99% of most DJs or computer-powered “bands.” Talent trumps trendy every time. Spread the word...

—Scott T. Sterling 

Has Paris Hilton's star finally begun to fade? We haven’t seen as much of her since she started dating Benji Madden, but if you ask me, it's probably not love that’s keeping her out of the spotlight. I think we've just gotten tired of idolizing heiresses during this sad economic climate where a gallon of gas costs more than a cup of coffee and baristas are getting laid off. Perhaps this is why nightclub impresario David Judaken, who owns Opera/Crimson and Mood, decided to change the course of his next project.

Until Monday, Judaken had planned on turning his Morrocan-style club Garden of Eden (on La Brea Avenue at Hollywood Boulevard) into something called Heir. Then bam! After an inspiring conversation with interior designer Dodd Mitchell, who created the stylish spaces at Teddy's and Tropicana Bar, Judaken decided instead to transform Garden of Eden into My House. The idea is reminiscent of Villa, which aims to have an exclusive house party vibe, but according to an inside source, My House will take Villa’s “books and a bed” décor concept to the next level.

As with all of Judaken’s venues, there will be an open floor plan. But Mitchell is going to design the space to give the illusion of different areas: dining room, media room, home theatre, even a sleek and modern kitchen that'll serve as the bar. Of course, no house party would be complete without a barbeque pit in a backyard, so they’re putting one of those in too!

The venue's tentatively slotted for a soft opening in late September, but my source thinks that they probably won’t open until December. Here’s what I can be sure about: My House’s right by the Kodak Theatre and Mann Chinese, so expect a ton of movie premiere and award show after parties to go down here. And yeah, I'm sure there'll eventually be quite a few Paris sightings too.

—Alexandra Le Tellier 

There are no words. OK, maybe I can come up with one or two—or an entire blog post—detailing just how excited I am that "Project Runway" is returning to Bravo for another season. This must be how (insert sport here) fans feel when (insert playoff series here) start. Despite maintaining a relatively unchanged program format since it premiered, "Runway" still sews me in.

Every Wednesday, I can hardly wait for my weekly dose of Heidi Klum and her poker-faced reactions, Michael Kors and his nasal rants, Tim Gunn and his compassionate inquiries, or Nina Garcia and her blunt-as-a-Louboutin-to-the-head criticism.

Then there are the designers. Who knows which one will have a breakdown this season over a stolen dress form? Which one will be vilified via the video confessional? Which one will win over our heart (and our crotch) with their adorable catchphrase? 

In the midst of all the excitement, don’t forget to check metromix.com every Thursday morning for the post-"Runway" recaps I’ll be writing with contributing editor Jaime Honkawa. Until then, auf Wiedersehen!

“Mexican restaurant” and “Redondo Beach” are two pretty incongruous ideas in my mind. While I wouldn’t normally be compelled to make the trek down for an opening party, Ortega 120 had attracted such positive, er, yelping in its first few weeks, I headed to the breezier climes of the South Bay to see what all the fuss was about.

Ortega 120 bears neither the corny references of an El Torito nor the swanky airs of Beso or nearby Mucho Ultima Mexicana. The spacious dining room looks more like a drug baron’s funky pad—if he had a love for Dia de los Muertos iconography and a kick-ass interior designer with a postmodern eye for folkloric art. The day’s event was supposed to be a fiesta to welcome in the local community, and from the mix bag of Dockers shorts, straw bags and kids, it looks like that’s exactly who showed up. No Hollywood cooler-than-though shenanigans here.

It’s hardly fair to assess a restaurant from the food at a launch party—hey, it’s free and it can go both ways—but the house-made horchata is pretty ridiculous. I had forgotten how refreshing the drink can be: From childhood experiences, I’ve tended to associate it with the cloying commercial stuff that comes out of those beverage machines. And for most people I know, an extra-large Orange Bang is always preferable to Horchata Olé (yes, we’re still talking about drinks here).

It looks like a lactose-intolerant nightmare but horchata is completely dairy-free. In this case, co-owner/mixologist Demi Stevens brews a recipe from rice (rather than the chufa nut) with cinnamon and almonds. Talk about Rice Dreams-on-ice. So proud is Ortega 120 of its version, the bar also offers a *potent* horchata martini. I can now see why it’s traditionally considered the “drink of the gods.” It’s made a convert out of me.

Oh, and as I was leaving, I nearly knocked into the Metromix box right outside. Not bad at all.

—Jiyeon Yoo

I'm sure the local blogosphere will be all atwitter about this soon enough, but let me be the first (namely, because I have wicked insomnia right now) to give Chef Michael Cimarusti of Providence a big e-shoutout for his win on Iron Chef America this past Sunday.

Granted, the episode was probably taped months ago, but the victory must still taste sweet now that everyone's in on it. Even sweeter still: Cimarusti handily beat the formidable sushi master Morimoto in a fish contest.

Winning in Kitchen Stadium is no easy task, especially considering that ICA is rigged. (No, no. I don't mean the-mob-break-your-kneecaps variety as much as the setup is more like the wink-wink-we-all-know-who's-best predetermination that you see in, say, Olympic figure skating.) So, if a challenger manages to outperform one of the snazzy blue coats, then you know s/he really impressed the collective pants off the judges.

Despite all the insipid chicanery (when did the Nephew-to-the-Chairman start needing knife-swishing sound effects to accompany his movements?), I can't turn away from the pure, nitty-gritty display of technique—which Cimarusti showed off in spades, beautifully scoring squid, blazing through a fine dice of carrots and scallions as if he still did his own mise en place every night, even having to fish out the live ingredient from a gigantic tank. Of course, his team (which included Providence's pastry chef Adrian Vasquez) rocked the house too.

But what really sealed the deal was Cimarusti's ability to rise above all the silliness, matching the N-to-the-C's comical gravitas and excessively deferential bowing with an iron-will handshake.

That totally cracked me up! Because the dude ain't fo'real. (Seriously, IMDB Mark Dacascos and you'll see his non-relations to the original Chairman.) Lest you think he was straight disrespecting or something, Cimarusti walked over to Morimoto's crew and gave them "proper" respects.

Cimarusti, you the man! Thanks for representing L.A.—that was a long dry spell since Neal Fraser showed 'em who's hog boss. Now when are we invited for the Iron Chef prix fixe dinner at Providence?**

—Jiyeon Yoo

If you missed it because you actually had holiday weekend plans, Food Network is replaying the episode throughout the week.

**Update: Well, that was quick. The winning dishes from Battle Blackfish will be offered at Providence as specials throughout July. See y'all there—I'll race you for that first course of blackfish tartare. Heck, they all looked good!

I won't lie: Sometimes I don't want to go out.

After a 4th of July spent eating Ruffles and donuts (in the same mouthful), detonating explosives and sustaining a sparkler-related skin burn, all I wanted on the 5th of July was to flop face-first onto my bed. Or the floor.

But because it's my professional duty to investigate leisure, I slapped my face to stay awake, and headed to two Saturday night art shows. In Hollywood, Nylon Magazine illustrator and local art darling Esther Kim was staging a rare show at Hairroin salon on Cahuenga. Her watercolor works of primping girls were taped to the salon's mirrors, and a well-coiffed crowd sipped punch made from sherbet. Overall verdict: worth putting on pants.

From there I sped over to Chinatown, where Phoebe Washer's posthumous solo show was opening at POVevolving Gallery.

If you happened on our "Art Attack" feature from last week, you might recall that the young artist lived a short but prolific 20 years before bizarrely falling to her death from a cliff in April. As tired as I was, no amount of fatigue would have justified missing the gallery full of her gorgeous and chilling artwork. Talking with her parents, it was impossible not to become emotional. Some nights I go out and cover ridiculous dodgeball championships; other nights I leave a gallery in tears, awed and thankful for what I've seen. Either way, it's worth putting on pants.

We must give it up for Pat Benatar.

Where fellow female rock pioneers Heart were never afraid to be pretty while they plied their trade, Pat Benatar had the guts to hit the stage and just be freaking hot. Rocking bold printed leotards and matching headbands over a pixie haircut, she was the original American Apparel model.

Belting out massive, guitar-driven rock anthems about love, loss, and oddly enough, child abuse (early b-side and radio hit “Hell is for Children”), Benatar ruled, from sold out concert halls to male suburban bedroom walls and locker doors circa 1980. Carving a path through the male-dominated FM radio monstrosity of the day with undeniable arena-ready riffs like “Heartbreaker” and “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” with a powerful and classically trained voice, new-school screamers like Amy Lee and Hayley Williams owe Benatar big.

No discussion of Benatar is complete without acknowledging her magnum opus, the massive ‘80s monument that is “Love is a Battlefield.” The video alone is among the greatest things ever committed to celluloid. How it was never flipped into a feature film like Prince’s Purple Rain is a question for the ages. Then again, it’s kind of perfect as it is.

It’s been 25 years since Pat Benatar was the cultural phenomenon lampooned in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, but she still rocks with the best of them. Boasting one of (if not) the most enduring musical marriages of all-time with guitar hero hubby Neil Geraldo, she continues to run the road on tour, hitting 40 U.S. cities (including nearby Costa Mesa on August 1) this summer. The recently released double-CD set Pat Benatar Ultimate Collection is loaded with all the Benatar you’ll need to soundtrack the dog days of summer. Monster tracks like “Treat Me Right” and the totally out of control “Shadows of the Night” have taken over the car stereo, perfect for the long 4th of July weekend. Now if only gas wasn't a whopping $5 a gallon, I could blast it up and down the PCH from now through Sunday. Ah, the good old days of 2006. Happy holiday, y'all!

—Scott T. Sterling 

It was bound to happen sooner or later. First, Mark Wahlberg resurfaced—sans CK briefs—from a significant bout of obscurity. Then, the Spice Girls reunited and went on tour. Even Hillary Clinton came back in a big way by running for the office her husband once occupied. Slowly but surely, the ‘90s have officially returned—whether you like it not. As is the case with every resurgence, there’s a cultural milestone, a ubiquitous plateau signifying its legitimacy. I believe this landmark to be the recently released Sony Pictures Classics film “The Wackness.”    
 

I’m willing to bet the pair of vintage Hammer pants hanging in the back of my closet that this film will do for the ‘90s what last year’s “Juno” did for teen pregnancy—create a hysteria surrounding all things era related from music to clothing to obnoxious catchphrases. Believe what you like, but I’d start scouring swap meets for flannel shirts and practicing my Arsenio Hall arm pump if I were you.   

—Marcos Luevanos 

Looks like Seven's minutes in heaven are up. After about a year of trying to make it work in an awkward WeHo location across the street from a 7-Eleven, the venue's shutting down. But not for long. The venue will respawn—any excuse to use a Halo term!—into Gold Bar with current owner Noah Silverman still at the helm, reports the LA Times. Promoter Jamie Barren says he may come on as venue's marketing man as he did with Libertine. Meanwhile, there's another bar on Santa Monica Boulevard about five minutes away that's getting a major overhaul. Details are still on the DL since contracts are still being signed, but I can tell you it's where Paris Hilton celebrated her 25th birthday party by dancing on tables as Frankie Muniz, who she'd arrived with, stared on in disbelief. We imagine Steve Aoki fans will dig this place.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

You know that phrase “As American as apple pie”? Yeah, never did it for me. Not even when McDonald’s used to patriotically deep fry those suckers.

Give me a crisp or crumble. Heck, I’d even take a buckle. But a pie just doesn’t have the right proportion of buttery richness to offset the goopy stew of baked fruit. And a crust that’s made out of Crisco? Now that’s totally whack.

But I may just have to stuff my piehole—with actual pie! A trek out to Jongewaard’s Bake-n-Broil in Long Beach revealed the most magical fruit in its olallieberry pie. So magical, in fact, it’s practically ephemeral: The olallieberry’s very short season ends right about when the fireworks fizzle out. (You can read more about it and get a mouth-watering photo here.)

“God bless olallieberry.” It’s got a nice ring to it. Traditionalists probably won’t bite, but I ask you: Doesn’t the phrase a la mode muddy up the American-ness of apple pie, anyway? I’m talking to you, Freedom Fry lovers. So in this final (finally!) July 4 with the most swaggeringly-conservative, reactionary, pious administration in my recent her-story, I can’t think of a more pleasing way to celebrate my American independence. Oh, say can you see a slice of olallieberry…

—Jiyeon Yoo