Sometimes Thursdays sneak up on you.

You're just going about your day, wearing an outfit that involves pants from Target and a shirt you've had since high school, when suddenly, The Awesome strikes. Such was Thursday.

I'd planned on going home to unpack my kitchen (I moved 2 months ago) but got sidetracked and found myself amid sidewalk shenanginangs at the newly opened Hope Gallery, right on Chicken Corner near Chango in Echo Park. Fans of the Family Bookstore and record label Teenage Teardrops may already know gallery collaborators David Kramer and Cali DeWitt, and from the throng stuffing the space and spilling into the street, they—and the artists known as the Sumi Ink Club—are popular folks.

(Cali DeWitt, in a white hat, squeezes someone's face.) 

Gallery openings are a crap shoot: Sometimes you do a lap or two and you're over it. Other times, there are mini-cupcakes in abundance and you find yourself chatting with Miranda July on the sidewalk about the function of the pancreas, and then a band sets up on the ground next to you and a hundred people crowd around it and someone hands out rocks and the crowd is now holding the rocks and transferring energy from them to emit sound waves and you're not even on hallucinogens. In this case, two questions remain: am I dreaming, and if not, why am I wearing such a lame outfit right now?

The best we can do in a city this large is always be prepared for surprise radness. (For more glimpses of the Hope Gallery, check out the slew of photos we took that night) 

High fives,

 

 
Legend has it that the Avalon is haunted and, a few years ago, a bartender at the upstairs Spider Club swore he'd seen ghosts when the venue was empty. Now I hear from fellow Metromixer George Ducker that 86, formerly home to Rudolph Valentino's speakeasy, had an eerie vibe on a recent night when his friend’s drink was mysteriously knocked over. (That raises the question of who was drunker: The friend or the ghost?)

It's not just the Hollywood clubs, either. Vincent Terzian, who's gearing up to open Crocker Club downtown swears there are spirits in the space. "If you stand there, you'll feel it," he says. "Everyday at a certain hour you hear the clickity-clack of high heels so we've come to the conclusion that it's a female." Of the ghost he's named Jane, he says, "I talk to her everyday when I go in there in the mornings, and I say hello to her and I greet her when I've got people down there … I told her she can stay as long as she wants as long as she could meet me half way and be really cool with me because I believe in the afterlife."

If you want to party with Jane, Crocker Club is expected to open any day now in the former Crocker Citizens National Bank at 453 Spring Street.

 
I imagine the ghosts are as decked out as the clubbers. (Photo: Glenn Koenig/LA Times)

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Yeah, it’s rather profound that two of the most exciting albums of 2008 so far come from ‘90s veterans Portishead and the Breeders. In the current cultural whirlwind littered with young acts doing their best to imitate heroes from the not-so-distant past, the irony of these genuine articles whipping out great new music that you want to listen to more than a couple of times speaks volumes.

The new Breeders (above) album “Mountain Battles” roars out of the gate from the opening blast of “Overglazed,” the dirty discordant riff and Kelley Deal’s inimitable wail setting the tone. The record recalls the glorious pre-indie world of "college rock," and why Frank Black was always so threatened by Deal. It shimmers with the same glow that made their 1993 masterpiece “Last Splash” an instant classic.

  

As for Bristol dark artisans supreme Portishead, the duo's stark and relentlessly challenging “Third” release is akin to their own “O.K. Computer” moment, completely reinventing an already pioneering sound into something entirely else. They work with sonic static as deftly as a master painter, juxtaposing it with raw emotion, unsettling tension and deep, hard-wrought melody. And it’s a monster on headphones.

Maybe both have been around long enough to know that when the blog hype, cool kids and critics turn their attention to the next sensation on the block, the only thing left is the music—all the more reason to create something special. Huh. It would seem that there are far better things for the current crop of acts to be emulating than fashion sense and drum sounds. Catch my drift?

P.S. Both acts are playing at Coachella this year. See you in the desert... 

—Scott T. Sterling 

 

Why am I always surprised to a see a celebrity at the Cha Cha Lounge? You would think I'd be used it by now. Jake Gyllenhaal's been, so has Chloe Sevigny. And once, "Scrubs" star Sarah Chalke offered me a piece of homemade chocolate cake while partying at the Silverlake hole. (Proof that stars really are just like us!) But last night's sighting of Eve tops them all. She wasn't doing anything remarkable and her boobies were put away. She was just there, chilling out in the corner with friends. Still, can you picture Eve at the Cha Cha? I’m befuddled.    

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Sheddy's isn't the only bar that has me holding my breath in anticipation. South, which was supposed to open tonight in Santa Monica, is still dealing with last-minute issues, ie. health inspections. The new opening date is next Friday, April 4, at which point I'll be drinking that mint julep out of a jam jar. 

Photo: Alex Gallardo/LA Time

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Just like Cher Horowitz, my main thrill in life is a makeover. You name it, I've probably tried to change it; from my Republican parents to my naturally curly hair to my major in college to my best friend's obnoxious girlfriend. So, when Motel 6 unveiled plans to reinvent the economy lodging experience by redesigning the interior of their rooms, you'd better believe I was happier than Paula Abdul on prescription refill day.

The simple, functional, modern design is just a prototype—it's called "The Phoenix"—though participating Motel 6 franchises will retrofit their rooms in its image by the summer of 2009. As an affordable alternative to costly, Euro-chic boutique hotels like The Standard and Farmer's Daughter, Motel 6 has officially made it inexcusable for out-of-towners not to visit.   

 —Marcos Luevanos

I've been totally obsessed with MTV's "America's Best Dance Crew." You can see for yourself that I'm not alone in that sentiment.

It's not my place to provide any critical examination—although, really Mario, "dance for their lives"? Is that a new way of saying "do-or-die"? I've personally been getting a kick out of seeing all the product placements for "ABDC's" primary sponsor, Dunkin' Donuts. It's not enough that we're getting cocmmercials and flashes of the corporate logo every interstitial opportunity possible; we also have to see the crews partake in the bounty of sugary doughnuts and super strong coffee.

I understand that the show, therefore the reach of the advertising, is national. But this wouldn't be so hilarious to me if it weren't patently obvious that the show is filmed in Los Angeles where we have exactly zero Dunkin' Donuts stores. Those kids from Orange County were probably like, "Huh? We thought this was urban legend."

I also didn't realize that there have been such intense, passionate conversations about Dunkin' Donuts on many local message boards, usually started by some East Coast ex-pat, 'plaining about how L.A. sucks, and it sucks even harder because s/he can't get a daily dose of Dunks. Depending on the demo, a bunch of fellow ex-pats will give their cohort a "word" or L.A-lovers will shout down the whining. MTV, there was no need to fabricate an East-West head-to-head for the finale. It looks like your corporate sponsor has long been feeding that sort of turf rivalry.

This particular blogger cracks me up: The post essentially calls out Angelenos, insultingly imploring them to open a local franchise. Dude, if you're so convinced at DD's virtue, why don't you or any East Coast transplant man up? Yeah, money talks...

—Jiyeon Yoo 

Postscript: I did manage to talk to the corporate office, and I got the typical hedging about the company's expansion plans: While California is definitely a target for future franchising, details won't be clear for another year to a year-and-a-half. Which most likely means, never. I can understand the hesitation: Dunkins hightailed it of dodge in the late '90s. It probably needs some coaxing before it returns. Anyone? 

Ack. I was all excited to check out Sheddy's over the weekend and partake in the bar's grand opening celebration, which was to include two-for-one wine and $3 beer. No such luck. The opening has been pushed back again. The sign on the window says the English-style neighborhood bar will now open April 1—an April Fool's joke perhaps—and the opening party will go down April 4 and 5. Cheap drinks: here I come.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

 

 

I just wanted green tea.

I was waiting in a colossal line in a bustling Asian market, tea in hand, on Good Friday. Family after family hovered at the back counter near an exasperated fishmonger manning a vat of oil, which bubbled up with whole fish. Apparently, if you're looking to obtain a cardboard tray of fried fish—heads on—the Friday before Easter is a popular time for this.

The line for the cash register shuffled forward slowly, the atmosphere was thick with airborn fish fat and it wasn't until I left with my tea that it occurred to me: "I have to be somewhere in 20 minutes, and I smell like cod."

I did what any human with an olfactory sense and a diminishing level of shame would do: I went home, and I Fabreezed myself.

I stood in my kitchen in front of an open cabinet of Pine Sol and oven cleaner, Fabreeze in hand, and gave it a few tentative pumps. A wet mist of chemically springtime freshness settled on my face.

Did it work? It worked like magic. It was 100% effective in making me smell like your aunt's linen closet, which in this case was a welcome advancement.

I raced over to All Star Lanes to join a throng of comrades at the adjacent dive bar, where a spasmatic karaoke dance party was in full swing.  I then bowled a personal best of 119. Was it luck? Chance? No, it was confidence. A confidence born of Fabreezing my head.

 

Shamelessly yours, 

 

 
Miss Alie Ward

 

What a difference a week makes. It wasn’t even 7 days ago that I watched Vampire Weekend suffer through a showcase gig in Austin during SXSW (or simply “South by,” which is what the locals call it). VW was the main attraction of last Saturday’s SPIN party on the back lot of Stubb’s BBQ (the pic above was snapped at the gig). The assembled mass of industry insiders was not impressed. As the band dutifully played through their sunny repertoire of afro-pop inflected indie hop, a majority of the crowd just stood and stared. Singer Ezra Konig tried to lighten the mood with some corny jokes, but that only made things worse. It was almost painful watching these fresh-faced guys so eager to please, essentially playing to the hand.

Last night’s sold out show at the El Rey was a much different story. Playing to a far more partisan crowd, VW charged through every tune on their debut album (and two new songs) with the same happy-faced energy that permeates their recordings. And everyone in the room (including SNL cast member Andy Samberg) loved it.

While it’s always good for bands to endure show-and-prove shows like the one that withered Vampire Weekend in Austin, it was good to finally see the band doing what they do best in their natural habitat. There’s a reason the hype on VW is enormous. They’re a solid band doing something different for the kids. Is that so wrong?

—Scott T. Sterling

 

Speaking of new nightspots…

The English-inspired neighborhood bar Sheddy's was supposed to open last Friday in the spot that used to house Spanish spot Bodega DeCordova. The owner tells something happened with one of the licenses and that the bar will in fact open this weekend.

The Southern-style bar South was also supposed to open last weekend, but owner Adam Milstein has moved the opening to March 27. "That's the date we're setting in stone," he says, "but call just to make sure." Expect Southern drinks (mint juleps, deep south tea), Southern food (fried chicken, fried green tomatoes), Southern music (Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley) and, of course, Southern hospitality. Milstein says, "We want to make everyone who comes in here feel like they're the most important person in the room."

And what about STK's Coco de Ville, which was supposed to open mid-March? "It looks like we are still about a month or more out," says a rep for the venue. "No updates on our end."

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Official word had it that the club above Foxtail was slated to open Saturday, March 15. Then I was told the opening had been postponed. Total bummer, as Jiyeon, queen of our Restaurants section, and I had planned to crash the hoopla after having dinner downstairs. (That also didn't materialize, long story.) As it turns out, Foxtail did open and according to a friend of a friend, who knows promoter/actor Michael Bellisario, the story about the delay was a ruse. But that's just gossip. What I can tell you for sure is that a well-connected friend actually got into the club on Friday the 14th. She says owner/club legend Brent Bolthouse was in the house, manning the decks and hanging out with Ashley Olsen. A rep for Foxtail just said via email, "Club is not officially open yet at all, actually." But if it's not open, how did my friend, who wasn't invited, get in?

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Update: I just heard back from Foxtail's rep. She says, "She must have been invited through someone as it’s only been informal friends and family gatherings so far. We open on March 27 and it will be by guest list."

Lohan behold, Lindsay is at the front of a seemingly endless line of celebrities to recently catch the fashion design bug. The former actress blabbed to tabloid Life & Style, "I'm doing my own leggings line, but it's a secret!" In addition to explaining to Lohan that tights are not an acceptable substitute for pants, someone ought to expound upon the definition of a "secret."

Lohan in leggings

I have a few questions; when did throwing on a pair of tights become the lower-body equivalent of wearing a hat on bad hair days? I know they're a product of the ‘80s fashion resurgence, but aren't they on their way out with headbands and male cleavage? Fame-induced taste dementia has—since the genesis of Hollywood—been something easily cured by wardrobe stylists. These days, however, it seems like every Hollywood starlet from A to Z list fancies herself a fashion icon—rejecting the wardrobe department and indulging her innate "sense of style" with a product launch and a marketing campaign.

You've come a long way, baby

I haven't seen them yet, but according to Lohan, "They'll have designs. Some of them will have prints, and some will have patterns." I guess it's nice to know that, even if you can't find depth or range in any of her performances, at least you'll be able to find it in her tights.

—Marcos Luevanos

 

Dear reservationist, please do not scoff at me. I know I'm asking for the impossible when I call on a Friday afternoon to request a table for 8 p.m. that evening. Even without your imperious tone, I know your establishment is a hot one indeed. That's why I'm calling you before I bother to walk-in: on the off, against-the-odds chance that there is an opening. What? Oh, you're too cool to accept walk-ins? Well, goodbye then.

You know, I've made a conscious effort not to unleash my frustrations on this blog. Restaurants have bad nights, mistakes happen, and in most cases, things are swiftly smoothed over. But in the multiple instances in which I've had to deal with a curt, harried, and unhelpful reservationist—Why does it feel like I'm bothering you when it's your job to answer the phones?—I'm sick of being treated like dirt before I've left my humble little ride with the valet and got a sugary, overpriced cocktail in my hand.

All this came to a head over the weekend: I had reservations at Foxtail for Saturday night. I didn't get the customary phone call to confirm the time. So when I called first before heading out to West Hollywood, I was informed that my reservation was in fact the night before.

Why so forlorn Foxtail? Is it because no one can get a proper ressie with you?

Hello?! I distinctly requested Saturday, not Friday. No, Cherise the Reservationist was stalwart, "Your reservation was last night." She offered no explanation, no solution, no attempt to look for another time. When I pointed that there was obviously a problem here, and I'm not hearing a possible alternative or even an apology for that matter, she responded, "Okay, certainly...I apologize for your confusion" (emphasis not mine).

I was fuming obviously, but the thing that completely took me over the edge was the unmitigated self-righteousness. Cherise was confident that she wasn't the one in the wrong as she kept repeating in an inflexible loop, "Your reservation was last night. My book says that your reservation was Friday." 

What convincing evidence, Matlock. Remind me never to hire you as my defense attorney. Which is more likely: that I misspoke both the date and day as I made the reservation in front of the very people that I was supposed to meet that night, or that Cherise the Reservationist opened her appointment book to the wrong day and wrote my name (most likely misspelled) in the incorrect slot?

And, if I indeed had a Friday night commitment, why did I not get a confirmation call? That would have apprised me of "my confusion" at least 24 hours in advance to rectify the matter with my party. Foxtail is new, but a phone call to guests for validation is just fundamental. Perhaps this miserable, miserable non-procedure is the reason why no one—really, no one—on the various message boards is talking about the supposed hot spot. The hullabaloo over "Top Chef" be absolutely damned.

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

Professor Ward's lesson of the day: When in doubt, remove your pants.

On Friday night, I rushed out of work and eagerly headed to the Upright Citizen's Brigade to catch back-to-back shows of the farcical musical opera "Freakdance: the Forbidden Dirty Boogaloo" (winner of my own personal Best Title Ever award) as well as a later show based around the video game Rock Band. I'm not usually into pointlessly simulated experiences, but beloved L.A. indie rockers Giant Drag have gone through some line up changes, and were staging a 4-minute reunion just for the show. Count me in.

Fake bands with names like "Emo Bortion" and the classic and simple "Shit" took the stage, playing along to disturbingly angular CGI rockers on a screen. Former Giant Drag drummer Micah Calabrese thumped at electronic drum sensors, keeping time with a Beastie Boys song, while frontwoman Annie Hardy strapped on a plastic guitar, smoked a cigarette and delivered some of the evening's best and most offensive humor. 

But after several teams' technical snaufs dragged on, a front-row audience member got clocked in the face with a miniature guitar, and one of the hosts declared the event as "from a technical standpoint, a debacle," the finest moment of the night came when one faux band, struggling through an accidental unplugged cord and an off-key rendition of "Detroit Rock City", sensed the audience's apathy. They looked at each other, and wordlessly all removed their pants. Problem: solution. Attention was restored.

So jot it in your diaries, chant it like a mantra: when in doubt, remove your pants. And don't say I never taught you nothin'.

Didactically yours, 

 


Miss Alie Ward

Comme des Garçons did it. So did H&M, Opening Ceremony, and Steven Alan. These days, it seems like every label I love is immigrating to L.A. in some sort of retail diaspora. There's no denying that the city is quickly becoming a major American fashion capital—some argue it could be on par with New York soon—which is why I'd like to make a plea to three stores that I love to open outposts in Los Angeles. California dreaming hasn't been this much fun in a really long time.         

Patricia Field
Many people forget that the "Sex and the City" costume designer had a successful career as a retailer before the hit HBO comedy made her a household name. The merchandise in her New York store ranges from House of Field clutch purses to vintage naval hats to rhinestone encrusted silver knuckles and is synonymous with all things Downtown hip.

Uniqlo
Offering sharply tailored garments made of rich fabrics in an array of colors at low prices—like their cashmere sweaters, which aren't more than $100—Uniqlo is like an upscale American Apparel. The Japanese company plans to, "gradually expand as we gain experience of the local market." Having been a U.S. presence on the east coast since 2005, I think we've waited long enough. 

Billionaire Boys Club and Ice Cream
Pharell Williams of The Neptunes is one half of this candy colored apparel line, which carries everything from tight jeans to vintage inspired tees to silver lamé sneakers. While I've found some items at local retailers like Urban Outfitters, there's nothing like purchasing fashion directly from the source.

—Marcos Luevanos

I'm totally late to this party, but I finally got around to seeing the premiere episode of "Top Chef...Chicago!" (knife swish)—Could that promo be any cheesier?

Everyone in the free world has already had their say about it, including MMX's own, the lovely Katherine Spiers. All the conspiracy theorizing and odds-making and bone-picking is fun stuff, but I had no intention of jumping into the fray. Except...

So we all know that contestant Ryan doesn't know a piccata if it slapped him and left a streak of eggy breadcrumbs on his face. But, um, does super chef Tom Colicchio? He admonished Ryan: "Traditionally, piccata is dipped in egg..." Then, schooled him some more during panel: "A piccata is dredged in flour and then egg and then pan fried, and a Milanese is breaded in breadcrumbs. There’s a difference in the two...You guys gotta go back and know classics to appreciate the newer dishes."

Many good points, Chef, but...er...how do I say this? Piccata-isn’t-dipped-in-egg-either. Whew.

Look, even as I write this, I feel sick to my stomach. I don't presume to know more or better. Colicchio is Italian after all, whereas I am…not. It’s very possible that he misspoke, even multiple times. But, when you’re ripping the poor guy a new one—and especially if you have production control so that you can reshoot or dub over the film—well, you should be right. Maybe I’ll be the one with egg on my face at the end of the day, but protein in piccata (which I believe specifically refers to the lemon and capers sauce) is usually just floured. And where was Rocco or Anthony? Surely they could have piped up and corrected the matter. Maybe they were too baked to care…not that I’m implying anything about on-set escapades.

While I’m on the subject of TV: How stoked was I to access my DVR and see something like this?

I kind of equate it to what it might have felt like to find one of those souvenir license plates for your name—something I obviously never experienced as a kid. Maybe now my family will stop calling me “Bort." (Holla, if you know the Simpson episode I’m talking about.)

—Jiyeon Yoo

Um, wow. Austin. SXSW 2008. What a party. The good times started in L.A., when I found myself sitting across the aisle from one of Metromix’s favorite funnymen, Paul F. Tompkins on the plane ride down. That was rad. Then when we landed, who’s the first person I see in baggage claim but superstar DJ Diplo, still fresh from rocking the Metromix launch party at Crash Mansion a couple of weeks ago (if you weren’t there, you totally missed something special).

From there, my first day in the land of pulled pork and Shiner Bock was marked by non-stop music celeb sightings. I said hi to Perez Hilton at the convention center while getting my SXSW badge (not that he's a music star, but whatevs). Del The Funkee Homosapien gave me props for my old-school Breeders t-shirt. I spied rapper Slug from Atmosphere sitting on the curb along 6th Street, deep in conversation with his super-cool publicist Dana. Fresh L.A. rapper Pigeon John was seen crossing the street in front of Stubb’s. El-P came through my good buddy Jessica Webber’s hip-hop meet and greet, where the always-reliable DJ Eleven wrecked the decks. All of that, and the sun hadn’t even gone down yet. When people say that the annual SXWS festival is a music Mecca, believe it. If you’re a serious music nerd, you need to be here. It’s kind of like Christmas, Mardi Gras and your best weekend in college ever all rolled into one. I mean, I haven’t even gotten started on the music I saw today (Day 1 highlight: catching the last couple of songs from Motorhead at the Scion party and the nouveau hippie psychedelic jam band Black Mountain hypnotizing the Mohawk Patio. Oh, and My Morning Jacket tearing through their own brand of post-Jerry extended play groove attack).

Hey look, it’s almost 4AM. Which means it’s just about time to gas up with a few cups of coffee and a couple of tacos before getting back into the mix for the first round of Friday day parties. So much music, so little time. Sleep is for the weak. See you on 6th Street, party people.

—Scott T. Sterling

Who knew the bartenders at West Hollywood's Barney's Beanery were so sassy? Because it's a beer-and-sports kind of joint, it's never occurred to me that they have a specialty cocktail menu. Oh, but they do! And the options are pretty hilarious unless you have the misfortune of being the butt of their joke.

Exhibit A: The Paris Hilton

You almost feel bad for poor Paris, especially the "crackwhore" part.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

How’s this for a bad idea? Danny Bonaduce, whose issues with drugs, alcohol and pink razors were chronicled in “Breaking Bonaduce,” is stepping behind the bar at the Intercontinental from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. tonight to serve half-price drinks. The good news: Proceeds go to charity. The bad news: Handling alcohol isn’t the best idea for someone’s who’s been in rehab. According to my man Jeff Miller at Thrillist, this is the first of the Intercontinental’s celebrity nights.

Meanwhile, plans are in place for Nick Cannon to take the decks tomorrow night at Goa. Get there early or expect to spend most of your night in line. Last Friday’s promotion was a total madhouse. I like to think people were clamoring for a look at the Olly Girls. 

King Cannon

—Alexandra Le Tellier

 

Parties of any sort are a luxury these days, thanks to the demands of our new baby, MMX's weekly print issue. But I did manage to steal away for BLT Steak's opening shindig, and the affair was suitably swanky, befitting not only its slick Sunset Plaza-adjacent location but the reputation of Chef Laurent Tourondel who's created a formidable network of BLTs (Bistro Laurent Tourondel) in New York before making his way to conquer the west.

I got my fill of culinary stargazing: Kazuto Matsusaka and Vicki Fan of Beacon and The Point; Suzanne Goin and David Lentz of The Hungry Cat; Sang Yoon of Father Office and proto-Father's Office II. Alain Giraud waited patiently with the rest of the masses in the charcuterie and cheese line. Nancy Silverton came by to say hello and walked away before I could snap a picture. This is what I managed. I promise the faceless dude with the distinguished silver hair is not Jean Valjean but chef Giraud.

It was confirmed that the restaurant just passed its final inspection that day, which means that another not-another steakhouse will open as early as next week. (No promises, this is L.A. after all.) But if the evening's sampling is any indication, I'm willing to believe in BLT Steak's ability to outdistance the latest horde of trendy meat-loving restaurants. The couple hors d'oeuvres that I managed to grab—anything hot from the kitchen was few and far between—were really delicious. A raw bar of oysters, shrimp and crab legs (some folks had lobster tail, but something tells me they're extra special people) was excellent and featured a more-excellent cocktail sauce.

Dudes are especially gonna love this place. 

A sizeable flat-screen above the bar proclaimed its allegiance—it was tuned to the Lakers game, which will undoubtedly be the case until the season ends. An even bigger TV dominated the private room which housed the wine cellar. It (the TV, not the wine) too was dedicated to the Lakers.

At the very least, the game (more the fact that it was broadcasted in the middle of a party than the actual play-by-play) kept me and my friend Lisa occupied as we stood in the interminable line for cold cuts and cheese. Luckily, we squeaked the last pieces of charcuterie

Then proceeded to make ourselves giddy-sick over the astonishingly good desserts. This particular beauty nearly bowled me over with its unexpected peanut-butteriness.

But just as we were giggling over our good fortune, a crash of glass behind us led to this:

And Lisa's backside was soaked with champagne. *Sigh* Guess it isn't a party these days until someone gets splashed with something. At least it wasn't Mexican food.

Sorry Lisa, BLT Steak's incredibly apologetic lawyer—who looked like a kinder, gentler James Spader—promised to make it up to you.

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

I live by this simple rule: if a place doesn’t have food, I’m probably not going to show up. Unless I really, really love you. So when Metromix’s photographer-extraordinaire Shane Redsar e-vited me to his birthday party at Akbar, my devotion to him outweighed my need to eat.

The fabulous birthday boy gives an arch look.

While I haven’t seen the inside of many bars or clubs, I have been to Akbar for craft night—which was a lovely experience; I unironically made a picture frame out of macaroni. But on this particular Friday night, the singles crowd was hot and heavy, and believe me, no one was interested in handling a glue gun.

Suffice it to say that at one point in the night, I felt a splash across my legs as I had decided to wear my NSFW miniskirt and boots. No biggie. People slosh their drinks around all the time. You just wipe yourself off and move on, right? This is where the details get sordid. I began to wonder why that dude would have salsa in his glass. Did Akbar start serving Mexican food? I speculated as I swiveled around to flag down a server hoping to get a basket of chips too.

Oh, no…nuh-uh. Yes, my brain made that final unfortunate leap over the pit of denial and I knew—I got barfed on. By someone who had distinctly eaten Mexican food.

As I am nothing if not a committed journalist and researcher, I couldn't help but ponder: What might be the originating source? Possibly Best Fish Taco in Ensenada since it was right up Hillhurst? Nope, I was sure cheese was involved. El Conquistador? Maybe too far down Sunset.

The CSI in me needed to take a more scientific approach. Luckily, Metromix’s snazzy software can map out nearby restaurants within a quarter mile of the crime scene—

 

—three of which serve the right combination of salsa-laden food and strong drink that might make someone yak it up down the street. Malo, El Cid, El Chavo: I probably won’t be visiting you anytime soon. You wouldn’t want to deal with a bout of post-traumatic stress syndrome.

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

This weekend I got an urge to live like a mobster.

Squeamish about thrill killing, I decided my best course of action was to just open a speakeasy in my garage. I pictured a circle of my friends playing penny poker and sipping whisky from mismatched glasses. Maybe a cigar would be brandished, and I would wear pinstripes.

But everyone wanted to go to Punky Reggae instead.

La Cita was a mess: festering, sweaty, dude-heavy. We soon split to Charlie O’s to find it empty, save for a ghost-y figure dancing alone on the parquet floor. One round later, we wandered outside to discover that MJ Higgins, an art gallery in the bottom floor of the ramshackle Alexandria Hotel, was far from closing up shop. Past a doorman with a fierce ZZ Top goatee, the gallery was a maze of work by downtown artists, and the hotel lobby was throbbing with men, disco lights, and remixed pop. A speakeasy, in full swing. But not quite the vibe I was looking for.

We heard a whisper from the bouncer about yet another speakeasy, six blocks away. “Look for some scary people loitering in an alley,” he advised. Duly noted. 

 

We tiptoed past sleeping bags, saw rats the size of chihuahuas and argued about the order of the downtown streets* until we found the alley, and the scary loitering people. It was dank, and smelled like the elephant exhibit at the St. Louis Zoo. Turning on heels, we started back to the car. “Dude, I know an awesome speakeasy.” Georgia said. “It’s called “Alie’s Garage.”

Until next time, comrades, stay safe, and watch out for rodents of unusual size.

Miss Alie Ward

 

*This just in: Our terribly helpful and efficient copy god, Oliver, has passed on this rhyme, should I ever find myself in a dung-soaked alley, directionless:

“From Main I Spring to Broadway, and over the Hill to Olive. Oh wouldn’t it be Grand to Hope to pick a Flower on Figueroa.”

I'm getting this tattooed on my belly. Just in case.

 

After six years of leather bondage, liquid latex and on-stage teases at Dragonfly, the fetish freak-fest that is Miss Kitty's has decided to call it a night. But fear not fetishists! The promoters promise it's only a hiatus and plan to strike back at a new location—and you know how those S&M'ers love a good strike.

Until then, you can enjoy a different type of Friday-night freak show. Craig Clemens, best known for his racy mansion parties, has hooked up with Pretty Boy Promotions and the guys from Sunset Tan for a new weekly at Goa. If you ever saw E!'s reality spectacle "Sunset Tan," about a chain of upscale tanning salons frequented by mommies who want their pre-pubescent daughters to look like mini Lohans, then you're already up-to-speed with their most famous employees: "The Olly Girls."

As you can see from photos on their MySpace page, they are not only are they besties that look exactly alike, they sometimes pose naked together. Talk about getting freaky!

Clemen’s says, "The Ollys aren't technically a part of the promotion team, but they will certainly be there any Friday they are in town." 

Bauhaus released their final album, "Go Away White," this week. Love and Rockets, having reunited to play the Joe Strummer tribute show at the Key Club last December, are now prepping to play their first full set in years at Coachella in April. Both bands, in my estimation, are awesome. David J (pictured below) is in both bands. David J has just written a new musical theater production “Silver For Gold (The Odyssey of Edie Sedgwick)”, which opened at the MET last night and runs through March 16. 

I had the opportunity to interview David J last week. He talked about being inspired by the life of Sedgwick, which sparked his creative energy that spawned “Silver For Gold.” We spoke about the dynamic yin-yang differences between Bauhaus and Love and Rockets. He gracefully sidestepped the infamous “incident” that occurred during the recording of “Go Away White” which officially ended Bauhaus once and for all, and how Love and Rockets aren’t tempted to take their reunion into the studio—just yet, anyway.

“Playing those songs again, we realized there’s still so much there,” he said of the band’s sturdy catalog, particularly the initial run from 1985’s “Seventh Dream of Teenage Heaven” through their eponymous 1989 album, which included their Top 3 hit “So Alive.”

But he seemed most excited when talk turned to his son Joseph, who now fronts the band Correct Sadists, the moniker taken from a book the junior J purchased from a local used bookstore—the very same tome his father had sold to the shop years earlier.

“I guess you can say the apple doesn’t fall far too from the tree,” he laughed. And then I let him go on his way.

—Scott T. Sterling

I hate gossip...well...only when it's about me, and even then I secretly love it because of the extra attention. Seriously though, rumors may be fun, but the truth is often times juicier than fiction. That's why, when I heard that Kevan Hall had dropped out of showing at Smashbox Studios exactly one week before he was scheduled to display his latest collection in the main tent at its prime time, suspicion became me like Angela Lansbury in an episode of Murder She Wrote. Did a wanton, Tanya Harding-like designer take a proverbial lead pipe to the shin of Kevan's Nancy Kerrigan-like show? My mind was racing with the scandalous possibilities. I put on my cutest Nancy Drew ensemble and got to work.  

 

I've used some pretty fantastic excuses in my life to avoid doing a lot of things I didn't want to, everything from dead grandmas to emergency appendectomies, so I consider myself an expert in the "fauxscuses" department. It turns out, the reason he's not showing isn't as exciting as I expected it to be. Even worse, it sounds like the truth. "We recently moved into a larger atelier, which we're in the middle of renovating. Logistically, it's just not feasible. It's just a matter of bad timing," says Kevan Hall's Associate Design Director Bernard Talbert. In his place, the Elmer Ave. collective will show their line of rock star caliber blazers for what my sources tell me is "practically pennies." I guess I'll have to wait until next season to experience the wonder that is Kevan Hall. In the meantime, I'm left with a new mystery to solve; what exactly is the refund policy on a show at Smashbox Studios?     

—Marcos Luevanos

 

 

This is Hervé This. He's telling us that the whisk in his hand is a medieval tool.

You pronounce his name not like “this” but more like “teece.” He is one of the dudes that sired the modern-day field of molecular gastronomy which is turning 20 this year.

The distinguished French chemist visited Pasadena’s California School of Culinary Art, aka CSCA, aka the Cordon Bleu, on a surprisingly sunny Wednesday in February to demonstrate some basic principles of molecular gastronomy.

Now the geeky, left-brain side of me was super stoked to get an invite. A seminar on the molecular properties of food and the physical and chemical process that occur in cooking? Count me in…twice!

No disrespect to Monsieur This, but after an hour, my notes amounted to series of questions like this:

What does green mean? What does greener mean?
What is the relationship between robustness and the number of precisions?
What does “cooking” mean exactly?
When is the final product of cooking determined? Is it when the chef tells you, “Eat!”? Is that the chef’s way of saying “I love you”?

Whaaat? Yeah, it kind of blew my mind too. One good thing: It did make me want to curl up with one of This’ books, if I’m ever able to get like 100 straight hours by myself. I will share my one major piece of enlightenment, however.

According to This, the premiere avant-gardists of the culinary world Ferran Adrià, Homaro Cantu and Wylie Dufresne “do not make molecular gastronomy.” They are molecular “technologists.”

So these pretty critters from El Bullí:

is "technology."

And this PhD-determining doohickey:

and this masterpiece from This' kitchen:

is "gastronomy."

Yum.

—Jiyeon Yoo

Hooray. I just heard back from Robert Vinokur about this bit of Crobar gossip I blogged about that last week. It turns out he bought the space that was to become Crobar and is turning it into a live music and electronic dance venue. The geniuses at ICrave are designing the space, slated to open in September, and Vinokur says to expect an ever-changing space perfect for L.A.’s ficklest, ADD-prone clubbers. 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

 

 

After last week's near pneumonia, I'm happy to report that fortune has smiled upon The Ward.

As the first to leave the office Friday night (victory!), I headed to the Mandrake in Culver City for Corduroy Magazine's issue launch party. Naked faced, I was forced to stop into Rite-Aid for a handful of emergency $1 Wet n' Wild cosmetics, but was handsomely rewarded when I walked into the party to discover: Buster.

Let me preface by saying that I do not own a TV. I've never seen “Lost.” Ditto for “24.” But I do have the sense to rent “Arrested Development” and watch it on my laptop. Encountering Tony Hale (a.k.a. Buster) and then talking to him about Silverlake, L.A. artists and his 2 year old daughter (baby pictures were brandished) left me sending out a stunned text:  “Talked to Buster… Head: exploding." Score 1 for The Ward.

Saturday night, I was regrettably wearing trackpants at the grocery store when comrade Georgia called and conveyed through indecipherable squeals that she had two free orchestra tickets for the L.A. Phil/Grizzly Bear  show at Disney Hall, starting in 4 minutes.

Sweatpants be damned, I borrowed a pair of her jeans, used the emergency Wet n’ Wild (now a staple in the glovebox) and made it in time to be rendered drop-jawed by Grizzly Bear's gorgeous, ethereal, experimental folk-pop. Score 2 for the Ward.

(Grizzly Bear, shot by Richard Hartog)

What's this? Sandra Vu in the lobby, handing me a fresh copy of her band, Midnight Movies’, just-recorded EP? Score 3 for The Ward.

And excuse me, but is that Ryan Gosling, standing next to me in the foyer of Disney Hall looking dapper in a suit? Is he asking me what I'm doing later? No, actually he's not. It was a lucky weekend, but not that kind of lucky, people. 

 

Until next time, my esteemed comrades.

 

Miss Alie Ward