If you were one of the privileged mass that assembled in the Music Box a couple of Sundays ago, you were likely blown back by the power of the Raconteurs at their last-minute gig there.

It’s no secret that Jack White is among the best guitarists in rock right now, and one hell of a frontman. But it’s time to recognize his fellow Raconteur Brendan Benson (the one seated on the right with the cast on his arm white hat in his lap), another Detroit native who’s just as genius.

Benson has been crafting some of the best pop tunes you’ve probably never heard since the mid-‘90s, when he released his solo debut on Virgin. Like White, he’s relocated to Nashville, which seems perfectly suited for his musical inclinations. His music is a warm mélange of classic influences ranging from Todd Rundgren to Paul McCartney. Slip one of these tunes onto “Grey’s Anatomy” next season and things could get really interesting. Remember where you heard it first…

—Scott T. Sterling

UPDATE: Thanks to eagle-eyed MMX reader "LBJ" for pointing out that it is indeed a hat on Benson's leg, and not a cast on his arm. That's what I get for sippin' on that "syrup" while blogging! Cheers.  

If you read the LA Times article about Spacecraft's Kristofer Keith, who designed Goa, Kitchen 24 and a ton more, then you know he's not afraid to ruffle feathers. "I gave myself 10 years to run all my competition out of town and take their clients," he told the paper in March. "And it's working."

By competition, he certainly is referring in part to Dodd Mitchell, who, until recently, was the man behind almost every high-profile venue in L.A. including Teddy's and Falcon. 

Keith was no less bold today when we chatted about his upcoming projects. Just a gentle nudge about Mitchell and Keith was off like a horse at the races. "He's a symbol of the way things were," said Keith. "Everything he did looked the same." He went on: "I'm not picking on Dodd, but he has a 50-percent failure rate. All the stuff he opened on Sunset went out of business already expect Katana." Well, that's not quite true, though, if you look at a list of Mitchell's projects, you'll see many of them have closed, though, then again, L.A.'s a fickle city. It's Keith's flair for the dramatic that probably makes him such a great designer.

Ironically, one of Keith's upcoming projects is called Oliver's*, not to be confused with Oliver Café & Lounge designed by Mitchell. Located in the spot on Melrose Avenue that used to house Forty Deuce, Oliver's will have a '70s look with a sunken fire pit and an earthy color scheme. Picture a vintage issue of Good Housekeeping, he tells me, rather than Austin Powers. 

Also in the cooker are a few Cahuenga Corridor spots, but since nightlife people are often tighter lipped than Lindsay Lohan's publicist, I can only tell you about Bar Deluxe for now. Expect an art deco-style spot specializing in whiskey, slated to open later this summer.

UPDATE: I just learned that the former Forty Deuce space will not be called Oliver's.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

When it comes to romance, I’ve never been particularly picky. Ask any of my friends and they’ll tell you—give me a deaf guy in JNCO’s with a dent in his face and I’m on bended knee proposing. Why is it that I always seem to seek out charity cases, fixer-uppers, sloppy jalopies and the like? I have a theory that, as many a stylish person, I have an unspoken yet completely obvious desire to be the Henry Higgins to some tragic homo’s Eliza Doolittle.

 

This is why I sympathize with Kobe Bryant. Yes, the man may willingly wear a yellow and purple uniform on a regular basis, but when he’s not working, his attire is usually comprised of sharp designer suits that cost more than my car. They say that, when you’ve been with someone long enough, you start to dress alike. After seeing a photo of Kobe’s wife Vanessa wearing a Laker purple tutu earlier this week at a game in L.A.—which she defended by shouting expletives at a reporter who criticized what she was wearing earlier that night—I hope for his sake that he isn’t the one under the influence. While I do think his wife Vanessa could stand to take a cue from her husband, still, you gotta love a girl who’s willing to vindicate her fashion sense to the bitter, vicious end.  

—Marcos Luevanos 

A press event last week formally heralded the partnership between the Beverly Boulevard’s insta-classic ice creamery and the California Milk Processor Board, the folks behind the insta-iconic “got milk?” ad campaign that drew white mustaches on celebrities long before Perez Hilton made a devil’s pact with his Photoshop. 

The event was an opportunity to sample the recipes that chef/owner Bret Thompson shares as part of the promotion. Mini cups of milkie way malts, wee ice cream cones capped with a dulce de leche shell, berry tres leches cake: Everything looked amazing, but then again, what doesn’t at MILK?

 

Recipes are available online at www.gotmilk.com, in case you’re dying to break in your ice cream maker, candy thermometer and 1/2-inch pastry tip to recreate the signature macaron sandwiches at home.

I have to admit, though, aside from the general awesomeness of free ice cream on a sunny day, it’s difficult to see how the collaboration significantly affects either participant. It’s fantastic exposure for Thompson, but he pales in comparison to the ‘stached image of teenybopper-cum-Vanity Fair rabble-rouser Miley Cyrus as this month’s latest got milk? model.

Maybe Perez should be the next to surrender his upper lip. Wholesome? Hardly. Poetic justice? Uh, yeah.

 

(Perez, I want my 10 percent.)

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

I have the internal thermostat of a Chihuahua.

The last time I went to a Dodgers game, I spent most of the night trying to mentally and physically withstand the chill of Chavez Ravine. There’s, like, one freezing, misty gully in all of Los Angeles, and they had to build the stadium there. Really, guys?

That night, my sundress was as useful as cardigan in a snowstorm and all I wanted was a blanket and another pretzel. Baseball and $10 beers have a place in my heart, but after enduring three goosebumpy innings in stoic anguish, I wanted to stand up and shriek: “I am so freezing and I am very, very bored!”

But I think I found my fix: the annual knitters’ night called, appropriately, “Stitch 'n Pitch.” Apparently, a crew of “needle arts” people who share both my appreciation for blankets and my compulsive need to multitask take over a section of seats and get down to the business of making stuff. These are my people.

On June 2, you hot knitter girls (and dudes?) can head over to Dodgers Stadium with those aluminum shivs you call knitting needles and productively purl your way through as many strikes as it takes to defeat the Colorado Rockies.

And no, I don’t know how to knit. But it’s good to know that if I get cold I can offer some chick a $20 to make me a poncho. 

See you in the bleachers,

Ward  

 

 

 

The band Swervedriver said it best: “Never lose that feeling.” 

“That feeling” has been the topic of conversation a lot lately. From snarky music blogs to some guy in a New York bar incredulous at myundying love of classic Hall & Oates, I’ve found myself going back to the one thing that trumps all such static: “That feeling.”

It’s the unquantifiable sensation invoked by a song or a band that you simply cannot resist.

2008 has been a banner year for that feeling. From the official New Year’s Day release of Radiohead’s awesome “In Rainbows” (which my buddy Kyle perfectly summarized as the band’s most “listenable” album possibly ever), to Portishead’s stunning comeback release “Third” (their song “The Rip” has taken over my iTunes “Top 25 Most Played” list), followed closely by “Cath,” a gorgeously jagged highlight from the new Death Cab For Cutie record “Narrow Stairs.”

That feeling has me sweating scalpers for a ticket to Kanye West’s massive “Glow in the Dark” tour for the second time when it hits Staples Center on June 7, since once was just not enough. It’s why I’m counting the days until October, when ‘90s shoegaze gods My Bloody Valentine descend on the Santa Monica Civic for two nights of fuzzed-out guitar-powered bliss.

That feeling will be in full effect next Saturday night (that's May 31, OK!), when the aforementioned Swervedriver (still one of the greatest and most criminally underappreciated bands of the ‘90s) smash the Music Box with their ear-splitting odes to the open road. Singer/guitarist Adam Franklin (He's on the far R in the pic abov) and his band are back to show and prove why they’re still the kings of speed-rock. See you there. On May 31. Music Box. Fonda. Loud. Good. Yes.

—Scott T. Sterling 

There's more to Akbar than craft nights and Vegas-style events with names like "Gaybar Whore." In June, the bar's manager Jeffrey Wylie will put on his minister's hat, as it were, and begin officiating same-sex marriages inside the venue's DanceBar.

This Reverend Wylie—and who better to marry you than a man who lists his sexual preference on Akbar's website as "anywhere." You can reach him at akbarweddings@yahoo.com.

There's also the Abbey, if WeHo's more your speed. The courtyard hangout, known to play bumpin' remixes of the "Brokeback Mountain" theme song, has lent its space for gay weddings since 2004. (Margaret Cho hosted the first one.) 

All this gay love comes just in time for L.A. Pride 2008 going, er, down June 6 through 8. Metromix is even getting in on the action with a pre-Pride party on June 4 at MJ's, an eastside bar that one-ups "Gaybar Whore" with parties called "Rim Job Tuesdays" and "Swallow." Gulp.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Historically, so much as looking at Naomi Campbell in a way she disapproves has incited many a Swarovski crystal encrusted cell phone to the head. If ever in her presence anytime soon, be warned—do NOT call her a “supermodel.” In a video interview promoting her guest appearance on the season finale of Ugly Betty, Campbell said the following about the title so many others would eat rice cakes, cottage cheese and laxatives to earn.

She states, "Please don't call me that name! Oh God, everyone's called a supermodel these days…everyone. I think if you've worked 22 years then maybe, but I'm a working model."

At the risk of enduring assault and battery should I ever run into her, I did the math, and according to the definition old lady Campbell gave, she IS a supermodel. Discovered at the age of 15, Campbell—now 37—has been modeling for exactly 22 years! This isn’t even counting her first professional job appearing in a Bob Marley video at the age of seven. While it doesn’t seem she will become a “retired model” anytime soon, the hot headed Brit needs to lighten up and bask in the “super” title she has so frightfully earned.

—Marcos Luevanos

I got a new cup. It’s a beaut: It’s completely made of corn polymer and—in the interest of full disclosure—it was free, a promotional gift from the fine people at Lot 44.



Big whoop, right? But this eco-conscious arrival is a watershed event for me. Not to get overly dramatic, but my old commuter mug put me in a Chekhovian conundrum.



Despite somebody’s industrious attempts to color in the letters with a red Sharpie, one can clearly detect “Hummer” emblazoned on the front. No, the irony is not lost on me. I got it at a magazine event, like, four years ago, and back then, Hummer wasn't even a little bit embarrassed about its humongous disregard for our roads, our oil consumption and the quality of our air.

And, yet, to get a replacement—one that wouldn’t cause me to perform finger-gymnastics to hide the offending letters—would mean the indignity of paying good money to then toss it into a landfill. So I would “conveniently” leave my reusable mug at home and, in turn, participate in the massive waste of paper cups for my morning coffee. (And if you don’t think it—or you—are a problem, there's an amazing coffee waste calculator that might tell you differently.)

But enough guilt-ridden talk. This new blue baby requires action. I told myself I won’t pick up coffee unless I have this mug with me. I’ll let you know whether it leads to any work-related casualties.

—Jiyeon Yoo

As though Mondays aren't hard enough, now cruel, cruel fate has reached down and plucked the prospect of happiness right from our eager hands.

I just heard from the folks at the Steve Allen Theater that tonight's much anticipated "Duncan Trussell Saves the World: An Exploration of Happiness" has been postponed. No puppy adoption for you tonight. No comedic lecture about how seritonin makes you goofy.

So the bad news is that you'll have to wait a month. But the good news is that they're lining up a gospel choir for the show. We'll keep you posted.

In the meanwhile, I suggest  seeing the Kooks at the Wiltern*, or catching "The Promotion" at the Wadsworth (with a Q&A afterward) tonight. I personally think that'll bring a smile to your faces, but if you're really, really desperate for happiness, you can always watch this or snort some Pixie Stix.  

Always trying to help,

Ward  

 

* Note: While tonight's Wiltern show is technically sold out, we're never below begging for extras on the sidewalk or texting our connected friends for a pass. But should you find yourself empty handed, head to the Kibitz Room tomorrow night for this free, super-secret Kooks show our LA Times pal Charlie just told us about. 

 

"Rise and shine, nerds! It's bug fair o'clock!"

Rallying a posse on a Sunday morning is never easy, particularly when you're leading them toward live scorpions.

So when I sent out a 10 am text to my hungover cohorts, I wasn't surprised to wind up heading to the Natural History Museum's annual bug fair alone, waiting for them to stumble over later. As a bug enthusiast, I could have carpooled with Dick Cheney and still been in good spirits.

The museum—which has steadily gained indie cred with their First Friday concerts—was a frenetic jumble of booths and pamphlets, writhing silkworms in terrariums, people handling tarantulas, and thousands of pinned butterflies.

Also among the frightening critters were scores of waist-high humans, tugging their parents from ant farms to beehives trapped under glass. Sure, I got bumped in the leg with an $800 stroller more than once, but not much can tarnish the joy of buying a cocoon or attending a demonstration on how to prepare Cajun seasoned crickets. And just like any good expo, there were even a few booth babes, including one entomologist named Karen who managed to look radiant while kissing a cockroach.

After admiring some carefully preserved stickbugs and squinting through a microscope at mosquito larvae, I breezed past an aquarium of live Madagascar hissing roaches and was offered the option let one crawl on my bare skin. Generally, I would say no to this offer. But the bug fair only comes once a year.  

 

Only 364 days left,

Miss Alie Ward 

Being a high-end clothing designer slumming it for a low-end retail chain must be what it’s like for the hot girl in high school who wants to stay a virgin until she’s married; you want people to think greatly of your value, but making out with a much less attractive random stranger is inevitable. A girl can’t live on hugs and butterfly kisses alone! Rogan Gregory is the metaphorical hot girl/male designer in question—the latest in a line of larger-than-life visionaries to pair up with Target and produce a clothing line accessible to the masses.  

Where Isaac Mizrahi, Todd Oldham, and Proenza Schouler have sewn before, so does Rogan Gregory. According to the man himself, ‘This partnership has been in the works for two years now. I told Target that if we collaborated, it would be on the condition that we use organic cotton and make it as sustainable as possible. They said yes to my fiber and sourcing demands, so it was a win-win situation I couldn’t really turn down.” Evoking a safari/surf/punk aesthetic, the clothes may not fit every body type perfectly, but the Target price is certainly right. Looks like the hot girl has finally met her match.     

—Marcos Luevanos 

For one brief, shining (albeit horribly out of tune) moment, I was in the Gossip. Not of the TMZ variety, but as in the band led by the incomparable Beth Ditto. During the Gossip’s stunning performance at the launch of Alexander McQueen’s new flagship store on Melrose, it only took a few songs into their set for Ditto (clad in a vicious red glitter McQueen bodysuit) to venture from the stage into the well-heeled A-list crowd that included the likes of Janet Jackson, Eve, Anthony Kiedis, Rick Rubin, Tracee Ellis Ross, Kelly Lynch and Jena Malone.  

During “(Take Back) The Revolution,” Ditto started sticking her microphone in the faces of unsuspecting attendees to sing the chorus. Next thing I know the damn thing is inches from my mouth. Oh boy. This is why I play guitar. I am not a singer. But I manned up and gave it the ol’ college try. I’m sure she’s heard worse.

 

But more than anything, experiencing Ditto’s overwhelming presence and incredible voice live for the first time aroused my inner record producer. Visions of going into an old-school basement studio somewhere in Detroit with Beth and producing the next great American soul album danced in my head. We could even call in Mark Ronson for support. With poor Amy Winehouse reduced to a drug-addled mess, Ms. Ditto is more than equipped with the pipes to pick up where Wino left off with “Back to Black.” Who knew the next Aretha Franklin would come from the woods of Arkansas?   

The next time the Gossip play L.A., don’t walk, run. Beth Ditto rules OK!

—Scott T. Sterling 

Hollywood promoters always stress “the ratio.” As in, the girl-to-guy ratio. As in, dudes shouldn’t bother showing up to a velvet rope unless they’ve forked over $300 for bottle service and have a Brazilian model on their arm. But maybe avoiding a sausage factory is as easy as outfitting a bar with a pink motif. Take for example STK’s new lounge Coco de Ville: If Emilio Pucci was in the business of designing bars (or Marcia Brady’s bedroom), it’d probably look a lot like this! Imagine couches suspended from the ceiling, paisley yellow fabrics and bubblegum pink walls.

Enjoy the view. Even though ladies have an easier time getting in here, this joint only opens its doors to the super fabulous.

Coco’s not the only one going girly, though. I just took a tour of the Kress, located in the historic Frederick’s of Hollywood building, and the basement nightclub is girly in all the best ways: deep purple couches, shiny black tiles, pink-lit chandeliers. There’ll even be a champagne and make-up bar in the girls’ bathroom when it opens mid June. As if we girls need more reasons to escape to the bathroom in pairs! 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

 

Nobu (Matsuhisa-san, if you’re not on first-name basis) just upped the ante in the celebrity name-branding game. It was recently announced that New York City is getting a Nobu Hotel—after the first one opens in Israel this summer. Backed by the chef’s longtime business partner Robert DeNiro—who seems, of late, to be in the racket of hotel openings—the 63-story edifice in NYC’s Financial District is set to house both suites and condos as well as a health club and, of course, a Nobu restaurant. (Artist rendering below)

 

A hotel named after a famous restaurant makes perfect sense; it seems but a natural progression in the recent spate of collaborations between fancy hotels and high-profile, established chefs. And, if you're so inclined, the merge signals an apotheosis of the foodie lifestyle. It’ll be interesting to see if any other celebrities from the culinary world will follow Nobu’s lead. Boulud Hotel? Villa Batali? Chateau Katsuya?

Screw all the warnings of recession. Why not throw in luxury boarding to go with our filet mignon and $20 martini? The hotel life sure looks good on Serena van der Woodsen. Although we hope that Nobu’s managing partner Richie Notar was joking with his take on Nobu Hotel, “Instead of a mint on the pillow, you could find a sushi roll.” Now that sounds too rich for us.

—Jiyeon Yoo

 

 

I was just on the phone with my dentist. Looking down at my appointment calendar, it struck me that it was peppered with scribbly notes like "Fire party" "yacht thing?" "3a.m.-graffiti" and "cupcake challenge." It's not easy being a professional leisurist.

This past weekend, I did my best to carouse around, stopping into an after-hours Solid Gold disco party that was less "warehouse rave" and more like my family's rumpus room outfitted with a few Radio Shack strobe lights. No matter, as the next evening offered a drive-in screening of "The Princess Bride," some barhops on roller skates, and a picnic of booze and grub bountiful enough to have sustained an entire legion of the Roman army.

But it's this coming weekend that I'm worried about.

Without the aid of a quantum wormhole or a time machine, I don't know how I can meet all of my leisure goals. An Urban Bicycle Commuter Expo in Pasadena is pitted directly against the huge LACMA Art Walk and Afterparty. Bikes versus BCAM? Unjust. On top of those choices, heap my own most-anticipated event of the year: the yearly Bug Fair at the Natural History Museum (a sprawling expo of live bugs, the Pavilion of Wings Butterfly exhibit, and even a beehive under glass. My pulse has literally just quickened.)

(Yay)

Sunday presents a barbecue, the aforementioned competitive cupcake bake off and a Moonlight Rollerway Jubilee rollerskate bonanza. Can one person accomplish all of this leisure? Stay tuned, my friends.

Taking a deep breath,

Miss Alie Ward 

Rare is the occasion I bust out my high school Spanish, but this calls for an, “¡Ay Dios mio!” Though no official announcement has been made, it’s suspected that former Elle Magazine fashion director and spicy Project Runway judge Nina Garcia will likely move on to a different position of even higher authority at Marie Claire very soon, possibly even before the next season of Project Runway is scheduled to premiere (likely sometime in  the fall of 2008).

My relationship to glossy fashion magazines is a lot like that of a mother to her children—I have a clear favorite, but I have to pretend to love them all equally. I hate to admit it, but I thought Marie Claire went out of print years ago with McCall’s and Rosie Magazine. Seeing it on newsstands still gives me the chills, looking like a weird hybrid of Cosmopolitan and AARP Magazine. Still, I have hope that Auntie Nina will be able to take the boring old rag and infuse it with her vast knowledge and signature brand of sass—transforming it from a dingy old poncho into a high fashion serape.

—Marcos Luevanos

As if the club scene weren't exclusive enough, these days it seems everyone wants to open "members only" venues for the privileged few. Much has been made about the Doheny—it costs close to $5,000 to join, and it's a surprising venture for Cedd Moses who's made a career out of opening casual-yet-hip bars like Golden Gopher. And there's more on the horizon from ABH to the Soho House to something I really wish I could talk about, but is still "off the record."

Even Glendale's rock 'n' roll bar the Scene has gotten in on the action. According to LAist, the bar's now offering memberships for $99-$350. Huh? And imagine my surprise when I learned that Malibu's Moonshadows was going "members only" on Sundays. I'll say it again: Huh? Part of Moonshadows' appeal—and definitely part of what makes it the best weekly party every summer—is the free-for-all atmosphere. (The other factor, of course, is getting to party on a beach patio into the sunset.) 

Well, good news! I just spoke to owner Andrea Bullo and despite the name "Members Only," the venue won't exclude people without membership cards. In fact, there's no actual membership to speak of. The new name just reflects the new strict door policy and an emphasis on bottle service. "I don't want to be too popular," says Bullo of his new vision, which is to be more St. Tropez, France and less Nikki Beach, Miami. "It's going to be very selective list." What won't change: DJ Mick Cole spinning deep house on the decks. Phew.

Sometimes, it’s OK to believe the hype. Case in point: Santogold.

 

If you’ve been paying attention at all, it’s been nearly impossible to escape her name, if not her music. From a high-profile cameo on Mark Ronson’s stellar “Version” release to every buzz blog on the planet to no less than two Bud Light commercials, her right-on-time combination of razor-sharp songwriting and hard-earned industry acumen have her poised to be a genuine breakout artist in 2008.

And when I say “Hard earned,” I mean it. The Philly native Santi White has been fighting the good fight for years. There was her outstanding punk-wave band Stiffed, that despite boasting Bad Brains bassist Daryl Jennifer as producer and a clutch of killer tunes (check out the exceptional “What You Gon’ Do” from Stiffed’s “Sex Sells” EP), the band meandered in obscurity until they dissolved. White also famously had a large hand in the sadly overlooked debut album “How I Do” by the criminally underappreciated Res, a record that my man Touré said “sounds more like peak Seventies Pretenders than anyone in Black music history.” (White was even tapped to write for the new Ashlee Simpson CD. Don’t be mad: A girl’s gotta pay the bills!).

White’s reinvention into Santogold is savvy and even calculated, but for all the right reasons. Cozying up with the makers behind the new sound of young America’s dance floor (M.I.A., Switch, Diplo, Ronson), her current incarnation still retains quirky new wave energy and attitude. Her high-pitched yelp can sound uncannily similar to Gwen Stefani, but even that pop hit-maker would kill for a song as effortlessly perfect as “Lights Out.” She even does a convincing Siouxsie Sioux on “Starstruck.” Add extras like the lover’s rock reggae of “Your Voice” (a non-LP b-side being freely distributed on the interwebs) to big beat crowd-pleasers like “Creator” and “L.E.S. Artistes,” and we’re looking at one of the freshest releases in 2008 so far. Stay tuned…

—Scott T. Sterling 

 

Hey NY, it's not a taco cart—it's a taco truck.

That’s just the tip of the willful ignorance that’s displayed in Jennifer Steinhauer’s report of the taco truck resistance for The New York Times. As the venerable rag’s Los Angeles bureau chief, Ms. Steinhauer must have self-imposed a quota for epithets directed to the city of which she writes but in which she obviously wants no part.

How else to explain that starting from the headline “In Taco Truck Battle, Mild Angelenos Turn Hot” to the first 15 words in, “Los Angeles, loath to rally cohesively around a local cause, has joined hands around tortillas,” she manages to get in three potshots, aimed at stereotypical notions of the city’s indifference, its disunity, and its absurd obsessions—in this case, leading to a kumbaya session about a circle of masa.

She’s on a roll: “This a (sic) where you can pave over a freeway’s carpool lanes with toll roads, and few will complain. You can propose a 40-story skyrise in the center of Hollywood, and hardly anyone two miles to the west will take notice. You can squander public money, close down the ports and flatten landmarks, and many residents of this sprawling metropolis will simply yawn and move on.” Good one, Jen: we’re so laidback, we couldn’t give a crap. We’ve never heard that one before.

In drawing upon predictable stereotypes, Steinhauer presumes that food is not in itself political. While we stupid Angelenos fail to notice real issues like architectural blights on our skyline or the mismanagement of municipal funds, the food-obsessed have rallied around something as inconsequential as taco “carts.” Steinhauer at once minimizes the gravity of the issue and the accompanying call-to-arms while also failing to recognize that food plays a significant role in dispensing culture. And in a place as complex as L.A., food is the first, if not only, ambassador that enables communication between disparate and varied communities.

Yes, taco trucks are about as authentic or integral to Mexican cuisine as bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a mini cart. But like those hot dog carts—which are a far cry from the NYC street carts that Steinhauer must be used to—they are but one representation of the resourcefulness and fortitude that sustain L.A.’s immigrant communities.

What’s patently clear is that Ms. NYT-L.A.-bureau-chief has little experience with our city's street food. A truck is hardly the same as a cart—the difference is but too real for vendors who have yet to save up for one. Moreover, tacos have little to do with the Spaniards. Indeed, when it comes to writing about California, The New York Times would do well to reconsider its style convention: Please, please stop calling them Hispanics.

—Jiyeon Yoo

I’m not blogging about Miley Cyrus. You see, in a few weeks, something of much greater significance is occurring in the small world of things I actually care about and I have to conserve all of my hysterical energy for it. I hate to sound like a cliché as I write this witty, column-like blog—which is published in a metropolitan city on a weekly basis along with my photograph—but I’m beyond ecstatic about the May release of the Sex and the City movie.   

I wouldn’t say that Carrie Bradshaw is the reason I wanted to become a writer—at least not publicly. Still, the effect that the HBO series has had on me is undeniable, both in my writing style and my wardrobe choices—I wore zebra print pants to the office last week. I should really hate the show for propagating the mythic, glamorous life of a freelance writer—only to have that bubble popped almost as soon as I left my first job interview and my car had been towed—and yet, the love is still there. Even the episodes with character names and plotlines contrived solely to serve the episode’s theme are good. What’s that? That happens every episode? Nevertheless, I still adore it—even if it does make me a living, breathing, writing wannabe. Just call me Sarah Jessica Marcos.   

—Marcos Luevanos 

 

"Just a warning: wear something cute today...we're going to dodgeball tonight."

It's 8:16 a.m. on a Monday morning, and I've woken up to a text concerning my wardrobe.

My best girlfriend's new man is in a Dodegeball4Ever league and on selected Mondays, she takes a seat on the bleachers in a gym that smells like urine and Old Spice as dozens of grown men—and some scattered ladies—assault each other with their balls.

There's something to be said for watching on the sidelines, perched from above, evaluating the evolutionary ruggednesss of a potential mate. And if an un-ironic sweatband and the odor of a musk ox appeal to you, it may be a go.

(Looking for love...and man musk?)

I'm still not sold though. No one looks good under the buzz of 100,000 collective watts of gymnasium lights, and one blow to the side of the face can destroy a man’s mojo in an instant. Summer romances are supposed to play out like black and white snapshots from an Estée Lauder ad: picnics in the tall grass, a lustful glance in a field of heather. New love isn't supposed to smell like socks.

But once the herds of ball lobbers are tired and bruised, a whistle is blown and the league heads over to El Cid, which hosts a post-game special of half-priced sangria to keep things drunk flirty in much lower light. So at 9:04 a.m. I text her back: "Mini dress, leggings and boots. No?" 

With one eyebrow dubiously raised,

Ward 

 

In terms of DJs, few are as deep as New York’s DJ Spinna. The guy’s CV is longer than your iTunes playlist, and his musical knowledge (not to mention record collection) is vast and kind of overwhelming.

Which is why it’s such a treat whenever he brings his celebrated “Soul Slam” party to L.A. Starting the events in 1999 (zing!), Spinna pits Prince and Michael Jackson in a heated dance war, going between the two on the turntables. With all of that funk and energy pouring out of the speakers, most party people within earshot are crammed onto floor and working up a serious sweat. Just to keep it interesting, he'll toss in bizarre cover versions and rare remixes that leave the hardcore music nerds happy.

Tonight is the first time the bash has been held at the Echoplex, and I couldn’t think of a better host. There should be enough room for Prince and MJ fans to peacefully coexist. Although given Prince’s recent brain-melting set at Coachella, the Purple One might have something of an unfair advantage. Party on, y’all.

—Scott T. Sterling

I just heard from James Sinclair, owner of bar/clubs Element, L'Scorpion and La Cantina, that King King is on fire. There's no news on this anywhere. Does anyone know what's up? This comes a few days after Off Vine's fire on Sunday and just one day after Basque burned to the ground. WTF is going on in Hollywood? I can tell you this much: I'm sticking to the Westside party scene until the flames are extinguished. 

UPDATE: I just called Lucky Devils, located right by King King, and the woman who answered the phone said there had been a fire. She heard about it "about an hour" ago and doesn't know the status. Meanwhile, my blog buddy Zach Behrens at LAist called the LAFD and was told, "no one responding in that area"

—Alexandra Le Tellier

About an hour ago, I found myself asking aloud: "Does anyone hear techno, or am I stuck in a K-hole?"

At Metromix HQ, nestled on the 5th floor of the LA Times building, a throbbing beat was rattling the desks and contributing to a distressing case of Party Envy. 

We sent our intrepid staffer Sarah, also known as the Cute Office New Girl, outside with a camera to capture this lovely gallery of the May Day demonstration put on in part by American Apparel. 

I think it may have been about immigration issues and stuff, or they may just be demanding that everyone wear more onesies.

Happy May Day peeps, and good luck getting through the downtown traffic.

 

Rock on,

Ward