I couldn’t have scripted it any better. After running the gauntlet of Harley-Davidson t-shirts and rebel flags amassed at the Gibson amphitheatre to my seat at the Kid Rock show, a row of ladies decamped next to me. It was like the women of SNL’s “Cougar Den” skit walked out of the TV and into the show. The one with the bleached-blonde hair and skin-tight American flag shirt eyed my suspiciously before hitting me with the line of the night: “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Yes, the American race/class war rages on, and the battle lines have been drawn in the crudest terms possible. Never mind that Kid Rock calls himself a combination of Aerosmith and Run DMC, or that his band features at least three black members. I’m tempted to tell my new concert friend about hanging out in Detroit back in the day, and the countless times Kid Rock himself handed me flyers to one of his shows. Or the night when out of nowhere he jumped on stage at a DJ I event I was putting on, pulled two records out of his bag and proceeded to rock the party with ease. I just smiled and introduced myself. She was perfectly lovely, and we chatted easily until the show started.

While it might not be the cool thing to admit, Kid Rock and the Twisted Brown Trucker band are one of the most potent live acts on the road today. Like some unholy combination of the J. Geils Band and Bob Seger’s legendary Silver Bullet Band, Rock’s outfit can play rock, country, hip-hop and honky-tonk with equal dexterity. Opening with the title track from his Rick Rubin-produced Rock N Roll Jesus album like a new-school Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, the Rock and his band kept the nearly 6000 party people up and on their feet for the entire show.

The show was paced almost perfectly. He took time to pay tribute to American soldiers with a stirring video montage during “Only God Knows Why.” For his ballad “Picture,” he brought out 12-year-old SoCal singer Sasha Edwards, who floored the place with her dynamic vocal range. When she’s a huge star, remember where you heard it first.

But the highlight was when Rev Run from the legendary Run DMC joined Kid Rock for a block of DMC classics. With the band percolating behind them, Rock and Rev Run smashed hits like “Tricky,” “It’s Like That” and of course “Walk This Way,” complete in black hats and gold rope chains. Rev Run might be all sweet and cuddly on his MTV reality show “Run’s House,” but in concert he’s hard as nails and can still spit with the best of them.

But the crescendo came when Rock rolled out his late ‘90s mook anthem “Bawitdaba.” Seeing that many people literally freak out to that song in 2008 is a memory I won’t soon forget. I wonder: Would “Nookie” still set it off like this today? I doubt it.

There’s a really cool part in every Kid Rock show where he addresses the audience about how you might be sitting next to someone you don’t have that much in common with, but that everyone is here for the same purpose: to party, listen to some good music and have fun. He then asks that everyone say hello to the people around them “so we can get this party started.”

While people where hi-fiving all over the arena, my inquisitive concert buddy and I just looked at each other and laughed. We’re way ahead of you, buddy.

—Scott T. Sterling

As the presidential election approaches and partisan politicking rears its ugly head, let’s not forget Republicans are people too. Last week it was widely reported, as though it were some kind of scandal, that Sarah Palin wore a Valentino jacket when she gave her speech at the Republican National Convention. Then there was much ado about her now-ubiquitous eyewear costing upward of $400. Apparently, those involved with McCain campaign have suggested Palin keep her team of stylists a secret, seeing as how they encourage her to wear expensive designer clothing.

I’m not a Republican, nor am I pro-Palin, but I do think it’s unfair to criticize her for merely dressing appropriately on an occasion as momentous as accepting the Republican nomination for vice president. Nobody seemed to have a problem with Hillary Clinton wearing Oscar de la Renta during her campaign or Michelle Obama wearing Thakoon at the DNC. (Then again, neither of them were running on a platform condemning wasteful government spending.) Even though many believe Palin isn’t qualified to take a nap in the White House, one thing everyone can agree on is that it would be a pretty sweet gig to style big-time political figures, regardless of personal beliefs and party affiliation.

—Marcos Luevanos 

Thank goodness, saner minds rule the day.

Swiss authorities have intervened, banning Hans Locher from serving breast milk in his Winterthur restaurant, Storchen—why yes, that does translate to “stork” in English.

The manager/chef had experimented years ago on his wife’s breast milk and decided to revamp some of those recipes for cream-based soups and sauces when he noticed an influx of mothers in the neighborhood. Um, Herr Crazy? Mothers don’t drink breast milk, nor do they necessarily inspire others to do so—unless it’s their own infants!

Apparently, Locher crossed the line when he advertised a rate of SFr16.25 for a liter of breast milk (roughly $54.88 for a gallon). “Humans are not on the list of authorized milk suppliers such as cows or sheep,” sayeth food/health department officials. Obviously, because humans haven’t been pumped full of rBGH and all those other robust hormones…yet.

Hey, I know times are tough and the price of dairy has been consistently going up since last year, but we have yet to reach the Dust Bowl and the culminating tableau from Steinbeck’s “Grapes of Wrath.” No one should be getting any fuddy-duddy ideas. All these late-blooming frozen yogurt shops desperate for a new gimmick? I’m looking at you.

—Jiyeon Yoo

It’s officially fall. Why am I sweating?

Our countrymen in the cold clutches of a Minnesota October would hoot like joyful, tropical monkeys right now to have an 84 degree autumn, but for long-term Angelinos, it’s challenging to feel trapped in a bikini year-round.

So after a summer of beer and barbecued sausages, what’s left for fall? Beer and barbecued bratwurst. To fully experience the seasonal shift, simply wear lederhosen.

Getting drunk in your neighbor’s backyard was so July, but getting drunk in Torrance—in the well-organized gluttony of Alpine Village—is a bold gesture toward accumulating fat cells that would sustain folks in colder climes through a four-month blizzard.

Cajole someone into designated driving and merge onto the 405 south to behold a tented oasis of Germanic alcoholism. The plastic red kegger cups you slurped Tecate out of through August are no match for Alpine Village’s sturdy, ceramic steins of beer. Tip: hit the place after 6:30 p.m. on Friday or Saturday, when it’s limited to fools 21 and over. No one needs the buzzkill of a 4 year old throwing fistfuls of pickled cabbage like confetti.

For those willing to make a more aggressive effort toward autumnal cirrhosis, the Big Bear Oktoberfest lies roughly 100 miles away, in the pine-needly comfort of the San Bernadino National Forest. Sometimes, all it takes is an old guy dressed like a gnome to remind you that life need not always be a beach.

After last week's onslaught of frighteningly bad news, the Emmys were a welcome relief, especially for a TV junkie like me. "Gossip Girl" has been a fun warm-up, but it's the Emmy Awards that really signal the start of the fall TV season—and what better way to get pumped for the shows than by partying with the stars of them? Lucky for me, it was all about the Emmy events on Sunday, from Entertainment Tonight's party at the Walt Disney Concert Hall, where "Mad Men" star January Jones celebrated, to HBO's extraordinarily well-attended bash at the Pacific Design Center. And by well-attended I mean Jeremy Piven, Adrian Grenier, Tom Hanks, Bill Maher, and Larry David all in the same room. And that was just the men. We've got the full party report here, which you know wouldn't be complete without some new 90210 gossip.

I personally hit up TV Guide's party because they always put together something that's trendy, but also whimsical. Last year: Versailles at Les Deux. This year: a Japanese fantasyland at the Kress, complete with oversized bonsai trees, giant rock gardens, kimono-clad girls, performing geishas, paper cranes hanging from the ceiling, and bounties of Japanese treats, notably spicy shrimp rolls and a sake that'd been chilled to perfection in this ice sculpture that all bars should have. MGMT and the Bravery were this year's surprise headliners, a surprise twist given last year's main attraction Kanye West. As always, I was most excited about seeing the stars of my favorite programs, which this year included Kyra Sedgwick ("The Closer") and Jaime Murray ("Dexter"). Spying Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson engaged in lovey-dovey PDA was pretty fun too. 

 I've got more photos and gossip where that came from! See the full report here»

Now let's just hope for some good news this week.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

You know who's really missing from the 2008 music scene? Eminem. If anybody could come along and start kicking asses and taking names, it would be our man Marshall Mathers. And right on time, he's plotting to get back in the mix and make some noise before the year is out. 

"I'm concentrating on my own stuff right now, just banging out tracks," the blond bomber announced during a recent appearance on his Sirius satellite radio station, Shade 45.

"The more I keep producing, the better it seems I get," he boasted.

And not a moment too soon. For one, Lil' Wayne is a huge Eminem fan, and the idea of those two rap maniacs hooking up and terrorizing the music industry is an awesome collaboration that needs to happen. 

But more than anything, one can only hope Em goes after the new slew of pop stars that have come up in the four years since his last album, Encore. Given the insane amounts of controversy generated around the relatively tame shots he took at Michael Jackson and the trumped-up fiasco around The Source magazine (yawn), the thought of him going after Pete Wentz, Katy Perry and the rest brings joy to my Detroit-born heart.

Those closest to Em like 50 Cent and Detroit rapper Trick Trick have been talking up the new tracks, and rumor has him recording with (please God let it be true) Dr. Dre in a Florida studio. With both artists suffering major personal losses of late (Eminem's best friend and right-hand man Proof was killed in a bar dispute, while Dre's 20-year-old son recently passed away), there is the possibility of the album being a veritable sonic powder-keg.The way Trick Trick told it to the Detroit News was that "Everybody gets it. No one is safe. He is showing no mercy." 

So make it rain, Em. Music needs you now more than ever. It is an election year after all, and there are a couple of Presidential candidates just ripe for the picking...

—Scott T. Sterling

Q: What was the most audacious accessory to make its debut during New York Fashion Week?

A: It wasn’t anything designed by Marc Jacobs. According to The Daily Mail, the disturbing diet trend du jour consists of injecting oneself with an intravenous drip containing multivitamins. Originally designed to aid alcoholic hospital patients who are nutrient-deficient from drinking more than they eat, the bags (which contain a yellow liquid) are rumored to be this season’s must-have item among a number of print and runway models.

Dieting has existed since long before the advent of high-fashion commercial modeling, and everything from the cabbage soup diet to Atkins to the lemonade cleanse has been championed over the last few decades. But do any of them really work? If they did, would so many American women stop whatever program they’re on and immediately become obsessed with the new way to lose weight? Sure, models are supposed to be physical representations of unattainable beauty, but there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed—and that line is now littered with track marks.

—Marcos Luevanos

Los Angeles, a burger kind of town?

I guess so, according to Serious Eats. The NYC-based food blog is looking for an L.A-based correspondent dedicated solely to consuming and documenting burgers. Yep, just burgers. OK, maybe fries and the occasional milkshake.

I’m likely in the minority here—in fact, my dear colleague (hi, Oliver) already told me I’m flat-out wrong—but I hadn’t really thought of us as a burger-loving little hamlet. Tacos, yes. Burritos (and variations of tortilla-wrapped packets), sure. Even fro-yo and sugary pocket-sized cakes. But a lump of animal oozing rivulets of pink-tinged juices? There’s a reason a California-style burger involves lettuce, onions, tomato and other forms of trendy green stuff like avocado and alfalfa sprouts. Hey, we like our veggies!

But then I began to mentally list all the burger joints—classics like Apple Pan, In-N-Out, Bob’s Big Boy; cult favorites like Marty’s and Astroburger; then the ubiquity of the $15-plus burger in so many high-profile restaurants, let alone the latest outcropping of chichi burger counters (namely 8 oz. Burger Bar and O! Burger, which you can read more about in next week’s Metromix). Well, perhaps L.A.’s carnivorous whole is far more than the sum of its parts—a nice analog for a burger itself.

To commemorate this modest epiphany, I had me-self a burger at the Redwood Bar, considered by some to be the best one in Downtown. Plus, the kitchen just added sliders (with crispy fried onions!) on the menu. I’ll weigh in fully at a later time—perhaps Serious Eats might come a-calling…but only if a blood pressure/heart monitor comes with the deal.

—Jiyeon Yoo

Interested in pushing your LDL, HDL and triglycerides? Check out the job listing here »

I have just been oddly, wordlessly ushered backstage at the Avalon.

A lighting technician, overhearing me ask about press check-in, gave me a conspiratory nod, pulled me past security and then into the VIP wings for the Zodiac Show without saying a word. The theatrical, musical affair is partly the brainchild of former Pussycat Doll Carmit Bachar and I have no idea what I'm doing in her dressing room.

I stand awkwardly in a corner, keeping an eye out for red-carpet urchins likely to attend: Dita VonTeese? I don't see her. Paris Hilton? Not back here. Dancers are getting caked with fairy dust by the wardrobe staff, and I contemplate grabbing a costume, joining them onstage, and seeing how long it takes before I am arrested. I also consider eating a piece of pizza from the craft service table.

As showtime approaches, the vibe gets more frenetic. Headdresses are being fastened on, and I slip into the audience to watch the show as it's intended to be seen, from a plebeian point of view. Lights dim and a statuesque drag queen wearing metal shoulder pads and a glitter-rimmed mouth bursts onstage with a song and dance routine to Zeppelin's "Black Dog." The Avalon explodes with color and movement through 10 acts involving aerialists, rap, leather bust harnesses and choreography.

It's a welcome instance when the show is actually more exciting from the audience than from backstage. Go figure.

  -Alie Ward 

Speaking of awesome bar owners:
Bobby Green will add another kitschy rock 'n' roll joint to his empire, which already includes Bigfoot Lodge, Saints & Sinners and Little Cave. With a '70s truck stop theme and a name like Stinkers, the boys are sure to love the Silverlake bar 2939 Sunset Boulevard. The ladies will too, so long as the guys don't actually smell—in which case, might I recommend the SubtleButt deodorizer? 

Speaking of mysterious bar owners:
Lesley Balla at Eater LA just uncovered quite the exciting news. You know Yamashiro, the hillside sushi restaurant in Hollywood? It seems Sean MacPherson acquired ownership of the landmark property, but he won’t talk about it just yet. MacPherson, of course, owns a handful of hip spots including Bar Lubitsch, Good Luck Bar and El Carmen. You'd think Yamashiro would be a risky venture given that the only way off the property is via a narrow curvy road. But perhaps he also purchased the Hollywood Hills Hotel, also on the grounds, so people can spend the night. It would make sense since he's also an hotelier in NYC.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Once I get the Flux Capacitor on this time machine working, I’ll be setting the controls for May 26, 1976 and heading straight for the Roxy on Sunset. The night’s attraction: Bob Marley & the Wailers.

Dialing up the “Much Music” reggae channel courtesy of my local cable provider recently, I was recently stopped in my tracks by a wicked bass line groove that sounded like the Specials playing with Sly & Robbie. But when the vocals kicked in, it was obviously Marley.

The song was “Want More,” taken from Live at the Roxy, Hollywood, California, May 26, 1976 - The Complete Concert. The rendition seethes with intensity, passion and even a little menace, as Marley warns of the pitfalls of Babylon with lines like “They’ll stab you in the back/And claim that you’re not looking.” It’s a spellbinding performance that feels almost religious, as evidenced by the woman that keeps screaming “Amen!” during the instrumental passages (at their best, the Wailers live could put the Roots through their paces).

According to eyewitness accounts, the audience was as star-studded as they come, with Lennon and Dylan among the many luminaries in the house. But it was all about Bob (Marley), as he and his crack band melted the brains of everyone in the audience with an incendiary show that's a must-hear for anyone that’s ever gotten into this musical maverick’s sonic genius. The 20+ minute encore version of “Get Up Stand Up” is a show in itself.

Now about that Flux Capacitor...

Celebrate the enduring legacy of Bob Marley when one of his many talented sons, Ziggy, performs at the West Beach Music & Arts Festival in Santa Barbara this weekend alongside Jason Mraz, Kate Voegele and Natasha Bedingfield. You deserve it.

—Scott T. Sterling

It seems The Well, The Woods, NoBar and The Fifth, which only opened in July, aren't enough for the king of the classic hipster bar. Craig Trager told me yesterday that he's opening yet another drinking spot. Could it be the second coming of Daddy's? Trager, man of mystery, won't say just yet. But he did tell me that Justin Timberlake was at the Woods a few weeks ago, drinking water.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

You know that expression that’s it’s better to burn out than to fade away? It seems that’s how Netty and Louie Ryan feel about their Santa Monica club, Temple Bar, which they opened in 1999. As you’ve probably already heard, at the end of this month the Ryans will part ways with their little music club that could. But despair not. The couple still owns Little Temple and Zanzibar and they’re finally about ready to unveil their new speak-easy, located in the basement of Townhouse Cocktails. 

Our investigative intern Dan Ucko got the scoop—and these hot photos, above and below. Dan writes…

The recently revamped Windward Avenue location, where Jim Morrison is rumored to have peed on the walls, is getting an underground add-on: a password-protected drinking hole called The Del Monte Speakeasy that will be selective, but not snooty. (Only 175 will be allowed in, for a comfortable fit.)

Temple regulars should find some solstice in the spot, which Louie hopes to open in a couple weeks.  “Expect a very, very intimate setting,” he says. “High caliber music acts. Some of our best from Temple Bar mixed with more current stellar acts out there today. We’ll be indulging in a wider array of music tastes.”

Though the sound may be a bit closer to the ‘00s, the idea is to create a ‘20s atmosphere from the décor to the atmosphere: think no cell phones, allowing ladies to always have a seat, and a Prohibition-style evening, complete with Roulette tables!

As for what will become of Temple Bar space: The Santa Monica venue will live on as Dakota Lounge, also an eclectic music venue.

—Alexandra Le Tellier & Dan Ucko

Spotted at the Marc Jacobs show during New York Fashion Week with a new ’do only slightly longer than a buzz cut, Posh Spice looked less like Audrey Hepburn and more like George Clooney. It probably wasn’t the smartest move to debut a new look during one of the most aesthetically critical weeks of the year. Or was it?

Audrey Hepburn, NOT Victoria Beckham  

Regardless of whether you think she deserves her style icon status, Vicky Becks has an undisputed talent for getting people to talk about her looks. Whether it’s her weight, her skin, her breasts, or in this case her hair, this spicy singer leads people to discuss all things aesthetic. What’s odd is that this visual fascination doesn’t seem to translate into sales for her apparel brand, DVB. It’s a situation many celebrities have found themselves in as of late—capitalizing on their status as style icons by manufacturing a clothing line, only to witness the line’s demise due to poor sales and little interest. I guess you have to give consumers some credit for knowing they aren’t going to look like Victoria Beckham simply by wearing an overpriced dress she designed. Maybe she ought to look into making a workout video or endorsing a psychic hotline…

—Marcos Luevanos

"I take one lunch break a year, and it's for goats!"

Metromix Bars & Clubs editor Alexandra Le Tellier is not known for her leisurely lunches. Meal breaks for the busy lady usually involve something along the line of a Hershey's Kiss eaten between meetings. But when a herd of Metromix co-workers, lead by LA Times comrade and Busblogger Tony Pierce, stormed through MMX HQ with the promise of goats grazing a few blocks away, it was difficult for all of us to resist. 

  (Check out our photogallery too!)

We embarked on a field trip to Angel's Flight at 4th and Hill downtown—right in front of La Cita—to find a sloping hill dotted with happy, floppy goats grazing and generally looking adorable. (It's cheaper and more environmentally friendly to hire hoofed workers than a traditional gas-powered work crew.)

If you're near downtown and need a dose of the country life, the goats should be there clearing out brush with their faces into early next week. Walk up the stairs to the park benches and take in the scenery. It was worth the time away from pressing Metromixian tasks, and the approximately one million stairs we climbed.

- Alie Ward  

Ps- To find our where in the world Ward is, add me on twitter at www.twitter.com/wardonthestreet. Yay! We're friends.  

“Where are the cider mills in L.A.?” my transplanted friends, especially the ones from Michigan, would ask.

“Cider mill?” I’d reply. “In L-A?” Talk to the hand. (Uh, Michigan joke? Anyone?)

Well, my Midwestern friends, behold Julian, California, a historic little town that popped up in the mountains east of San Diego during a mini-gold rush in 1869—and never went away. Forget Apple Valley (a total misnomer, BTW), this is SoCal’s apple country. And the whole town—all population 1621, elevation 4226 feet, 7.9 square miles of it—is crazy over apples.

Apple pies, candied apples, apple cider, apple wine, apple butter. While there’s no need to be choosy—you’ll find a good version just about everywhere—my camping compadres and I fell in love with an adorable bakery called Candied Apple

and the dutch apple pie a la mode there. (Yes, that’s vanilla bean flecks in the ice cream.)

As for said cider mill, the main one—you guessed it, Julian Cider Mill—along the town’s sole Main Street is just ramping up for apple season.

We didn’t see any cider doughnuts there, but why do you need doughnuts when there’s all this pie?

—Jiyeon Yoo

Photo c/o Defamer via X17

The downside of having a black Jetta is that everyone has a black Jetta. This posed quite the dilemma as I waited for the valet to bring back my car after In Touch's VMA party at Bar Marmont last night. I waited at least a half hour, during which time partiers on the balcony above thought it'd be funny to shower us with beer—it did wonders for my hair, if not my top—when my car finally arrived, coming to a screeching halt and only narrowly avoiding a parked SUV. Was the valet drunk? But, then … WTF? The woman in my car didn't get out; rather she started rifling through her purse and talking on her phone.

I approached quizzically for fear of getting run over when the paparazzi made a run for my car to get a photo of 90210's Shenae Grimes who, for some reason, was now sitting in my passenger seat. I was so confused; I started to doubt I should be driving! That was my license plate, right? And my dry cleaning in the back seat? And my headset? And my anti-aging hand lotion that I don't need! Next thing I know, I am begging, begging, the girl to give me my car—now destined to become famous in next week’s celebrity news cycle. Her car, as it turned out, was just like mine, but you know, without plates. How do you confuse that?

All that was the cherry on top of an eventful evening that included:

• Lindsay Lohan arguing with Samantha Ronson in the DJ booth.

• Katy Perry not really talking to her boyfriend Travis McCoy from Gym Class Heroes, provoking people to wonder aloud if they were in a fight. (Seriously.)

• Audrina Partridge with Shwayze, who was also there with Skeet Skeet, one of MMX's favorite DJs (and bloggers).

• A cigar-smoking Kid Rock taking off his shirt for his burly bodyguard to hold. (Sick!)

• A stumbling Pauly Shore trying to keep up with the fierce, and fiercely svelte, Allison Melnick, who recently opened Apple.

• Christina Aguilera and Travis Barker watching "Bleeding Love" songstress Leona Lewis.

• The Madden brothers with the Hilton family (mom, dad, Paris, Nicky) before performing with Good Charlotte.

• Mischa Barton hanging out as far away as possible from ex-BF Brandon Davis.

• "Brothers & Sisters" star Dave Annable seemingly oblivious to the drooling girls around him.

• Shorties Seth Green and David Spade in the VIP lounge with Kevin Farley, Travis Barker, Joe Francis and bunch of starf-ckers that could have passed for the mothers of Pam Anderson and Carmen Electra.

• Promoter Chris Paul, giving the scoop on how he's out at Green Door and Cinespace and in at Bardot, the former Spider Club space that offically reopens in mid October some time in 2008.

• Promoter Pantera Sarah working the door with Barack Obama pin affixed to her dress, of course.

• The Burger King passing out apple "fries"—because one should never eat more than 35 calories worth of food when at a Hollywood party. (I guess it's telling that I knew the calorie count off the top of my head, huh?)

Click in for more photos from the party»

—Alexandra Le Tellier

I’m creeped out, but I love it.

ZZalgern0n, creator and writer of "The Secret World of Human Science," has just asked the head embalmer at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, “If you could embalm one person in the entire world, who would it be?” The real-life mortician quips, “Well, John McCain, because he looks half-dead anyway.”

Of all the conversations to be privy to, a Q&A between a science geek and an undertaker is about as macabre as it gets. In oversize Where’s Waldo? glasses, ZZalgern0n—whose real name I have yet to discover, despite tenacious Googling—next broaches the topic of decapitation. It proves to be a night of extremely atypical theater. The stage is dressed with antique medical instruments and flanked by two lecterns: Ron Lynch (who also directs) assumes the role of erudite professor, while foil Dave Johnson makes lewd sexual gestures to keep the mood light. I am both cringing and crying with laughter.

This tumble of scientific trivia has been at the Steve Allen Theater for months, but we just heard it’s moving to the Comedy Central Stage for a free show October 7. Expect to leave with these topics rattling around in your brain: narcoleptic poodles, the genetic factors involved in loving armpit sweat, ticklish rats, why we like cute things, the sooty lungs of city dwellers, death and…wait. Hold on. Oh, yes—how we forget 80 percent of what we learn.

Nerdtastically yours,

- Alie Ward  

Q: What would you get if Kitchen 24 had a love child with the Kress?
A: The Fox Theatre.

 
What's the Fox Theatre, you ask? Rumors have swirled for years about what the legendary space at 6506 Hollywood Boulevard would become thanks to several club owners claiming to have a stake, but now it's official. Alan Nathan, John Baydale and Rick Calamaro of Choice Hospitality Group (Ivar, Nacional, Holly's, NineThirty, Tengu) have teamed up with Robert Vinokur (formerly with Crobar) and Elie Samaha from Roxbury and Sunset Room to transform the venue into a one-stop nightlife destination that includes a mega 13,000-square-foot club described as a "full social experience" and "an homage to old Hollywood." 

Sound familiar? I'm sure the Kress will think so, especially since the venue, in addition to having weekly club nights, will serve as an event space for conventions, premiere parties, screenings, fashion shows, live music, and press junkets. 

Fox Theatre might also give Kitchen 24 a run for its money with Sweet Love Hangover, a 24-hour diner housed within the club that'll look "'60s" and "digital." If that has you conjuring "the Jetsons," think again. Designer Kelly Nishimoto created the uniforms with anime in mind. 

With a Crobar alum at the helm, I imagine there'll be a focus on world class DJ talent. And with Gina Wade, formerly at Boulevard3 and the Mondrian, on board as the Director of Events, Fox Theatre is bound to roll out more red carpets than Mariah Carey can handle. But where Fox really nails it is with its complimentary shuttle service, Safe Ride, that'll pick up and deposit clubbers at Hollywood subway stations and bus stops. Even better: When you take public transportation to the club, you'll get a discount at the door. 

I'll obviously be adding this to my Red Line bar crawl when the club opens in November or December.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

I've vowed to keep politics out of this space (we'll see how long that lasts), especially when there are voices much louder than mine regulating things out there in the mean streets of this election year.

Case in point: Nancy Wilson, guitarist for legendary rock outfit Heart. When Republican VP nominee Sarah Palin chose to use their '70s mega-hit "Barracuda" as something of an ad hoc theme song at the Republican National Convention, the band's response was quick and unequivocal: Cease and desist!

"I think it's completely unfair to be so misrepresented," Wilson (above) told Entertainment Weekly. "I feel completely fucked over." Nancy and her sister Ann came together to craft this email statement to the press: 

"Sarah Palin's views and values in NO WAY represent us as American women. We ask that our song 'Barracuda' no longer be used to promote her image. The song 'Barracuda' was written in the late 70s as a scathing rant against the soulless, corporate nature of the music business, particularly for women. (The 'barracuda' represented the business.) While Heart did not and would not authorize the use of their song at the RNC, there's irony in Republican strategists' choice to make use of it there."

Boo-ya! See Heart kick out "Barracuda" and more of their timeless classic rock hits when they play the Greek Theatre with Cheap Trick and Journey on Sept. 30. It should be interesting, as the band's Republican fans are none too happy about Heart's political stance (just check the comments on this awesome clip of Heart playing "Barracuda" back in the day). It'll also be a good chance to see how your parents act when they're stoned. And yes, they did pilfer your stash to do so...

—Scott T. Sterling

“Breaking up is like a sitcom, except it's not funny, I'm not an actress, and it's not being filmed. And there's no craft-service.”

I’m eating a chicken pot pie with my best girlfriend. She is newly single, and not amused.

People, where is the love? Summer’s still-warm body is barely dead, and already sweaty flings are collapsing all around me. I have on my hands a sea of Sandys and Danny Zukos, their post-summer love in shreds.

Over comfort foods and cocktails, my comrades begin practically: “Should I change the relationship status on my profile?” or “What do I do with the sock he left at my house, and this tube of hydrocortisone? And what is he using that for?” Then it devolves into lip-trembling agony: “Ward, will I ever find someone to love me?”

The answer is no. Not if you’re hanging out with me and eating pot pie.

Rather, I advise: Go out, particularly this weekend. Art and free room-temperature Chardonnay are both proven ice breakers, and L.A. has never, in my professional leisurely experience, seen such a bounteous array of opening receptions as this weekend. (Just search for “We've got openings” on Metromix and you’ll see what I mean.)

Grab a wingman, wear something dapper and cram as many stops into one night as you can. Not only will your tattered heart find inspiration in the beauty of the work, but your rebound may be standing over there eating a piece of cheese. Trust me.

—Alie Ward 

Ps- To find out where the Ward is wandering, add me at www.twitter.com/wardonthestreet. Yay! We're friends. 

I think it’s fair to say that when Sex and the City went off the air in 2004, it left a void in the televised-fashion-show genre it created—a void almost as massive as its costume budget. Gossip Girl has done a respectable job picking up the slack, utilizing wardrobe as a never-ending storyline in and of itself. And while I do think Gossip Girl is great, its setting and sartorial choices are strictly East Coast.

That’s where 90210 comes in. This fall, the reincarnation of the prime-time teen drama popular through the entire ’90s is L.A.’s only foreseeable hope for a fashion-centric program that tells the story of our aesthetic. The original 90210 set its fair share of trends—Jason Priestley’s pompadour, Luke Perry’s leather jacket, Shannen Doherty’s tights—so here’s hoping new 90210 can once again showcase the city and its fashion-forward inhabitants. If not, we’ll have to make due with the L.A. story arc Gossip Girl will inevitably employ.

 —Marcos Luevanos

In what can only be described as the creation of an entirely new form of musical performance, former Blink 182 drummer impresario Travis Barker has joined forces with beatmaster and DJ to the stars Adam Goldstein (DJ-AM) to start something unquestionably special. Emphatic performances of both showmanship and style make up what seems to be nothing short of a skilled challenge for both artists. Lucky for me, I got to hang out during the soundcheck before their final summer show at the Roxy on August 27th, just after they found out they’d be headlining MTV’s Video Music Awards this Sunday. While the duo seemed to be stoked about the VMA’s, the focus of the day was on the evening’s show. After soundcheck, we sat around for a quick chat, talking about everything from their humble beginnings to plans for the future. When asked how they came up with the idea to collaborate, their five-minute answer only confirmed what critics have been saying all year. These two belong on stage together.

You pretty much know you’ve made it once people start imitating you, and its only a matter of time before we see YouTube videos of amateur drummers and DJ’s trying to emulate those special Roxy performances of summer 2008. From Fugazi to Justice to the Refused, AM took everything in his arsenal and fired at an eager Travis, nailing every second without missing a beat. And while this writer has seen her fair share of shows this year, nothing beats standing in an empty legendary Hollywood venue watching one of the worlds’ greatest DJ’s dole out song after a song to a human drum-machine.

—Ali Miller

The 2008 MTV Video Music Awards will air live at 9pm (Live ET/Tape Delayed PT) from Paramount Pictures Studios in Los Angeles on September 7, 2008 and will be hosted by British comedian Russell Brand.
 

Pardon me. Where the eff did the summer go?

There are some indisputable signifiers of summer: strawberries, pedicures, the scent of SPF 45 mixed with sun-baked perspiration. For me, it’s naeng-myun. Noodle soup served with a top layer of sludgy ice. That plus a side of galbi is a classic Korean combo you’d find on any menu from K-town to Seoul. Grilled meat with a tangy, chilling libation so cold, you develop frostbite from picking up the metal bowl: Koreans sure know how to do summer.



But how peeved am I to find that on the very last week of August, this bowl from the original Yuchun on Olympic Boulevard—L.A.’s undisputed place for the refreshing tonic—is my very first taste of summer. Guess I gotta start working on my tan.

—Jiyeon Yoo

"I'll top your Judas Priest with a 'Jesus Walks.' Kanye in the hiznouse!"

I am in a text war with my sister, who is headbanging her way through a metal concert 400 miles away. She surrenders: "You smoked me with Kanye."

I've just run 6.2 miles at Nike+ Human Race, along with over 12,000 sweat-soaked Angelenos who've gathered near USC to hyperventilate through the urban race course, which ends with a Kanye West concert. It is my first ever organized race, and my brain is keeping a running list of observations to distract me from my fear—and later, from my aching lungs.

7:46 p.m.: I never wear sneakers around this many people. I feel like an 11-year old boy or a hockey mom who has given up on fashion.

(Note: not my legs.)

8:04 p.m.: The lawn in front of the L.A. Coliseum is a sea of identical red shirts. Glow sticks are prevalent.

8:06 p.m.: Oh hey, there's Tiffany Amber Theissen.

8:31 p.m.: The race is seconds away from starting. The energy of 12,000 nervous people is electrifying, as is the presence of Randy "Dawg" Jackson, currently pumping up the crowd with affirmations. Instead of a gun blast to mark the start, an air horn goes off, and it occurs to me that in L.A., it might be difficult to discern between ambient neighborhood gunshots and athletic-related ones. Good call, Nike.

8:33 p.m.: We're running. There are so many people that it starts off like the slow shuffle one might encounter at the mall on Christmas Eve. 

8:45 p.m: Along the course, they've set up Hawaiian dancers, taiko drummers, and French can-can girls to represent the millions of participants across 25 cities who are running simultaneously for this event. Distracted, I smash my face into the back of a very sweaty man with a fanny pack.

9:02 p.m.: At the midway point, in front of modest South Los Angeles houses, families have set up lawn chairs on the sidewalk to cheer us on. I wish they would come to the gym with me sometime, because it's really quite motivating.

9:21 p.m.: At mile 5, I'm starting to tire, but manage to keep pace with a man in wheelchair, who's pumping his arms to keep his wheels spinning at a speedy clip. I'm trying not to be sappy, but it's unspeakably moving.

9:43 p.m.: At the final mile, the finish line glows in the distance. I keep running, hoping that medical attention will not be necessary. 

9:50 p.m.: Finish. Lawn collapse

9:58 p.m.: My faithful comrade Georgia has accompanied me, and I find her near the finish line. She informs me that while I have been jogging for 1.5 unbroken hours, she has been in the VIP tent "eating a bunch of food! Oh and drinking 3 glasses of wine. Oh and I got a massage!"

10:46 p.m.: Kanye West is onstage rapping "One for my mama, two for real hip hop and three for Obama." The crowd is roaring in approval.

10:49 p.m.: I spot a group of runners, who have apparently adopted the Michael Phelps Philosophy of Compensatory Nutrition: they've each piled plates with thousands of calories, as though preparing for the Iron Man competition or a winter's hibernation. I want to remind them that by running 6.2 miles, we burned off less than a Happy Meal, but why ruin a stranger’s binge?

11:01 p.m.: Comrade Georgia, not presently pumped full of adrenaline, is over it. She wants to go to a bar. She also wants to beat traffic home. In the interest of showering, I agree to leave and as we walk to the parking garage, fireworks thunder in the sky.

12:45 p.m.: I return home and I eat a piece of cheesecake.

Overall, I must hand it to Nike for getting millions of people off their asses in one day. It's no easy feat, but baiting the finish line with Kanye and/or snacks is a bang up strategy.

Until next time,

Ward