Everyone knows the best tacos are served from catering trucks and mobile stalls. It turns out the most fun desserts may be, too. There’s a truck that parks at Echo Park Avenue right below Sunset on weekday evenings, and it’s got all the sugary fried goodness you could hope for.

They also have fruit, but that’s boring. Unless of course you order it “con crema.” Better yet, try the fried plaintains with strawberry jam and melted, sweet cheese…I guess it’s safe to say those are an acquired taste. And there’s nothing wrong with a classic: The churros here are the best you’ll ever have, but be sure to ask for them fresh-made.

And get them before you hit the bars. The truck leaves around 10 p.m., but nothing’s a better base layer for margaritas at Barragan’s than dough fried in oil.

So, I woke up at 5:06 am. Bafflingly alert, I then went for a 6 mile run, and cut my bangs. Predictably, I am now coming down like a tranquilized racehorse.

I just ran into an LA Times comrade in the cafeteria, and he asked which 2.7 events I was attending tonight. Without thinking, I rattled off the Hammer Bash closing party, maybe a stop into the Scene for the  "Now Blog This!" show with the Deadly Syndrome:

But because I would fail a field sobriety check from pure fatigue, I hereby declare my intentions to loaf around in track pants. You heard me. I'm staying in, saving my soul for a wicked weekend of:

Young drunkards, indie rock and Bob Odenkirk: together at last 

Jack daniels and rare beef,

Old cars and campy movies,

Chicks in mini skirts killing each other,

half-naked pool parties, and maybe even

a little bit of peyote dance mania at the Ford.

For now: MacSleeperstein von Wardenhoffer

By tomorrow: Hyperpants o'Wardenstein 

Just say no to 6 mile runs at dawn,

The Ward 

On my way out of last night's awesome Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, I saw Vincent Gallo kicking it with Eric, the super-tall guitar player that you might remember from his days in Hole. These two drunk girls were hanging all over Gallo, who was nice but didn't seem interested. He happily agreed to pose for a photo, and then struck this casual pose which made me laugh. Chill dude, and chicks dig him. Nice work, if you can get it.

I bumped into the famous Walking Man of Silverlake the other day. A doctor by trade, he somehow finds time to walk 15 miles a day or thereabouts while reading the newspaper. If you live anywhere close to the Eastside and have eyes, you've no doubt seen him, chestnut brown skin, luminous shorts, sweat glistening on his bare chest as he paces furiously along the sidewalk.

So I stopped him as he marched down Sunset Blvd, with one question on my lips:

"Why are you so obsessed with walking around?"

But I was too shy to ask him that, so this fell out of my mouth instead: 

"Where did you get your sneakers?"

He cocked his eyebrow, Sean Connery-like, and leaned in to whisper his secret.

"Thesh are Pumash...I get all my shoesh for free...but I can't shay where from."

How mysterious.

He did tell me his name is Marc, and that the LA Times has written two stories about him. And then invited me to a private gathering at his office. Apparently he hosts rockin' happenings once a week at his doctor's office in North Hollywood. "You'll see a whole different side of me, I promise," he said, adding that there would be Newcastle Brown Ale aplenty. "You'll like that, you're British right?" Then he got misty-eyed and told me how he was once a classical music student at Oxford (or was it Cambridge) university.

Up close, the Walking Man of Silverlake is rather handsome and has a Twinkle In His Eye, so I had to step inside Isac the orchid shop to cool down a little.

There, I struck up conversation with the rather fabulous owner, Isac, who is from Cologne, Germany, but opened up his store in Silverlake a couple years ago.

His two puppies were inside, one whose name is Jack Sparrow, because he "looks like Johnny Depp". Johnyy Depp wishes he were this cute.

As well as beautiful blooms, Isac also sells dresses. He told me he had seen the exact same frocks he sells in a Third Street boutique for three times what he charges in his store. I loved the little Pac Man pinnies and Strawberry Shortcake skirts made by a local designer who repurposes bedsheets and the like.

Then, feeling trigger-happy with the camera, I stepped around the corner to Bittersweet Butterfly and took some photos of the wares inside.

I love their fresh-cut "baby I'm sorry, I'll never make out with your roommate again" flowers, plus garters, panties, lace, frilliness and general girliness.

I bought some garters, stepped back into the midday sun and thought about drinking brown ale with Walking Man.

Karen O and I go way back. No, not like that, Mr. Dirty Mind. I've just been a big fan from the moment I first got my hands on their debut full-length, "Fever To Tell." At some points, you could've called it fanatical. Which is why I was kind of discombobulated around the solidly sold out Yeah Yeah Yeahs show at the Mayan last night. Enough that it took me awhile to actually make my way down there (I kind of committed the cardinal sin of concert-going: leaving the house without my ticket. Doh!). By the time I got there, the place was a giant sardine can of humanity, forming an impenetrable wall between me and anywhere even close to the stage. Not good. Hmmm, time to get crafty.

That’s when I spied the doorway leading out to the smoking patio. Going outside, I see that there’s another door leading back into the theater, only this door opens up onto the main floor area. Score!

I wormed my way into the crowd and got my face rocked off by Karen and the boys. She’s definitely calmed down some since the last time I saw them play at the Fonda a couple of years ago (Karen wore a folding chair that night. You try pulling that look off). But she’s no less intense. Of course, she still broke out her signature moves, like deep-throating the microphone and spitting a geyser of beer into the air. An acoustic version of "Maps" was appropriately weepy. She donned and cast off a variety of killer accessories, like the bowler hat with a veil made of long, glittery ribbon and a giant cape with a detatchable hood. 

So yeah, they were awesome. I’m still stuck on the immediate gratification of songs from “Fever to Tell,” but “Cheated Hearts” and especially “Phenomena” from "Show Your Bones" were epic. Yeah Yeah Yeahs still got it, no doubt.

PS: Will someone over at Interscope PLEASE holla at a player? Seriously.  

Success! The space formerly known as Dublin's has finally, truly been reborn into a club that's sure to be a hit on the Sunset Strip. Last night's opening party of The Beach was packed to the gills with a bronzed crowd—either they lay out at the real beach or, most likely, they fake 'n bake at Sunset Tan nearby.

I wasn't able to stay for the performances (went to The Green Door and it's amazing; more on that later), but I did see the awesome Ryan Silver (right) and his cohort Spike, who stopped by before heading to Opera, where they promote hugely successful parties on Wednesdays.


Some other "highlights" of the evening:


While most people were chilling out downstairs last night, I can tell you that the upstairs lounge, which looks like a living room, will become the best spot in the house, especially during football season. And with a menu like this, how could you not stay all day, all night?