It was strictly business at Blipster HQ today. We set a goal for the team: if we got enough work done, the treat at the end of the day would be attending the L.A. premiere party for TLC’s new show “L.A. Ink” starring the ridiculously hot inkstress Kat Von D. We’ve been in love with Kat ever since spying her on the cover of a local tattoo magazine at the newsstand on the corner of Cahuenga and Hollywood. Seeing her grace giant billboards and the sides of buses promoting her new series has been glorious in ways I can’t even describe. Needless to say, we handled our business in record time and high-tailed it to the Sofitel hotel on Beverly to get up close and personal with our current fantasy girl #1.

Hitting the spot, I run into MMX team members Randi and Victor representing on the red carpet. Victor was shooting pics of the always-saucy Shauna Moakler, looking fine as hell just kicking it with one of her girls as Randi and I made our way inside to get busy at the open bar courtesy of Skyy Vodka. God, I love this town.

We start to get our drink on when I spy Dave Navarro lurking around the fire pit. He’s a total diva to Victor, so no pictures are secured. Let’s just say that we saw him eating solid food. Really. It's probably why he was so bitchy.

A few rounds of Crab Rangoon later, and the lady of the hour hits the spot. Kat Von D is just as hot as I’d hoped in real time, and a true party girl. I watch her posing for pics hoisting a bottle of Patron like a real rock star. There are all kinds of gorgeous women in the house, but Ms. Von D shines brightest tonight. Although her girl Pixie came pretty damn close!

You’d do well to check in on “L.A. Ink” when it premieres on TLC tonight at 10PM. I know I’ll be there. A whole hour a week of our lady of ink kicking it with her peoples and tattooing rock stars sounds like a party to me. Keep it coming, TLC. This is exactly what we’re talking about.

Me: "I'm headed to the Mexican border. I need you to do me a favor."

My listings assistant, George Ducker: "You really know how to start a conversation." 

Me: "I need you to make sure my gorilla article goes live at midnight."

Him: "Uh...Is that code for something?"

My weekend started out in an eventful, but tame, fashion: Friday night involved pit stops at a few shows of a musical nature, and a birthday party. Saturday was the usual fare: I tidied my apartment, and hit a few art happenings.

But at 2pm on Sunday, I was slumped in the booth of a stripmall pizza joint in Atwater , contemplating a to-do list that involved going to Target and buying a mop. It was then that trusted comrade Gemini suggested that we hit a dirty border town, to fear for our lives and eat hamburgers. I agreed.

We grabbed camera batteries, and hopped on the I-10, border-bound. Our destination was Mexicali, Officially Another Country, and a barbed fence away from its American sister city, the transpositionally named Calexico. 

We drove through dust storms, through baked, arid towns with dirty toilets, and into a land called Meh-eeco. Our destination: a thrash metal bar on the outskirts of the city, where metalhead legends Exodus were headlining a show that no mother would want their child to attend.

Walking the crumbling streets, windswept trash huddled in corners, cockroaches scrambled past, and our molars filled with airborne grit. We arrived at our final destination: Jardin de Silencio, a name which turned out to be rife with wicked Mexican irony. It was hella loud. 

The next few hours were a blur of humidity, mosh pits, Flying V guitar solos, sweaty hugs from sweet but really, really intimidating looking guys (including my bro-in-law, Exodus rhythm guitarist Lee Altus) and a burger at Carl's Jr., consumed after deciding that LA residents really have no reason to experiment with street-vendor tortas.

(Ward relation, Mr. Lee Altus) 

(Mr. Gary Holt, of Exodus. Not a Ward relation, at present.) 

(Mr. Rob Dukes, also not related, but cherished nonetheless.)

Gemini and I then navigated the Mexicali streets at 1am, lurched the car through the dense line back into the U.S., were sniffed by drug-seeking German shepards, and rolled 240 miles back to L.A., arriving at 5am on a Monday morning. 

I still need to buy a mop. 

The pool parties on "Entourage" must have inspired promoter Craig Clemens because he's started a new wet 'n wild Wednesday bash worthy of Vincent Chase and the boys. Each week, he takes over a different mansion with a sweet pool, sets up a VeeV-sponsored bar, and lures about 60 of this town's sexiest and youngest power players to party. Last week it was at his place on Mt. Olympus. This week? Invitees will find out at the last minute. How do you get on Craig's list? MySpace him for consideration—and while you're on his page, check out the MTV-style web video from one of his previous pool bashes. You'll especially like this line: "'Cause when the sun goes down...the panties go down?"

Where do they get these colors?!  

My buddy Josh was so taken with Robertson-adjacent Chaya Brasserie, he invited his sweetie Lynn and me along for Round Dos this past weekend.

The happy couple ordered two blindingly-bright-colored fish dishes, while I opted for the special bento box -- six compartments full of beautifully presented tuna tartare, seared beef and seaweed that goes for $29 (Josh was paying):

The only gross compartment: Bottom Left, a dis-gus-ting combo of sliced peaches, prosciutto and goat cheese.

It tasted like Sweet Slow Death, only worse.