Yes, it's late on the Friday before Labor Day and to no one's surprise, Alie and I are once again still in the building. But before you start feeling all sorry for our pitiful souls, just witness what hilarity ensues when no ones around.

The largest lobster festival in the land may be two weeks away (and sure, who can think of anything past the long weekend?), but we've got major lobster on the brain—for Alie, quite literally. Even the lobster gallery is joining in with applause.

Yeah, we know you want in on this late night workahol-party—if you can get past the big, buff bouncer we got downstairs.

G'night party people! Enjoy a labor-free weekend. 

Summer should be ducking quietly out the back door, but instead it's flopped on the couch, burping, and won't leave.

It's hella sweaty out there, bro.

Some locals may have chosen to fly to Hoboken to hang in their aunt's doughboy, but if you're left stranded in LA, looking for a way to say goodbye to summer with a ferocious kick in its pants or perhaps a soft kiss on its scorching cheek, I suggest:

 

Friday

Rock Insider's night of gloriously indie LA music at Pehrspace

Chromatics at White Slave Trade- some place behind the Bob Barker puppet theater in beautiful Historic Filipinotown (122 Glendale Blvd--enter in alley off Colton).

Guy's Guys is closing at Gallery 1988 

Spend the night on the roof at Thank Tank, then wake up for a weekend of radtastic seminars about art and transportation and karaoke

 

Saturday

Jonathan Edle-something's (fine, Edelhuber) shows his effing weird, cool anachronistic paintings at Carmichael Gallery 

"What Ever Happened to Baby Jane" at Hollywood Forever 

 

As for Sunday, I'll be chillin' on a roof or sneaking into your neighbor's yard to chillax in their hammock, resting up for the Happy Hallows show at the Echo on Monday. Huzzah!

See you near the big bucket of ice and sodas, or over a grill of dead chickens.  

Laborically yours,  

 

 

Getting the flu during the worst heat wave in the summer? Miserable, let me tell you. I've been sneezing and coughing and getting drunk on TheraFlu all week. But I've kept up on the scene, vicariously at least.

First off, did anyone catch Hyde owner Sam Nazarian flex his thespian muscle on "Entourage" on Sunday? I really need to get HBO. Meanwhile at Hyde this week: Mel B had trouble controlling her hormones and LC hid from the paparazzi, which is kind of like going to The Ivy and getting annoyed that there are cameras.

Over on E!'s "Dr. 90210," Les Deux's bartender Brian got his perspiration issues in check by having the sweat glands under his armpits Botoxed. (Umm...) Paris and Stavros, however, probably didn't stay as dry when they reunited at Les Deux this week.

Before I crawl back into bed, I leave you with a photo gallery of Les Deux from last Tuesday's party. Click in.

 I know I am probably the last person in L.A. to get on the romper bandwagon, but when I saw this little turquoise number at American Vintage in Los Feliz, I just couldn't resist. ($32). Then I spotted some bad-ass cowgirl boots for $55 and thought "why not?". And while I'm at it, I should probably get a nice new vintage brown leather clutch ($15). Right?

I asked Robert, the kind young man behind the counter with a wooden spike through his septum, if he thought the romper suit made my bum look...bountiful. He promsied me it looked good. I still wasn't sure.

ME: "You mean it? You're not just saying that?"

ROBERT: "Yes honey, your ass looks great."

ME: "I dunno..."

ROBERT: "Trust me, I know these things."

ME: "How do you know?"

ROBERT: "Because I'm black." 

There was no arguing with that, so I went ahead and made my purchases. I am going to wear my new outfit tonight - Margaret Cho is presenting a preview of her all-new Sensuous Woman show at the Gay and Lesbian Center in Hollywood, and then after that, it's the Arthur Mag "Back To Life"  party at the Little Joy, celebrating the un-folding of our most favorite pretentious music publication.

Mazal tov Jay Babcock.

Oh man, how did these kids sneak up on me like this? I've been watching the Chromatics with an eagle eye ever since I first heard the dark, moody atmospheres of their song "In The City." From there it was a treasure trove of cool tunes via their Myspace page, including covers of Bryan Ferry's "My Only Love" and Kate Bush's "Running Up That Hill." The music is kind of drone-y and weird, with singer Ruth melodically talking over the narcoleptic beats and tinkly synthesizer squiggles. In short, they're tops in my book. Imagine my excited surprise to discover they'll be doing their thing in town twice this weekend.

The Portand cuties start on Friday night at the "Weekend Warrior" party. It's happening at 122 Glendale Blvd in Echo Park on the 2nd Floor. Enter in the back alley behind the Bob Baker Puppet Theatre. Other acts include Hard Place and I Can't Read. DJs are Savage Fantasy and Blazing Lazer. Doors at 10PM.

Our deliciously detached anti-heroes will also hit the stage at the Echo on Sunday, 9/1, as part of the Part-Time Punks Party, which we already love. Talk about a nice way to kick off the Labor Day festivities. Word. I'll be the one coveting whatever they're selling at the merch table. 

 

Look at Seattle getting in on the frozen yogurt action. Obviously the design is a blatant rip-off, but we do like the title, as these things go. We can’t wait until Wackyberry shows up in Portland.

 

Any lovah of independent publishing may have mourned this year's untimely demise of Arthur Magazine. We sobbed and sopped up our tears on its pages of excellent essays, and there was even a wake held at the darling book nook Family.

Well look who durn rose from the dead! Arthur Magazine scraped together funds, did a lil' restructuring and its newly minted pages were recently delivered to Jay Babcock at his Atwater digs by some dude named George (below).

Catch the new Arthurs on newsstands this weekend, and hop on down to Lilttle Joy for the death-defying celebration tonight.

The DJ line-up is as follows, from the mouth of The Babcock himself:

9:30 Ashland Mines deejays
11 Peter Alberts deejays
12:30 who knows deejays

 

 

(George)

I might see you down there, once I'm done interviewing midget chicken wrestlers at Lucha Va Voom. 

 

Another day on the job, 

 

    =

The first question is: do people in L.A. like NASCAR?

The second question is: why the hell does Kodak care?

In a PR release almost as bizarre as the one I received about an OJ Simpson manuscript being auctioned online, I just opened an email from Kodak alerting the press that the first 75 people to hit the Kodak Theater on September 1 from 11 am-3pm with their dusty old printers will get free NASCAR passes for the September 2nd race.

I myself have a printer wedged behind snowboots in my hall closet, and the thought of tossing it in a landfill makes me weep. I'm no fan of drunk racecar watchin' but the fact that I could send it off to be recycled, AND scalp some NASCAR tickets to buy new shoes makes me warm inside. Or maybe I'll actually go. Do they have corndogs there? Yes?

I'm in.

Oh, Trader Joe’s avocados. How we yearn for the old days when you were consistent and delicious. We felt we could count on you any time of year.

But lately, you’re moody. It’s only extremes with you: hard as a rock, or moldy, mushy, and fetid. Where did it all go wrong? Oh well, perhaps this is for the best. This may be our chance to start buying avocados at the farmer’s market. They’re so much more expensive than you, but we know we’re getting quality. Trader Joe’s avocados, you have toyed with our emotions for the last time.

Julie Edwards, drummer for the Pity Party, (on the right there) is unstitching her beloved Little Knittery from its current premises inside Steinberg & Sons in Los Feliz, and will re-open in a hot new space on Glendale Blvd. in Atwater Village.

It was supposed to open tomorrow, but the re-launch was postponed until Sept 5 because of "boring and yukky" technical issues.  I'm not sure for the reasons behind the move. When I spoke to Suzy from Steinberg & Sons a couple months ago, there was no mention of it.

New digs are located at:

3042 Glendale Blvd.
LA, CA. 90039
323.663.3838

HOURS
mon-tue CLOSED
wed - fri 12 - 7 p.m.
sat 12 - 8 p.m.
sun 12 - 5 p.m.

 

OK, I’ve now officially lived in L.A. longer than any other city outside of my beloved hometown of Detroit. How it is that I’ve done it without catching at least one game at Dodger Stadium is a mystery.

I made my virgin voyage to the stadium earlier this summer to catch the Police reunion concert (awesome show, and Stewart Copeland is among the greatest rock drummers of all-time), and was immediately taken by the grandeur of the place.

So when I got the call that there was a ticket available for last night’s game against the Washington Nationals, I was intrigued. When I found out that the ticket was in the LA Times executive suite, I couldn’t say “oh HELL yes!” fast enough.

The field shot above is the view from the suite. But really, I should’ve been taking pictures of the elaborate and calorie-laden spread inside the room. I mean, the Dodger Dog station alone was enough to bring tears of joy to my eyes (or maybe it was just the onions). The refrigerator full of beer quickly became my new best friend. But then, the magic happened. The dessert cart arrived.

The dessert cart was loaded with piles of the most decadent displays of confectionary magic this side of the last time you got stoned and ended up in front of the bakery counter at Auntie Em’s Kitchen. The Red Velvet cake was divine, and the carrot cake was among the best I’ve ever tasted. I couldn’t even look at the Snickers cheesecake. But this was my favorite treat found on the cart.

A candy apple covered in M&Ms? Is this a baseball game or the munchies room at the Cannabis Cup?

By the time we rolled ourselves out of the stadium at the end of the game, our Dodger heroes had come from behind to beat the Nationals in a blaze of glory. Think Blue!

There are still plenty of games to take in before the season ends. And I hear that they can be as much if not more fun in the cheap seats as they are in an executive suite. Plus you can stuff your face just as righteously as the fatcats upstairs with their all-you-can-eat deal. I’ll try it one of these days, but not before I get my hands on some of that Snickers cheesecake in the suite. And another Dodger Dog. And maybe a couple more Heinekens…

Hello peeps!

Here's hoping you had a friendly Monday. I would have blogged about the weekend's goings-on (told tales of road trips and mosh pits, etc.) but I was face down on my carpet wishing I were dead.

Scientists have recently discovered that migraine headaches are categorically not fun. My experience supports that theory. So yesterday was a day of leisure lost, but a lesson learned to drink more water or goat blood or whatever else could possibly make me never, ever have one of those again.

As for tonight: for the theatrically adventurous, you may want to consider scoring a ticket to Junk: A Rock Opera at the Lyric Theater. Full band, tales of love, naive pride and woe. Sounds like my prom! 

(Hey, Junk- thanks for letting us borrow this from your myspace. ) 

If you desire a more "free admission" evening, hit the Sierra Stage in WeHo for Tuesday Night Thunder, starring L.A.'s sharpest comedy nerds. Among them are improv troupe the Fiffle Foofers, including the one and only Chad Fogland (below) who has caused new wrinkles on my face with his improv. I love and loathe him for that. 

Fare thee well. Get out there and show Tuesday exactly who is boss.*

 

*Note: you are boss.  

 

We left off with Miss Alie Ward in mid-dance. (And yes, eagle eyes, that is a Veronica Mars calendar on music editor's Scott T. Sterling's desk--who showed up late to the party.

The clear favorite seemed to be the white chocolate mousse Pocky with an extra layer of creamy goodness that made it look like the Rolls Royce of biscuit sticks. I personally liked the chocolate with the extra dusting of cocoa: the bittersweet powder both cut through the sweetness and added an extra layer of texture (and I am all about texture in my food).

The A-Ward (ha!) goes to Alie Ward herself for her moment of sheer genius. So consumed was she with the inspiration, she tore her teeth through the next bag..

Pulled out one chocolate and one Tahitian vanilla... 

And made her own Pocky combo. Ingenious.

That's alot of stuff "happening in our mouth" (quoth, George Ducker after trying the strawberry with chocolate) and stepping up the Pocky Party, indeed. Party on.

The Labor Day parties haven’t even kicked off yet and already my attention has shifted to Award Season and all the glamorous after-parties we have to look forward to. The Emmy Awards, of course, will get the party started in L.A. on September 16. The two events everyone’s buzzing about: The TV Guide bash at Les Deux and the Entertainment Tonight/People fete at the Walt Disney Concert Hall.

Yes, I said the Walt Disney Concert Hall. With all of my favorite TV stars. I think I might die and go to heaven.



Here’s the scoop.

The music:
A *surprise* Grammy award-winner is headlining—my guess is John Legend
KCRW DJ Jason Bentley

The drinks:
Entertain-mint mojitos
A-list twists
Paparazzi punch

The food (c/o Patina):
Blinis with caviar and crème fraiche
Mini smoked scallop burgers
Beef tenderloin with roasted garlic
Yellowtail snapper with a passion fruit buerre blanc saunce

The sweets (c/o Godiva):
A chocolate tree with fresh strawberries, brownies and macaroons
A truffletini bar

The party favors:
Maybeline and Garnier make-up bags
A sustainable, eco-friendly Cole Haan bag packed with goodies from Crabtreen & Evelyn, YogaWorks, massage gift certificates and more

Now, the only question is: How will I get myself on the list for this lavish party? Oh yeah: And what will I wear?  

Guy Blakeslee of The Entrance Band slayed on the guitar and was the dominating force of Saturday's Fuck Yeah festivities, as far as I am concerned. His bearded Messiah/revolutionary look got me pretty hot too:

 

They played at the Rec Center which became engulfed by an overwhelmingly putrid stench shortly before the end of their set. Someone (or multiple persons) had let one go, and it was nuclear. We decided that the poo smell might actually have been the band's fault--what with all that heavy rockin' hittin' our guts, it is possible that everyone in the crowd accidentally emitted a small amount of gas at the same time, creating the resultant cloud of foulness.

NAME-CHECKS:

I bumped into Lavender Diamond's Becky Stark by the artist check-in. She was sweet and spacey and wearing something odd that was covered in opaque mother-of-pearl sequins. Said hi to Erin Garcia of Brother Reade outside the Echo shortly before his set. Saw the organizer Sean Carlson running down the street looking happy. But then he always looks happy. Chatted up A&R goddess Laurel Stearns, who was with her BF, who plays in Joshua Tree's Thriftstore Allstars. Headbanged a little with the kindest, hardest-working young man in music, Josh Frankfort of Shmanagement. And mentally high-fived Metromix's blondely-bearded Associate Editor of Rad, George Ducker, who loaned me ten bucks last week.

I felt bad for all the sorry muthas standing in line behind the Echoplex to pick up their will-call tickets. Literally hundreds of poor humans stood in a miserable line that snaked around the side of the building. But it did prove one thing--just how sexy and popular Fuck Yeah has become.

Which may or may not be a good thing for the event itself.

 

 

Crucial news hot off the presses for all you L.A. vintage shopaholics:

#1: Apartment 3, the cute vintage/consignment/emerging designer packed boutique on La Brea, has moved downtown and is now only open three days a week, from Friday to Monday. Presumably this is because owner Kristin is busy putting together her new line, three-la.

#2: B.B.C., the beloved vintage/thrift store on Sunset Blvd. on Echo Park, has changed its name. It is now called "As American Vintage".  We're surprised they went for such a generic name (there's already a store called American Vintage in nearby Los  Feliz), and the new signage is kinda generic, hardly a fitting facade for the den of sexiness inside. Oh well.

#3: Sea Level Records' former premises on Sunset in Echo Park is now a boutique, selling fashiony white trash 80s-inspired hipster apparel by the looks of things. A band was playing inside during last weekend's Fuck Yeah fest, so I popped back today to check out the scene...but it was closed. I don't even know what its name is yet, as there is no signage. Updates to come!

I told you Avalon's quarterly Made in Brazil party was hotter than Gisele Bündchen in a Victoria's Secret catalog. Exhibits A and B.

Miss Saturday night's party? Click in for more photos.

1. Friday night was spent at the Hyperion Tavern hanging out with Metromix style maven Caroline Ryder at her party. It was fun. Chilling outside, met the very cool patrons of a new café two north of the joint. It’s yet to officially open, but they were kind enough to hand me a Red Stripe and make Jessie an exceptionally tasty cappuccino. Good people.  

2. Saturday was super-fun. First up, a tasty morning brunch at Mani's. There was a quick cloudburst over Fairfax while eating. The rare phenomenon made everyone in the area a little giddy. Later, the eternally cool team of Motormouthmedia honcho Judy Miller and her hubby Mark had a little get-together around the pool. The guys from No Age and Deerhunter were there, although Bradford Cox was passed out in the bedroom most of the time. When he finally emerged groggy and in search of In-N-Out Burger, Judy introduced him to everyone. He took it upon himself to replace our names with ones he deemed more appropriate. My Bradford Cox name is “Jimmy.” I’m cool with that.

3. Sunday was kinda awesome. For one, when’s the last time you watched the movie “Singles”? I’m just saying.

4. Brunch at Home is always such a good thing. The food is good, and they have a full bar. I'm just saying.

5. Leaving Home, happened upon what appears to be a killer vegan spot called Green Leaves. Ran into Laura and Kyle who were heading in for brunch. They gave it the highest recommendation possible, saying they hit the spot for grub on the regular. I know where I’ll be noshing next weekend.

6. CENSORED FOR CONTENT

7. Interlude (“Like New”)

8. CENSORED FOR CONTENT

9. Finally was able to pry myself away in time to hit the Echoplex moments before Deerhunter took the stage as part of the Fuck Yeah Fest. Ran into Judy and Mark. Mark tells me that Bradford was up all night burning music from his vast and amazing collection.

10. Deerhunter plays. They are a zillion times better than they were when I saw them open for the Ponys at the Echo a few months ago. They meander through tunes like “Octet” and “Wash Away” in a controlled but still semi-chaotic manner. Bradford does not wear a wig or a dress, but a cool t-shirt with graphics from the 1981 ska documentary “Dance Craze.”

11. I bought a Deerhunter shirt. Yes, I am a music nerd.

12. Can someone please help me secure a copy of the Deerhunter/Hubcap City 7-inch on Rob’s Records? I know there are only 300 in existence, but I need Deerhunter’s “Greyscale” on vinyl.

13. Thanks, and take care of each other out there.

Let's cut to the chase. It's been one tough week: we got the move downtown, tons of coverage of festivalia-galore for follow-up, and well, just sheer exhaustion. Not to the level of "crappy" (though it got damned close) but even Friday doesn't taste as it should.

I'm not one to throw big parties, but a day like today calls for one. And at Metromix LA/HQ, nothing causes sheer giggly delight like Pocky. Yes, I said Pocky. Those rail-thin, chocolate-coated biscuit sticks. You look at those and you know that a culture that daily uses chopsticks was the mad genius behind them. Of course, the Pocky empire expands well beyond the realm of chocolate. 

I hit my local Marukai and cleared the shelves of Pocky varietals and gained some serious lovin' from my colleagues (sorry, dudes, no photos). Come join us on our little Pocky Party (set in two parts), and let's see which creamy-coated dips passed our lips.

DISCLAIMER: In my efforts to resize my photos and with my hateful computer problems today, I realize that the photos are blurry. I'll see what I can do next time.

Bottom row (left to right): Tahitian Vanilla, Honey & Milk, Strawberry, Mango Mousse, White Chocolate Mousse

Top row: Gigantic sack of individual bags of original Pocky, Bittersweet chocolate with cocoa dust

 

 

Miss Alie Ward shyly hides her excitment at her first introduction to Tahitian Vanilla.

 

 

Oooh....Alie shows off how the pretty bag matches Alexandra's shirt of hotness

 

Sniff! It smells like cake batter...and tastes delightful! This ended up being the Ward favorite as it tasted like vanilla pudding (and shared the pure snowiness of Alie's skin).

Contributing editor George Ducker isn't afraid to get in on some Pocky action even in his formal Friday attire. "[Strawberry] smells like cigarettes!" Alex cries with surprise. Oh, that was George.

We appreciate guys who coordinate with their favorite Pocky, in this case: Metropolitan white chocolate mousse meet a creamy oxford with a touch of tie (perhaps an "Oxford" knot, if you will)

 

Alexandra liked the Mango Mousse, which was "enormous!" As she summarizes, the bigger the stick with more frosting, the better. Yes, that was meant to be sexual.

 

More delights from the party forthcoming—as well as some professional evaluation (I am a serious food editor, after all). For now, enjoy Alie's ballerina flight of Pocky euphoria during the intermission.  

 

TO BE CONT'D.

The weekend is upon us, comrades, and the last thing I want to see is my beloved allies rumpled on the couch, in a dark room watching golf.

I know you have it in you to be drunk/happy/entertained. There is hope. So please accept these options as my intervention.

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

Jack daniels and rare beef,

Old cars and campy movies,

Chicks in mini skirts murdering each other,

half-naked pool parties,

7 year Cannibal art itches

Ghettoglossing with crucified bunnies

and maybe even a little bit of peyote dance mania at the Ford.

Now find some pants, lovlies.

 

Warmest regards,

 

Dr. WardSpecializing in Non-Lameness

 

 

I went to Green Door on Wednesday and it’s all I’ve been able to think about since.

When you walk in, it’s like you’re whisked away to another world, another century even. It has all the fixings of a turn-of-the-century French castle with red velvet couches, green and gold curtains, chandeliers, a stone fireplace, regal portraits, museum-worthy murals and walls that have been painted in earth tones to give the impression of age. It also has a secretive and mysterious vibe; a bit like the game Clue, but instead of searching for “who done it," the impeccably dressed crowd is looking for who they want to do. The other night, most of the girls were in dresses and the dudes were dapper in vests, pinstriped shirts, skinny ties and loafers—very Jude Law in "The Talented Mr. Ripley."

 

Here's a quick look inside, though my DIY pics don't do it justice!

 

With regulars like Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Bosworth, getting in is not easy, but I’m pretty sure that a dinner reservation is a ticket past the velvet rope. The food (available until 1 a.m.) looks good too, especially the crepes and the steak frites.

On a side note:
There's a hair iron for use in the bathroom. Confusing, yes, but I kind of love that you can fix your hair on the fly.

Some teens celebrate their 18th birthday by buying lotto tickets and getting lap dances. Not Hayden Panettiere. Her first order of business this week was to register to vote (with a photo op, of course) and on Saturday she’s hitting the kick-off party for the “young professional division” of the Barack Obama campaign.

Want to go? Here are the details.
Where: Falcon

When: 4 p.m. to 7 p.m.

Who: Um, Hayden! And Will.i.am is co-hosting the event with promoter Pantera Sarah. (Barack, however, will be in Florida.)

Cost: $25

Party favor: Sweet t-shirts silk-screened with graphics like this!

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?

I finally went to Whist at the Viceroy last night after years of saying I should check it out and I'm in love. I accompanied Restaurant editor Jiyeon Yoo, Events editor Alie Ward and Alie's mayonnaise hair to check out the bar's Taste of Tuesday event, which Jiyeon is reviewing on her Restaurant page on September 4. Although I got there after they stopped serving food, I managed to enjoy every leftover bite. Lobster, elk (yes, elk!) and vanilla pudding: all amazing. After my mooching, we hit the bar for pear, raspberry lemondrop, and espresso martinis and plopped down in one of the poolside cabanas. I'm not going to lie: We were pretty drunk. We may have said a few embarrassing things, like when we lied about being sanitation workers. But this is how we really knew we were impaired.

We believed this guy when he said he was the Geico spokesman…


We believed the Espresso martini would wake us up, when in fact it pretty much knocked us out…


We believed it would be OK if I passed out in the cozy cabana. Why splurge on a room when you can pass out in one of these?

Intelligentsia Coffee, the much esteemed roaster from Chicago, moved into Silver Lake this weekend just in time for the Sunset Junction Festival, which gave it perhaps the biggest opening weekend a coffee shop has ever enjoyed (or not enjoyed: “Everyone wanted iced drinks,” sniffed the baristas about the weekend’s hipster revelers). Now that the hubbub is over, the highly trained, highly motivated staffers were able for the first time Monday to concentrate on what they do best, which is, obviously, crafting coffee. These people know their stuff, and know how to educate a palate.

  

When I announced myself as a coffee newbie, one of the baristas recommended a latte with agave syrup. So mysterious, and so right. It balanced out the bitterness I don’t like without getting overly sweet like a mocha. But then, the barista is from Seattle. They’re so authentic at Intelligentsia! And as if the Northwestern staff wasn’t proof enough, this is what truly blew my mind: students. Actual students, with charts and graphing calculators and anatomy textbooks and highlighters. Not a script in sight. Oh, I am so in love with Intelligentsia.

Yesterday, we moved into the LA Times building; I'm giddy, and want to obtain a beret for the purpose of flinging it off like Mary Tyler Moore.

After a long day, I headed west to Whist, where the MMX ladies got our grub on and ate elk. (Check Jiyeon's restaurant page in a week for the full review. I'm pretty sure the declaration: "I'm game for game!" was involved.) 

Defying all odds, I then hit  the Echoplex, and later consumed a 900-calorie Fatburger  milkshake with the bitches from the Pity Party at 2am. 

I've recovered, and am ready to move on to Hump Day:

I think I've adequately trumpeted my love for Mortified tonight. 

But for you peeps who simply can't handle the humiliation of others, I recommned a roadtrip to Awesometown. Hit the Shortstop for some dancey pants ridiculousness courtesy Indie Masher-upper DJ Paul V, and the hotties who bring you Blow Up LA. Hump it up for the ever-lovey Shadowscene for a  new, somewhat indecent, profile pic.

 

 

PS- For a second I thought that was my hair on the flyer.

 

 

 

Sadness. Trifecta finally bit the bullet and filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. And rumor has it that one of my favorite wine bars, Bodega DeCordova, is closing down too. At least I'll have The Beach's opening party to cheer me up tonight. The party starts at 8 p.m. and food and booze is free until 10 p.m. Steve Aoki is DJing (hot) and Jesse McCartney and Ryan Cabrera are performing (ummm?), but mainly I'm excited to dive into the Wipeout margarita. I also hear that there'll be lifeguard booths out front. RSVP for tonight's bash at rsvp@platformgrp.com.

Oh em gee. I fully just wrote a tidy blog for tonight's stew of tasty events, but somehow logged myself out of the blogosphere before it saved.

 

To recap. We're finally based in the Mother Ship of the LA Times building. Being downtown has me more giddy than someone over 5 should be permitted to be. More later on that.

Okay, go here tonight:

Foreign Born's Dim Mak record release show at the Echo

The Parson Redheads (!), Pity Party (!!), and Earlimart (!!!) at the Echoplex

Taste of Tuesdays at Whist has lured the ladies of Metromix down for some samplings, and given that we generally forget to eat, this could be good. 

Many apologies for the universe eating my good blog, and leaving you with this hasty, soggy scrap.

See you out there, champs.  

 

 

 I decided to video blog today. Mistake #1.

 

 

Ten minutes later:

 

 

 

*Update*: I still totally look like a bison.

This entire endeavor—from all angles— has been mortifying.

Again, if you're into watching other people's pain and embarrassment, I highly suggest hitting the Mortified show this Wednesday, August 22nd at King King. Adults read from the diaries of their horrifyingly awkward adolescence, and I urge you to check the Mortified website for tickets at once. I plan on attending, as does my afro.

And perhaps, with two decades to heal, I will one day be able to handle today's humiliating foray into video blogging with greater aplomb.

Soul deflated, hair as large as ever,

The Ward 

 

PS- I kind of smell like a deli.

 

 

 

Looks like lowercase m's are all the rage in the world of logo design:

 

   (from L to R: Metromint, Metromix)

   

 

Meet 'Metromint' (no relation to Metromix), which is essentially water flavored with unsweetened mint. If this water tastes as half as good as we do, I pity the fool who deosn't drink it.

Our suggestion: throw a Metroparty, where each guest come dressed as his favorite Metromix editor, sips some ice cold Metromint, and gets Metrowasted on Medical Metrojuana.

Metromint. It's a good thing. 

 

 

I know I know...you're barely over your Sunset Junction hangover and here I am carping on about next weekend's Fuck Yeah! fest...but seriously, you know this is where the real L.A. grassroots awesomeness is going to be at, and you better make sure you have enough braincells in order to jump aboard this two-day sonic mindtrip.

Curated by Keith 'Circle Jerk' Morris and Silverlake's cherubic pin-up Sean Carlson, the line-up is a who's who of L.A.'s emerging talent including: Lavender Diamond, Busdriver, Boom Bip, Entrance, The Mae Shi, Imaad Wasif, Brother Reade, Sabertooth Tiger, Indian Jewelry, No Age, Midnight Movies, The Blood Arm, Darker My Love, Great Northern, Moonrats, Abe Vigoda and more. They even got esteemed underground artist Raymond Pettibon himself to design the poster:

 

I plan on going and covering it for you, the lovely sweet darling readers of Metromix. And I hereby pledge that in my style reportage from "Fuck Yeah" I will use the word "hipster" a total of ZERO times. I swear it. I'm done with that damn word. No more hipster this, hiptard that. It's OVER (although I may use the word 'scenester' in the interim, until a better alternative is found).

PS: WIll someone please tell me how to spell "Fuck Yeah" this year? The website says "Fuck Yeah" the poster says "Fuck Yea" and the flyers being handed out by organizer Sean Carlson said F*ck Yeah". What's the feckin' deal, yo?

Um, yeah. What can you really ever say about the Sunset Junction the Monday morning after? You're usually doing well if you can say anything at all.

While my mouth is slowly learning how to function properly again, I do remember a few things. Like seeing freak-folkster Devandra Barnhart kicking it on Sunset with a cute girl. I saw two people completely incapacitated on booze (or whatever) passed out on the ground. One was a girl on the side of the street during the Buzzcocks set on Sunday. She had a sweet haircut. Too bad it was plastered with her puke. Not a good look. The other was this dude propped up against a car drooling while his friend pointlessly held his hand. We think getting him somewhere safe and an IV drip of water would’ve made more sense. Yes, it was yet another Sunset Junction.

Lots of good things happened, too. I saw my old friend Joe Donnelly. I made some new friends (wink!). I ate really good food and quaffed really good beer at MMX LA's fearless leader Deb's spot, which was conveniently Junction adjacent.

But you don’t want to hear my silly stories. You want to look at pictures of the cool bands that played. So I’ll shut up for now.

Awww, peeps. If you are sunburned, clinically dehydrated, or sufferring from raw open foot blisters, chances are you hit Ye Olde Sunset of Junction this weekend. I am all three, testament to my having gone both sweltering days. My favorite flashes of blurry memories:

 

- The crowd oohing along to Eugene Goreshter's falsetto during the Autolux set

- Watching a baby's face change from blank to giggly while it stared at someone playing air guitar during the Buzzcocks

- Running into an acquaintance with an extra (!) bacon wrapped hot dog. I wouldn't buy one, but I sure as hell ate a free one

- Laying on the hot concrete at 10pm for a breather

- The architectural wonders of the mohawks in attendance on Sunday (Buzzcocks)

- The Indie 103 misting tent

- The Smiths night after party at Part Time Punks, which was off. the Hook. One can never ever ever have enough Morrissey, and anyone who says otherwise will be slapped in the face with a gladiola.

 

Please continue to rock on, and if you have a favorite blurry memory from el Junc-shon, please do share in the comments. Hopefully it's not "Making fun of some redhead's unruly afro from afar." Though I really can't blame you.

 

 

 

 

 

The bar at Malo was the drinking destination at Sunset Junction this past weekend. Their big special was $3 Dewar's, which just kills me because it's such an old man's drink. (Guess they're desperate to hook a younger generation on its booze now that their current customer base is dying off.) Scotch just does not equal party, unless you're Augusten Burroughs before rehab—and even that wasn't so much of a party. What does equal a party? Malo's mojitos, which are so good the bartender actually took a sip of my drink before handing it to me. Normally that'd freak me out, but this time it actually earned her a bigger tip.

Started off at my friend Monica's house in Echo Park where we indulged in her special Master Cleanse Cocktail (lemon juice, cayenne pepper and vodka) and I chatted to two L.A. Times writers ("come visit us on the Third Floor!" they said, upon hearing of Metromix's imminent move to the Times building).

 Then we started trudging our way down Sunset Blvd. with our friend Matt Slovick, aka the original eXtreme Elvis of San Francisco, known for his naked and occasionally scat-tinged stage portrayals of the King. Matt had with him a portable water mister, most useful in the oppressive heat.

We arrived at the festival and saw a huge line snaking from the entrance. Then we walked right to  the front, waving our press wristbands in the air and yelling "suckahs!" to all around. Not really. But we did walk right in, these being the benefits of being an esteemed member of the press.

2007 was the year that Ray Ban took over Sunset Junction. Literally every second or third human was sporting a pair, with frames in various shades of pink, red or Pollock. We saw a handful of skinny jeans in bright colors. And lots and lots of Indian-style leather sandals. There was the expected proliferation of neon fanny-packs although really, this look is getting kinda boring. And did anyone else see the trio of young "wives of Father Yod" girls, each wearing different but equally fabulous headbands a la 1960s Laurel Canyon? One of them is featured in our Headtrippin photo gallery, and was wearing the same glittery silver band...

Sunset Junction is small enough for you not to worry about losing your friends because like it or not, you'll probably run in to them in about 15 minutes. I bumped into teen scenestress Cory Kennedy, hung out with my fellow style writer gals Linda Immediato, Steffie Nelson and Lina Lecaro, who brought her cherubic daughter Charlotte. For Charlotte, it was her first Sunset Junction. For me, it was my fourth. My first was a blur, I remember rocking out to Eagles of Death Metal and the New York Dolls the year after, then last year was a tornado of death metal with Hank III, followed by The Cramps, and then this year...just as much fun.

Sunset Junction may be a nuisance to some, but I feckin' love it, every year.

Despite the $6 beers, it is the closest thing to Notting Hill Carnival (the biggest street fair in Europe) that this fair city has, and it deserves as much love as we can give it.

Anyhoo - back to the fashion. Top marks to the super-authentic plaid-shirt wearing Kurt Cobain crew. And to the guy with long hair and green tinted glasses who looked like a wizard. Did you see him? Who WAS he? We loved the pretty lesbians holding hands, but not the fake "Girls Gone Wild" ones in hotpants making out for the leery photographers. Yuk. There were sundresses aplenty, in pretty vintage designs and short, sqaure, side-parted haircuts in an array of alterna-shades from black to plum to orange.

It struck me that the so-called 90s revival (yaaaawn) which I am obliged to cover as a style writer but which grosses me out a little, is actually a good thing for the folks of Silverlake, many of whom have been rocking the grunged-out torn jeans and green hair look for years, regardless of the ebb and flow of fashion.

I caught the last part of the Seawolf set before watching Autolux,  those poor things seemed to suffer from some annoying sound issues throughout the set, beginning with major feedbackand then ending with a microphone malfunction for drummer Carla Azar, who was sporting her trademark dark bob 'n bangs combo. The crowd didn't seem to mind though.

I hung around and saved our close-to-the-stage spot for Blonde Redhead, my man heading off to search for lemonade, into which a flaskfull of vodka was promptly poured. Blonde Redhead was an exquisite noise machine, with tiny-voiced lead singer Kazuo looking bewitching as always in a black and white, alternately spotted and striped floaty silk mini dress.

Then we left and headed in search of hot dogs (they were found, deliciousness was had), and said 'hi' to Sean Carlson handing out fliers to his F*ck Yeah fest which happens next weekend. I forgot to ask him why the 'u' has been taken out of the "F*ck". I also saw scenester/musician Chris Holmes chowing down at Malo, which was predictably packed.

And then the long but sweet stumble back to Los Feliz. Actually, not so long at all. It took me about 20 minutes and was refreshing, and left me wondering...why don't we walk more in L.A.? Seriously? 

Alright people. I really, really don't even know where to start. This weekend is so utterly eager to entertain you, it's standing in the wings praciticing jazz hands. You'd be making a grave mistake to hang at home.

Here are just a few things to keep you occupied. I would elaborate on each, but at the moment, I am sneaking this blog while the rest of the office is packing, in anticiaption of our move back to the glorious L.A. Times building downtown. What this means for you, dear comrades, is more hang-time for us all. Can I get a W00t? Thank you. Can I also get a sandwich? No? Dude.

Onward. What you're doing this weekend:

Friday:

Truxtop

Bukowski Fest

Saturday & Sunday:

Um, hello: Sunset Junction. Here's how to survive it.

Tofu Fest, the Fur Gallery and more options for non-Junctioners 

Video installation about kayaking down the L.A. Concrete Ditch River at Showcave

826LA's Mini Golf for Cheaters. (Vote Team Lone Pine, people. It's for the kids. Do it for the kids.)

Saturday night's got "The Red Shoes" at Hollywood Forever too. 

 

People, get out there. Get to it. Take pictures. We'll check back to make sure you're not home watching Xena in your underpants.

 

*UPDATE* 4:13 am
 

Had myself a Dewers and Diet at Truxtop, kicked it with Misha, plus our own Style Ryder and then high fived Jimmy Bleyer, who curated the show. 

 

But as the clock neared midnight, this Ward hightailed it downtown to hit the Broadway Bar for Metromix beeyotch Kimberly Waid's birthday.
 

I could have suh-WORN that they said her party was at the Broadway Bar, but I was simply Wardtarded: it was actually goin' down a block away at the Golden Gopher. I joined just in time to witness Miss Waid get her pout on and sport the most bitchingest necklace ever. Huzzah!
 

On the breezy drive up Western, Ward Patrol spotted some comrades at a little video-game peppered dive called Barcade, and rounded out the night witha solid 3.6 events attended. Not bad for a Friday. 

 

 

 

 

 

After four months of essentially taking squatter's land in Santa Monica and building an entire website while sustaining on microwave popcorn, (stolen) diet coke, increasingly frequent Coffee Bean runs, and the occasional meal (but really only once in a while), the Metromix team is moving back to the LA Times Building.

Know what that means...yep, it's time to clean out our refrigerator. I'll spare you the photo (disposable tupperware should not be disposed or left to decompose in company fridges). We all got a hoot out of Alexandra's definition of cleaning things out when she found this tube of green frosting.

 

That's right. She is eating processed green frosting from a Betty Crocker tube. 

Downtown here comes our frightening eating habits! Can you dig it?

 

Sunset Junction is this weekend, but before you go drink your brains out, might I pass along there three important things to you?

One: The rules to break if you want to survive the weekend.

Two: Where to get wasted.

Three: The bands to catch in between binge drinking.

 

I know: We Metromixers are always so prepared. 

Everyone keeps talking about how the 90's are back. Which leads me to wonder--what on earth are we going to do when that decade goes out of style? Start at ground zero with a Caveman Chic revival, and then work our way back up through the centuries, taking sartorial tips from Jesus and Mary (crown of thorns anyone?), then the druids, the Knights of the Round Table and of course, Salem's Witches?

Luckily, the 90s is more doable than most decades. For those of you who weren't cogniscent teen beings during that wonderful time (like I was), here's a run-down of all the small details that will make your new 90s-inspired lifestyle seem totally authentic.
   
1.    Use plum-colored hair mousse or a lemon to add streaks of color to your long knotted hair 

2.    Make sure your entire music collection is made up of compilation tapes

3.    Buy a pair of Nike Air Max

4.    Buy the same Benetton sweater, in 14 different colors

5.    Go away on vacation and return with cornrows   

7.   Talk about when Sweet Valley High was just a  book
   
8.   Wear only Levi's 501s, with gaping holes in each knee
  
9.  Watch early Baywatch re-runs 

10. Wear a Swatch watch

11. Buy a mood ring   

12. Wear shell suits and fanny packs in an entirely non-ironic way
  
13. Wear a black velvet choker with a little pendant hanging from it, even though you aren't a goth
   
14. Move to Beverly Hills 90210
   
15. Listen to Salt 'n' Pepa when your parents aren't around, on your cassette walkman (for bonus points), and share the headphones with your best friend who knows all the words (for double bonus points).

 
16. Wear ear muffs
   
17.Wear leggings with slouchy socks pulled up and hanging down a little

18.Complete the look with ankle boots

19. Pull the tongues out of your LA Gear runner-boots (which have flashing red lights on them)     

20. Wearing cycling shorts with the above mentioned runner-boots.
   
21.Say Scchhhwiiiing!! a lot and talk about how you wish you were hot like Alicia Silverstone    

22.Play with your Gameboy and ride the bus
  
23. Take ecstasy while wearing sweatpants
  

Does that make sense?

No? I know. 

Okay, tonight, please turn your attention to the Eastern half of the city, and zoom in close, ever closer to Atmosphere, a little garment shop on Vermont. Project: is hosting their Rising Artists series, with an opening shindig tonight.

I know you're busy trying on outfits for Sunset Junction, but this show includes the cult favorite anime-inspired, flatly rendered flat-chested youths by Lisa Alisa, and will likely be a good one. (See her work below: young girls, possible making out, gummy bears. Think what you will.)

We think it'll rock. and if it doesn't,  just grab some Pinkberry or something, and browse at Skylight. 

 

 

 

PS- This has nothing to do with anything, but I just finally went and got lunch, which consisted of a bag of Sour Cream & Onion Baked Lays, and a diet Barq's rootbeer. Sitting at a shady table in a business park, it occurred to me that I was eating the lunch of my dreams. Then it occurred to me that that was really pathetic.

 

 

 

Oh sh-t! It looks like there's going to be a Sunset Strip rivalry between The Beach and Harlot, both new bars that aim to break "Hollywood" rules by not charging inflated drink prices or imposing VIP BS at the door. I already filled you in on The Beach and its 50-ounce cocktails, which come in glasses that could double as spacious birdbaths.

Now let me tell you about Harlot, formerly known as Wet and before that The Falls. The owners are hopping it'll be known as "the little French whore across the street from the Chateau Marmont." And indeed, the bar will be cheap and easy when it opens in early September.

The bar's marketing manager Jamie Barren (you also know him as a promoter at hot spots Sugar and Privilege) says, "We won't have a happy hour because we'll be happy all the time." Indeed! They too will have mega-sized cocktails, served in 60-ounce glasses, and Jamie says they'll be cheaper than those at The Beach. And the mix drinks will only cost $6 (a good $3 cheaper than other bars in the neighborhood) and be made with Effen vodka, which is pretty f'n amazing considering it's premium booze. 

As for actual harlots frequenting the bar? It's on the Strip. What do you think?

I'm so excited and I just can't hide it. Tomorrow, er, later on today, I interview Daryl Hall on the telephone. That's pretty much all I need to say, really. Daryl Hall. Seriously.

Oh, one more thing: if you don't have tickets to one of their shows at the Hollywood Bowl next month—what are you waiting for?

I've refrained from blogging about "Top Chef" because, well, who needs another write-up about that? Especially since there are others who are much better at it. (Keckler of TWoP, I love you.)

But last night's episode got my panties all in a bunch. The restaurant challenge has always seemed grossly unfair to me. Who would ever open a restaurant from the ground up within a 24-hour period? Granted, they are on a reality show, but it just seems like they're tasked with a Herculean project.

What really chapped my hide was the blogger that they put in the disguise of a critic. Who is this Andrea Strong? And what was up with the rude criticism? Like, "The host, a rather sweaty chap named Brian who might want to invest in either a swim suit or a truckload of Right Guard, frantically ran to the kitchen to fetch it."

Whadda? That just went past zingy, straight for the juggular. I know, snarky makes for pleasurable anything, but geez, give the dude a break. (And, yes I am aware of the hypocrisy of bitching at her bitchery).

Still, Dale had the best quote of the night. Describing himself as he's managing the front of the house: 

"I'm half prostitute, half performer. In the front, I'm smooth; in back, I'm a raging bitch!"

Funny how that statement could be a universally-applicable description of reality television. 

Oh, and did you notice who the guest judge was and how every one of the contestants nearly passed out when they beheld the glory that is Daniel Boulud? They practically soiled themselves.

 

Yeah, I met him. And he's lovely and fantastic. Here's the recap:

 

 

 

 

 

It's far too early in the ay-em to be starting a fresh blogothon, but I did just want to alert you humans far and wide that LACMA's about to open this SoCal-centric exhibit, and so-called-press are invited to pop in a little early to check out the digs, and take a few happy snappy photos.

What this means for you is a fresh review of this fine metropolis' leading art mecca.

What this means for me, is a buffet of pastries in the LACMA courtyard at 9:30 am.

 

With that, I am hitting the sack, and getting ready to feast my, um eyes, tomorrow morning.  

(Edward Kienholz, Back Seat Dodge '38, 1964)

 

=

(Pastries, LACMA courtyard, really early in the morning) 

 

 

 

When a bikin-clad young lady offers you a flyer for the new lunch menu at a local Cuban joint, and a totally random dude offers you a flyer for medical marijuana a split second later, you know you live in a super neighborhood.

 

The restaurant: La Bodeguita de Cuba.

The random dude: some random dude.

 

His advice: "Get your medical marijuana on, get the munchies, then swing by here!"

 

Thanks again, Pico.

Now I know why my mom never visits.

 

 

Remember Sunset Beach, the SoCal-themed restaurant and club inside the old Dublin's space on Sunset Boulevard? No? That's OK because it never really took off—despite its prime location—because the owners (Steve Marlton from Sugar and James Castro) couldn't agree on anything and were quite vocal about it to the press. Anyway, the venue's back, only it's been reborn into The Beach. I hung out there with Steve on Saturday and I can tell you this: You will not leave here with the ability to walk a straight line or touch your finger to your nose. (Click in to see photos of drinks that are larger than your head!)

For now The Beach is in "soft opening" phase. The grand opening goes down on August 22 with Steve Aoki--and possibly DJ AM--on the decks.

Merrily surfing the interwebs at 2am, leisurley pantless and drinking iced tea, I got a text from a traveling Gemini. Fresh off a mini-tour and laying in some unknown grassy location in San Diego, he asked if I were watching the meteor shower. I texted back, reminding him that I am in L.A., where at any moment, there are more police helicopters visible in the sky than astronomical bodies.

Curious, and not one to miss a party, I located some pants, and propped open the rusty window to the third floor fire escape. The bars were just letting out on Franklin Avenue, and drunk couples were stumbling to their cars, motorcycles were stirring up noise on the busy avenue below. I looked up for an unbroken seven minutes.

Nothing.

I sent a chagrined text to Gemini, and received these words back: "Be patient."

So on my rickety steel basket fire escape, I continued to stand suspended over my street, neck craned, scanning the sky. After a carload of bawdy drunks honked and bellowed up at me, I realized I looked like a 3rd story hooker. I waited another moment, and at the faintest streak of light, ducked back through the window in inside. I'm pretty sure it was a plane, but that was enough.

Yet another reason why I love Koreatown...

 

It's already home to the greatest KFC in the city (world?), a postmodernist behemoth of a building complete with a lifesize replica of Mr. Sanders inside for all your MySpace profile pic needs. It's also home to BCD Tofu House, one of the most reliable post-drinkin' grub spots in this city.

But a couple weeks ago, while driving south on Western just north of 6th Street, I spotted a full-size ship smack dab in the middle of K-Town. Waaaaaa? And the name emblazoned on the side of the ship: CafeJack.net.

After passing it again tonight, I decided to look the joint up on something called "the internet." Turns out there's no real site for CafeJack.net, just a stand-in site that, to its credit, does mention a "Cafe Jack in Ktwon":

 

 

 

The site also features a pop-up window touting free screensavers, if you're in the market for sexy babes and/or dolphin pics (and who isn't?):

 

 

 

 

So:

Why is there a ship in K-Town?

Why does it have '.net' in its name if there's no Web site?

Who's my real father?

 

Stay tuned, Metromixers! I hope to have at least two of these questions answered by next week...

 

 

People: you've got quite a weekend ahead of you. In fact, it's about to start right now. So brush your teeth, put on a fresh coat of deodorant, and whipser a warning to your sweet, innocent liver.

 

  

First up is tonight's Beer Chug Championships, which are gorgeously coupled with a Drunk Spelling Beer Bee in the same Bacchanalian evening. Get thee to the MET, proudly present twelve American dollars, and abandon the notion that you will leave with any dignity.

 

 

 

 

If you're sober and/or a vegetarian goblin, you may instead consider a trip to the Nuart, to catch the Best Worst Movie ever. Don't wank about not knowing about this; I gave you fair warning. 

 

 

 

We fully invite you to get "lit" on Saturday at the Literartisy show in Culver City; we've gone on and on about Stella, so go check out her piece and many other new works inspired by those things called, wait...um...books.  

 

And if you need to do a little leg stretching come Sunday, hop on your track bike and cruise past the Westside's murals, then tip back some boozehounds at Air Condtioned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As for me, my weekend will include either:

a) non-stop beveraging, party chit-chat, hand shaking, sitting on the ledge of a moving car window as it speeds through a canyon road, and rubbing elbows with foreign dignitaries.

OR

b) staying home, wearing filthy, paint-stained sweatpants and getting ready for my next art show.

I'll keep you posted.

 

Vice, which is located in the club formerly known as Star Shoes, had its soft opening on Wednesday. I couldn't go, unfortunately, so our MMX intern Randi Eichenbaum—always up for a velvet rope challenge—hit the scene for me.

As expected, there were a lot of scantily-clad girls there. (Co-owner Steve Fowler loves a blonde that's barely dressed!) Also, no surprise: Rex Lee was in the house. He's been everywhere lately.

What was surprising was how chill the scene was for a hot new Hollywood club. The door dudes were nice, the space was cozy, the bartenders were hot and cordial and the drinks were strong.

The verdict: She loves it! In fact, it was one of those nights that made her question moving to New York at the end of the month.

Once upon a time, Van Halen was the most dangerous band in America. Long before "Jump" and the birth of "Van Hagar," David Lee Roth, Michael Anthony and the Van Halen brothers Eddie and Alex ruled the world of heavy metal boogie rock. Hard as eff, menacing and super sexy, their initial album run—from the instant classic debut through the underrated psycho-sexual opus "Fair Warning" and the blockbuster "1984," no one could even touch them in terms of sheer power, style and in-your-face attitude.

Yeah, a lot has gone down over the years. And where the VH reunion was supposed to be the mega-event of the year, Eddie's stint in rehab and more internal riffing has the whole thing stumbling out of the gate with more of a whimper than a bang. I'm still not sure what to make of Eddie's son Wolfgang (with Valerie Bertinellli!) on bass instead of Mike Anthony. The kid's what, 16? Not exactly who I imagine singing background vocals on "Ain't Talkin' ’Bout Love."

I'll find out what the deal is first hand on Monday morning when I nervously attend the press conference where the reunited VH will officially announce the details of their impending tour. WIll Eddie be sober? Will David Lee Roth be coherent? Will Valerie be there watching over Wolfgang? It's going to be one manic Monday. Details at 11…

It's laundry versus Thursday.

 

Thursday wants me to:

1. Hit Ghettogloss for their Guerrilla Gorrilla night, eat banana bread, drink free beer, watch an "ape-related" film projected on the wall of the building, and get a Polaroid taken with a man in a monkey suit

2. Thursday also wants me to go to the Downtown Artwalk. More free booze. Art. People. Lights.

3. It also thinks i should hit  Charlie O's for the artwalk afterparty, and watch some burlesque chickies do their thang.

4. Thursday also keeps tapping me on the shoulder, asking me if I want to go see Retaurant play at Hot Mess at Three Clubs

Thursday, it is becoming rapidly evident, likes to party.  

On the other hand, a pile of rumpled socks wedged in a corner of my hallway are So. Pissed. I totally said I'd hang with them over the weekened, and fully blew them off.

 

Stay tuned to see who wins Socks v. Thursday: the battle royale.

 

 

  

My mom would love this place.

 

 

The lovely folks at i-D magazine are putting out a "Hypercolour Issue", as per their MySpace , and you can be in it:

"This is our Hypercolour issue of i-D and we want to see you dazzle in your brightest, craziest, nose-bleed inducing,fluorescent outfits.

Email your HIGH-RESOLUTION images of you and your friends with a short sentence describing each picture to the i-D Myspace page and the best will make it in the magazine.

DEADLINE - August 10.

Be bold. Be bright. Be brilliant."

So...what's keeping you?

I am going to send them this photo of me looking like a psychedelic gnome with my friend Josh: 

 

 

Add this:

 

 

 

to your "List of Things...

 

 

 

 

...That Are Not Delicious"

Stop the presses. I just heard a rumor that '80s glam metal band Poison is playing at Sugar this Saturday. Sugar’s owner Steve Marlton confirmed, but he’s not yet sure if the whole band is coming. As of now, Bret Michaels and C.C. DeVille are confirmed. I know. Totally bizarre, but I love it!

It's not Friday yet. Not anywhere close, comrades.

But if it were Friday, and you were toying with which neighborhood bar stool to perch your depressed keester upon, I would give a friendly tug at your collar, and a love-infused reprimand about sitting around alone drinking beer. And then I'd order you to get your ass to the circus.

 

I met up with my friend, the artist and musician Liz McGrath the other day close to her loft space downtown. Liz happens to be a beauty fanatic, so I asked her her thoughts on Perlane , the injectible filler that has just bceome available on the U.S. market (it has been available in Europe for years).

The reason I asked was because I was due to be meeting up with a plastic surgeon named Dr. Arthur Swift to talk about Perlane at the Sunset Tower hotel the following day.

Liz paused and thought about it.

"Hmm...Perlane...isn't that the stuff that lasts for ages? I heard it can turn all lumpy in your face."

I had heard similar tales. In fact, five years ago when I lived in London, I had Juvederm injections in my lips, and had looked into Perlane but decided against it, having heard similar reports.

So when I did meet up with Dr. Swift, who has been using injectible fillers for more than 15 years, I asked him what the deal was. He explained that Perlane is way more viscous than its sister product, Restylane. It is therefore generally used to fill deep lines on the face, and will create a much more dramatic look on the lips than Restylane does. he said that yes, if improperly injected by a rookie aesthetician, there's a chance the effect may look lumpy.

"If you can, go to a plastic surgeon or a dermatologist for these kinds of procedures," he advised, pointing out that most of the correction cases he's seen have been from people who went to beauty spas offering medical services. 

If the worst happens, he said that there is a product called hylauronidase that literally melts the Perlane out ("with zero side effects").

Then he showed me some photos that literally made my haw drop. They were of patients of his who have had Perlane injected into their faces, to literally resculpt their noses, of lift up jowls. By pumping the face with filler in strategic points, you can stretch the skin, lift away sagging, pull away wrinkles and even out the face, as a sculptor would with clay. "It's an art form," he said. "You really can't do this unless you know what you're doing."

I was excited. I dreamed of having a new temporary face, one with a stronger chin. Higher cheekbones. Fuller lips. Happier eyes. Perlane, at the longest, lasts four years. I imagined my friends' confusion as my face slowly morphed and then realxed back to its original shape. And if I didn't like it, I could always get the melting antidote squeezed in my face.

I asked him to examine me.

"What do you think?" I asked. 

"You don't need anything," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yup."

"Not even a little eye-trough filling? A smidgen of cheek plumping?"

 "Nope. You're fine." 

"Oh."

 Which is all for the best, I guess. Perlane can cost $600-$800 per syringe. I'll save it for my future jowls.

This just in: Govind Armstrong of Table 8 will be joining my weekly TV date with Tom Colicchio. I guess that makes it a three... oh, never mind.

How do you think BravoTV will edit the cool, mild-mannered chef? Of course, the show will most likely present him as a Miami chef through his recently opened Table 8 South Beach. And, there is very little chance that he's going to come out with his asshattery a-blazin' like Norman Van Aken in the second episode (Dude, what was his deal?).

I'm more curious to see how they'll light him, because, seriously, Govind's skintone is gor-gee-us. He was 2004 People Magazine's 50 MOST Beautiful—and you know how authoritative that is. Plus, Padma? Didn't get that distinction until this year...when the list was extended to like more than 50. If he ends up wearing a questionable shirt or a weird hat to hide his killer dreds, I'll know that Padma pulled a diva move. 

What, you finally got that primo 8pm reservations at Craft? Whatevs. Cancel them and watch Govind out-pretty Padma. No? Got TiVO? Oh well, your (sort-of) loss. 

  

Atwater Village isn’t exactly known for its nightlife scene outside of the Bigfoot Lodge and The Roost, both kitschy bars known for occasionally attracting Morrissey (the former) and Karen O (the latter). But that might change with The Griffin, a new bar from the dudes behind Eagle Rock's Swiss-inspired bar The Chalet. Manager Andy All tells me the space is evocative of a castle, with a domed brick ceiling, two fireplaces that sit on oval brick platforms, paintings of landscapes and knights, and two bars, one of which is available for private parties Wednesday through Sunday nights. So why haven’t you heard of The Griffin? “We opened last Wednesday on a whim,” says All. “We don’t do grand openings.” The bar is currently open daily from 8 p.m. to 2 a.m., but that will change with the introduction of a happy hour and “nice” appetizers. And there will be a signature cocktail, but they’re not sure what that is yet. In fact, the only thing that’s set in stone for now is its location: 300 Los Feliz Boulevard. 

 

I was still in a haze from meeting Martin Gore at Amoeba. Driving eastbound on Sunset, I was stuck at a red light on the Gower intersection when an SUV full of dudes came careening around the corner, screaming “FLAVOR FLAV!” and honking the horn. I look over and standing on the corner in a Chad Pennington NY Jets jersey next to a very swanky convertible was indeed Public Enemy sidekick/VH-1 reality star Flavor Flav.

Being situated across the street from soul food institution Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, there was a large crowd of people all snapping pictures and calling out Flav’s name. A circle of kids rushed up to get autographs and touch his omnipresent clock. I pulled over and joined the fray myself. I mean, this slight little man with the money bandana and gold teeth has actually made out with the super-fine “Hoops,” the winner of “Flavor of Love.” Not to mention rapped on such hip-hop classics as “Don’t Believe The Hype” and “Fight The Power.” You can’t front on that. Mad respect to you, Mr. Drayton.

Sunday afternoon, I found myself at Amoeba—again. I’ve been haunting their aisles even more than usual lately, thanks to a couple of upcoming DJ gigs. I’d done some major damage the day before unearthing all sorts of sweet vinyl sides. Yeah, I said it: vinyl. I know, I know. I just love it. Is that so wrong? But as it happens at Amoeba all too often, there were a couple of things that I forgot. Which is why I ran in again on Sunday to pick up a particular piece that they happily had in stock.

So I’d procured my treasure, and was heading through the R&B section for one quick pass when I noticed someone that looked extremely familiar. It only took a moment to realize that the slight blonde guy with the basket full of tunes was none less than Martin Gore of Depeche Mode.

OK, I could go on forever about how huge a part Depeche Mode has played in my life. From my first real girlfriend through all sorts of trials, tribulations, parties, concerts, feature films, a certain Detroit after-show where DM came to check out DJ Derrick May—their albums are like bookmarks in my life, the soundtrack to more memories than I can even remember (ha). Which is why I looked like a deer in the headlights when I was finally able to muster the courage to say hi. He was very gracious and shook my hand. I managed to say something about being a big fan and thanks. It was all kind of a blur.

It didn’t fully hit me until I’d made my purchase and stumbled back to my car in a daze that I’d just run into MARTIN GORE. The man that wrote songs like “Stripped,” “Black Celebration,” “Lie to Me”—songs that invoke vivid images and emotions every time I hear them. I just sat there for a moment, quietly freaking out. Martin Gore. Damn, that's just crazy...

It's not often that I sustain headwounds, so when I have two in a week, it deserves noting. Let's explore the whys, and the hows so that you may avoid a similar fate. 

1. When leaving the Metromix Club 82 party after enjoying an open bar of lethally strong/delicious vodka, do not text message as you walk the 4 blocks home. This poses the potential of walking directly into a metal pole serving as a bus stop. If this situation were to occur, may we suggest that you pretend it didn't happen, and later, when you are eating pancakes at a diner with friends at 4am, blow off the fact that you have a raised, very red bump that will remain for days.

 

2.  Situation 2 is a little more tricky, as it involves anticipating the dangerous ways of others. The best advice we can give is this: when you are at a birthday party for, say,  Jonah Ray, and he appears to be highly intoxicated off of Tecate and fish tacos, do not try to obtain a front row position as he attacks a pinata. Doing so might put you in harm's way when he rips off his blindfold, tears into the pinata, and hurls candy at you. And if the candy includes sharp-edged boxes of Nerds, you might get hit with enough impact to sustain a deep cardboard scratch.

 

So I've concluded: to protect myself from Leisure-related injury, I need to be swaddled in something soft, and thick-- for example, a gorilla suit. Though I won't be the secret gorilla-suited VIP at Ghettogloss on Thursday, I will be there getting my ape on. 

 

 

My friend John posted this on his MySpace today: read to the end and you'll see how apparently someone nasty is grabbing girls in Brooklyn and cutting their faces. Scary.

"so Friday night at about 1:30am i got attacked right out front of my apt building as i was trying to get in the door. i fought a good fight but the asshole got everything... id, cc cards, cash, phone, and a couple of kicks to my face. bruises and cuts aside... be careful in your own neighborhoods. he literally came out of nowhere. i live on south 4th between wythe and kent in williamsburg. the cops said that most likely hes a repeat offender, so if anyone hears of ANYTHING in williamsburg, let me know. Because the guy beat me up the cops are going to leave this as an open investigation. There are supposedly security cameras on the outside of my building, so hopefuly they would have caught the whole thing. GIRLS watch out when you are walking alone at night. this sucks. this guy is wanted for robbery and assault and the police are taking this VERY seriously.

UPDATE* there is apparently a guy in williamsburg who is attacking girls from behind and cutting their faces, i did not get cut, but i also hit the guy and fought him off as much as i could. the cases all might be related. still waiting to see if the security tapes come through. PLease contact Detective LAREN at the 90th precint in on union ave in williamsburg brooklyn if you hear of anything or suspect anything. His number is 718- 963-5368. if you are getting followed do not hesitate to call 911. thats why they are there."

 

 

Thanks to everyone who took part in our American Apparel poll over the last two weeks. We had asked you if you thought that American Apparel ads were:

a)sexy

or

b)creepy

Can you guess the results?

While one quarter of you open-minded Angelenos find American Apparel ads sexy, the majority (76%) take a more puritanical stance, and finding them decidedly creeeepy.

Disclaimer: I have to admit that I voted several times myself, and each time, my response was different. When I was PMSing and feeling bloated, I voted 'creepy'. When I was feeling slutty, I voted 'sexy'.

So I guess it goes to show that in American Apparel, as in life, there are no set truths.

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.

 

 

 

 

Dear Lips,

I want you to know you are a very special part of my body. Special, because you are the only part I wish was fatter.

Back when I was a teenager, my friends would point and laugh as I walked around with massive brown lines painted around you, in the hope you would look a little more voluptuous. I would fill you in with light pink and place a tiny glob of lipgloss in the middle of you, because that's what the make-up experts said Naomi Campbell did. I slathered you in plumping products that made you tingle, as though you had been sprayed with weed killer. Mid-kiss, I would ask my lover to "hold that thought" while I quickly re-applied lipliner to you.

Remember how well-hydrated you were? How I would apply lipbalm to you at least 68 times a day? And remember the time I bought that lip pump, the one I would smuggle into nightclub bathrooms? How we loved to pump and pump and pump, until the blood vessels exploded around my mouth and I looked like I'd been in a car accident? 

I'm sorry I put you through that, Lips. You know I've always had your best interests at heart. Like the time that beautician tried to convince me you would look really good with a red line tattooed around you. I said no, no, no. And even when the doctor pumped you full of Juvederm, when you were bruised and sore and stuck out like a duck's bill, I gently massaged you every night. I realized I had done you wrong. 

So, Lips, I am now 30 years old, and it is time. Time to love you for who you are. Time to accept that Naomi and Angelina were blessed in certain ways. And I was blessed with you.

 

OK, there's some sort of crazy karmic warfare going on in my world right now that I can’t explain. For every cool thing that happens, something totally heinous is right around the corner. Case in point: I woke up early on Saturday morning to hit Amoeba as they opened the doors to indulge in a full-on vinyl orgy that was long overdue. But when I went out to my car, well, it wasn’t there. The city of Los Angeles thought my time would be better spent recovering my ride from some ghetto towing joint on a completely erroneous charge. Let’s just say the next time I run into Mayor Villaraigosa down at the club, he’s getting an earful and then some.

You want another? How about catching the amazing St. Vincent put on an incredible show at the Echo on Saturday night followed by a pretty sweet house party around the corner (Hi Becca). That’s where I took the above picture of one particularly rocking party person. All good, right? Sure, until I discovered that I’d left my credit card and ID back at the club when I opened a tab (I never claimed to be all that smart). Good times! Did I mention that the Echo was all out of Wyder’s Pear Cider, which is one of my favorite reasons for going there? Yes, both sides of the Force are duking it out big-time over here, and I’m caught in the crossfire. Wish me luck, and I'll let you know how things shake out. See you on the other side.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, he has left the building.

Bright and shining culinary star Josef Centeno set hearts fluttering and mouths drooling—especially mine—when he showed up behind the stove at Lot 1, what looked to be Echo Park’s answer to fine dining.

But he’s already out. Gone. Fled. And it’s devastating. No, I’m not exaggerating. The restaurant will not—there’s no way—be the same without him. Centeno is innovative and brought something new to the Eastside. Plus, he’s a hottie, and the more cute chefs in my hood, the better.

IMHO, Lot 1 owner Eileen Leslie just didn’t know what a good thing she had going. Sure, I’m more than a little biased. It’s hard not to be when, from day one, there were some serious F.O.H. issues. No one would answer the phone or confirm reservations. One night, my date wouldn’t stop kvetching about Leslie’s perfume. And, uh, I know firsthand how she deals with media. (Be nice to photogs—they’re here to make your shizz look good.) Even so, I was obsessed with Lot 1. Obsessed! The food was just that good.

Centeno says he’s taking a break from cooking, but I just may have a read on his next moves. (Why yes, you can find out more in Metromix next week.) As long as he doesn’t leave L.A., I can live with him leaving Lot 1—neighborhood loss though it may be.

What took you so effing long? 

For those familiar with the struggles of a professional leisurist, you know the crippling indecision that accompanies the weekend. There's simply too much going on, and really, a coin toss couldn't solve this tangle of options.

FIVE ITEMS on the roster tonight:

Jesus La Luz fiver-person group show at Wacko

Oaks play Spaceland

Jonah Ray Rodruiges turns, like, 22 or something. But with that beard, he looks like my dad. (UPDATE: thank the good sweet lord, the lumberjack shaved his mug.)

Also, my close comrade and bitchin' musican Ryan Ward (stage name, Pthalo) has a gig at El Cid.

And Georgia my darlin' is getting dancy pants at the Shortstop. As I type this. D'oh!

 

 

It's too much! It's all too much! 

 

(Hey, Columbia Pictures, thanks for making Thank God It's Friday, and letting me pimp the pic.)

X Games has taken over L.A. Never mind the actual sporting events, which are awesome enough—every night there’s another bash to celebrate the athletes most likely to get themselves bashed up. Half of younf Hollywood joined Travis Barker and Steve Aoki at Opera on Wednesday night to party in the name of X and last night the sporting fest was represented at Area, where new mom Jaime Pressly talked smack about Britney Spears’ wild ways. (Britney, meanwhile, was at Winston’s.) The X Games celebrations will continue this weekend at Ritual on Saturday night. Here’s the flier. Note the free booze from 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. Email scfowler@aol.com to get on the list.

What can I say, we're easy targets here at Metromix HQ. There's no shame in admitting that we get all punch-drunk, squee happy when someone, anyone, shows us a little unsolicited love. 

Enter Steve of Carvel Ice Cream who showed up one grumpy day and starting passing out ice cream. Now, if that isn't a way to turn that frown upside down.

And, really these Flying Saucers are fantastic. They may just look like mild-mannered ice cream sandwiches, but the cookie part is light and crunchy and freshly baked. Far superior to the supermarket variety.

 

 

He came around again (squee!) to delight us with the low, 150-calorie version of the Flying Saucers in both chocolate and vanilla. Skinny Cow, what? Big ups to Steve, the bestest ice cream man we know. 

 

Today I visited Nony Tochterman, cottoncandy-haired fashion designer behind the Petro Zillia line, at her kaleidoscopoic wonderland of a store on W. 3rd St.

The most colorful thing in the store is Nony herself, and of course her hair, which is verging on the fuschia these days. With her high forehead and fan-like pinkish frizz, Tochterman looks very much a punk rock Elizabeth I. Everyone knows her for her pink hair, so it was a surpise when she admitted she was thinking about changing the color, and going for something a little tamer.

"I was thinking blue, perhaps," she said. "Or green?"

Nony talked about how people always call her Petro, assuming that 'Petro Zilia' is her name. "Actually Petro Zilia means 'parsley' in Israeli," she explained, shrugging her shoulders. "It was a joke name for the line, but it stuck." The line has been around for ten years now, and has grown to become a favorite among L.A. fashionistas and celebrities alike.

The store is a regular Paris/Nicky Hilton pit-stop. "Between them, they probably have everything in my collection," said Nony. In fact Paris wore a Petro Zillia jacket the day she left jail.

 We were shooting video for the Metromix style page, and filmed her talking about the store's decor (her husband Yosi had to paint the baby pink walls FIVE TIMES to acheive its romantically-distressed look), the furnishings (she sells mid-century modern chairs and tables with jackets that match the upholstery) and of course, the fashion. Tochterman showed me her personal favorites from the collection, including a beautiful pair of silk charmeuse wide-legged pants ("I have seven pairs in different colors") and high-waisted tie shorts. "I love high-waisted," she said. "People need to stop showing their belly."

Check on the Style page soon to see our full interview with Nony, and watch me fondle her mannequins.  

 Yesterday afternoon I had drinks--I mean, a serious business meeting--with fashion designer Rachel Pally , a sassy mama if ever I met one. She lives in the 'hood, and owns two homes in the Franklin Hills, one for living in and one for designing sexy jersey dresses and capes and tops in. "I love Los Feliz, I want to raise my babies here," she sighed. She is the spitting image of Natalie Portman, and funny as hell. "I'm not putting placenta on my face," she said, when we stepped in to a spa called being in LA on Hillhurst and were invited to test out face creams called EMK Placental, made with actual placenta donated by Russian mothers. What's up with that, Russia?

Anyway, we hit it off in a big way. Pally was one of the first designers in town to get the jersey bug; in fact, they call her 'Jersey Girl', even though she's a native Angeleno. I forgot to ask if her long cream jersey dress was one of her own. "I always wear dresses," she said. "Sometimes people come up to me in Trader Joe's and ask me if I'm going to prom." Here is one of her creations:

  We sipped prosecco (her) and rosé (me) at Vinoteca on Hillhurst and she told me how she had recently finished up her first plus-size collection, now on sale in Nordstrom . Apparently, not everyone in the L.A. fashion community was impressed to hear she was working on a collection for larger women. "It's kinda taboo," she said. "But I dont care--it was one of the best things I've ever done." She has received plenty of love from curvy gals who were psyched to hear she was creating dresses to fit their body shape.

She's 27, so I told her all about Saturn's Return, the mystical second coming-of-age that apparently hits women from their 27th to 31st years, and turns their lives upside down. "Are you ready?" I asked her, having myself just been royally shafted by Saturn over the last three years. "Yeah, awesome, bring it on!" she said.

Pally told me she had never received any formal fashion training. "I dont think you always need training. What you do need is your own original style, and chutzpah." She started designing and making clothes while studying at Berkeley. Her major was Cultural Geography, her minor was in Dance, which led to her spending a fair amount of time in the costuming department. That's where she first started dabbling with jersey, her fabric of choice. She's been hooked ever since.

She returned home to L.A., intending to become a city planner (!), but fate had other plans. One day, while wearing one of her own creations, she happened to drop by Slingting, the now-defunct gallery/boutique on Chinatown's Chungking Road. Owner Stacey Ernsdorff said she adored her dress, and asked to see more of her stuff, which Pally just happened to have in the back of her car ("Laundry," she explained). Ernsdorff invited her to sell her designs at the boutique ("back then they were all crazy, backless, flower appliqued and raw hemmed and deconstructed," says Pally), and from there, everything snowballed. She showed at L.A. Fashion week twice, built a thriving business and attracted a stellar celebrity clientele--and not a sketching or seamstressing class to her name.

You can buy Rachel Pally at Nordstrom and Bloomingdales, online at ShopBop.com, and at Lake on Rowena, Hilary Rush, and Diavolina. Her favorite designers are Phillip Lim, Stella McCartney and Marni. "I walk into Marni and I start sweating," said Pally, also a big fan of Opening Ceremony.

We asked for her definitive insider's guide to Los Feliz and Silverlake, and here's what she said. (Notice the total emphasis on yummy food--we love a girl who eats!!!)

Tortilla chips at Malo : "make sure to request the old-style ones"

India Sweets and Spices in Atwater

The Red Lion for beer

Fried chicken at The Kitchen

Backdoor Bakery: "the croissants are ridiculous"

Madame Matisse: "for the multi-grain salad"

Hot cholocate at Pazzo Gelato on Sunset: "serious and thick and rich and good" 

Every night, it seems, a new ultra lounge opens up, from Teddy’s to Stone Rose Lounge to my all-time-favorite bar Winston’s, all of which manage to balance exclusivity with the laid-back vibe of a neighborhood bar.

Crimson, which opened last night next to Opera, is the latest bar to hop on board the ultra-lounge bandwagon, but its spectacular design puts it at the head of the pack. Say goodbye to chandeliers! The dance floor here is lit by a mesmerizing blown-glass installation. And that’s just the beginning. The walls are lined with python skin and soft chinchilla fur (both faux, of course!); the ceiling’s tiled with red glass; the mirrors are smoked; and the large, casual smoking patio is one of the best in town.  

For now, Crimson will be open the first half of the week, with David & David and Jean Paul manning the scene on Wednesday nights. Last night, they lured in the vintage-chic crowd; the girls were sexy in tattered dresses paired with headbands and oversize Marc Jacobs purses and the boys were all about their peg-leg jeans and fedoras, except for Danny Masterson who is still all about his beard. Promoter Jean Paul, of course, was sexy in a dress.

 

As for the music: That’s what really sealed the deal into making this best new spot in town. DJs Lady's Love and Temporary Spaces' Sean Patrick kept the crowd going with Blur, Depeche Mode and Prince; and they brilliantly ended the night with Tommy James and the Shondells’ “Crimson and Clover.”

Was there a full moon or something last night? For once, paparazzi-hater Avril Lavigne played nice for the cameras at Les Deux while Lauren "LC" Conrad and Audrina Partridge, who let MTV film their lives for "The Hills" avoided the paps like the plague. 

Look at me. Wait! Don’t look at me.

Sometimes, you just gotta wait it out. Sure, there are shortcuts you could probably take. But trust me. In the long run, there’s something to be said for embodying the art of patience.

I could write a thesis on the subject after tonight. Because baby, I waited it out. Hardcore. The draw: a Scion party featuring Busy P, Kavinsky and other assorted Ed Banger DJs spinning at the Viper Room with not-so-secret special guests Justice. Big time, right? Right.

So I parked my behind in a massive line a few minutes after 11PM, when the doors opened. And I waited. I watched a cavalcade of L.A. scene stars bypass the line, bro down with the doorman and cruise in. Whatever, that's cool. We all get our moments. Don't be hatin'. I took pictures of Busy P and the Justice guys when they rolled out of a massive limo and entered the club. I watched Kavinsy (clad in a dope Corvette “Heartbeat of America” jacket) put on a whole song and dance in front of the club with this ridiculously fine blonde. After what seemed like an eternity (according to my cell, over an hour. Oh, the humanity), I was at the front of the line. The doorman looked at my ID and made a joke about me being “the other Scott Sterling.” He was actually really nice. I felt good about waiting it out. It wasn’t so bad, and the insistent thump of bass coming from upstairs sounded promising. Let’s check it out…

What can I say? The Viper Room was packed to the back with party people having it LARGE.  The whole assembled Banger posse—Busy P, Justice, SebastiAn, and yes, the last "A" is supposed to be capitalized like that—were all onstage tag-teaming on a pair of CD players. Then again, who wasn’t on the stage at that point? It was looking like a Girl Talk show up there. There were a battery of photogs (including my man Cobrasnake, natch), local DJs, promoters, random kids, whoever. I was trying to take pictures with my valiant little Casio, the trooper that it is. I’ve pushed this sucker as far as it’s gonna go. Last night might have been the kicker. It was HOT. Crowded. From my vantage point, the stage was the place to be. All in the name of better pictures, of course.

Things weren’t much different up there. It’s a little more fun, sure. Cobrasnake took my picture a few times. It was weird, but I liked it. Ha. Whatever. Now that dude has a nice camera. He seemed to get a kick out of mine. I definitely got some cool pictures out of it. Not to mention oddly compelling video of some random hot L.A. woman casually smoking what appeared to be a hand-rolled cigarette with her friend (we're still onstage, remember) while the assembled mass went bananas to the music all around them.

Busy P was working the crowd big time, flashing one of the new Justice tour shirts for their upcoming American jaunt. Oh look, there’s DJ AM on the other side of the stage. Going OFF. His face looked the way I think mine looked at the Daft Punk show. Homeboy was seriously feeling it. I love that this dude who could totally just stand there and be all cool about it (breath) was rocking out as hard as any fan in the house. Respect is due. That’s a music head right there.

And so it went. They dropped all manner of monstrous tunes, with Justice tracks getting the biggest cheer of them all. Irene Cara’s “What A Feeling” seemed to scare the shit out of everybody. It was hilarious. “Waters of Nazareth”—forget about it. Awesome.

When all was said and done, I hung onstage with the Ed Banger posse and half of the hipsters in L.A. I didn’t have a single drink (unless you this count this can of Tilt, which is like a ghetto version of Sparks. I wouldn’t recommend it…), and feel surprisingly lucid for it being three whatever o’ clock in the morning that it is right now.

That was kind of a lot of words, huh? Well, it was a long night. But a good one. I’m going to say nice things about Scion, the Viper Room, and rock-your-face-off DJs from France all in one sentence. I’m probably going to be really late for work, er, later on today. But damn it, I’m going to sleep well. Thanks, L.A. Sometimes you’re not such a pissy bitch, and it reminds me why I love you all over again. Just keep on dancing, babe.

How to escape a life sentence in a public toilet

 

Ohhhhh, dear.

The other night was an eventful one, with a stop at the lovely and thirst-quenching Broadway Bar for little Metromix-sponsored mingling/free beer. On the way home, my comrade Gemini and I were thisclose to stopping by the Swink Magazine event, but passing a sketched out Mexican fishmonger, we decided to stop in for some shrimp tacos. 

Heading to the ladies room to warsh me hands, I dug around my purse for one shiny quarter, necessary to gain entry. But upon leaving the restroom, I encountered the following door hardware.

Please note the brassy stump, and lack of "knob." I was locked in the public toilet of a fish shack.

My first instincts (cursing, doubting the existence of God) soon gave way to some desperate fist pounding, a pathetic yelp, and then texting the following S.O.S. to comrade Gemini, who was outside sipping a horchata or something: 

 

Let's just say, the good fella had a quarter.

 

 

 

Opening a new restaurant and need a clever name for your steak? Here's a good idea: Name it after one of the most beloved horses of all time. 

Downtown's new restaurant, Trifecta -- which bills itself as an 'Ultra-Lounge and Sports Bar' -- offers an 8 oz. corn-fed prime filet of tenderloin named 'Secretariat,' after the champion thoroughbred racehorse. 

 

Now that's a classy piece of meat.