Can't get into the exclusive Skybar? You'll no longer need to leave the Mondrian with your tail between your legs. The Sunset Strip hotel has transformed its lobby lounge into Koka, a chic destination unto itself. Sure, it will welcome any and all through its doors, but you’ll hardly feel like a reject here. Gone is the long lone table next to the concierge that the Mondrian folks called the “lobby bar.” I’m told it’s been completely redone in shades of orange and white, complete with plush couches, low tables, sheer orange curtains, lanterns and claw-footed stools.

Speaking of claws: Cat Power has signed on to perform at the opening party on Thursday, September 4. Doors open to the public officially the following evening. Until then, might I suggest occupying yourself with a box of creamsicles? 

UPDATE: This just in. The Mondrian folks have changed the bar's name from Koka Lounge to ADCB, which stands for Asia de Cuba Bar.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

It was among the most surreal moments of the year. I was in the blue carpet scrum in front of the Hollywood Avalon, watching Pharrell Williams and racecar driver Jeff Gordon work the press line. As they approached the People magazine crew I’m standing behind, Pharrell walks right up and shakes my hand. “I remember you from the last time,” he offered before returning to the sea of reporters, whom at this point are now all giving me the ol’ side-eye.

I guess I should have expected the unexpected at this bizarre collision of culture. It’s not everyday that one of the hottest producers in the game is scheduled to perform at a NASCAR event where Heidi and Spencer are signing autographs outside. It got even weirder inside, when I spied pro skater Terry Kennedy, rap star Common and singer Rihanna.

Of course, the cliché is that NASCAR is a sport even “whiter” than hockey, a southern-fried American tradition that also includes prominent display of the Confederate flag and exactly one African-American to ever win a Grand National title, Wendell Scott back in 1963.

But it was a rainbow coalition on the dance floor when N.E.R.D. finally took the stage for a quick, four-song set. Even though it took a couple of songs to get the crowd really fired up (“I hate corporate events” Williams sighed early in the set), once the band pulled a dozen or so young women onto the stage, the vibe was hot enough to get the cheese-eaters on the balcony to join the party. Even Common got up there and busted a wicked freestyle at the end of “She Wants to Move.”

Rappers rocking a NASCAR party? Yeah, right. Soon you’ll be trying to tell me that a woman is running for VP on the Republican ticket...

—Scott T. Sterling

This just in! Can't get into the exclusive Skybar? You'll no longer need to leave the Mondrian with your tail between your legs. The Sunset Strip hotel is transforming its lobby lounge very soon into a chic destination for tourists and hipsters alike. I pinky swore that I wouldn't reveal the exclusive details until Saturday, so all I'll tell you for now is that the new bar will have you craving creamsicles.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Whenever celebrities reach a certain level of notoriety, the perimeters of their career begin to dissolve. Sometimes it’s a good thing, like Leonardo DiCaprio moonlighting as an environmental activist. Other times, the results are less than stellar: Remember when Oprah thought she could sing her own theme song? Even if they have no formal training or are any good at what they plan on doing, celebrities are surrounded by both money and nodding heads, enabling them to do whatever they desire.

Three years after their “Domestic Bliss” photo spread in W magazine—the one that rubbed Brangelina’s relationship in Jennifer Aniston’s face by depicting the couple as an ordinary suburban family with an extraordinary wardrobe—the couple everyone wants to be in a three-way with is doing it again. Except this time, Brad will be behind the camera. Apparently, photography is a hobby of his. While I don’t anticipate it will be bad—it’s kind of hard to take a bad shot when you can always fall back on Photoshop and “artistic vision”—I sincerely hope for his sake that the photos are good. It’s easy to forgive almost anything he does in front of the camera because, well, he’s in front of them camera. But what will we think when this kid, of all those kids, is not in the picture?

—Marcos Luevanos

More than one of my friends has asked me: “Why the hell are you going to see Radiohead two nights in a row?”

My friends, you go see Radiohead two nights in a row because unlike most bands, you’re going to get two wildly different shows. Our heroes did not disappoint on this pair of L.A. shows in support of the quietly awesome In Rainbows album. Let’s break it on down, shall we?

1. I’m so not alone in seeing Radiohead twice. On my way into the show, I ran into my buddy Scott, who had also snagged a ticket for his second show in as many days. I overheard more than one conversation start with “were you here last night, too?”

2. Celebrities still love Radiohead. I spent less time ogling by the west entrance for this show, but still managed to spy Martha Plimpton(!), Dave Grohl, Mike D of the Beastie Boys, Jessica Biel (back for her second night in a row) and even Colin Greenwood himself, who lingered in the common area for awhile.

3. I actually caught Liars this time, and their punishing, rhythmic assault is a bit much for this crowd. There was a group of three teens row-hopping who paused to scream hysterically whenever there is a break between Liars songs. The cheese-eaters around me just ignored them.

4. Long live The Bends! Radiohead came with a set that veered wildly from the first night’s more controlled affair, which relied heavily on the band’s most recent releases. But for the big Night 2, the boys got loose and started shooting from the hip. Reaching back to their fabled second album, they pulled out “The Bends,” “Planet Telex” and even “Fake Plastic Trees,” which of course turned into a massive sing-along. When they revved up “Street Spirit,” well, let’s just say that the Ghost of 1995 was somewhere smiling.

5. Yorke goes solo! For the first encore, Thom Yorke performed “Cymbal Rush” from his acclaimed solo album, The Eraser. It was great, even though he did fumble it towards the beginning and had to start over. Human after all, huh, Thom?

6. On the second night they closed the show with rave-up “Idiotique,” (that's Thom freaking out at the end of said song above), which on the first night was a good three songs from the end of the initial set. The wide-angle shot at the top of this post was taken during the lovely acoustic one-two punch of "Faust Arp" with a cover of Neil Young's "Tell Me Why," which was not a part of the first show. Like I said: wildly different.

7. The only bummer about it all? That there isn’t a third show tonight…

—Scott T. Sterling

I was probably asking for it. The week after Metromix debuts In.Mouth.Now, a new feature talking about our latest, can’t-get-off-our-brain food obsessions, I encounter this on a short trip to the Yucatan:



The most riquísimo fish tacos. Ever. Punto y basta.

But the infatuation will have to remain so for a long while, as these beauties reside on the other side of the North American continent. You need to get on a ferry boat to Isla Mujeres, then rent a scooter, and drive the length of the island until you come to a smoke-engorged shack by the beach to make your rendezvous. I can’t stop thinking about ‘em.

I’m sure I’ll try to hound down something comparable in L.A. once I’m done pining. Hillhurst’s Best Fish Taco in Ensenada won’t do—that’s Baja-style and deep-fried. And Yuca’s, though passably Yucatecan, doesn’t have fish tacos last time I checked—the same goes for Chichen Itza, L.A.’s best diplomat from the peninsula.

It must be this: On the island, fish (most likely, red snapper or even tilapia) is grilled under some kind of aromatic wood to create a delicious smoky essence. Even the tortillas are grilled, a genius technique that brings out the richness of the starch.

That, and a bottle of cerveza on the sands? Sigh…

Anyone have a secret restaurant, shack, even an aging, taco-making auntie with an unauthorized firepit in her backyard? I’ll drive anywhere and pay top dollar. You know where to find me.

—Jiyeon Yoo

There’s nothing quite like a Radiohead show. I was reminded of this fact in vivid detail Sunday afternoon en route to see the band at the Hollywood Bowl. Actually, the first of their two-night stand was loaded with all sorts of interesting asides and observations:

1. Thanks to some friends having a pre-Radiohead birthday party/picnic, I was reminded of the ample public picnicking areas all around the Bowl. Locating Scott, Andi (the birthday girl) and their crew at the Highland/Camrose picnic area, it feels like a crime that I don’t take advantage of this space more. There were similar pre-parties going on all around, with lots of eating, drinking and good timing abound. You would do well to investigate for yourselves.

2. People that go to Radiohead shows are generally pretty damn cool. I know that’s a blanket observation, but it bears out every time. The Sunday show was no exception, as I started talking music with a couple of guys at Andi’s party, and we ended up walking into the show together. These guys were as music-nerded out as myself, so it was a really fun walk through the teeming masses of like-minded people making their way into the show. My favorite quote of the day came from one of them: “I feel like I could be totally hang out and become friends with anybody here.” Indeed.

3. Celebrities love them some Radiohead. Taking a stroll to the west entrance of the Bowl, I spied Justin Timberlake, Jessica Biel, Christina Aguilera (looking great, despite having recently dropped a little one) and her husband, Ellen Degeneres, Portia DeRossi, Lukas Haas, Clea Duvall, Ryan Phillipe…you get the picture. I’m sure that’s only a drop in the bucket, as all of those celebs were literally spotted in a span of less than five minutes.

4. Radiohead is still the new Pink Floyd. I mean wow. They now have so many amazing songs in their catalog, there isn’t a dull moment in the entire show. This includes the songs from In Rainbows.

5. Speaking of In Rainbows, anyone that disses the album as a “lesser” Radiohead album have obviously not heard the songs performed in concert. Sleeper tunes like “Jigsaw Falling Into Place” fit into their set list perfectly, while the quietly acoustic “Faust Arp” plays like a long-lost Beatles song from Revolver. Don’t even get me started on “Weird Fishes” or the eternal “House of Cards,” which is among the best show-closing numbers ever.

6. Johnny Greenwood is still Radiohead’s MVP. The guy rocks out on guitar, keys, and random radio transmissions, a cool little trick that’s become a Radiohead concert staple. He snatched a particularly cool snippet of dialogue that ended "The National Anthem" with “Rancho Cucamonga can you hear me?” echoing into the night. Awesome.

7. Guitarist Ed O’Brien is the band’s new secret weapon (that title used to belong to Johnny Greenwood, but everyone is now well aware of his brilliance). Not only does O’Brien play a mean guitar and sings like a bird, but the dude is also suave enough to play James Bond if he ever felt like it. Someone needs to get Ed in GQ mag, stat.

8. These guys can all really play. Colin Greenwood is one of the most underrated bass players in the business, and rhythm section created by him and Phil Selway is unstoppable, solid enough that the rest of the band can go as “out” as they want to, knowing that it’s all securely anchored by the dynamic duo. Thom Yorke more than holds his own on guitar and keys, too.

9. Stoners love Radiohead even more than celebrities. I’ve long argued that Radiohead belongs in the classic rock pantheon alongside the likes of Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. Given the preponderance of marijuana smoke wafting from all corners of the Bowl, it would seem that the classic rock drug of choice has chosen them as well. When a couple of women were remarking on the amount of weed in the building, one of the ushers leaned over and said, “but if it ain’t that OG Kush, I don’t even want to hear about it.” There were some equally passionate arguments made for ‘Sour Diesel,’ too. The dispensaries must be working overtime today.

I could go on, but there’s the second show to deal with this evening, so I’ll spare you until tomorrow. In the meantime, for the 17,000 or so others prepping for tonight’s awesomeness, see you there…

—Scott T. Sterling

(all photos by Andrea N.)

"How many miles are in a 10k? I mean, how screwed am I?"

A quick consult to Google and my panic subsides: 6.2 miles. I can do that. In fact, I may have just walked that at Sunset Junction—in heels, with the throbbing remainder of a mid-day Chardonnay buzz.

I've had August 31 and the Nike Plus Human Race noted on my Dayplanner for months, but in true Wardly fashion I have procrastinated on the training aspect. I honestly do not know the whereabouts of my running shoes. The closet, underneath my Pocahontas Halloween costume? Abandoned in the war zone of my Subaru's trunk?

The Nike Plus Human Race is set to be the largest running event the world has ever seen, with millions of runners panting simultaneously across several continents in 23 cities, and a ridiculous concert happening at each city’s finish line. If you're registered to run in L.A. this Sunday, you'll have 1.5 hours to stagger 6 miles toward the L.A. Coliseum, where sets by Kanye West and Common await you. And in my case, an ambulance and/or a beer.

Registration closed early due to overfilling (sorry peeps), so Nike recommends that you buy one of their fancy geeked-out pedometers and run anywhere you want, uploading your stats to the Nike site afterward to see how you fared amongst the millions. I’m sorry, but unless Kanye is chillin’ in your living room, waiting to serenade you with “Jesus Walks/Runs,” it’s not quite the same.

—Alie Ward 

Ps: To find out how the race is going—or where in the world the Ward is—add me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/wardonthestreet 

Wha happened? Sunset Junction blew through the east side like some earth-scorching hurricane of Red Bull girls, funnel cake and burritos, oh so many burritos…

Musically, Day 1 felt like one big build-up to Broken Social Scene. The brave early birds that braved the punishing sun rays were treated to rousing sets from Castledoor, but it was obvious that a majority of the music heads were waiting for the cooler evening hours before venturing down Sunset.

Broken Social Scene did not disappoint, although the rumors of former member Feist making an appearance were greatly exaggerated. But for your expansive, orchestral pop melees, BSS definitely delivered for the indie nation that packed the Bates stage area.

Day 2 came with even more extreme heat, which coupled with the citywide hangover from the countless after-parties on Saturday night, found even fewer bodies roaming the streets in the earlier hours of Sunday. When local indie pop party boys The Henry Clay People took to the Bates stage right at noon, there were maybe a dozen people in attendance. Still, the band played it like a headlining show at a packed club, with the singer running out into the crowd to big-up his grandmother in the middle of a song. They amassed a nice audience by the time they were joined by notorious L.A. man about town Jeff Miller on guitar for the big finale (lots of choreographed jumping was involved). Other hot (literally) daytime sets came from Vauxhaul Broadcast and Oliver Future.

The big surprise act of the weekend was a reformed Germs, the L.A. punk legends fronted by actor Shane West (that's him rocking the abs in the photo above). The punks were ready as Mohawks and boots were flying throughout their set. The Pat Smear show is as entertaining as ever, and punk’s still not dead, y’all. Yee-ha!

What happened next? Sorry, I was at the Hollywood Bowl being astonished by the genius that is Radiohead with more than 17,000 other lucky souls, including a just-married Ellen DeGeneres and Portia DeRossi, Justin Timberlake (with Jessical Biel in tow), Ryan Phillipe and so many more...

—Scott T. Sterling 

International Talk Like a Pirate Day is just next month, but Jack Sparrow wannabes might not be in a celebrating mood. Rumor on the scene is that K-town's pirate-ish R Bar might close! There were fundraisers earlier this week, which might have done the trick. The man who answered the phone when I called just now said the situation had been "circumvented" for the moment.

It should say, "Don't blow me down" 

Meanwhile, Malibu Inn and Vault 350's former booking dude, Mark Jason, that both venues are for sale following the passing of owner Mitchell Stewart. Let's hope the buyers keep the venues' integrity in tact—and bring Native Wayne back to Malibu on Sunday.

But it's not all sad news in the after-dark world. I just drove by City Sip, located next to Echo Park's firestation on Sunset Boulevard, and it looks like the wine shop/bar/market is gearing up to open. If you love wine, but hate wine snobs, this might very well become your favorite bar. 

—Alexandra Le Tellier

It's the calm before the storm. After the one-two punch of Sunset Junction this weekend, it's another double-whammy with two nights of Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl on Sunday and Monday. There’s enough drama and stress going around this weekend, so enjoy this funky flashback to the mid-‘90s with Brooklyn hip-hop heroes Digable Planets. Surely you remember their breakout single “Rebirth of Slick (Cool Like Dat)”, which went on to win the 1993 Grammy for Best Rap Performance.

Their debut album, Reachin' (A New Refutation of Time and Space) was fat with laidback and breezy tunes, like this timeless summer jam, "Nickel Bags"

The band’s 1994 follow-up album, Blowout Comb was a serious change-up. The stark collection of jazz samples and militant lyricism scared off their pop audience. But for deep hip-hop heads, it was an instant 5-mic classic. Led by the single “9th Wonder (Blackitolism),” album cuts like “Jettin’” and “Graffiti” were thick with the heat and humidity of a long, hot New York summer.

While they never released another album after that, the hip-hop nation has always had love for the DPs. They reunited for an inspired performance at Coachella 2006, and are about to embark on a fall tour that will bring them to the El Rey on September 19th. It’s gonna be live, y'all!

—Scott T. Sterling 

L.A. Fashion Week has long been the redheaded stepchild of every other fashion week in the world. So it was only a matter of time before those involved (IMG and Smashbox Studios) decided to cut their losses. According to Los Angeles magazine’s Chic Leak blog, “Several people involved with the shows say the partnership between IMG and Culver City’s Smashbox Studios, which has lasted five years, will end after a last round of presentations this October.” IMG released the following statement in response: “The focus of IMG and Smashbox continues to be the October shows and we won’t comment further on what is currently only rumor and speculation.”

Julia Clancey's show opening look  

Although it’s known for choosing to showcase mediocre celebrity lines over groundbreaking big-name designers, L.A. Fashion Week plays an important part in our local economy; the garment industry in Los Angeles is on par with the film industry. Also, the amount of exposure a designer receives for showing there is big enough to create a small buzz but small enough to mitigate a big fumble. But really, the best part of L.A. Fashion Week—as of last spring, anyway—is that everything happens in one central location. I hope for the sake of my carbon footprint that if IMG and Smashbox do part ways, the remains of the Week will be unified in some way—because there’s no way I’m getting from Downtown to Santa Monica in 20 minutes during rush hour, not even for Karl Lagerfeld.

—Marcos Luevanos 

Gross. Airport food, y’all. Specifically, LAX airport food.

Why is it that while most airports in the U.S. (and the world) are getting makeovers that include real, actual restaurants—or at least decent chains like CPK and Jamba Juice—LAX’s current makeover includes…a lot of dust?

Word on the street is that Tom Bradley International Terminal, at least, is getting some culinary upgrades. Not that we have high hopes, as even a Burger King would be better than the dreck they currently offer in the mezzanine food court: McDonald’s, bad Mexican, scary sushi, a disappointing Haagen-Dazs fro-yo thing, more unfortunate Japanese and the most horrifying steam-plate Chinese you’ve ever imagined.

(She's cute; the food? Not so much)

And to think this is the first, and last, vision of America that international travelers see. (Unless you’re flying Alitalia, in which case you’re at a different terminal. Logic FTW!) I’ve met family members on layovers there three times this year, so I’ve become well-versed in the offerings, and I’m no longer disappointed in the futile search for goodness. But for the Germans I saw staring bleakly at the sweet-and-sour “pork,” this was a fresh culinary hell.

The lessons learned at Tom Bradley? One, don’t judge people for getting McDonald’s; at least it’s recognizable non-food. And two, the guy going to town on the 2-pound box from See’s had the right idea. Next time, I’m just getting candy.

—Katherine Spiers

If there is a Los Angeles counterpart to Willy Wonka’s factory, it just might be the set of The Price Is Right.

Nestled behind ominous gates and constructed in huge windowless compounds, both fantasylands feature poppy cardboard backdrops, unabashed use of glitter and heart-wrenching nostalgia. But while Wonka had troupes of orange folks in unflattering trousers doing his dirty work, the iconic, Wonka-esque Bob Barker and his Charlie-like aw-shucks successor, Drew Carey, both have a cadre of (also orange) spray-tanned models to elegantly caress dinette sets and boxes of Rice-A-Roni.

Sadly, you can’t try out to be an Oompa-Loompa anywhere, but you can audition to join Carey's regal harem Friday, August 22, at the CBS Studio Center (in Studio City, not the one on Fairfax). Whiten your teeth with NASA-grade chemicals, get acrylic nail wraps, and head to Soundstage 20 any time between 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. In a marriage of corporate sponsorship, Fantastic Sam's will provide on-site stylists to give you "last looks" (i.e., a veil of hairspray) before you're ushered into a room to be videotaped fondling bottles of shampoo and sustaining a frozen smile. 

If you're pleasantly attractive enough, they'll call you onto the show as a finalist, and America will choose to keep you or diss you. After all, no TV show is complete without some sort of "You vote for the winner" factor. Hey, it's easier than wrangling Oompa-Loompas.

—Alie Ward 

Having grown up in L.A., where I was reared by "wild creative types" and forced to go to private school before finally making it to New York, where I spent a carefree post-grad summer couch-surfing in Williamsburg, I can't really get defensive about Radar's trend report concerning Angelenos moving to New York and taking over the city's nightlife scene. In Manhattan Transfers (via LA Observed), Radar reporter Sarah Wick captures frustrated New Yorkers hating on the latest influx of L.A. transplants. From the article:

Exhibit A
One L.A.-born NYC fashion assistant explains, "All the L.A. kids hang out together. Literally. They all went to Windward/Crossroads and now they all go to NYU." She adds, "It's just an extension of being backstage at Coachella every year, going to private school and having very wealthy parents who are also wild creative types."

Exhibit B
A beleaguered Lit regular says, "Make up your mind: do you miss L.A. or do you love New York? Why are you here talking about Cali bud? If your buddy back home has a club card, why don't you stay there and stop complaining about East Coast weed? Why are you here?"

And there's Exhibit C
"They have even less regard for the weather than New Yorkers. They assume they can wear leather jackets in the summer," claims another New Yorker.

This is where I can't help but take issue. Are we to assume that all the tank-topped ladies wearing scarves in this New York Times summer style piece are from L.A.? Or is it possible New Yorkers don't have any regard for the weather either? (Anna Wintour, feel free to leave a comment below.) I'm all for calling it like it is, but commenting on Angelenos' inappropriate dress is like the pot calling the kettle black.

I'm sure the piece was supposed to ruffle some feathers, but at the Metromix L.A. HQ we just rolled our eyes and wondered aloud if New Yorkers ever get bored with this one-way rivalry they've waged against us. (My dear friend Adam Rathe likes to call the West Coast the "worst coast." I like to call him a genius, but that’s a story for another time.)

You don't see us dismissing New Yorkers when they move to L.A. For the most part, we admire them for their ambition—because we can relate to it. Who else but a New Yorker could move to L.A. for rehab and then have the will power to stay clean while club-hopping in Hollywood? (Those aren't apple martinis in their hands; it's green tea.) And what about New Yorkers who come here to open NYC-style bars, like Andy Fiscella (Crown Bar, Winston's, the Dime) and Allison Melnick (the soon-to-open Apple Lounge)? Not only do we welcome them with movie roles and reality TV shows, but we also make their venues blockbuster hits.

Allison Melnick: an ode to L.A. and NYC

L.A. is more than a city of laid-back slackers. A lot of us are dreamers on a mission, meaning we're too busy thinking about our next big break to occupy our time obsessing over the scruffy, Chanel-wearing hipsters that exist in every cosmopolitan city from here to Paris, London, Barcelona and everywhere else Elle Girl's street team has pointed its camera lenses.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Get ready to add a new title to the ever-shrinking pile of truly amazing albums from 2008. Los Angeles (Warp) is the name of the new release from Flying Lotus, better known as Winnetka resident Steven Ellison. I could go on about his mind-blowing ways with music derived from electronics, but I've already done so here. 

Experience the spaced-out mental hip-hop of Flying Lotus for free tonight at Amoeba Music in Hollywood at 8PM. I'm curious to see if his teeth-rattling bass blasts will have records flying from the walls. It should be awesome, to say the least... 

—Scott T. Sterling 

Watching Jessica Simpson continue to flounder in the world of...well…the world has, as of late, become less and less enjoyable. At first, seeing her struggle with her love life, red-carpet fashion and live performances was engaging because it made her someone we could relate to (sort of). Besides, who doesn't love a fallen pop star? These days, however, career ups are so high that when the mighty fall, I can’t help but feel their pain.

So it happened to Britney and Paris, and now it’s happening to Jessica—a perfume line, that is. I know that desperate times call for desperate name licensing, but I’d think that at the very least Simpson’s team would do its best to make both her product and advertising campaign unique—you know, create something that’s the antithesis of her music. Unfortunately, after taking a look at her ad campaign for the fragrance known as Fancy, I can honestly say I feel like it’s all been done before. As a matter of fact, everything about the product and its promotion reminds me of Sarah Jessica Parker’s premiere perfume, Lovely (released in 2005). The ethereal shade of pink, the Copperplate Gothic font—even the names sound similar.

While Jessica was probably told releasing Fancy would be a smart move, in reality it’s just another round of career roulette this retired pop star can’t seem to stop playing.

—Marcos Luevanos

“What is this year’s best-looking restaurant?” asks the Los Angeles branch of the American Institute of Architects (AIA/LA).

In its fourth year, the Restaurant Design Awards begin with a pool of candidates submitted by the public. I may be a stickler for precision, but the guidelines for the RDAs have always seemed way too inclusive. Case in point: Last year’s candidates ran the gamut from winners Tanzore and Red Seven to a Jack-in-the-Box in Cathedral City. Huh? According to the “rules”: Submissions must be a restaurant, cafe/bar, or lounge/nightclub, completed in the last four years and currently in business. Or, at the very least, was operating as such at any point in the past. The venue in question doesn’t even have to be in Los Angeles as long as its attending design firm is L.A.-based.

Shouldn’t there be some kind of distinction between architecture and interior design? And, who wouldn’t love more specific categories? Best use of chalkboard? Best wallpaper (any brocade should be an automatic disqualification)? Most creative incorporation of horseshoe booths?

Ah, the last one’s easy. Gordon Ramsay’s tete-a-tete configuration is genius. Actually, everything about the new London hotel, let alone the restaurant, is the absolute, unapologetic definition of fab-u-lash. Consider that my ringing endorsement.

(Credit: Tom Shelby)

Each nomination is $125 for non-AIA members? Ouch. May I retract?

—Jiyeon Yoo

A clever campaign slogan is as crucial to a presidential bid as fanatic religious advisors and extramarital sex scandals. Not since “I like Ike” has there been a more catchy—or obvious—motto than “Barack the vote.” While I’ve never really been a fan of jumping on bandwagons, since my grand diva goddess queen Hillary dropped out of the race, I’ve boarded the Barackmobile.

Growing up, I was always told that inquiring about a person’s candidate of choice was like asking a woman her age—it’s something crass that you just don’t do. As times have changed and decency standards have devolved into oblivion, asking someone who they’re voting for these days is like asking where they’re from. Think outside the bumper sticker this election year and show your support for the prospective candidates by rocking either a “Barack the vote” or, if you’re one who believes McCain McCan win, a “Nobama ’08” shirt. The latter might not be as clever, but if the shirt fits, wear it.

 —Marcos Luevanos

Ain't no party like a roving bus party—unless you're on a Greyhound in Winnipeg.

Nearly everyone has a "party bus" story: guzzling root beer Schnapps during the senior prom trip or taking a blurry coach ride to Vegas with a herd of bachelors. When one boards a party bus, a tacit oath is taken: "I hereby relinquish all powers of navigation, and the decision to get away from whatever people are contained within this party bus. I also vow not to pilot this enormous vehicle. Pass me a beer, and let's get stupid."

While my last party bus experience involved an RV stocked with Absolut, a dozen strangers performing karaoke and one plush dog suit, I have yet to brave the Hippodrome, downtown L.A.'s trouble-on-wheels that launched in June and lurches through the streets during the monthly art walk. It's not hard to miss, as the reincarnated school bus is currently covered in garish graffiti and usually features people's limbs dangling out of the windows as it shuttles revelers around the galleries. The free "roving art salon," is orchestrated by local bus tour heroes Esotouric and hosts onboard musical acts, poets and tarot card reading. Plus, it has a stripper pole. Fancy!

(The Hippodrome, pre-makeover) 

They're taking submissions from artistic visionaries to give the Hippodrome a new paint job with scenes of downtown's freakshow glory days. Give them a holler if you think you'd make the cut, but don't expect any cash out of it. Among the prizes? A free party bus tour with your friends.

Catch the bus at this Thursday's art walk, and if you're still wondering where to catch that weird stop-motion "Dioscuri" film I told you about in June, they'll be performing at an event called "Possum Saloon" at the Regent that night as well. 

Anyone have any good party bus stories? Screw your Monday morning emails and post your tales below.

— Miss Alie Ward

Do not get it twisted: the Faint will totally kick your ass. They left one hell of a footprint on the butt of Los Angeles after the first of their two-show stand at the Fonda on August 7.

Peppering their set with the more nuanced songs from their new album Fasciinatiion, it was the massive, primal electro blasts of more familiar songs like “Agenda Suicide” and “I Disappear” that had the main floor of the sold out crowd whipped into a roiling mass of sweaty headbands and dancing girls. Obviously the youngsters that downloaded Danse Macabre and Wet From Birth back in the day have been riding hard with those albums ever since, given the rabid response to the songs. Only time will tell if the subtler shifting rhythms and refined songwriting of the new material will have similar staying power.

Regardless, the pride of Omaha has amassed a sonic arsenal that had the beat-crazy brigade of L.A. more jacked up than I’ve seen since the last time Justice rolled through town. Having survived everything from “electroclash” to the implosion of the music industry by rolling with Conor Oberst and the Saddle Creek label, The Faint have crafted an enviable career the old-fashioned way: relentless touring and self-sufficiency. They also know how to rock a party right. Now boasting their very own record label (blank.wav), we've got to give it up to the Faint. Well played, gentlemen. Well played.

—Scott T. Sterling 

Veterans of the nightlife scene—gravers* if you will—will be thrilled to learn that the once hugely successful Stock Exchange on Spring Street is getting a second chance at (night)life. New owners have taken over the space, which once defined downtown nightlife, and plan to revamp it into a classy joint called Versus where celebrities can act as voyeurs behind a double-sided mirror that looks onto the dance floor. Talk about a role reversal! And speaking of Spring Street: Vincent Terzian is just about ready to open Crocker Club in the former Crocker Citizens National Bank. The downtown blog heroes at Angelenic got a tour of the venue already, but they weren’t able to get a pic of the club’s ghost, Jane. Terzian still won’t reveal when he plans to open it to the public. I’ll keep you posted!

—Alexandra Le Tellier

*Graver, I read in Radar, is a raver with one foot in the grave. 

Ladies and gentlemen, he has left the building. 

(Credit: Joshua Lurie)

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 still, I was obsessed with Lot 1. Obsessed! The food was just that good.

He 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.

—Katherine Spiers

It took me 35 minutes to come up with the code name “Butt-Bott 5000.”

I’ve just eaten dinner with the Best Supper Ever restaurant review club, after months of attempting to secure a place at their table. The motley crew of 12 friends/reviewers/casual drunkards with fake names (ranging from “Master of the Souls” to “Tabasco Dick”) coalesced a few years ago with a web presence limited to an impressively designed Myspace page. Featuring frank—and often profane—restaurant reviews, they’ve earned a legion of rabid fans, many of whom beg to join them for dinner. Myself included.

After a few months of Myspacing and an epically long email thread too obscene to print (it included references to prostitution and bodily functions I didn’t know existed) I chose my outfit wisely. I anticipated it all day. Then I came down with a migraine and almost threw up on my way to the restaurant. Not cool.

So when they offered a reluctant raincheck to join the club for an outing to Masa with fellow Metromixers Scott T. Sterling and Jessie Rubin, I jumped at the chance to hang with a crew who both frightened and enraptured me with their vile antics. We blazed through several bottles of wine and a few pizzas and later threatened each other with cutlery. I was accused of being a “hot mess,” which I realized later isn’t actually 50% flattering, but wholly insulting. Then I wrote a review while tipsy, using the words “God’s underpants” to describe a bread pudding.

In all, they were worth the wait.

Click here for a photo gallery of the evening » 

For a Q&A with BSE founder "Battlecat" on how you can/can't crash their dinners, click here »

Last week, we hooked up with Hot Chicks with Douchebags blogger-turned-author, Jay Louis, to explore the douchiest bars in L.A. and decided that the Strip’s Saddle Ranch definitely serves up the sketchiest—not to mention tannest—group of dudes. Had we gone just outside the city limits onto the ferry to Catalina Island, however, we’d probably have given the Descanso Beach Club the honor.


It looks innocent enough from far away. Serene even. But trust me, it's meathead central.

My camera ran out of battery by the time our island expedition led us here, so I hope I can give the scene justice. Imagine Cabo Cantina during its two-for-one happy hour on a Friday. Now picture it packed with the type of testosterone-fueled men you’d find on the Jersey Shore prowling the beach for girls roasting in the sun wearing the type of bikinis favored by Britney Spears. Add strong margaritas, inedible nachos and the occasional visit from the cops, who come to handcuff dudes who've taken their bravado too far, and you’ve got the scene at Descanso—on a Saturday during peak season anyway. By the time we maneuvered our way out of there and back on our rinky-dink paddleboat, not even the threat of sharks could scare me. The liquid courage I now had didn't hurt either.

—Alexandra Le Tellier
 

Looking around a sold out Mayan theater for Bloc Party on July 28 (AKA “Earthquake day”), it was impossible to ignore the proliferation of fresh-faced “clean teens” that packed the place. MTV couldn’t have picked a more camera-ready representation of young American prosperity. Recession? What recession?

Openers Does It Offend You, Yeah? got the crowd moving with their raucous UK “lager-hop,” following in the Kaxons tradition of combining traditional band aesthetics with underground dance buzz. Where 10 years ago DIOYY would have been anonymous bedroom producers churning out white label 12-inch singles, in 2008 they’re a full-blown live act that tours the world. Let’s hear it for progress. When they bashed out the catchy rave-synth hook of their signature song “We Are Rock Stars,” the crowd responded accordingly, with the main floor turning into a big dance party. They have a couple other sweet tracks that get feet moving, but unless DIOYY can come up with a few more scorchers on par with “Rock Stars,” they could very well end up being the EMF of this year.

Bloc Party took the stage to a hero’s welcome, opening with the one-two punch of “Hunting For Witches” and “Like Eating Glass.” Leaving whatever nastiness that happened in Spain with Johnny Lydon behind, Okereke (clad in a Shepard Fairey “Obama” shirt) led the band with authority, proving to be a much-improved bandleader than the oft-muted performances of the past. The crowd sang along lustily to favorites like “Helicopter” and “This Modern Love,” a song that was preceded by a friend of the band coming onstage to propose to his girlfriend (she accepted). Interim bassist Tommy Sparks filled in for Gordan Moakes (back in the UK tending to a preggers wife) admirably. 

The experimental electro groove of new song “Mercury” had fans completely freaked though. With Okereke basically rapping over thundering drums and orchestral samples, the song sounds like something from Public Image Ltd’s 1986 release Album (no wonder he was asking Lydon about a reunion). Although the tune received a fine ovation, how far down this path Bloc Party’s fans will allow them to travel is yet to be seen.

Tossing in a few verses from Prince’s “I Would Die 4 U” into the encore, Okereke and his band are doing it well. They’ve survived the difficult second album, only to charge headlong into more experimentation for their third.

But through it all, their fans (like the sweat-soaked teen in the lobby screaming “fuck the Glass House!” after the show) have developed into a diehard and devoted lot. God bless Bloc Party indeed…
 
—Scott T. Sterling