Boba has taken on this kind of weird proxy status in my food life. Because I just recently realized that when I say I crave "boba," I'm hardly craving the actual gummy, gelatinous globes of tapioca. Those things get really tiring to eat...and digest later on. What I really want is the excuse to drink cold caffeinated anything at 11 pm. In fact, after witnessing a friend request exactly five boba balls with her iced coffee, I adopted the same embarassing display of specificity. 

Of course, I couldn't have been happier when I discovered that my local Tapioca Express is now offering mini boba balls. (Okay, I know I'm late to this party, so please, no comments about "where have I been?" Well, given that the poor food blog has yet to get a single comment, I guess beggars can't be demanding. But still...)

Seriously, these things are tiny, tiny. And they provide the exact opposite experience from traditional boba drinking which requires a magnum straw, the better to see each dark ball amble up methodically to your mouth. These mini little buggers come shooting at you so shockingly quick, straw diameter be damned.

No wonder they felt it wise to stamp a new disclaimer onto the plastic cup.

Did you catch that? What, that was too tiny? "Please drink carefully to avoid choking on the Boba" (emphasis mine).

Consider your gag reflex warned.  

Madonna night at Spaceland was not always like a prayer, with only two bands (Mountain Party and The Chapin Sisters) delivering the True Blue goods.

Many ladies in the audience had dressed up to cause a commotion (will this punning ever cease?) in black and lace and rubber bangles, clearly expecting some kind of Madonna explosion to go off on stage. What they got instead was a massive dose of Eastside psych-folk, and a rather lite dusting of Ciccione.

Most bands played two or three of their own songs before performing their Madonna cover. Some, like Winter Flowers, didn't even get around to playing any Madonna. "We couldn't get it together in time," they told the audience before launching into another Laurel Canyon-invoking melody.

The whole night was to celebrate the Madonna compliation CD Through the Wilderness being put out by freak folk label Manimal vinyl. On it, Silverlake's finest--including Giant Drag, Lavender Diamond, Bat for Lashes, Lion of Panjshir and Winter Flowers--give Madonna the full-on Eastside treatment.

We saw Mountain Party, led by the awesome Erica Garcia, gave Material Girl the dreamy, psychedelic once-over it has always deserved. Erica, who repurposes thrift store clothing better than anyone I know, was rocking the full-on peasant girl look.
 

When I saw her the next night she was wearing an Eddie Vedder woodcutters shirt with a silhouette of Christiane F. (notorious teen drug addict and prostitute from 1980's Berlin) screened on to the shirt pocket.

Erica, a former Latin Grammy-nominated singer from Argentina, now lives in Echo Park and has her own clothing line, La Luz, as well as running the New High gallery in Chinatown. Oh, and she dated my boyfriend for a year, before I met him. Now we're all one big happy family.

Back to Madonna...so, the Chapin Sisters closed the night with a formidable and highly-polished rendition of Borderline. As my friend Steffie Nelson, an L.A. Times writer, commented "they made the whole night worth it".

The blond Chapin was wearing an awesome Grace Jone-esque jumpsuit with pumps. Coincidentally, she used to date one of the members of Mountain Party and things didn't end well, so it was a little tense backstage.

Brunette Chapin, unfortumately, got it all wrong with her uber-folky and somewhat weird sequined mini skirt that reminded me of old Hungarian accordion players. And, as we all know, it is only OK to look like an old Eastern European accordion player if you are actually playing an accordion, preferably with some kind of monkey on your shoulder. Not when you're prenteding to be Madonna at Spaceland.

I know, I know...it seems ages away, but before you know it, August 10th will creep up on you like an evil, razor-toothed gnome in the bushes, and you'll wonder why you didn't already score your tickets for the Nuart's midnight screening of Troll 2, a film about...evil razor-toothed gnomes in the bushes.

The cast will be present to answer questions about why this is the worst (yet most enjoyable) film ever made, but the menacing goblins are still in negotiations with their agents to appear. Divas.

I urge you to view the horrible goodness below, and click here to secure tickets to the screening. Guaranteed the audience will be laughing harder at Troll 2 than that "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" hogwash, or whatever is passing for comedy these days. Bring on the goblins.

When a club wants to open with a splash, they invite one of three DJs: DJ AM, Steve Aoki or Caroline D’Amore. Caroline, of course, isn’t much of a DJ, but she’s hot and she’s best friends with Paris Hilton—so, booking Caroline usually guarantees an appearance by the blonde heiress and a subsequent mention of the new venue in Us Weekly. I bring this up because Ms. D'Amore is DJIng the opening of V Lounge in Santa Monica on August 9. Here’s the scoop on the new spot.

V-Lounge brings a sexy dining atmosphere and nightlife experience to the Westside. Reminiscent of a sleek, upscale boutique hotel lounge, the décor features low-backed ottomans, hidden nooks, and streamlined booths arranged in amphitheater style seating that radiates from the perimeter of their signature sunken dance floor, the largest in Santa Monica.

Sounds hot, but will Paris drive out to Santa Monica?

It was during the first of her two-night (and very sold out) stand at the Echoplex. It was during the encore, when she decided to roll out onto the outstretched hands of the rabid crowd in front of her. Only when she rolled over onto her stomach, it was right on top of me (that's what I get for working my way down into the heart of the pit). If I didn’t do something, the star of the show was going to go crashing to the floor. Not sexy. So I put both my hands up to brace her fall. In my right hand I had her arm. Right there in my left hand? Boob city. The inadvertent grab didn’t seem to faze her. She just kind of rolled back towards the stage, where a handler lowered her back down.

The show? Good times. The crowd was well into it. Enough that I watched a couple of heated exchanges almost result in full-on fights down in the pit (one between two girls). DJ Low Budget rocked the crowd with a mix of Baltimore clubbed versions of current hits. But when it was half past M.I.A.’s appointed set time of 10PM, the natives began growing restless. “Bitch, come out now!” wailed a young lady beside me. The same one that kept nailing me with her huge purse, like some prop out of “The Devil Wears Prada.” But down front at an M.I.A. show? Not so much.

When she finally came out to do her thing, all was forgiven. She ran through hits from “Arular” and numbers from the upcoming “Kala,” with “Boyz” and “Bird Flu” getting the biggest response from the partisan crown. I was partial to “Twenty Dollar,” which rides a slowed-down groove lifted from New Order’s “Blue Monday.” But the real winner of the new batch of tunes is “Jimmy,” a Technicolor explosion of Love Unlimited strings and a disco beat that’s on some Donna Summer “I Feel Love” shit. Awesome. Buy the album when it drops 8/21.

Oh. My. Goodness gracious.

Well, Metromix held its first ever party at the Avalon's Club 82 on Friday. It'd had been a steep but awakening journey on the rest-deprived path toward our launch, and we were ready to get silly.

The esteemed Scott Toodlewinks vonSterlinghoffer (aka our bitchin' music editor) had reserved a bottle of BevMo's finest pear cider, Babychams, just for the occasion. We cracked it open, high fived, and passed it around like teenagers before ducking inside. The next thing I knew, Amir was dancing onstage.

No, we didn't drink this in the parking lot. We wouldn't do that. 

Inside, Mr. George Ducker gets his vodka on

Scott, Amir and I bond, as tipsy people often do.

And then...things escalate:

Faithful comrade Gemini tries to keep it together

And I spy a wonderous mullet: 

Saturday, I took a break and hit the road for the weekend, staying at a mountain cabin, and swimming all alone in the American River. (For faithful Ward-on-the-Street readers: I was not attacked by mermaids.)

As for your Monday evening, I predict awesomeness as Eskimohunter wraps up thier residency at Spaceland, with the wildly attractive and powerhouse duo of the Pity Party opening.

The Pity Party, objects of our sycophantic obsession:

Also, karaoke is going down at the Cha Cha (I've been meaning to update my makeout pictures,) and the Madonnalicious event is at La Cita. Patrons are urged to don their favorite Madonna identity, and I'd have to go, hands down, with the Marie Antoinette horsecrap that she wore to the Grammy's that one year. Hands. Down.

   
I wore my new nipple-revealing Opening Ceremony dress to the LA Fashion Awards Nominations party at the Hollywood Standard.

Jeffrey Sebelia was there with a hot lady friend, as was Fred Segal. I said hi to Tarina Tarantino and her man Alfonso, and chatted with Rose Apodaca's man Andy Griffith about the joys of Japanese chain Uniqlo. Then he told us that he is in the process of opening a new branch of their awesome Silver Lake design store, A+R , in Venice...we can't wait!!!

I spent much of the evening chatting to the delightful Native Wayne, host of Indie 103.1's Sunday night reggae show. He's one of those guys you've definitely seen around, always wearing a bandanna over his black dreads, but I had never realized he was the one and only Native Wayne.

I gave him maximum respeck and asked him what he was doing at the LA Fashion Awards Nominations party, and he said they were passing around tickets at Indie HQ, and he thought he'd come check it out. "So where de fashion, mon?" he asked in his Kingston drawl, looking around hopefully.

He told me about his house in Jamaica which has a 150 foot waterfall in the back garden, where Gwen Stefani recently shot a video. He bemoaned the tough working conditions for Jamaican film crew members.

"The crew from that Jamaican bobsleigh team movie Cool Runnings only got paid $10 a day," he fumed.

He told me about the documentary he is working on with Ondi Timoner (director of Brianjonestown Massacre/Dandy Warhol doc DiG!), all about the history of reggae music. Should be out next year. Then I told him about the secret illegal reggae/spoken-word party that happens every Wednesday in a location I shall not reveal, and he agreed to go check it out with me some time. Jah!

2007 Moss Adams Fashion Innovator Award Nominees:

Paul Thomas, designer Thomas Wylde

Juan Carlos Obando

Jasmin Shokrian

Rami Kashou

Marketing Excellence Award Nominees:

Max Azria for BCBG Max Azria

Paul Marciano for GUESS by Marciano

Fraser Ross, owner of Kitson

LA Eyeworks

Fashion Retailer Award Nominees

Mark Werts, American Rag Cie

Fred Segal

Lisa Klein

Doris Raymond, from The Way We Wore

Fashion Communication Winner

Crystal Meers, LA editor of Daily Candy

Inspiration Award Winner

Project Runway

Wells Fargo Century Fashion Achievement Award Winner

Max Azria 

Are you all sick of me talking about Opera yet? Don’t worry: This might be my last post about the new club for a while because…it kind of sucks.

The whole point of going out is to have fun, but unfortunately the staff at Opera doesn’t seem to see it that way. On Friday night, the black-clad security team treated the people waiting in line like they were criminals—screaming at them to stand still on the narrow sidewalk, looking at the girls as if they’d all committed fashion crimes.

I wanted no part of this scene. I left my friends to hold our place in line while I sauntered up to the bearish doorman—press badge and business card in hand—to explain that I was there to write about the club. He said I could either ditch my friends and come in by myself or stand back in line. Seriously? Who goes to a club alone?

A couple minutes later I saw Suk Sung, head of marketing and promotions, and asked if he'd let us in. Suk, who had given me the scoop on Opera and had asked me to write about the club, basically gave us the hand and ran away. (I should tell you that my friends all looked hot in mini skirts, shiny hair and glossy lips.) Then we called promoter Zen Freeman, who'd put us on the list. And, nice guy that he is, he came out and escorted us in.

Victory!

We walked through the fog "curtain" and "ooohed” and "ahhhed" at the fancy arched ceiling as we made it to the bar. After the hour-long debacle outside, it was time to get drunk. (Maybe that's their trick for getting clubbers to work up a thirst and spend all their money on booze.) Of course, it took 45 minutes to actually order those drinks—which cost $45 bucks for a beer, one vodka cranberry and two kamikaze shots—and by that point we were all annoyed again.

We thought dancing would cheer us up. But my friends didn't like the DJ. I thought he was pretty good, but a little booze goes a long way with me. Instead we watched Rex Lee bump 'n grind; observed the ratio of young girls to old guys (about 70 to 30); and scored some free lemon drop shots, which I have to say were really yummy.

Best part of the night? Crawling into bed.

Ivy, shmivy: Robertson Boulevard's got cheaper options for those of us who are still one E.R. guest spot away from the big times.

Chaya Brasserie is the Kia Rio owner's alternative to weekend brunch at The Ivy. I headed out with my gf and bf (that's my Godfather and Brendan Fraser) this weekend and pigged out on their sun-tastic outdoor patio. A round of flavored lemonades -- peach, mango and green tea -- was followed by ginormous portions of tuna tartare with avocado, chopped salad with popcorn shrimp and an ahi tuna burger. Yum. Favorite part of the meal: when the couple at the next table sent back their brunch pizza (scrambled eggs on a pizza shell with a drizzling of truffle oil) because it was "too truffle-y." Nice style!

When you're done with brunch, shop at Kitson, hit up Newsroom for a smoothie or wreck your car a la Lindsay Lohan. Maybe that'll make you feel like a star.

It’s Sunday evening. It’s taken this long to fully recuperate and get my head around the proceedings of this past Friday evening. A couple of us Metromixers hit up the Avalon for the Club 82 party. And boy, did we ever. The open V2 vodka bar was routinely abused. We blagged our way into the backstage area, upstairs and eventually ended up onstage. Ima Robot played an appropriately dramatic set. Amir Keenan partied like a rock star, dancing onstage during their set until he was basically another member of the band. Shadowscene (AKA “Hotparazzi”) snapped away furiously. DJ Paparazzi chilled out. Drunk people got, well, drunker. The crowd danced and posed and partied. I was a complete idiot. It was lots of big fun. Hooray for Club 82.

Despite all the beautiful redonkulousness happening this weekend, the Ward hit the road solo for an excursion to the wilderness of Nothern California.  

At present, I am writing to you from a cabin in the middle of the woods. The American River is gushing over boulders in front of me. It's so gorgeous, I keep assuming it's fake. Also, I hear there are copious trout in this river, and really, I don't care if bloodthirsty mermaids were chillin' it in-- I'm going swimming tomorrow morning.  

But I've dispatched troops to peep into all sorts of madness this weekend, so stay tuned for photos and eyewitness accounts of Zombie walks, Flip Cup tourney action and more.

Also, stay tuned for my blurry account of Metromix's first ever party, which went down amid a packed, sweaty house at the Avalon's Club 82 Friday. Holy vodka, it was good times:

Mr. Amir Kenan demonstrates the art of The Doublefist 

Miss Ward demonstrates its effect

 Check back for more photos of increased ridiculousness. Now, back to kickin' it riverside...

Ps- In the woods, they have bugs; my glowing Mac screen is currently attracting a moth rave.

People, you've got some good times ahead of you. Save the laundry for next weekend.

Good stuff on Friday:

1. Awww! Metromix is hosting its first event! Club 82, the Avalon , Keith Wilson, a live performance by Ima Robot, and (hello!) free woddkah from V2 before 10:30pm. I'll be the redhead who looks like she's happy to be drinking free vodka. 

2. If you must miss the Metromix party, let it be for this. Please.

Ooooh, Saturday. Why must you be such a many-faceted entertainment temptress? Here are your options:

1. Zombie Walk! Really, try to turn this down. It's impossible.

2. Create:Fixate's annual photography show in a huge hangar on Ivar. Sure there's a cover, but there's also live music and live art, cheapskates.

3. Katrina Leigh Umber's closing party at the adorable little Showcave

4. Flip Cup! Get your booze on in a para-athletic setting. Plus, score a t-shirt, and liver damage! The afterparty is at Cedars Sinai in the Critical Toxcitiy Unit. 

5. Crewest Gallery has Mark Ferem signing his Bathroom Graffiti book. Loff it! 

Sunday, if you're not hooked up to a drip in the ICU, damning the evil-doers who invented Flip Cup, hit the Ballroom Blitz swap meet  in the the lovely Alexandria Hotel for some handmade crafts proffered up by hot chicks with tattoos. 

People: let's get wicked silly.  

Yesterday, you were dazzled by the most horrifying flavor combo in recent memory. Today, we've upped the ante:

To celebrate the release of The Simpsons Movie, Ben & Jerry's has created a limited-edition ice cream flavor which combines Homer's two favorite foods: doughnuts and beer. The new flavor, called "Duff & D'oh-Nuts," is probably as gross as beer-and-doughnut-flavored ice cream should be.

But don't go looking for this in your freezer aisle anytime soon: the Ben & Jerry's PR dude informed me that "Duff & D'oh-Nuts" was a one-day-only flavor concocted for the Springfield, Vermont film premiere event.

Press weren't allowed inside new club Opera on opening night, but that didn't stop us from trying. Click here to see all the tabloid-worthy pix taken by our photog Victor Rodionoff, who might never forgive me for making him stand outside with the paparazzi.

Yes, it’s a burrito. And yes, it’s stuffed with nachos.

Although Taco Bell came out with an almost identical monstrosity around this time last year, we expected more of you, Baja Fresh. Take this:

L

And this:

M

And one of these: 

D

Using our mad journalistic skills, we got our hands on a couple of Baja Fresh concepts that didn’t make the cut:

---Burrito Nachos (bite-size burritos, smothered in nacho cheese)

---The Burrito Shake (one part burrito, one part smoothie)

---iNachos (for a quarter, they dip your iPhone in hot melted cheese)

I've always fancied myself something of a photographer. Who doesn't these days? But there’s nothing quite as frustrating as trying to shoot a rock show. The lighting is a bitch, you’re always in someone’s way and most of what comes out are dark blobs of nothingness and the back of some dude’s head. Ugh. I’m sure my point-and-shoot Casio is not helping the cause.

Every once and a while, you get lucky and snap something cool that makes you feel like you know what you’re doing (even if you obviously don’t). This particular snap taken of Tokyo Police Club singer/bassist Dave Monks is one such pic. The show was pretty cool, too. If only the crowd would’ve woken up sometime before the encore… 

Just got this from Showcave , the "feral art space in the heart of Babylon" that I so adore.

On this sleepy, drooly Thursday, I just might grab my co-conspirator, the elusive Gemini, and see what this "Mormon organ and fairy tambourine" bizness is about.

Perhaps I'll shoot down Temple to Chinatown for some grub afterwards! Food! Lights! Tambourines! Egg rolls!  

(And hey, if you're all booked for the night, hit Showcave this weekend for this photography closing party. High five!)

Post script: A glance at the excessive use of exclaimation points in this post can mean only one thing: that yerba mate Jiyoen wrote about is seriously cracking me out.) 

It's no secret that the the Metromix team has been working our little booties off lately. What? Oh, you weren't aware? Well, keeping on top of all the haps in the city is busy work, people!

No sleep, very little food—how do we keep up? I'd like to think our natural charm and effervescence. But taking stock of our desks just recently, I realize it's all about the maté. Lots and lots of yerba maté, a tea infusion of proto-caffeine loveliness that immediately makes you hippy-dippy in love with God's green earth. 

The collective obsession is thanks in large part to our events editor Alie Ward who's pimped her love for maté on her myspace page—so much so that an up-and-coming tea company pimped right back. Pixie Maté has maté of every sort: 100% pure leaf; infused with lemongrass, chocolate, or chai; maté concentrate to blend with your milk or soy alternative. All delicious and purposeful for an afternoon kick in the pants.

Pixie Maté—you with the adorable little name—you've swiftly made your way into our bloodstream. Forget Red Bull; Pixie Maté gives us wings. Just take a look:

Only nine more hours until the opening of Opera, David Judaken’s swanky new club that’s sure to be the talk of the town (and the tabloids) for years to come. Good luck crashing tonight’s event though. The hard-asses at The Alliance are hosting the bash and unless you look like Paris Hilton or drink like Lindsay Lohan, you won’t past their iron rope. (Even I don’t know if I’ll be able to crash because The Alliance is vehemently anti press and the prominent Hollywood club owner I was going to sneak in with just flaked on me because he doesn’t feel like dealing with tonight’s door drama.)

Here’s the scoop:
The club is located on 1650 Schrader Boulevard in Hollywood. Judaken has divided the space into two: Opera and Crimson. Opera is the elegant half, decked out with beautiful archways and fog screens. Crimson, which opens next Wednesday with an X Games event hosted by Travis Barker, is the rock ‘n roll side. What does rock ‘n roll really mean at an A-list club? Snakeskin and faux-fur décor.

Here’s what you can look forward to:
At Opera, The Alliance will hold court on Thursdays and nice guys Zen Freeman and Chris Paul will take over on Fridays; nightclub vets Chris Whalley and Herman Town will preside over Saturdays; and on Sundays, Icon will host hip-hop parties.

Over at Crimson, “David & David” of Teddy’s fame will hook up with Jean Paul to host a “hipster” night on Wednesdays and beginning Monday, August 6, youngster promoters Ryan Cook, Michael Bellisario and Brad Hoss will take over.

Here’s the hook-up:
You’ll notice I linked to just about every promoter’s Myspace page. Go make friends with them so that they'll let you in!

Oh Opera, how I can't wait to see what's behind your plywood shield.

I don't know who Justin Caplicki is, but I do know he's my hero.

Anyone who devotes a website and a tournament to Flip Cup is clearly a motivated individual. But on top of that, his pithy FAQ and snarky rules made me want to high five him, hand over $40, and "get in the game," to quote Dr.Phil. If I must. Which I shouldn't have. But I did. And now I'm embarassed.

If there is a sport born of frat culture, it is Flip Cup. Men hooting in a chorus of peer pressure, cheap alcohol consumed in spine-quivering amounts. I can't say I've played, or that I've ever consumed that much beer, but I do support organized athletics and human bonding.

Peep some Flip Cup below, then hit Justin's site and appreciate the wonders of well-worded Flip Cup description. It might just have you digging up $40 bucks for Saturday.

What is it about Guy's bar in WeHo that make the girls act so crazy? Last June, Lindsay Lohan screamed, cried and flailed around after getting rejected at the door—Danny Masterson was hosting an upscale jazz night and he allegedly turned her away for not being classy enough. The following month, Nicole Richie partied at the bar dressed in little boys’ underwear worn over her tight black jeans, leaving everyone to realize how skinny she'd really gotten. Then, last night, Paris Hilton made out with Mischa Barton's hairy and seemingly dirty ex-boyfriend Cisco Adler at Guy's. Of all the guys Paris can get and she chooses Cisco? That just isn't right. 

Last weekend I went to a friends house which is notoriously full of swag.  I was drawn to this odd device sitting on the kitchen counter, half resembling a giant can of mace, and half light saber.  “What is it??”  

“Its canned oxygen…”  as she takes it in her hand and squeezes a large puff into her mouth while simultaneously inhaling in an orgasmic manner.

“Canned oxygen?!”

“Yeah, this one is peppermint flavored.”

My jaw was agape.  My friend forced it into my bag and I now have my new accessory.  Lagerfield has a fan, I have a can of peppermint flavored oxygen.  Its going to be hot.

--Shane Redsar 

I’ve seen Hairspray twice this week and all I can say is that I have a hankerin’ for some soul food now.  It’s amazing how many references to food there are in the songs, its awesome!  Theres a whole number with Queen Latifah and John Travolta involving various food items, so much fun!  Yeah, I’m a dork.

--Shane Redsar 

Wyder’s Extra Dry Pear Cider – it does a Blipster good. That would be our slogan of the day. Or anything that has to do with robots. Daft Punk obsession much? Yes. I nearly booked a flight to Berkeley to catch them again this Friday night. There were fleeting moments contemplating Red Rocks. Lollapalooza? And then, like a beacon of hope in the cold, cold night: Daft Punk is playing Vegoose in October. Can I get a what what? Halloween weekend. Las Vegas. Daft Punk. Did I forget to mention Iggy and the Stooges playing the immortal “Fun House” album front to back? It is so on. I say L.A just posse up and take over Vegas for the weekend. It’ll be so much fun! Think about it…

It's 5:52 on a Tuesday, and already, I'm nervous. There's just too much happening, and no matter where I go, my hair will look awful.

First off, Zach Galfoniknokusberenhoffer (aka Zach Galifianakis ) performs at Upright Citizens Brigade's Comedy Death Ray . Bearded and rotund, he's got a way about him that makes me want to have bearded and rotund baies. Also, he is friends with Fiona Apple and if she is there, and I am not, I would lay upon my sword. Evidence:

As mentioned earlier, Tegan and Sara are also perfoming (for friggity-free) at Amoeba, and Seattle carpetbaggers Mulally play a free show at the delightful Echo Curio.

Also, an artsy little video series is screening that the Hammer , AND Ding-a-Ling night is happening at Hyperion Tavern. Comrades who have attended the latter report that it is rife with hotties. 

The solution: nerdariffic 18-sided dice that are a staple in every D&D geek's life. I would assign each option a number, and roll away. Hair be damned.

Okay. I'll be straight up with you. If I could be anywhere, doing anything, I might not be at this desk, with this hair.

Rather, I'd be sitting on a roof, in the warmish shade of Amoeba Records. And maybe I'd be eating a hot dog or something, waiting for Tegan and Sara to play a free show downstairs. Then I'd go roller skating. Then I'd go to the Mulally show tonight, then suddenly I'd be in Palm Springs in a hammock.

Can someone please get on this? Thank you. 

Lindsay Lohan isn't the only one worthy of headline news today. I just heard that Winston's owner Andy Fiscella is opening a new restaurant and bar with Chris Huvane, Charlie Lew of Hardball Productions and Matt Lavin, not to be confused with Matt Gavin, Charlie's partner at Hardball. The spot, set to open in December, will serve comfort food and have a have a timeless, old-Hollywood vibe, complete with large patio and a full club license. "It's not something that will be redesigned in a year," Charlie told me. As for the location: It's still "undisclosed," but I can tell you it'll be located just east of Winston's between Jones Hollywood and Bar Lubitsch, both hotspots owned by Fiscella's nightlife hero Sean MacPherson.

Going to the bank doesn’t usually make me want to party—sigh—but that’s all about to change with Bank Heist, a new North Hollywood club that opens in August. Men.style.com got the scoop: Apparently, it’s located at 5303 Lankershim Boulevard in a ‘20s-style bank designed by John Parkinson, the same architect who designed old-school L.A. landmarks Los Angeles Memorial Stadium and City Hall. This will be followed by Crocker Club and Mercury Liquors, two clubs set to open in old-school Downtown banks. Mercury Liquors, of course, is Marc Smith’s next high-profile gig after opening The Edison in an a revamped boiler room.

Yesterday afternoon I went to Opening Ceremony and experienced joy the likes of which I have not felt in a long time.

As my hands softly grazed the fabrics, as my eyes feasted on the fashion-forward orgy before me, I felt a rush, an old familiar giddiness. Suddenly I was 15 years old again, standing in the middle of Top Shop on Oxford Circus, blissfully overwhelmed by the beautiful possibilities around me.

Opening Ceremony may not be nearly as big as Top Shop, but in terms of pure experience, it packs a sartorial punch, the kind that makes me groan 'again, again!' as millions of pretty shooting stars explode before my eyes.

My friend found a book she wanted to buy, but it was priced $400, so she decided against making the purchase (apparently there is a Magritte book in the back that is priced $2000). I, on the other hand, showed no such self-restraint, consummating the unearthly marriage between me and my inner shopping child, and walking out with a Risto Bimbiloski dress that may seriously compromise my ability to pay rent this month.

And that's OK...

Donuts, with a side of chess, at Sunset Junction’s favorite late-night donut shop, Tang’s. Consider this the geriatric equivalent of Slurpees and Street Fighter II at 7-11.

Ahhh, the weekend. It began with a laptop crammed in my bag, and frenzied bolting out of the office to make the 10pm show of Friday 40:

What's this "Friday 40"? Beers AND comedy? Sounds like a spontaneous, goofy time! Not so much.

The Improv Olympic's quiz show is based on the week's news, and requires that contestants glug from a 40 oz. vessel of malt liquor. 

But despite being staged at the IMPROV, nearly all the material was canned and read from folded and crumpled printouts of a script, much of which was shamelessly homophobic. My comade and I left craving a comedic palate cleanser.

So...walking past the Upright Citizen's Brigade, we popped inside to peer down the isle of the packed house and catch the end of Worst Laid Plans. It involved knee slapping, and wheeze-laughs. 

Saturday had all the best intentions: the NewHigh art opening, and a garden party in Echo Park. But comrade and Front drummah Mizz Kelly Kutasy blasted back into town, and all plans were trumped for her birthday madness.

(A blurry birthday Budweiser)

What followed is a scramble of Hollywood weirdness. First off, we hit the back lounge of Three Clubs on Vine, as the lovely Miss Ruth was tending bar. I demured, but was talked into some kind of shot, and the next thing I knew I was outside talking to a hooker.

Kelly had gone out for a smoke, and a tattered blonde in her fifties strolled up and asked us if we had any crack.

Fresh out, we offered our apologies, and were treated to a monlogue about her first $100 trick, and then, delivering a rare diamond in the hunk of drug-addled rough, she busted out the wisdom:

"Don't let this world go by unaffected by you."

With that, we high-fived, and returned inside for 2.5 hours of jams by Salt n Pepa, Tone Loc, and Justin Timberlake. The wisest of sooth-sayers would never have predicted an evening as whack as this.

(Am I really here?) 

(Contemplating hooker wisdom:)

(Jen, in disbelief that they're paying the same Kriss Kross song from an hour ago.) 

(The Ruth:)

 (One too many?)

Sunday, headed to the Buff Monster toy bonanza at Munky King , where I snapped some photos, and sweated quite a bit in the mob-clotted confines of the tiny toy emporium. In all, good times. 

...OK, Daft Punk melted my brain on Saturday night. That’s all there is to it. You remember “DeadHeads,” people that would follow the Grateful Dead on tour? I’m officially a member of the Robot Disco Army, and would love nothing more than to hop on the Daft Punk mothership never to return. Well, maybe for holidays and stuff, but you get the picture. That would be the best life ever, just going to the most incredible dance party imaginable night after night after night. God bless Daft Punk and “Viva La France” for reals...

...Yes, other stuff happened too. Last night I tried in vain to see Hot Hot Heat open for Snow Patrol at the Greek . But by the time I climbed the hill and reached my seat (which was next to an extreme hottie named Cindy that looked like a turbo-charged version of Amanda Bynes. Nice work, Keren!), there was no twitchy dance-punk for me...

...Surprise surprise, Snow Patrol didn’t suck. They’re not exactly my cup of Yerba Mate, but I can see why their melodic mini-anthems have such appeal. They’re kind of like an Irish Goo Goo Dolls, each song meticulously crafted for maximum radio impact. But the singer has a strong voice and was charming and really funny between songs. The thing with the dead bug on the set list was classic. You had to be there. I’m officially no longer mad at Snow Patrol. Don’t tell anyone, but I kind of liked it...

...The real fun yesterday was downtown at Little Radio’s Summer Camp . OK, why haven’t I been kicking it down here every Sunday? Color me moronic. I won’t make that mistake again. It’s an easy sell: give them some money, and you get to eat, drink, listen to good bands and watch insanely hot indie girls chilling out in blow-up swimming pools. Sure, they ran out of booze for a minute – s#!t happens. Spindrift and Dead Meadow played ominous, kind of monstrous sets (Dead Meadow were going for Melvins-level volume overload), lots of good people maxin’ and relaxin’—hooray for Summer Camp, people...

...Friday night was real interesting. Sonic Youth, live at the Greek, performing “Daydream Nation” in its entirety. You can’t front on that. Gemini and I made it to our very posh seats (big ups to you, Judy) just in time to see them launch into “Teenage Riot,” one of my all-time favorite songs by anybody. They sounded and looked great, but something was amiss. For one, the sound was way too quiet. So much so that Gemini and I were actually sushed by these dudes next to us. That’s when I realized people that bought “Daydream Nation” when it first came out surrounded us, and that this was a serious deal and kind of religious for a lot of them. Still, you’d think there could be a little more rocking out and less sitting there like lumps drinking beer. I’m just saying. This is Sonic Youth, y’all. The most seminal band this side of Velvet Underground. Most of what's in the indie rock section of your music collection owes them a huge debt. Thankfully, on the other side of us were cute girls getting hammered and rocking out to "’Cross The Breeze" and "Kissability". Hi Mindy, thanks for the margarita. God, I’m such a whore... 

I hope David Beckham didn't move to L.A. just to go nuts and check into rehab. The soccer player went to Skybar on Saturday night after his first game (and loss) with The Galaxy. And, while no one has reported that he drank a lot, the Skybar has become the last-ditch spot for celebs to go crazy before checking into rehab. Britney smoked butts at the poolside bar after she shaved her head; Jesse Metcalfe "enjoyed" his last bender here; and Lindsay Lohan was here on the same night she managed to wedge her car between a tree and a house.

Photo credit: Wally Skalij  

This weekend I hung out with talented fashion designer and literary anti-hero Savannah Knoop,  best known for being the actress who played  faux-author JT Leroy in public , but whose fashion line tinc is also most worthy of attention.

Knoop wore her tincwear line throughout her years masquerading as JT, during which she traveled the world in a blond wig and hat playing the male former truck-stop prostitute-turned-author. JT's celebrity friends were numerous--Courtney Love, Carrie Fisher, Winona Ryder and Asia de Argento were high profile companions. Knoop told me that De Argento gave 'JT' the balck hat that s/he traditionally wore in public, and that it belonged to one of her Italian relatives.

Knoop and I have been corresponding for a while after being put in touch with each other by Laura Albert, the woman who penned the JT Leroy novels 'Sarah' and 'The Heart Is Deceitful Above All Things'. She came down to LA from San Francisco this weekend and we hung like cojones, as they say, visiting Ooga Booga in Chinatown, checking out an art exhibit at Cactus in Eagle Rock, meeting up with my friends author Bett Williams and stylist Charon Nogues, among others. Knoop looked hot in bright red patent leather flats from Japan and a black silk jumpsuit layered over white string wifebeater. 

Today, we are hitting Fred Segal and Third Street  for some surrrrheous LA-style shopping.

Keep an eye on the site for a full-length Q&A with Knoop, a young and fascinating fashion talent! 

Look what looms above the corner of Batali and Silverton:

Yes, due Mozze, we get the freakin' picture.

Recently went to check out The Counter, the gimmicky Santa Monica burger joint with the pencil-and-pad menu that's designed for ultimate consumer customization. More importantly, while waiting for the chefs to handcraft my burger, I spotted someone who looked an awful lot like Beach Boy Mike Love entering the joint with a female companion. He was wearing a black Hawaiian T-shirt and his signature “I’m bald… or am I?” hat. (He is.) Naturally, I tried to listen in on his conversation to see if he’d claim credit to a few more Beach Boys songs in the course of natural conversation.

My burger came (Delicious? Nah.). I continued eavesdropping. If it was Mr. Love, I’m proud he didn’t take credit for constructing my burger. On a scale of ‘Caroline, No’ to 'Good Vibrations,' I'd give the whole experience a 'God Only Knows.'

Because they're all names of Beach Boy songs.

One of the eight greatest dance parties in the history of mankind occurred in Los Angeles, CA, On July 21, 2007. From approximately 11PM until exactly 12:30AM, Daft Punk touched down on the stage of the Los Angeles Sports Arena and proceeded to systematically deconstruct the sold out audience of over 16,000 people into crazed, sweating, blithering, kissing, screaming, smiling, partying, freaking, not-thinking-just-dancing robot disco idiots.  

All hail the robot disco kings. Details at 11.

Once in a digital blue moon, eBay will do something that makes this whole Internet thing make sense.

Case in point: a recent listing for an unopened can of Crystal Pepsi (you remember, the 7-Up-lookin’ wunder beverage of the ‘90s). Once shipping costs are factored in, one can of this champagne-of-Pepsi-products costs $36.

You won't just want to guzzle this at home like any old can of soda; Crystal Pepsi deserves better than that. You're going to need to throw a full-on Crystal Pepsi party.

Here’s how it goes down:

1.    Invite your friends, especially the ironic ones who will ’get’ what you're doing and chuckle about it later while they’re on Pitchfork.

2.    Keep the CP (that’s Crystal Pepsi to insiders) chilled in a wine bucket throughout the party to add drama.

3.    Open at climax of party, and give partygoers a taste of the 15+ year old beverage, which will taste "delicious" and "definitely under a decade old."

Thank you, eBay. You truly are an electronic bay of mystery.

--Amir Kenan

Oh. Em. Gee.

People, I hope you got your nap on, because to tonight I sense madness.


Saturday:
1. Modular pool party at the Standard on Sunset
2. Lab 101 opening with Albert Ryes
3. NewHigh gallery in Chinatown has an opening! (I'm so there.)

Then Sunday, Buffmonster is having a toy signing.

See you our there, peeps! We'll high five.

Most excitedly,

Miss Alie Ward

Professional Leisurist

What’s going on with Chris Breed? Usually, it’s his business partners who work behind the scenes while he serves as the (seriously handsome) face of his venues. Lately, however, he’s been taking a back seat. He was supposed to be the big name behind Ritual, formerly White Lotus, but he sold out of the club just before it opened. Then, on Tuesday, his new spot The Green Door opened next door to Cabana Club, which he also owns, without the slightest bit of fanfare. Yes, Linkin Park was playing at Ritual and Les Deux was having its one-year anniversary party, but still. I’d have thought this opening would have been a bigger deal, especially with Johnny Zander (formerly of Teddy’s) as his right-hand man. I spoke to Chris yesterday—he sounded exhausted—and said he’s expanding his business in Las Vegas and Miami and, while he didn’t say it outright, he seems pretty over the Hollywood scene.

 
He's usually so chatty, but this is all I could get out of him about The Green Door.

•There’s a green door.

•The walls are green.

•There’s a lounge vibe.

•There’s a tapas and crepe menu.

•It’s also outfitted with turn-of-the-century French furniture.

•It has a lounge vibe.

Yep, that’s  it. That's not much of an incentive to go, is it?

Guess which finger!

Two people, one party. Two wildly disparate reactions.

Case in point: the lovely Scott T Sterling and I headed separately to the BPM party last night. He got there early, hit the open bar, and proceeded to get retarded in the best possible way . He's in the DJ booth, rubbing bony elbows with Paris Hilton, texting that Ron Jeremy had just arrived.

I myself had donned a lame-ass outfit (skirt: Ross, 1999), and met loyal comrade Gemini downstairs with a sour-faced frown. I shuffled heavily all four blocks to the Avalon, and gave the bouncer an eye roll when he made me wait in a cattle line for 3 minutes. Sure, he was a d-bag, but what bitchy demon from Medieval lore had possessed me? 

By the time we arrived, there was nothing even close to an open bar. BPM would have won me over with free lukewarm shots of Gilby's gin at that point. Or this .

But I learned two valuable lessons last night:

1. Sometimes, even Professional Leisurists need a nap before heading out.

2. Always bring a flask. 

I'll abide by these edicts, and see you out, transformed, tonight.  

It was inevitable, I suppose. All work and no play – you know the rest. So tonight, we played. And we played to win. Did it work out that way? Who knows. I barely remember my name at this point. It was all of that organic vodka. Does that mean I’ll have a green hangover tomorrow, er, later on today?

Moving Units kept it angular. DJ A.M. sported the dopest Britney Spears shirt ever. “American Idol” finalist Constantine smiled. Girl Talk sweated like a bastard and had L.A. dancing like goons to Cyndi Lauper and Fleetwood Mac. A man after my own heart. I yelled at a bouncer. I got my way because of it. I tried to start a fight, and almost succeeded. OK, that's not entirely true. I just held up a karmic mirror to some rude d-bag and he didn't like it at all. I did not, however, throw up.

Rob got elegantly wasted. But not before he played the track the Clash made with Futura 2000. Ron Jeremy humored me. Paris Hilton rushed by me. Frankie Chan looked sharp. Ellei took pictures. Joe laughed. Tigarah was sweet. Alexandra was psyched about her trip to Alabama (firearms were involved). I took pictures of cute girls. I traded cards with cuter girls. I’m so effing L.A. right now it hurts. I can’t wait to see Daft Punk on Saturday. Stretch Armstrong played a sweet remix of “Roxanne.” A-Trak was gracious and well dressed. Nicole Scherzinger of the Pussycat Doll was nice (and hot). I met a woman going to New Zealand to compete in the World Bartender Championships. Cristina was on it, and then over it. A drunk couple kept grinding against my back. I was a complete cheese-ball and hung out in the DJ booth during Girl Talk, taking pictures and being so scene. I laughed – a lot. I talked to Steve Levy – a lot. I drank (all together now) – a lot. Alie and Gemini came and went. I heard some amazing gossip. I said "what's up?" to Cisco Adler. I saw some dude that was in the Borat movie. I ran into Shannon's friend that looks just like Vincent Gallo, and took a picture of him making out with a hot blonde. Contrary to appearances, I am not proud. People threw down - hard. 

And then I went home. 

Happy Friday, and can we hurry up with the Bloody Marys already? Dang.  

Apparently, an apartment above the Downbeat Cafe erupted in flames Saturday, rudely and smokily interrupting Jed Berk's blimp building workshop at Machine Project. The boutique La Dita and the Downbeat have some serious water damage going on, so they're closed for repairs! Craptastic! 

I just rang up the Downbeat and a defeated-sounding Dan Drozdenko picked up, and told us that the iconic cafe did indeed suffer sog. His primary concern is having the repairs done "safely, legally and properly," so no date of re-open is set. He sounds like he needs a hug.

Machine Project is fine, but sent out a notice saying:

"Enjoy Machine while you can - we're always teetering on the edge of disaster!...That's all for now, we'll send an update when the plague of locust arrive."

If the block has a peanut butter cookie sale as a benefit, I think they'd do just fine. Even if I were the only one attending.  

Poor Charlie Lew has the worst luck when it comes to water disasters. Two years ago, rain washed out his New Year's Eve party at the Paramount Lot (so much time and money lost!) and, just months after opening his upscale sports bar Trifecta, the kitchen flooded—on a day he was to show the bar to some very important people, no less. (Charlie plans on opening Trifecta locations all over the country.)

Nevertheless, Trifecta has not closed down. For the time being, it’s open for lunch from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. and for special events. In fact, football star Reggie Bush (pictured) just had his birthday party here. Once the plumbing situation gets resolved, the place will reopen in the evenings. 

Oh glorious Thursday: Mister Doug Jones is performing his "People Mover" at the Upright Citizen's Brigade . I wish to be in attendance. 

Doug is lean, boyish chap with a dry sense of humor, and his show apparently follows one bloke on his quest to work.   Being that I spend approx 14 hours per week of work-mandated ass-flattening behind the wheel of a Subaru, I'm fully down for some commute commiseration. Oh, the misery! (And no, cleverpants, I do not live in Norwalk or Bellflower- the Eastside to Westside commute is just That. Awful.)

How do I love thee, Target? Let me count the ways:

1. For carrying Hellman's Mayonnaise—not its inferior, less-awesomely-named, west coast counterpart Best Foods. The only other place I've seen Hellman's mayo in L.A. is Barney's Greengrass, and there it's like 15 euros a jar.

2. For boldly offering a new, bite-size candy sensation modeled after The King's favorite sandwich (fried peanut butter and banana). Yes, the new Reese's Peanut Butter & Banana Candy is being marketed as an Elvis-approved 'Collector Edition' treat. The big guy is either spinning in his grave, or trying to eat his way out.

3. For teaching me to reach for the sky, but keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground.

I don't know how to quit you, Target.

You. Complete. Me.

--Amir Kenan 

The 10 freeway officially sucks. Because of this perpetually-jammed stretch of evil concrete, I was stuck in my un-air conditioned car while while Hollywood got its designer vintage kicks at the re-opening of Decadestwo , one of the world's premier designer vintage re-sale boutiques.

Luckily, Metromix intern Lauren Fields, who works at Decades, was there. Here's her full report. 

So how was it Lauren? 

It was so awesome--Access Hollywood was there so I was on Access Hollywood, I guess.

What did you say?

I don't know. We were just talking about Decades. I just kinda nodded and smiled. Then Elle magazine took pictures of my mom and I. And then I got to usher Jared Leto in.

How was Jared Leto?

Oh, he's really hot. I was dying. I talked to him. He was really nice. I asked him if he wanted a drink and he said "no, thank you".

What was he wearing?

He was wearing a Morphine Generation long-sleeved thing, one of those long things...you know, they keep you warm...a thermal! And black really tight jeans and a pair of ankle-high Nikes and aviators.

What other celebrities did you see?

Alyson Hannigan from "American Pie", the one with the red hair who was in band camp. She was gorgeous. She was wearing a beautiful white Louis Vuitton dress. She was very pretty.

So what has changed at Decades II?

We have expanded into the building next to us so now we have the entire brown art deco building. There used to be a bookstore there, but it closed down. Now the store is much bigger. The store has been completely remerchandised, so everyone was shopping. There is some really great stuff in there right now. My mom bought an orange Versace clutch.

So what was the highlight of the evening for you?

I was just dying over Jared Leto. And all the other girls were too.

Holy peace signs - a new H&M is opening at Westfield Topanga on July 19. The first 100 customers will get complimentary H&M t-shirt and gift cards worth up to $200. The store will carry women's and men's collection, and will have a lingerie section too. H&M is a corporate brand and therefore doesn't necessarily fit in with the whole hippie Devendra Banhart vibe of the hood, but we're sure you'll find more than a few ladies of the canyon wafting up and down the aisles at H&M, looking to score some bargain flower-power dresses.

I know I'm sort of the long-winded type, so I'll keep this one short. There's nothing quite like a Polyphonic Spree show. It's akin to getting run over by an 18-wheeled love truck. All of that feel-good energy eminating from the stage is kind of amazing. Even after a long, crappy day where I found out that one of my dear friends back home was held up at gunpoint by some random thugs, the Spree gave me "the feeling" and made me smile - a lot.

They essentially played two shows in one - the first as the dark-lit, militaristic "Fragile Army" and the second as the robe-wearing, spirit-rocking peace posse we know and love. There were a myriad of emotions, from dark and sad to all-out elation.

The band is brilliant, but for me the power comes from the choir, a gang of women filling the room with so much vocal sound that it can overwhelm you. I swear I would marry every single one of them. 

Lucky for you it's late (the band played for well over two hours, thank you very much) and I'm running out of steam, because I could go on about this one all day. But I will say that their version of Nirvana's "Lithium" blew the roof off the place. And big props to Tim DeLaughter for coming offstage and hanging with the fans long after the show ended. 

You'll probably hear more about it later though. In the meantime, take care of yourselves and each other. Ultimately, it's all we've really got. 

Deciding on a late night taco in the area, my neighbor decided on Macho's Tacos.  Originally, he was going see if Yucca's was open, but Yucca's is like Brigadoon in its business hours.  Machos however, is as regular as a senior citizen sauced on prune juice.  Personally, I've really only ever had their Machos steak fries, but my neighbor swears by their burritos.  He got a chicken burrito with rice, cheese, guacamole, and sour cream.  it might've been the Oro Azul he drank earlier but he devoured it with reckless abandon.  It was so good apparently that even his friend from down the block came by to have a bite/the rest of it.  I had no idea that this burrito has Pied Piper capabilities, i really should take note.

I just wonder how magical Yucca's tacos are now... 

--Shane Redsar

Last night's Crazy 4 Cult show was indeed a mob scene, with a thick line clotting the sidewalk down Melrose. Inside, the sauna/art show was a sweaty feast of paintings dedicated to cult film favorites, my favorite being an homage to Better Off Dead by Aaron Jasinski. Title? "Waiting for Cusack" Loff it.

Also noteworthy: a Luke Chueh Donnie Darko piece, and a series by Scott Campbell called "Great Showdowns" about epic movie conflicts. Campbell's work is tiny, delicate, and adorable. I want to eat it. I am also very hungry.

I had a Lady Party at the Echoplex to attend, and after a high five with Plasticgod (once known by the less family friendly moniker Plasticfucker) I scooted out, only to be lured by the back parking lot before I left.

A free Dewar's bar and movies projected on the wall had me hooked for another hour. Met the lovely Kari from Truxtop , and saw Misha , who was rightfully giddy from a recent sale to Kevin Smith.

Then it was off to the Lady Party for some chick comedy. Met up with the Esteemed Mister George Ducker, who conducted today's piece on Jerry Stahl and Oprah smoking crack.

After spotting a tour bus the size of Delaware parked in the alley behind the Echo, we made the sound decision to hold our heads high with false conifdence and waltz straight through the back gate of the Echo's smoking patio to catch some of the Black Lips show.

Wilting, I finally hit bed, but not before eating a bag of Cheetos for dinner. 

When did Les Deux become such a magnet for celebs fresh out of rehab? Just because the spot serves spaghetti doesn’t mean it’s not really a club—you know, in case Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears thought they were fooling anyone. Britney, of course, was there on Sunday night and inspired a parking-lot brawl and Lindsay was there last night for the club’s one-year anniversary. Was the anniversary bash worth the negative press she’ll get for hitting yet another club? Meh. Aside from the two male go-go dancers on the stage, the event wasn’t all that sexy.  

What if you could lose weight, boost your immune system and stop global warming while getting drunk? That's what brothers Courtney and Carter Reum, both twentysomethings, have set out to do with VeeV, an açaí liqueur that's become all the rage at trendy bars like Winston's, Les Deux and Skybar.

The pros:
Not only is the booze packed with antioxidants, vitamins C and E, calcium, dietary fiber and protein, but the liqueur also has prickly pear, which supposedly fends off hangovers. What’s more, the Reum brothers are environmentally conscious: They use recycled packaging and soy ink, insist that their salespeople drive Hybrids and—the best part—they donate some of their proceeds to the Amazonian Forest, where açaí berries are harvested.

The cons:
You have to drink a lot of VeeV just to get the slightest buzz—this is coming from a light weight too. And, while the fruity alcohol doesn’t taste bad, it doesn’t taste all that remarkable either.

The bottom line:
If you'd rather burn a hole in your pocket than in the ozone, order a VeeV cocktail.

Ikea, everyone's favorite purveyor of craptastic furniture and lingonberry juice, has just announced that it's recalling its complete line of marinated herring. And since it's Ikea we're talking about, the herring is packaged and sold under a variety of ridiculous, faux-Swedish names like DILLSILL, SENAPSILL and (my personal favorite) INLAGD SILL.

Please get your marinated herring from an alternative marinated herring source until further notice.

--Amir Kenan 

Britney Spears is like the rodent problem I had when I lived in Boston. No matter how thoroughly I cleaned the apartment or blocked the holes with steel wool, the mice would multiply and squeeze their nasty little bodies through any opening they could find. They’d come out while I was in the shower or crawl on my face when I was sleeping; once a dirty little thing even jumped out of my box of cereal. Disgusting.

I’m as equally repulsed and obsessed with the Britney phenomenon as I was with the mouse infestation that signified my time in Boston. (I can’t even tell you how fitting I think it is that she got her start on the “Mickey Mouse Club.”) She can go to rehab, slim down, wear underwear and put in hair extensions, and she’s still a mess. For one thing, the girl goes clubbing despite multiple stints in rehab. For another, she wears her clothes backwards and barfs all over herself.

But what really perplexes me is the team of supporters that not only defends her, but that act like her too. For example, the girls who duked it out in Les Deux’s parking lot on Sunday night, after one chick called Britney a whore and told her to go home to her babies. Typical Britney behavior ensued: hair extensions were torn out, unsightly body parts exposed. The best part: Britney wasn’t even there to partake in the drama ‘cause she’d already driven off.

It’s like Britney’s is the queen kahuna and spawning off little baby rodents, all of whom have matching hair extensions and share the need to show off their naked body parts.

Wait, Crazy 4 Cult is tonight? At Gallery 1988 ? Eh, I've only been looking forward to it for three months, and have it written in four different calendars, but whatevs. (Note: I am not lying. I have four calendars.)

Obvs: I'm stoked. The opening reception starts at 7, and I ger-an-tee this mother will genrate a line down the block, expecially since its host, Mr. Kevin Smith (the mind behind Clerks and the somatic vessel of Silent Bob) is hosting.

AND he was on KROQ this morning to promote it. I'm sure it'll be pretty low key though.

Check out this interview with Kevin Smith and Leo Quinones:

PS- for anyone who's been desperate to see a Darth Vader scultpture on rollerblades with Gucci eyelids, your time has come:

(Peter Gronquist's "Darth Blader.)

Holy mother of God. Linkin Park is kicking off its tour tonight at Ritual. Yep, you read that right! They’re taking over Ritual, home to every celebrity and A-lister in Hollywood, for an intimate show that will benefit Music for Relief. Naturally, the event is invitation-only, with tabloid magnets Adrian Grenier, Britney Spears and Rachel Bilson on the list. There’s no way anyone will be able to crash the party, but you can certainly go and listen from the parking lot, where I’m sure the paparazzi will be hanging out. (I guess this event will take the thunder out of Les Deux’s anniversary party.)

“Dude, people are going to get tired of reading about how you ran into Mark and Cara and stood around talking s#!t.”

Right you are, Mr. Willett. Thanks to the generosity of my new super-friend Scott McDonald, we’re in the thick of the overwhelming crush of humanity wedged inside Little Radio to see John Vanderslice and Spoon, and it’s quite the sight to behold.

For one, the Los Angeles Cute Girl Army is out in full force. I mean, this is redonkulous, as Alie would say. I haven’t seen this many fine ladies in one place since I don’t even know when. Spoon’s Britt Daniel is onstage sweating it out admirably, running through a litany of tunes from his extensive catalog. Everyone else is sweating too, because it’s hot – really hot. It's kind of cool to hear the crowd cheer for "The Underdog" because they've heard it on the radio (nice work, Indie 103 and KCRW). I spy Michael “Gemini” Bauer pushing his way out of the serious scrum in front of the stage for some air. The open Dewar’s bar is on jam, with the hot tattooed bartenders somehow staying cool and friendly in spite of the barrage of dollar bills looking for drinks (hey Dewar’s people – try using Vernor’s ginger ale as a mixer next time. Trust me on this one.). There’s Greg from Autolux. There’s Daniel Gill, super-publicist to the stars. There’s Graham MacRae, holding it down at Warner Bros and an accomplished singer-songwriter in his own right. Pretty women, free booze, good friends – what’s not to love? No s#!t-talking here – this is awesome!

The party keeps going even after Spoon’s admittedly sweet set (which ended on a tight rendition of “I Summon You”). I’m hanging outside with Graham, Daniel and John Vanderslice, who is possibly the nicest guy in the world. Seriously. Make sure to check him out the next time he plays Los Angeles. I’ll keep you posted. He’s kind enough to take us backstage for some great conversation and more beer. Everyone’s just kicking it, no attitudes or pretensions. Britt Daniel is happy to pose for a picture. Lots more cute ladies, the kind that smile back. We love them. That’s when Graham’s friend John reminds me to come check out Little Radio’s Summer Camp party. “Just imagine all of these same girls, only in their bikinis. It’s amazing.”

Sold American, as my dad would say.

God bless Little Radio, making L.A. just that much cooler – and hotter.  

Sometimes a Ward just has to sack out on the couch like a tranquilized rhino and miss Spoon at Little Radio. In such cases, a simple text message can provide as much entertainment.

I've never wanted to be guiltier, but alas the genius remains a mystery. If anyone has information on the evildoer who finger-branded a tour van with hooker shame, the drummer of this band wants answers. Watch out though, she's got sticks, and she hits things with them. 

Last week was rough. As you know, I was assaulted by some random thug on the mean streets of Culver City. To ease the ensuing pain, good ol' doc prescribed Vicodin.

The moment I mention that I'm on Vicodin, I get open palms shoved in my direction giving the universal gesture for a free handout. I knew Vicodin was popular, but I didn't know that 50% of my contacts are junkies! They all come out of the woodwork, reminiscing on the good times with their old friend Vic, and longing for a reunion. Jeez, and you think you know a guy...

Anyhow, being doped up out of my mind has made blogging quite difficult; though I managed to bust out a few novel entries. Could you tell I was intoxicated while blogging? Did you leave scratching your heads? I mean, I guess I could have blogged about the deliciousness of Vicodin, but I figured everyone knew that!

It's neither here nor there now; I'm now completely sober and drug free. Let's just hope I don't become some boring sod who doesn't know when to shut up. Otherwise, I will have no choice but to become the next Hunter S. Thompson. --Shane Redsar

Shermar Moore must be on damage-control duty after being photographed in the nude on a gay beach in Hawaii [link NSFW]. Our intern-about-town spotted the “Criminal Minds” star at The Joint on Saturday night and not only was he flirting with all the ladies, but he also kept lifting up his shirt, probably in an attempt to show people that he has a hard time keeping his clothes on whether he's on a gay beach or a club.

The word 'douchebag' and its many derivatives ('douchey', 'douchefest', 'douche-a-rama' or just plain 'douche') have so completely proliferated the contemporary L.A. vernacular, I was moved to further explore the origins of this seemingly ubiquitous diss.

 I discovered this fascinating paper by a Katie Keenan, a student at Columbia university, in which she not only outlines the origins of the word, complete with photos, but goes into a deeper study of what 'douche' really means to young people today.

Various excerpts:

"In object form, Douche bag is rather benign. It is a cleansing device. It holds therapeutic water. Aside from its bodily associations, (the douche bag may be used for giving enemas as well as vaginal lavage), there is nothing overtly sexual, sensual or dirty about the thing. It is mundane. Although perhaps, hanging on the back of Grandmother’s bathroom door, also a little mysterious."

Vaginal lavage?? Are you kidding? She then goes on to provide a more detailed pop-cultural definition of the term:

"Multiple entries defined a douche bag as someone who:

·     Has an unduly high sense of self-esteem,

·     Is a “fake” or a “poser”,

·     Is discourteous and untrustworthy,

·     Thinks he or she is cool, but whom everyone else actually hates,

·     Frequently wears a pink polo shirt with a popped collar,

·     Is John Edwards of Crossing Over."

Um...fake posers who everyone hates? Untrustworthy polo-shirt wearers with overly high self-esteem?

In L.A.?

Nope. Never seen one.

Who knew the Beverly Hills Hotel had such a kinky side? I went to the hotel’s new posh Bar Nineteen12 over the weekend and behold a page from their menu:

Rawwwr.

Friday night was an evening of epic people/goblin watching at the Labyrinth of Jareth Masquerade Ball.  Have a gander at the photo gallery here to see what we mean. From my scrawled, giddy notes, I present the best overheard comments of the night:

10:14 p.m., through the stalls in the ladies' room:

"I can tell these wings are going to be a pain in the butt!"

"I know! That's why I took my cape off." 

11:32 p.m., a man in a loincloth, talking to himself next to a mirror (in a quasi-faux-British accent):

"I have been glittered!"

 

From our photographer Timothy Norris, as we headed to the car, on the "Eyes Wide Shut" vibe:

"I'm a little disappointed we didn't get in a three-way with a goblin." 

Ahh, the serpentine labyrinth of fantastical masquerading! The mystical nature of the ego! Rubber elf ears! Good times.  

Saturday night involved a stop at the Gary Baseman show at Billy Shire. I spied Luke Chueh, Natalia Fabia, and Matt Mascaro among those in attendance, as well as pyrographer Jason Houchen, who's prepping for a solo show. But back to Basemen: plenty of bodily fluid, cartoons and blood:

Not in the crowd, necessarily

But in the work

Sunday, I smeared on sunscreen and skipped over to the Lotus Festival with my trusted comrade, Gemini. We ate a bunch of stuff we shouldn't have, and peeped some boat racing. Anyone who knows Gemini is aware that he enjoys Situations of the Ridiculous, such as proposing "What do you think the boat racers would do if I, like, jumped in Echo Park Lake, and yelled, 'I'm gonna win this thing!'"

Your answer is not important, as he's usually too busy laughing. 

Dragon boat smackdown: 

Hot dogs n' hipsters 

Gemini grubs a snowcone

And then, a $1 mistake:

We make the very bad decision to buy a bag of wheel-shaped mystery from a street vendor. I've always wondered, from a culinary and scientific standpoint, what these were. When the vedor asks: "Limon?" "Chili?" I say yes to both, only to discover that they taste like foam peanuts bathed in Tabasco.

We left them in a urine stained corner of a parking lot as a gift for anyone hungry/brave enough to finish the bag.

(If you have knowledge regarding their chemical makeup, enlighten me. I think they're made of corn?)

Babydoll dresses...I just don't know about them any more.

Pros:

They are feminine and in style and totally hide your beer gut.

Cons:

They scream vulnerability. Cutesieness. Weakness.

Walking around looking like a whoreish 8-year-old does little to advance the feminist cause. Worse still, it implies pandering to the darker side of heterosexual male sexuality, the side that makes some men obsessed with very young women/girls only. There's a reason why you don't see many babydoll dresses on the lesbian scene. It's because lesbians don't care what men think. 

I had my babydoll break-down/epiphany last night.

I was wearing a beige babydoll with pouffy sleeves covered in little yellow hearts (even describing it makes me feel slightly nauseated. Why Caroline, why?). I had cranked up the paedophilia factor by  teaming the dress with a pair of knee-high cream socks and and a schoolgirl bag. The look was pure, unadulterated Harajuku kiddie porn.

I was at the Moon Upstairs/Citay/Howling Rain show at the Echo and around me dozens of other girls were sporting a similarly gamine look - tent dresses, pouffy sleeves, vintage and lots of lace and embroidered details. No-one was rocking the full-on Lolita look quite as hard as I was though. I looked around and realized why—there were no babydolls.

Instead, the look was predominantly earth mother/flower child, with dresses still über-feminine but  longer, more diaphanous.

Standing next to all these hot, bad-ass Joni Mitchell chicks, I felt ashamed of myself and my cutesie, under-age barf-fest of a get up. "I'm not a submissive person," I thought. "So why am I dressing like one?"

I spent much of the night pondering the question, and figuring out what the hell I was going to do—half my wardrobe is made-up of babydoll varietals. How can I be babyboll, yet still walk away with my  wymyn cojones intact? 

This is what I came up with: 

1. Go mod—babydolls can be bad-ass if worn with with go-go boots and Vidal Sassoon haircut

2. Pouffy sleeves are the enemy. Avoid at all costs.

3. When in doubt, channel 1990s Courtney Love and add red smeared lipstick, smudged mascara and needle trackmarks.

I don't have much time to work on my smack addiction right now, so I'll play it safe and throw the worst of my pouffy-sleeved mysogynistic disasters where they belong - on the fire.

(Photo courtesy of shopbop.com)

Luckily, shooting the video quickly gave way to eating, drinking, and eventually lighting a stogie with David...inside the restaurant. (I know! Scandale!) I was working my way through the Cuban, when who should walk in but Daniel Boulud.

Daniel freaking-master-chef Boulud! Seriously folks, this is huge. I had never been starstruck until the moment I introduced myself, shook his well-seasoned (ha!) hands and took a photo of him and David. Plus, he's super-nice and super-normal.

The NYC-based chef was in town to shoot a TV special and he had come in with Grace's Neal Fraser after fliming at the Beverly Blvd restaurant. The kitchen had run out of food, so they grabbed a couple of bottles of red from Bin's phenomenal wine collection, headed out to the patio and hailed the bacon-wrapped hot dog vendor for some midnight sustenance. Top chefs love bacon dogs. Awesome.

It’s Friday night, and I’m all set for a solid disco nap before heading over to Spaceland to catch the Blitzen Trapper show when a call comes in on the hotline from HQ. I’m needed at the Natural History Museum, stat. To celebrate the release of the Metromix-approved new Interpol album "Our Love to Admire" (the cover art of which was photographed at the museum), singer Paul Banks and drummer Sam Fogarino are DJing in the North American habitats hall. Oh, this I have got to see.

My last excursion to the NHM for something “cultural” resulted in me getting turned away from the Autolux gig there due to the overwhelming amount of people that showed up. I brace myself for a full-contact experience. But when I arrive, things are surprisingly sedate. There’s not even a line to get in. Hmmmm.

I wander inside to find a most colorful mix of the KROQ nation, industry types and the occasional scenester, like Har Mar Superstar. In the Grand Foyer, there are two open bars set up, not nearly enough to quench L.A.’s insatiable thirst. The line-up to the bars is almost comical, resulting in two concentric circles going around the huge dinosaur in the center of the room, which looks like it’s laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Being the practical sort, when I do get to the front I make sure to secure two drinks.

But it’s all so… civilized. I run into my friends Mark and Cara, and they’re already planning to bolt and hit Spaceland. Oh man, this is not looking good.

I wander into the hall where Paul and Sam will be spinning to find a crush around the DJ area as intense as any show. It seems as though every single person is sporting a camera. "Our Love to Admire" is playing softly over the sond system. The DJ set-up is on the floor, so visibility is kind of dicey (yes, I realize it's kind of weird that people look at DJs).

Around 10:30 p.m., Fogarino dressed in the Interpol uniform of red, black and dapper, steps to the decks to a huge cheer from the crowd. He starts playing dark post-punk stuff. His second track is TV on the Radio’s “Satellite.” Soon Banks, looking alarmingly casual underneath a baseball cap, steps up next to him amidst hysterical squealing from a lot of the ladies. He immediately switches it up and starts dropping booming New York hip-hip, which actually gets the crowd moving. The smash up front to get good pictures (which seemed to be the overwhelming priority of the audience) starts to thin out a little. Sam and Paul take turns playing records. The band's road-tested party DJ, bassist Carlos D, is nowhere in sight. Paul takes his hat off, and when the girls start squealing again he puts it back on. And that’s pretty much how it went. I snap a few more pictures of my own.

I do a couple of laps around the museum, checking out the exhibits when I spy my celebrity crush Busy Phillips looking amazing in little shorts. I’m not nearly drunk enough to talk to her, plus she’s with a guy sporting a massive beard. I don’t mess with beards, man.

The line at the bar is still a mess though, and I’m starting to feel my missed disco nap. It’s too late to catch Blitzen Trapper. Sigh. It’s time to call it. Museums are the new night clubs, and I'm cool with that. 

A few weeks ago, little Lisa Lee needed help with a project for her 9th grade Spanish class. She and her friends needed to find authentic Mexican food on Olvera Street. Easy. IMHO, the only place worthy eating is Cielito Lindo.

It goes without saying that Cielito Lindo sells the best taquitos in LA. I've been going there my whole life and so has, I discovered after a quick google search, just about every other Mexican who grew up in LA. I've eaten there when it's raining buckets, I've eaten there when my make-up is melting off my face, I'd even be willing to bet I was there in utero.

No surprise that I got a craving. So I endured more than 45 minutes of traffic to spend less than 30 minutes at my favorite place on the corner. It was hot, I was sticky and I almost threw down with a nine-year old over a corner table, but what's new? As I dug into my taquitos, avocado sauce running down my fingers, I suddenly remembered little Lisa Lee and her five friends. Lisa proudly showed me pictures of her excursion and I almost fell over laughing. There they were, apprehensive looks on their faces, eating the best taquitos in LA. With forks.  

I went to Versailles the other day with my Mom and some of her friends from Nigeria. Versailles is a funny place as it mimics almost every ethnic comfort food out there. "This tastes like food from Indonesia!", "This tastes like food from Nigeria!", "This tastes like food from the Phillipines!" (we also had a Filipino at the table). If I were to ever host the UN, I know exactly where to take them.  Any more international, and it would be a Benetton ad. I think the secret is in their rice/beans, chicken, and oxtail soup.  

Man, I wish Indonesian food was more inclusive (I'm Indonesian, FYI), though I don't think blood paste or whole sauteed squid is on most palletes, international or not.

The freakishly gorgeous Lucent Dossier, Vaudevillian Cirque

I was rendered stoked earlier today when I got a call from the weird and warm folks at Lucent Dossier, saying they've reserved a ticket for me to head to the Labryrinth of Jareth, a masquerade ball of epic proportions at the Fonda. One caveat: myself, and my photographer, the Esteemed Mister Timothy Norris would not gain entry if we weren't wearing wigs or fairy wings or something kind of magical/drag queeny. My excitement only grew. Mandatory ridiculousness. It's rare, and thrilling.

I have since made a stop at the Vine Party Store and climbed over a heap of life size Fabio cutouts into the forbidden and roped-off halloween section, emerging with some sort of four dollar mask made of feathers, which I will wear on my face. We'll keep you posted on how Mr. Norris looks in my pink wig.

A trial run of feather-faced madness: 

i-D mag darlings, the Paris and Berlin-based duo Bless (Desiree Heiss and Ines Kaag) have dabbled in fashion, beauty, art, advertising and now, interior design. Check out their 'Wallscapes' which, when glued to the side of your home office/bedroom/bathroom, give the illiusion of living in an urban Berlin high rise. 

Just squint and you can almost believe you're overlooking the Berlin Strausberger Platz...mmm do I detect the aroma of currywurst und pommes frites? And the faint thump squat party techno in the distance? I'm like totally already there, ja!

All the wallscapes document interiors where Bless products live or have lived, and can either be purchased as 3mx4m posters (coming in nine strips) or as four wooden panels.

Available by phone order (213) 617-1105 or online at Ooga Booga.

Do I have a stick up my butt or is it messed up that Privilege celebrated the premiere of "Captivity" by reenacting scenes from the horror flick? Torture chambers and all! For those of you who don’t know, the movie is about a girl (Elisha Cuthbert) getting roofied at a club and then tortured. Something that, unfortunately, happens way too often.

That said: I’m going to be totally hypocritical for a second and say that Jenn Laskey did a great job putting together the entertainment. It’s not often that you see bloody baby dolls at Privilege, much less girls wearing Mohawks and black electrical tape over their nipples. 

(Photos courtesy of Jenn Laskey)

Do you like frozen yogurt, but wish it tasted a little more like pizza sauce?

Well, you’re in luck! Unlike froyo behemoth Pinkberry—which only serves the vanilla and green tea flavored stuff—Yogo Tango, one of the gazillion new L.A. frozen yogurt joints desperate for a slice of the Pinkberry pie (Mmmmm, Pinkberry pie…) has begun offering frozen yogurt in a variety of flavors, from chocolate to peach to (say it with me) tomato.

Behold: 

Photo Credit: www.yogotango.com

Believe it.

Try it.

Like, sprinkle some parmesan on it.

Then toss it out.

--Amir Kenan 

Masturbatory L.A. artist Gary Baseman has teamed up with the vaginally-inspired Mexican artist Amor Munoz to create a seriously limited-edition line of delightfully x-rated wearable art. Their is a creative match made in heaven - Munoz took some of Baseman's best known art charcters and embroidered them on to peasant skirts, bouse and jackets alongside her own  depictions of the nude female form.  The results are titillatingly beautiful to say the least, although probably not suitable attire for Grandma's 80th birthday party or court appearances.

Several items from the collection will be on show (and on sale, presumably) at Baseman's opening this Saturday, at the Billy Shire gallery. Munoz, who is quite the minx, will not be in attendance - but we hope to meet her in LA soon. 'Cause there's nothing we love more than a good honest pervert.

[[media="1465646";alt="Amor Munoz 1"]

Photo credit: Amor Munoz 

It never fails: everyone walking into the Scene in Glendale awkwardly registers the stench of, as one patron squawked last night, "f@*ckin' beer farts, dude!'

While that sends shivers and nausea through me, there is a light at the end of this stinky tunnel, and one which makes breathing the thick air inside a little easier.

The smell is not generated by anyone's intestines, but rather, the adorable photobooth in the back of the scene. In particular, "sulfur dioxide and some minor ammonia and chloramine which will smell up the darkroom."  Or in this case, a bar.

Photo credit: Los Angeles Times

I share a birthday with Neil Armstrong. My best friend shares a birthday with Hitler.

And as of dinnertime tonight, two new L.A. restaurants—Osteria Mozza, Mario Batali and Nancy Silverton’s ode to all things mozzarella, and Craft , the Los Angeles outpost of Tom “Top Chef” Colicchio’s super-popular New York eatery of the same name—will be born on the same day.

Should we be worried that it’s Friday the 13th?

Since comparing the two dueling see-and-be-seen restaurants seems inevitable, let’s just cut the Craft (Zing!). I propose a good ol’ fashioned smackdown: Mozza vs. Craft. Mano a mano. No scratching or hitting below the belt. Biting permitted.

Let the smackdown begin…

Round 1: Reservations

Since their reservation line opened at 10 a.m., I naturally started calling Mozza at 9:45 a.m. By 10:10 a.m., I was on two phones speed-dailing like a true champ, and trying not to take the busy signal personally (you’d think I was calling a radio show trying to win Maroon 5 tickets). Finally, at 10:15 a.m., I made it through… and was told they were already completely booked until Monday.

Next I rang up Craft, which not only picked up on the first ring, but was still taking reservations for opening night (though only at 6 p.m. and 11 p.m.). A couple of minutes later, I got an email from Craft (!), confirming my reservation and offering helpful suggestions regarding parking and dress code ("Smart Casual": so bring your weekend monocle).

You’ve won this round, Craft. But I hear that Mozza’s mozzarella bar is pretty wicked…

Keep posted for reviews of both restaurants in the coming week – same Metro-time, same Metro-channel.

--Amir Kenan 

There were so many stripes at the El Rey the other night, I felt like I was at a rugby match in England, not a Klaxons show in Los Angeles. Being that the Klaxons are the purveyors of so-called nu-rave, I expected more of a neon/glow stick vibe - how wrong I was. The look du jour was stripy rugby or polo shirt, worn in several cases with white skinny jeans.

I have to say, it's a look I am not entirely in love with - a little too preppy and not enough sexy for me - but the kids seem to like it. And who am I to argue?

The text messages are in, and I'm having a panic attck at all that I'm missing tonight. I should text Stephen Hawking and ask him if he's working on any portals in the time space contnuum, and if he wants to kick it with me at the Hammer tomorrow/yesterday/tonight.

The Pity Party plays for free at the Hammer with the Little Ones

Foxy rock trio The Front plays at the Scene, brought to you by the lovely Rock Insider

Worst Laid Plans, tales of enduring really awful bootay is at UCB

And the Downtown Art Walk is in full swing, including this bitchin' event 

I just realized that I'm not at any of these events because I'm too busy blogging about them. Hands up, how many people think that's whack?

Okay, hold on...getting a final count...

My best friend Jenny and I have been going for late-night pizookie runs at BJ's runs since... well, since forever. Something about a piping hot, oversized cookie topped with whipped cream and vanilla ice cream really gets us talking. We talk about guys, we talk about our other friends, we talk about that one year in high school when we weren't talking and she had to do pizookie runs with someone else. It was a tough year and after "someone else" turned out to be a man-stealing slag , I was mercifully re-instated. But that's another story for another time.

Before we know it the pizookie we are sharing is gone and the bus boys are vacuuming the floors. We usually take that as our cue to leave, though not before snapping a few photos of the devastation we leave in our wake. 

This morning missing from my daily commute was the tamale lady who sold breakfast tamales, pan dulce, and champurrado at the corner of Venice and Fairfax.  It has become somewhat of a daily ritual, seeing the steam rise from the Styrofoam cups as the bus riders huddled around dreading the rest of what is surely a lackluster day.  It was comforting to see her morning after morning doling out a bit of home cooking to the world weary Los Angeleno populace.  I understand why she was probably ousted from her corner, though it does feel like a little bit of community died with it.  Isn’t there a better way to deal with street vendors than just get giving them the heave-ho?  Hopefully she’ll return in a few weeks time, when the City has forgotten about her little spot on Venice and Fairfax.

--Shane Redsar 

Sayonara Star Shoes. The kitschy bar recently shut down and is getting made over into Vice, an exclusive haunt on Hollywood Boulevard that should be a cross between Stone Rose Lounge and Winston’s. Comfortable, upscale and edgy.

Steve Fowler (former Barfly manager) and Steve Goldberg (former Club 7969 manager) are the owners behind the bar and I heard on the DL that they roped in a controversial actor to invest in the place. (I really, really wish I could tell you who that actor is, but Fowler swore me to secrecy for at least two months.)

Here’s what you need to know for now:

Vice opens August 8, but the grand opening doesn’t go down until August 15.

It won’t be an easy door to get into, but the doormen won’t be a dick to you about it if he can’t let you in.

Dudes in shorts and out-of-work actors with big egos will not get in. They especially won’t get in if they’re wearing a sideways Ed Hardy hat.

Girls will always have an easier time getting in, but Fowler encourages skimpy clothing on girls. Check out the pics on his MySpace page for proof.

The music will be heavy on the rock ‘n roll classics and light on the hip-hop. Fowler also wants to start a house night on Sundays. Interested? Email me at aletellier@metromix.com and I’ll forward it along.

Ultraviolet gets ultraviolent

Just returned from the over-capacity Kid Dangerous launch. Given the solid reps of the party's sponsors and organizers, it had a far more Hollywood frat-boy vibe than I was expecting, complete with jocky dudes breathing Michelob in my face. Bleh. 

The Grey Kid did his karaoke-rap thing, but the most notable lesson came when the hyperglam Ultraviolet came on. After receiving a flaccid response, the lead singer (bless her spandexed heart) started getting all drill-sergeant, angrily commanding that people enjoy the set. I totally felt her pain, but you can't force someone to love you. I learned that at my junior prom.

Anyway, I left with a gift bag containing a Monster energy drink, some advertorial post cards, and a tiny keychain of a beer bottle. I won't say they never gave me nothin'. Meh. 

I'll admit it - I'm thinking about Ryan Gosling. You know all those jokes about saving Ryan's privates - if only he'd let me...

Welcome to my sad life.

I met Ryan at a BBQ nearly 2 months ago and he's a doll. He was singing and playing guitar (he and his ex-GF's brother have formed a band together) while my friend Jimmy, talented guitarist who came up with the Chris Isaak 'Wicked Games' riff, strummed along. It was quite the perfect day...when night fell we all went inside and I played the piano while Ryan sang his new song, and then he told me about travlieng to the Czech Republic and visiting a spooky church made out of skulls. We talked about checking out the Jovovich Hawk fashion show the following night but alas, it never happened.

Then a couple nights ago I saw him again, tall and resplendent in some kind of tweedy brown librarian's jacket on a street corner  on 5th and Main Downtown...he wasn't scoring crack (if you've seen "Half Nelson" you'll know what I meant by that), but he was filming something and looking pleased as he watched footage on a monitor. My hair was discheveled, and my eyes were baggy from overwork...I so wanted to say hello but instead I scurried past, head down, before burying myself inside a vodka tonic at Bar 107. I know, I know...I shoulda said hi...but he looked, you know busy. Like a movie star.

So here I am at 1:41am, thinking about Ryan...what's a girl to do?

If you live in Silverlake, you are no doubt acquainted with Sugar , the teeny tiny hair salon located next to Cafe Stella in Sunset Junction. As well as offering up fun stuff like free vodka and tri-hawks during the Sunset Junction street fair, its owner, biker dude and former Fred Segal hair guru Tommy Carmanico, has been responsible for creating many an alterna-look. In fact, it would be safe to say that Sugar has shaped the face - and hair - of Silverlake.

Well, in a Metromix hairdressing exclusive, I can reveal that Sugar is going to be closing and moving east down the road, where it will reopen on the site currently occupied by the Jeff Electric gallery (another Eastide creative hub, which is closing down this week). The building's landlord Herman had refused many offers from prospective restaurateurs, prefering instead to hand over the space to someone like Tommy, with an old skool Silverlake vibe. No over-priced wine bars or designer sneaker shops here!

Sugar re-opens on August 1st in its new location, and we look forward to many more tri-hawks, mohawks and - if you're really crazy - golden highlights to come!  

While the Klaxons were doing their best to live up to the hype at the El Rey the other night (and doing a formidable job), we ran into all sorts of Los Angeles characters making the scene. There was Rob Simas and the lovely Cristina Fisher from BPM magazine hanging out, and DJ duo Mid-City West, Josh and Spencer. But when man about town Mark Hunter, AKA star photog Cobrasnake came our way to chat up style ed Caroline Ryder, I couldn’t resist trying my hand at taking a shot. The next Terry Richardson I am not. Well, maybe with a better camera and less vodka…

A coworker brought Sprinkles cupcakes today to cheer up the mood in what has been crunch time. I selected just about one of the most amazing blueberry cupcakes I've ever had (hard decision between that and the red velvet). I think the difference between this and other blueberry cupcakes is the frosting; it is sweet, light, and moist. Though was it worth it to spend an ungodly amount of time in line, and pay $3 for one cupcake? Since I neither waited nor paid for it, the answer is, well, yes! What a sweet, free reward for what has been a particularly hellish day.

--Shane Redsar

Kid Dangerous is staging a summit of hip for its launch party tonight. Seriously, I have no idea what to wear, and if I could chop myself an ironic mullet on the car ride there, I'd probably be in better shape.

For $12 at King King, filthy/trendy revelers will enjoy a fashion show of Kid Dangerous' "grime couture", a line of ultra distressed fabrics and designs by underground artist and Ice Cream Man photographer Jeremiah Garcia. The truly motivated alcoholics can gorge on free vodka from 9-10, and performances by The Grey Kid and Ultraviolet butt up against sets by Mr Franki Chan himself.

And if you feel photogenic enough, get yourself a shiny new profile picture with the charming Rony at his photobooth. If I hit the free hooch,  I may just get hammy for it myself. And if I get deep into the sauce, maybe I'll chop that mullet, peeps.  

Everyone loves to see women in miniskirts brawl on wheels. Right? Not City Council.

My Derby Dolls info source, the cryptically named Judy Gloom, just delivered the infuriating news that due to event permit hassles with The Man, the space they usually bruise each other in will be off-limits. They were supposed to skate back onto the scene July 21st, to the delight of their rabid fan base, but word just got out that their season is postponed until they can find a new venue.

We're pouting until further notice.

(Photo: Mark Berry)

Ignore the gossip that LAX co-owners DJ AM and Loyal Pennings are at odds with each other. They are opening another Hollywood club together on September 1. It’ll be on Orange Street, right behind Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and early word is that the club will have a Skybar vibe. I hope that means poolside beds and celebrity shenanigans.

In a city like Los Angeles, there's something particularly special about having a hot concert venue within walking distance. Which is why I'm always eager to catch a show at the El Rey , which is smack in the middle of my ’hood. So when the Rey hosts one of my favorite new bands like the Klaxons, it’s party time around Blipster HQ.

Stopping at the Rite-Aid up the block from the venue, I was enjoying a Monster energy drink and a bag of trail mix when I noticed a posse of skinny-legged boys and pretty girls coming up the street. As they got closer, I soon realized it was the Klaxons and their sizable entourage. Since the band’s New York-based publicist Alexandra was kind enough to put me on the list and in town for the show, I decided to introduce myself. I sidled up to Klaxons guitarist Jamie Reynolds to ask him which female was Alex. He eyed me suspiciously before pointing her out: “The blonde one.”

The statuesque blonde leading the pack was indeed my PR friend. We exchanged pleasantries and she took the dudes inside to get ready to play.

Inside, Portland band Fist Fite was finishing up their opening set. A feisty girl singer/keyboard player led the interestingly discordant no-wave trio. She told jokes about dolphins and t-shirts. I guess they’re friends with the Klaxons and tour Europe with them occasionally.

As the Klaxons 10 p.m. show time rolled around, the sold out El Rey was at full boil. The evening’s fashion statement was stripes. They were so predominant you’d have thought someone sent out a memo. Enough that Metromix style goddess Caroline Ryder set off to take some pictures.

The band took the stage and launched straight into “The Bouncer” and “Atlantis to Interzone” back to back, which of course had the kids down front pogoing like mad. Keyboard player and anti-“nu-raver” James Righton was sporting a very cool Justice t-shirt that I totally want.

Between songs, they kept going on about how much they love Los Angeles. Towards the end of the show Reynolds announced that the band would be moving to L.A. to record their next album. As they bid farewell for the night, he promised that the Klaxons would be playing another show in town in September, so if you missed them last night, fret not. They'll be back sooner than you think. Let’s just hope all of the sunshine and pretty girls don’t dilute their rough and tumble sound. Stay hard, Klaxons!


 

My Dear Seared Ahi Tuna:

I hate to do this in a letter, but I think we need to start seeing other proteins.

Sure, we had our fun: Seared ahi appetizers. Seared ahi salads. Seared ahi tuna burgers. You used to be so… raw. But lately you seem to be showing up on every menu in town.

My friends told me to ignore you, but every time I show up at an L.A. restaurant – Kate Mantilini, Il Forno Caldo, Swingers – there you are. And now you’re dressed in wasabi reductions and tossed in miso vinaigrettes. You used to hate miso!

Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. (Sometimes I feel like you don’t know who you are anymore.) It’s not me; it’s you. My mom was right: she warned me that you’d be cold in the center.

I’m sorry it had to end this way. We’ll always have the Seared Ahi Tuna Sandwich at Newsroom.

xoxo
Amir

PS Do you still have my Audioslave cd?

--Amir Kenan

The Parlor is located at 1519 Wilshire Boulevard in Santa Monica.

A little backstory: Instead of dinner, I just ate three columns of Ritz crackers. Doing the math, I realized this was the caloric equivalent to eating four Big Macs. 

Cut to me wondering why, if neon colors and sweatbands have resurrected themselves, Jazzercise hasn't made a triumphant return. Seriously, I'd hit some classes if they had a decent soundtrack. I'm thinking a little Klaxons, some Digitalism, maybe throw in some Robot moves with The Pity Party...

I even seem to remember Cobrasnake getting his sweat on as an aerobics instructor for Paper Mag 's quick west coast lovefest a few years back. Why did it not stick?!

Fist on table, ready to get funky, I say we mobilize our forces and crank up the jams in a dark, disco-riffic workout/club setting. Good for the ears, excellent for the booties.   

(As a prime example of No-Not-Quite-But-Thank-You, I present video of L.A.'s beloved Ditty Bops' induction into Jazzercise fame. Warning: may contain footage of older women shaking their ta-tas. But the payoff comes at the end as Ditty Bop and former model Amanda Barrett is seen in a skin-tight aerobics getup and pink hair. Even as a straight chick, I'll admit that's hot.)

I like Opening Ceremony a lot. Go to their sale on Friday and get up to 50% off.

451 N. La Cienega, 90048 

Lo and behold upon returning from his trip my rooommate announced the Simpsons donut in the fridge was actually for me!  Oh happy day!  Time to dive into this insta-diabetes inducing pastry. --SR

I received word today that Quute, an English handbag company, is coming out with a range of bags and clutches that come with a light inside to illuminate your belongings. Seeing as I spend at least 20 minutes a day rummaging for my lipliner/money/phone/car keys in the abyss that is my handbag, this news was of interest. Quute bags retail for about $500, and you can order them online by emailing info@quuteillumina.co.uk. Or visit www.quuteillumina.co.uk. 

If that's out of your price range, try the Solas bag (Jessica Alba is a fan), which will also light up your life, and starts at $129.

And if that's still too much - get a glow stick. 

I met up with RTX's Jennifer Herrema yesterday at the Rose Cafe in Venice. We talked about all kinds of things...her long-running association with Calvin Klein (she was an original CK One girl in the 1990's, shot by Stephen Meisel at the height of the 'waif' era -  they told her if she refused to be part of the campaign "we'll just find someone who looks like you"), and how Calvin Klein flew her and her band out to Melbourne, Australia recently to perform on the catwalk during a fashion show. Yes - on the catwalk. "It was kinda weird," said Herrema, who has the best legs in rock music, "but we went with it. They treated us great." Jennifer has visionary taste in clothes and has styled shoots for i-D and Nylon mags - but her primary focus (aside from her boyfriend, who plays bass in RTX) is her music.

I saw RTX play at the Penny-Ante book release party a month ago. The sight of Jennifer groaning and writhing in all her kooky sartorial glory almost made me pee my pants. She was wearing almost the same outfit when we met up yesterday - denim patchwork bag, tight jeans, alligator skin boots, skull charms, and cotton-candy color fox and mink tails hanging around her waist. And a mess of surf-battered hair, framed by bangs almost as heavy as her music.

Ah yes,  the hair...we drank champagne and talked about how she was a Bardot-like platinum blonde for three years after splitting with her husband Neil Hagerty (with whom she formed the lenegdary but now-defunct Royal Trux). She went blond by literally pouring a bottle of peroxide over her head in the bathroom of their recording studio. "Then it started falling out," said Herrema, who surfs three times a week.

Her hair is now a more natural honey blonde. Nonetheless, I advised her to apply mayonnaise to the ends and leave on overnight as a precautionary measure. 

Photographer Dan Monick was with us and he took some awesome photos of her hanging out on Venice beach, smoking and looking badass. Nadav, her right hand man, told me they are working on a new album which contains "elements of R Kelly". If you've ever heard RTX (opium den heavy rock), you know this is gonna be a far-out combination - it's a cliffhanger, for sure. 

I was on the phone with Jimmy, who works at the Hive Gallery downtown, about the art walk this Thursday. Apparently, folks get on their bikes as a swarm to tour all the radastic galleries, and the Hive usually ends up as the destinaton at the end of the night. This of course, has me dreaming up pretty scenes of me and a bike, joining the gallery tour, then bonding on secret pathways all over the city.

..Me and my bike, stopping for a picnic on the grass, me and my bike, hitting the Bicycle Kitchen for a tune up, spending the afternoon laughing in the grass, me and my bike, sharing an inside joke. My bike would leave me comments on Myspace that only I would get, and at Christmas we'd bake cookies.

Should I just buy one? Should I troll the bike ads, looking for my, um, sole mate?

Seriously, how cute is this? 

The Beverly Hills Hotel must be really desperate to lure in the 'young' crowd with its new Bar Nineteen12, which opens tonight. The posh spot has a handsome (dark wood, gold tones, leather chairs), but the drink menu has the kiddie thing going on to the extreme. According to Urban Daddy's "preview," the bar serves martini popsicles, mojito sorbet and jelly shots, an interpretation of the good old Jell-O shot. Yum. The "Cereal Milk" martini, on the other hand, sounds disgusting and gives me the impression I'll be drinking someone curdled backwash. No thanks.

It was like Christmas in the summertime. Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem playing together at the Hollywood Bowl. Oh my. This is going to be seriously fun.

I like the Arcade Fire, but pour moi this one's all about James Murphy and the gang cranking up the disco machine. It's one of those shows that had me all geeked-out in front of my computer at precisely 9:59 a.m. the morning tickets went on sale. Good times.

I've been hot on Murphy's trail for a while now. I saw one of LCD Soundsystem's first shows in Miami during the Winter Music Conference a few years back. They were opening for the Rapture, just fresh from the explosion that was "House of Jealous Lovers." Both bands brought it, but there was something special about LCD Soundsystem that night.

The last time he brought the band through Los Angeles, LCD followed a triumphant Coachella set with a sold out three-night stand at the El Rey. I randomly bought a ticket for the middle night. This would turn out to be a very good move on my part.

The show was what’s becoming for LCD customarily awesome. For me, the highpoint was when they tore through a cover version of Paperclip People's "Throw." Loooong story there, but it's a classic Detroit techno tune produced by Carl Craig. The band covers it faithfully, and on that night, they straight killed it.

So imagine my excitement with KCRW's super-fun Rachel Reynolds invited me down to the studios to watch LCD record a session for "Morning Becomes Eclectic."

I got there just in time to see the band launch into "Time to Get Away." It is one thing to hear the band play at a show — seeing them do it in a small radio studio is another thing entirely. The intricacies of the songs open up like mid-period Talking Heads. Murphy is hilarious between songs. He even called out the Chemical Brothers for "stealing" two Grammys from them. Classic. 

After the show, he was gracious enough to chat. He pointed out that he had the t-shirt I was wearing from Chicago’s Life During Wartime dance parties. I complimented him on his version of “Throw.”

“Oh, you must’ve gone to the middle night. That was the only night we did that song.”

And that’s why it was a good thing I got tickets for the middle show.


The picture above is one that I took at the LCD Soundsystem show at the El Rey.

The picture below is one that I took of James Murphy(R) with KCRW DJ/producer Raul Campos

We all complain about having to wait in line to get past the velvet rope, especially when you know the club’s totally empty and that the doorman is just making people wait so it looks like there's a buzz outside. But aside from being annoying, waiting outside might not be safe.

The recent car-bomb incidents that have recently taken place outside London clubs have LAPD Chief William J. Branton on alert; L.A. might not be a target, but because Hollywood has the highest number of nightclubs in the country, there's reason for caution.

So are club owners going to change how they operate? Nope!

I asked James Sinclair, who owns Element, and he's not worried about the threats. "If we change the way we operate –outside of being more aware of our surrounding and more diligent– then we give the terrorists what they want," he says. "We're in the safest area in the city. There are cameras and security guards everywhere."

Tricia LaBelle, who heads up The Hollywood Hospitality & Nightclub Owner's Association and also owns Boardner's, concurs. "We have so many other survival issues facing our industry at present time in Hollywood that adding another possible issue on top of the list at this point, I personally don't think scares anyone," she says. "As far as a car pulling up and blowing up in front of a venue, it certainly can happen and there isn't much anyone can do to prevent it."

Hollywood club promoter Jason Lavitt also agrees. "There are undercover police on the street each night."

In fact, every club operator I spoke to felt the same way, and that’s a relief.

I took a little trip down to Pepe’s Mexican Food, or as I like to call it Pay-Payzzz, last week to officially seal the deal on my “no bikinis this summer” policy. Love handles be damned, I inhaled three shredded beef tacos without taking a single breath. Now Shane will be rolling his eyes at my little jibes regarding my weight after telling me yesterday “You're so skinny, it’s ridiculous” to which I responded “Yes but underneath my clothes, I’m floppy.” But I digress. The point, if there even is one, is that Pay-Payzzz is The. Best. Taco. Place. Ever. And it’s not just because the tacos are good (which they are. So, so good) but because with its outdoor-seating-only policy and drive-thru window Pepe’s is about as LA taco joint-ish as you can get. Case in point: Every time I go there, and I go there a lot, the possibility of a drive-by shooting crosses my mind. But then I take another bite of my fifth taco and think “Well, if that’s the way I’ve gotta go, at least I’ll go happy.”   

Pepe's Finest Mexican Food, Alhambra

511 W. Valley Blvd.Alhambra, CA 91803

(626) 289-8618

Mon.

Pan dulce for bfast $0.75
Two tacos al carbon from El Pollo Loco $2.00

Tues.-Thurs.

Repeat as Monday

Happy Monday everyone! Love, Shane

--Shane Redsar 

The friendly folks at American Apparel are thinking of making more use of their awesome factory building and starting a Sunday flea market. They're talking about selling music and clothes as well as having DJs and general fun times. The building is such an important L.A. landmark - opening it up to the public would be so fun...DO IT DOV!

Photo credit: David McNew/Getty Images 

The best looking guy I ever dated didn’t smell right. This turned out to be a good thing because when I finally gave him the boot I discovered he may or may not have been a complete lunatic. Whew! Potential relationship crises averted. My nose has been known to bail me out of many fishy situations throughout life (plenty of pun intended). This is particularly true when it comes to what I eat; if it doesn’t smell good, it doesn’t cross my lips. Over the years I have compiled a list, yes a LIST, of the foods that I have thus far denied entrance into my stomach based on smell. Now that I have become a self-professed professional eater, I’ve realized that my list needs some tweaking.

Something tells me you did not visit this blog to read about my love of teriyaki chicken and cheese pizza. And so, for the cause, I’m going to do two things. I’m going to show you my list. And I’m going to invite you to pick ONE thing from it for me to sample.

I only promise to actually stick the darn thing in my mouth; I make no guarantees that I will like it. My blog tomorrow might be titled “Mushrooms taste like old socks.”

The Grand List:
Mushrooms; sushi (the rawer, the scarier); fish and lobster; anything with curry in it; jalapenos, flan, coconut, chili powder, tamales (I know, and I'm Latina!); coffee (yes, yes, I've never put coffee to my lips); and kiwis.

For fun, you can preface your response with "I triple dog dare you..." just as extra assurance. I could never resist a good triple-dog-dare.

As you may have already heard, Roberto Cavalli will be designing a 20-piece men's and women's collection for H&M, in the wake of the yucky M for Madonna and delightful Viktor and Rolf collections.

I wonder if Cavalli will be creating body-conscious cocktail numbers like the one above (part of his Spring/Summer 2008 collection) for the high street retailer. If so, don't worry, you have plenty of time to shed 30 or so lbs - the 'Roberto Cavalli at H&M' collection doesn't launch 'til November 8, in approximately 200 selected H&M stores worldwide.

Photo credit: AP Photo/Alberto Pellaschiar

Posted by Caroline Ryder 

The "Sex and the City" movie is slated to start filiming in the fall, and I just can't wait!

All four of the original stars are slated to star, despite supposed rifts between Sarah Jessica Parker and Kim Cattrall.

E!Online reports that "it's unlikely the film will pick up immediately where the series left off, if for no other reason than the slight aging of the actresses."

Ouch! 

Even if Carrie, Samantha, etc. all have gone the way of the cougar, we're still excited that "Sex" addicts around the world will once again get to revel in Manolos,  Jimmy Choos, and nipple enhancers.

Nipple enhancers?

Yes - remember the episode when Samanatha sported bodyperks™ faux erect nipples beneath her designer cashmere, to attract the attention of suitors? "bodyperks™ were crafted to produce just the right amount of perkiness, regardless of breast size or shape," we're told by the manufacturers. Available in two different colors - Perky in Pink and Baby Got Brown - these sexy accessories are still very much available, and can be worn with tight t-shirts, sexy halters, dresses, twin sets, and even swimsuits, for maximum impact.

Pert-fect! 

Visit Hustler Hollywood, Playmates in Hollywood, Creative Lingerie in Glendale to pick up your pair, or order online - only $19.95 plus shipping and, er, handling.

Photo credit: courtesy of bodyperks™ 

Posted by Caroline Ryder 

Mustaches, ironic or otherwise, have been de rigeur facial apparel on the Eastside for some time now. So we were delighted to hear the 'tache trend has turned unisex, as demonstrated by the womenfolk of Silverlake at the Jeff Electric gallery last Friday. The gallery, which is closing this week but may re-open as a hair salon (stay tuned), threw a mustaches-only party at which female hirsuteness was actively encouraged.

These girls rocked the John Waters, completing the look with silk scarf (left) and arrogant brows (right):

Whereas some hunnies prefered the handlebar:

This couple shares the same barber. 

But this little lady in the bottom right gets it just right, pairing her vintage lace babydoll with a massive Zapatista mustache. So bold.

 Photo credit: Jeff Hartline

There's enough caffeine coursing through my veins to induce seizures in a Russian race horse. I've been staring at the same picture of Uffie for so long my sleep-deprived mind is starting to believe that she's really here (I wish). No one has openly cried - yet (although I did just experience a dazzling display of dry heaving in the parking lot. Rawk!). 

In 18 hours, we officially give birth to this Rosemary's Baby. Which is why things are getting particularly brutal at Metromix LA HQ, and it's starting to show. But that's all part of the fun, right? Right? OK, be that way. 

I'm supposed to be listening to the new Interpol album to review for this Tuesday (it's much better than the haters would have you believe, btw), but I can't stop scrolling through the classic rock bootlegs I've been downloading from an amazing new site I found the other day. Right now a Pretenders concert from 1980 (featuring the original line-up), one by the Cars from 1979 and a gig by Cheap Trick recorded in my hometown of Deeee-troit in 1978 are stuck in permanent rotation. As Greg Kihn once sang, "They just don't write them like that anymore."

I did manage to sneak out for a little fun last night, catching the Decemberists' tremendous gig playing with the LA Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl . Their opening acts? Band of Horses and Andrew Bird. Pretty sweet, yes? More about the show later - promise. Big thanks and lots of love to sweethearts Laura Cohen and Lisa Bellamore for facilitating this all-too-brief respite from the madness. 

In the meantime, I'm desperately clutching to what little sanity is left upstairs. We'll see how it goes. Details at 11...

I was cruising through West L.A.'s Little Tokyo with Miss Alie Ward, Metromix Events Editor, on Saturday and happened upon the Hair Epoch salon. Outside was an intriguing sign advertising 'digital perms', and alongside it, a photo of a scary-looking contraption much like this. WTF?

Having suffered many a bad poodle perm during the 1990's, I was curious about this new piece of curling technology. Hair Epoch, it turns out, is the first Japanese salon in LA to pick up on the technology, and they are charging $150 to $190 a go. Salon owner Aki Kobayashi told me that electric perming - otherwise known as the 3D curl or dry perm - has actually been around for at least 30 years, but is making a comeback, especially in Korean hair salons, and now in Japanese hairdressers too.

Unlike regular perms, which use nasty chemical treatments to artificially spiral locks, electric perming uses a generator to send current in to ceramic hair rollers, which then heat up while in your hair, which has some gentle perm solution on it. Leave for a while and then voila - your previously poker-straight hair is transformed into a cascade of gentle waves that last up to six months. 

So, er, doesn't it burn a little, having superheated ceramic hair rollers on your head? No, apparently - digital perms are usually only done on longer hair, so hot rollers can be kept away from your skin. According to Aki, digital perms are way gentler than regular perms, and perfect for those of us wanting to add a little body to limp hair. 

Who knows, maybe it's time to get me another Robert Plant.

Photo credit: Dimitar Dilkoff

You’ve probably seen the delivery cars with the logo emblazoned, and you’ve probably wondered to yourself, “What is this Crispy Crust, and is it a pizza place, video game, or movie?”  My friends Julie, Mark, and I also wondered the same exact thing, as the logo was such a fun departure from the usual boring standard logos we see across the city.  It made us feel like Burger Time was real and playing right before our very eyes. 

After scouring the internet for any information we finally came upon a listing (gasp, they don’t have a site yet!?),  and called them up.  After talking to a friendly man over the phone who was willing to tell us the entire menu over the phone, we settled on a large pie with pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms.  We also got an order of hot wings, slice of cheesecake, and a 2 liter diet coke.

After tipping the friendly delivery man, we dove right into the pizza.  Man o’ man, I don’t know if it was the hunger or the sheer anticipation, but this pizza was pretty darn good.  The sauce wasn’t too salty, and even had a slight sweetness too it and the crust wasn’t crispy at all, but somewhat chewy in texture, almost with a bagel like consistency.  All in all, it was an enjoyable experience and we devoured it with pleasure.

Now to convince my friends from the east coast that I’ve found a decent pizza. It’s always a hard sell with that crowd as apparently LA has never made a good pie. Ever. --Shane Redsar

I spent a long day at work/play here at Metromix HQ, and with the best intentions, proclaimed I was headed home, and straight into bed. No. Going. Out.  

But all it takes are a few drunk dials on my voicemail and a coercive text, and suddenly I find I'm wiggling through Hollywood side streets peering down alleyways for some elusive party in a parking lot behind Zankou Chicken.

I followed the noise to a dim alley, where a man in a Security windbreaker slid open an iron gate. I wandered past a rented porta potty flanked with impatients, and into the back end of the lot. A stage was roped off, and Eastside trio The Front (the singer of which I find highly canoodle-able) was just wrapping up a sweaty set. Someone was grilling cheeseburgers, and there was free beer everywhere.

Low-tech two-piece Restaurant began to bang on their suitcase drums and licence plate symbols, but the will to stay upright was lost, and I finally had to head off. 

The kicker: I left 5 minutes before a fire dancer arrived. A dude, dancing with fire. Fireballs on chains swung around like flaming maces.  Why must humans sleep? Why?!

Crazy:

Double Crazy:

Then Yvette spun tunes in the parking lot: 

Photo credit:Yvette Dudoit

So why’d he leave SBE with his middle fingers up in the air? Because CEO Sam Nazarian fired Roohi’s (now ex-) girlfriend Daniela Danilovic, who also worked at the company, without letting him know first. He felt it the worst betrayal.

Seven months later, he’s on his own trail, blazing ahead on three projects. The first is Villa, which opens in the old Monroe’s space in September.

It’s been conceptualized to have the feel of a billionaire’s home with a library, den and a bedroom-style lounge where the main bed will turn into a stage when jazz bands perform. It’s a brilliant idea, given that everyone’s always saying that the house parties in the Hills are what really make the Hollywood nightlife scene.

There won’t be promoters, though two of his investors –currently negotiating out of their deal at SBE and therefore on the DL— were big-time promoters at Area.

As for getting in, good luck. The venue only holds 120 people and is will open its doors to invitees.

It’s approximately 36 hours before this thing goes all the way live. “Situation Critical,” as Platinum Blonde once said (and if you’re not up on Platinum Blonde, let’s just say they were Canada’s answer to Duran Duran back in the ’80s, and their first two albums are the kinds of guilty pleasures that in a singular, inimitable way are sort of amazing). My nervous system is fried from too many Extreme Mocha Lights from the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf across the way (hi Alie). It’s late and I can’t sleep. What’s a boy to do? Oh right, cozy up to a nice pile of vintage vinyl.

Which is where I unearthed this amazing feat of sonic dexterity, the second album from the Cars, “Candy-O.”  Originally released in 1979(!), this album puts 99.9% of these current skinny-legged indie bands trying so desperately to make you dance with their angular guitars and discofied beats to shame. The Strokes even tried to write a Cars song with “12:51.” These dudes (from Boston, people) were waaaaaay ahead of their time, like light years. Not only were they quirky as all get out, but also wrote catchy songs that slaughtered FM radio and they rocked – hard. Hard enough that stoners cruising the strip in T-topped Cameros would blast singles like “Let’s Go” and the title track with pride.

So if you’re feeling particularly neon and maybe a little elegantly wasted, and your boy snatched your Klaxons EP (again), just nab yourself a copy of “Candy-O.” Blast this in front of Cinespace on a Tuesday night and all the cool girls will want you to take them for a spin. 

"You go dancing in the dim lit club/some pressure cooker crawls up on his knees/flashing sensation like a one on one/stomping around in the jitterbug breeze/oo how you shake me up and down/when we hit the nightspots on the town" — "Nightspots"

OK, seriously: What’s going on Downtown? At first the nightlife revival was great–the bars were original and edgy and they brought people back to the street after dark. But lately every new Downtown bar or trend seems to mimic the Hollywood scene. 

Exhibit A: The most popular Hollywood hotspots have a theme, from Balinese temple (Mood) to vintage salon (Beauty Bar). The latest crop of bars to open Downtown also have themes, like Seven Grand, a Scottish-style whisky bar decked out in stag heads and flannel print. 

Exhibit B: Until recently, velvet-rope rejects (and those too weary to try) abandoned Hollywood for Downtown’s laid-back door policies. Then The Edison opened Downtown and poof, Converse-clad kids are now rejected at the door for not dressing chic enough. I find this especially ironic given that Marc Smith owns The Edison –the very man who opened Hollywood’s grungy Burgundy Room in 1989, only to sell it when he felt the neighborhood became too pretentious.

Exhibit C: The folks behind the trendy Citizen Smith, where every celeb under the sun comes to nibble and lounge, are opening an outpost of their Hollywood location in a Downtown loft called The Roosevelt, not be confused with the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, which houses Tropicana Bar and Teddy's.

It’s not that I don’t love Hollywood. I do, with a capital L. But I also have a heart-on for Downtown and it’d be a shame if the scene lost its identity and became trendy enough to attract the Paris Hilton types.

Photo credit: Juan Ojeda, LA Dodgers

Ever seen a punk legend, and one of Rolling Stone's top 100 gee-tarists, wail on the National anthem? Tonight was your chance, comrades.

Before the the Braves cowered on the field to get their Atlanta arses kicked, Mr. Wayne Kramer of MC-5 opened the game by sauntering onto the field in an all-white suit, with his "Wayne Kramer Signature Series" Fender stars and stripes Stratocaster and a Hot Rod Deville amped up behind him. Sun setting behind the stadium, he eked out the national anthem on the eve of Independence Day.

Ahhh, what a sight.