"Where do you even get a dead squirrel?" a blond woman asks her friend.

I'm at the Venice offices of Flux, the film collective responsible for last year's Swerve Fest and the ongoing Hammer screening series. They recently moved to new, breezy headquarters and—as a housewarming gesture—are hosting an art exhibit by Kyle Ng and throwing a party that involves a barrel of free beers.

It's a sleepy Thursday evening, and I'm standing face-to-face with a cluster of taxidermied squirrels wrapped around a dead fox, suspended from the ceiling and attached to a fistful of glass balloons. People surround it, sipping free merlot, unsure of how to respond. I myself can't decide if I want to pet it or run away; both gestures seem inappropriate.

There's a queue forming in front of a closed door, so I shrug and wait with a few strangers to enter a closet. Rather than 7 minutes of anonymous make-outs, we enter to find that it's tricked out as a snowscape, complete with a foot of powder and a stuffed porcupine sniffing a fake human hand. My date murmurs as we slide open the door to leave, "What's weirder than the dead porcupine is that we were all in there... just looking at it… silently."

Leaving, I run into Ng outside and he asks, "Did you see the porcupine?" I shake his hand, say yes, and compliment him on the gold walrus with the rhinestone-blinged tusks in the hallway.

But I forget to ask where he got the squirrels.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but God bless Pete Wentz. Sure, he’s the male Jennifer Anniston of the new millennium with the most copied haircut since the “Rachel” (he says he bit it from Rihanna. I think it’s the other way around). He’s also done the seemingly impossible: Pete Wentz has brought music back to MTV.

As the host of the new show FNMTV (as in “effing MTV”), Wentz presides over a completely bananas mix of new music with an impressive range. While it’s the big hit-makers that keep the kids squealing, enough genuine good music is mixed in to make it the most sonically entertaining hour on MTV in far too long (who do I have to arm-wrestle to get “120 Minutes” revived?).

Even though I’m still kicking myself for not being able to attend the taping of the second episode (where Lil Wayne positively destroyed the studio with an incendiary run through the ubiquitous “A Milli”), the news that I would be seeing Rihanna and No Age perform was enough to RSVP with a quickness for episode number three.

Yes, you read that right: Totally awesome L.A. art-punks No Age (see them tonight, June 27, for free at the Getty museum). With a stage manager/hypeman imploring the Technicolor crowd of teens and tweens to show them as much love as “an act you already know,” seeing Randy Randall and Dean Allen Spunt run onstage to deafening screams from people who were just moments before hollering for Atlanta rapper T.I. is oddly reassuring. It was even better seeing the audience slowly get into the decidedly trippy new No Age video for “Eraser,” which premiered on the show. Bonus points to No Age for showing a Husker Du video clip as an example of a prime influence on their sound. Score one for the good guys.

From guest panelist Kid Sister (that's her in the middle) cackling “Go ‘head, No Age, and do yo’ thang!” after lauding them for their DIY approach to the surprisingly lusty roar that greeted P Diddy’s male version of Danity Kane, Day26 (dudes can sing though, proving that the Jodeci model never goes out of style), the show has an egalitarian agenda (and surreal edge) that’s quite refreshing.

After a strong show-closing duet of “If I Never See Your Face Again” between Rihanna and Maroon 5, I somehow found myself in the backstage area after taking a wrong turn on my way out. Let’s actually call it a right turn, as it also brought me about two feet away from Rihanna herself. You think she looks good in pictures? You have no idea…

This episode of FNMTV debuts tonight (Friday, June 27). Check local listings for showtimes. 

—Scott T. Sterling 

Did the mailman lose your invite to Paris Hilton's masquerade ball at the Kress held last Sunday?

Photos via celebrity-gossip.net

It looks like you're going to have to wait even longer to get past new venue's velvet rope. Due to what promoter Andre Lowe referred to as "permit and gas issues" in a Facebook message, the Kress won't be opening on June 28 as planned. The good news, however, is that they're shooting for a soft opening on July 4, and the Kress' rooftop lounge might just be the best place in the entire city to celebrate under the fireworks! 

Without a doubt, the four-story Kress is a stunner. Not only did owner Mike Viscuso reference the original 1934 blueprints when restoring the historical building, which was a five-and-dime department before it housed Frederick's of Hollywood, but he also styled it in a way that evokes the best of Vegas, New York, and old Hollywood.

The basement nightclub sparkles (especially the boob pics behind the bar); the red-and-gold art deco-style restaurant on the ground floor looks like a "Mad Men" set; and the purple-and-white special events room on the third floor is just begging me to throw a party! But the very best spot in the entire place has to be the roof, where there are cabanas and bright colored couches and, oh yeah: panoramic views of the entire city, not to mention a perfect view of the Hollywood sign.

I hope they'll put my name on the permanent list, because this is where I plan to spend the rest of my summer.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Am I the only one who misses the salad days of the supermodel—a time when women in fashion were more than just walking hangers missing their periods? When did having a larger-than-life personality bound by a smaller-than-humanly-possible frame stop being a job requirement? Probably around the same time that what little diversity that had existed on the runways of the world began to—pardon the pun—fade away.

As a means of commenting on the sad state of colorless fashion spreads and ad campaigns, Italian Vogue recently released an “all-black” issue—featuring everyone from familiar faces like Naomi Campbell and Tyra Banks to newcomers like Chanel Iman and Sessilee Lopez. I wish I could say that I’m surprised American Vogue wouldn’t attempt to emulate such an issue—the brainchild of famed photographer Steven Meisel—however, the magazine isn’t exactly known for its groundbreaking, rabble-rousing cover stories. While the current issue of Vogue does include an article on the whitewashing of the modern runway, it comes off as somewhat of a self-congratulatory afterthought—including a photo spread in which the magazine highlights some of its more diverse moments over the years, not unlike those people who rattle off the number of black friends they have when trying to prove they aren’t racist. Maybe Steven should have pitched his idea to Vogue’s Condé Nast colleague, the Graydon Carter-run controversy glutton known as Vanity Fair. 

—Marcos Luevanos

It’s that time of the presidential election again. You can keep your “hanging chad” jokes in your pants—that’s for later. It’s the ladies’ turn to duke it out in the Presidential Bake-Off.

Spouses of presidential candidates submit “their favorite cookie recipe” to Family Circle magazine, then America votes for the best—or, as it often goes with such things, the least worst. The contest also gleefully boasts a perfect record in predicting the winner in November, thereby proving that able cookie-baking is a direct correlative for partnering the next POTUS.

I hate to admit: The cookie rumble does speak to my Susie Homemaker-side, the side that manically clips recipes with Sweeney Todd-like abandon. To think, these “Cowboy Cookies” are just what Georgie W. has before his full 8+ hour beauty sleep every night! The Prez is just like us.

The feminist (read: rationalist) in me, of course, can’t help but balk at the antiquated expectations that are present here. Requesting a favorite cookie recipe assumes that both Michelle Obama and Cindy McCain have a cultivated library of recipes at their disposal. (Indeed, McCain proved hers is called the Internet.) Sure, tradition is tradition, but the bake-off is hardly old: It began just four presidential cycles ago when Hillary Rodham Clinton matched her chocolate chips against incumbent Barbara Bush’s.

The relative newness makes perfect (reactionary) sense. Before Hill-Ro came into the picture to muddy things up, the office of the First Lady brought femininity and maternal graces and stylish skirt suits to the unscrupulous world of politics. But what happens when she has a career that doesn’t involve kids or committing the Dewey Decimal system to memory? Why, have her bake cookies, that’s what!

The oh-so-ladylike family-encircling competition is a pioneer in what’s become a separate but equally perilous campaign trail toward the feminizing of the First Lady—something that the amazing Megan Garber tracks over at "Columbia Journalism Review." Your Princeton-Harvard education? Pish-posh! We want to know the color of your Kitchenaid—and whether it’s matched to your cabinets or your linens. Oh, match to both? Well, isn’t that brilliant.

—Jiyeon Yoo

“Do you think you’ll ever leave L.A.?”

This is a question volleyed back and forth too often to ignore. On one hand, L.A. is a metropolis spastic with culture and opportunity, offering bonuses like a sparkling ocean and the random possibility of running into Hulk Hogan at Ikea. Not many cities can boast that.

However, breathing brown air too long or getting cut off by one too many a Porche can compel the most loyal Angelenos to search for a cabin on Craigslist Wyoming and never look back.

I have to say: I’d miss the girls in bikinis and gorilla masks.

No sooner had I returned from a weekend getaway in the sleepy wilderness than I opened an email from the wackies over at Ghettogloss gallery, who are for some reason obsessed with apes. Their Guerilla Gorilla Thursdays (featuring a dude in a monkey suit and a barrel of spiked jungle juice at the gallery) are being put on hold this summer in favor of some serious La Cita weirdness starting this Saturday with their first “Bronx Zoo” event.

Here’s what to do: head to La Cita from 2 p.m. to 8 p.m. Bring $5 for cover and if you like, a drawing pad and art supplies. Have some drink specials, and wait for an Ape Escape. Every hour, on the hour,  “4-7 bikini-clad girls in gorilla masks will be released to pose for quick figure drawing sketches.”

Mid-day art. Booze. Bikinis. Gorilla masks. To quote the gallery’s email announcement: “Holy shit, I love L.A.”

Of all the bars I've been to, I've never been as confused by a place as I was by Isla, the new Sunset Strip cantina located in the former Tangier spot. I should preface by saying that there are some cool features, notably a retractable roof and also floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a prime view for people watching and slide open to let the air in (and cigarette smoke out). But features do not a bar make.



As you can see from the Romanesque columns on the cantina's exterior, Isla is having a bit of an identity crisis. It's more baffling inside, as if someone in Russia, whose only experience with Mexican culture was through glossy catalogs, designed a theme restaurant at an airport. Picture it: polished black tables and matching high-back chairs, standing gold ashtrays, black tile floor... None of it is very "Mexican" except for the yellow sponge-painted walls.

The cocktail menu's a lot like the décor. Isla's signature drink, the Islarita, knocks it out of the park. The Colada martini, on the other hand, comes garnished with a layer of coconut shavings and tastes like a liquid cupcake. But where you can really see the owners' probable cultural confusion (they never called me back so I couldn't ask) is the Spanish Cosmo. If Salma Hayek had been my date, you know she'd gone off on them about difference between Mexico and Spain.

But here's where I'm ultimately most bewildered and why I'm probably having a hard time cutting Isla some slack: They charge $220 to $750 for bottle service. That's some serious audacity! The servers may wear red pleated mini skirts, but that's as "Hollywood" as it gets here. I bet if they focus on making it more of a neighborhood bar like Red Rock next door, they'll succeed.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

It’s hard not to have a soft spot for 24-hour eatery institution Denny’s (we are partial to the Koreatown location just a few doors south of the Wiltern). I still get a flashback buzz just remembering the countless hours spent there during the hazy days of high school discovering the joys of caffeine, downing endless cups of sugary coffee until even my eyeballs vibrated.

With their red and yellow neon sign an especially welcome beacon to acts on the road, Denny's is getting a late-night makeover tailored towards bands and their fans. 

The “Denny’s All-Nighter” campaign finds the company turning their restaurants into post-concert hangouts after midnight, catering to bands and their fans. Expect an indie rock soundtrack from 10PM to 5AM, a special anti-uniform of jeans and t-shirts for the late shift staff and a special value menu that covers the basic after-hours food groups: fried, cheesy, and of course, lots and lots of sugar (the “Sweet Ride Nachos” plate of cinnamon chips drizzled with fruit topping and white chocolate is destined to become a stoner legend. Don't even get me started on "Potachos").

The best part is the “Adopt a Band” promotion, where each month a different touring band is selected to eat free at any Denny’s while they’re on the road. Given the stratospheric cost of everything from gas to guitar strings, a free meal between gigs is like manna from heaven. Already, the Southland has two acts on the program: L.A. band Endeverafter and Take the Crown from Huntington Beach.

I'm most excited for the upcoming "rock" menu featuring recipes from our favorite bands, like the heart-shaped pancakes conceived by Jesse Hughes of Eagles of Death Metal, seen here chowing down his own creations.

Personally, I’d love to see what kind of yummy goodness our hero “Sexual Chocolate” from Crystal Antlers would come up with. And you know that Cypress Hill rapper B-Real would concoct the ultimate munchies-sating treat. Hey Denny’s, we need to talk!

—Scott T. Sterling

For as long as I’ve been able to vote, I’ve been casting my ballot for women. You see, there comes a time in every political race where I’ve heard all of the empty promises I can stand from the male candidates—that’s usually when I look to their wives. While Cindy McCain does have a certain fresh-off-the-lobotomy conveyor belt charm about her, its Michelle Obama’s potential to rival Jacqueline Kennedy as one of the greatest first ladies and style icons of our time that’s got me—along with the rest of the fashion world—very excited.

It’s being reported that Vogue editor-at-large André Leon Talley is just one of the many high-profile editors, stylists, and designers currently trying to get their couture stained hands on her as the November election approaches. While Shelly O. undoubtedly understands the expectations the American public has of even a potential first lady—being photographed on an almost daily basis in a never-before-seen ensemble—she may not need any of the help the fashion world is currently offering. At a recent event held in her honor, she wore an Isabela Toledo gown and Tom Binns necklace—both of which she selected herself. Funny, that’s exactly what Jackie always did.

—Marcos Luevanos

Banquette seating—being placed, that is, against one wall at a tiny table that is within arm’s reach of the tables on either side of you—often results in the most interesting (read: uncomfortable, mortifying, unexpectedly communal) dining experience. I actually have a terrific anecdote involving me, Lou on Vine, and someone who would have realized that I was practically his dinner date if he had bothered to recognize me…but I’ll leave that till another time.

A banquette at Gordon Ramsay is actually a sumptuous, elbow-roomy affair. But that didn’t prevent us from overhearing the flirtatious conversation of the couple next to us: They were having copious amounts of red wine with the black cod. At one point, the woman got up seemingly to visit the ladies’ room, but not before she leaned over to give her date a peck…which turned into a lingering kiss…which (I wish I were kidding) lead to sucking noises.

Unless you’ve just won an Oscar and are about to forget to thank your spouse at the podium, those indulgent displays of affection are just unnecessary. And...unappetizing.

The moment could have ended there, but things really turned surreal. As if on auto-pilot, the dude got up too and walked out with her. The couple did come back eventually—oh, I don’t know, let’s say it was seven minutes.

So, dear reader, while I won’t make assumptions, I’ll leave it to you. What do you think happened in the hypothetical seven minutes?

A) They started fighting about Obama’s voting record and had to duke it out outside.

B) They’re bathroom buddies and wanted to dish about the server behind his back

C) Seven minutes is plenty of time!

D) Seven minutes is not enough time!

—Jiyeon Yoo

"You party with tiny people, it's bound to happen."

A man named Noah shrugs as a 5-foot-tall girl in a bikini wretches up a puddle of lunch and malt liquor a few steps away. Other people's regurgitations are always a buzz kill, but factor in that it's in broad daylight and only 4 p.m., and what you get is a chain reaction.

A moment later, as the girl continues to heave, her friend—also tiny, also in a bikini—staggers over to a trash can and begins her own process of alcoholic detox. I'm at the first Little Radio Summer Camp event of the season, and people are vomiting on all sides of me.

The parking lot is carpeted with Astroturf, an inflatable water slide holds court at the entrance, and the Downtown warehouse/Internet station/music venue is abuzz with all-you-can drink Colt 45. Just as Crystal Antlers begin to play a raucous set inside, I see a shirtless guy near the pool with a pained expression, drooling into a garbage can. It's not pretty.

(Beware the Colt)

When it comes to daytime drinking, I'm all for the occasional wine spritzer on a patio, but slamming Colt for six hours while playing badminton is probably a bad idea. Despite any similarities to an infirmary, it's still a saucy good time, and at dusk I finally pull myself away to head over to Atwater Village for another party—also called Summer Camp. There's a craft table at this one, plus a camp-themed art show and adults dressed as Boy Scouts. But no Colt 45. 

Summer Camp #2: slightly less drunk/more happy campers?

The moral, as always: check thineself before thou dost wreck thineself.

I completely understand the idea of great minds thinking alike, but this is starting to get scary.

It was a mere two weeks ago in this very space that I proclaimed my recent obsession with the song “Rip” from Portishead’s brilliant new Third album. Soon thereafter, word (and video) hits the internet of Radiohead making a valiant attempt at covering it.

Then I was fortunate enough to catch N*E*R*D rehearse for their June 10 performance on “Jimmy Kimmel Live” on the Pontiac Garage stage set up behind the El Capitan theater on Hollywood (thanks Sarah!). As the band warmed up, they subtly drifted into a great version of Bob Marley’s “Waiting in Vain.” I realized that I was sporting my Marley Tuff Gong messenger bag the whole time. This mind control thing is pretty cool!

So while I figure out how to use my newfound powers to convince Kanye West and Daft Punk to co-produce my debut album, it’s the stupid-fun of the new N*E*R*D CD Seeing Sounds providing the world domination soundtrack. While Pharrell channels his eternal angst-ridden teenager/outer smart-ass, the Neptunes are quietly remixing their production game. Deep album cuts like the Steely-Dan-gone-arena-rock of “Sooner or Later” to the lothario disco of “You Know What” show the duo finding entirely new ways to freak your speakers.

Your sour-puss wannabe music "critic" uncle will hate this sonic equivalent of a summer popcorn movie, so please, turn it up...

—Scott T. Sterling

It’s no surprise that, in this bare-it-all-on-a-reality-show world we live in that respect for privacy is a virtue about as lost as Jessica Simpson in a library. This is why I was not surprised when learning that, while in the bathroom at an internet awards show—one that shall remain nameless pending Metromix’s receipt of a nomination—it was reported that celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe was overheard discussing a patent proposal whilst relieving herself. “Gliver” is the word in question…or is it “gilver?” I’m not really sure because two reputable blogs I frequently peruse are reporting two very different things.

Nevermind the fact that I’m almost 100% certain you can’t patent a word, or the fact that she came up with the moniker as a means of describing the color of a dress someone on her staff was sketching for her. No, let’s focus on the fact that, when referring to the shade—which, according to Zoe is “not quite silver, but not quite gold”—The Cut (New York Magazine’s blog) reported Rachel’s verbal genesis as “gliver,” while Fashionista cites it as “gilver.” It may just be a thoughtless typo, but when the eye of a gossip storm forms around a patent-worthy word, doesn’t correct spelling of said word seem crucial? I guess it’s understandable, considering that the informant likely had to press her ear to a stall door in an effort to drown out the sound of flushing toilets, but I’d still like to know what I should be calling the metallic alloy. I guess I’m just going to have to go to the source for this one. Rachel, can you hear me?     

—Marcos Luevanos

Meet Krisha Mendoza, better known as "Puke and Rally" to her friends.

Though I've never met Krisha before, the "Metromix devotee" invited me to her birthday party on June 8, an event that promised a citywide bar crawl to 25 venues in 16 hours. Here's a sample of her itinerary:
 

10:00-11:00- Stop by random liquor store (1) for Sparks for bus ride. Chiptole (2) Beverly Center.

11:00-11:20- The Wave (3) in the Beverly Center

11:20-11:30- walk over to Weho

11:40-12:00- The Abbey (4) 692 N Robertson Boulevard

12:00-12:15- Rage (5)

12:16-12:40- Fiesta Cantina (6) 8865 Santa Monica Blvd

12:43-12:45-#105 MTA Bus at San Vicente/Santa Monica to Holloway/Hancock

12:45-1:20- Red Rock (7) 8782 W Sunset Blvd

1:20-1:30- Walk up to Balboa

1:30-2:05- Balboa (8) 8440 Sunset Blvd. [Ed. note: I think she means Boa.]

2:10-2:40- Skybar (9) 8440 Sunset Blvd.

2:45-3:20- Saddle Ranch (10)

Talk about ambitious! I talked to Krisha the next day and, though she only made it to 23 bars, she did drink at every one of them—and she was able to recount what she drank (including where and when) with the same precision as that itinerary. Even more impressive: She didn't get sick until she got home. "There were some bets going on that I would puke after eight bars," she said. "I didn't puke until 6 a.m. the next morning and even then it wasn't enough to fill a pint, which is a surprise because I only had a Chiptole quesadilla, two pork sliders and fries, some chips, and a bite of a sandwich at Mel's in my system."

It looks like she also dove into some cotton candy at Saddle Ranch…

Miss "Puke and Rally" did, however, let the alcohol get the best of her at Beauty Bar. "There was definitely a drunk dial with me screaming that he was dead to me," she says of calling her best friend. But the real travesty was losing her plastic pony, seen here tucked into her, ahem...

If you find her little toy, Krisha'd love to have her back.

See more birthdsay party pics here.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

I guess you do learn something new every day.

A Rastafarian Fairy must have left these curious goodies on my desk: Jamagel, a “Jamaican-flavored bagel.” Strange, is this what Jamaica tastes like?

It really isn’t that different from your run-of-the-mill bagel: It’s boiled, then baked, and boasts all 350+ empty calories of one. But while one would normally assume that a bagel keeps kosher, this one indicates “ITAL!!!” The heck?

So this is my point of revelation: Apparently, “ital” refers to food that is in accordance with Rastafarian guidelines: no pork, no shellfish, no red meat, no preservatives or artificial additives. Not even salt, according to one Rasta-waving website. And while every practicing Rastafari, I would expect, freely delights in “di ganja,” coffee and cigarettes and alcohol are verboten. Is it just me, or are they starting to sound Seventh-day Adventist?

Each Jamagel also comes with a Jamaican phrase and translation printed on the packaging—you know, kind of like a fortune cookie without the satisfying crunch or lottery numbers. Mine came with this chestnut: “As long as someone is alive, don’t dismiss their potentials.” Geez, talk about lowered expectations. Sounds like dating advice I once heard...

—Jiyeon Yoo

To say that I’m going through somewhat of a romantic dry spell would be an understatement. But just when I had come to terms with 2008 being the year of living chastely, I recently—and unintentionally—ran into an ex-boyfriend while on vacation in New York. Long story short, the night ended with him and me steaming up the windows in the back of a cab. It wasn’t until long after the taxi pulled away that I realized my beloved, tampon-like Samsung Juke phone was no longer in my front pocket.

I couldn’t help but become attached to Tony—my cell phone, not my ex-boyfriend. He made people laugh at parties, helped me stay in touch with my friends and family, listened to everything I had to say with minimal obnoxious feedback. We had some good times together, and replacing him would be impossible…that is, until I purchased the exact same brand and model as soon as I arrived back in L.A. It may have cost me $200 plus cab fare, but it was money well spent in exchange for New York City’s version of seven minutes in heaven. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then a kiss is worth at least a Samsung phone.

—Marcos Luevanos

It's Los Angeles. Everyone's got a movie. Hearing someone in L.A. mention a film they're editing or a script they're noodling with is as commonplace a Detroiter talking about a car factory. Not long ago, my dentist pitched me a movie concept, and asked me to get him some press. If I didn't have a hose in my mouth and an open molar, I would have grabbed my purse and walked out of his office.

So when a new acquaintance by the name of Billygoat talked about "Dioscuri," an art film he was working on, it didn't surprise me. He's an earthy manchild who lives in a rustic, illegal loft near downtown, and is constantly toiling on a painting or a plaster cast of someone's face. I liked him immediately.

For the last two years, he's morphed a single painting little by little, frame by frame, and taken thousands of photographs to stitch together a stop-motion short of staggering complexity. Then he projects the film on a sheet, dons a snake helmet and plays a live, original score on a harp, keyboards, accordion, and glockenspiel—accompanied by his partner Nick Woolley, who saws away at a bass with a violin bow.

(Woolley and Billygoat: they're weird but we like them. Credit: Sonya Bowman)

They turned down a slot for the prestigious Flux screenings at the Hammer, opting to premiere it modestly at Mr. T's Bowl last Friday. After a breathtaking 17 minutes of imagery, delicately haunting music, and a standing ovation, I've never been so happy not to live in Detroit. (Sorry, Scott T. Sterling. Go Red Wings.)

Check Billygoat's Myspace for upcoming screenings. For the moment, it looks like a few houseparties are serving as venues, but you never know when that may change. Below, a snippet from the show, as shot from the audience:

It was a sad Saturday night a few months ago when I went to Sunset Beach for bottomless mimosas and margaritas served in birdbath-sized glasses only to find it closed. I emailed owner Steve Marlton for the scoop and he said to call him Monday for "big" news. I called as promised, and several times after that, but I never heard back. The last I saw him, he was on an episode of the "Real World: Hollywood" giving his business card to aspiring music producer Will.

I thought surely he'd show up again once his renovation of Pearl into Butter was complete, but I just learned from Eater LA, who got the news from the NRN Foodservice blog, that plans for Butter have, well, melted.

Apparently the space formerly known as Pearl is morphing into two conceptual spaces under one roof—similar to Opera and Crimson. Part of the venue will house Apple Restaurant & Lounge and have a NYC vibe. (The name’s a take on the "Big Apple.") The other area will become the Pussycat Dolls Lounge and host celebrity-studded burlesque shows. Though there are already two PCD lounges in Vegas, opening in L.A. must have special meaning to Pussycat founder Robin Antin who started her act at the Viper Room more than a decade ago.

Look forward to a summer opening, but don't count on waltzing right in. Tough-as-nails bombshell Allison Melnick is also involved in the project and is notorious for keeping a tight hold on the velvet rope.

—Alexandra Le Tellier

Is syrup-powered rap rebel Lil’ Wayne the Kurt Cobain of hip-hop? Let’s hope not.

He has far too much potential to end up who knows where inside an old pink bunny backpack. His lethal combination of skill, ego and youthful ambition has made him the most fascinating figure in music in 2008. So much so that when he performed before Kanye West at this year’s massive Hot 97 concert at Giants Stadium in New Jersey recently, West spent most of his set openly lamenting the fact that he couldn’t hype the crowd as effectively as Wayne.

But Weezy’s got it like that. Even on the sprawling, undercooked mess that his long-delayed and vengefully leaked new album “Tha Carter III,” the kid shows and proves why he’s the game’s number one contender. He absolutely destroys tracks like “A Milli” and “Dr. Carter,” tossing off more abstract ideas in a handful of verses than lots of platinum rappers have in an entire career.

All of Wayne’s elegantly thugged-out drama will be on full blast when he saddles up to the House of Blues Sunset June 16. He brings a lawless glamour to the game that’s equal parts Tupac, Keith Richards and old-school Bobby Brown. Hip-hop is on the comeback, y’all, and not a moment too soon. To be continued…

—Scott T. Sterling 

Maybe my inner Luddite is rearing his hoary head, but why is it the case, these days, that dining out means sharing a table with your BlackBerry? It’s starting to become a problem: No sooner am I seated than a shiny gizmo has already taken its place, face up, usually next to the knife setting, as if it had every right to be there. Of course, it won’t shut up throughout the meal.

I met some friends at Buddha’s Belly last weekend. It ended up being a large gathering of a dozen people, squeezed uncomfortably around three (mismatched) tables that management had pushed together. Despite the cramped quarters, no less than four members of the BlackBerry ilk were out at any given time. Granted, the Lakers game was on, but did every guy really have to pull out his representative hardware?

Correct me if I’m wrong, but this was never a problem when we just had cell phones to deal with. Even when mobiles were like carrying around a 2x4, they didn’t make such an insistent appearance at the dinner table. These cracked-out status symbols of the new millennia are really setting off unsavory primordial urges.

Would you please take your dick-slinging contest outside? I’m eating here. Oh, your smart new iPhone is too big in your pocket? Heh, like I haven’t heard that one before. 

—Jiyeon Yoo

"Dude, you get locked in bathrooms a lot."

I can't argue with this statement. My comrade Gemini—and hard statistics—don't lie. Months ago, I texted Gemini from inside the grimy confines of the pay toilet at an Echo Park fish shack, requesting that he come to my rescue with a quarter after the inside door handle jammed. Though I tried not to panic, I couldn't help but envision dying alone in there.

This weekend, Metromix hosted a pool party at the W in Westwood, and it was everything an L.A. pool party should be: DJs, girls in bikinis, mojitos on a Sunday, and the occasional red-faced bro who forgot sunblock (below).

A routine lipstick reapplication was going well until I turned to leave, and found the bathroom lock swaying flaccidly from the door jam. Left, right—neither direction afforded freedom. A guy on the other side of the door earnestly offered "Have you tried turning the handle?"

Turning the handle. There's an idea. If this were my first time ever inside a bathroom, or using a door for that matter, his advice would have been golden. But I am pounding because that cause-effect relationship is failing me.

So I called our MMX photog Shane, bearing the news that I would have to be rescued from a public toilet. He squawked incredulously: "Locked in the bathroom?!?" and faintly, in the background, I heard someone say: "Again?"

Moral: drink less water. And always carry your phone.