Disclaimer: This is not a list of the busiest intersections, merely the shittiest. By no means a comprehensive list, it is nevertheless a starting point.

Look at them. There they sit. They serve us patiently albeit dangerously. Essentially they serve us while making no sense all day, every day. Every time you think you’ve got the grid nailed, one of them pops up out of nowhere and fucks you right the hell up, but proper. Please vote on your shittiest. Or add your own. Go on, let it out.

My submissions:

The Beverly/Temple/Virgil/Silverlake mindfuck
I caused $5k damage to my car here five years ago, to say nothing of the other guy’s car. Admittedly, it was completely my fault. Nonetheless it further validates my argument of the shittiness of this five-way intersection which, incidentally, is shaped like an inverse pentagram pointing to the precise location where I was involved in an accident. Talk about bad feng shui, this intersection’s breathing enough of it to fuck Beverly up for another half-mile east.

The Olympic/Fairfax/San Vicente clusterfuck
Why you would be on Fairfax in the first place is beyond me. It’s not like your car will be moving. Fuck this intersection and the Fairfax traffic it generates.

La Brea and San Vicente
Ray’s Statue Shack R.I.P. Nothing further need be said.

Sixth and Burlington, turning left onto Sixth from Burlington
(MacArthur Park) Are you fucking kidding me. The people coming from the north were about a half a block to my right but using the same traffic light, meaning I was stranded in the middle of the fucking intersection, waiting for cars HALF A BLOCK AWAY to weave past me while attempting to negotiate a left turn. Truly boggling. I did have time to buy frutas and a fake Social Security card while my car sat in the intersection, so bonus for that.

Glendale at Fletcher (aka Rowena becomes Glendale while you weren’t paying attention):
While living a block away on Locksley for the better part of a year, I learned its foolish intricacies quickly. I learned said intricacies between the weekly crashes I heard.
»continue reading The Great Shittiest Intersections of LA Debate™: Losanjealous Edition

#12: the Starbucks at Glendale and Fletcher

The 110 can be a demanding mistress. I know what makes her nipples hard. I tickle the carpool lane at 68 knots. A balloon with a wig on it floats in the passenger seat. Every so often I turn and move my lips. Works like Alka-Seltzer. Some play baccarat. My poison is California’s carpool lanes. Saturday on the freeway to Burbank and points north—I’m in heaven.

Or purgatory. I didn’t notice the Vanagon until it sliced in front of me for the third time. Stupid. Some people wouldn’t know a carpool lane from a glass of Mondavi Shiraz. This guy for instance. You play the carpools you’re going to get moist. He cuts me off a fourth time when I see what I’m up against—his vanity plates say VANAGON. Of course. Car: Vanagon. Plates: Vanagon. Who’s driving? A Vanagon probably. The game is joined my friend.

First things first. I pull off the highway and into the #12th best Starbucks in LA at Glendale and Fletcher. I don’t usually cotton to Starbucks in strip malls (?????—ed.) but this one gets on my good side. Good coffee. And nothing washes down a good cup of coffee like a bowl of shrimp tempura. I go in search of it. Nada. What kind of strip mall is this? I get a haircut instead. That calms my nerves.

But not for long. VANAGON is back. What does he want? Real estate? I’m giving him three car lengths, any more we’d still be in escrow. His windows are tinted. His soul is tinted. I inch closer. He jams on the brakes. I swerve right. He swerves with me. Not on a first date, buddy. We parry and thrust for a quarter-mile. Then a tire blows. I skid over the shoulder and fly off the road into a zoo. My cornflower Ford Fairmont comes to rest in a field of squawking peacocks, baboons, and leopards. Of the 610,000 miles we’ve shared together this one is the most embarrassing. My “service engine” light blinks. My shades are askew. My pulse cracked 90. I can’t feel my left arm but that’ll pass. How did I let him get the drop on me? Viel Glück, Vanagon. You’re gonna need it next time.

The animals are goin’nuts. I need something. I take my wallet out and find a dog-eared business card: “Farzad Mohamzadeh—Chiropractor” My head bobbles like one of those dolls whose heads bobble. I flip the card over, forgetting what I’m looking for. In blue ball-point pen are written two words: “Never Think.”

Now I tell me.

Commerce Casino bills itself as the Poker Capital of the World with “more gaming tables (243) than any other land-based card room globally”. I’m guessing the “land-based” qualification doesn’t actually mean there’s a larger card room on water or hovering midair and is used to distinguish itself from internet poker sites. But if I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an enormous poker room floating in the troposphere over Dubai.

Just a few miles south of Hollywood off I-5, Commerce Casino is a magnet for poker-playing celebrities. The casino’s FAQ page even acknowledges the phenomenon:

Q. Do celebrities play there, if so who are they?
A. Yes, many do. But, to honor their privacy, we don’t disclose their names.

Privacy shmivacy. Their media kit offers full disclosure:

It is not unusual to see Ben Affleck, Tobey Maguire, Leonardo DiCaprio, Lou Diamond Phillips, James Woods, Maurice Chestnut, Jennifer Tilly and others at the Commerce poker tables for tournaments or occasional regular play.

When we get the itch, my friends and I play low stakes no limit hold’em at Commerce. In addition to the aforementioned, we’ve played with and spotted Vince Vaughn, Jack Black and Jason Mewes among others.

Last week Paris and Nikki Hilton anted up at a table adjacent to us. I actually despise the cult of celebrity, yet I find the sport of celeb sighting irresistable. The two aren’t mutually exclusive–I’m sure there are bird-watchers out there who don’t actually like birds. And seeing the Hilton sisters in an LA poker room is the equivalent of an ornithologist spotting a pair of ivory-billed woodpeckers at a Red Lobster. Score.

Last week, Ray’s Statues, the venerable shack profiled in these very pages recently, was destroyed when it was involved in a car accident. Well, using the word “involved” makes it seem like the shack had some choice in the matter. In reality, it just sat there, unable to dodge a direct hit from the vehicular assassin. And maybe it was only a matter of time. Out there near the busy corner of La Brea and San Vicente, the shack could never be more than a stoic sitting duck (and a vendor of superb classical statues). There is still rubble surrounding the shattered, yellow mess of a former statue repository.

My roommate actually was at a nearby dry cleaner shortly after the incident and related to me this eyewitness account: “There were police all over the place and the statue place was already roped off with caution tape. There were little bits of statues everywhere. I love that dry cleaner though because I only went there once and they already know my name there.”

There are reports that the vehicle involved in the incident was an SUV. My roommate could not confirm this — he said the car had already been removed from the scene. We have no more information at this time. And so one question remains, who will fill the South-of-Wilshire shack void left in the wake of this destruction? While we hope everyone
involved in the accident is doing fine, we do know that for one person involved — someone named David™ — everything has just gone to pieces.

Ryan has been understandably shaken since the tragedy, but will follow with his own rememberance and tribute to the beloved statue shack as soon as he regains his composure.

According to the IMDB, Heather Graham will turn 36 this January. You don’t say. For some reason, I thought she would have been closer to 40 already. A dewy, well-maintained near-40. If you figure Drugstore Cowboy is like ‘89 and Twin Peaks is ‘91, then logic says you’re putting her at about 38, 39 minimum. Throw in Boogie Nights and Austin Powers and it’s clear this girl has crammed a lot of work in her years. Who else can say they bridged guest star spots on Twin Peaks and Arrested Development?

I once saw her at the Sunset Virgin complex. It was a lazy cloudy early fall weekday. Some holiday I think. I was coming down on the escalator from the theater (some shitty indie flick) and she was crossing the patio, in black leggings and zipped hoodie. Coming out of Crunch, I guess. She looked a lot like the other 900 thousand actresses of that general God-graced corporeal endowment on active audition duty throughout town. But her eyes, those eyes, outted her. Something clearly was disconnected in the gaze. You see that look on her in photo spreads and in her characters, but it really was there for a brief flash. Like she’s staring through mere reality, maybe watching a secret show on the back of those baby blues. Can you imagine her sitting in an English lit discussion at UCLA (she was a 2nd year dropout) windowgazing with that look? No? Well I can. That look alone is enough to make you forgive her (rumored–no lawsuits, please) liaisons with Ed Burns and James Woods. Well, maybe not James Woods. Or maybe she was looking into her own future and saw that in 2006 she would return to television with a new ABC show with the unlikely title Emily’s Reasons Why Not. Heather is Emily. From the synopsis in the press kit:

Emily Sanders has many things going for her. She’s young, single, has terrific friends and a great job in publishing. In fact, she’s got the hottest selling book in town. Unfortunately, she’s just closed the chapter on her relationship with the roguishly handsome, two-timing author.

Now a lovelorn Emily must face the fact that the self-described “flutter-flutter” of her heart can’t be considered a trusted compass. However, like any successful professional, Emily has a plan. From here-on-out, she’s going to listen to the “Reasons.” Five “Reasons Why Not” and he’s history. The “Reasons” will not only guide her in matters of love, but life in general. For instance, steering clear of her back-stabbing former assistant, Glitter.

Based on the bestselling novel of one successful single woman’s search for love, this smart and stylish comedy explores life, love and sex in the city from an independent woman’s point of view.

Two words: Golden Globe.

We can’t wait, Heather. But in the meantime, here is a new losanjealous podcast mix.

Three weeks ago I told Victor about this idea I had for a three-part review of the three taco shacks within walking distance of my apartment in the La Brea/Olympic area. Victor was thrilled. “Perhaps, we could include topographical maps of the neighborhood, with markers noting the various taco bazaars you frequent near your manse,” Victor said. “In fact, I am envisioning a sort of triptych, where readers will be able to learn about El Burrito Jr., Lucy’s Drive-In, and [redacted] Taco Truck with a combination of text and imagery,” I replied. Fast forward 21 days and I’ve not yet been to El Burrito Jr. (too busy, too challenging of a name) And the excellent taco truck disappeared into the mist (like a phantom) two weeks ago, only to reappear yesterday. Last night I spoke with the truck’s owners, who said an emergency in Guadalajara had kept them away from their spot in a car repair shop’s parking lot at the corner of La Brea and Olympic. The tacos and burritos from the truck, which serves Jalisco region fare, are superb. The owners of the truck were wary of me, what with my notepad, and little journalist’s visor. They don’t want me printing the name of the truck until they’ve talked it over. Once they have agreed to grant me access, I will write about their savory al pastor burritos, spiced with cumin and chiles. Until then, here are some thoughts about Lucy’s…

»continue reading I Love Lucy’s

Visit our concert calendar for a full show list, links to buy tickets and our picks.

***Recommended Show of the Week***
Wrens @ Troubadour
You gotta admire a band that turns down a million dollar contract to avoid watering down their sound. If a label offered me half that amount I’d turn my band into the second coming of the Pussycat Dolls. But we’d be much hotter. The Wrens play Doug Weston’s Troubadour Saturday night.

MONDAY
I See Hawks in LA, Chapin Sisters @ Echo (free)
Donovan @ Tower Sunset (free)
Subways @ Spaceland

TUESDAY
Super Furry Animals w/ Caribou @ Avalon
Donovan @ Wilshire Ebell Theater
88 @ UCLA Westwood Plaza
Mia Doi Todd @ Tangier
Nellie McKay @ Troubadour

WEDNESDAY
Cribs @ Spaceland
Nellie McKay @ Largo

THURSDAY
De La Soul @ Royce Hall
Joggers @ Echo
Chocolate Genius @ Amoeba (free)

FRIDAY
Japanther @ Smell
Sean Hayes @ Hotel Cafe
Jane Siberry @ El Rey
88 @ Troubadour

SATURDAY
Kanye West @ Gibson
Wrens @ Troubadour
Money Mark @ Createfix

SUNDAY
Calvin Johnson @ Smell

Get this list delivered to your inbox by joining our Yahoo Group.

Arctic Monkeys
Spaceland
Friday, November 18, 2005

Audree was front row center at last week’s Arctic Monkeys show and took these photos:

See more of Audree’s photos from other shows

My friends from the north are backlit so heavenly, I just had to share. This was taken just outside the Bradbury Building at Third and Broadway. If you look closely, you can see the edge of Farmacia Million Dollar – one of my favorite downtown stores. Those of you who practice the Santeria undoubtedly know of this gem already. It may be one of the only places in town where you can walk in with $10 and walk out with a penis-shaped candle, a box of aspirin and bad mojo. Once I bought a girlfriend a bar of soap that promised to turn her into a ravishing dominatrix, able to put me in my place and then some. She never opened the box. Eventually, of course, we split and began the inevitable pattern of on-again, off-again booty calls that seem to plague the end of all relationships wherein one partner refuses the voodoo soap. Shortly thereafter it was said she could be found in stores along Broadway, searching for a bar of soap that would cleanse the stain of a relationship gone down the shitter. Here’s a great article all about Farmacia Million Dollar replete with photos.

Now back to the Bradbury side of the street. Anthony Quinn, what’s not to love about you. This mural is called The Pope of Broadway, and it has a pretty interesting background story. Back in the day one of my buddies worked in the Bradbury Building at the online division of the Times. Legend has it he used to stare at maestro Quinn all day, every day. When a tap-dancing Christlike Quinn ye see, happy workers ye surely be.

Bonus photos
Bradbury, Bradbury, Bradbury

Every year we give thanks by overeating. It’s our way of thanking the Turkey Farmers, potato, yam and pumpkin growers, Mrs. Cubbison and Ocean Spray. And ultimately the supermarket that sells it to us too. I look forward to Thanksgiving dinner just as much as the next guy. Actually maybe even a bit more – I love to eat! And that brings me to this week’s slide:

THANKSGIVING DINNER, LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA, 1961.

Dinner is served amid warm and inviting early American décor (yes, I know you just love that gorgeous ruffled lampshade in the background.) Three generations are represented here. Grandpa takes his place at the head of the table. Grandma, sporting pearls, horn-rimmed glasses and a timeless gingham check apron, is the waitress. Chances are she was the cook too. Is that a big bowl of Ambrosia I see right up front? (My spirit is soaring!)

This family expresses themselves with both the closed mouth smile and the open mouth smile. The man on the right in the classic Clark Kent glasses and the skunk-armed sweater, and the lady he’s passing the big-dish-of-something too, show us all how to pose properly while eating Thanksgiving dinner. Just don’t forget to swallow first.

Really the flavorful feast is meat and mush. And the gravy just makes it all even mushier. This is the dinner that doesn’t discriminate against people who don’t have teeth! The mashed potatoes, yams, stuffing, pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce require only gums to eat. Perfect for great-grandma and baby too!

Speaking of cranberry sauce there is nothing saucy about it. Sauce doesn’t stand up like the most refined version of the bittersweet turkey compliment– the jellied variety that when de-canned remains in the shape of the label-wrapped tin it came in. Always serve it standing up of course! And who thought of serving the unlikely combo of cranberry sauce and turkey in the first place? The same pilgrim who thought of serving mint jelly and leg-of-lamb? Wonder why he didn’t think of serving marmalade with roast beef. The Chinese did – it’s called Orange Beef- and oh, is it good!

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Charles Phoenix

Visit Charles’ site, God Bless Americana, or join his Yahoo Group.

Thanksgiving eve, 8pm. My fever tops 101 farenH. I roll into dreamland…

A private banquet room at El Siete Mares. Bill DeMarco leers at me from one end of the table. To his right, the Beatles. To their right, the Bangles. To their right, the BoDeans. To their right, Abraham Lincoln. To his right, Jerry, line cook from Ship’s. To his right, six goats from the county fair. To their right, Robert Hilburn. To his right, Robert Tilton. To his right, Robert Loggia. To his right, Robert Goulet. To his right, fourteen members of the Robert Shaw Chorale. To their right, Face from A-team. To his right, Anne Murray. She winks and smiles at me over a bowl of stuffing, seeming to say ‘You needed me.’ Frederick Chest drops a Swingle Singers album onto the hi-fi and joins the table next to Anne. To his right, my fellow judges from the Sammy Hagar Battle of the Bad Bands and the booking agent from the Gig. They’re drinking Tequila Sunsets made from Cabo Wabo tequila. “Have another!” they keep saying. To their right, a bunch of east coast bloggers I’ve never met. Myself. To my right, Danny Gans. Danny Devito. A tribe of Gabrielino Indians indigenous to the Los Angeles Basin. Adrian Zmed. Ron sits at the head of the table. Victor. Daniel. Audree. Tara. Joulene. Charles Phoenix. Charles Phoenix’s producer. Ferry Perrell. Twelve Asian newscasters. »continue reading My Fever Dream

Sandy Brown, the crochety president of something called the Holmby-Westwood Property Owners Association*, has set her not-in-my-back-yard targets on a prospective Westwood eatery, Sofrito, a Cuban restaurant.

Having already cozied up to the builders of Palazzo Westwood, an enormous cookie cutter “mixed use community” (their description) which will have a very real impact on her beloved hood (compare this and this to see her 180 degree turnaround from a 2003’s concerned critic to 2004’s advocate for the Palazzo), Brown has set her sites on the Alhambra-based family-owned small business, which is aims to feature (gasp) salsa dancing. It was not known at press time if that most forbidden of all dances–the lambada–would be allowed at Sofrito.

Here’s the crux of their complaint as worded by our crack Daily Bruin reporter, of course with no direct quote attribution so we can’t tell whose ri-goddamn-diculous thinking this is exactly:

…Westwood homeowners, community leaders and the members of the Los Angeles Police Department say the restaurant could quickly spiral into a nightclub, engendering crime in the area, if not properly limited.

Don’t you hate it when restaurants spiral into nightclubs and engender crime in the area due to not being properly limited? I know I fucking hate it when that happens.

Another unattributed mind-boggling gem of logic further mangled by our ace reporter:

Fears of late-night beer smells and fighting are compounded, community leaders say, by the fact that high rents pressure restaurants to turn a profit by selling a lot of alcohol.

Nimby Brown has a long history of such sniping at businesses and devlopements she doesn’t think will fit in the area. She has bravely taken on all kinds of neighborhood villains, from condo highrises on Wilshire corridor, to a proposed assisted living development to the Playboy mansion.

»continue reading “NIMBY Brown” Strikes Again On The Westside

Apple Pan.

this teenie weenie place on pico blvd. serves a mean burger with good cheese. however, the tight space and the long waits make it not worth it in the lost run. it has the cool like back home on the farm in iowa feel to it. it’s pretty popular based on the wait. but i personally dig the hamburgers from in-n-out. oh, beware of the apple pie, it’s not very good. if you like your apple pie to be tasteless and dry, then you are in heaven. located on pico blvd. and westwood, but more to the east. cash only. and it’s on the north side, not on the side with the mall. there are bank of america atm’s nearby and wells fargo too.

(Note from Ktown: This marks the first of what we hope to be many stream-of-thought reviews from our new intern. Much like Robert Hilburn at the Times, we’re letting Mair run content completely unfiltered, unedited, unproofed. We hope you’ll enjoy the liberation at least as much as you do Hilburn. Finally, there’s been a lot of chatter about Pico stalwart The Apple Pan on local blogs as of late. Somewhat surprisingly, I’m reading very little about the “C” health rating they recently shook off. -Ryan)

Rob Schwartz, Executive Creative Director of TBWA\Chiat\Day, has won the coveted Los Angeles Advertising Agencies Association 2005/2006 Leader of the Year award. From the press release: “The Los Angeles Advertising Agencies Association Leaders of the Year are individuals who are known within the advertising community, who are admired by those who work for and with them, and who inspire others to do great work.”

When Lee Clow anointed Rob Schwartz Executive Creative Director for the LA office he told him he was giving him the job because “He had enough ego to build something great, but not so much ego that he would try to do it all by himself.” Some more about Rob:

Rob joined the agency as an Associate Creative Director in 1998. Since then he has become one of the principal architects for the Nissan brand. He began by leading the effort on the brand’s global platform, SHIFT_, the campaign that has played a major role in the automaker’s stunning comeback.

Prior to working at TBWA\Chiat\Day, Rob was a creative director, helping to build both Lexus and adidas footwear into major brands. On Lexus, he was the first advertising person to work with and coax Hollywood luminaries Robert Duvall, Demi Moore and Joe Pesci to do commercials — casting them as the voices of different roads in a Lexus campaign called “The Road is Calling. Answer it.”

The awards ceremony will take place at The Regent on February 23, 2006. Get your tickets now.

Please join losanjealous in congratulating Rob, along with his wife Betsy and their two children, Caroline and Henry. We wish you much continued success on your future product launches and brand-building endeavors.

Visit our concert calendar for a full show list, links to buy tickets and our picks.

***Recommended Show of the Week***
Animal Collective @ El Rey
When a band’s sound is unconventional they’re quickly tagged with the “experimental” label. The vast majority of times the experiment alluded to is a failure often involving a horrible laboratory explosion. Not so with Animal Collective–the band had a eureka moment with last year’s album, Sung Tongs, and continue their mastery with their latest release, Feels. The Collective bring their science to the El Rey on Tuesday.

Get tickets now: Rapture @ Troubadour/Viper Room; Andrew Bird @ Largo.

MONDAY
Broadcast @ Troubadour
Neko Case @ Barnsdall Art Park
I See Hawks in LA, Chapin Sisters @ Echo (free)
Buckethead @ El Rey

TUESDAY
Animal Collective @ El Rey
Deerhoof @ Echo

WEDNESDAY
Tom Vek @ Troubadour
Deerhoof @ Echo
Vandals @ House of Blues

THURSDAY
Turkey, Mashed Potatoes, Cranberry Sauce @ Your Folks’ Place

FRIDAY
Los Amigos Invisibles @ Conga Room

SATURDAY
Fiona Apple @ Wiltern
Cage @ Echo
Imogen Heap @ Hotel Cafe
Jason Falkner Group @ Troubadour
Muffs @ Spaceland
Soundlessons @ Echo

SUNDAY
Turkey Sandwiches @ Kitchen

Get this list delivered to your inbox by joining our Yahoo Group.

The New Tomorrowland, Disneyland, 1969

Vintage slides of Disneyland are among my favorite finds – especially old slides of Tomorrowland. It’s the least photographed land in the Magic Kingdom – which leads me to the SLIDE-OF-THE-WEEK: THE NEW TOMORROWLAND, 1969.

When I was a kid in the 60s and 70s I thought that Tomorrowland was the coolest place to be — inside or outside of Disneyland. My two favorite attractions were there – America the Beautiful and Carousel of Progress. Now that I think of it, America the Beautiful is my favorite movie ever. And it was projected in the round! How amazing was that? The circle-vision effect of the film being projected all-around, together with the blaring optimistic arrangement of America the Beautiful – the song – was literally dizzying. It was a great high. The Carousel of Progress trip through time was an even better high. Yes, I still can’t get the theme song out of my mind. I’m humming it right now! When I was six I watched man land on the moon live on a giant monitor in Tomorrowland and then rode Flight to Mars.

The most eagerly anticipated and fondly remembered days of my childhood were spent at Disneyland. A trip there became the standard from which I judged the experiences I had everywhere else I went. I remember thinking Southern California was the greatest place on earth, not because our beautiful snowcapped mountain peaks, wildflowers in the desert and waves crashing on the sandy seashore. It was because we had Disneyland. When I was about five some relatives came out to visit from Oklahoma. I thought we were superior to them because we had Disneyland and they didn’t.

Here’s to you and Disneyland’s 50th!

Charles Phoenix

Visit Charles’ site, God Bless Americana, or join his Yahoo Group.

#13: the Starbucks at Main near Ocean Park—Venice

Venice! Home of muscles and sea smells. Where the streets are so narrow you have to double-park your tricycle. A guy once came up to me and said “Hey man do you have stigmata?!” and I said “No, I just walked down an alley in Venice.” We both laughed. But seriously Venice is the kind of place where you can get a tan, a turban, three t-shirts, and mugged. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .while getting a henna tattoo!!!

No, seriously, seriously this time, Venice is an eclectic community which has as much to offer the first time tourist as it does the city’s most jaded denizens. I was wandering through this place that sold paintings and posters. I come across this, like, large framed photo, it’s hard to describe, it was entitled “Mouse to Mouse Resucitation” and it was, I don’t know, I can’t even describe it. All I could think was, How did they get that life preserver on that mouse? And who has the patience? No wonder it was $49. (Memo to me: get into art) I sleuthed a little further and found this awesome oil painting which showed Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Malcolm X, and R2-D2 having coffee at a diner. It was called “Legends.” I didn’t buy it but it made me think. They probably waited for hours. And R2-D2 hadn’t touched his baked potato. Interesting.

Speaking of baked potatoes, don’t think I’m not going to talk about coffee. Because I’m not not. The Starbucks on Main near Ocean Park reminds me of one of those old Victorian framehouses. You know with the clapboard siding and little dormer windows. This store has neither but you can imagine some dessicated, unmarriageable aunt sitting up there with her needlework. Pining, sighing, withering. I think of her when I order a caramel macchiato. I hate these drinks but they made it really well. Thus a #13 rating.

I walk out onto Main street and fill my lungs with a brackish breeze. I can almost hear the digital tick of the parking meters. There’s a humdrum sound whispering something as if simultaneous with it being handed to me in a folded note: It ain’t that bad. It ain’t that bad. Maybe this jaded denizen and that dying spinster can throw each other a life preserver. Call it a little mouse to mouse.

DeMarco say peace.

City of Industry-spawned goth/emo/mallpunk/Tim Burton merch peddler HOT TOPIC reported a 52% dip in income this quarter.

We put on our financial/cultural analyst goggles to take speculate wildly as to the reasons for the decline.

From 1976 to 1980, Miles Davis rarely left his house. He stopped playing his horn entirely. His life revolved solely around two addictions: sex and cocaine. My life has become a mirror of that of Davis’, provided you substitute a hacked version of a 15-year-old nintendo game for the copious sex and cocaine. As in early college, Dr. Mario has become my life. And my grades are once again suffering as a result.

I leave the house rarely. Last night I was hustled for $5 by an enterprising mariachi in Boyle Heights. $5 can buy you a lot of things, and while Cielito Lindo is certainly one of them, it might not have been my first choice. A week ago I helped an old Jewish woman carry eight bags of groceries up a narrow flight of stairs. With but those two exceptions, this cathode ray screen awash with pills of primary colors be all I’ve seen in a fortnight.

One day I will die, undiscovered and untested, the greatest Dr. Mario player in the history of the world. And a great wailing chorus of red, blue, yellow, and combination red-and-blue, and red-and-yellow, and blue-and-yellow pills will cry out, mourning a man who’d owned them since the day he discovered them. And the three evil viruses will dance and laugh long and hard, comprehending that I’ve shed my mortal coil, leaving them to roam the earth undoctored. In the end, the sickness shall prevail.

Bonus Photos
A few undated throwaways from the vault. All were taken back when I used to leave the house.
Tall Trees, Hancock Park
Counter, Fred 62
Tabletop, Fred 62

Item of interest:Losanjealous has taken an intern. Stay tuned for the debut of Mair the Intern, one of the greatest, most natural food reviewers to be found in the space-that-is-cyber.

Last week the 15th Annual Los Angeles Music Awards were, uh, awarded. And the winner of Los Angeles Rock Artist of the Year went to (drumroll) … … … Where the hell’s my drumroll? You didn’t say “please.”–Ed. OK. Drumroll. PLEASE. That’s better.–Ed. (actual drumroll) … MANWHORE. That’s right, MANWHORE is L.A.’s best rock band, according to the Los Angeles Music Awards. Those not familiar with the best rock band in the entertainment capital of the world can visit their website here. Who needs MySpace with HTML skills like that? While you’re there, be sure to sample their hit single “Cake and Cock.”

Lest you doubt the credentials of these “LAMAs” to go around annoiting “bests,” here’s a look at their origins from their website, so you know they’re legit:

The Los Angeles Music Awards were founded in 1991 by Alfred C. Bowman after nearly ten years of successfully operating a small limousine and entertainment company that catered mostly to music industry professionals. From 1982 until 1992, Bowman’s clients included Motley Crue, Ozzy Osbourne, Ratt, Dokken, Bon Jovi, Prince, Madonna, and a host of other celebrities from film and television. Having acted as owner operator of a small fleet of limo’s, Bowman often attended awards shows as part of his clientele’s destinations. For nearly ten years, Bowman attended the Grammy’s, Oscars, AMA’s and other special events as both limo driver and most of the time, a seat filler. By studying these large scale productions first hand, Bowman learned how to structure an awards event.

So catch Manwhore at the Joint or Whisky before they blow up, leap to the national arena circuit and it becomes impossible to see them up close. Just remember it was losanjealous that hipped you to them.