Carface (kär’fÄs’) n.
Stuck in traffic, Chris flirted with a woman driving a Jetta not realizing she was a carface.
Hello my bloggy friend. Is it me you’re looking for? I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in your smile. I’ve dreaded this moment for nine months, and yet here I sit. And there you sit. And here it is. Let us begin, then.
I shall start with a straightforward review of Oki/Oki’s-Dog, Pico. Following that we will jump straight into:
OKI-DOG FAIRFAX VS. OKI/OKI’S-DOG, PICO: THE CHART THAT NO-ONE WANTS TO SEE
Least of all, me
Oki East: Identity Crisis From The Get-Go
Couldn’t talk anyone into reviewing Oki/Oki’s-Dog, Pico. Eventually, of course, she would call my name. A search for the phrase ‘oki-dog’ on this website currently yields sixteen articles. This will officially tip it to seventeen. Am I obsessed? The fuck I am. Let’s do this.
From the get-go something is amiss. The requisite orange is in effect. The place emits a strong shack vibe. The Oki-dog appears very similar to the mother’s offering. Yet a few things, almost intangible things, disturb me…
Minor quibbles. I enter the chapel and forgive all in neon glow of Holy Foodshack East.
I order my food. Immediately afterward, mass confusion ensues. I’m confused. The cooks are confused. The cashier is beyond confused. Everybody else waiting around is incredibly agitated and confused. Nobody knows who the hell’s supposed to order next. Nobody knows what food is coming out of the window for whom. There’s no real line. All of us are now, by definition, loitering. Including the cashier. A no-no.
Twelve, fifteen minutes pass. Cashier scratches his head and reads my order back to me. No food in sight. He tacks on a large fries. I’ve already paid. I talk myself out of the free fries. I don’t want the damn fries. More bags appear and are snatched. A bag of food is thrust my way. In lieu of Fairfax’s greased wax paper on a dirty frisbee system [photo], Pico has a very distinct bag-and-box system in place, more detrimental to the environment albeit considerably healthier to my own personal ecosystem.
I try to eat the oki-dog. I can barely manage half. It is as it should be.
I then eat an entire bacon cheeseburger.
I drink a large Orange Bang.
I begin taking macro-zoom photos of my half-eaten Oki. Some guy two tables down is giving me stink eye. I sense it loud and clear. Spidey sense. Why the fuck are you taking those photos.. I finish the laughable meal to the best of my ability. I get up to leave. One of my unfinished dogs wiggles out of the sack and plops onto the table. I crack up. Disgusting. I’m juggling oki detritus again. It is at this point that I know this shack and the one on Fairfax are connected on a spiritual level. Time to go. I’m walking to my car. I turn. I’m snapping photos of the dual signs. I hear a ruckus. Somebody’s chasing me to my car. “Hey man, you taking photos of me?”
Yeah. That’s what I was doing. I was taking secret photos of you.
“Photos of the sign, man. Not you.”
“..?.. Oh - ok.”
“It’s for a food review…”
“Ohhhhh…..”
Now you get it. Please leave me the fuck alone as I must go throw up this meal someplace.
Oki-Dog/Oki’s Dog
5056 W Pico
Click the ‘more’ prompt for a full side-by-side comparison. Oki takes on Oki. And/or Oki’s. You choose. This is the real deal. No holds barred!
»continue reading Oki-Dog Fairfax Vs. Oki’s-Dog Pico: The Chart That No-One Wants To See
Maybe it’s because the music featured is the music of my youth. Maybe it’s because the lead guy is a hottie. Maybe it’s because I am hetero enough to admit that watching scantily-clad women grinding to such songs of yesteryear as “Too Much Time on My Hands” by Styx and Quarterflash’s “Harden My Heart” was strangely erotically entertaining, and funny, and fun. Either which way, “Rock of Ages” was a good time. I left feeling nostalgic and wanting to dance. I left feeling old, but in a cool way. I left thinking it would be great to start a new exercise regimen involving gyrations galore to 80s rock (I’ll keep you posted on that). I left sated and uplifted, thinking of high school and friends I still know and those I no longer know. I left wanting to add to my Amazon wishlist.
Let’s be honest here: I am not a fan of theatre, in general. Sure, there’s the occasional odd play or sketch show that I feel is worth an hour or so of my precious time. (Get it? Pat Benatar reference. See? I can’t stop now.) But, dammit, there’s something about an earnestly-belted out power ballad from days gone by that really gets me all fired up. (Ok, sorry, another Benatar reference. I’m out of control, apparently.) I guess what made it fun was that the cast really looked to be having a good time. There was humor in the song selections and there were men who were doubtlessly gay, yet attractive, dancing 80s style, in somewhat exaggerated 80s garb, with attractive women wearing next to nothing.
The plot is meaningless, contrived, silly, predictable and every other negative adjective one can use to describe a plot. But trust me: No matter! This show isn’t about the plot; it’s about the music, the journey (yes, Journey) back to “better” days. It’s an expensive (albeit worthwhile) trip down musical memory lane for anyone over say, 33. The lead chick is both adorable (as an ingenue) and almost sexy (as a nearing-jadedness stripper), but her singing isn’t quite as strong as the other leads’. It’s more than passable though, and she’s a good dancer who looks quite fetching in a push-up bra and fancy panties, so I think that must more than make up for it. Dan Finnerty of The Dan Band is in the show, and he’s quite good, as is Kyle Gass, who is 1/2 of Tenacious D. Chris Hardwick stole the show as a Poison-esque rock star, hated by his bandmembers, who is universally adored by chicks and universally admired by dudes, for reasons that make no sense, which of course is the point. He’s a tragic figure in a way, and a real asshole, but funny.
They give all patrons a “free” lighter to pay tribute when the mood strikes. I found myself flicking my Bic on several occasions. If you have a spare 50 bucks and nothing to do and want to be regaled with live versions of such classics as Europe’s “The Final Countdown” and “I Hate Myself for Loving You” by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, by all means, GO!
Rock of Ages
Renmar Studios, Stage 6
Thursdays/Fridays/Saturdays
3/2/06-3/18/06, 8 pm
for tix, call: 800.595.4TIX
or visit www.rockofagesmusical.com
Visit our concert calendar for a full show list, links to buy tickets and our picks.
Pick of the Week: Yeah Yeah Yeahs @ Troubadour
Forget for a second that the Troub screwed us over by making it impossible for the average Joe to get tickets. And that the YYYs will mostly play tracks off an upcoming album that you’ve never heard before. And that they’ll be back in April for Coachella. This is a rare chance to see a great show at a small venue. Do what you need to do.
Heads up: 3/9 Matisyahu @ Tower Northridge; 4/1 Film School @ Troubadour; 4/2 Benefit for the Rose Scharlin School @ Spaceland
TUESDAY
Goldspot @ Troubadour
Michael Penn, Patton Oswalt @ Largo
WEDNESDAY
Matthew Sweet @ Hotel Cafe
Rhett Miller @ Largo
THURSDAY
Dengue Fever @ Tangier
Rhett Miller @ Tower Sunset (free)
Bird York @ Hotel Cafe
FRIDAY
Low @ Troubadour
Hot Chip @ Echo
Lebowski Fest Pre-Party @ Knitting Factory
Corn Mo @ Hotel Cafe
Dreadstarr @ Getty
SATURDAY
Yeah Yeah Yeahs @ Troubadour
Silversun Pickups @ Knitting Factory
Royce Hall Organ and Film @ Royce Hall
SUNDAY
Yeah Yeah Yeahs @ Troubadour
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thanks to b.la for the Cult tip and Emma for the Matisyahu update!
Famima!! is this space age general store that is making its way out west–somewhat literally: the first one in the area was in West Hollywood and the Westwood one just opened. Apparently, it’s the first U.S. wave of a popular Japanese mart and it is destined to be a cult hit as a lifestyle store if they play it right. To experience it, though, you’d think it was a Western ironic take on Japanese pop; it’s perfect—a little too perfect. It has that non-threatening Sanrio aesthetic with iconic hieroglyphics, neon green trim and mellow sans-serif fonts. The signage tends to that wacky awkwardly translated cross-cultural stuff that was funny for 5 minutes in the 80’s (think Yakov Smirnov or Michael Keaton’s classic paean to the House of the Rising Sun, Gung Ho). The Famima!! U.S. website certainly feels designed for maximum Engrish laughs, with crude robo-speak descriptions and crass financial aspirations on display. But even after squinting at it intently, I can’t be sure that it is in fact a take or the real thing. (I went so far as to confirm that the domain is registered in California.) But these are the times we live in—serious information slipping in as an ironic take on serious information. Or is it that these times are so cynical that the default posture is to assume irony is in play first and always? Always checking the palm of the hand that is extended to us for shock buzzers before shaking it… Damn, you Graydon Carter! You promised irony was dead! But enough angst. On to The Premium Experience of Famima!!
Dear Losanjealous:
As references to the Dickies song out number those to the real person by like a-million-to-one, where CAN a picture! at least, of Tricia Toyota be found?
-Glen
Dear Glen:
On their song (Stuck in a Pagoda With) Tricia Toyota, L.A. punk veterans, the Dickies, sang
A little Asian Goddess came from up above
I thank you NBC for sending my love
And Tricia is the one I’ve been dreaming of
Whether intentional or not, the Dickies misspelled the local TV news icon’s name. It’s actually Tritia with two t’s.
But the Tritia Toyota era ended before the advent of the internets. So even with the correct spelling, googling doesn’t turn up many hits. To satisfy your curiosity here are a couple more pics floating around…
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Related:
This sculpture has reminded me of one of the robots Wayne Coyne drew for the last Lips album for a few years running. Any second now, he’s going to charge the Bonaventure and start shooting up the joint.
Admittedly, I’m a Flaming Lips fan. I grew up in Oklahoma! My choices for state pride included the Flaming Lips, Sooner football, wheat (the crop), Sonic Drive-In and a vast array of country music. The Lips were setting shit on fire and revving motorcycle engines in clubs I wasn’t allowed to go to. Do the math.
A bit of online digging reveals the sculpture to be Four Arches, created in 1974 by Alexander Calder. Just outside the tower you can find two additional robots giving and receiving, 24 hours a day: [photo]
Bonus photos (not by me for a change):
WestsideRentals.com, the 800 lb. gorilla of Los Angeles area rental listings, is expanding, moving its flagship branch into a snazzy new storefront on Wilshire, next door to Temple Bar and the sadly-recently-deceased Anastasia’s Asylum (more on that TK here).
Curiously, the free information pinata and open market of the internet has not extended to the local rental listing market. Despite the advent of Craigslist (or more likely a result thereof), Westside Rentals has maintained a chokehold on the listings market, ostensibly for their ability to prescreen prospective tenants with their $60 membership fee.
While everyone’s got a right to provide a service and make a buck, Westside Rentals business raises some questions. Craigslist has of late cracked down (somewhat) on agency listings masquerading as individual listings, but who hasn’t been tempted by a link or newspaper blurb of that too-good-to-be-true listing that redirects back to Westside Rentals? Who hasn’t investigated the $450 “studio” in Marina Del Rey that turns out to be a docked houseboat? The “charming” $1000 2br/2ba in Beverlywood that may as well have been airlifted and transplanted from Beirut? The $600 Cheviot Hills “garden guesthouse” that turns out to be a glorified toolshed. Obviously the landlord bears responsibility for the description used–but they aren’t the ones charging you 60 bones. And the kicker is, that once you resign yourself to joining up with WSR, you often notice a slight discrepancy between the promising “guest preview” listings and the actual current listings.
Then there’s those three little letters A-D-J you find in listings (not just those on WSR, admittedly–though they certainly have helped to disseminate its misuse) the elastic application of which has distended its meaning beyond any useful description. I’ve seen West L.A. listings that were just blocks west of Cadillac Ave. In the current vernacular, Brentwood ADJ and Beverly Hills ADJ combined basically encompass a quadrant bounded by PCH, Sunset, Venice and La Brea.
More recently, they’ve started hosting these networking parties at their offices, which promise prospective tenants the opportunity to meet landlords. Anyone been to one of these? I’m curious to know what they’re all about. These sound great for property owners to make sure they are renting to the right kind of people. After all, you can only learn so much from one’s last name and credit report.
But setting these quibbles aside, let’s look at the very nature of rental listing-as-proprietary content. From their Terms of Use:
The purchaser of the information further agrees that the information is proprietary to Westside Rental Connection and that any misuse of the information is a breach of this agreement as well as a violation of California law governing trade secrets
A question for our legal eagles out there: What exactly is the basis for Westside Rentals proprietary claims on their listings? Trade secrets seems to be a curious shield behind which to conduct this business. Would it be some kind of infringement for a member to, say, for instance, copy their listings, to say, the comments section of a popular Los Angeles blog? How would that be different from a member sharing a single listing, verbally, with a friend? How about if a few words in a listing were modified?
We’re just thinking out loud here, folks. That’s all. After all, monopolies need to be able to stand up to scrutiny. Chime in with your views on the Westside Rentals.
EPILOGUE: Better Business Bureau grades WestsideRentals.com a “D”
As two Oscar contenders are released to the masses, fans and critics alike are lined up demanding more advertising for both vessels in and around the city. Losanjealous investigates a recent crowd at the Grove theatre and reports back with the following:
“That film sucked. Martin basically sucked. The plot sucked. The dialogue sucked. I did not laugh.
That said, I wouldn’t mind seeing more advertising for it around the city.”
-John McAfee, Burbank
“Both are quality films. That’s not the issue,” Seth Chafee, Toluca Lake resident, President, More Fucking Yellow George Ads Council. “We’re simply asking for more signs, more Metro placards, more view-eclipsing billboards in and around the city for both movies. More visibility. In the case of both of these films you really can’t have too much. That’s all we’re asking. It should be simple.”
“Martin is no Sellers. And George is no George. That said, I too would like to see several more billboards for both movies. Show me the Yellow. And Pink.”
– Robert Clark, HOTFILMSNOW.COM
In my six years of living in this fair city I estimate that I’ve driven by this decrepit paean to verbosity between 1,000 and 10,000 times. Safe estimate. At least one thousand. No more than ten thousand. I used to live close to this place. These days I don’t, but I’m always driving by, it seems. When I’m not driving by, it’s squatting in the corner of my subconscious like a giant constipated ogre. The place is situated directly catty-corner from the establishment I’m invaribably visiting at this intersection; namely, Cafe Tropical.
Today, President’s Day, I’m thinking of Presidents. Specifically Thomas Jefferson. TJ. Ol’ Monticello. Tommy. Chief #3. Ol’ Two Dollar Bill. Tom, for short. In honor of Thomas Jefferson, today I will eat at Tom’s Burgers Burritos Chicken Shrimp Steaks Pastrami Tacos Beef San. Drive Thru. Deliberately.
Walking up to the establishment I notice a curiousity in the window behind a 40-year-old skateboarder: a sign that has been quite obviously liberated from Jack in the Box boasts two tacos for 99 cents. Make note, T’s BBCSSPTBSDT: Ryan’s coming in.
Immediately my senses are assaulted by what can only be referred to as Tom’s Confusion: a vast array of mismatched signs, duct-taped and magic-marked to infinity, boasting various foodstuffs. Sheer design hell. [Photos: one, two, three.] I note the time: 1145am, President’s Day. I note the breakfast menu ends at 11am. I’m a gambler. I roll a pair of dice on the counter and ask one of three guys behind it, “Too late for breakfast?”
He turns to a coworker. “Y…el desayuno?” Garb-mumble come the response. “eh…No,…” He replies, shaking his head.
“No, it’s not too late, or no as in No breakfast?”
»continue reading Profile: Tom’s Burgers Burritos Chicken Shrimp Steaks Pastrami Tacos Beef San. Drive Thru
Visit our concert calendar for a full show list, links to buy tickets and our picks.
Pick of the Week: Les Savy Fav @ Avalon
Les Savy Fav don’t tour too often–each band member has his own thing going on:
But when they do hit the road, they put on one of the most entertaining indie rock shows today. These guys are my heroes. Don’t miss them Tuesday night at Avalon.
Heads up: 3/4, 3/5 Yeah Yeah Yeahs @ Troubadour; 3/8 Neko Case @ Amoeba; 3/20 Belle & Sebastian @ Amoeba; 3/30 Strokes @ Gibson
TUESDAY
Les Savy Fav, Hold Steady @ Avalon
Greg Proops, Margaret Cho @ Largo
WEDNESDAY
Supergrass @ Avalon
Nada Surf, Rogue Wave, The King of France @ Henry Fonda
Kathleen Edwards, Luke Doucet @ Largo
Dilated Peoples @ House of Blues
JMP w/J. Rocc, Melo D @ Knitting Factory
Nada Surf, Rogue Wave @ Henry Fonda
Lil Rev @ Amoeba (free)
THURSDAY
Kathleen Edwards, Luke Doucet @ Silverlake Lounge
Craig Wedron, Army Navy @ Knitting Factory
Dengue Fever @ Tangier
Uri Caine @ Amoeba (free)
FRIDAY
Robert Pollard @ Knitting Factory
ESG @ Echo
Giraffes @ Spaceland
Digital Underground @ House of Blues
SATURDAY
Wedding Present @ Troubadour
Buddy Guy @ House of Blues
DJ Qbert @ Knitting Factory
Arthurball Day 1 w/Joanna Newsom, Mi & L’au @ Echo
Astrid Hadad, El Vez @ Royce Hall
SUNDAY
Arthurball Day 2 @ Echo
Eleni Mandell @ Tangier
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At first everything happens slow. Angry arms uncoil like ferns in a rain-spattered forest. Mine among them. I’m in a hallway of people who are either trying to punch me or avoid being punched by someone trying to punch me. Some of the latter are unsuccessful at not being punched and retaliate–and miss. And hit somebody else. I think this is how fission works.
Then someone clicks “8x” on the options menu and things happen choppy fast. The girl bassist screeches unholy oaths but her complaint has been lost in the heat of the melee. Here’s my foot in someone’s groin. Here’s my neck on someone’s elbow. My hand clutches a tweed lapel and I find my head peering out of the back side of a headlock, as though through a submarine porthole, at an ecology of mayhem: shoves, hair-grabs, palm chops, quadruple clutches. There are yelled petitions of near-logic (”Whatareyoudoingmanwhatareyoudoing whatareyoudoing?!?!?!”) as roundhouse punches either land on nothing or someone’s shoulder blades. Everyone is as pumped as racing tires with adrenalin but that doesn’t help accuracy. It gives me a new appreciation for biathlon.
A fresh wave of mass pushing synchronized with a well-timed taint-punch frees me from my assailant. We both tumble toward the floor but I use my momentum to stay on my feet and squeeze around a guy wearing a pea coat who must be like 7′8″. I think it’s Captain Ahab. I use him as a blast shield to escape to the auditorium whence comes more violence-minded rubberneckers. A pocket opens in the onrushing maelstrom and I stand my ground for a moment, turn back to the center of the fighting and scream in a furious falsetto “You are the Dicks of Coffee! You are the Dicks of Coffee!” turn again to the doors, duck around a security guard who looks like a wrecking ball in a windbreaker, slip with my socked foot on a totebag (natch), rack my knee against a door, and make it outside.
Twelve blocks later, somewhere at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, I reach my car. Battered, sweaty, freezing, heaving, I take stock of the damage. Widespread abrasions, scratches, torn clothing, and humiliation. In other words the ushz. A voice calls out in the darkness.
“Hey man!”
This phrase never sat well with me.
“You nailed that chick.”
I can’t assess his seriousness.
“Yeah well I was trying to hit the lead singer guy,” I say between heaves, not proud of this explanation either.
“All I’m saying is nice aim man, that girl was a fuckin’ whore”
He proffers his hand in a high-five to which I meekly acquiesce, walks on into the night toward who knows what illegally parked Volkswagen. What kind of. Ah never mind. Just never never never never mind. I reach into my pocket for my car keys. Then I reach into my other pocket. They’re both empty. And my wallet’s gone too. Nothing but a ticket stub. Casagrande’s going to hit the roof.
I collapse against my cornflower Ford Fairmont and cry laughing, snot-infused, androgynous tears.
Next week: Bill reviews the ninth best Starbucks in Los Angeles.
Food memoirs of a relationship just off Normandie
Late last year I found myself briefly involved with a woman who lives in Koreatown. One Friday night we wanted sushi. She, beaten down by the work week. Me, lazy jobless son-of-a-bitch, beaten down by the Friday traffic. Try picking up somebody on the west side and bringing them to the part of town where Hangul flashes in every direction during rush hour, Friday, if you haven’t recently. Sushi though. Koreatown nothing, we needed sushi. Sushi delivery? What would that taste like. You see where this is headed. Of course yours truly was going to have to truck the hell out someplace, be the hero and bring back the sushi. Enter: 
Sushi Bar, 3rd and Normandie.
 Above: When not open, Sushi Bar offers ample parking |
I stumbled upon Sushi Bar while driving toward a trusted japanese establishment on Wilshire just east of David Lynch’s Bob’s Big Boy. Denizens, I didn’t have to drive half that far. Sushi Bar threw itself at me and I responded: SOLD!, not knowing if their version of sushi would be the real deal or some bastardized Kim Bop loaded up with spam and pineapples. Although I did want to impress by bringing home the goods, traffic being what it was, I was suddenly prepared to make whatever Sushi Bar had to offer workable.
As you might expect, Sushi Bar had no available parking. I circled the block. Deftly dodged a Metro. Clumsily dodged a Ford Taurus making a left. Became unseasonably lucky on Normandie. Parked, clubbed, safety-lock-beeped. Trekked inside. Scoped the menu. We’re in business. This looks fantastic. Resisted the urge to share a Crown Royal with the Korean man down the way, toasting himself, attempting to chat up a mother-daughter combo. Next challenge: Will they make a fried tofu roll for the lady.
Me: You have fried tofu?
Waitress: (smile)
Me: Tofu. Tofu? To-Fu?
Waitress: (smile)
Me: To-fu? you know, veggie, Tofu, soy…
Waitress: (smile) ah. excuse please one second!
Host: (off phone now) Yes, hello? Sorry about that. Can I help you?
Me: Do you have fried tofu rolls?
Host: (perplexed) Topu?
Me: Tofu. Fried tofu?
Host: Topu. YES!
The banter continued for some time, but I eventually got everything we’d ever need at this joint and more. Affordable, to boot. Mere blocks away from my ultimate destination I’d stumbled upon some truly incredible, truly wonderful sushi. The order looked amazing. To top everything off they were adding very distinctive garlicky Korean garnishes right there alongside the textbook wasabi/soy/ginger triumverate. I could throw a rock and hit Jon’s market from here. What is a sushi bar of this caliber doing in this stretch?
The chef beams and asks me to approve his handiwork before we seal the deal. These guys are the real thing. Tonight, jobless Ryan wins. Tonight, Ryan’s 32. Tomorrow he’ll be 33. This is Friday Night Sushi in the heart of Ktown.
Takeaway: If you find yourself in the vicinity of 3rd and Normandie with a sushi craving that must be sated, look for this sign. Look for this frontage. Bring your appetite for the delicate and a penchant for Crown Royal. Call a cab. Know that they can make fried topu rolls, if only you ask.
The B-Side: Essence Coffee, Wilshire
Every relationship, no matter the length, demands a temple you call your own in the significant other’s neighborhood. This go-round, my comfort zone ended up being Essence Coffee on Wilshire. Much as I’d preferred it to be Koffea, those jokers don’t open until a ridiculously late hour, threatening me with a pounding headache from caffeine withdrawal. Leaving the woman’s place I would make the trek down to Wilshire and Normandie, wherein I would be assaulted by the sheer number of coffee purveyors at my disposal — upwards of a dozen. Time and again, I would head straight to Essence Coffee for a small americano with extra shot to watch the working people come in for their pre-work fix. Me: Crumpled walk of shame clothing. Them: Sharp as a tack. Me: Happy and tired. Them: Working. All of us: Soon caffeinated. All of us: Comprehending but not really absorbing the view of Wilshire and the church across the street [photo]. All of us: Wondering if we should wait a few hours and walk around the corner to Brass Monkey for a shot of something stronger.
Essence coffee was a nice place with a very nice staff. At times I miss it. Onward and upward.
Sushi Bar
3922 W. 3rd (at Normandie)
213.383.2058
Essence Coffee
3458 1/2 Wilshire Blvd (at Normandie)
A most curious object was drawn from the Losanjealous reader mailbag this week. As follows:
This graffiti appeared on a billboard at the end of my street (Lincoln @ Ozone in SaMo) about a week ago. Is this some type of underground marketing campaign? I mean, something stupid like Scion would do? Or is it really graffiti? I looked all over the web for I.C.U., but I couldn’t find any reasonable matches. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but it’s just weird that if this is graffiti it has been up a week and not painted over, considering the visibility. It is kind’ve clever…
Reader X: We continue to research at present. We have not been able to overturn any overt product tie-ins. That said…Sony PSP has not been ruled out. More as it develops.
Last-minute addition to the events calendar:
Bangkok Experimental Film Fest, Redcat, tonight.
Times: 7pm, 9pm, 1030pm
Cost: $8 per show or see all three for $16.
Thanks be to gentle spam of GiantRobot for bringing the event to my attention this fine Friday morning.
SELECTIONS FROM THE BANGKOK EXPERIMENTAL FILM FESTIVAL 4:
BANGKOK DEMOCRAZYThe Bangkok Experimental Film Festival (BEFF) was first organized in 1996 by Project 304 and The Thai Film Foundation to promote the work of young artists, and video- and filmmakers in Thailand and Southeast Asia. The Festival aims to create an alternative cinematic experience for audiences by presenting works from local and international perspectives…
…This year’s theme is Bangkok Democrazy, focusing on ideas of democracy and featuring 340 videos and films….
The original festival was held in, surprise, Bangkok last December.
Online ticket sales for tonight’s 1030 screenings end at noon today.Helpful link
Disneyland Monorail Anaheim, California, 1961
Whooshing by on the highway in the sky, passengers travel in supreme space-age style between the Disneyland Hotel and Tomorrowland. I certainly hope they all heard the “Please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times†recording because there are no windows!
The monorail is like an airplane without wings, or a cross between a snake, shark and catfish. It also has a foot-long hot dog/Oscar Meyer Wienermobile feel to it. Never have green tinted glass, ribbed stainless steel panels, lipstick red, and pinstriped white looked so great together. The design is so brilliant that it’s still fashion-forward nearly fifty years later.
The earliest concept sketches of Tomorrowland included a monorail. But as Disneyland was being built Disney had neither the technology nor the money to build his vision of the mass transportation’s future. Then while visiting Europe in 1958 he found a prototype monorail running on a track on a rural farm being developed by Alweg, a German engineering company. Within one year Disney had married the technology with a futuristic design and it was ready to go.
In the days leading up to the ribbon cutting and “first ride†ceremony, every time the engineers ran the monorail around its track for a test run — it caught on fire. Finally the dedication day came. All eyes were on the first official passengers, Vice President and Mrs. Nixon, and their two girls as they boarded the futuristic transportation vehicle along with a very nervous Walt Disney for the trip. Disembarking, Nixon had no idea that it was the first time the monorail had gone around the track without catching on fire!
Here’s to you and the Monorail!
Charles Phoenix
P.S. Read more about the monorails in Southern California in the 50s and Southern Californialand
Related:
Ray Bradbury’s LA Times Editorial: L.A.’s future is up in the air
Visit Charles’ site or join his Slide of the Week Mailing List.
“Disneyland†Tour of Downtown Los Angeles
Sundays March 19 and April 2, 2006
The similarities between Downtown Los Angeles and Disneyland are staggering!
I will be your tour guide as we explore “Main Street USAâ€, “Adventurelandâ€, “Fantasylandâ€, “Frontierland†and “Tomorrowland†in the heart and soul of the city by foot and vintage school bus. Info & Tickets
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