Around 9 on a mild pre-summer Thursday night, he sets up shop on the sidewalk in front of the B-of-A ATMs on Sunset, between Gil Turner’s and the Rainbow and the Roxy. He might catch a peek at himself reflected in the glass partition that firewalls off the ATMs from the foot traffic but doesn’t, carrying out his ritual with concentration and workmanlike blasé. He is not that kind of spooked self-muttering tramp. His set up is the common street performer/sleeper cluster of daily living essentials and eccentric found detritus, the most important of which is his Casio keyboard, juiced by some combination of a car battery and D-cell batteries. In the midst of his 3’x3’ pile of worldly possession hangs a pristine white baby mouse, the size and shape of a rabbit’s foot, laying in a wheel. The wheel is actually just the open outer shell of a busted pet cage spinning wheel contraption. The mouse lies there, undistracted by passersby.

A few yards down, some jovial lummox is guarding the Rainbow Room, collecting a $5 cover this night, but that fiver will get you a glossy card that you can trade for a “well”drink, provided you can get the fit blonde behind the bar’s attention. Negotiating the outdoor patio on the way in after handing the guy your $5, you pass a full patio of Hollywood rock types, telegenic, right out of Central Casting. Initially, you might think they are unironic, blind devotees of a fashion and a lifestyle, but on closer look, the tears in the clothes are expensively manufactured, the hair is expensively cut. They’re tattooed, sure, but these longhaired dudes and chicks look healthy, even though there’s smoke in the air. There’s either a lot of yoga or plastic surgery at work here, probably some combination of both. Adding to the chaos of their patio, Ozzfest is holding court here, in search of Miss Ozzfest ‘06. They are a good-looking, healthy, glowing bunch, not the scrawny, hungry rock types with frizzle fried platinum hair you see on VH1 Classic who frequented this very bar & grill in the 80’s. In a sort of glossy mag/TV way, these freaks are just plain beautiful.
»continue reading Beautiful Freaks on Sunset

When Phillip’s Bar-B-Que was first described to me as a “hole in the wall”, I always dismissed the description as a clever way to say that the floor was sticky and all the tables were covered with gang tagging. Little did I know that the description was literal. After placing your order inside Phillip’s, Leimert Park, a mysterious hand delivers your food through a tiny hole with a doggy door flap.

Indeed, the location is a takeout stand. It has no tables and the wait for food is long, long. I’d been told the wait could be as long as 45 minutes. My buddy Marc and I waited for 15 minutes. In that time we learned the following:

• You can call in your order and make a quick pickup. In fact, most people just call in their orders. Oops.
• The Phillip’s on Crenshaw and Adams, which we passed on the way to the Leimert Park walk-in closet, was in fact another location and not a knockoff. This information came in handy the next day when I decided to give a couple more items a taste.
• Anthony Hamilton will soon be appearing in concert with Santana.

The Meal

We got our food and decided to eat in the car. I couldn’t wait. We came to get sloppy with some ribs. We drove around a bit and finally ended up in some shade next to a McDonald’s. Marc was playing Mary J. Blige on the iPod. I was ready for battle.

Before I continue with the review, I should mention that I have a bit of a “thing”, some say phobia, with being in constant body contact with warm food or cold drinks. I hate putting takeout food on my lap or holding a cold drink for a prolonged period of time. Am I the only one out in the world with this affliction? It gives me a unique type of anxiety. A kind of “ginger ale in the head”, so to speak. Eating in the car would prove a chore.

With this phobia and the conscious effort to not get sauce on my shirt (I ended up with two stains), I feared I was not in the right frame of mind to properly eat.

Who am I kidding. I tried to not to let said phobia color my opinion of the offerings. In two days’ time at two locations, I tried the following…

»continue reading Overcoming Car-Food Phobias at Phillip’s Bar-B-Que

Millerman23: I saw the EELS on Thurs. They were weird, have you ever seen them? The drummer was dressed like a Confederate soldier.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I saw them years ago — I don’t remember.
Millerman23: Were they good?
xxLittlesis8200xx: I don’t remember, they were opening for Fiona Apple. I think I enjoyed them … I didn’t know who they were then.¹
Millerman23: Well they are weird. I didn’t really like it. I thought they would be kinda soft bc I heard that’s what their last album sounds like [from Victor], but they were loud and fast. And the main guy was dressed up as an aviator or something.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Interesting.
Millerman23: And they had this guy on stage who was dressed like a bouncer with a shaved head who just stood there with his arms crossed and sometimes danced.
xxLittlesis8200xx: That is weird.²
Millerman23: How’s school?³
xxLittlesis8200xx: Only Sufjan Stevens can get away with random shit at a concert. School is okay … I am slacking.
Millerman23: Ya even if mom was there and threw up in her hands like she did at Sufjan in Aspen this still would have sucked.⁴
xxLittlesis8200xx: Haha. So ur not gonna be at dinner Fri. night?⁵
Millerman23: No. I am going to a Dodgers game, Jessica’s work gave her ridiculous seats. Front room, behind home plate.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Oh.
Millerman23: When you saw them, did the EELS play that song, “Novocaine For My Soul?”⁶ I wanted them to play it cuz it’s their only hit … cuz sometimes you just want to hear the 10 yr. old hit song even if you know the band hates it. Ya know?
xxLittlesis8200xx: Yea like Weezer still plays all the songs from the blue album.
Millerman23: Yes.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I really don’t remember the EELS, just Fiona … except it was a small venue, and someone yelled “I love u” to the EELS guy⁷and he responded with “thanks” or something which was funny/unexpected.
Millerman23: Like in a calm way?⁸ At the show I saw, Mr. E seemed very sedate like he was on drugs.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Haha he prob. was.
Millerman23: Apparently some band of 2 twelve yr. olds opened for the EELS but I got there late.⁹
xxLittlesis8200xx: Wow, very interesting.
Millerman23: Yes, so interesting.¹⁰ Alright I’m outta here.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I like the stuff I have downloaded, but I guess the EELS are weird live.
Millerman23: I can send you a link to download some of it.¹¹ It’s better on the album than live, at least the way they played it.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Yea send it.
Millerman23: Ok. I gotta review it for the website I write for. I don’t know what I am going to say.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Don’t be too harsh, but say ur opinion.
Millerman23: Thanks for the tip. I will do my best. Any other advice?
xxLittlesis8200xx: Uhhh no.
Millerman23: Alright.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I have to go to my last Kappa meeting of the quarter. I’ll ttyl.
Millerman23: K bye.

___________________________
¹If I recall correctly, Felicia’s friend Meredith got free tickets to that show because her dad was Apple’s doctor.
²It was really weird, though also strangely comforting.
³Felicia is a third-year at UC Davis, studying English.
⁴My sister and I saw a Sufjan Stevens show in Aspen last summer with our family. My mother drank too much and threw up, but concealed the barf by neatly vomiting into her cupped hands.
⁵Felicia will be in town this weekend, and I was meant to have dinner at home with my family, but bailed. People are unhappy about this.
⁶It is actually called “Novocaine For The Soul.”
⁷Felicia is referring to the band’s leader Mark Oliver Everett, who goes by “E” or “Mr. E.”
⁸ Syntax unclear — what I meant to ask was whether the “EELS guy” responded with “thanks” in a calm manner.
⁹That band is called Smoosh, the sisters in the group are more like 16 and 14, and you can hear about Smoosh here.
¹⁰At this point, I sensed my sister’s boredom with the conversation.
¹¹Legally, natch.

The Arctic Monkeys
The Wiltern / June 3, 2006
Los Angeles, CA

So we meet again, Wiltern. It’s early. I want to eat at the Denny’s beside you, but I cannot. I’m waiting. In line. At 8. In the morning. Why? Because Los Angeles is cra-zay, and if you want to see a concert at night, you’ve got to start preparing in the morning. Which is why we are lining up, next to lots of Hot Topic-ed kids in drainpipes and Converse (who probably thought the line about “knackered Converse” was soooo cute). I break out the supplies: the ‘Pod, Q/NME/The Word (street cred, you see), water bottle, various foodstuffs in plastic baggies.

The Wiltern at 8 am is a sight to behold, I’m sure, except I fell asleep. The cement is hard, my ass is numb, did I learn NOTHING about waiting in line from my two Muse tours? The avoidance of inane conversation about MySpace pages and “who’s your favo(u)rite member?” proves to be more taxing than I’d remembered, and I doze off, probably dreaming about Denny’s. Sometimes I feel so old.

We cycle shifts through the day, listening to music, knitting, reading. We try to avoid the random sidewalk sales associates who peddle their bizarre goods onto us, and we silently reject everything from original poems to stickers that say “FedSex”. We send text messages to each other about the goobers slinking around. Are they hipsters? Scenesters? I can never tell the difference.

Eventually dusk falls and we all stand up, grumbling about the fuckheads in front of us who waited in line all day as a placeholder for their 17 friends. Damn it. We glare at those forty-year-olds who always manage to monopolize the front of the line, but never attempt to get to the front of the pit. Weirdos. The exhaustion from sitting against a building for 10 hours melts as we enter you, grand Wiltern, get our tickets torn, bags checked… and then, despite the blasé requests of “no running!” we book it and make a beeline for the barricade, our home away from home.

Front and center, bracing with our legs, grasping with our hands. I love you, metal barricade. I love the way you make me feel like a woman. A tired, sore, slightly sweaty woman. And even at the barricade, we’re still feet away from the stage. FEET!! Jesus Christ, Wiltern, trust us already. We aren’t going to spaz out.

The show starts. Some opening band comes on. My feet hurt already. I get elbowed in the back a lot. We yell at some kids in braces. Hello, Wiltern, ever heard of an age limit?

Changeover. The pubescenster boys and girls try to worm their way up front. I laugh at them. And inadvertently kick one in the shin. She’ll probably post about this on the message board tomorrow. It’s always this way with you, isn’t it Wiltern? Always more about the crowd than the band.

Then on they come- the Monkeys of Arctic. I’m afraid all euphemisms have been used up by every other “rock journalist”, so suffice it to say that they look like people who would’ve frustrated me in junior high, but who always would’ve wound up as my lab partners.

I sing, smile, try to get Jamie to acknowledge me. I pinch some girl who’s really getting on my nerves. I scream to my friends. I hug my barricade. Sometimes I look behind me at the poor tools that wound up in the seated sections. Any appearance of unenthusiam from the crowd is most definitely because of those seated seats. Come on, Wiltern, get your act together.

Oh! B-sides!! Oh! That song about the dance floor!!

I start to think about Denny’s again. God, I love pancakes.

The younglings are onstage in hoodies, Adidas, Puma, Converse. Typical. No pointy-toed shoes here. No acne-regimes either. I love it. I fucking love your Monkey business, you little Sheffies!

If I really wanted to write a proper (p)review, I’d have to throw in some adjectives like grimy, raw, pounding, raucous, etc, etc. I’d also mention something about how they either a) lived up to the hype or b) did not, but somehow include the word hype in this article. But that’s a waste of our time, Wiltern, and we both know it. You’ve heard it before and you’ll hear it again.

The show ends. We stall, yell up the roadies, get a set list, maybe a drumstick. We attempt to find the tour manager. We need to talk to the kids, for a documentary we’re making. No dice. Fuck you, Wiltern.

We leave and as we pass the fans hoping for a scribble, we roll our eyes. We are just too cool for that kind of nonsense. After all, this is LOS ANGELES. Get a grip.

A unanimous decision is made- Denny’s. In Culver City. Take that, Wiltern.

I reflect in the car ride over, relaxing on the nice, cushy seats. Pancakes. Monkeys. Barricades. God damn it, Wiltern. I tried so hard to love you… but you really left me no choice.

My Culver pancakes taste slightly less jaded than those of the Wilshire variety. I’ve lost my voice. I wipe some barricade grease off of my hand.

Until next time, Wiltern…until next time.

(Note: Due to a certain ticketmonger’s inconveniently exorbitant charges for convenience, overestimating scalpers, and the mass proliferation of people in L.A. with lots of time on their hands, I actually have to go to San Diego to see the Arctic Monkeys. Yeah, that’s right Wiltern. I’m cheating on you. With SOMA.)