This photo was sent from my cellphone whilst walking through the parking lot at Arclight Cinemas after seeing “The Lives of Others” a couple of nights ago. (since it’s a German film, I kept confusing it with “The Quiet German” and “The Good German,” names of recent German films. I think. Maybe I made one of those names up. Maybe those movies aren’t even German!)

The piece of paper was pasted to a pillar near the former location of bike racks at the cinema’s parking lot, close to the entrance to the development’s promenade. But what does it mean?
»continue reading Photo Op: Arclight Bike Rack GentrIvarfication

El Chato is the name of the taco truck brought to you by the men who brought you El Pecas #2. The–get ready for alliteration, okay … 1, 2, 3 – let’s do it—flavorful fare remains the same, but the truck is new.

I had a long, rich history with El Pecas #2. My roommates and I hired the guys from the El Pecas truck to cater a summer block party we threw for our cozy Longwood Highlands neighborhood. I will never forget running down Citrus Avenue in 90 degree heat with a gas canister in my hand, because the truck’s portable generator had run out of gasoline. If there were to be more lengua tacos, then I needed to hurry. About 10 minutes and a vintage t-shirt soaked in gasoline later, 100 of my closest friends enjoyed delicious tacos again.
»continue reading El Chato, Son of El Pecas #2

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 holy grail — a taco trilogy so great that it defies description. A taco triptych of immense beauty. A taco tabernacle of wisdom and faith. A taco triumvirate. Anyways, that’s what I am calling it.

Yes, I’ve been gone for a bit. I went away to blogging school, did a few extension classes when money got tight, but passed the finals and got my degree. Since graduating, I’ve started my own blog, L.A. Smog Blog. There you will find my review of El Burrito Jr., which completes my reviewing of the Mid-City taco triumvirate, which began on this site with reviews of El Pecas #2 and Lucy’s. If you wanted to, you could easily walk to all three of these La Brea Ave. establishments for a full day of taco fun. I do it every other Sunday with a group of friends. Try it. Also, here’s a visual aid if you do decide to take the Mid-City taco walking tour. Print this map out and you are set:

Don’t forget your compass!

Editors note: per Losanjealous bylaws, after announcing his departure Daniel was given the choice of being beaten by rest of our staff members or fighting Bill DeMarco to the death. Daniel wisely chose the group beating and requests that readers do not send flowers to his Cedars-Sinai recovery unit room on account of his allergies.

While on my way home from work last night, I made an interesting discovery. Fumbling with my radio dial in search of National Public Radio, I came across the static-laden voice of Howard Stern at 88.3 FM. It was about 6:15 p.m., and I had just gotten off the 101 Freeway, with plans to head home over Coldwater Canyon. At first I thought it was some NPR affiliate’s broadcast of an interview with the King of All Media, but within 30 seconds of tuning in, I heard Howard use the words “shit” and “cunty.” Surely, language like this would make that short-haired minx Terry Gross blush, so I knew this was no NPR broadcast. No, I had stumbled across a pirate radio broadcast of Stern’s new Sirius Satellite Radio show. Last week the LA Times reported that Stern is miffed that people are putting his subscription-only show on the Internet for free consumption.

According to the Time story, some pirate radio stations in NY and Jersey have broadcasted Stern’s show on unused radio frequencies, and it appears this is what I was listening to in LA today. As I began making the drive up the canyon, the radio signal got much stronger. Though fuzzy, I could hear Howard mock Oprah Winfrey for her decision to sign on with XM Satellite Radio and provide that station with content. I haven’t listened to Stern in years, and I enjoyed his narcissistic rant as I made my way through the canyon. As I drove into the flats of Beverly Hills, the signal faded and I couldn’t hear anything but static.

Has anyone else heard Stern’s show in LA via some pirate radio broadcast? I imagine some secretive pirate radio broadcaster beaming us the Stern signal from a secret compound in the hills. So furtive, so filthy. I wonder whether this pirate will still be broadcasting come Monday…

Shortly after moving to the Mid-Wilshire neighborhood of Longwood Highlands (“A Neighborhood Of Pride”) in September, I expressed sorrow over the lack of efficient, inexpensive taco stands dispensing Mexican food within walking distance of my apartment. Most of my friends saw that I was feeling down, and would often attempt to console me, but I usually just pushed them away. It was having a real impact on my relationships with loved ones and casual acquaintances. So you can imagine my relief when, on a brisk November night, I drove past a new taco truck setting up shop on the corner of Olympic and La Brea. But after a brief delicious fling with the place, it vanished. Read about that sad tale here.

The taco truck did return to its spot in a car repair shop parking lot (FYI: Microsoft Word spell check thinks “car repair shop parking lot” is too many nouns in a row, but I’m gonna stick with it), and I’ve eaten there many times over the past few months. The truck is called El Pecas #2. It is owned and operated by Gerardo Navarro and Amado Giron. Navarro and Giron serve tacos and burritos cooked in the Jalisco style.

Saunter (or mosey) up to the window of the truck on any given night and you’ll see pork roasting on a spit and both Giron and Navarro dishing out buche (yes kids, that’s pig stomach!) tacos or a lengua burrito. The excellent salsas are based on Navarro-family recipes, which go back generations to the city of Arandas, Mexico, where some of the Navarro family still lives. The green and red salsas are some of the best I’ve ever tasted — both incredibly complex and challenging (as in they challenge me to be a better man, or think about world peace). I bet you don’t care to know what I order at El Pecas #2. Well, at first I was an al pastor man, but now I think that the carne asada is the meat-de-resistance at El Pecas #2. Try a few tacos, or order a burrito, I think you’ll be impressed. This is one of the best spots in town for quick, tasty Mexican food.

El Pecas #2 can be found at the southwest corner of Olympic and La Brea 7 days a week from 6 p.m. until about midnight. Tacos, $1; burritos, $3. Giron said that El Pecas #2 is available for catering. He can be reached at 323-353-0874. I think they are going to cater my cousin’s Bar Mitzvah. Who wants buche? Next week, I’m going to try to figure out what the deal is with El Pecas #1.

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.

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

Last Sunday night I went to Taylor’s Prime Steaks in Korea Town. The place is old school, and I thought it would be great to try the joint at a time when overpriced steak houses like Dakota are sprouting up like Starbucks (and they are all kinda like Bill DeMarco’s Starbucks #18).

Taylor’s has been around since 1953, and the décor doesn’t betray that vintage. Think red Naugahyde booths and a long, wood paneled bar. Unlike some upscale chophouses, Taylor’s caters to a very diverse clientele. In one booth I spotted some tourists who were flanked on either side by groups of leathery Hancock Park elder statesmen stuffed into booths with their 200-year-old dames. You know, the type of L.A. broads who were nice-looking when Raymond Chandler wrote about them 60 years ago.

Those elder statesmen weren’t the only ones getting stuffed. I was too. I order the culotte steak, which Taylor’s staff will tell you is the tenderest cut of top sirloin (there are only two culotte cuts per steer). It’s priced to own at $19.95 a la carte, or at $26.95 with soup or salad and sides. Properly ordered medium rare, the steak is tender, delicious, and a bloody meat bomb of flavor. You can go with the solid prime rib or London broil, but the culotte steak is the star of the show. I paired it with the mashed potatoes, which were good. But, instead go with the cottage fries, they’re better. A standout was the Molly dinner salad — a concoction of tomatoes, Bermuda onion and blue cheese. Classic steak fare.

Yes, the service was a bit slow, but it was late on a Sunday night. Like I intimated earlier, the whole affair felt like a scene out of a Chandler novel. If only smoking were still allowed in such a food emporium; surely the seductive wafting of the plumes would have excited me with even more vivid fantasies of hardboiled detective work, served with a steak and a cigarette.

Taylor’s Prime Steaks
3361 W. 8th St.
213-382-8449

During one of the quieter songs from Sunday night’s Dead Can Dance show at the Hollywood Bowl, my buddy Geoff leaned over and whispered to me, “I don’t want to eat the taco because it’s too loud.” You see, the inevitable crunches from the hard taco shell (we picked up surprisingly decent slash greasy Mexican food from Lucy’s on La Brea) would surely have annoyed the various hardcore fans who were experiencing various states of rapture whilst listening to the freaky moans and aural emissions coming from the stage. I turned around, only to see a sea of noodle dancers swaying like strung out hippies and many others gently bobbing in their seats, eyes closed, hypnotic smiles plastered across their faces.

Truth be told, I didn’t know much about Dead Can Dance before I attended the show. I knew that the Bowl show was part of a reunion tour and that singer/instrumentalist Lisa Gerrard also does film scores. I didn’t know much more after the show because Gerrard doesn’t sing words that others humans can understand. According to the website Dead Can Dance Within, Gerrard’s vocals are “mainly phonetics that are sprung from thoughts and emotion she feels as she sings.” Right.

To me, most of the songs sounded like psychedelic renditions of my cantor’s Yom Kippur performance of the Kol Nidre service, along with a dash of your typical Bollywood film score played half speed.

This was a coma-inducing affair all around. For me, that coma was the result of boredom. For most of the fans in attendance (judging by their facial expressions), it was the result of a massive rush of serotonin to the brain, causing impairment.

Impairment of their shitty-music detectors.

Before I comment on Oasis’ Monday night show at the Hollywood Bowl, I should mention that while I am discerning music listener, when it comes to Oasis I am distinctly a fan.

In the formative years of my music listening career (read: 1997-2001) I probably listened to Oasis’ seminal second album, “(What’s The Story) Morning Glory” more than any other album (also high up on that list would be Pavement’s “Terror Twilight,” Pulp’s “Different Class,” and Blur’s “Blur”). I was seduced by the rock lifestyle Oasis’ Gallagher brothers promoted, and basically fell in love with Britpop.

Fast forward a few years, and as a 22-year-old college graduate, I obviously lean towards more obtuse and “challenging” music that “makes me think about the universe/socialism.”

But I still put Oasis up on a pedestal, for all that the band signifies, and those sweet haircuts, natch. Ok, now to the concert.

I ate my picnic dinner during Kasabian’s set, and only caught part of Jet’s performance, which was a lovely AC/DC impersonation. Oasis walked on stage to thunderous applause and ripped into the new song “Turn Up The Sun.” I like this song because it sounds like the best of Oasis songs–guitars roar forebodingly and vocals drone nasally and the whole thing feels and sounds like a jumbo jet flying low overhead.

Several songs from the band’s good and new album “Don’t Believe The Truth” (dock 5 points for the abysmal title) were trotted out on Monday, all to happy cheers. This is the band’s best new material in years, but it is still depressing to know that many people in the audience were at the Bowl simply to hear “Wonderwall.”

That’s fine, and the band did a fine job with that song. The Oasis classics are classics, and I won’t tire of hearing them live (this was the fourth time I’ve seen ‘em).

For me, the highpoint of the show was the band’s rendition of “Morning Glory,” a deep cut off that second album I had never heard live before. Despite the miscues in recent years, and the realization that even a good new album may not save the band from the nostalgia circuit, when Liam menacingly belted the chorus to that song, I remembered why I listened to that CD so often.

More Concert Photos:
Oasis 1
Oasis 2
Oasis 3
Oasis 4
Oasis 5
Oasis 6
Oasis 7

Photos by Audree

I remember first seeing The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Nuart Theatre as a 12-year-old with a group of friends and a horrified parental chaperone. We were in the seventh grade, and it was the first and last time I saw several girls from my middle school wearing fishnets and garters. At the time, I was terrified by the spectacle, and the sole indelible image from the evening that I shudder to recall involved an on-stage simulated sex act for “virgins” to the Rocky Horror experience. Also, I kinda remember getting hit in the head with a flying tortilla.

Time certainly had dulled the trauma/drama of that fateful evening, until Monday night’s 30th anniversary Rocky Horror extravaganza at the Hollywood Bowl reopened old wounds thought to be expertly cauterized by 10 years of non-audience participation movie going.

I took my girlfriend to the show, and as a virgin to the Rocky Horror experience, I don’t think she knew what she was getting into until we entered the Bowl’s parking lot. There, she pointed out a diminutive man wearing only his undergarments, and asked me why other patrons clutched bags of rice and tortillas. Suddenly our Brie and Chablis picnic seemed out of place. »continue reading Rocky Horrified