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?

I posit that the bike racks had to moved because the owner of the property is making way for a curbside latte and caviar stand (you know, gentrification). Therefore the racks were moved to the seedy “IVAR EXIT.” Thus, the note was a sarcastic missive from a disgruntled theater employee who now has to walk an extra few feet after parking his Schwinn.

On the other hand, my girl Jessica says perhaps the new “IVAR EXIT” bike rack location was formerly too seedy for bike racks. You know how transients, prostitutes and drug pushers hang out there. Thus, the racks had to previously be located safely inside the Arclight development’s parking lot, where people could lock up their bikes in relative safety. But now, the “IVAR EXIT” location is safe for bike racks.

So Los Angeles, which is it? REACT TO ME.

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.

Priceless. Hold on to those memories, kid.

A few months after the party, the El Pecas guys bought the new truck. Adorned with cartoon characters from a Mexican comic book (or so I am told; I don’t read Mexican comic books, only Romanian comix, so I have no way of verifying the claims). I was shocked to see the new truck, which, by the way, is located at the southwest corner of La Brea and Olympic in the same parking lot that El Pecas #2 called home (nights only, natch).

The food is still great – greasy al pastor tacos or a carne asada burrito both score high on the Wonderlic test and nothing is better when you are wasted and within walking distance. In fact, the photos included here were taken on my cell phone after a night of heavy drinking at a local watering hole.

The El Chato truck does serve chicken now, something to appease the gringos I imagine. It isn’t bad, but hey, I fit the key demographic they are targeting. I’d stick to the beef, whether you go the lengua or the asada route. I hope the new truck doesn’t throw people off. C’mon guys it’s no big deal, so they changed the name. It’s just like Nancy Silverton leaving Campanile and starting Mozza – shooters keep shooting and great chefs keep cooking tripa.

Please enjoy a photo from the 2006 El Pecas #2 block party.

___________________________
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.

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.

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…

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.

Lucy’s (1373 S. La Brea Ave., on the corner of La Brea and Pico) is an interesting deal – a drive-thru Mexican joint that isn’t a chain eatery. When I first moved to the neighborhood in September I stopped by the place and ordered a few crispy meat-based tacos. They were a little too cheesy. The tacos came covered in a white/melted/molten mass of foul-tasting cheese that disagreed with me. Then, my buddy told me his parents once saw someone get shot in the head while in line for some taquitos. Would I ever visit Lucy’s again? Of course, and I was awarded for my patience. Subsequent journeys there have indicated that the nasty cheese was an aberration; in fact, the crispy treats are pretty good. But, the thing to order is a burrito. I prefer the carne asada concoction with rice and beans. The meat is flavorful and the pinto beans are quite good. One thing I truly enjoy about Lucy’s is its breakfast menu. The Spanish omelet comes filled with (good, moderately applied) cheese and is smothered in a red sauce. It’s a heavy breakfast – perfect for a hungover Sunday morning. Oh, it turns out no one got shot in the head at Lucy’s – my friends’ parents merely saw a drunken patron pull out a gun and wave it around before stuffing the piece back in his pants. Soon to come: a review of [redacted] Taco Truck.

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

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.

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

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.

The glam/garage band Louis XIV opened the night to a seemingly disinterested Bowl. As the evening’s mistress of ceremonies, former Go-Go and expert investor Jane Wiedlin added guest vocals to the band’s semi-hit song, “Finding Out True Love Is Blind.”

Wiedlin then took over emcee duties, bantering throughout the endless Rocky Horror costume parade, which sucked the life out of me.

The audience was mostly filled with 12-13 year-olds and 46-47 year-olds, both segments dressed up as various characters from the flick. Before the film could begin, the obligatory de-virgnization took place. My girlfriend clung to me, begging to protect her from Wiedlin, should she be chosen for the ceremony. Eventually, two couples were chosen for the ritual – the two men were forced to bob for cherry lifesavers hidden in creampies expertly placed between their missus’ legs.

As the film started, chants from hardcore fan groups began, along with the throwing of rice. Picking rice out of our hair, my girlfriend and I discussed how many direct hits we were willing to take from grain-based projectiles. Then came the water during the movie’s rain sequence. When the costumed denizens began brandishing tortillas, we decided to leave.

This was a very exhilarating experience (like escaping a grizzly bear attack). I know I sound like a prude – and I’m not – but I do realize that in many ways I am still a terrified seventh grader.