The delirium experienced in 100-degree-plus weather in the desert is pithy compared to the delirium I experienced when I read about this year’s Coachella lineup. Shedding their traditional “mecca-of-emo-rock-punk-rap-indie-alt-reggae-tools-that’s-only-a-little- temperately-cooler-than-burning-man,” Coachella organizers have done something truly original—they’ve brought it back, old school. I can’t think of any other way to share my excitement, and contain my excrement, than to just lay it all out on the line. Prepare to be blown away.
»continue reading One Coachelluva Lineup!

Only in Losanjealous can you be fired by a middle-aged meathead who flaunts his tribal band bicep tattoo, wears shirts that say “Do you have tickets to the gun show?”, and smokes weed all day, as JACK FM ironically plays “Another One Bites the Dust”.

Oh, and the reason I was fired?

I wasn’t aggressive enough.

I was a secretary.

At any rate, I bet they’ll change their tune when they find out I stole my favorite clicky pen.

And their weed.

So bring it, Losanj, because while misery loves company, misery prefers* company that laughs at the pain of others. Gimme your worst. Best story wins my now coveted last package of Ramen.

*Misery would also really like another job. Just sayin’.

Dirty Pretty Things
The Fonda
August 8, 2006

I’m going to fast forward through all of the “concert review” aspects of this concert review and focus on what I was thinking about for the majority of the Dirty Pretty Things show at the Fonda last week. Yes, this was their first show in America. And yes, they were brilliant and lovely and loud and homoerotic and dirty and pretty and things-y.

But here is what was truly plaguing me throughout their entire show, including during the two Libertine songs in the encore.

Who does Carl Barât look like?

Don’t give me that look.

It’s not unknown that celebrities generally resemble between one and three other celebrities.

For instance:

Chad Smith, the drummer for Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Will Ferrell.

Uncanny.
»continue reading Dirty Pretty Things at the Fonda: A Challenge

Though you are a dated giant, your size does not impede
One’s navigation through you, with above average speed.
Your circular existence and multitude of lanes,
Sharply counteracts Sea-Tac, where I sit and wait in vain.

You have a cell phone parking lot off Airport, to the right.
(Although this is quite creepy when waiting late at night.)
You don’t have much to offer, in aesthetics or swank appeal
But what you do have, LAX, you give to us with zeal.

Hidden treasures at each gate abound, from Ruby’s to Cinnabon
Lots of bathrooms, lots of signs, a few seats to sit upon.
This is not to say you’re perfect, you have flaws without a doubt.
Your bathrooms really irk me; why can’t the stall doors open out?

You always tend to smell the same, like stale coffee, paper and feet,
But give me a choice between you and MSP; your system can’t be beat.
Dropping off or being picked up for departures or arrivals
Is effortless with you, my dear, no fighting for survival.

I love the way you have dividers, which separate street from gates,
I do hate checking bags, however, because I cannot stand your wait.
I smile when I exit, as your AC gives way to heat,
And I love that you’re accessible via freeways or surface streets.

It’s easy to get to you on time, my love, and drop-offs are just heaven.
(And I also love your “secret” shortcut to United’s Terminal 7.)
I’m proud to call you my hub for all the world’s destinations
Your marvelous cement exterior is certainly a divine creation.

I hope you get a facelift soon, so you can be at your very best.
But keep the Autopia voice outside that greets your weary guests.
I’ll get right to the point, mon cher, you’re my favorite airport, LAX.
Even with all of your flighty flaws, you are still the sex.

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.)

Tokyo 7-7, like most places of magic, eluded me for roughly 8 months. While living in Culver City, I oft passed this bizarrely-located café, only to find it consistently closed. And I mean, consistently. I attempted to dine there twice; both times, it was closed. (Granted, I never looked at the hours of operation.)

Then in April, magic struck. I visited Tru Value…only to see the neon signage of Tokyo 7-7 glowing a fiery pink and blue: “OPEN”. Unfortunately, I was on the clock and couldn’t stop to eat; but, my dream rekindled, I made May’s Mission #1 to eat at Tokyo 7-7.

A few weeks later my first attempt was made. It was closed. For my records, I snapped a shot of the hours (and this crazy “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” sign… what’s up with that wonky toe?). I googled my little heart out, learned about their American/Japanese fusion foods (“omelettes on rice!”), read reviews and cross-checked hours. I was prepared to live the dream at Tokyo 7-7: I was going to find the perfect dive diner, complete with free-range elderly patrons.

I actually left work early so I could make the 3 pm last call. Arriving at a generous 1:50 pm, I met a friend and prepared for magic.

First off–the basics: seat yourself, cash only, booze and cigarettes are available for purchase. They sponsor a little league team and have a shelf full of magazines for you to peruse at your leisure. Flute-heavy classical music fills the air. An ample amount of seniors. The décor is absolutely amazing. Along with felt banners for various MLB teams, there are also signed photos of famous people, à la Pink’s… but with a twist. You won’t find any Richard Simmons glossies in Tokyo 7-7, instead, feast your eyes on the likes of several obscure Asian actors, Aladdin and Jasmine from Disneyland, and a shrine to Dale Ishimoto (of Nissan commercial fame, though we were fairly convinced it was Chairman Mao until we realized he had sunglasses on… then we thought it was that guy from Zoolander who played the Prime Minister of Malaysia… boy, were we wrong). The hands down best part was the signed cast photo of Full House, complete with blocky, kindergartener signatures from the Olsens. This alone is worth a trip to Tokyo 7-7.

But the food, oh, the food.

»continue reading Tokyo 7-7: The David Blaine of Fusion Cuisine

It’s 11:24 pm on Sunday night, and the Patrón hangover has just now worn off. I put the 3121 CD back on; attempting to work up a black enough sweat to recap last night’s partying at Prince’s house.

Yes. That Prince. The Purple One.

So in honor of Prince’s creative usage of the English language and singular letters, I’ve chosen to review the night’s events with an A-to-Z list.

A- Attention to detail: 3121 purple doormats, 3121 cocktail napkins, 3121 outfits for the wait staff, purple entry carpet, purple-chalked pool cues…

B- Bathroom antics: My goal was to text as many people as possible from Prince’s bathroom. Not only did I manage that, but I also got this pic of Prince’s mirrored bathroom and the Baby Wipes a thoughtful Purple One set out for his sweaty partygoers. (And I’ll admit it. I looked through all of the drawers and cabinets in the bathroom, finding very little of interest except these weird ball things and a purple hand towel.)

C- Celeb-sandwich: We provided a lovely, yet slightly jaded filling for the bread made from David Duchovny, Angela Basset, Sharon Stone, Hugh Dancy and a guy in a metallic purple leather jacket who we thought was Kenny Rogers.

D- Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough: A fierce cover played by the Purple One… made me question whether Michael was really the right man for the job.

E- Elevators: Safely hidden from Sherwanied bouncers, we snapped some schweet shots in one of Prince’s elevators. With the fusion of purple, O(+> and heart mirrors, I felt loved.

»continue reading A to Z Starts with P

As we all know, “Los Angeles” is Spanish for “Famous People.” Though one might not feel complete until experiencing a legitimate sighting (and if you’re still anxiously waiting, go to House of Pies already), look no further than your friendly neighborhood pier. The ‘Nade offers a smorgasbord of entertainment’s most fantastic specimens. Dear Reader, I give you…The Show People.

photo by SeraphimC

1) Ol’ Yeller: Ol’ Yeller is always on the ‘Nade, in some way or another. Whether preaching from a Bible or screaming about political turmoil in the Middle East, one can always find an old man yelling somewhere, about something. Typically found within the first block of the ‘Nade, Ol’ Yeller simply yells, constantly, stopping for neither traffic nor air. He holds his ground and yells–not directly at you, not directly at anyone. If you’re lucky enough to just miss the “Walk” sign, and have to wait for a light, try to get within listening distance (approximately a 1/4 block circumference) to hear his pearls of wisdom. Also note that Ol’ Yeller is non-committal. In the time it takes for you to walk up the ‘Nade and back down, he will have either changed topics or taken the opposite viewpoint. Sometimes within a matter of minutes. Reynald Chabot is the most famous of the Ol’ Yellers. Respect.

2) The Show Offs: In this category falls all of the people on the ‘Nade who actually have talent (and most likely a MySpace music page to back it up). There’s Metal Kid, who lays down “Stairway to Heaven” like it’s Lincoln Logs. The countless Acoustic Musicians; some with guitars, some with pan flutes, most with dreadlocks. The KC & JoJo Rip-offs who have real microphones and matching fedoras. Bucket Drummer. The Saxophonist who is, in fact, available for weddings. Though dominated by musicians, the Show Offs also include Face Sculptor, Plate Spinner, Tap Dancing Duo, The Ballroom Dancers who emerge from the studio on 4th Street to recruit new customers and Victor, the Wheelchair Guy Who can do Gymnastic-y Things Balancing on his Hands.

3) The Wind Ups: The Wind Ups are perhaps the greatest thing about the ‘Nade, because they do NOTHING. They are a difficult category to understand; shouldn’t their trickery demote them from Show People status? Never. Everyone has the potential to be a Wind Up–you just have to not do anything that merits a monetary donation. (I’m looking at you, Devil Sticks Girl.) The favorite of ‘Nade employees is Lakers Jersey Guy. He gathers a large group of people around him, chants, claps, and jumps up and down in a circle to get his audience super-pumped. Sometimes he does a few seconds of the Robot. If the mood is right, he’ll pull a member from the crowd and convince him to dance, too. Then he passes around a bucket, gives a brief lecture about how he’s trying to stay off the street, and strips down, rubbing the dollar bills all over his naked body. (Okay, so that last bit is unconfirmed but a girl can dream.)

So give generously, my friends, and hang tight for the ‘Nade’s next installment: The Homies.

Welcome to “Life on the ‘Nade,” a series of observations made as an employee at a fine retail establishment on the Third Street Promenade. Today’s journey of self-actualization and life-affirming change covers the blue-collar panhandlers who work the ‘Nade, people whom I affectionately call “The Hecklers.”

1. The Bucket Kids: As endearing as little kids in big sweatshirts are, I’ve ultimately determined their collection antics to be somewhat frightening. Bouncing around at the corner of Broadway and 3rd, the Bucket Kids have an operational style that would make the military cream their pants. Strategically scattered throughout the first block of the ‘Nade, the Bucket Kids manage to step in front of the path of nearly every pedestrian, shaking their white buckets and asking for any change to help such-and-such-fundraiser-for-kids. At first, I was impressed by their perseverance (and their consistent “God Bless You” to the brush-offs). But when I saw the Colonel strolling nonchalantly by the topiary dinosaurs, offering new methods of attack and pointing out veritable goldmines, I realized that the Bucket Kids are pint-sized soldiers in Operation Spare Change.

2. The Do-Gooders: These seasonal gems (you won’t find them in the rain) change their causes with the wind (or with whatever bill/amendment/levy happens to be on the table at the time). With their clipboards and chipper demeanor, they seem to only want to help our fair city, but be warned; for their perk turns to smug if you blow them off. Consider them the ‘Nade’s answer to the LaRouche cats who work the corners at the USC campus. If you catch them early on, they might even share a laugh with you (those silly Repubs!) but as the day wears on, you’ll find the Do-Gooders losing their steam. They should definitely take notes from the Bucket Kids…or at least pick up a Red Bull from Famima!!

And finally, my personal favorite:

3. The God Peddlers: This particular breed of Heckler is as highly potent as Kirk Franklin’s hit “Stomp” was inspirational. Your typical God Peddler consists of a timid Gen Y-er dressed in tapered jeans, a windbreaker and a fanny pack. Don’t be thrown off, sometimes they have glasses. But they always, ALWAYS, have a laminated index card with 5-10 questions about Jesus. They approach quietly, but don’t mistake their hesitation for insecurity, because before you know it, they’ve placed a slight hand on your arm, looked into your heathen eyes, and made their pitch. “Are you interested in any of these questions?” Politeness does not work with the God Peddlers; neither does a side step. The only successful deterrent I’ve found is faking a phone call. But some days my defense is lax. On those days, I wince as the aforementioned question of doom escapes from their pale lips. On those days, I want to respond, “No, but I am interested in why you don’t recognize me as the same girl in the red jacket you approach every single day and who every single day says ‘no.’ And I’d actually be even more interested in learning how to avoid the swarming little kids with buckets by Broadway.”

Stay tuned for the next thrilling expose, as I examine the splendor of the ‘Nade’s gift to the world of entertainment- The Show People.