Storming out of the gates on this first time three night party are headliners Toto, Spin Doctors and Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch. While this might seem less than anticipatory for Kevlar enthusiasts who really think “The Black Parade” was the best album of, like, evah, people who grew up with He-Man and She-ra will find themselves salivating on this…Hypercolor Parade.

Perhaps the best way to break down 07’s bonanza is by day. Friday, the first ever, finds us with the likes of Gerardo, Crash Test Dummies, and gangtsa favorite Akon on the mainstages. Bringing up the rear are other greats like Smashmouth, Wilson Phillips (with the now petite Carnie!), Gin Blossoms, and tweenie faves The Fray and Maroon 5. Not to be outdone, we get to jam with Sixpence None the Richer (no, no, kiss ME!), Michael Bolton and Celine Dion. Get your dancin’ shoes on for the Cherry Poppin Daddies and Paris Hilton. But, perhaps most importantly it’s the year of the summer girls, cause LFO are going to wax lyrical about Abercrombie and Fitch and Billy Shakespeare. And you know what, Rich? Chinese food makes ME sick too. I’m so glad that I get VIP passes.

Saturday is a bit mellower, filled with Enya, Amy Grant, and Paula Cole. Don’t worry, black people, Coachella didn’t forget about you! Not only will you get to treat yourself to the likes of Tevin Campbell, En Vogue, Hootie and the Blowfish AND Toni Braxton, but you’ll also get to jam with Kid ‘N Play and Kriss Kross. Talk about the dream team! But wait– Terence Trent D’arby will be serenading your sunburned bodies (do black people get sunburned?). For my Latinos, I have two words and three letters: Gloria Estefan and OMC. How bizarre!! For my Whites can we just say, BO BICE!!! Expect the smaller stages to be filled with throngs of Mmm-Boppers wiggling to Hanson, and girls with tattoos over at the CrazyTown show. For the Anglophiles, Robbie Williams will be making his Coachella debut and Bush will get you clean with Glycerine!

Sunday will be wicked. Let me just say that right out. Joey Lawrence returns from television to his first calling, and we’ll also be treated to a reunited Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Make sure to check out Shooter! If you’re into the death rock, school-shooting-superstar Marilyn Manson will be there in all his evil glory! And for the students who really felt touched at the end of the year, maybe Vitamin C will play the Graduation song! Expect the teens to head to Marcy Playground, Ashlee Simpson and Sugar Ray, while the oldies will be moshing to Jars of Clay, Powerman 5000 and Lit. Don’t think that they’ve forgotten how to get down though: I’m here to inform you that Snow will be in the house along with Kenny G. And you won’t have to walk 500 miles to see the Proclaimers, cause they’ll be onstage next to Paula Abdul (featuring MC Scat Cat). Also noteworthy are one-hits Semisonic, Avril and Duncan Shiek. And…last but not least, the Three Tenors… in the tent!

See you in April! I’ll be wearing my Boyz II Men tour shirt from 1996, and an incredulous grin. Coachella? More like Coachell-yeah!

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’.

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.

See how easy that was? Fun, even.

So I ask you again, dear losanjealous readers:

Who does Carl Barât look like?

Part Jason Schwartzman…

Part Alan Cummings…

Part…?

And what about the other DPTs?

Solve this quandary and “put all the rumo(u)rs to bed”…

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.

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.)

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 decor is absolutely amazing. Along with felt banners for various MLB teams, there are also signed photos of famous people, a 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.

Being a vegetarian, I find it hard to ever try really “adventurous” food, and I have found very few good “fusion” places that offer enough veggie selection. Tokyo 7-7 did not disappoint. For the lunch menu, I was limited to sandwiches of the cheese variety, milkshakes, and sides. We both opted for the avocado and cheese sandwich on wheat, a side of fries to share and 2 sodas. I must say here that the service is incredibly speedy…almost… magical.

They say pictures are worth a thousand words; in this case, these pictures are worth roughly $9.04. Yes, you’re seeing it correctly. That’s your generic store brand bread. But toasted. See that Kraft single? Me too. And I ate it. Sigh.

I chose the “potato salad” option, Kim went for the slightly more adventurous “macaroni salad”. Both arrived, positioned gingerly on a piece of lettuce, in a perfectly circular ice cream-scooped ball. I took a bite. I looked at Kim. “This…this tastes like cold.” A raised eyebrow. “No, seriously, not temperately, I’m saying, if you were to eat the notion of ‘cold’, it would taste like this.” She took a bite of her macaroni salad. Her eyes widened. “This does too… it’s as if you went to Antarctica, landed, and took a big bite out of the ground.” We tried salting it- absolutely no change. Magic. What’s also magic- I was actually hungrier after eating.

It was the type of meal you get at a day camp. It was most definitely homemade; that home belonging to an Appalachian family of six.

But you can’t argue when the price is right, my dear friends; two avocado and cheese sandwiches (with complimentary sides), a side of freezer fries, and two sodas will run you a meager $9.04. You could do worse. (You could also do a whole lot better, but still, you could do worse.)

As we were leaving, I asked how long they’d been in business. Twenty years. I believe my jaw dropped. They’re practically a Culver City staple! What the fuck?! This means that when I was watching Thundercats in footsie pajamas, they were laying the foundation for Tokyo 7-7; an establishment that has magically survived for twenty fucking years on mediocre food, cheap prices and an amazing eye for interior design.

“So why the David Blaine title,” you’re probably not thinking. Well, like Blaine, Tokyo 7-7 has existed in a world of vagueness, secrecy, build-up and magic. There’s a certain reassuring je ne sais quoi about the vinyl chairs that takes me back to my youth in the Midwest. Pure magic. Just like when you leave the restaurant and feel like you’ve been propelled two decades into the future: what a time warp. (Also magic because finding a decent “fusion” eatery that has good vegetarian options is about as difficult as watching David Blaine. Or maybe even being David Blaine.)

The only thing more surreal than Tokyo 7-7 is their next-door neighbor: Tru Value Hardware and their obsession with Laurel and Hardy. At least at Tru Value, you get free popcorn.

Tokyo 7-7
3839 Main St Ste B
(aka where all of the alleys converge, sort of by the big parking structure, BofA, and Tru Value Hardware)
(310) 204-5728

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.

F- Floor stage: The “stage” was level with the floor (okay, it was the floor). Stupid floor stage. I spent ¾ of the concert looking at Mulder and the back of my friend’s head. I couldn’t see a damn thing. I did catch a couple glimpses of the twin backup singers/dancers. The crowd was evenly split between people who were really into it and people who were really into being at Prince’s house. Fortunately, the floor-stage set up probably prevented the Purple One from seeing that only half of the crowd was waving their hands in the air. (Though the number of people singing to “Kiss” was irritatingly out of control.)

G- Glade candles: During the concert, the thick raspberry (beret?) scent, mixed with the smell of sweat and swanky booze nearly did my head in. Plus, my shoes were really, really uncomfortable.

H- Hair design: What Prince experience would be complete without a carefully styled coiffure? And to top it off, when he came back to the concert room to mess around on the drum kit, his hair design was covered by a silk scarf. Always use protection.

I- Ice: Prince wasn’t wearing nearly enough. Though my ?th drink of the evening (in this stylish blue plastic cup- how colloquial) sure had plenty. Ahem.

J- Jokes: Who knew the Purple One was so darned funny? In addition to mocking the Lakers and talking about his “crib” (in seriousness), he commented that one of the audience members was “working up a mixed sweat”. Zing!

K- Kleptos: Who wouldn’t pocket this wicked cocktail napkin?? Technically, taking home a free napkin isn’t really stealing. Neither is taking home one of the cocktail glasses (wasn’t me!). Still, I think stuffing Prince’s purple hand towel down the back of your pants is both ungrateful and uncalled for. (And yes, guy in the suit, I saw you do it while you were talking to me. The bathroom was mirrored…)

L- Liner notes: You know all those pictures in the 3121 liner notes? Yeah, that’s totally the house. I moseyed through pages 3-6, 15-16, 25-26, and the cover.

M- “Method” brand hand soap: It’s from Target. Enough said.

N- Napkin note: At one point in the wee hours of the morning, we decided that we should write a thank-you note to the Purple One. Lacking both a pen and paper, we borrowed a cocktail napkin, and magically found a pen in the bathroom (it’s a house of magic, I tell you). We sneakily hid it behind one of the framed photos of his dancers in the room on page 3-4 of the liner notes… so now some cleaning lady will find a crumpled napkin that reads “Prince- Thanks for the good times & memories… I’ll never forget it… You rule. Loved your hat. Love, Kim, KA & Lauren” and promptly throw it away. It’s the thought that counts.

O- Open Bar: Patrón was the (sponsored?) drink of the evening, though I didn’t make proper use of the free expensive alcohol until later on. The bartenders (all ladies in classy 3121 attire) were incredibly nice, generous and helpful, and we proceeded to dump the entire contents of our wallets into their tip bowls. I also managed to drink my body weight (plus the combined weight of the entire Losanjealous staff) in Patron and gin. Cheers.

P- Patrón/Purple/Prince: All of these have pretty much been covered, but I must say that Patron is delicious, there was purple everywhere (purple carpet, purple elevator, purple pool table and on and on) and Prince wore an amazing white bodysuit/cowboy hat/giant sunglasses combo. (P could also stand for the unplayed Pussy Control… my favorite Prince song, besides Bat Dance.)

Q- Quixotic: I’m not going to lie. I only know this word because of LiveJournal’s moods. But I looked it up, and I’m pretty sure it’s applicable to Prince.

R- Race for food: We left at 5 am, absolutely starving and in need of some overpriced, pretentious food, so of course, we head for Mel’s, which happened to be full of post-Prince-partygoers. (My severe hunger was partially caused by the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything prior, in hopes of drinking champagne out of glasses with chocolate handles… chocolate handles that I would’ve eaten, despite my social etiquette.)

S- Swag: After accidentally getting off the Princelevator on the wrong floor, we found ourselves outside of the house. Heading back to the front, we walked past the heavily guarded swag table. Ginormous round purple velvet boxes beckoned us… but the guys with earpieces made us go away.

T- Target: More or less, the sole source of my wardrobe. Though fiscally wise, it left me feeling somewhat unswanky. But my shoes were kickass. Bangladesh.

U- Upholstery: I’ll give you one guess as to the color of nearly every piece of fabric in the house (if confused, please see entry for “P”). This pillow was one of my faves.

V- Van: We pulled up in a busted Nissan (with an unpainted hood, bumper and side panel), passed the keys to the valet, and sauntered to the end of the line. Our names were checked and we stood shivering in the cold until a giant gray camper-type minivan backed down the driveway, and the doors opened. Confused and impressed, we climbed in, sat gingerly on the ridiculously plush leather seats, and were driven to the doorway approximately 8 feet away. At this point, I knew it was going to be a wicked night.

W- Wasted: My state of existence for the entire night/morning. Also what I kept writing in text messages (“I’m wasted at Prince’s house!” “I’m wasted in Prince’s bathroom!” etc, etc). Oddly enough, the number of celebrity sightings increased hand-in-hand with level of intoxication, so I just kept on drinking, hoping to find Carrot Top.

X- X-treme: I tried really hard not to cop out on this one by using a word that doesn’t start with X, but Prince does it, so why can’t I? To be x-act, this was the most x-citingly x-treme thing I’ve ever, ever done. Without x-ception.

Y- “Y’all like my crib?”: Which is what the Purple One asked us all between songs. I didn’t need to wait for “three” to scream like a white lady.

Z- Zero: As in, the number of cooler things I could’ve done on a Saturday night.

To recap:
Things gained: bragging rights
Things lost: some dignity
Things stolen: 3 “3121” cocktail napkins, a cocktail glass
Things witnessed stolen: a purple hand towel from the bathroom
Celebs seen/head butted/talked to/sweated on by: David Duchovny, Hugh Dancy, Angela Basset, Sharon Stone, Jude Law, Michelle Branch/Vanessa Carlton (I think?), Kenny Rogers (?), Elvis Costello (?), lots of people I whose names I don’t know, The Purple One
Songs played by Prince that I can remember: 3121, Black Sweat, Purple Rain, Lolita, Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough, What Have You Done For Me Lately, Play That Funky Music White Boy, Kiss, Satisfied, another song with a lot of screaming
Number of drinks drunk: No fucking clue. Though they were all either Patrón or gin and tonics, I do remember that.
Number of people I texted from the bathroom: 5 (including my two friends who were there with me).
Hilarious jokes made by the Purple One: 2
Number of references to Prince lyrics made in this article: 6

Final conclusion: You were right, Prince–3121 WAS where the purple party b.

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.

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.