Recently in Los Angeles Category
I have been a loyal member of 24 Hour Fitness for years and years, going all the way back to the heady days of 2002 when I joined the gym's flagship facility in Hollywood just days after opening. I've never really had a problem with the place (unlike with the dreadful con-artists at Bally's Total Fitness), and over time, as more and more people joined up and quality began to lag here and there, I stayed true to my membership. Sure, the mandatory towel rule was rarely enforced, and sure, the lines at the cardio machines were verging on ridiculous, and sure, finding free weights had become akin to a minor scavenger hunt, but I kind of let that all slide. I was happy enough, and the constant stream of reality stars in the gym (not to mention the occasional A-lister -- a.k.a. Justin Timberlake twice!) kept my gluttony for fame satisfied. Things weren't perfect, but it's such a pain to change gyms, and I wasn't going to leave 24 Hour Fitness unless I felt like I really had to.
And then this week happened.
Seeing one celebrity at the gym is always cause for minor celebration. Seeing two is even better. And seeing both of them making out with each other just elevates the entire scene. That's precisely what happened today as my boring old fitness routine was interrupted by the presence of acclaimed footballer Reggie Bush and his amateur videographer girlfriend, Kim Kardashian. Oh, the celebrity spotting gods were surely looking down on me today.
Here's what happened...
It's not often that I stray from my TV, but once in a while, I do peel myself off the couch and take in a bit of the theatre (pronounced "theee-atttrah"). Case in point: last week, I attended Point Break Live!, the much buzzed-about play which reenacts the famed 1991 action pic, Point Break, live on stage. Long story short: it was hilarious.
To the uninitiated, Point Break Live! is one of those low-rent, interactive performances -- the type that mandates the use of a poncho, lest your shirt be soaked with water, beer, and fake blood (all three of which are ultimately flung into the audience -- quite liberally). These touches are funny, but what truly separates Point Break Live! from the pack is its genius conceit of having an audience member play Johnny Utah, the lead role originally inhabited by the prototypically monotone Keanu Reeves. Subscribing to the theory that anyone can do just as good a job as Reeves, the play throws its unrehearsed Johnny Utah into the fray, feeding him cue-cards throughout the duration of the show and creating the sort of trainwreck performance that can only be described as perfectly brilliant and brilliantly perfect.
But this isn't just a one-joke show. The entire cast absolutely tears into the wooden screenplay with campy yet reverential glee, milking all its silly one-liners for maximum comic potential. People who've never seen the original may be shocked to know that this dialogue has been taken verbatim from the movie, but rest assured, it's 98% faithful to the source material. Plus, if anything, this version is better. Creators Jaime Keeling and Jamie Hook cut away some of the unnecessary plot diversions of the film and leave us with a streamlined, if still utterly unbelievable, story. Everyone appears to be having the time of their lives on stage, and as the various actors and actresses galavant throughout the theater (and onto the street outside), the mania becomes infectious. Point Break Live! very easily could have worn out its welcome after thirty minutes, but instead, this hysterical, uproarious production keeps things lively the entire night. My party, which included fellow influential bloggers J-Unit (Half-Black Charisma), Cat Vasko (Gridskipper), and Katherine Spiers (Metromix LA), all agreed: Point Break Live! is definitely worth checking out (buy the poncho at the door).
Tickets for Angelenos can be found at Theatermania.com. And should the production hit the road, be sure to keep up with the schedule at the show's MySpace page.
(Two more bonus pics after the jump)
Last week, I was invited to a very special Emmy celebration. No, this wasn't an award show. No golden statuettes were handed out. This was a celebration for the Emmys. You see, our favorite television award turned sixty this year, and to celebrate this ripe old anniversary, the Academy decided to throw an event, replete with kitschy prizes and free food. Oh, and did I mention the presence of Marc Summers? It was too tempting to pass up, even if it did take place in the heart of the valley. With a camera in hand, and a fellow blogger by my side (Lisa Timmons, editor extraordinaire of A Socialite's Life), I headed to North Hollywood for what would be one of the more colorful, hilarious, and dare I say exciting nights of the year...
Dramatic recreation.
When it comes to coordination, I like to think of myself as having cat-like reflexes, but the simple truth is that I have the dexterity of an antiquated robot, and that, my friends, is not always a good thing. Take for example what happened to me about thirty minutes ago. I was up at The Standard Hotel, sitting poolside with my friend Anna David and her friend Vanessa Grigoriadis. The banter was flying fast and furious. Both women are fantastically smart, and as they're both journalists (Anna's written for The New York Times; Vanessa for Rolling Stone, etc. etc.), they're very well-read on most topics. I, however, have forgotten what it's like to read — I like to blame Los Angeles because it's easier than shining a spotlight on my own lazy, reality-TV-watching ass — so I was doing my best to sound smart and worthy of such brilliant company.
Well, the conversation eventually headed into politico land, and Vanessa revealed that she's actually writing a New York Magazine piece on Barack and Michelle Obama. Pretty cool. We began to chat and chat, and then I don't know what happened, but suddenly, my hand somehow lurched forward, bumping into my tall glass of what was supposed to be an iced mocha latté (but was in fact some other drink, thanks to the incompetent wait staff). The pint glass teetered back and forth, and I tried to stabilize it with my oversized paws, but remember that coordination thing I talked about? Yeah, I was pretty much like the Lost in Space robot flailing its arms and bleating, "Warning! Warning!" Needless to say, my attempts to prevent a major coffee accident were unsuccessful. If anything, I probably made the situation worse. The glass ultimately flopped over, and out poured what looked like five gallons of NOT my drink. And where did the sudden onslaught of liquid all land? On Vanessa's PDA. That's right. I spilled my beverage on a reporter's Blackberry, a device which contains thousands of very important contacts. Like, writing-a-New-York-Magazine-piece-on-the-Obamas important. Oops.
As you can imagine, there was a mad dash to get the PDA out of harm's way, and somehow Vanessa managed to save the damn thing before any sort of horrendous technical failure set in. Still, I was massively rattled and embarrassed (not to mention flummoxed that I had waited thirty minutes for the stupid drink, only to knock it over immediately). Not my finest moment. I blame Obamamania.
Okay, they weren't really naked. I just wanted to post something really quickly since it might be an hour or two before I get my next A-list, celebrity-laden story up later today.
A few days ago, I complained about West Hollywood's parking enforcement officers being absent for two and a half hours, thus allowing two douchebags to illegally park their car in front of my building without any repercussions whatsoever. It was a deplorable situation, especially since whenever my friends come to visit, parking enforcement is on them like a pack of hyenas. Not fair. Now, thanks to this photo I snapped last night, I have a good idea of what the hell those parking fools were up to Friday night: NOTHING.
Yesterday was a pitch-perfect day here in Los Angeles. The sky was without a single cloud, the sun was bright, and the temperature was in the high 70s to low 80s. Normally with such great weather, I celebrate by opening my blinds and letting the sunshine into my living room, but instead, I decided to do something a little different. I decided to go OUTDOORS.
Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking: "B-Side went outside? Into the sun?? Isn't he a vampire who spends all his time at his computer writing about old pennies he found under his bed?" This is all true. However, I am capable of change and surprise, and so with an ambition to embrace life to its fullest (and maybe get some cardio too), I trekked over to Los Angeles's Runyon Canyon park for an afternoon hike.
Photos of the sordid affair (along with a dash of celebrity) after the jump...
Living in West Hollywood, my neighborhood is routinely patrolled by parking enforcement officers, who quietly stalk their prey from the comfort of their white, eco-friendly Priuses — waiting for that orgasmic moment when they can slap a ticket down on a permit-lacking vehicle and tow it away. Their Orwellian presence rivals a godlike power to be everywhere and nowhere all at once, and should you find yourself on the wrong side of their unflinching Maglites, you'll soon be treated to a stiff fine and a towing charge. It's because of this that residents and visitors alike tend to view parking enforcement with a measure of disdain. Like an army of money-eating pests, they never go away, and sooner or later, they get you.
Occasionally though, my friends and I find ourselves siding with parking enforcement. While I'd like to think that no one deserves the hassle of being towed away, truth is that it's also perversely glorious watching the bridge-and-tunnel folk descend on the nearby Sunset Strip and try to park in front of our apartment building, arrogantly thinking they can park their dumb car just ANYWHERE without checking the signs first. Trust me when I say it never gets old watching these people's stunned reactions upon return to the empty spot that used to hold their car. Just this past weekend, my friends and I enjoyed the sight (from our balcony) of one shirtless, long-haired, drunken fool stumbling up and down the street, bemoaning the sad fate that had befallen his now-missing car. "Duuuuude, I got towed!!!" he lamented to no one in particular, his long frizzy hair flowing in all directions like Troy Polamalu after a roller coaster ride. This continued for a few minutes until his buddy picked him up and ferreted him off to who knows where — hopefully Supercuts. This cruel turn of events was nothing short of hilarious for us as we watched yet another douchebag fall victim to The System. Of course, he was probably too drunk to drive anyway; so the towing was good in many ways.
Still, watching one idiot get his just desserts is never enough. We always want more; so imagine our thrill when moments after the drunken troll doll departed, two new teenage douchebags pulled up and parked their red mustang without even checking the parking rules. Surely parking enforcement would have their way with them...
When it comes to late night dining, Los Angeles has its fare share of offerings; although, truth be told, we could always use more. I can only go to my after-hours haunts so many times before ennui kicks in. That why I'd been so excited to try The Waffle, one of the latest entries in the LA pseudo-diner circuit. The 22-hour restaurant opened earlier this year, and already, it has stirred up quite the controversy in the food-blogging community. Some people love the kitchen's wide variety of dishes; others feel its overrated. There's been backlash, and there's been backlash on the backlash — so as you can imagine, I really didn't know what to expect when I wandered into the restaurant with my friends, J-Unit and IndianJones, this past weekend.
I'll sum it up in one clear, unfortunate word: overpriced.
Feel like getting your psycho on? Well, now's the perfect opportunity. Entourage will be filming Thursday and Friday on Franklin Avenue in Hollywood. All the whens and wheres are in the picture above. Who knows — maybe now you'll be able to get that lanky, awkward Grenier fix you've been so desperately needing.
After a prolonged, icy winter that left Los Angeles reeling in the permafrost of multiple 62 degree days, the sun finally came out this past weekend, sizzling the Southland up to temperatures reaching triple digits. It was, in short, excellent. To celebrate this change (not to mention the impending weekend), my friends and I decided to undergo some change ourselves. No, we didn't become trannies. Instead, we tried out a new Mexican restaurant: The Gardens of Taxco.
By now, at least half the Angelenos reading this post are probably chuckling to themselves as the word "new" doesn't often accompany "Gardens of Taxco." The family-run restaurant has been around since the seventies and has become a mini-institution in its own right. None of us, however, had stepped foot inside this wood-paneled mecca, despite its convenient location. On Friday, we decided that was all about to change. For once, Don Antonio's, El Coyote, and Marix Tex-Mex would have to wait. We were tryin' new Mexican!
Just over two months ago, I did something that I never thought I'd do: I hung out with Speidi. That's right, I spent a morning intermingling with Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, stars/villains of MTV's hit show, The Hills. Needless to say, it was quite the momentous occasion, especially since it landed me on TMZ for the first time ever. These were extraordinary new heights for me, and the brief taste of the tabloid life was thoroughly intoxicating; although, I was happy to return (er, remain) in anonymity when it was over.
Anyway, I posted some of the pics that surfaced from that eventful morning, but I wasn't really able to talk about the backstory until now. Behold, the TELL ALL post that will shock the internet!
Note the warmly curious look on anchor Paul Mager's face. Welcome to local news, Los Angeles style.
Go around.
Okay, this just happened outside my window, and thankfully, my camera was nearby; so I could document all the idiocy on display. I was up here in my room, typing away on my next Hills recap when suddenly, I heard the blaring sound of a car horn. Now, I don't mind car horns per se, but this guy was pressing onto the horn for a good five or six seconds. Being the ever curious (read: nosy) neighbor that I am, I immediately pressed my face up against my window to see what was going on.
Well, this driver was apparently honking at a garbage truck. As you can see in the picture, the truck was just doing its thing, parked with its hazards on while the sanitation workers scurried into the adjacent building to pull out its dumpster. No one likes being stuck behind a garbage truck — I get that — but was honking necessary? These guys were just doing their job, and even more importantly, THERE WAS PLENTY OF SPACE TO GO AROUND THE TRUCK. There was not a single other car in the area, and as you can see from the picture, the truck was hardly blocking the entire road. But rather than do the obvious and easy thing, this driver instead decided to lay on the horn AGAIN. Seriously? Seriously?
I really wanted to yell, "Just go around!!" but I knew that would be stupid, and the guy would never hear me. So instead, I whipped out my camera, just in time for the guy to honk yet again. That's right, he let out three or four angry, multi-second honks before finally succumbing to, you know, LOGIC and driving around. So for wasting his own time and blaming others for it, I label this dumb Lexus driver the Idiot Angeleno of the day.
Why did I have to miss it? Why? It could have been so glorious!!!
I get distracted for like two minutes, and you know what happens? I miss my odometer reaching 10,000!!! I'd been waiting all week for this momentous occasion, and just as I feared, the damn thing turned while I was probably singing along to some dumb song. What's even worse is that I not only missed out on lucky number 10,000, but I also didn't even get to see the consolation prize: 10,001. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SO SYMMETRICAL!!!!
Oh well. It wasn't a total loss though...
Today is opening day for baseball, and in honor of this momentous event, I've not only published an extremely generic and clichéd blog headline, but I've also compiled some photos from Friday night when I went to a Dodgers vs. Red Sox exhibition game here in Los Angeles. Spearheading this trip was my friend IndianJones, who got tickets for me, J-Unit, and our friend Dan. I wouldn't say that baseball is my favorite sport, but going to the stadium is always fun, and as I'm once again embroiled in a fantasy baseball league, it couldn't hurt to watch a game here and there. (Oddly enough, even though I'm fairly apathetic about baseball, I've actually won my league twice in the past four years. Crossing my fingers for the dynasty in 2008...)
Anyway, assorted pics from the night after the jump.
It's sort of funny that last night's Top Chef episode featured a taco challenge because I've spent the past week in a veritable taco-haze, eating those little nuggets of Mexican joy with reckless abandon. In fact, I'm in such a taco fever that I did the unthinkable: I tried to make some at home. The results were mixed.
Pictures of this grand culinary adventure, as well as some other Mexican-themed goodness, after the jump...
Fashion Week in Los Angeles wrapped up about a week ago, and while I didn't get to hobnob with the trendy elite at Smashbox Studios (home to most of the big fashion shows in the city), I did head over to the BOXeight warehouse to check out a smaller runway show. To be honest, this was the first real fashion show I'd ever been to. Shocking, right? You'd think with my cutting edge Gap wardrobe that I'd have my finger firmly on the pulse of this world, but I regret to inform you that I am woefully disconnected from most sartorially-tinged extravaganzas.
Anyway, there weren't really any stories from the fashion show, but I brought my camera anyway, hoping that maybe there'd be an errant Project Runway star flitting about (there weren't). I did have three D-list sightings though. You'll be very impressed, I'm sure.
It's been a while since I've written up one of my gym horror stories, but sadly, I think that's more a sign of my lackadaisical workout routine than it is of improved hygienic awareness. People are still disgusting, and never was that more evident than today when I headed to the gym and encountered a lapse of cleanliness so foul that I had no recourse but to actually talk to a staff member. And people who know me know that I'm not one of those people. I'll complain and roll my eyes, but I rarely go running to the authorities. This time, however, I had to do what was right: narc. It was either that or barf.
I had quite the celebrity sighting yesterday. It wasn't so excellent because of the star wattage — although, that was pretty cool — but more for the bizarre randomness of the entire event. I'll explain.
It was about 7 PM, and my friend Jash and I decided to stop in at Angelina's Frozen Yogurt, one of the few fro-yo spots in Los Angeles that I can tolerate (mostly because it's not overpriced and, more importantly, they serve flavors beyond just plain and green tea. I mean, seriously, what is up with the flavor nazis? But I digress). Anyway, as we walked into this humble shop of icy dairy goodness, I noticed an old woman off to the side receiving what appeared to be a lifetime's supply of frozen yogurt. She seriously had so much, I thought she might be on some strange, geriatric office run. The whole thing was kind of bizarre, and I just figured she was an old coot doing some typically old coot-ish thing.
Well, I stood by the registers and waited to place my order, but of course, the server was busy tending to Miss Haversham in the corner. I looked over again, but before I saw the woman's face, I was distracted by her ever growing collection of yogurt. She had ordered pretty much the largest size you can get, which I think was about a quart. Now, most people when they get a quart of ice cream or frozen yogurt, they usually put a lid on it and bring it home to devour over the course of a few days. This woman, however, was going to eat the whole damn thing. I could tell because the server continued to pour frozen yogurt into the container way after it had reached appropriate lid-containment levels. Yes, there was a full on fro-yo swirl at the top of this gargantuan load, but I merely shrugged it off. I've seen crazier things in L.A.. And besides, if this woman wants to stuff her face with fro-yo, all the power to her. There are some days when I wish I could be just like her.
Anyway, the server finally came over to me, and after I placed my not-so-healthy order (regular sized Belgian chocolate with peanut butter cup topping. Heh.), I glanced back at the dairy-lovin' lady for no real reason. I don' t know why I did it. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was because she was hovering generally in the peanut butter cup region. Whatever the reason, for the first time, I actually saw her face, and something suddenly clicked in me. I was staring at a legend.
I spend a good amount of time talking about the glamorous, exciting world of Los Angeles, and while I like to think of myself as being a veritable connoisseur of each neighborhood, the truth of the matter is that I only keep to a few select regions of the city (ie. the clean ones). Occasionally though, I break out of my routine and explore those other oft-overlooked corners of the metropolis, even if it means intermingling with hipsters and those that profit off them.
And so with the goal of changing things up a little bit, I present to you my Saturday afternoon trip to... SILVER LAKE.
Exiting a parking garage can be a tricky process, at least for those idiots who still haven't grasped the subtleties of inserting a ticket into a machine. I often grow frustrated with those ill-prepared drivers in front of me -- the ones who take upwards of 60 seconds to complete a 30 second transaction. The most common problem it seems is that people simply don't have their money ready. They've idiotically stowed away their wallet or purse in the wasteland of their back seat, hidden under piles of clothing and groceries and general clutter. Of course, there are then those special times — which happen more frequently than you'd expect — when the person in front of you has gone so far as to have packed his or her wallet in the trunk. This, my friends, is simply unacceptable.
Of course, these things happen to the best of us. I one time found myself behind NYPD Blue actor Henry Simmons, and I'm not sure exactly what he had done to the machine, but it was bad enough to warrant him getting out of his car and finding an attendant. How richly embarrassing. The humiliation he must have felt is why I try my absolute best to be quick and efficient when leaving a parking structure. I always make sure money is nearby, the ticket has been placed in a highly visible location (central console, usually), and the window is already at least halfway down by the time I pull up to the attendant or machine. It's a recipe for success, but sometimes even the best of us have a dreaded misstep. That happened today.
Well, it's official. The strike is over! And just in time. The drought of 30 Rock, House, and Gossip Girl (not to mention 24) was just about to cause my brain to explode. Thankfully, I have a glorious roster of reality TV to pass the time. I'm thrilled to be able to go back to work, but I will say, not everything about the past three-and-a-half months was bad. Here's what I'm going to miss about my first strike experience:
Ha!
I think my favorite part of this clip, aside from the vicious cold cocking, is towards the end when a raging Jesse Metcalfe shouts, "Yo! Yo! VICTOR!" I was really hoping he'd go all Amazing Race on us and yell, "Stop this car, VICTOR, right now!!!" Alas.
I'm so fired up with political activism right now I'm surprised there's no annoying Facebook group dedicated to me. Last night, I attended my very first Planning Commission meeting here in West Hollywood, and while I knew I'd encounter several stodgy old people and myopic idiots, I didn't realize the degree to which they'd a) annoy me, b) get me riled up, and c) use poor logic to defend their statements.
The issue at hand was whether or not The Standard Hotel could extend its pool-side bar service hours. I won't bore you with the details, but the proposed resolution would ultimately allow the hotel to serve until 1:30 AM on the weekends. I, of course, was totally for this move for a variety of reasons, the most self-serving being that I would love to enjoy my nights at The Standard without being herded away from the pool at the stroke of 11:30 PM . More importantly, however, keeping The Standard open until closing time would keep it and The Sunset Strip competitive with other nightlife options — most of which are fleeing to Hollywood. And after seeing this planning board, I understand the exodus.
My entire experience at the meeting after the jump. Be warned, I will be ranting.
Things just aren't getting any better for me on the Los Angeles restaurant scene. One of my favorite higher end restaurants, Bin 8945, is closing down tonight. I first went there on a whim with my friends, J-Unit and Jash. It was almost a year ago — March 2007 — and the meal served as an impromptu celebration to mark the end of our time at TVgasm. We decided to splurge and order the tasting menu with the wine pairings, and needless to say, it was remarkably delicious. One of the best meals I'd had in Los Angeles. And it kept going. At the end of the night, we counted about fourteen courses, and even though that was spread over about three hours, we were, as you can imagine, stuffed.
Of course, the wine left us in a jovial mood, and midway through the meal, we became a bit loud. We raised our glasses to Los Angeles Times food critic S. Irene Virbila several times, often adding a boisterous ode to her good recommendation. "NICE CHOICE, S. IRENE VIRBILA" we guffawed many, many times. It really wasn't that funny, but we thought we were hilarious. Again — the wine.
Later on, after the place had pretty much cleared out, restaurant owner David Haskell, who had been waiting on us, happily informed us that the entire time, S. Irene Virbila had been sitting at the very next table over. We were astounded. So many emotions coursed through me: I was sort of embarrassed, sort of thrilled, and sort of sad that I hadn't even noticed what the woman next to me had looked like. If only I had known! If only!
On a subsequent trip to Bin 8945 with my parents, the experience wasn't nearly as great. Our reservations had been lost, the dishes were hit-and-miss (oh, but when they hit...), and the service wasn't nearly as strong. Still, I chalked it up to an "off night." I've wanted to go back many times, but alas, I never made it, and now it's shutting down. If it weren't for the strike, I'd head over tonight. According to Eater LA, the restaurant will be serving a special meal, prepared by guest chef MaryAnn Salcedo (a.k.a. Gordon Ramsey's sidekick on Hell's Kitchen). Eight courses, $100 a head plus $70 wine pairing. As S. Irene might say: fun.
While I was out the other night, I came across that most exciting of encounters: a cougar trapping some young, innocent prey into her dangerous clutches. Of course, I did what any good samaritan would do in that situation: I busted out my camera.
Now for those of you who don't know what a "cougar" is, rest assured that I'm not talking about an actual cougar cat. No, "cougar" is slang for women of a certain age who aggressively target younger men to be their, er, paramour for the evening. It's a mesmerizing phenomenon, and witnessing the dance of the COUGAR (best said with a deep, low, Will Arnett voice) is an event unto itself.
That being said, no brush with a cougar has ever been as ill-advised as the one I witnessed the other night. I didn't get many pics, but I got enough. I guarantee you'll be recoiling. Photos after the jump.
Just weeks after having been unceremoniously (and unforgivably) shut down, beloved neighborhood restaurant Cha Cha Cha has been stripped of its exterior charm, thus rendering its facade a blank, white shell of its former self. I guess this is the way rock enthusiasts felt when Nickelback showed up on the scene.
Nevertheless, this was all inevitable, but who knew it'd be so painful? If anyone needs me, I'll be crying in the corner.
According to the Live Mega Doppler 7000 on Los Angeles's reputable local ABC affiliate, KABC, we're in for quite the temperature spike on Sunday. Highs are going to hit 100 degrees in parts of Los Angeles, but that won't stop the snow. Why? Because snow in Los Angeles is MAGICAL!
Recently, my friend Nhan rented out a restaurant for her birthday, and to make the occasion extra special, she added a theme: prom. Well, who wouldn't like that — aside from Christian on Project Runway? My friends and I happily poured ourselves into the appropriate outfits, which in this case meant tuxes for the gents and '80s dresses for ladies. Sadly, I had no silly ruffled shirt to accompany my tux; so I had to cheese myself out in a different way: slicked back hair. It was the first time I had endeavored to helmet-ize my hitherto gorgeous locks, and I'm happy to say the effect was perfect.
Once all gussied up, we all strolled out of the apartment looking like 1985's toast of the town, and as we headed over to the prom, we laughed that we should go somewhere later where we'd be the only ones dressed up in costumes — just to see people's reactions. Little did we realize that would happen... AT THE PARTY.
The Machines Are Here. And They Bring Cupcakes.
When you think of the intense, bloody, testosterone-fueled Terminator franchise, only one thing comes to mind: cupcakes. It's a pairing as old as time itself. Well, banking on that classic robot-cupcake association, Fox is promoting its new series, Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles by giving away free cupcakes at venerable Los Angeles cupcake institution, Sprinkles. To some it might seem like a strange tie-in, but when I first read the notice in Eater LA, I was out the door so quickly you would have thought a T-1000 was charging down the hallway after me.
Photos of this adventure after the jump.
(Dramatization)
Another day, another gross story from the gym. Thankfully, this tale details significantly fewer threats to my personal health and hygiene as my last gym horror story, but I still find it quite appalling. I guess by now it's probably not hard to imagine what's so offensive this time around, what with my headline spilling the beans rather obviously. Still, I'm never one to turn away from telling a compelling yarn, especially when it highlights a breach of etiquette, hygiene, or some ungodly mixture of both...
Cha Cha Cha in 2005
Back on New Years Eve, my friends and I attempted to patronize Caribbean eatery Cha Cha Cha, but the lines were simply too long for our celebratory timetable. We instead headed down the street to The Boulevard, happy to discover a suitable dining option on such short notice. Little did we realize, however, that this alternative would soon become a permanent solution to our culinary woes. Yes, Cha Cha Cha, one of our favorite local tapas joints, summarily closed later that evening, never to open again. You heard me right. No more guava and goat cheese quesadillas. No more pitchers of flavorful sangria. And no more random sightings of Maggie Gyllenhaal or Ananda Lewis. Cha Cha Cha is done.
The restaurant apparently fell victim to its landlord's myopic vision of an upgrade. According to Eater LA, rumors abound that the space will be used to house a new club, and adding insult to injury, the venue will be run by Art and Allan Davis, the brothers who, with Justin Timberlake, unleashed Chi on Los Angeles three years ago. For those of you who don't remember Chi, let me try to describe it with a few, brief words: awful.
The good news, I guess, is that the original Cha Cha Cha is still open in Silver Lake, but honestly, who wants to go all the way over there? I have better things to do other than wade through a sea of scoffing hipsters and hairy leather enthusiasts. Well, actually, I don't, but that's besides the point. I guess what I'm trying to say is... we'll miss you, Cha Cha Cha. Your sangria will always have a place in our livers.
Here comes the rain again...
Everyone by now knows about rain and Los Angeles: the two don't mix. They're simply not meant for each other — kind of like Carlos Mencia and an original punchline (heyohhh!!). Luckily, rain keeps its distance for most of the year, but then comes "winter" (ie. the time when the temperature hovers in the mid-fifties) and all bets are off. Rain hits this town like a sack of oranges, and we suffer for it. Drivers go batty and spin off the road, houses slide down mountains, and people make dumb small talk that usually goes something like this: "How about that rain? It's pretty intense." Or "Still raining? Gosh!" Or "I can't believe how much it's raining! It makes me want to just get in my car and tailgate people at excessive speeds!" Okay, maybe that last one isn't exactly what people say (but it is what they do). Nevertheless, with all the dramatics rain causes, one would think a cloud of molten lava balls had descended on Southern California, meting out destruction with each fiery bit of precipitation, but alas, it's just rain. Plain, old boring rain.
On a good year, the rain might strike five or six times in these unfortunate months. On a bad year, however, our fair city can be struck with up to ten or even eleven days worth of precipitation — a veritable monsoon in these parts. To be fair, when it rains, it usually rains. I'm talking about the sort of downpour that drenches you in seconds. And since the streets here have questionable drainage designs, it only takes a few hours before the town is in the throes of a miniature flood, the likes of which haven't been seen since the trailer for Evan Almighty plagued theaters.
Still, flood or no flood, people freak out here. The idea of driving in the rain is often met with incredulous stares — as if you've just volunteered to ride a bicycle off the Grand Canyon. However, I'm proud to say that my friends and I are not cowed by these types of adverse weather conditions, and as a rough bout of rain descended on the city earlier this evening, we bravely headed off into the blustery night, seeking out that most important of rainy commodities: tacos. I of course brought my camera, and in case you've never seen rain before, you might enjoy these pics of rain in Los Angeles.
Now that nearly forty-eight hours have passed since we hit 2008, I've finally summoned enough stamina to string together a post about New Years. It was a relatively good one for me and my friends. We all got drunk, we all danced like idiots, and we all took enough silly pictures of each other that any future political careers may seriously be at risk now. Of course, I wouldn't be a blogger if I didn't share some of our photos; so enjoy our drunken night of revelry, as seen through my oft-used camera.
A sight rarer than the unicorn.
When it comes to dining options on Christmas, the choices are few and far between for the greater non-Christian population of America; however, there is usually one standby whose open doors have become a tradition unto themselves. I'm of course talking about your neighborhood Chinese restaurant, a culinary outpost in a sea of "Closed for Christmas" door signs. Eating Chinese on Christmas is pretty much the de facto alternative dining option on the 25th — so much so that it was even immortalized in that most hallowed of holiday offerings, A Christmas Story.
So surely finding a Chinese restaurant open on Christmas in Los Angeles should be no problem, right? In a city with a rather sizable Jewish population, not to mention two popular Chinese eateries with the seemingly un-Christian names of Genghis Cohen and Mao's Kitchen, a veritable feast of Yangtze proportions would await those of us seeking out the supple flavors of soy and MSG. Or so we thought. This is Los Angeles, of course — a city that rarely makes sense at any given time.