February 27th, 2006
No matter where you go in the city of Los Angeles, you will inevitably be confronted with a lengthy line and a list once you get to the front of said line. This is one of the paramount annoyances of living in a city of over 3 million people, a city where no matter where you go your fate is often dictated by some jackass with an earpiece and a clipboard filled with dozens of dog-eared loose leaf notebook pages, a person who you just know was thoroughly taunted on the Junior High School Playground.
Such was the nature of an unfortunate situation that ocurred to me the other night when I tried to attend the Little Brother and Dilated Peoples concert the other night at the House of Blues on the Sunset Strip. A night that will forever have me wishing ill will upon that disreputable and shoddily run establishment.
The evening started off well, when I arrived home to find that Little Brother’s label, Atlantic, had sent me a promotional copy of “The Minstrel Show,” and a press kit filled with various articles on the North Carolina trio. There are few things in life that make me happier than free music and thanks to my editors at Rap-Up magazine, I was not only getting the CD,but also comped press tickets to see the two rap groups perform.
Accompanying me for the journey was notable blogger, high school basketball teammate and all around raconteur, Nate Jones,
who from having lived around Jews his whole life was also intrigued by the prospect of getting free concert tickets. But when we arrived at the venue, I again realized why I hate traveling to Hollywood.
The location of the House of Blues is a logistical nightmare, smack dab on the middle of the Sunset Strip, where even on a Tuesday night fools were trying to charge $20 to park. Keep in mind, the lot I’m speaking of charged only $8 to park as late as two years ago.
“Fuck that,” I screamed ad nauseum, “Drive on.”
So drive on, we did, driving and driving well down the Strip until we found an $8 lot that satiated my fiscal neuroses. Walking down the boulevard in freezing cold (like 45 degrees, which in LA is artic steez…I’m jaded…what can I say), we finally came across the ersatz Juke Joint, which was covered in advertisements for the new Ghostface album and people trying to thrust fliers in my face and/or asking me “do you like hip/hop” and trying to get me to buy their album. Not quite.
When we finally figured out where the press check in was, it was already 9:10 and Little Brother was slated to go on at 9:30, which would’ve been fine if not for the circumstances that perpetually surround life in this inferno.
About 75 people were mobbing the press check in which apparently also doubled as a check in for any guests of the artists, local radio stations and or anyone who apparently had bumped into 9th Wonder once at a mall in Greensville. Yet this clearly did not include the groupies that the two groups were planning to scheme on post-show. These were stashed into Little Brother’s massive tour bus (true story…we both saw like 5 groupies chilling opulently inside the bus parked outside HOB). Apparently,that Atlantic deal DID have some major perks.
Lacking any sort of patience, I started ranting loudly about how dis-organized everything was. The line was hardly moving and time was ticking down until Little Brother came on. I debated preaching revolution amongst this roiling mob.
“Don’t worry, man. Haven’t you ever heard of CPT. They’re from the South. They ain’t going on till at least 10:00,” Nate tried to pacify me. (being a white Jewish kid I cannot make such stereotypical comments about blacks, just Hebrews; luckily Nate is black and thus can).
“Whatever,” I fumed. “This is bullshit.”
Several other people waiting in line agreed, though they were skeptical of my plans to storm the gates. Finally at 10:00, we heard the strains of Little Brother taking the stage and simultaneously finally made it up to the check-in table where a 40 year old woman dressed like she was 23, held court.
“What’s your name?”
I gave her the info and she started flipping manically through a massive sheaf of tattered papers. (natch)
“Sorry. Your name’s on the list.”
“What do you mean!! Of course, it is. I’m press. Check your press list!”
I’m barely able to contain my anger at this point. The show just started and I’d been waiting out in the cold for nearly an hour.
“We don’t have a press list.”
“How is that possible?”
“It is. Who hooked you up?”
“What the fuck do you mean who hooked me up? I’m press. I’m covering this concert!”
Then she gets in my face and starts shoving the papers at me, flipping wildly through them. Nate resisted the urge to smack her. From what I could tell neither me nor my editor were on the list.
“Look, check Little Brother’s list. They just overnighted me a CD today”
“Sorry. There’s nothing. Next!!”
For the next 20 minutes, I tried dealing with other people in a vain attempt to get inside. Nothing. I’m sure that if I made a huge deal about not getting let in and started dropping names, I would’ve been swiftly ushered in the door. That seems to be the nature of things in Los Angeles. But that isn’t my style and besides Little Brother was almost over by the time we left. As for Dilated, they aren’t bad per se, but there’s only so many times I can hear lyrics about how dope someone’s lyrics are. Besides, I saw them about six years ago, but I’d never seen Little Brother and from what others have told me, their live show is something to be seen.
So infinitely frustrated, Nate and I slunk back down Sunset to our cheap lot, cursing the idiocy of the House of Blues and wondering how it’s possible that well into the 21st Century, one of the biggest music chains in the country is still relying on a bunch of clip boards with names scrawled messily in different colors. And at that point there was nothing left to do but listen to the Little Brother CD and think about what kind of show I’d missed and slowly but surely plot the deaths of the upper management
of the House of Blues chain. Start running, bitches!
Posted in Uncategorized | 10 Comments »
February 25th, 2006
Not sure how many people reading this blog live out in the Valley, I assume not that many. However, if you do live in the Valley or elsewhere in Los Angeles, I would like to recommend checking out this hip-hop show on Sunday March 5th in Woodland Hills. It will feature a performance from none other than Passion of the Weiss college roomate David Crockett aka Sleepwalker (he is wrongly billed as Sleepwalk on the above flier…while the promoters of this show may know good hip hop when they see it, they obviously don’t know spelling).
So check it out if you can. Fuck those “so-called” Academy Awards. It’s only $5 and you will help to support Crockett’s heroin addiction. So go. Help a junkie in need, see some rap, enjoy the scenic sights of Woodland Hills.
PS Crockett is not a junkie. At least, not that I know of.
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »
February 23rd, 2006
On Tuesday night at the Avalon Theater in Hollywood, one thousand hipsters in cardigans, cheap plastic glasses and heavy beards believed that they could be rockstars. The reason: Craig Finn, lead singer of the Hold Steady, a man who looks more like the dean of a law school (click here to see the UCLA dean of law) than a rock star (click here for Finn), but nonetheless managed to deliver one of the devastatingly great rock performances I’ve ever seen.
You almost see the crowd watching in awe at a dude who looked more at home citing arcane legal arguments than lighting up the minds of hundreds of impressionable concertgoers such as myself. I’ve been to a lot of shows over the last few years and in my opinion, the only other front man I’ve seen who can control a crowd like Finn is Jack White. While the nature of their stage presence and the sound of their bands are markedly different, White and Finn share one thing: an unshakable belief in what they’re doing and an almost maniacal passion that radiates off of them onstage.
I decided to go to the show in the first place, after reading a review of a Hold Steady concert (scroll to the middle of the page) on the blog Whatevs. The review was perhaps one of the more glowing ones I’ve ever read and since that blog is definitely one of the most on-point blogs out there, I immediately bought a ticket to go check out the hype. I was not misled.
The album itself that the Hold Steady is touring behind is one of the best albums of last year, “Separation Sunday.” While their sound definitely evokes a classic rock-vibe (mid-70s Springsteen is usually what they’re compared to), Finn’s vocals are delivered almost like a rapper or a slam poet, with frantic hand movements, and gesticulations. He doesn’t sing, he almost drunkenly screams lyrics about Hoodrats and Catholicism and a guy named Charlemagne, which doesn’t sound so great in theory, but is definitely spectacular in practice.
The best description I’ve read about Finn is that he’s like the drunk guy that calls you at 3:00 a.m. to rant and rave, but no matter how wasted he gets he sounds strangely brilliant. He was so natural on stage that you could practically see the guy next to you turn to his friend and say, “I could totally do that.” But he definitely couldn’t. No one can. I can only offer him a compliment that I would hope people would one day say about myself: he is a true individual. This quality is unmistakable when you see the band live.
But Finn isn’t the only reason to see The Hold Steady. The other members of the band almost turned in quietly spectacular performances. I think Whatev’s review summed it up best: “these five dudes operate in such a cohesive fashion that, while you are watching them, you can’t really separate any one part from the whole. In the end, you can’t really ask more of a band than that.”
In particular, The Hold Steady’s lead guitarist Tad Kubler was ridiculously great live, delivering some savage guitar riffs throughout the course of the evening, not to mention the fact that he looks almost indentical to Chuck Klosterman. (Kubler: here (on the far left); Klosterman: here)
Ultimately, what I’m getting at is that you need to see this band when they come around next. You can listen to their albums (I also recommend their first work, Almost Killed Me), but their greatness becomes infinitely clearer when you see them live. And seriously, if you go to their show and you don’t end up liking them, may I suggest listening to bands like these fools.
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »
February 23rd, 2006
On Tuesday night at the Avalon Theater in Hollywood, one thousand hipsters in cardigans, cheap plastic glasses and heavy beards believed that they could be rockstars. The reason: Craig Finn, lead singer of the Hold Steady, a man who looks more like the dean of a law school (click here to see the UCLA dean of law) than a rock star (click here for Finn), but nonetheless managed to deliver one of the devastatingly great rock performances I’ve ever seen.
You almost see the crowd watching in awe at a dude who looked more at home citing arcane legal arguments than lighting up the minds of hundreds of impressionable concertgoers such as myself. I’ve been to a lot of shows over the last few years and in my opinion, the only other front man I’ve seen who can control a crowd like Finn is Jack White. While the nature of their stage presence and the sound of their bands are markedly different, White and Finn share one thing: an unshakable belief in what they’re doing and an almost maniacal passion that radiates off of them onstage.
I decided to go to the show in the first place, after reading a review of a Hold Steady concert (scroll to the middle of the page) on the blog Whatevs. The review was perhaps one of the more glowing ones I’ve ever read and since that blog is definitely one of the most on-point blogs out there, I immediately bought a ticket to go check out the hype. I was not misled.
The album itself that the Hold Steady is touring behind is one of the best albums of last year, “Separation Sunday.” While their sound definitely evokes a classic rock-vibe (mid-70s Springsteen is usually what they’re compared to), Finn’s vocals are delivered almost like a rapper or a slam poet, with frantic hand movements, and gesticulations. He doesn’t sing, he almost drunkenly screams lyrics about Hoodrats and Catholicism and a guy named Charlemagne, which doesn’t sound so great in theory, but is definitely spectacular in practice.
The best description I’ve read about Finn is that he’s like the drunk guy that calls you at 3:00 a.m. to rant and rave, but no matter how wasted he gets he sounds strangely brilliant. He was so natural on stage that you could practically see the guy next to you turn to his friend and say, “I could totally do that.” But he definitely couldn’t. No one can. I can only offer him a compliment that I would hope people would one day say about myself: he is a true individual. This quality is unmistakable when you see the band live.
But Finn isn’t the only reason to see The Hold Steady. The other members of the band almost turned in quietly spectacular performances. I think Whatev’s review summed it up best: “these five dudes operate in such a cohesive fashion that, while you are watching them, you can’t really separate any one part from the whole. In the end, you can’t really ask more of a band than that.”
In particular, The Hold Steady’s lead guitarist Tad Kubler was ridiculously great live, delivering some savage guitar riffs throughout the course of the evening, not to mention the fact that he looks almost indentical to Chuck Klosterman. (Kubler: here (on the far left); Klosterman: here)
Ultimately, what I’m getting at is that you need to see this band when they come around next. You can listen to their albums (I also recommend their first work, Almost Killed Me), but their greatness becomes infinitely clearer when you see them live. And seriously, if you go to their show and you don’t end up liking them, may I suggest listening to bands like these fools.
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 3 Comments »
February 22nd, 2006
In a shocking discovery, an archeologist has discovered what is believed to be the last low-maintenance girl raised on the west side of Los Angeles. The archeologist who discovered the girl, Murray Lancaster, says that the discovery was as much a result of luck as anything else.
“I was searching for dinosaur fossils underneath the Apple Pan and I had to use the restroom. Well, the men’s room was locked and I decided to use the women’s room and that’s where I made this momentous find,” Lancaster said.
It was in the women’s rest room where Melissa Schwartz, an Angeleno raised in the plush Westside enclave of Brentwood had been trapped for years.
“She’d been in there for a quite awhile,” Lancaster said. “I’m not sure how she was able to survive. Perhaps the biggest problem was that she got trapped in the women’s room and since the Apple Pan serves mostly hamburgers and french fries, no women would dare step into the place because the food is much too fattening for them. I mean the restaurant doesn’t even serve salads. It could’ve been years before she was discovered.”
Previously, scientists had been skeptical that the low-maintenance westside-raised woman had ever even roamed the region in the first place. Believers pointing to an intricate series of graffiti scrawls found underneath Fred Segal that dated back to the year 1923. However, naysayers responded bluntly with the damning logic: we’ll believe it when we see it.
As can be expected, scientists and reporters have been eager to speak with the girl. Many of them believe that this is the biggest local archeological find since a caveman was discovered in Encino in the early 90s.
But the inquiry hasn’t been restricted to scientists and news outlets. Various corporations have been trying to sign up Schwartz for various endorsement deals, in light of her newfound celebrity.
“I don’t understand why everyone’s making such a big deal about all this,” Schwartz said. “All these high end purse companies have been coming up to me and asking me to wear their handbags. I mean, I already have two or three handbags. How many can one woman honestly use? I asked them to donate them to charity. It’s just superfluous. And while you’re at it, will someone please tell Jimmy Choo to stop sending me free pairs of shoes. I have a few pairs of sneakers and quite frankly they’re infinitely more comfortable.”
Understandably, Schwartz has alos been besieged by male suitors anxious to snare the only low-maintenance girl in the region.
“What is the deal with all these sleazy older men, trying to woo me with cheesy overpriced gifts and floral bouquets. I don’t care where they want to take me to dinner. Why on earth would I care if we went to Koi?” Schwartz said. “The food isn’t even that good anyway, and it’s such a scene. Give me an In-N-Out burger, a few bong rips and a rental movie and I’m a happy woman. I don’t need a guy to buy me expensive things, just someone reasonably attractive who cares about me.”
Consequently, Schwartz has left many male suitors heartbroken in her wake.
“I don’t understand, ” Fareed Mosal, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon said. “I picked her up in my red Porsche and took her to Kitana on Sunset Boulevard. The bill for dinner was $700. $700!! And she didn’t even want to put out. Do you know how many hookers I can buy with that money?? This is ridiculous.”
Lancaster expects that it will take Schwartz some time to get fully acclimated with this foreign culture.
“We’re definitely going to be keeping a close eye on her. After all, we need to preserve her as a historical relic. We don’t expect to find any more of these types of women, not here,” Lancaster said. “But I wouldn’t worry too much about her. Just give her a little bit of time to get used to it. I’m sure in no time she’ll be shopping at Barney’s, wearing furry boots in the summertime, donning dark aviator glasses and carrying a diamond-studded Sidekick. She’ll be perfectly normal in no time.”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of | 6 Comments »
February 17th, 2006
I know what you’re thinking. Two blogs in one day. This is sheer lunacy. But I had good reason for this madness. No, not syphillis, but good call. Actually, the reason why I’m posting twice today is for Monday is President’s day and in honor of the holiday, I’m participating in a President’s Day parade. I’m dressing up as William McKinley and will get faux-assasinated by a crazed anarchist. As you may have imagined, I’m only joking. The truth is that I lost out in a bid to play McKinley. Instead I drew Polk. What a fucking gyp.
So on Monday while you’re going crazy wondering what you’ll do without your Passion of the Weiss blog fix, I highly recommend hitting up some of the links that I have on the side of this page, particularly the very eloquent and similarly rap-infused Straight Bangin’, Sexy Results and Jones on the NBA blogs. You will not be disappointed. And if you are, you prolly should seek therapy or move to a tropical paradise where you can be isolated from those of us who have taste (of course, I’m only joking people…partially)
At any rate, here are this week’s links, sure to make you a superstar of all dinner parties that you crash this weekend and fill you up full of so much knowledge that even Lindsay Lohan will be envious of your intellect (and she is a tough cookie to please, let me tell you, the ancient Greeks spoke of Socrates in much the same way that I speak of La Lo [insert corruption of the youth joke here]).
Britney Spears has told People magazine that she craves the spotlight and is eager to get back onstage after a year-and-a-half marriage-and-maternity leave. This sort of reminds me of when you’re a little kid and your parents don’t think you should know that your dog is dead, so they construct an elaborate series of lies to protect you. But since I’m a complete jerk, I’ll be the one to break the news to Britney. Your career is OVER. You are married to Kevin Federline. Your best bet is try to be in the video for the remix of Popozao because nobody will ever buy one of your CD’s again. All I have to say for you Britney is do you remember this face? (click here) . Neither do I. Get used to it.
According to this article Paris Hilton says she wants to go on “Celebrity Love Island.” Of course, if by celebrity love island she meant, “do about eight lines of blow in the bathroom of a Hollywood club and fuck the drummer from Maroon 5,while a member of the Backstreet Boys videotapes it” then I’d say that the odds are pretty good that she’s got a first-class ticket waiting for her.
Speaking of Hilton, this director wants to cast her to play Mother Theresa in a biopic. Because obviously nothing says “missionary” like Paris Hilton.
A polygamous community is rocked by a series of severe birth defects that are occurring to children in the area. Of course, this is all the stupid propaganda coming from you liberals, trying to impose all your liberal Hollywood ideas on the good conservative people of Utah (after all they did vote for Bush in higher percentages than any other state). I still believe in polygamy, Utah citizens, don’t let anyone tell you any differently.
In light of the incendiary cartoons from Denmark that have sparked riots throughout the Muslim world, Iranians have resorted to calling Danish pastries, “roses of the prophet Mohammed.” Additionally, the government also announced that they will call nuclear weapons, “super happy fun toys,” and the Holocaust, “lilacs blooming in the gorgeous Springtime.”
Michael Bay has been brought on to produce the next “Friday the 13th” film. The “Rock” and “Pearl Harbor” director plans to improve the series by having Freddy Krueger be played by Ben Affleck. Bay commented that the part of Krueger will also be re-written: “Freddy ain’t gonna’ kill people in their dreams anymore, rather he’ll kill people by dropping extra-sweet cluster bombs on them. Bay added, “Fuck yeah. Explosions rule!!”
Here are pictures of Tony Danza’s daughter getting high and kissing a girl. I attribute this mainly to the fact that it must have been very confusing to watch her dad live a double-life as a maid who wore an apron. In fact, I’m still tramautized from that program. Who was the Boss? Was it Tony? Was it Angela? Your thoughts please.
Myspace users are now able to buy Myspace Cell Phones. Rupert Murdoch already has three of them! Hurry up and get yours while supplies last! All the cool kids are doing it!!
According to comments that Chris Martin made at the Brit Awards, the band Coldplay may split up. Martin was quoted as saying, “to be honest, It’s gotten quite hard to write songs about how unhappy I am now that I’m worth $100 million and I’m sleeping with Gwyneth Paltrow. Life’s pretty good these days. I really have nothing to complain about. I mean at this point in time, who would really want to hear about how depressed I am?”
Check it out…trolls!!! Once again, I repeat, check it out trolls!!! (if you hadn’t noticed, I’m easily amused)
Merry President’s Day….And if you see a drunken James Polk wandering the streets say “Hello” and don’t believe the propaganda. He was a damned fine president. Stupid Abe Lincoln. He just had to overshadow him what with his oh-so-sexy stovepipe hat and calm demeanor. Not like I’m jealous or anything.
Posted in Uncategorized | 3 Comments »
February 17th, 2006
People often ask me why I hate living in Los Angeles. There are of course, easy and standard answers like the fact that it took me an hour and 15 minutes today just to go from my parent’s place on the west side to my apartment on the east side. Luckily, the fun part was that I was able to mow down four east side hipsters in my past. Take that hipsters, you and your wacky Devendra Banhart. There are also easy answers such as in Los Angeles you can’t buy a slice of pizza on the street at 1:00 a.m., which I feel is generally the mark of an upstanding city.
But I guess the root of my distaste for this town is the way in which it can corrupt even the most decent of souls. I’m an Angeleno born and raised and have watched the town eat alive some of the more honest and forthright people that I’ve grown up with. It’s just the nature of the beast. Every city has a certain pulse and a different energy that it radiates. Los Angeles is nothing more than the grotesque intersection of three things: sex, drugs, and “image.” And nowhere is this collision more apparent than in the place that foolish label-happy journalists might call “young Hollywood.”
I’m fully aware that these ideas are so well ingrained in everyone’s imagination that they’re cliched and have been said a million times. I’m also fully aware that millions of people in this town work and live by a different set of rules that certainly don’t jibe with the bullshit Hollywood aesthetic I’m referring to. I’m only talking about the Hollywood of everyone’s imagination. A Hollywood that I truly believe exists, in spite of the cliches.
This idea of “Hollywood” is the subject of Jon Caren’s A Fish Out of Water in Shark City Play that I caught at the Elephant Theater Last Saturday night. Now I don’t normally do plays. In fact, I don’t think I’ve been to a play in my life that my grandmother hasn’t taken me to. Actually I take that back. For some reason, I caught a 4/20 production of Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard my Junior Year of college. Needless to say, I had no fucking clue what was going on AND the bastard’s took my coca-cola slurpee at the door. Accordingly, it was no surprise when I high-tailed it right out of the there at intermission. AND I got a refund. What kind of a Jew did they think they were dealing with?
So when I went to see this play last Saturday night I had no idea what to expect.Let’s get real, if Jon hadn’t been my friend since I was five years old, I probably would’ve rather sat at home, rented a bunch of Eddie Griffin movies and thrown back a pint of Drano rather than go to some play.
Then again this wasn’t just any play. It was a fictionalized account of something that happened to some of my closest friends from high school. You see, in the summer of 2002, while I was alternately holed up in coffee houses across the city writing the first draft of my novel and being a camp counselor to a bunch of brats at Westwood Rec Sports Camp, most of my high school friends were doing the “Hollywood” club scene. Well, one day, while out at a place called Moomba that was the hot spot for like 10 minutes that summer, two of my best friends met a reporter from Vanity Fair who was looking to write a story about Young Hollywood.
I’m not exactly sure why the reporter picked my two friends, as both of them were barely out of their teenage years and were certainly pretty far from being Hollywood players. But she glommed onto them pretty fast and without a decent narrative to spin, ended up embellishing a ridiculously mean-spirited tale, one that unfairly painted my friends as complete degenerates. Somehow, the article ended up discussing the innermost thoughts and private lives of about 6 or 7 of my closest high school friends. It was definitely strange to read. And while I avoid Hollywood nightclubs like I avoid buying Paul Wall albums, and therefore had little chance of being included in the story, the fact remains that I’m definitely glad that I wasn’t mentioned in the article. I mean, this was Vanity fucking Fair. Everybody in the world reads that magazine (or so it would seem because there isn’t a person I know who didn’t read it).
At any rate, Jon’s play chronicles and definitely fictionalizes the lives of my friends that summer, as a duplicituous reporter tries to get them to say and do things that they never wanted to do. I strongly recommend you check it out. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll drink free wine, yes that’s right, free wine. You know you like free wine. And if you don’t, then what’s wrong with you? I’d have worked in a Siberian Gulag for free wine.
If you’re thinking about going, just go. It’s relatively inexpensive and the guy is 24 years old and he’s putting on a play at a theater that to the best of my knowledge doesn’t double as a strip club. In particular, it’s worth going just to see the outstanding performance of Sean-Michael Hodge-Bowles, who plays Grant Spielman. And you best believe that he’s a talented actor if he manages to make a black man with the last name Spielman seem believable. Look guys, I know that there aren’t many people who aren’t named Estelle or Gertrude that like theater, but it’s worth your time. And did I mention there’s free wine?
Life is very hard these days being a semi-employed journalistic vagrant, but I do find time to make it out of the house to check out the so-called “indie” rock bands that play in these hipster-infested woods of my fair town.
So when New York City-based Cloud Room came into town to play a free set at the Echo last Monday night, I managed to get my gentrifying ass down there to try to do my best to mock hipsters while seemingly engaging in non-stop hipsterish behavior (living in Los Feliz, liking Indie rock, blogging, wait this is making me worried, I’ll continue).
Of course, there are always perils when venturing into the dark and hirsute woods of Echo Park. A 30-something Mexican woman took note of me and the four other cracker carpetbaggers that I was with and starting screaming “white trash!! White trash!!” as we walked across the street towards the venue. Of course, she’d been doing all sorts of bizarre dances while listening to her Sony Walkman in the middle of Echo Park at 11:00 p.m. on a Monday night. Needless to say, I didn’t take the affront too seriously.
Immediately upon gaining entrance, I sidled up to the bar to purchase my trademark “I think I’m Ernest Hemingway” Jack on the Rocks. My friend ordered the same and sarcastically muttered to me, “the drink of angry young writers.” To which, some girl sitting next to us, wearing tights, excitedly got up and starting trying to make conversation with us, asking if indeed we were really “angry young writers.”
“No, I’m a soap opera actor,” I nonchalantly told her. “My friend here is a well-renowned plastic surgeon. We just come to Echo Park and pretend to be artsy to bang hipster chicks.”
I think this made her sad, shattering her dreams of us discussing Gide while sipping on Pernod. Tough break, hipster chick. Tough break. Though don’t worry, I’m sure you can find tons of struggling writers at the Echo on a Monday night. Just scream out “who loves Nietszche?” They’ll all come running.
The show itself was surprisingly excellent,as the Cloud Room played an enthusiastic 45-minute set mostly consisting of tracks from their epononymous debut album. And the lead singer, J (this is actually his stage name) wore a cravat, which I found deeply cool. It’s tough to pull off a cravat. Not like I’d know or anything (note to self: do not discuss cravats in public again).
The set was capped off, of course, by the Cloud Room’s big (relatively speaking) single, “Hey Now Now,” one of those unbelievably catchy songs that you hear once or twice a year and can’t get out of your head. Definitely go buy it on iTunes. It’s that good, one of those “Float On” type songs that you could play for your grandmother or your impossible to please hipster swine friend and they’ll both love it. Plus, it has a cool back story which is discussed rather pretentiously in this Pitchfork article (highly recc’d) .
To make a long story short, the lead singer of the band tested positive for HIV in the spring of last year. Immediately, he took a re-test, but before he could get the new results back his doctor bailed to take a three-week vacation in the Bahamas. Obviously, dude spends the next three weeks in agony only to finally get the new results: negative. The lyrics to “Hey Now Now” were deliriously composed in the aftermath. I also bought the album at the show which I would recommend. It’s not mind-blowing or anything, but it kind of sounds what the U2 would be like if they weren’t totally washed up and obnoxious.
Posted in Uncategorized | 4 Comments »
February 16th, 2006
Recently, I switched from the Woodland Hills Gold’s Gym to the Hollywood Gold’s gym, a move that has resulted in more than just a $20 a month rate increase (and yes, my Jewishness is killing me over that price hike). The transfer also has brought me in contact with a species of female I am well-versed in: the hip-hop dance girls. Each day I’m treated to a parade of these girls coming from the well-known Edge Dance Studio next door to purchase the obscenely expensive smoothies that they sell in the Gold’s snack shop.
Such females are often clad in derby caps (see this post) or woolen knit caps that they wear pushed down over their face. They usually begin sentences with the word “yo,” and speak in a hip-hop inflected patois that generally does not reflect their white upper-class upbringing.
Additionally, this strange breed of woman is often seen in obscenely baggy sweatshirts and sweatpants usually tucked into their furry Uggs. And my point (if I have one) is that these women are fucking absurd and should be treated as jokes.
Now I know what you’re about to say. How are these girls different from the millions of white males across the land that think that they’re black and bump hard-core gangster rap from SUV’s that their parents purchased them? A fair enough criticism. However, most of these guys at least have taken up in interest in the history of rap music and hip-hop culture that extends beyond wearing Phat Farm khaki pants and sideways baseball caps. ated.
Of course, these girls might argue, “Hey, I know all the words to “Lean Back” and all the words to “Wait (the Whisper Song).” Sorry, ladies, that’s about as fucking hip-hop as my breakfast cereal. I know that you guys were deeply opressed growing up in your parent’s $4 million Brentwood Mansion and you might have danced to “The Real Slim Shady,” when you were 14 in your dance class and found Eminem deeply irrestible, but that does not give you an excuse to go around pretending to be Foxy Brown or L’il Kim. Something tells me that those girls didn’t have Louis Vuitton bags at 12-years old. Just a guess.
Then then there are the know-it all hip-hop dance girls. The ones that feel the burning need to argue ad nauseum about the merits of every esoteric (for a reason) rapper that their ex-boyfriend once told them was “phat.”
Look girls, I know you can dance both the “Cabbage Patch,” and “The Rogger Rabbit,” and that your dance teacher even taught you “The Wop” AND how to break, but you still aren’t about to impress anyone but your own ego.
I’m all for self-expression but these types of girls are just complete poseurs (yeah that’s right I’m calling out insults, sixth-grade steez) and generally feel the need to arrogantly proclaim their coolness at all times (not that there’s anything wrong with arrogance, per se).
I.E. when a hip-hop dance girl I knew in college once told me proudly, “I only smoke blunts.” Sorry missy. Unless your name is Snoop Dogg, chances are you aren’t ONLY going to smoking blunts. Just take the weed being offered to you and shut your mouth. This, of course, is the second dumbest comment ever uttered to me by a hip-hop dance girl. One also smiled faux-confidently at me and told me “I only smoke greens.” At which point, everyone laughed her out of the room.
Of course, said girl once excitedly ran up to me in the quad with the news that Pep Love from the Hieroglyphics was coming to our school to rap. Of course, this girl knew a little bit more about rap than your average hip-hop dance ho, but the point remained that her knowledge of music was solely based on what some guy she’d previously known had told her was cool. I’d rather have my teeth drilled for two hours than pay money to to hear some never-made-it member of Hieroglyphics rap.
This experience was similar to another hip-hop dance girl in college who was flipping through my CD book one day and remarked, “Your CD collection is pretty ill…for someone from the west coast.”
Faced with such an obnoxious and ignorant comment, I should’ve tossed that girl out of my apartment and rescinded my offer to smoke her and her roommate out. But the roommate was hot, so I let it slide. Sometimes, I really do hate myself.
My advice to this particular sub-set of female is simple: be yourself. No one cares that you know all the words to “Back That Ass Up.” And no one cares that your third cousin’s college roomate was the West Coast Underground rapper, Rasco. It doesn’t fucking matter. No guy wants to date a girl who knows more about hip-hop than he does, anyway. (quote attributed to Matt Bilinsky, regarding a Beverly Hills raised girl worth more money than God…). So ladies, it’s okay if you’re not super hip-hop. I mean let’s get real there’s only so much you can do when your last name is Schwartz. But keep up the dancing, it’s good exercise and next week I hear that your instructor is going to teach you how to “Krump.” Pop your fucking collas!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go listen to Chef Raekwon’s Only Built For Cuban Linx for the 8,134th time and be a complete hypocrite. Good day!
Posted in Uncategorized | 11 Comments »
February 15th, 2006
I’m pretty sure that Steve Martin is schizophrenic. As usual, I have no tangible evidence pointing me in one direction or the other, though if you just gauged his level of sanity from the above picture, I would side with my diagnosis.
It’s no secret that the majority of Hollywood actors more closely resemble whores than the artists that they proclaim themselves to be. Dangle a fat paycheck before the average actor’s face and they’ll drop to their knees faster than you can say Paris Hilton. Certainly, every actor or actress has to support themselves via their “talent” and there is a limited window in which an actor can collect huge paydays for a relatively minimal amount of work. However, like anything else, there’s a fine line between being greedy and wanting to put food on your table.
And then there is Steve Martin, who expresses most eloquently the reasons behind my disdain for most actors. Fabulously wealthy, Martin has been an above-the-line star since 1979’s “The Jerk.” For the majority of his career, he has acted in above-average to great comedies, including “Three Amigos,” “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles,” “Dirty Rotten Scoundrels,” “Parenthood,” “Father of the Bride,” “LA Story,” and “Bowfinger.” Definitely a run of films that most comedians would envy.
In addition to the aforementioned films, Martin has carved out a career for himself as a non-filmic writer, penning the novella, “Shopgirl,” the non-fiction book, “Pure Drivel,” the novel, “Pleasure of my Company,” and the play “Picasso at the Lapin Agile.”
And then in 2003, Martin was (I theorize) diagnosed with a savage case of schizophrenia, which I assume leads him to believe that he’s an artist one day and a stark-raving lunatic prone to starring in pure schlock the next. Of course, this is nothing to laugh at and I’m only writing about Steve Martin’s case to warn others of the perils of mental illness. Luckily for you my readers, I have spies embedded in Martin’s various homes who painstakingly described a scene that occured recently, a scene that illuminates the desperate, ghastly horrors of his illness.
The Schizophrenia of Steve Martin
Steve 1: The sun is out, reflecting sweet licks of light through the window panes. I nestle my head against them. Sun penetrates into my soul. I need to compose a tribute to the inscrutable madness of life.
Steve 2: What the fuck are you talking about, homo! You’ve got to shoot another scene of the “Pink Panther” today. Do you think this invory back-scratcher is going to pay for itself?
Steve 1: We purchased another ivory back-scratcher? I have no need for such frivolities. All I need is a warm cup of coffee, a pen, some paper, and the inexhaustible depths of my soul.
Steve 2: There you go again, blathering on and on. Look, stop trying to pretend to be deep to convince impressionable 25 year old girls to sleep with you. It’s LA, they’ll sleep with you because you’re rich. You don’t need to pretend to be an artist to fuck them.”
Steve 1: No, Steve 2. I don’t want another 25-year old girl. We’ve already slept with four of them this week. We need to create, to write plays, to be a man of the arts. A man who will be remembered in a 100 years.
Steve 2: Yeah, uh huh, right Steve 1. At any rate, Queen Latifah’s on the line, she wants to know if we can do a sequel for “Bringing Down the House.” Should I tell her we’ll do it.”
Steve 1: “Tell her no!!! She’s already asked me to do it 10 times! I just refuse to star in another sequel. Though I do find her brand of good-natured humor both sassy AND lovable. But the answer is still no!!”
Steve 2: “Okay, I told her, but she keeps on telling me how she just saw “Cheaper By the Dozen 2, and she thinks that you have a knack for low-budget cheesy kids movie sequels.”
Steve 1: “NO!! What I have a knack for is literature! No one understands the rugged ruins of the life that I have created for myself. When will I find a women who understands me? When I will find myself lying atop a Mt. Olympus of artistic giants?”
Steve 2: “Never you schmuck. You haven’t been in a decent movie since “Bowfinger.” Now let’s call it a day and do a film re-make of “Beverly Hillbillies.” It’s a gold mine, Steve 1. AND Brett Ratner’s attached to direct.”
Steve 1: “Hmm…Beverly Hillbillies. Well, I have had a lot of success with re-makes. The Pink Panther did make over $20 million last weekend. And no one ever seems to remember “Sgt. Bilko” anymore?”
Steve 2: “They’ll pay you $20 million and I’ll even buy you a really nice journal to write down your “intellectual” thoughts that you claim to have.
Steve 1: “Fine, but only if I can play a complicated and troubled Jedd Clampet. Albeit a wacky version.”
Steve 2: “Deal, I’ll call our agent. Let’s go look for 25-year 0lds now.”
Steve 1: “Sounds great! Can we pick up some lithium on the way?”
Steve 2: “You and I both know the answer to that Steve 1: No!! Now let’s go get a cabana at the Beverly Hills Hotel.”
Steve 1: “Swell.”
Posted in Uncategorized | 7 Comments »
February 14th, 2006
In a stunning decision sure to reverberate across the country, Vice President Dick Cheney has announced that he will join the United States Army and help the war effort in Iraq. The 65-year old will become the oldest active soldier in the United States’ fighting arsenal.
“It’s something that I’ve wanted to do for a very long time,” Cheney gruffly declared. “But I’m a perfectionist and I don’t do things half-assed. I needed to make sure that my shooting ability was top notch before I shipped off to Iraq. That was the reason for my four deferments from Vietnam. I couldn’t shoot straight. But now that I’ve mastered how to snipe away at innocent animals AND innocent trial attorneys, defeating not-so-innocent insurgents should be a piece of cake.”
Cheney’s quote referred to last week’s incident where he “accidentally” shot millionaire attorney Harry Whittington on a hunting trip in Texas.
“That was no accident,” a surprisingly forthright Cheney admitted. “Harry was helping me prepare. Sure, Iraq’s in the last throes of the insurgency but you’re damned right that we understand how serious the matter is. Harry’s a true patriot and he wanted to take some bullets for the country. My ability to hit him dead-on in the heart and face proved once and for all that I’m ready to take the fight from the wild and wooly woods of Texas to Iraq. I only have one message to tell Iraqi Insurgents: if you think you’ve seen shock and awe, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Army General John Abizaid is excited about the newest addition to his military.
“It certainly comes as a relief to our beleaguered army. I mean we’ve been having to take on recruits with drug and criminal backgrounds of late. Anything will help,” Abizaid confessed. “And in many ways, Cheney is the perfect soldier: cold-blooded, devoid of emotion, heartless. I think he’ll really be a killing machine. I mean, we have wanted him since Vietnam, but I respect his decision to wait.”
Certainly, the unexpected decision will leave the White House in turmoil. Experts have speculated wildly about who will replace Cheney, widely regarded as the most powerful vice-president in history. And no one is taking the news harder than President George W. Bush.
“I’m a little beside myself,” a solemn Bush stated. “What will I do? Who will tell me what to think? This is the worst I’ve felt since they cancelled Alf. I tell you what, I loved that show…he was such an adorable Melmac-ian. Heh Heh Heh Heh.”
Though Bush claimed that he won’t be able to get over Cheney’s departure anytime soon, he mentioned that he believed it was what was best for the country.
“To be completely frank, none of us have any clue what to do in Iraq. Sending Dick over there seems like the most sensible move,” Bush said.
“After all, since most of our politicians don’t have any children in the military it seemed like a good way to show the American people that we care about our troops. You better believe that if we sent our troops to Iraq without a clear-cut plan to win the peace, then we’re also willing to die for it ourselves.”
While the jury is still out on how much success Cheney will have in Iraq, the level of fear on the Baghdad streets runs high.
“Have you looked into that man’s eyes?” trembling insurgent, Mahmoud Zabar said. “He is a cold-blooded killer. I have never seen anything like it. Sure, we’ve had a great deal of success against the Americans over the past two years, but that was B.C., before Cheney. We will seriously need to re-think our strategy. He has the shooting ability of a young Lee Harvey Oswald. And I hear that he has magical bullets that can cause heart attacks in his targets. This is a very disturbing development!”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of | 3 Comments »
No matter where you go in the city of Los Angeles, you will inevitably be confronted with a lengthy line and a list once you get to the front of said line. This is one of the paramount annoyances of living in a city of over 3 million people, a city where no matter where you go your fate is often dictated by some jackass with an earpiece and a clipboard filled with dozens of dog-eared loose leaf notebook pages, a person who you just know was thoroughly taunted on the Junior High School Playground.
