Not Letting My Boyfriend Get In The Way Of Having The Perfect Valentines Day Date

I spoke with Psychic to the Stars, Psychic Girl, aka Jusstine Kenzer about who would make the perfect date for me on Valentines Day. 

ALI: I don’t have a date for Valentines Day. I have a boyfriend. Yet, I’m still dateless on Valentines Day.

JUSSTINE: You have a boyfriend.

A: Yeah. He is out of town, so I’m dateless. But I’m not going to let that get in my way. I want you to help me find the perfect Valentines Day date. You said you might be able to help me out and predict who could be a good match for me out of the men that I find…dreamy. That’s the technical term, right? Dreamy? So I chose men I think would be delighted to go out with me. But also men that I would say yes to. Maybe we can see who you get a hit on? That’s the lingo, right?

J: Yes, let’s see who I get a hit on for you.

A: Well, there’s Jude Law, whom I just adore, no matter what horrible things he does in his personal life. I think he is handsome and talented. There’s Jon Stewart. He’s a genius. There’s Daniel Craig. He’s Bond! C’mon.

J: He’s a little taken.

A: So is Jon Stewart. I am too, supposedly. Doesn’t mean I can’t go out for a nice Valentine’s dinner, right?

J: …Okay.

A: Okay? Let’s see. Hmm. Oh, Ryan Gosling. I think he’s also taken. Doesn’t mean he can’t take me out for Valentine’s Day. Oh and then there’s my first love. Han Solo.

J: Right. How about a real person?

A: He’s real. He has his own action figure. He saved the galaxy…

J: Okaaay. I’ve looked at lots of people who are delusional about things.

A: Are you talking about me? Or Han Solo? He awakened my sexuality at the age of six.

J: Let’s just say Harrison Ford.

A: You can call it Harrison Ford, but I’ll be thinking Han Solo.

J: Why don’t you start to ask me specific questions?

A: Let’s start with Jude Law. If I were with him, would he sleep with the nanny?

J: No.

A: Really. He’d be faithful to me?

J: I didn’t say that. I said he wouldn’t sleep with the nanny.

A: Damn. That’s cold. Ok, rephrasing. Would he be faithful?

J: I get yes.

A: Wow. So I could cure him of all his infidelities? Amazing. Would his hair grow back?

J: No.

A: Is he worth all the trouble he causes?

J: I get no.

A: So I would tire of him?

J: He’d get bored if things would be balanced.

A: Is he a drama queen?

J: Not a drama queen but he has issues with his mother.

A: Uuuuuugh. No. I can’t, nope. Next. I can’t. I CANNOT. No. No. No. Let’s talk about Jon Stewart. Is he funny off camera too? Or is he a crying on the inside clown?

J: He is funny off camera.

A: I figured. Is he married to his work?

J: No.

A: No? He can leave it at the office?

J: Looks like he is balanced. He used to not always be that way but it’s reached a point where he has found that balance.

A: So, he’s not married to his work but is he married to his wife?

J: Yes. He’s faithful and a good guy.

A: Aww, that’s why I love him. He’s a really good guy. But he’d still take me out for a dinner Valentines Day night. Right?

J: No.

A: No? Now I love him even more.

J: No, but he’d be very flattered and he would buy you a rose.

A: I am so in love right now. (whispering) Jon Stewart, I love you! I can tell he loves me too. Sigh. We will just have to work together someday.

J: I get yes on that.

A: Really? Oh my god. Now I’m in love with YOU too.

J: It will all work out.

A: OK, who is next? Oh yes, James Bond! Daniel Craig. Does he get really fat in between the Bond movies?

J: I get no. He is muscley. His constitution is pretty solid.

A: Is he emotionally muscley?

J: I get no.

A: So he is a softy? Does he cry a lot?

J: I get that he is romantic.

A: Does he make his date go dutch or does he pay?

J: No he always pays.

A: Good to know.

J: It seems like he is a good guy.

A: They can’t all be good guys.

J: The ones you are asking about are.

A: Wow. If I have such good radar then how did I end up dating all the asshole losers I’ve dated? Before my boyfriend, I mean. Honey, if you’re reading this, I love you. Just because I’m plotting a date with a big movie star doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Maybe I should have been dating big stars?

J: You’re asking about fantasy men who are your perfect type. In reality you don’t pick that type.

A: Pfft. “Fantasy”. Anyways. Ryan Gosling. Is he damaged from all those years in the Mickey Mouse Club with Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears?

J: No. It seems like a lifetime ago for him.

A: Is he hard to live with. I mean its just dinner, but just in case.

J: No, he’s a nice guy.

A: Again? Why am I picking all the famous nice guys?

J: Sometimes when we can’t have what we want, we pick things that fill the void that perpetuate that myth.

A: So I told my subconscious that since I can’t date James Bond I might as well date a second rate asshole musician?

J: Uhhh, maybe. Some people make that mistake. Or you can listen to my Heal Your Relationship download and change your subconscious beliefs and heal yourself. Find something fulfilling.

A: Define fulfilling. Oh, you mean like Daniel Craig. OK. Moving on. Han Solo.

J: OK. How am I going to do this? I guess we can look at him as that character. How should we approach this?

A: I dunno. You’re the psychic. Will Han let saving the galaxy get in the way of our relationship?

J: No.

A: Will he let his relationship with Chewbacca get in the way of our relationship?

J: For that I get yes.

A: FUCK! He’d let a Wookie get in the way. Believe me. I understand the love of a cat or a dog or a best friend. And I love Wookies. But how are you supposed to settle down with somebody if there’s a Wookie in your way?

J: For him, that relationship comes first.

A: Damn. I mean where is he even going to take me for Valentine’s Day? The motherfucking Cantina? With those freaks? Don’t I deserve somewhere special? Or clean at least? I’ve been to some dirty ass places before. Backstage of any place on the Sunset Strip is about as dirty as the Cantina. But it’s Valentine’s Day! I want somewhere I can wear an open toed shoe.

J: Maybe this is a relationship that could happen on EBay? I seeing a lot of merchandisers and collectors connected to the name Han Solo who hang out there.

A: I don’t see this one going anywhere. It’s not as promising as some of the other famous men. It’s so hard to find a nice guy in this day and millennium.

You can find out more about Jusstine at www.psychicgirl.com

Getting It On & Taking It Off – Sunset Strip Music Festival 2009

The crazy train has left the station…and either you were on it or you’ll have to wait until next year’s local trip.

The Sunset Strip, long a place where spandex covered dinosaurs crawled between the Rainbow and the Whiskey has had a resurgence, mostly due to Roxy owner Nic Adler’s social media make over experiment. His crazy communist manifesto of community based music and entertainment has created an alliance with the Viper Room, the Andaz Hotel, The Comedy Store and a few other hot spots. Their online presence,  from tweet crawls to ticket twofer giveaways, has lured hipsters back to the place where rock music once reigned. The fact that the Sunset Strip has gotten it’s own music festival, now in it’s second year, shows that the Strip’s death rattle has reversed course and the infamous piece of WeHo history begun a little rock renaissance. And this year’s renaissance faire got the go ahead to shut down the boulevard to honor the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne.

The festival kicked off with a big tribute to Ozzy at the House of Blues, which funnily enough for a frenzy of social media mavens, seemed to be a twitter dead zone. The night was MC’ed by Billy Morrison who was most memorable for his cheekbones which could cut glass. There was a pre-taped congrats from Lemmy…uh, what, he couldn’t stumble from the Rainbow-only mere yards up the strip-to say it in person?

Brought up to roast/honor Ozzy were comedian Jim Norton, who showed a slide show of mainly photos of himself with famous people (yawn). Then followed a spirited anecdote from Henry Rollins about underestimating the roar of an Ozzy crowd. Next up was an unfathomable speech of nonsense from Tommy Lee about drinking his own urine (Ugh, Tommy). Nothing much interesting from Slash – just a tale of  listening to Iron Man on acid.  Slash, we really want you to lead us here. You are positioning yourself as a rock hero and guitar legend. Let’s work on the public speaking charisma, dude. If you’re going to wear the Monopoly top hat, then let’s act like the mayor of Guitarville, mkay?

And theeeeen what followed, what I was really curiously waiting for, a few quips from Billy Bob Thornton.

Now Billy Bob was an interesting choice for a few reasons…one: I was hoping he’d do the whole speech in his Sling Blade voice and then he and Ozzy could have an unintelligible-off.  Two: Now being known as a ‘musician’,  I am obsessed with him wanting to give any kind of speech after he completely melted down on a CBC radio show. If there was ever an awkward music interview, Billy Bob takes the cake. I have a sick, twisted desire to interview him and let the train derail and then sort through the wreckage. Oh please, pr gods.

Though I do have to give him credit for mentioning Sharon. He was the only one to say that if we were all honoring Ozzy, we also had to honor the woman who made Ozzy possible. Never would have pegged you for a feminist, Mr. Thornton, but kudos and a plate of french fried potaters to you, sir.

The plaque ceremony and photo op with a quick “I love you all!” from Ozzy, was followed by a performance from Camp Freddy.  I couldn’t help thinking that for Ozzy, this must be like watching a bunch of his friends do karaoke. Sober.

With a couple fun softball performances from Donovan Leitch and some hot rocking blasts from best Freddy member Franky Perez, they bring out Mark fucking McGrath from Sugar Ray. Yeah, the host of that cheeze wiz entertainment show. Either Mark is going grey, or he overdid it on the frosted tips just for this occasion. Doesn’t he have some McG beach blanket music video shoot to go host? He pointed up to Ozzy in the balcony and said “Ozzy, my brother, this goes out to you from Newport Beach!” And then he began to butcher ‘Cat Scratch Fever’. It’s at that point I had to leave. Come to think of it, the balcony seats emptied out pretty quickly too. CAMP FREDDY FAIL.

Friday was reserved for the big Andaz Hotel party and the House of Blues Rock N Roll wine tasting event. I was lucky enough to be staying at the Andaz, which is quite plush since it’s remake, but still underneath has a bit of that riot house/Hyatt house vibe.

With guests like Ozzy staying there too, it had to still have that edge under all the class. The Virgin America/Andaz party boasted a red carpet event up by the rooftop pool with the promise of a few performances, including one by Chris Cornell who had been strangely left off all the set list time announcements. (Was Cornell forced from the festival by the Osbourne train or did he bow out on his own accord?) Although Chris made an appearance to shake some hands and pose for pictures, he didn’t perform, which prompted me to put forth divorce proceedings. The gorgeous hotel view skyline and ample cocktails made for a fun evening, even when an Aussie actor ambushed my camera techniques and turned the tables on me…

The day of the festival was bright and sunny with everyone in hot anticipation for Ozzy’s big performance. The music kicked off with spirited performances from The Donnas and Fishbone.

credit: eric voake

As the afternoon wore on and clothes were stripped off, Shiny Toy Guns played a very low key quiet set…(did they think they were playing for KCRW?) and Korn played angry head banging anthems proving that they lost one too many games of dungeons and dragons when they were kids. I skipped festival favorites Nico Vega to catch Brooklyn’s best, Earl Greyhound, whose new material shows a maturity yet they still know how to kick out the jams.

At last, I settled with my VIP vetted friends on the Bank of America parking lot roof and awaited the crazy train. Ozzy took the stage in front of a mass of all ages – toddlers to senior citizens. And hie performance was pleasing to all. Despite lobbing the f word here and there and hosing people down with foam, it was essentially a good, clean, tame Ozzy (minus Harriet) show. As Thornton had said earlier “Who says the Prince of Darkness can’t be a nice guy?”.

credit: Eric Voake

Here’s some choice moments and interviews with The Donnas, Iglu & Hartly, Norwood of Fishbone and The Mashup Brothers:

Sunset and Vines – Rock ‘n Roll Wine Uncorks At The Sunset Strip Music Festival

Rock has a reputation for being a beer and whiskey kinda night. OK, maybe a rum and coke, then a shot of tequila, then eleventy beers kinda night. But somewhere along the way, I traded in my plastic tumbler for a wine glass. If I drink much at all, I strictly drink wine.

It seems it’d be an uneven match, navigating the pogoing crowds with a refined glass of pinot noir. Well, one less reason to stand in the mosh pit, I suppose. My drink often brings scowls or claims of “That’s a big glass of stain you’re carrying around.” Better to stand safe and sound in VIP with, my dear.  Sure, My libation choice may have made me stick out like a sore thumb, but not anymore. Now there is something that perfectly satisfies my Uptown girl tastes and my Downtown girl edge: Rock ‘N Roll Wine.

Founded by Sommelier Chris Hammond and business partner Sonny Barton, Rock ‘n Roll Wine is a wine events company dedicated to revolutionizing the way people perceive, and enjoy wine. Rock ‘n Roll Wine produces monthly wine events in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Ann Arbor, in addition to making their own music-themed line of wines.

I’ve been to events they’ve had tastings at before. In fact, they were doling out delicious vino at a Swinghouse Studios event. It was so nice to go to a rock party and not be shoved a monster energy drink. I even had a choice between The Grotto, a California red blend with grenache, syrah, cab and a dash of Zin:

or a white muscat, roussanne, chardonnay blend called Reggae Rhapsody:

The company does pairings…that is, music and wine pairings. They suggest that MGMT might be a good listening choice while sipping some Grotto while Jack Johnson would be a more fitting way to enjoy a glass of Reggae Rhapsody. Beach side, of course. OK, neither of those overplayed KROQ artists are my cup of tea, or wine as it were…I’m still waiting for the wines that would be good for breaking out my Gang of Four or Neu! albums, but, hey, baby steps…

Along with the music pairing idea, the company often showcases the wine while artists play onstage nearby. They’ve done events with big artists such as Dashboard Confessional, Everclear, Ingrid Michaelson, Pat Monahan of Train and Low vs. Diamond, as well as emerging artists. Jangly indie rock act? Rock N Roll wines will have a nice cabernet pour for that. Singer/Songwriter about to take the stage? A pinot grigio will be chilling near by, waiting to be sampled.

And in honor of the beer and whiskey soaked Sunset Strip doing it up with their own festival, Rock ‘n Roll Wine is going to class it up this weekend too. Or as Rock ‘n Roll wine tipplers say: “Rock Out With Your Cork Out”. The company will help kick off the festival by hosting their event at the House of Blues VIP club Foundation Room on Friday, September, 11 and feature singer/songwriter Cofféy. The wine party will feature 15 hand-selected, wines from around the world, including Rock ‘n Roll Wine’s Reggae Rhapsody and The Grotto.

To purchase your tickets in advance, visit http://www.rocknrollwine.com or call 702-240-3066. Rock ‘n Roll Wine is offering a discount to those going to the Sunset Strip Music Festival. Enter code: SSMF when ordering tickets online and receive $5 OFF addmission.

I’ll be there, sampling the wines and the rock, which to me, seem the perfect combination. If I am going to rock out on the strip this weekend, it will most definitely be with my cork out.

Ali on the Air & Antiquiet Backstage: Nico Vega at the Roxy

Nico Vega, LA based and openers for The Von Bondies, hung out in the dressing room and answered some of my questions.

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Ali On The Air and Antiquiet Backstage: The Von Bondies At The Roxy

Backstage of the Roxy with my Bondies. The conversation went from fascinating to silly to downright awkward. But we all had make up sex afterwards. Enjoy the lunacy of me and the Von Bondies!

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ALI ON THE AIR on Antiquiet – Roxy Owner Nic Adler On Ticketmaster / Live Nation

My Antiquiet interview (in the bathroom) with Nic Adler of the Roxy. We chat about Ticketmaster, twittering and social media in the rock club world.Part Two!

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This Sex Was On Fire

When a major landmark or institution closes or is destroyed, it’s common for a mourning period to follow. The passing of monument will be an elegiac era of super size proportions which will break hearts and hard ons across the world…yes, early this morning, a fire gutted The Body Shop in Los Angeles.

photo credit: Al Seib

There are four men in particular who are probably at this moment, dabbing their eyes with black lacy g-strings. These are the stalwart citizens who immortalized the establishment in their song, Girls, Girls, Girls. In a way, Motley Crue are both artists and patrons of the arts. For their tribute to dancing girls undoubtedly raised the profile of the oft scorned art of totally nude strip dancing.

The Body Shop has graced the Sunset Strip since the 40s where it once was a burlesque club. Luckily, it was transformed into an all nude dancing theater just in time for the hair metal stampede down the Sunset Strip. It even paid the rent of many budding, hungry ‘actresses’, Courtney Love being one. I never had the pleasure of frequenting this particular establishment. When I was researching the art of stripping for a play I had written, my cast mates and I kept to Crazy Girls and Cheetahs, which was titilating enough to mess with our heads in a method acting sorta way. So, I can’t properly relate to the loss of this mecca of culture, but I realize the pain is deep.

Theater of the absurd

There is no exact word on how the fire started, though my money is on someone ‘smokin in the boys room’ (sorry, had to). There are plans to rebuild the Shop, but it will remain shuttered until those renovations are done. Where, o where, will these generous men go to appreciate bodies in motion? Where will they find long legs, burgundy lips, red lips and fingertips? How will they keep fledgling models ‘over-employed’? Where can these doctors go to feel good?

model/actress/nameless

These patrons need to look no further than the dulcet tones of Vince Neil’s humble suggestions. How about a trip to sunny Florida? The Dollhouse in Fort Lauderdale could cure your blues. If humidity isn’t your bag, Hotlanta has Tattletails AND a Waffle House. Two treats in one! If you’re up for a ski lift, Vancouver’s Marble Arc will fill your need for tats and ass. Gay Paree seems like nothing of the sort, if you take in the double ‘D’s at the Crazy Horse. Or in French, Le Cheval Fou.

benjamins and booty

Of course Los Angeles is a veritable cornucopia of sin dens. There’s Jumbo’s Clown Room. That is the premiere place to watch greasy hipsters watch a broken anorexic sadly strip to Radiohead’s Karma Police. Cheetahs is more of the rockabilly girls scarred with cigarette burns, vibe. And the Crazy Girls are all about the benjamins waiting to lap dance a benefactor. I’m sure if Vince and Tommy are in town you can still find them raising ‘hail’ (hell) at the Seventh Vail.

Too fast for love

I know, I know…they’re just not the same as the infamous Body Shop. Again, my heart leaps out of my 34 C chest for all of these philandering philanthropists. These are tough times. They are times of change. They are times of joining hands and helping your fellow man.

I suggest that all ladies out there be kind to their fellow man. In fact, you can help your favorite fellow man, just by doing a strip tease in the comfort of your own home. Think of it as a form of physical therapy to get him through the night…and the many nights to come, without the Body Shop.

AFTER THE GLITTER FADES – PASSENGER AND THE PAPARAZZI

When bands on the road roll into town, they usually are looking for some hedonistic Hollywood fun and want to see the sights: The Capitol building. Lemmy’s barstool at the Rainbow. The Viper Room sidewalk where River died…the beach. Often times the cool indie rock chick in Los Angeles can fall into the role of platonic fluffer. This can be a nice change for a local girl as she can give a tour and see the sour city with fresh and glitter soaked eyes.

I gave up giving tours several years ago. After a few platonic friendships crossed the line into the murkiness of long distance love, followed by a looong spell with a live-in boyfriend, I became too busy, too important, to drive around the city with a band in tow. But something about the lads in the British import band Passenger, made me change my tune.

Passenger came to my tv show via Brighton and were sent to me by the gals at Girlie Action. Lead singer Mike Rosenberg, a baby face with a sharp wit and old soul, proved to be a ready opponent for my snark and subversive interview style. Their performance was impressive enough to raise my jaded ass’s interest and I actually stayed in the studio to watch.

Passenger

Still with a good show in the can, I didn’t suspect I’d see them again. The invite to a gig after a taping is something I normally deflect with a lame excuse, more often than not. But that night, when out searching for my first meal of the day, I found myself pulling up in front of the Hotel Café.

Yeah, I know. The Hotel Café. While I had created a new singer songwriter show, Songwriter’s Stage, for Vlaze TV, it isn’t exactly a haunt that you’d ever find me in. No offense to the many talented songsmiths and troubadours that perform there…I just like my music with a healthy serving of edge and vitriol.

Mike Rosenberg of Passenger

Perhaps it’s the fact that Passenger’s comparisons to David Gray are a bit misleading. Yes, the melodies are soft and pretty and the harmonies give it that Starbucks song-of-the-week feel. But those who have likened Mike’s lyrical sense to Nick Drake are a bit more on the money. Drake and a lethal dose of biting British self deprecation. That’s the combo I’m all about. An ironic fist in a velvet glove.

So, while I normally distance myself from the interview subject, that evening I found myself on an all night adventure. The guys took me to an odd house party with two grand pianos and a Fuse TV crew goading us into doing fake vodka shots for their program about ‘partying’. It was somewhat amusing to watch Mike and guitarist Stephen’s faces as they took in all the bizarre pre-mating habits of fringe Angelinos on the make.

“What a perfect Hollywood party to have gone to.” one of them remarked.

“Oh, this is by no means what a Hollywood party is like.“ I corrected.

For one thing there was no hosted open bar from a booze company that no one has ever heard of. No unemployed actors serving expensive appetizers in honor of a major movie release. No DJ with his stage name in glittery sticker letters across his laptop, pumping out banging disco house music. There were no roving club kid photogs goading under age kinds to pull their tops down for a moment of cyber fame. There wasn’t even a celebrity sighting.

In fact, the only real Hollywood thing I was able to show them was the La Brea tar pits – I drove them over to Wilshire, prepping them on the monument to our pre-historic predecessors. As I pulled my convertible up to LACMA, their faces fell.

“That’s it?” Their manager, Dan, yelled. “Those don’t look like woolly mammoths. They’re like cartoon fiberglass elephants. Fooking ‘ell!”

I had failed as a tour guide.

Luckily last week I had the chance to redeem myself. The boys were hopping back across the pond to support the drop of their album Wicked Man’s Rest. I bought me some spf 50, map quested Zuma Beach and rsvped to every annoying pool party and drink fest that came across my email spam box.

Dinner at Jones and a small gathering at the Woods with James Murphy in attendance, was a nice evening out for Passenger…but where was the gin soaked night? The evening of excess? The morning after where you aren’t quite sure where you are or which playmate you woke up next to? I’d have to try harder.

Passenger performed again at the Hotel Café. Even though only six weeks had passed, their performance was so much tighter and dynamic. I got chills listening to Mike warble songs such as Things You Never Done and Table For One. And the upbeat single about stalking (which was just banned by a radio station) Night Vision Binoculars, got the early dinner crowd clamoring to meet them afterwards.

Stephen & Mike of Passenger at the Hotel Cafe

Now, I suppose that too many years spent up all night and sleeping all day has jaded me. My smooth skin belies the time I’ve spent partying hard, and hitting the bottle harder. But a domestic partnership, a serious illness and a jaded ‘been there, done that’ glaze has seriously mellowed me out. My idea of wild fun would have been punk rock karaoke or maybe splurging on a really expensive bottle of wine. I must admit I’ve become more of a boho hipster, rather than a fun-thirsty scenester.

Passenger must have sensed this. Which is probably why they left nothing to chance this time and had their management company make a reservation at a club called Villa. Yeah, that Villa. As in the Villa I only know of from the check-out lane tabloids. Passenger told me the Weho address and I sniffed at it, snobbishly.

“I don’t go west of Fairfax Ave.” I chided.

“Why not?” They asked.

“You’ll see.” I warned.

The MacLean-mobile pulled up to what once was the yuppie pub, Sloans. Now transformed into Villa, the place looked like a Kubrick wet dream. White silk cord ropes hung draped from the ceiling. A giant stuffed peacock competed for attention with a giant silver hot air balloon and a white Apollo space suit. The walls were frescoed with paintings of books as if the Eyes Wide Shut orgies had spilled into a billionaire’s library.

The place was gorgeous. That is, until the clientele arrived.

If reality television had spawned a nightclub, then this is where they would come for re-runs. Every fake tanned, fake-titted girl teetering on heels, in a too short t-shirt-cum-dress, came in hungry for attention. It made me do a double take in a way that even blatant beastiality would fail to. It was so…Jerry Springer episode: Tanorexic oompaloompa girls and the trucker hatted dudes who love them.

If this place is supposedly good for spotting stars, then where were they? Where the hell was gorgeous Villa denizen Jonathan Rhys Myers? Where was Johniston or Brangelina? Was the lack of wattage because it was karaoke night? And why was Lukas Haas checking email on his Sidekick WHILE he was on stage singing Bitter Sweet Symphony? That’s enough to make The Verve break up again. Permanently.

“The décor is wasted on these people.” I remarked “None of them know what those strange oblong things called books are.”

“No.” Stephen agreed. “They probably call it ‘the wall with good children’s names’.”

“Yes, like Gatsby Silverstein. Or Nietzsche Jones.”

I shudder to think. Makes Apple Martin or Pilot Inspektor Lee sound kind a good Christian name. Doesn’t it?

We stepped outside for a cigarette to a hail of flashbulbs. That horrible swarm of parasitic paparazzi that you see on TMZ, were in the flesh outside of the club. Even with a little experience walking down a red carpet, I was a bit taken aback.

“Is this what it’s like when you go out in Hollywood?” Mike asked.

“NO.” I stammered. “This is how the other half live. I’m an east side hipster. We stick to indie rock, red wine and artistic integrity.”

Mike and Ali On The Air outside Villa nightclub

Actually what we were witnessing wasn’t exactly how the other half of LA lives. It’s really more like an eighth…the real Hollywood stars don’t hang out at Villa on a Monday night. They go to bed for an early call to the set the next morning. Or they attend a charity function where the swag bags include strands of black pearls and complimentary blackberrys. No, this type of Hollywood crowd is a very specific breed. The ‘dancing with the d-list’ kinda crowd. The reality TV has-been kinda crowd. And that includes you, Miss so-called World 2006.

Almost as if on cue, two of the perma-tanned d cup girls came out for a cigarette, and the parasites went crazy, clicking and sticking microphones into their faces. I couldn’t tell you who these trollops were, or what they possibly had to say that would hold anyone’s interest…but someone was paying the shutterbugs to capture their every move.

“Who are they?” Stephen asked.

“I dunno. Maybe they’re Hef’s playmates? Or maybe they’re on some reality show.” I offered.

“What show would that be, ‘Surgical Mistakes’? Stephen quipped. No doubt coming soon on Spike TV.

Mike & Stephen give the paparazzi a Brighton greeting

This was exactly the part of Hollywood that out-of-towners want to see, but are then very sorry when they do. It’s an embarrassment to someone like me to try and explain away why America is fascinated by this type of vapid vomit. It’s a peek behind the curtain at what glamour really ISN’T about.

Perhaps I should have stuck with ferrying them on a trip to the Sunset Strip. Even though the brains over there aren’t exactly firing on all cylinders either, at least it’s fun to watch the crowd that hasn’t made it past 1986. Watching someone like Vince Neil imbibe and make an ass of himself seems almost wholesome next to this slutbag contest. This was just…depressing.

It also served as a reminder to me underlining the fact that mediocrity and grotesque reign over talent and beauty. Why is Passenger, with their gorgeous melodies, playing an early slot at the Hotel Café? While Heidi Montag of The Hills is singing at Universal Ampitheater?!? Why, in a town of creative people, do we allow this to happen? Why can’t we urge everyone to stop reading OK magazine and stop tivoing Sunset Tan? Why couldn’t I convince any of my friends to go see the free Shakespeare in the park this summer? And who the hell greenlit Don’t Mess With The Zohan?

I'd rather stab my eyeballs with a fork

No seriously. I mean it. For fuck’s sake! I want to know who greenlit it, and I want his head on a platter!

Frankly I’m tired of having to go to the BBC for good comedy via Gervais and Izzard. I’m hoping that by the time I re-read my worn out copies of books by Evelyn Waugh, another Sedaris will be published. I’m really, really, really hoping Vicky Christina Barcelona will beat House Bunny at the box office but I’m not going to hold my breath.

Perhaps that’s what Silverlake is for. A place on the east side for those of us cultural snobs to retire to, after the glitter fades. We’ve drunk ourselves into an oblivion, partied like rockstars and watched our creative dreams slowly erode. So we barricade ourselves beyond the 101 beltway, light candles for Elliot Smith, eat at vegan bistros, and keep working on the great American novel or album.

Elliot Smith tribute wall

When a group of lads like Passenger come to Los Angeles, I want to have something worthy of them to show them. Something smart. Something thoughtful. Something truly glamorous – the type of glamour that inspired De Mille, Hawks, Altman and Allen.

I know I’m not responsible for the entire city of Babylon. But I am a citizen here and so I must accept that this is how it is, or change it. After all, it’s been years and I still live here. I could live anywhere in the world. It must be because somehow that promise of glamour, of greatness, of creative utopia is still somewhat alive. Perhaps like the song, the feeling remains, even after the glitter fades.

Cheeseburger, well done.

I don’t eat red meat. But I sure do love me some Cheeseburger. So when I got word that the boys from Brooklyn were coming to town on the Tales of Colt 45 tour, I decided I’d definitely brave the tidal wave of douchebaggery to see some great cock rock.

Now, it’s hard to get me out to shows these days. Especially when a simple gig is overloaded with distractions meant to pull scenesters in. Professional studio photography, ice cream trucks, do it yourself silk screening, grafitti artists…free crack…if the music was actually good, would the clubs need all this excess shit to lure in the jaded Hollywannabes? Or is the pure love of music an outdated quality?

Colt 45 and Vice magazine were banking on the former with this night. one of the many ‘lifestyle’ extravaganzas which litters the LA scene these days. King King was packed when I arrived, and people were swaying, yelling, spitting and fighting. The free 40 ouncers were like the proverbial stick rattling the tiger cage at the zoo. The only thing left to light this powder keg would be a set of searing party rock.

Enter Cheeseburger.

The first thing I asked when I found the band in the crazed crowd, was if their guitarist had been tested. Last time they played in LA, Eric bled all over the stage at an alarming rate. I don’t begrudge an axe man with diseases, but I just had to be sure.

The band assured me that while he may be disease riddled, the calluses he built up would prevent him from bleeding on me during the show. So that takes care of me during the show…I didn’t go into what would protect me afterwards.

Joe, Luke, Eric and Christy, shuffled single file into their “green room” and closed the door so we could get some quiet. Closing the door seemed to make it louder in their actually, the door being less like a piece of paper and more like a noise sponge.

None of them were thrilled to be interviewed, even by an old friend, except for Christy who began snapping pictures and video of me to commemorate the precious moment.

AOTA: What’s the matter? We had fun on Little Radio last year.

JOE: Yeah but we were drunk. You gave us a keg of Heinken.

AOTA: Yes, true. We did roll out a party for you. But you have free Colt 45 – the sponsor of your mini tour. And I’m sure Vice would spring for a few drinks too.

JOE: I actually hate both of those products. I find them distasteful.

Joe scowled and took a swing off a Bud light. Christy stopped taking my picture long enough to survey the energy in the club.

CHRISTY: I feel hostility. I don’t know what it is, but it seems very hostile in this place.

AOTA: You’re in Los Angeles. And you’re in a room of people liquored up on Colt 45 which is slightly less like crack than Sparks, but not by much. But rumor has it that it’s been used as a form of chlorofyl in several kidnappings…

JOE: Colt 45 is for homeless people and college students.

Another long swig of Bud light.

AOTA: What do you have against the homeless? And didn’t you like college?

CHRISTY: College is supposed to be the best time of your life.

AOTA: Was it yours?

CHRISTY: No. I was depressed and lonely in college.

Christy lamented. Pause. Christy snapped another picture. I put my hand up to keep from being blinded by his flash.

AOTA: So when did that change?

CHRISTY: When I got successful and joined Cheeseburger!

Christy yelled this with a passion I haven’t seen from anyone on either of the coasts for a long time.
And I believed him. If you were in a band like Cheeseburger, whose main raison d’etre was to goad people into partying their asses off, wouldn’t you consider it a Cheeseburger job, well done?

Seeing as the guys have had triumph in placement lately, I asked how they felt being featured in Grand Theft Auto IV.

AOTA: Nothing like hearing the song “Cocaine” while you beat the crap out of someone you drag out of their car, yeah?

JOE: I’ve never seen it or played it. I don’t like playing games.

AOTA: You never played a video game? Even when you were a kid?

JOE: I played Q bert.

CHRISTY: Q bert is psychadelic!

Christy added this fact with an air guitar riff played on his beer bottle.

JOE: Cheeseburger is against violence. Enough is enough!

CHRISTY: Yeah! How much quote, violent bullshit, unquote, will we put up with? Make sure you put that part in quotes. And then tell them to ‘Google that’!

Not wanting my article to be a platform for their subversive propaganda, I quickly changed the subject.

AOTA: So, you guys have a song placed in the Will Ferrell movie, Stepbrothers.

I was met with half assed nods and grumbles.

AOTA: Did you see it?

A chorus of no, until Eric sheepishly nodded.

ERIC: I saw it.

AOTA: And? How was it?

ERIC: Uh, hmmm, it was…not good.

The others jeered at him. I think I heard a “duh” form somewhere in the room.

AOTA: Sooo, you don’t drink Colt 45 or read Vice. You don’t play Grand Theft Auto and most of you, except the bleeder over here, wont go see the movie your music is in…so I guess my question is, with all these sponsors that you will work with or take money from – is there anyone you won’t work with?

JOE: Twinkies and marines.

CHRISTY: I’ll work with anyone.

JOE: And Cabbage Patch Kids.

CHRISTY: Wait, you don’t like Xavier Roberts?

Joe shook his head disgusted and stood up and walked away from us.

CHRISTY: Make sure you write that he left the interview at this point.

AOTA: Oh, duly noted.

CHRISTY: I heard about this guy in Europe who opened an orphanage for toy baby dolls. You have to go through adoption interviews and everything. But it’s for a doll.

AOTA: For a doll? Who would do that?

CHRISTY: It’s really popular.

AOTA: Is this something Brad and Angie are contemplating? Have we run out of real children? Is this the only choice left if I wanted to get a baby?

CHRISTY: You could go fuck a homeless guy.

AOTA: Oh, been there. Most of my boyfriends were homeless when I met them.

Then I had to pause and actually think about the fact that someone had suggested I go fuck a homeless man. Over fucking anyone who was in the club that night. That’s how bad the crowd looked, people. One point for homeless men, zero for faded hipsters in capes. Seriously. One guy was wearing a rainbow towel as a cape.

Joe wandered back into our discussion.

JOE: OK, is this done? Anything else? Do you have a serious question?

AOTA: How do you feel about the Village Voice describing your music as ‘crunk punk’?

JOE: Crunk Punk? I don’t even know what that is. That’s not a hard hitting, serious question. Those guys are corporate shills. They have no idea what they’re talking about. They’re a bunch of Oberlin College, left wing, homosexual, shit eating—

CHRISTY: I just realized I have drink tickets!

Christy began pulling wads of red tickets out of his pockets.

JOE: Man, I paid for this beer! Give me those.

CHRISTY: Do I get a serious question?

AOTA: OK, what do you think will help the situation in Darfur.

JOE: You ask me about crunk punk and he gets Darfur?

AOTA: Feel free to answer if you have an opinion, Joe.

CHRISTY: I don’t think out government gives a shit about Darfur, so nothing will happen.

JOE: C’mon give me a serious question.

AOTA; OK. You have a new song called Jellybean. What’s your favorite flavor jellybean?

Joe rolled his eyes at me hard.

JOE: Purple.

CHRISTY: Purple is pussy vagina lips flavor!

JOE: And he gets the Darfur question.

AOTA: Ok, ok. A serious question for you. How can America get out of this recession?

Joe paused a second and looked thoughtful.

JOE: It doesn’t matter. It’s all just…just write ‘it doesn’t matter’. Christy you have those drink tickets?

The guys scrambled away from the couch and out of the green room as if the bell had rung on the last day of school. Luke paused at the door.

LUKE: You coming?

Oh yes. I wouldn’t miss the main event. Not for all the towel caped hipsters in Hollywood.

As Cheeseburger took the stage I looked around, noticing that the mass had thinned out considerably. I ambled over to the bar but before I could even order a gingerale, the bartender barked at me that there was no more free Colt. That explains the personal space around me in the club. Most of the little crack whores were on to their next hyphy crunk party to be seen and scened.

But don’t worry. Cheeseburger didn’t arrive with a pocket full of cock rock for nothing. As if transformed by some combination of electric guitar and malt liquor, these creatures from the valley appeared, dressed as if it were still 1988. Not the ironic fashions mind you. These were the authentic Sunset Strip customers that kept people like Vince Neil decked out in rhinestones for years.

As Joe postured and growled his way through the set, these creatures became bolder, rushing the stage and trying to grab the mic from Joe’s sweaty paws. One woman, old enough to have given birth to almost everyone there, kept gyrating on top of the monitor and throwing herself at the mic stand repeatedly. No amount of security could restrain her, and soon the beefy dudes just gave up.

Now, I do love cheeseburger, but I have yet to see any AARP aged women throw themselves at them as if they were at a Bon Jovi concert. Was it the Colt? Or the crushing guitars and pounding drums?

I’d like to think it was the latter. Hopefully the next party Cheeseberger plays will be Colt free. I’d hate for everyone to think they were having fun just because they were really fucked up. In fact, I challenge Cheeseburger to play an aclohol free joint for their next gig. I guarantee everyone will have just as much fun. Cheeseburger is sonic crack – a raging party in every song. And just maybe you’ll get some purple jellybeans.