Food find (budget edition): Osteria Mozza, Nobu West Hollywood, Rice + Beans

Here are things that people do during a recession: save their money, eat at home, NOT go out to expensive dinners. Here are things people like me do: ignore the recession, buy new boots, eat dinner at Osteria Mozza, the famed Batali restaurant (an offshoot of the next door Mozza Pizzeria).

My friend and I visited there last week, despite their reputation for a month long wait for reservations. Apparently the recession has hit Batali's business as well, as we waited only 20 minutes for a table. Each of us ordered the Pomodoro Gnocchi. Let me translate this for those of you who might visit as well: child's size portion. Now, I understand that nicer restaurants focus on the quality and presentation of their food over heaping portions. But in economic times like these, I prefer the increased portion sizes of chain outlets like Pizza Hut--currently touting their Panormous pie, the 'BIGGEST pan pizza ever' to servings that should come with a microscope. Lesson learned, I'll take processed cheese over fresh burrata until my 401 k comes back to life.

Speaking of eating on a budget, I recently read about Nobu West Hollywood's 'Recovery Menu.' Though I'm not a seafood eater, I thought I'd share what sounds like a decent deal with you.

Score Nobu staples inlcuding rock shrimp tempura and the miso cod at a [relatively] decent price (most items are under 10 bucks), along with [relatively] reduced-price cocktails.

As for me, I'll be sticking with rice and beans for the next month or so. May I recommend my favorite: Zatarain's Red Beans and Rice. It may not be 5 star, but it's less than 5 dollars.

Multiple reasons to hate the mall. At the holidays and all year round.

The mall, more specifically the Beverly Center, is pretty bad on a daily basis. Amongst the reasons I'm not a fan:

The headless mannequins (pictured left).

The more 'mature' ladies in the shoe department shopping for inappropriately high heels. Parading around in mini skirts and asking their friends, 'do these look alright on me?' Well no, deary, they don't! Perhaps we'd all be better off if you'd visit the orthopedic shoe store on level one and ask your tailor to add 10 inches back to that skirt.

The couples who hold hands on the escalators making it impossible to pass by.

And the countless employees in the department stores asking if I'd like to 'try the best cologne in the world.' No, I've already stocked up on my Jessica Simpson scent for 2009, thank you.

But during the holidays, the place becomes--simply put--unbearable. I entered the Beverly Center yesterday to find this picture of holiday unholiness (pictured left) outside of Macy's. That's right. One of Santa's stilettoed sluts wearing next to nothing chatting up little children. Imagine--this little boy will grow up to think it's ok to sit in a nearly naked lady's lap and ask her for 'presents.' Would you let your child talk with this lady? (If the answer is yes, it's probably best not to tell me.)

Worst of all, a young lady had a baby chihuahua on the floor of the crowded mall. A. You are not supposed to have young puppies out and about. B. If something's smaller than a purse and not attached to a body, I may just step on it. C. She let it pee on the floor! Seriously!? Just because it's cute, doesn't mean I want to step in it's urine while I'm on my way to Bloomingdale's.

Looking for a more tolerable shopping experience this holiday season? I suggest taking the trip to the Brentwood Country Mart. It's quaint, it's outdoors and it smells like the Amish Country. And rich people. And most impressively, it's got Los Angeles' only City Bakery, serving the best hot chocolate there is.



Best of luck on your shopping experiences this December.

Holiday cheers,
Jessie

We Like to Party: We went Doooowntoooown.

Cult classic Little Shop of Horrors got it right when they described downtown...

Downtown...Where the folks are broke.
Downtown...Where your life's a joke.
Downtown...When you buy your token,
you go...Home to skid row.

And here in Los Angeles, downtown still fits this description better than the downtown area of any other city I've visited.

Efforts to revitalize the area, made by neighborhood councils, development companies, and local businesses include frequent events meant to make downtown's new and desirable residents feel like there is indeed a community there--that they are not alone in their expensive lofts. That despite the remaining missions and shopping cart communities, the lack of schools or health facilities, the absence of all but one supermarket, they live in a vibrant, artistic, thriving neighborhood. On weekends like this past one, you almost believe they hype.

In honor of 'Repeal Day'--this year the 75th marker since the end of prohibition--Dewar's celebrated all around Downtown, a neighborhood where the brand has really made its mark. We attended the private party held by Dewar's at Seven Grand, Downtown nightlife empasario, Sed Moses' whisky bar. Complimentary hats, boas, whisky (courtesy of Dewar's), food (courtesy of Casey's Irish Pub), music (courtesy of DJ Daisy O and Foreign Born and others), and comedy was served.

Fun fact: Whisky can apparently be spelled 2 ways. I always assumed it was spelled with an 'e,' as in whiskey. On Friday, I noticed that all of Dewar's collateral spells it without the 'e,' as in whisky. In an effort to be open-minded, I've begun spelling it the latter way.

Not so fun fact: Apparently Irish food consists of very little vegetarian fare, as I discovered on Friday night when even the vegetables were wrapped in meat. Hence, my leaving early, before the fun was finished.

Last night, we travelled downtown again for the Old Bank District's holiday block party. Hosted by Gilmore Associates, the development company that essentially owns the entire district and Little Radio, the downtown music and party staple, the evening was a coming together of the restaurants, arts community and musical curators of the area. A light installation, pictured left added a festive feel to the streets.

Take a look closer and notice the parking restrictions that make having a car in Downtown such a pleasure. I guess this would be the optimum moment to plug the DASH. But seeing as I've never rode public transportation in LA, that would make me feel like a big, fat liar.

We popped into Bar 107, where I discovered for the first time, the incredibly kitschy and fun back room, complete with a van door-framed bar.

We stopped into one of the local gallery spaces where a cigarette-girl type accompanied one of the pieces. She was selling $10 chocolate bars, promising that one of the bars contained a 'golden ticket' that would win me the entire installation. The installation was comprised of a grafitied wall, cardboard boxes and, well, her. Ah, downtown arts.

Leaving the well-lit streets of the Old Bank District we headed further East into the less-developed Industrial District where architecture students and hobos still reign supreme. On a little block of 3rd Street, a few businesses have popped up, adding a glimmer of commercialism and tasty eats to an otherwise bleak area.

Upon leaving our darling friend Jackie's birthday party at Blue Dahlia Cafe, we encountered a homeless man pissing on the corner of a parked Prius. This is the downtown LA's known for years. This is the downtown LA that is being hidden behind street fests and sushi restaurants. Hey, if I were a bum that had been bussed here only to have a luxury loft condo built on my block a decade later...I might piss on your hybrid too.

Photo credits: Doo-wop girls - Little Shop of Horrors, Photos 2, 3, 4, 5 - Jessie B. R.

Food find: Auntie Em's Kitchen.

You may remember my Thanksgiving meal from last week (oh come now--I know you're an avid reader of the blog). We'd catered it from Auntie Em's Kitchen, the quaint little eatery in Eagle Rock. If you never venture further than 3rd Street for breakfast, let me fill you in--there are indeed eggs available way over by Glendale--it's true.

So, we drive for what seems like a good eternity through snow, sleet, and rain...oh, shit...wrong story...so we travel for like 25 minutes, past the area I so fondly refer to as 'Little Mexico,' past Silverlake (another area some of you may fancy for it's overwhelming 3 breakfast spots) , and into Eagle Rock. The Rock (if I lived here this is surely what I would call this neighborhood) is still relatively undeveloped compared to its neighboring hipster meccas, save the All Star Lanes, where I believe that you might really be able to contract diptheria through a drink at the bar, and the new Fresh & Easy, which is clearly too fresh, easy and or clean for the residents of The Rock--many of whom look as though they'd rather shop at the modern day, rockabilly cum lumberjack's country mart--for the lot was near empty.

Anyway, we did finally arrive to the restaurant famous for their red velvet cupcakes and bakery case filled with oozing deliciousness.

The food: My breakfast special, the 'Almost-Tuscan Scramble,' was almost-bland as boiled potatoes, but was saved by the side of what I think may have been electrifyingly [and perhaps scarily] green pesto. Be warned, the bottle, so handily labeled 'ketchup' on our table had a kick (maybe chipotle?). Something they may have thought to mention if they were going to go so far as to label their condiments. Ketchup is ketchup damnit. And I would have liked some for my g d eggs.

Also of note, the coffee is 'self-serve'--a situation that could be fairly annoying if your table was far enough away and you are a big-enough coffee drinker.

The service: Once we were finally able to grab a server's attention, the food came out super-quickly. Our waitress was nice enough, though she seemed to hide a special brand of 'specialness' behind her platinum bob and dark, thick-rimmed glasses. The 'specialness' of the staff may account for the customers having to get their own coffee.

The verdict: All in all, I'd give this joint a big So-So and a definite I'd Go Back There Again.*

* Scale of ratings may, and will, change at the blogger's discretion and the relation of Earth to Mars.

Photo Credit: Auntie Em's (Note: the actual food did not look quite as pretty as this pic from their website)

Bill Cunningham. 79. And still talking about fringe boots.

Amongst those I would not trust to provide me with accurate fashion news, would be Mr. Rogers, Dick Cheney and this man:

But apparently Bill Cunningham, the 79 year-old New York Times Photographer, is still at it and still spotting style trends on the streets of New York.

Like this week's engaging (albeit slooooow) video segment on boots. Those 2 minutes and 57 seconds may seem like an hour as you listen to Bill talk about fringed and 'ivory,' or 'eggshell' colored Chanel boots as if he's got all the time in the world. But he certainly does know more than many of NY and LA's new 'fashion' editors. So props to Bill. Still out there. On the street.

Image: NY Times

Google game - Rich Things.

Over the last 2 days, I have heard about even more people in my circle of industry friends getting laid off. Yesterday I even walked in on 2 colleagues packing files, removing personal affects off the walls, and being watched by eagle-eyed HR folks who stood in the corner as they stowed their hard work and years of dedication into brown cardboard boxes.

I am sad for my buddies, am shocked that the companies who've let them go don't know their worth, but am even more frightened by an economy so drastically recessed that it's driving businesses to cut out the very assets that make them tick. It must be bad when you cut off your nose to spite your face...or is it the hand that feeds you...you see my point, I'm sure.

So, to cheer myself up, I turned to a little inspiration from Google. I entered rich things into the search bar to see what would pop up in Images--I thought that perhaps I'd find a picture to illustrate the more important 'rich things' in life--perhaps a mother hugging her child? A field of lush growth? You know, the things I can hope to attain if I too lose my job and have only grain rice left to eat.

Instead, amongst images of Hillary Duff in tight jeans and rappers in front of customized SUVs, the only thing to catch my eye was the above grill, bedazzled into the mouth of a male who appears not only to have bad taste but also terribly sparse facial hair.

And this fine specimen to the left. I suppose I can figure out how such a--well, large--item might be considered a 'rich thing.' But I was not nearly curious enough to unearth the picture's context in the article. I'll leave that to you, my reader, to whom I wish the richest things and finest weekends.

xo * Jessie

Naomi Campbell. Nightmare. Guest of honor.

Apparently Art Photo Expo Miami, one small fraction of the events happening during Art Basel Miami Beach, made a splash last night with the opening of a retrospective of Naomi Campbell--the grand diva herself attending as guest of honor. Now, is it just me, or are the multiple photographers who have shot her, made art of her, and put up with her crazy f-ing antics over the years, the ones who deserve the honor?

Photo Credit - Seb Janiak, c/o The New York Times

Spiritual awakening.

I woke up at 6:15 am today to attend a 7:15 workout class. In the haze of early morning I noticed, for the first time, the convent down the street from my studio. At just 7 am, the nuns were already outside, eating breakfast, decked out in their usual attire--and I had to wonder at their dedication to something so enigmatic. I spend nearly every day wondering how to find fulfillment--is is through corporate ladder climbing, relationship building, miniature crafting? While these ladies have chosen an invisible, unproven cause to give their lives to. And to me, I can't help thinking that they've chosen a cop-out. To select an entity so elusive, and yet so widely respected that no one will counter your choice, and then to spend your life--not seeking personal joy or facing your morality--but instead worshiping, seems like (perhaps?) the easy path.

And apparently, there are others out there who are in agreement. In time for Christmas, the American Humanist Organization spent $40,000 on an ad campaign stating 'Why believe in God? Just be good, for goodness sake.' Many of are 'good' because the bible threatens us with eternal damnation if we sleep with our sister's husband or eat the banana before we reach the supermarket check-out (not that I've done this. ever.). But being good just because it's the right thing to do, not because we fear a long and hot afterlife--now that is holy.

Trendcentral recently picked up on the theme of questioning God and religion. It's a recurring debate now amongst young (and old) theorists, laymen and spiritualists. And one worth us all engaging in.

Photo Credits: Bus Ad - American Humanist Organization

I graduated from Wesleyan University. Shouldn't I be smarter?

Last night I went to a reception for my alma mater, Wesleyan University. The reception, meant to part alumnae with their money--supposedly earned in plenitude since graduation--made me realize just how little I'm making in relation to former classmates, who've opted for more lucrative careers as agents, filmmakers, financial planners, prostitutes, etc. The entire evening reminded me of my college years--how long it took me to realize that though my friends would party til all hours, they were actually spending their days in the library, bettering themselves and earning A's. That while Wesleyan students gave the illusion of being crazier than a pack of rabid wolves, they were actually rather bright and committed to their work. That I was the near the only one who was doing the nighttime rounds but taking off the days too.

And now in adulthood, I'm realizing that my peers have duped me once again. All four years of protesting commercialism and 'the man' were quickly traded for high-paying jobs and suits in the real world. So, while I've been thinking that 'no, money doesn't matter!,' it's the 'integrity' of what I'm doing that really makes the difference, I've been fiscally surpassed by nearly everyone I graduated with, and probably those who came after me as well.

It seems the only thing to do is to ask the University for reimbursement of funds lost while I was holding on the the supposed ideals of the institution. That and for a refresher course in harsh reality.

Mountains: check. Beach: check. Nightlife: umm...

In my old age (yes, the 20s have been rough), I've tired of LA's nightlife scene. In NY, if we didn't like a place, we'd hop in a cab and be to our next opportunity for fun just ten minutes and probably less than $15 later. Here in LA, one bad stop means another 20 minutes of driving, another valet, and most likely another room of badly dressed plastic surgery experiments. (I quote a dear Israeli friend who was in town from NY a few weeks after we ate at Beso: "why are they all strippers who go out here?")

On Saturday night, I was suckered in to what seemed like a promising proposition to venture out. Janelle Monae was performing a free show at the grand opening of Dakota Lounge (formerly Temple Bar) in Santa Monica. My lovely friend DJ Lady Sha was throwing the bash and she was fabulous as always. But did I mention that this joint was in Santa Monica? Much as I wanted to enjoy myself, a Santa Monica crowd is a Santa Monica crowd is not for me. (The one exception to this rule being the folks at Bar Chloe, run by one of my fave nightlife ladies Laurie Mulstay.)

We thought we might have better luck at Bardot, where my buddies throw Hi Fi every Saturday night. The music was great, the crowd just fine. But I'd really like to know when waitresses were given permission to start chewing gum in your face and getting your order wrong? Last time I checked shrimp does not constitute vegetarian fare. And short shorts and long legs do not forgive bad service. If I am ever to open a place, I vow to hire college graduates, even if they've got some cellulite and don't have their pout nailed down yet.

Hoping next weekend treats me better. Oh yeah--it will--cause I'll most likely be staying in and watching online TV!

Photo Credits: Janelle Monae - MySpace, Bardot - Metromix LA

Christmas kills.

Yesterday, a Walmart employee was trampled to death at the start of Black Friday. Further proof that people have more regard for personal gain than for for humanity, that Christmas is dangerous, and that I should never move back to Long Island.

Source: NY Times

Heaven is a can of pop.

16 oz. Diet Coke cans. They've been on the market now for a couple of months but seem to arrive in stores just to taunt me with their disappearance weeks later. Today, I hit the jackpot in a Silverlake liquor store. I've stocked up. Apparently, the cans are a limited time test run for the brand. I am hoping the company's product development team comes to its senses and makes it a permanent staple in the Diet Coke collection. Addicts like me everywhere are crossing our fingers and counting our remaining supply.

Giving thanks for yesterday's carb count.

Thanksigving 2.0 proved, on almost all counts, a success. The morning's turnout to Gobble Gobble Give was astounding. I'm pretty certain that every hipster in a 15 mile radius of The Echo turned out to pack, pass and send out hundreds of packaged meals to LA's homeless. Note for next year: rolls and pie do not a Thanksgiving meal make people. By the end of the day, we'd run out of turkey and were sending out whole pies in the stead of meals. But a pumpkin pie is better than nothing to eat. And I left inspired by the community's come-togetherness. And especially impressed by my very own DJ Scott T. Sterling's 2 hour set which had volunteers shaking their tail as they doled stuffing and pie out.

The rest of the day was equally satisfactory.

The centerpiece turned out...well, it turned out alright. A little gliterry for the occasion, perhaps. But now we've just got a headstart on decorating for Christmas...

Scott and I made a pumpkin pie. Because the one pie we'd already purchased, simply put, needed a pal. And because no Thanksgiving would be complete without pumpkin products...

We snacked on brie and my all time fave cheese, Cave-Aged Gruyere...

Heating up the dinner from Auntie Em's, picked up the day before, was quite the production for me and had me baffled more than a couple of times--further proof that I should never, ever attempt to actually create an entire meal from scratch. It also could probably have fed 4 people...

As you'll see by the amount of food leftover, which looks nearly identical to the amount of food which we started with...

Next year, perhaps we'll opt for a dinner out. Either that or the purchase of a stomach pump.

Til the next holiday. When we'll do it all over again...

A centerpiece for Thanksgiving.

For the last 26 years, I've anticipated Thanksgiving (and most major holidays) with a sense of agitation and annoyance. I likely had to choose between family members' dinners. And once I made my choice, I would usually come to regret it for some reason or another--generally to do with either a family fight or questionable culinary offerings. This year, however, I received no invitation anywhere and for the first time I was saddened that I wouldn't get a chance to spend an uncomfortable evening with family.

But times change and holiday meals must change with them. As neither my boyfriend nor I wanted to forsake the holiday, we decided to create Thanksgiving 2.0--our way (catered), our guests (he. and I.), our style (still figuring this one out, but most likely it will be drunk, messy and fast).

Once we decided on Auntie Em's Kitchen to provide the edibles, the only thing left to do was sort out decor. Yes, that's right--decor. Just cause it's just the two of us don't mean this party's not a party.

Having spent most of the holiday budget on ordering dinner (and knowing I'll need to save some for the several bottles of wine it will take me to forget that we're actually catering dinner) I turned to the closest 99 Cent Only store for some festive touches. I expected to walk in and find pumpkins and turkey mobiles and pilgrim figurines at my disposal which I would magically, in Martha Stewart style, fashion into some sort of masterful centerpiece. But I am no Martha Stewart. And this was the 99 Cent Only store's excuse for a holiday display.

Realizing that I might need to get creative, I took a trip through the rest of the store. Turkey bags and plastic Halloween pumpkins aside, the pickings were slim. I did manage to scoop up some fall-colored candles, a couple of shiny objects that I figure I can do something with, a glittered reindeer (so, I'm on the wrong holiday--like I said, the pickings were slim) and a ceramic bird that I think may be a turkey (and if it's a chicken, so what?).

The decorations will be mismatched, the food may be from someone else's family kitchen and I may be too drunk at the end to stop myself from eating the last of the pie, but I'll be celebrating Thanksgiving alright--pumpkin pie, pilgrim abuse of the Indians, and all.

Thank you Daily Candy for the burning in my thighs.

There are few of us ladies residing in major metropolises that don't subscribe to Daily Candy, even if the editorial has gotten too bombastic for its own good. However, those of us who are savvy know better than to take too much stock in the daily newsletter's reviews. If we're in the know, than we've likely already heard of the new restaurant/boutique/sample sale its touting. If, by chance, the editors suggest something fab and unique, it will have been made common by by the time you get to the store after hundreds of other girls before you. And if the DC writers actually get the scoop on a new gem before word's out, it's often before the gem itself is ready for business. (I'm sure others out there were duped when Daily Candy told us about Mode Restaurant, the restaurant that would 'stay open around the clock' but never actually opened its doors at all--a fact I learned only after paying $10 for parking to find the eatery dark. Or remember when The Waffle was reviewed just days after opening, after impoloring DC not to run the item, and faced a rush of eager readers wanting items that were'nt yet stocked and service that hadn't yet been ironed out.)

So, after years of faithful Daily Candy reading, despite my sometimes bitter disappointment in its coverage, I was finally rewarded with an item I couldn't have been more pleased to discover--Pop Physique, an East side sculpting studio that I have, since reading about, fallen just a little bit in love with. Yes, the studio's logo and website design is a play on the American Apparel motif. And yes, the irony is sort of twisted when the studio is located in the heart of Silverlake which is nothing if not American Apparel hipster central, making me unsure if the girls in leotards and bleached hair is not supposed to be ironic at all. But still, design follies aside, I'm glad I allowed Daily Candy to direct me to the only healthy thing I've done for myself since I gave up heroin and crack cocaine. Kidding, kidding. Cause really--nothing feels better than a burning in your thighs while a rubber ball's placed squarely between your [you know what].

The new Gmail: a party in my inbox.

Opening up my email generally consists of weeding through bills, bank statements (that show how little I am worth after said bills), and daily inspirational messages I have opted to receive from various spiritual and religious groups for kicks.

Today, upon logging into my gmail account, I discovered a new template. New things tend to bother me, especially when they're dropped into my life without warning, without a request. But after fiddling around for a moment with the colors and themes, I've realized I rather like the new and colorful gmail interface. It's like a party in my inbox. Check out this adventurous ninja theme I decided to try out...


Little Samurai Sams that seem to say 'hey! email can be fun! just look at how I make this Wells Fargo overdraft notice look exciting and new.'

Of course, now that I've had enough of the ninja nonsense, I can't seem to find the template options again. But I trust, I'll happen upon it by accident again before I'm driven to register for a yahoo account.

Anti-WORD of the Day

Today's Anti-Word of the Day is: brainstorm.

This word should never have been mainstreamed. There's just no proper way to envision a brain storming. I refuse to engage.

Los Angeles in flames.

Los Angeles County has been on fire since some time yesterday or the day before. Yesterday the news of wildfires seemed unimportant as the fires were contained to a region near Santa Barbara which, since I've never been there, seems especially far away. By this morning, the fires had spread to areas I've heard of, have even been to. But still, from what I could tell from the radio coverage, these people knew what they were in for--lived in areas prone to dryness and fire when the yearly Santa Ana winds come through. Tonight, however, I can smell the fire through the open windows in my studio apartment here in Koreatown. In this small space, the smell seeps in and, with nowhere to circulate to, grows sour--like a mix of fire and barbeque and pot smoke. I take a walk outside, figuring I might see the streets ablaze. But people are out per usual. It's Saturday night and no one seems to notice that the air is heavy and smells like ash. Young twenty somethings are out at Le Cercle Super Club, taking advantage of the warm weather by wearing next to nothing. I can smell the cigarette smoke as I walk by and I wonder if they realize they could ignite a Koreatown fire with the next butt tossed carelessly to the sidewalk. I'm scared that, if I fall asleep, I might wake to flames outside my window. I contemplate loading my important documents and belongings--organized for just such an occasion--into the car in case we're encouraged to evacuate. But one can't let these things get to her if she's to live in Los Angeles. If it's not a fire, it's an earthquake. If it's not an earthquake, it's a corrupt police force and pricey plastic surgeons. Those of us who come to live here, come knowing full well what the risks are. And so, knowing that I can probably pack my car in 15 minutes flat with my few posessions and pieces of art and nostalgia, I resolve to calm down, maybe have a glass of wine to fall asleep, and hope the winds have calmed by morning.

For full fire coverage, visit The LA Times

Stand up against Prop 8. Stand for Love.

Since the morning of November 5th when I learned that California's Prop 8 had been approved, I've been seething. I've been incredulous. I've been wanting to say something to the many who voted in its favor, voting against the rights of an entire segment of the population. But I was unsure of how to send a message to those whose position stems from faith--in something they think they understand from the bible and in what a small number of bishops tell them. Well, MSNBC's Keith Olberman has said it for me...

Do Good: No plans for Thanksgiving? Now you've got 'em. We're volunteering.

So, you're stuck in LA for Thanksgiving? Sucks to be you. But it sucks a lot more to be homeless. Or food-less. Or just really, really worse than you think you are because you can't afford a plane ticket out of here. I'm hoping that realizing you're not that bad off even though you had to sell your last bit of Prada on ebay last week inspires you to volunteer with me this Thanksgiving Day at Gobble Gobble Give. We'll be hanging at your favorite spot for Indie tunes, The Echo, and getting food together for peeps who need it. Even more than you.

Want to sign up to volunteer? CLICK HERE.

Interested in donating either supplies (clothes, toiletries, day-of cooking necessities) or money? CLICK HERE. (And remember, just $5 or $10 can go a long way.)

Do you work for a company that might have product (shirts, food, etc) to donate? Email me at theartisticgroup@gmail.com.

I'll be there. You should be too. Looking forward to seeing many of you on T Day.

Flaming Hot Cardboard...Baked!

Just cause something's got an exclamation point in it, doesn't make it good. Case in point--Baked(!) Flaming Hot Cheetos. They were not good the first time I bought them from the office cafeteria. But they were novel. They were not good the second time I bought them. But I was hungry. Today, after I actually sought them out in every vending machine in the building, they were just foul. An exclamation point does not equate flavor, nor does the boatload of inedible 'Hot' in the ingredient list. Oh, Frito Lay, how you've disappointed my snack hour.

It's always sunny when you're Van Morrison.

Last night, on an unusually warm night at the Bowl, Van Morrison took the stage, donning a pair of dark sunglasses he would not remove for the entirety of his show. He performed--first, a set of Greatest Hits (Brown Eyed Girls drew hoots and hollers) and later, the complete set of Astral Weeks--before an enthused, though not completely full, crowd. Save a militant-type move he fancied with his right arm, Van's performance was cool, calm and one might say, un-emotional. Toward the end of his last song, he exited, calculatedly re-entered and then, finally, exited again. A wave of audience members rose to cheer and clap and shout encore. And they did so for near 10 minutes, expecting their rock idol to give them what they wanted--another song, a brief rendition of Moondance, a few more notes at his personzlized, logo-ed mic stand. But nothing. Van Morrison was likely piling into his car already--cool, calm, seemingly unattached to his adoring fans, and, probably, still wearing his dark shades. Van, The Man, The Machine.

On another note, sightings at the Bowl included Justin Long and Jonah Hill together and excitedly greeting friends. Jonah--this is probably, no definitely, the 4th time I've seen you this month. Are you following me? Also spotted...we think...was Fran Drescher heading toward the ladies loo. Cause everyone's got to go. After all, stars--they're just like us.

Photo Credit: Van Morrison, Hollywood Bowl
Photo Credit: Jonah Hill and Justin Long in 'Accepted', Universal Pictures

As the race draws to a close...

The current map on the homepage of NYTimes.com, as we approach the 7 o'clock hour is frighteningly red. Barack Obama is winning the race, but not by the sweeping lead you would have thought he had guaranteed to him if you live in California, or New York or a state where people are led by their hearts and not by bibles.

Last night, I volunteered at the shelter near my home and the young children, all under 10 years old, of all races--they all told me that they would be 'voting' for Obama today. When I asked one why, he let me know that Obama would 'be the first president.' Well, not really. But not so far from the truth. It is a shame that these children are not voting today--we would all benefit from their innocence and their hopefulness.

Elephants and effigies.

Halloween is over and beside relief at its end, I'm left with just a few thoughts.

1. People are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

2. Larry King is not as easy a costume to pull together as I'd suspected. Graying my hair and giving it the volume necessary to do proper justice to Larry's would have taken far too long. And suspenders; where does one even get suspenders?




3. Horrors are not reserved for just Halloween day. For example, today, Jehovah's Witnesses knocked on my door at 10:30 in the morning. And believe me, there is nothing more frightful to awaken to on a Saturday.

Halloween. Ghastly.

I've never understood the allure of Halloween.

Ghosts frighten me.










Costumes confuse me.

And often freak me the fuck out.

And feeding candy to children has always just seemed an irresponsible concept.








Though I can't get away with protesting the offensive tradition this year, as my job requires me to celebrate the holiday (I could sue, I imagine, for an affront against my secular beliefs), I plan to treat the day with as much dignity as possible. While in costume as Larry King.

Look out for pics of me as your favorite CNN Host. Next week on Los Angeles: a strange and unsober journey.

It's terrifying what lives between America's coasts.

With the campaign drawing near a close, each side's attacks gain momentum, fear and anticipation resounds in both parties and, apparently, the idiots of America are speaking out.



In this startling Al Jazeera footage of an Ohio rally for Sarah Palin, Palin supporters voice their concern about Barack Obama--their main issues, his blackness, his 'Muslim' standing and 9-11. Seriously? Has the American education system failed to reach those between New York and Los Angeles? Does mainstream media not broadcast in Ohio? Or, as I suspect, are these people just terrifyingly resistant to reality? I am horrified that these people live in the same country as me. No, actually, I'm pretty terrified that they live at all.

Happy Yom Kippur to my Chosen People pals.

To those of you who are home from work today fasting in honor of Yom Kippur, keep up the good work! By the end of the day, you'll be absolved of a full year of sins* while I'll still remain burdened by years and years of subpar behavior (and fatter for a full day of eating). And god only knows, I could stand for some repentance.

And to those of you who are struggling through the fast, I offer my friend Elana's advice - 'just think, what would an anorexic do.'

* I may be a little fuzzy on the details of the contract.

Obsessions. Michael Alig.

It takes a good deal to stimulate my interest [or at least to hold it for more than a moment if something shinier comes into view]. But when something grabs me--it fascinates me.

Michael Alig. Anyone who's seen Party Monster has a faint idea of the madness that overshadowed the New York club scene--long past Studio 54's heyday and well into the 90's when queens still reined king and freaks ruled the velvet ropes of NYC's hottest parties. But unless you lived through it [or at least passed by the parties, just beginning each night when the rest of New York was heading home to bed]--and I didn't--Clubland is mere fantasy, a period piece that happened just a decade ago, in full costume in the streets of Manhattan.

Michael Alig was a fixture in the chaos. A flamboyant, outrageous character who might have faded into obscurity--fighting and drugging his way through the downward spiral, mind you--had he not murdered his drug dealer, chopped him up, and later deposited the remains into the river.

Black Book's new columnist, Steve Lewis--another character from the club days--recently visited Michael to make amends and shared his visit's anecdotes.

I was engaged, but I realized the account to be lacking depth. I found New York Magazine's profile of Michael, also written after an encounter with the man in prison. It portrays a man, young and crazed and on top of the world--the character we judge but all wish to play--and his descent. It struck me. More, I think, because I wish he'd remained on top. He would've stayed such an idol for those of who desire to live our lives wrecklessly. But know better. And sometimes regret it.