tonight 4/28
the sights, ameoba (free)

friday 4/29
puffy amiyumi + aquabats, wiltern
pete escovedo, the center
gilby clarke + bang tango, malibu inn
tyrannosaurus sex, the smell

saturday 4/30
weezer + wilco + bauhaus + chemical bros + raveonettes + spoon + sage francis + rilo kiley + k-os + secret machines + the kills & others, coachella
willie nelson, greek
steve vai, wiltern
the bangles, vault 350
cher, hollywood bowl
warrant + great white, house of blues
michael penn, mccabes
grant lee phillips, largo

sunday 5/1
nine inch nails + new order + gang of four + arcade fire + dresden dolls + the prodigy + tegan n sara & others, coachella
eating alice, whisky

monday 5/2
bruce springsteen, pantages
crash davis, temple bar

tuesday 5/3
bruce springsteen, pantages
aimee mann, amoeba (free)
agnostic front, el rey
mudvayne, henry fonda

wednesday 5/4
strunz & farah, catalina
cake, royce hall
jill sobule, largo

cinco de mayo 5/5
mere mortals, the mint
cypress hill, vault 350
jedi mind tricks, knitting factory
black label society, house of blues
poncho sanches, conga room
malibu hillbillies, whisky
better than ezra, roxy

ive met a few fellow bloggers in real life and lots of times its nice to finally hang out with someone who ive read, but in the case of raymi and zulieka it was better than i could have ever imagined.

today z recounts the second time that we met, which also happened to be the day that she discovered that she was pregnant. at the time she was living in beverly hills and looking for work in hollywood.

I woke up that day with a headache and ate bananas and tylenol and went to the beach, then met Tony around two o’clock. I popped 6 or 7 tylenols total carried loosely in my pocket, and Tony must have thought I was a drug addict though he didn’t say anything. For lunch he took me to a restaurant named ironically Fred. Fred 62. I knew something was wrong with me when I couldn’t eat the food I had ordered.

Tony wanted give me an idea of L.A.’s grid so I drove around while he directed for the next four hours. I was starting to feel pretty sick by then, and he periodically asked me in which direction the Pacific Ocean lay to help me get my bearings but despite his pedagogical talents I wasn’t a quick learner. (If you ever DO land in Lalaland though, and you’re lucky enough to get his attention, Tony Pierce is THE best tour guide of this city he so unconditionally loves.)

We pulled over in Venice at a bar and I had two martinis and he had–I can’t remember, maybe a couple of rum and cokes–and I took more tylenol. He confessed that he was 116, and I said incredulously “Holy shit, I don’t believe it. You look about 23 to me.”

Then I thought I was hungry again so we went to a Mexican place and took the food back to his apartment. And again, I knew something was really off-kilter because I had this authentic chicken burrito and I couldn’t eat it. I stuck a fork in it and pulled the fork back out and inspected the tines but it didn’t make it to my mouth.

heres what i remember from that afternoon and evening: i had a great time, zulieka looked waaaay better than in our first meeting and now i realize it was probably because of that maternal glow that everyone always talks about, i didnt care that she kept saying outloud that she might be pregnant i just didnt want her to be drinking if she was, and i really didnt care that she didnt eat her burrito because i took care of that for her in the morn.

we’re all lucky that she has kept her blog going during this magical time in her life.

zulieka + porn happy + michèle changes my rules + wildbell

and even though it wasnt freaking her out last week it sure as hells freaking her out this week.

i kept saying its just a number. she kept saying i know i know but its a quarter century. century!

i was all i remember my first quarter century. it hit me like a ton of bricks, but fortunately i had good friends around me and a hot girlfriend who dressed slutty for me, and my old band even got back together on my behalf.

karisas family is coming out next week to party with her so last night she and i grabbed a few cocktails at the rustic on hillhurst one of our favorite bars.

besides the fact that a lot of our friends regularily drink there, its got lots of tvs to keep us up on current events, and a really good jukebox. but the best thing about it is even though its in allegedly hipstery los feliz all i saw in there were very normal people of all walks, including a table of drunken tshirt wearing coeds singing along to the areosmith that they put in the machine.

dream on.

dream until your dreams come true.

afterwards i was super hungry.

despite what you read on this blog, the chick situation isnt what it used to be.

in my glory days i had chicks who would take care of me three times a day. maybe i wrote better back then, who knows.

nowadays im lucky just to get a nibble. perhaps ive hit the wall.

so my body has all this unused energy and lord knows im not running or working out to get that energy out of me, so what my body has been doing im noticing is redirecting all of that locomotion into hunger and i eat man shit do i eat.

had some thai beef ribs the other day and i just tore them from the bone and cleaned it off real good, even dipped rice into the sauce and got every bite.

im eating cereal right out of the box. i’ll eat anything. at any time. right before i go to sleep i make some toast. i put butter on one slice and grape jelly on the other. i fall asleep with toast in my mouth and wake up with grit in my gums. now you know why the ladies flock to me.

so last night after drinking with karisa (one beer for her, two double baileys and a sam adams for me) we were driving through hollywood and i wanted a whole chicken. karisa was all you dont need a whole chicken tony but i wanted a whole chicken and i coulda sworn that zankou was open til 1am but it wasnt.

theres two things i would do if i was mayor of los angeles, and thank you to whoever nominated me for that position last week.

the first thing is i would revitalize westwood to its former glory of the past. theres no way in hell that there should be a friggin ghost town in the middle of all the wealth that surrounds the college town of ucla. here are the neighboring towns of westwood: beverly hills, bel air, brentwood, santa monica, and west la. how you can have a black hole right in the middle of all of it is just plain laziness.

even the cruddiness and piss-stained streets of hollywood blvd have more life in it and tourists handing over monies (some willingly) on it than the pathetic mess called westwood village. which has sunk so far down that it doesnt have a Tower Records any more or even a Gap. how can a village have a booming In-N-Out, a Best Buy, a Jerry’s Famous Deli, a Circuit City, a Bebe, several movie theatres that regularily host movie premieres, a campus next door of 50k students and staff, and not be able to support a Gap?

im not a huge fan of the store, but it’s the canary in the coal mine.

mayor pierce would fix all of that immediately. and it would start with two big time dance clubs like westwood used to have in the 80s.

then i would sprinkle the city with 24 hr chicken places because if we’re seriously going to be the 2nd biggest city in america the beautiful we should act like it and not roll up the sidewalks at 11:30 like a gaggle of pussy ass bitches.

superheroes being bad + nohealani + welch + dougie

i started to get really sad.

sad for lots of little reasons.

i focused on that sadness and thought of letters that i would write to people, and things that id say.

and i got home and i was still sad which is incredibly rare for me. when i was younger i could get a little depressed for an hour or two but hardly ever nowadays.

then i sat on my couch and i could feel myself getting better.

and then anna kournikova came over out of the blue on her scooter.

she parked it outside my white picket fence and ran to my door and knocked on it.

she said, my scooter’s running, i just had a little bit of marijuana on me and i wanted to give it to you because im about to go on a plane.

i said first of all im straight edge, i cant smoke this.

she said ah quit being a wuss, and another thing, youre not straight edge!

then i said, where are you flying to anyway?

she said, im flying to san diego to throw out the first pitch at the padre game on friday.

and then she lit the joint and inhaled, pulled my head towards hers and blew it into my mouth

completely against my will, your honor.

and then she ran to her idling scooter and scooted off.

and wouldnt you know it, but i feel like a zillion times better.

so yes, i think they should legalize that shit cuz it’s amazing.

and now im going to drink with karisa

in hollywood.

the city of everything

a crazy man’s cioppino.

and now you know why i dont blog when im sad.

today

i hate tuesdays. i hate wednesdays. i hate mondays. im screwed. tuesdays we have our weekly meetings. typically they tell us how much chopper one has cost the agency and i have to defend it by saying how much money it has brought in. but not everything is that clear cut.

if someone says theres something going down in the lbc and we need chopper one for cover and if we dont get anything out of it then am i to blame? every meeting i want to say, its a black helicopter, it cant be seen on radar. the surveillance and intimidation and backup are priceless. but i cant because then everyones feelings will get hurt and people will start fighting and when we start fighting at work the guns get pulled and sometimes so do the triggers.

needless to say id much rather be flying around than being in a meeting. theres money to be made outside. i know we need our meetings but they could be done during lunch on fridays and it wouldnt bite into moneymaking time and people would chill the fuck out.

hot as fuck this morning. i got off the subway at wilshire and western and there were i swear 40 kids lined up for tonights morrissey show. most the kids had chairs or stools or sleeping bags or something. theyd been out there on the filthy sidewalk since last night. these are kids too young to ever have seen morrissey sing with the smiths. blows my mind. and its hot. and the scum of the earth walk around that corner sparechanging like a bitch.

in the three years that ive been commuting past wilshire and western ive never seen anyone sleep out over night for a show there until today.

the marquee said morrissey five nights sold out.

i love morrissey because he goes against everything. he’s gay but he pretends hes “asexual”. he doesnt have any hit singles out, he doesnt have any hot videos out, he split ways with the perfect guitar player and he insults his fans (“You’re The One For Me, Fatty”) and he can sell out anywhere he wants.

proof that holding true to your true self and image blows doors over selling out to whatevers hip at the moment.

i dont see him doing duet records or unplugged records or full soundtracks or even reunion tours. fucker just keeps on keeping on.

i love him and i dont even know what his new record is called.

five sold out nights at the wiltern and i dont think anyone knows what his new record is called.

does he have a new record?

hot as fuck and last night at eleven they had team coverage to tell me that at 91 degrees there were records broken. and if tivo was smart they would allow me to constantly send feedback to the broadcasters via my thumbs up and thumbs down buttons cuz i woulda mashed that red thumbs down button for a good five minutes before i went over to hbo to see the sopranos that i missed on sunday, which kicked my ass. thankfully. wonderfully. thoroughly. beautifully.

but the best news this morning was that howard stern got his ratings for march and he was up in new york chicago and la. but in san diego where he was dropped by clear channel, the station’s morning numbers plummeted from a 20 to a 0.6 in the prime demo of 18-34.

house.hardys + phillustrations + buggy doo + sean bonner

cuz my carpal was bothering me and i didnt want the tempation of my computer. she lives next to a golf course in hollywood so this morning the freshly cut grass totally smelled like springtime.

i woke up earlier than i would have liked on account of the unfamiliar surroundings namely the barely there thin white curtains that dont keep the light out and dont keep the golfers’ eyes away from her cheerleader sillouhette as she stretches toplessly right before jumping on me.

shes cute but has a worse memory than i and forgot that i had a fresh stab wound on my back and nailed it pretty good causing me to yelp which of course caused one of the old geezers right outside our open window to miss-hit his tee shot.

so we laid there and she played with the random gray curleyques in my chest and she told me that i would make the best dad cuz i dont yell and im patient and im loving.

i started laughing and i said baby i dont yell cuz we dont live together. i dont yell cuz i barely see you and when i do its all uh uh uh and then zzzzzzzzzz, and as for being a dad if i was someones dad id advise them to be a suckup faker phoney and buy gay clothes and do your hair right and drive a beamer and the world will be your oyster.

she took my hand and placed it on her perfectly tanned ass which earlier i had searched hi and low to find a blemish – and had to hunt for quite a long time until i realized the only fault was my hand – and she said tony you dont do any of those things and the worlds your oyster and i said your ass my dear is not the world even though we both treat it as such.

it was so peaceful that all we could hear was a metal driver pinging a golfball and the gurgling sounds of the mr cofee in the kitchen.

isnt it nice to wake up like this she whispered

hinting ever so slightly to the idea that rising to the sophmoric jokes and xxx audio clips of mr howard stern, as i have done for years now, is somehow jarring and disturbing, and definately not the best sounds to hear first thing.

a long-standing minor battle that we often find ourselves in, and one reason why clippergirl and i dont sleep over at each others houses very much.

but alas, due to the carpal and howard being on vacation this week to celebrate passover i found myself in the feminine world of quiet elegance.

which of course called for a dutch oven

which oddly ms clippergirl had never experienced before

and when she accidentally squeezed my wound a second time i actually did scream and then paddled her as she squrimed in glee.

a morning mr ryan seacrest has never had

with a woman.

wil wheaton live tonight at 8pm + jay v + stereogum

That Sounds Exactly Like A Delusional
Self-Important Gossipy Blog Entry

by T.J. Simers, LA Times

April 27, 2005

We’ve now gone full circle in the Dodger clubhouse, from grumps such as Kevin Brown and Gary Sheffield, to fun-loving good guys such as Shawn Green, Paul Lo Duca, Adrian Beltre and Steve Finley, back to a bunch of grouchy mopes.

Hey, I’ve tried talking to Mr. Chuckles on several occasions, but let me tell you, for pure enjoyment I’d rather spend a day — make it Super Bowl Sunday — shopping with the wife than trying to make small talk with Jeff Kent.

Until Tuesday I had never seen J.D. Drew in the clubhouse. The guy is obviously a loner who goes into hiding before every game — hiding, I presume, from Mr. Chuckles.

“I’m watching TV,” Drew insisted, and I know if I had Milton Bradley on my team, sooner or later I’d be looking for Dr. Phil’s advice too.

There’s no question Derek Lowe is a chatty guy as long as you don’t mind listening to him talk about the Red Sox and Yankees all the time. You can just imagine the frightened look on Jeff Weaver’s face every time Lowe brings up the Yankees, or for that matter, the satisfied look on the Boston Parking Lot Attendant’s face every time Lowe mentions the Red Sox. At least Lowe knows who signs his checks, but I’d like to see the look on Lowe’s face when he tries to cash them.

Just a little joke, of course, although you won’t find any of these mopes laughing, which brings me to the return of Green.

If you spent any time following the Dodgers recently, you know Green is one of the nicest athletes to ever play here. He never took himself too seriously, which already separates him from Mr. Chuckles, and although he went hot and terribly cold at times, his second-half play last year helped put the team in the playoffs.

A few seasons ago Green was struggling, so I sat him down to talk hitting — Green playfully going along with the gag, and responding a few days later with two homers against Milwaukee. Two days after that he had four home runs, a double and a single in the same game to set a major league record for total bases.

Last season I walked the Choking Dogs all the way to the finish line, Green & Co. jokingly going along with it. Had the guys signed on earlier, of course, they might have won a World Series — you know, like the Los Angeles Angels.

“I hate to break it to you,” Mr. Chuckles said the other day, “but you have no impact on what goes on around here.”

He’ll learn, of course, but in the meantime I thought I’d teach Mr. Chuckles a lesson.

I told Green before Tuesday night’s game that I had traded Jeromy Burnitz to the Bagger in our fantasy league to acquire Green.

I then asked Green to hit a home run for me against the Dodgers. I even took him out to the field and pointed to where I’d like to see the ball land — just draw an imaginary line from home plate over Kent’s head and into the seats.

Green came to bat in the second inning, and hit a home run over Kent’s head into the seats in right field. When he got back to the dugout, Green looked up to the press box, and while laughing, gave me a thumbs up.

I waved. I just hope it didn’t distract Mr. Chuckles.

(Funny thing, but Green’s team won by one run too.)

zulieka only gets cuter as she gets more pregnant + penguin mafia + alert me when glenn mentions delay

not that long ago, thats the best part. ryan was funny, true, he had decent design, he had a few good things going on but i think even he would admit that it came across as what it was – something a dude in college did on the side when he wasnt beating off to american pie screen caps.

but recently the mask has evolved into a top shelf daily stop for those in the know.

even at his most crude, ryan perry has always had above average design and witty writing, but over the last six months the mask has hit a higher gear by trimming down on writing and bumping up the posts by picking the best links of each day.

this is a tricky segment of the blogosphere to compete in because there are several excellent blogs doing similar things with their own twists and speciaties: goldenfidle, gawker, low culture, pink is the new blog, stereogum, defamer, the superficial, and of course the granddaddy of them all fark

gorilla mask is my rss reader of all of the above. he plucks only the best fruits from the tallest and greenest trees and presents them to me along with spankable nude celebrity cameos nearly every day.

theres so much content on the main gorilla mask page that i have yet to find myself in need to visit his messageboards but one day i will be that bored. im sure. yes, one day.

which brings us to today. today the gmask made the announcement that we were all waiting for, the new Gorilla Mask Death Pool has opened its doors for the ryan perry year of 2005. like all good kings, rp doesnt acknowledge a year has begun until his birthday is celebrated, which means that the 2005 Death Pool wont start until next month, plenty of time to research which men and women you think will meet their maker over the next twelve months.

last year everyone picked pope john paul jr., myself included, and perhaps choosing scott weiland to meet his early demise was simply wishful thinking on my part, but i think i have an abe vigoda on my list right next to regis, andy rooney, and papa ratzi. ive found that it never hurts to have a pope on your death pool list, but what do i know, i never do well at these things.

anyway, much busblog love to the gorilla mask. if i ever had the inclination to change the design of this blog or to start a Lick for boys i would seriously consider ryan as the dude who designed it. either him or canadian rocker matthew good. or raymi.

excuse me now while i examine claudia schiffer in her natural enviornment of looking totally hot after all these years and not giving a fuck.

abe vigoda is alive + 1115 + riley dog