Miss Mish Mash

When you read those tame, overly-PC advice columns that suggest, "Perhaps you should start anew," after someone complains of their mate repeatedly smashing their head against a wall, it makes you long for the old-timers. Old timers would tell you to get out a gun and a shovel and "TCB" - Elvis talk for "taking care of business."

I know an old-timer shoved into the body of a feisty young redhead named "DK" that lives in Venice Beach, and she doles out sound advice on...well, sound. She's a music advice columnist and gives inspiration to those made to feel helpless by the lack of variety on radio and MTV. In this day and age where playlists are bought on corporate radio stations, she scours Los Angeles and beyond for good music, recommending bands, concerts and albums for those needing a good kick. And kick she does. That's what makes her an old-timer. She doesn't pander to musicians and has no qualms about calling them poseurs, hideous or even someone she'd like to cover in whipped cream and lick all over. Like Jeff Buckley, even posthumously.

She turned me on to Jenny Lewis, and I will be forever thankful.

Check her out on Mishmash!

The Emperor's New Show

A friend called recently to ask if I'd like to make a couple of extra bucks. He was having a hard time hustling a group of people to be "fake audience members." Now, I know what a real audience member is. They're extras who get paid $75 to sit through mediocre daytime talk shows. They are cued to burst into applause when hosts say things like, "At first I thought it was just a mole, but then I learned melanoma detection!" An audience member's job is to convince America, "If I can sit through this, so can you!!"

But a fake audience member?

In short, I had to go to The Grove (an outdoor mall made to look like a quaint village) and pretend to be a shopper who just so happened to run into a publicity stunt for an upcoming T.V. show. I was expected to quiver with anticipation because my enthusiasm had to draw in crowds. The execs were so intent on bringing hype to the poorly-advertised sitcom, that they didn't consider it was yet unknown and was cast with no-name actors. That is, except for the gentleman whom I will refer to as, "I-married-a-model/actress-oh-who-am-I-kidding?-she's-a-model" guy.

So there I stood, shopping bag in hand. I bump into a velvet rope. "Oh, what's this?" I said aloud. I then looked up to see a cluster of tiny men and women sweating through a relay race. The press snapped photos patiently as the heavily-powdered cast members had their every move tracked by a comedian. But each and every one of the cast members were completely useless and inconsequential to the gathering group of onlookers, save for the "I-married-a-model/actress-oh-who-am-I-kidding?-she's-a-model" guy.

But I had a job to do. I gasped and whooped from my measly civilian post across the velvet rope. I looked around to ensure I was making good on my word and drawing in a crowd. But as I looked around, I realized they weren't focused on the publicity stunt. All eyes were on me, the overly-hyper shopper screaming for no apparent reason.

In a town where everyone is hustling hype, we have got to get a little more sophisticated.

Pho Shizzle

Back East, the city streets swarmed with Europeans. They always wore scarves and gestured with their hands. In California many of our transplants are Asian, since the Far East is across the pond. Unlike the Europeans, many Asians open restaurants upon settling in. And thank God because let's face it, aside from French cuisine, European food is mediocre. Boiled chicken and potatoes? No wonder the Irish drink.

L.A.'s landscape is dotted with top-notch dim sum joints and Thai bistros. But nothing is as good, and unfortunately obscure, as pho (pronounced "fuh"). My addiction to the steaming bowl of Vietnamese soup borders obsessive compulsive. Back East I had to drive out to a traffic-ridden Vietnamese neighborhood and sit cafeteria style under fluorescent lighting, shoulder-to-shoulder with a grouchy, elderly matriarch who didn't understand why I was there.

In Los Angeles however, pho is celebrated and so is the funny name. Indeed, pho sounds like the "f" word minus the "k." What the Pho in Koreatown is frequented by both families and thug wannabes in high school. Absolutely Phobulous caters to gay West Hollywood and sophisticated foodies in the hills, and Pho Sho serves the Culver City studio crowd. New restaurants are popping up everywhere, and finally I can have my own table, upgrade to track lighting and still enjoy the lemony, spicy, basil-filled noodle soup.

It's only a matter of time until we see a Viet-Italian fusion bistro called, "Phoggetaboutit."

Better Than The Best of L.A. Weekly

LA Weekly's "Best of" issue was unleashed last weekend - an event I look forward to every year. I devour page after page with a hot cup of coffee and a pair of scissors. When I first moved here from the East Coast, I clung to the "Best of" issue to try and pick up the vibe of Los Angeles. The following two years I studied each entry and wrote down addresses, determined to make myself like this place. These days, I use it to explore and uncover. And now that I know this town, I can see where the entries are lacking.

For instance, the "Best View from Money" piece urges people to see the Los Angeles skyline from a spot in the swanky hills of La Canada. But the price of gas combined with an addiction to T.V. can hardly pull people off the couch these days. Make it worth the trip and stop at DISH on Foothill Boulevard in La Canada. Inside there are roaring fireplaces, hardwood floors and gorgeous vintage woodwork. When you settle into the dining room, look up at the old bones, painted white and looking like a Hamptons throwback. And the food - oh, the food. The juicy hangar steaks, crisp salads topped with goat cheese and fresh sliced fruit, the tangy apple chutney on sizzling pork chops and the warm chocolate bread pudding a la mode are to die for.
Everything is painstakingly homemade and the warmth exuding from the place stays with you as you drive downhill, back to the smoggy, congested flatlands.

Some Angelenos may fear dining more than six miles off the Sunset strip, as it may disrupt their carefully-crafted idea of cool. Allow me to draw some comparisons. On the strip, girls who have come to the sad realization that they'll never be smart enough to be rich on their own, (or not smart enough to realize they can), squeeze their wares into shiny tube tops and haunt the bars looking for people with money. For those who have seen the rolling green estates of La Canada, you would know that the place is moneyed, and not peppered with UCLA frat boys. The men at DISH go for Hefewiesen, not Heineken, and nobody would ever yell the formidable, "Whooh!"

On Sunset, people gain a slight sense of achievement looking down at the glittering lights of Los Angeles from the heights of the strip. Especially when gripping an overpriced cocktail after standing in line for an hour to get in. The view from La Canada? Higher. We're talking a few exits away from the Mt. Wilson Observatory, which makes Griffith Park look like a high school planetarium. Here's their link: http://www.dishbreakfastlunchanddinner.com/

I'm inspired now, and feel morally obligated to do my own "Best of" blogs when the event arises. In the meantime, put down the remote, get in your car and start exploring. Here's LA Weekly's link: http://www.laweekly.com/bestOf