Crazy Hands Playing "Crazy"

Erin, a.k.a. Semiotician to the Stars, alerted me to this genius cover of Gnarls Barkley's hit "Crazy," as performed on a souped-up theremin. One day, I will be this good.

Via: VideoSift

I Scream for Ice Cream

There's nothing better to do in the summer than to wear a short flirty dress and eat ice cream. Thanks to my pal Erin, dessert maker Baskin-Robbins and designer Rory Beca, I had a cold slice of mint ice cream and chocolate cake at Eileen's party last Saturday. The rosettes on the cake matched the tiny flowers on my silk frock. As the French would say, "Laissez bon temps rouler!"

Plus-Ones and Schlubby Guys

Having been invited to all the HBO premieres in the past three months, I've been the 30-something version of the popular girl on campus. This is the view of the after-party for the surf-themed drama called "John from Cincinnati." We were standing some 20 miles from the ocean, but HBO hauled sand, a VW van and fish tacos to make you think you were just steps away from the waves. The surf videos were groovy. I was told that surfers like to watch other surfers surf. I couldn't figure out why until I caught myself standing in front of the giant projection for a few minutes with my pal and plus-one, Sho, just gawking at the super-cool moves the cinematic shredders performed.

The following week, the "Big Love" party peeps hired some foxy ladies dressed as birds to swing in giant cages for their bash. Caged birds=Mormon wives=miserable lives? I don't know. But this feathered female was hot. I could never handle polygamy. I've always been selfish in the sense that I want all the attention on me and to devote my loving to one person. Still, I couldn't pass up a chance to catch the first episode of the second season. I was a bit lost during the hour, but my pal and plus-one, Isabel, gave me a 30-second synopsis of the first season's finale. I am happy that I've warmed up to so many friends in Los Angeles that I've got a rotating roster of plus-ones. A few days later, Colin was my plus-one to a party thrown for a celebrity fashion line. I had him hold my mini beef Wellington while I dug into my purse for a business card to give to an apparel executive.

I nearly lost my appetite when I saw the box filled with dead butterflies at the "Big Love" bash. I quickly recuperated and gobbled up four corn tamales.

Two days after the polygamy party, Max and I drove to San Diego for a writer's workshop. The aim was to master techniques for reporting and writing a narrative story. I was a little too seasoned for the workshop, which accepted about 40 people. It would have been better to halve the number of participants and actually have people talk about actual stories they were working on like a real workshop. Still, it was quite a bonding session with Max. We left Los Angeles at 6:30 on a Saturday morning and grabbed breakfast at the halfway point in San Clemente at The Bagel Shack, which was a cross between a Jewish bagel shop and a tiki hut. I ordered the multigrain bagel filled with microwaved eggs, cheddar cheese and bacon. If I ate one of these every morning for the rest of my life, I'd turn out schlubby. That synonym usually used for a chubby, unkempt dude was used at least 20 times throughout the day by Max and me. On the drive back to Los Angeles, Max said I should write a narrative about how schlubby guys are hot. That pitch is a reflection of Max's personal opinion, not of mine. He urged to bring on the sexy slobs! Myself, I prefer scruffy guys who are long, lean and smell good. Still, Max and I brainstormed a list of schlubby guys who are hot. They include:
Philip Seymour Hoffman (although Max said the Oscar-winning actor "doesn't count for some reason. Too arty, weird.")
Jack Black
the bassist from The Hives
LCD Sound System's James Murphy
Sean Astin, especially in his hobbit outfit
Seth Rogen from "Knocked Up"
Donal Logue from "The Tao of Steve" and in MTV's Jimmy the cabbie skits
Hot Chip

Rocking Out at the Greek with some Scots, Canadians and a Dancing Fool

Matty and I walked to the Greek Theatre last week to catch the first of Arcade Fire's two sold-out shows in Los Angeles. Nights like this are when I extra-love living in Los Feliz. Two punk rockers in a pick-up truck drove by Matty and me and asked where we parked our car. "At my house," I replied with glee, pointing a mile down Vermont Avenue. They smirked; we continued climbing the hill to the open theater where we saw Electrelane do their Scottish rendition of the all-girl art rock perfected by Japan's OOIOO. Notice the guitarist rubbing her strings against the amp?

For a snack I got some French fries and a double margarita. Matty got a 20-ounce can of Tecate. We were loopy by the time Arcade Fire took to the stage at 8:45 p.m.

God bless the Canadians, who are so earnest, talented, happy and tight on stage. I knew that their new album is called Neon Bible, but I didn't think that they had to be that literal with all the neon lights. If the band was really nerdy, they would have staged a free concert at LACMA where a retrospective of Dan Flavin's neon art is currently on display. I went to the opening reception for Flavin's show a couple of weeks ago. Like the museum guards, I wore my sunglasses at night.

Arcade Fire has 10 members. Here they are in all their glory. The accordion player, who is married to the lead singer, sounds like a Canadian-Haitian Bjork.

Is this a nod to Blue Man Group? If only the poor chap who sat in front of us could have had his face imposed on the cerulean cut-out. His date was bored out of her mind. She would have stuck an IV of beer into her vein if she could have. She didn't deserve the dude who got so into Arcade Fire's music that he started doing some interpretative dance moves to the encore, "Wake Up."