From LAStreetFoodFest.com

If you totally messed up and didn’t get your Valentine anything, want to binge away the memories of the jerk who jilted you, or simply have designs to blow your New Year’s resolutions to hell, then the first LA Street Food Festival is where you’re going to want to spend this Saturday afternoon.

In LA, street food reigns supreme, and our gourmet food trucks have been making headlines, with their rabid disciples quite literally following their every move via Twitter location updates. For one day, we Angelenos won’t have to play Cannonball Run with fate, as we chase after a grilled cheese sandwich in Universal City, a Korean taco in Culver City, and an ice cream sandwich at Sunset Junction.

The first Los Angeles Street Food Fest is parking at LA Center Studios tomorrow, Saturday, February 13th from 11AM-5PM, with gourmet trucks, authentic LA street food, and vendors from the Boyle Height’s Breed Street scene. General admission is $5. Any other questions? See you there.

From LAStreetFoodFest.com

Strange enough, I’ve actually loved the weather we’ve been having. Not only have I gotten to fall asleep to rain battering against window panes, I’ve gotten to hunker down with hot tea as I’ve watch lightening storms from my couch, legs wrapped in the afghan my Nana knit me. It’s a little bit of New England seasonality, without having to wake up at the crack of dawn to shovel out your car. It’s given me the change I’m accustomed to, the sharply cold nights my body occasionally craves, and it has left the city glimmering in freshly-washed renewal.

Truly, winter in LA is the city’s best-kept secret. The city loses its overcoat of smog and with the crisp air comes breathtaking views of snow-capped mountains above all of the lushness 15 inches of rain in three months inspires in the city below.

Earlier this week, we had a thunder storm that dumped half an inch of rain on Echo Park, and over three inches elsewhere in the city. I made pasta and hunkered down to work in my kitchen, enjoying the storm for its percussive qualities, but not daring to venture outside until my housemate asked me to check on a tent she had forgotten to take down. A dutiful friend and housemate, I donned my Wellies and my raincoat and made the venture outside, just as the sun began to break through the clouds. What I noticed first was the dazzlingly luminous, Maxfield Parrish-golden light, streaming out of pocket-sized breaks in the clouds. I ran in to grab my camera and what I saw was this:

A double rainbow! I don’t think I’ve ever seen one before. Unfortunately, I forgot to make a wish. If I had remembered, I would have wished for the safety of the people and homes in foothill communities of La Crescenta and La Cañada Flintridge. While I do romanticize the torrents of rain against my window, they mean something very different to those in the foothill communities.

Courtesy of Lissie's Myspace page

Lately, it seems Los Angeles has become a hub to an ever-growing collection of alt country artists. Great timing for me, an ardent fan of alt country and Americana music. One blazing young star in Los Angeles’ ever expanding milky way of hopeful starlets is Lissie Mauris.

Hailing from Rock Island, Ill she relocated to LA about five years ago and now resides in Ojai. And having gotten herself in with the right people who knew the right people who knew the right people who knew the right people, she scored herself a touring gig with Lenny Kravitz without so much as a debut CD.

With all the promise and charm of a young Jewel (give me all the flack you want, “Who Will Save Your Soul” is a good song), but without a hint of the affected optimism or naiveté, Lissie’s sound revels in the catharsis of heartbreak before she kicks it to the curb and moves on in a “take no prisoners” sort of way, with her tar and nicotine soaked vocals.

After hearing her on KCRW back in November, I downloaded her new EP “Why You Runnin’”. Listening to it is like taking a rambling roadtrip through the past five years of heartbreak and self-discovery in Lissie’s life.

The lyrics and music are great, but it’s Lissie’s vocals: a blend of raw refinement reminiscent of a Bonnie Raitt, Patty Griffith, Stevie Nicks, late-night, cigarette-smoking, slumber party that’s the real star of the CD. All of the songs are great, but the standout is a cover of Hank Williams’ “Wedding Bells”; a rendition so powerful and true it will send a chill down your spin, a knot in your stomach, and an ache in your heart.

Here, have a listen, why don’t you.

And here are some great originals that didn’t make it on her EP. Obsessed? Yes. What of it?

Your Chest
I Don’t Know

This week my friends Al and Bridget took me to Echo Mountain in Pasadena, one of the coolest hikes I’ve experienced since moving here.

We started our hike late in the day, so we had a pretty clear trek up, encountering few fellow hikers along the way. And, since it had rained for a few days prior, within about 15 minutes we already had clear views of the city unfolding into the Pacific.

Al, our local horticulturalist, gave Bridget and me a little lesson on local flora; on our hike we collected black and white sage, wild rosemary, and wild buckwheat. It smelled like we were hiking through an herb garden the whole way up.

The best part of the hike is a lower peak that has an abandoned hotel foundation, complete with a stairway to nowhere. It’s like this awesome, above water, mountain-top Atlantis… or something awesome and mythical.

1. Tony Hale of Arrested Development fame, but that doesn’t count because he’s good friends with my friend Bob, so I forgot he was a celebrity. He was very cool though, and even went so far as to poke a little fun at my effervescence.
2. The douche bag from Maroon 5. Again, doesn’t count, because he sucks.
3. Rhea Perlman: Totally counts, because Carla ruled on Cheers and her children were adorable and well-behaved.

I’ve been told that, living in Echo Park, I’d have a few frequent freebies to notch it up with Chloe Sevigny and Vincent Gallo (what they lack in iconic star power they more than make up for in poor hygiene), but even they seem to elude me.

Some folks have said that if I go to porn shops I’ll run into Carrot Top. I don’t even know what to do with that information.

Our Halloween weekend started with my driving back home from a week in San Francisco and Berkeley. Ryan is a huge film geek and an even bigger horror film geek (Addendum: Said dude reasons that, though he loves horror films, he hasn’t quite reached horror film geek status. It’s not that he’s ashamed for me to call him one, but he doesn’t feel he has earned the title. I must respect his modesty, but I do think conversing with him about the horror genre will leave you impressed). Although I do love horror films, I guess I need some schooling; he had a full evening of cinematic slasher education and revelry planned for us.

But, as we started to assemble the living room into couch potato headquarters, I began to feel pangs of regret for eschewing a night of costumed, paganistic revelry for another night cozying up on the couch. I mean we can act like old people when we’re old, right? And considering we’re both pretty close to old, I figure we only have a few more years to party without throwing our backs out.

Thankfully, my fantastic housemates—and one honorary housemate—invited us to tag along for their evening plans. And with those plans came a wisdom, which I will now impart on you: Should you EVER be invited to a film industry art department Halloween party, ditch all other plans and go!

This party was, in a word, sick: Two parties, across the street from each other, bound by streams of costume detritus, howling guests, and post-punk dance music. And the costumes were amazing. The Jesus H. Christ costume (complete with bloodied reed slashes, a loin cloth, and a life-sized crucifix) caused people to fall to their knees in prostrate; the Teen Wolf costume made jaws drop in awe; the life-sized Muscle and Fitness magazine made us salivate for a protein drink; and the used car lot balloony thing made all in attendance somehow feel the urge to buy a questionable clunker, with the utmost confidence they’d get an excellent financing rate. OMG, it was such a fun party.

The thing about Los Angeles, particularly at Halloween parties thrown and attended by industry folk (though I should note I don’t think a single actor was in attendance), is the attention to costume—and character—detail. These people arrived in character and didn’t break once all evening. You got the feeling people planned their costumes for months in advance, but it was more about inhabiting a character than dressing up and they were fully committed to bringing their characters to life.

Refreshingly, I didn’t see one store-bought “Slutty Dorothy” or “Slutty Sherlock Holmes” all night, but if I had I’m sure they would have been the most convincing sluts I’ve ever seen.

Ryan and I, shamefully, didn’t bring our cameras to the party (that’s the liability of only owning an SLR), so we had a “morning-after photo shoot.” He was a thoroughly convincing Bob Dylan (as evidenced by the 30 or so chicks who fawned over him the night before); I was some 60s starlet or something. What? I planned on spending the night on the couch. I did my best!

Anyway, both costumes lend themselves well to a morning-after shoot. Here are some outtakes.
*Disclaimer: There were some other shots that made more sense in context, but they had to be taken down. The photo of Ryan is prior to his Dylan transformation; it’s more of the experimental costuming phase, if you will.