The Word of 'Na

2009-12-14T16:52:00.001-08:00

OXFAM

2009-05-19T22:13:00.000-07:00

Mixology: Politics at the W

2008-10-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

Had enough of the debates? I should hope not! As long as we have the freedom to repeat ourselves, by god we shall repeat! So long as we can all agree that we, Democrats and Republicans, "both love Israel," we can generalize our compliments of one another and still pursue our own interests!

After all, the important thing is that we keep the conversation going. And this election season, The Backyard Lounge at the W wants to encourage all its patrons to make their voices heard. In association with www.declareyourself.com, they've mixed up a special menu of election-themed drinks.

The McCain Spice is dangerously sweet, much like Palin's naïve enthusiasm and negotiation tactics. The Obama Pama-Rita is sharp and to the point. Here's your chance to try the candidates on for size before the big vote and see how they treat your taste buds. Or shake these up at home:

John McCain Spice
1 1/2oz Grand Marnier
1/2oz ginger ale
1/2 oz pineapple juice
1oz fresh pineapple
*Muddle all ingredients and serve in a sugared martini glass

Or, if you're finding it difficult to swallow Maverick gospel, throw back the spicy Obama Pama-Rita to loosen up your rebellious tongue.

Obama Pama-Rita
1 1/2 oz 4 Copas blanco
1oz pama liqueur
1/4oz triple sec
3/4oz sour mix
Two fresh squeezed lime wedges
*Build on the rocks

But, if you're like me and tiring of the circuitous talk talk talk, try out the refreshing non-partisan takes on the menu. A healthy dose of unbiased fuel keeps the doctor away from stitching up war wounds.

So, raise a glass of the bartender's best, Steph's Berry Saintsation, and enjoy the peace of The Backyard. Let the surrounding candlelight coax the tension out of the air. And declare yourself well satisfied! Agree to disagree, on the rocks with a grain of salt.

Steph's Berry Saintsation *overall winner
2 parts St. Germaine
1 part Absolut Ruby Red Vodka
1 fresh strawberry
3-4 sprigs of fresh mint
Lime wedge
Splash soda
*Muddle all ingredients and serve over rocks

The W Los Angeles (in association with www.DeclareYourself.com)
930 Hilgard Avenue
Los Angeles, 90024
www.whotels.com

Healing Hands

2008-10-22T18:17:00.000-07:00

Ok, check it out.

So, I won’t deny Burke Williams is pretty much the best you can get as far as spas go. But, if you don’t need five hours to spend with cucumber water, hot tubs, steam rooms, and attendants walking around with fruit bowls—if what you’re after is a massage, you know, just someone’s hands on your back grinding out the knots and gnarls, then there are other *cheaper places you can go. Of course, you will always have reservations, like

“Maybe this place is cheaper, but will my masseuse be ugly?”

Or
“This price is too right. The spa must be dirrrty…”

Or
“I don’t know if I can live without my cucumber water.”

Still, the fact does not change that your actual massage can be amazing and small fraction of the price of a Burke Williams outing.

For example, I tried out Healing Hands on Crescent Heights and 3rd, and my masseuse there rocked my knots. I paid $55 for and hour of heaven. And I’m very particular.

There’s a science to how you approach a massage. You have to start at the source and work out—the way you would approach a tube of toothpast: you’ve got to start at the end extremity, press the toothbrush flat against the tube and push up along the length of the tube, squeeze all of the minty goodness up to the spout and release the contents. When you approach someone’s back, you have to warm it up, loosen the nerves a little, get the person accustomed to your touch, and then you find the source. Say we start with the neck, work your fingers down through the meat of the neck from the point at which your spine reaches your cranium. Knead down, squeezing the tension out through the neck down to the tops of the shoulders. Then you have to continuously push that tension out from the shoulders under the shoulder blade and down the spine to your waist, or from the shoulder down the arm to the elbow joint, through that tender meat around your bony forearm to the wrist, out through the muscle of your thumb, into the palm, and finally out the fingertips.

The buttocks is another source. Do not fear the touching of the buttocks. It is essential. All the tension in your legs and lower back is fed from the buttocks. You can relieve yourself a lot of pain by letting a stranger massage your butt. An elbow is your best tool for this: press in and hold your weight in one place to really give the muscle time to give in to the pain. The worst thing you can do is tense up and defend your body against a masseuse’s advances. Let go. Kneading out from the buttocks down the back of the thigh into the hollow behind the knee. Another essential. No matter the pain, you must knead out the unhappy nerve endings in the knee in that soft vulnerable spot. Then from the knee down the calf, really grinding into that muscle, and to the ankle, over the heel into the arch, and out the toes.

The sides of your thighs, the sides of your torso are wonderful little sneaks hiding your caged up nerves like tense, little, bonded slaves. Right underneath the arm, the muscle that binds your triceps through the shoulder to your back--that lovely little area we women know as where your bra sinches your back fat—is a source of a lot of tension, in me at least. It’s a really uncomfortable place to be massaged, because there’s so little muscle over your ribs that you literally feel like that muscle is being ground into nothing over a metal washboard. But, once it’s all over, the masseuse can release even more tension out from under your shoulder blades. You can even feel the effect of the release on the tops of your shoulders in the muscle that links up to your neck again.

I’ve made my point. I care. I dissect what a masseuse does in sessions with me. I’ve learned to sense when a massage therapist actually knows why they are massaging in certain patterns, and when they are doing it just because that’s how they were instructed to do so. You can tell the anatomy buffs when you feel one.

So, I did. Feel an Anatomy Buff. At Healing Hands, I might as well have been at the chiropractor, if my chiropractor had that sensual distinction of focusing on the return of pleasure and relaxation as opposed to the return of physical therapy and 20 follow-up appointments to “fix” my mini-might-multiple-sclerosis.

The atmosphere was calm, an unexpected oasis from the street scene just one floor below. The facilities were beautifully kept, a local artist had paintings and prints hung on the wall (for sale) that tied in nicely with the décor. The receptionists and staff were friendly and considerate, the masseuses, knowledgeable. The only thing I might mention is, the clock in my room ticked audibly even over the mood music. But as someone put it in an online feedback forum, At least I was certain I was getting my hour’s worth.

Take a moment to check out their services. Really, they have great deals, and equal worth to Burke Williams when it boils down to the masseuse. They also feature Acupuncture and Chiropractic services.

So yeah, check it out. And save yourself a buck or 100.

Healing Hands Wellness Center
Massage ∙ Acupuncture ∙ Chiropractic
Open 7 days
10am-9pm

www.healinghandsWC.com

414 N Larchmont Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90004
(323) 461 7876

303 S. Crescent Heights Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90048
(323) 782 3900

Untitled

2008-09-29T22:16:00.000-07:00

The desert drinks blood like rain.
Still, we give up the sweat from our backs,
spit salt,
and die as raisins do.

We live thirsty,
always for oil,
Candy and Pornography.

We sweat and pay
the Money Maker,
and pay the Money Maker
and pay the Money Maker
to govern us.

And the Printing Press—
We made—
spits sheets and sheets
to be sliced and dealt,
Dollar bills to the lowest bidder.

So that our toil
Will oil
A brighter future for our kids
To fill the valve of another’s car.

And they will see for certain
That
The desert drinks blood like rain,
And so do I.

So do I.

Untitled Draft by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Mundane 1

2008-09-28T18:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight,

I put the toothpaste tube to my teeth and squeezed. Then, I put the toothbrush into my mouth to squeegee it all around.

And I didn’t think anything of it until I spit.

Mundane 1 by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Not Exactly 20/20 for the Eagle Eye

2008-09-28T15:36:00.000-07:00

And here we have another classic case of “it is what it is.”

I enjoyed the film, jumped in my seat of few times, maybe laughed once or twice. I would recommend it as a fun flick for the end of summer. But I wouldn’t say Eagle Eye is an example of why filmgoers anticipate the post-September season.

The concept behind Eagle Eye—a take on the corruptive potential in the Patriot Act—is masked by a less thrilling riff on technology’s overwhelming capabilities and our human capacity to abuse it. In fact, if a single line of dialogue near the end of the script hadn’t tagged the Patriot Act as the root of conflict, the audience easily may have mistaken this film for a Man v. Machine flick, a chip off the old I, Robot block—which was sad enough on its own without a companion-piece film, am I right?

After a brief opening sequence of U.S. counter-terrorist agression in the Middle East, the story jumps trains to life in Chicago where Shia LaBeouf plays Jerry Shaw (a college drop out, now copy shop boy, whose deceased genius twin, in life, worked at the Pentagon for the Secretary of Defense). Jerry is just a regular Joe. He has succumbed to the shame of living in his brother's shadow, and so disappoints his dad by living the Low Life, until who can say why, but a seductive female voice calls Jerry up to inform him that he has been "activated."

Confused and disoriented, Jerry looks around his apartment to find the makings of a terrorist's workshop: guns and gas tanks, high-tech software, computer tracking systems, government classified files, etc. And in 30 seconds--he learns from the Voice--the FBI will arrive. And so begins the chase.

Jerry is soon joined by the equally confused "Female"--as the Voice identifies her--Rachel Hollowman (Michelle Monagham). Rachel's son embarks on a school band field trip at the start of the film, and is quickly used as leverage. Rachel must carry out the Voice’s agenda or her son will die. So together Jerry and Rachel run from the FBI on a mission to..."establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity."

In the end, the pair of refugees come to find the newest technological advancement, developed under the Secretary of Defense, has turned against its creator. All because--oh wait, did you forget this detail?--the President authorized the execution of a supposed terrorist abroad and in so doing became a threat to his own nation as an incompetent leader. What?

I'm sorry, but in my opinion, the whole opening sequence in the Middle East could have been dropped. Giving the machine an easy alibi loses the film its credibility. The revenge becomes petty. Furthermore, it creates more questions for an entirely separate story line that we don't have time for in the setting of this one film. Who did the President accidentally assassinate? What consequences may come of it from abroad? Besides which, the Eagle Eye technology openly nominates the Sec. of Defense to be President once the current Chief of Justice is terminated…Another new story line! What of the Secretary’s own greed? Or is he a saint? The suggestion is thrown out there and never touched again.

What bothers me is not just the little logistical inconsistencies, or run-on tangential plot lines. Nor is it that Eagle Eye reminds me so much of I, Robot, or Phone Booth for that matter—with a dash of stolen moments from the Italian Job. What bothers me is that this movie could have been so much more, and I feel like somewhere along the way, somebody started cutting, censoring details that might be controversial. I will admit, I’m exhausted with the politics of Hollywood that have nothing to do with the politics of the nation. I’m exhausted by loud-mouthed movie-makers high on their power to reach so many millions of Americans in order to sing their agendas. However, this film could have made a cool and decisive argument against the Patriot Act. And rather than hearing an intelligent and confident opinion, what I perceived was a childish, petty, panicky jab. The quick reference was lost amidst sound and special effects during a calamitous scene. Instead, taking the limelight and the brunt of the blame was a mere computer. A computer decided to use its own technology to get the better of mankind. A computer abused its own power to pursue its own ends, but at the same time “for the common good.” What a disappointment.

What is miraculous, dramatic, crazy, scary, is this: Man doesn’t just fashion tools or create fire, he puts them to use. Mankind was hungry enough to manufacture the technologies we have today, so why skirt away from the possibility that we are also thirsty enough for power, money, fame, whathaveyou, to abuse those tools? And what are the consequences? It might have been a wonderful risk to put an actual bad guy behind the plot. Sure blame the machines, but nastier and infinitely more fascinating is the fact that we all have it in ourselves to be evil. And what captures an audience in the theater is a person's inner struggle to tip the balance one way or the other, toward good or evil impulses. We have both in us, we just, hopefully, use one more than the other. That is drama. Pinpointing a radical machine devoid of emotion, doomed Eagle Eye to its Blockbuster “is what it is” end of summer status. We got a lot of action, but not a lot of drama. Drama is conflict: our human capacity to do well for ourselves against our animal hunger for Alpha power, our selfish impulses contradicting our better conscience. Eagle Eye had the initial momentum to be a 1984 of the new millennium. That’s what bothers me, what could have been.

But, I mean, kudos to Shia LaBeouf. Too bad he’s gotta live with the name, but at least he’s got a reputation now for a kid actor not-gone-“typical.”

See the Official Site for Eagle Eye at
http://www.eagleeyemovie.com/
In Theaters Now!

Not Exactly 20/20 for the Eagle Eye by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

The Sky's the Limit at West

2008-06-05T20:23:00.000-07:00

I might well have been floating on a raft, in an oversized martini glass, gazing up at the stars. But really, I sat on an ottoman at the West sky bar and lounge of the Angeleno Hotel. I was lounging and laughing with friends over cocktails, looking out at LA’s city lights. Seventeen floors down, the 405 raced back in a stream of red and forth in white. And 180 degrees of window-framed horizon wrapped its arms around us like a jeweled, velvet cape. Up in the sky, we felt tiny, insignificant, lost in a beauty as great as a Pacific coast midnight. But inside our bubble of leathery booths, marble tables, mirrored- and endlessly windowed- walls, we took comfort in a smooth Pinot Noir and a steady bass beat, like the rhythm of a heart. As the end of the night drew near, the DJ played slower hip hop and R&B hits.

My heart raced with the music when I first stepped foot inside West Lounge. The bar glowed in bottle green, blue curacao, framboise liquors, and green apple sours. Warm yellow light overhead in chandeliers danced in its crystals, in reflections in the mirrors, like dew drops on the bottles and glasses. Each with a glass of one well-balanced martini or other, my friends and I relaxed back into our seats and the scene. All around us, men and women seemed to float, the muscles in their faces relaxed, after 8 or 10 or 12 hour days at work. Business men and women, through with their deals, travelers through with their sightseeing, needing nothing else but this over-worldly view, and friends met here, at their getaway point, almost as if they’d pulled off their great con for the day and could now rest in their true bodies, their true selves. Young and older, but never old—after all, wasn’t this heaven?

Outside the main rush of LA nightlife—above it, really—West Lounge offers a peaceful oasis away from your usual, dried up and dusty routine. If you’re tired of music louder than the sound of your friends’ voices, or crowds so tight you can’t see the floor, take a fresh breath above the LA smog at the Angeleno Hotel. Monday nights you’ll find a live jazz band set up in the Southwest corner of the lounge, Tuesday nights you’ll pay half price on all bottles of wine, and every other night a DJ is featured to immerse the guests in the rhythm of the night.

Check out West at the Angeleno Hotel at:

http://www.westatangeleno.com/

The Sky's the Limit at West by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

What Can West do for you?

2008-06-05T20:04:00.000-07:00

I took the elevator to Paradise. Seventeen floors up in the sky, the doors slid apart, and I stepped into a navy midnight, the reception hall at the Angeleno Hotel’s West Restaurant. Elegant in its simplicity, the hall made no allusion to greatness beyond its gates. But when I stepped over the threshold to join my party, a wave of nostalgia hit me, as if my life flashed before my eyes. There was a complete 180 degree span of windows and city lights. It was the view from the top of the John Hancock, I was sure. But then, I had to remind myself, I’m not in Chicago anymore. But there was the Pacific shore line, and there, the 405, and the streaming lights of traffic connecting the dots of LA’s cities and streets. I never thought a highway could look so beautiful.

Echoing the lights from below, the bar shone before me. Bottles bounced candlelight back to glitter like stars in the mirrors against rich wooden walls. Finally the sun and the moon hung in two crystal chandeliers overhead. The faces of the patrons sparkled too. They were a loving crowd, at peace with life. Tables consisted of happy couples, be they old and married or young and dating; business men and women in love with their work, making deals as if they were jolly old Dogs Playing Cards; clusters of young adults in bouts of laughter, celebrating recent successes; and then there were travelers, glimpsing LA from above the billboards, bulk, and insanity of the street scene as they put their sightseeing feet to rest. Here seemed to be a haven for men and women from all walks of life.

But the god of this west coast sky bar was the chef, Mark, whose kitchen offered up the most decadent and rare Italian favorites available away from the motherland. The chef plated such tender tuna carpaccio, I could barely lift a forkful. But when I tasted the fish, with a peppery bite of watercress, chili oil, and a zingy caper aioli, I found the sensation well worth the effort. And we couldn’t pass up the chef’s recommendation, Mark’s eggplant parmesan, served in a mini cast-iron skillet. Romancing the palate were flavors both complex and harmonious. And even though the cheeses and sauces melded together for the perfect, balanced consistency, the eggplant did not loose its meaty texture. There was hardly enough to go around.

For our main course, a Mediterranean sea bass arrived, in a delicate lobster foam, laid over a singular, monster-lobster ravioli. Here again, nostalgia struck as I remembered my father’s kitchen and his homemade noodles. Good noodles must be light as air, but rich with texture. Very few restaurants offer handcrafted pasta. (And of the few that do, few serve it well). But at West, the al dente, paper thin ravioli took me to a new high, above and beyond the seventeenth floor. I might only add…the lobster stuffing was other worldly too! And then there was the ribeye, 40 day dry-aged, and a perfect cut. After all, the specialty here as in Florence, is beef. You’d be mad to miss the opportunity to order steak when you dine… And you will, dine. You must. I’ll clue you in to the final draw: the tiramisu was heaven. Chef Mark’s ladyfingers melted on my tongue with the same grace as that of the whipped cream and mascarpone. Espresso and brandy made separate but equal claims on my heart, and a sprig of mint seemed to curtsy with a flourish at the finish.

Having grown up in the windy city, surrounded by some of the great Italian restaurants in America, and one in particular in my own home kitchen, I’d been searching for a place out west, a haven to remind me of home. I found it here. The Angeleno Hotel is the saving grace for Italian cuisine in LA. With the hospitality of angels, West Restaurant made my past flash before my eyes… What can tiramisu do for you?

Hotel Angeleno: West Restaurant and Lounge

170 N. Church Lane
Los Angeles, CA 90049
Phone: 310.476.6411
Fax: 310.472.1157
Reservations: 1.866.ANGELENO

See http://www.jdvhotels.com/angeleno/ for more information

What can West do for You? by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Across the Universe, Right Here and Now

2008-05-26T06:33:00.000-07:00

When I first considered Across the Universe, I put the film on hold in my movie-to-do queue. But the other day, a colleague brought his 2-disc collectible DVD to work, and I snatched it up for one night’s loan. And though I knew this would be an untimely review, I had no choice but to let my heart bleed, for all the blogging world to see, and say: Across the Universe is to die for. I’d heard as much. But no matter how devotedly I love the Beatles, these days I’ve pledged my priorities to the present day arts and events. I didn’t expect to be moved quite so far by a film so burdened with the past. You see, for a moment there, I forgot that the era of the Beatles is now, not past at all. The film could not be more important in any other day than today.

Protesting the war in Vietnam, young adults raised their voices, swarmed the nation’s capital for a revolution, bombarded public awareness with opinion papers, political rallies, and most importantly, music and art. We can hardly get our youth today to vote. So if ever there was a time for this film, I tell you, there ought to be time made for it in your schedule. Julie Taymor brings to life a story, co-written by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais, that not only pays homage to a comprehensive number of Beatles’ hits, but also pays great respect and attention to the sociopolitical circumstances of the time. And then, to top their artistic and sociopo agendas, together these filmmakers accomplished an intricately beautiful love story to shine over the entire work like the proper icing on a cake. Just as the Beatles would have liked. For isn’t it the truth: all you need is love.

Jim Sturgess delivers a smashing performance as Jude, the restless young lover/immigrant to America. Having seen 21 out of sequence with this prerequisite, I already knew I admired Sturgess, but in Across the Universe, I was surprised and delighted to find that he can not only act but sing as well. Which may easily be said of his co-star too, Evan Rachael Wood. Together they sparked enough fire to earn the drama and artistry that went into scenes like that in which “Strawberry Fields” became tangible. Born well outside the years of hippie drug persuasion, I listened to the Beatles with a naïve appreciation for their “creativity.” I had nothing to identify with in their later hits, but felt strangely attached to the Beatles’ haunting melodies and bleeding hearts, weeping guitars, etc. But it was all to easy as a kid to love their less ambiguous triumphs, (“She Loves You, Yeah Yeah Yeah,” etc.)

“Strawberry Fields” happened to be one of the ambiguous wonders that flew over my head and out of my consciousness. It wasn’t until the film that I understood a world in which that song made sense. Through the lens of cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel, and with art direction by Peter Rogness, Jude’s heart breaks simultaneously as limbs fly and blood bursts through peculiar little holes in men’s army uniforms, as strawberries bleed, dripping on a stark white canvas. Every color, every twitch, every word, every muscle, every blink, every fruit, every look, every frame of film is shrouded in metaphor. And so it goes with each hit in film clip. Taymor, Clement, and La Frenais reinvent the genius of the Beatles by giving the songs new context for old content.

Across the Universe is so heavily layered. I can only describe it as an earth-shatteringly beautiful burden of hope. The film hurts you, seizes your very gut with the grotesque and absurd, boggles your brain with outlandish images and impossible events, throws you so out of focus that you have no choice but to feel as these youth felt, to see as they saw, to burn as they burned, and to hope and love and pray and cry as they did. It is a burden of a film if you choose to bear it, to see it in that light, and love that burden for freeing you. Apathy is a game for idiots, it is time we recognize that.

Read up more on Taymor’s masterpiece at:

http://www.sonypictures.com/homevideo/acrosstheuniverse/

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0445922/

Across the Universe, Right Here and Now by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Silly rabbit, Speed Racer's for Kids

2008-05-18T00:23:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that now and again I’ll indulge and see a kid’s movie. Just recently, I was super duper impressed by Ratatouille, an animated film so intricately thought out that even the most serious adult viewer would identify with its mature humor and modern political parallels. The action in Ratatouille was tight, the dialogue specific. I was glued to my couch like a regular Netflix potato. But for Speed Racer, adults in the audience needed a jolt of espresso at intermission. Wait…no. Nope, I’m recalling now…that’s right: there was no intermission. Sucker!

Still the fact remains that Speed Racer entertained me. It did, a bit. I must credit the Art Direction first and foremost, and David Tattersall nailed the cinematography. Camera close-ups on characters’ faces lent a comic book aesthetic to the scene work. And the stunts, sounds, and visual effects revved up the world of the anime series to lightening-speed-life, with brazen colors and flashy kicks and tricks by cars, in mid-track and in mid-air. The cast was a cast of giants, including Emile Hirsch, Susan Sarandon, John Goodman, Christina Ricci, and Matthew Fox, among many fabulous others. So I needn’t say the actors were well-tuned and oiled for this race. I drove home wishing the LA streets were a race course free of cops! So where did Speed Racer go wrong?

Andy and Larry Wachowski (the minds behind the Matrix) wrote and directed this monster script, so I wonder, didn’t a third party have any power of censorship? And why, dear god, why?! didn’t they exercise it? The script is so polluted with detail and excessive dialogue that the movie spanned a nauseating… 2 hours and 15 mins? I’m sorry—I just looked that up—I’m surprised. I thought it had to have been at least 3 and a half hours long. Mama Sarandon’s words of wisdom encouraged her son Speed to follow his heart, because his racing skills were “beautiful, like a work of art, inspiring.” Well, the film might have been beautiful, like opening up a bag of Skittles I guess, but you know I’m thinking “inspiring” is not the word. Every turn of events and moral lesson was relentlessly rehashed so as not to confuse any poor lost soul who couldn’t keep up with the plot. Repetition may help out the young ones, but sadly, Speed Racer was no occasion for my pigtails.

Check out details, showtimes, etc. at:

http://speedracerthemovie.warnerbros.com/

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0811080/

Silly rabbit, Speed Racer's for Kids by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Setting a new bar: Crown Bar

2008-05-13T03:58:00.000-07:00

For such a petite setting—a single room with a patio view—one bar gives West Hollywood the royal treatment. Dressed in white stucco and elegant lines of black iron and wood, Crown Bar faces Santa Monica Boulevard with style and distinction. Lanterns light the terrace and front entrance, while inside, the lounge glows with tea lights and chandeliers hanging delicately over tables lining the walls. Button-pinned leather booths sit in dark shadows, leaving cream colored walls to brighten the faces of the guests in their nooks. The red fleur de lis adds texture to the walls behind a myriad of mirrors, wherein reflections of warm candle flame seem to facet light in the air, as if the space itself were a crown jewel. In the center of the room, black-stained wood supports a white marble bar top to wed the aesthetic within and outside the palace walls. The bar is a ring, guarding the heart of the establishment, where the barista realizes certain brilliant concoctions as “the Bishop,” (as pomegranates go, a drink of the gods).

But while royal treasures are usually kept in the sanctity and quiet of museum halls, a well-played DJ accompanies the bartender’s gems in the Crown Bar. Surprising the cozy setting is a spicy repertoire encompassing all decades and genres of jams, be it Saturday or Monday night. And if dancing and schmoozing works you up an appetite, the menu sings with breadth and creativity. The tastes are loud, as clever combinations of flavors meet on your tongue. From crab corn fritters and drunken watermelon, to seemingly simple beer-battered onion rings, each plating is delicate as the chandeliers overhead, each sensation as colorful, as savory, as comprehensive as a three course meal from a restaurant on Robertson.

From the creators of Winston’s and The Dime comes a classic motif of elegant yet laid-back refinery. Crown bar serves up a spot for modern day clubbing beyond the bounds of modern day décor. The fashion here is old world leisure, where you’re invited to rest your feet in a leather-cushioned nook and speculate with friends on the latest trends and fashions waltzing through the front door. But you too will want to be dressed in your city chic best, since you’ll likely be seeing a celeb or two here…

Here's another review from the LATimes at: http://theguide.latimes.com/bars-and-clubs/latcl-crown-bar-venue

Crown Bar

7321 Santa Monica Boulevard

West Hollywood

(323-882-6774)

Dinner unavailable Wednesdays and Sundays

The Ultimate Man, the Man’s Man, the Iron Man

2008-05-10T03:36:00.000-07:00

Say it again: Mmmmmmmm, Man. That’s right. Nutritious and Delicious. Yum. Add an extra “m” for flavor. Yumm. “Mmn mmn good,” as Campbell puts it.

Now, here’s a man. Robert Downey Jr. makes a giant leap with his portrayal of Tony Stark. Tony Stark didn’t know he could be so hot. And no, it’s not just the Audi he’s sporting. I mean, I’ll be the first to admit, a car like that will put anything else on this planet out of focus, but not Robert Downey Jr. Be he in black tie or clad in irons, Tony doesn’t fool anyone. He may act out like a pompous womanizer, but Pepper knows better, and so do I. He can’t help but impress. He’s a quick wit, not just with physics, weaponry, technology, but also with words, with attitude. And so is the actor. He turns on a dime, completely in tune with the machinations of his techno-tycoon. He’s Nerd meets Jock (or Cock, to be blunt), but his impulses are true to a golden heart, a heart metaphorically dramatized as a chemically obscure and/or physically, technologically impossible substance/machine.

But what impressed me most after Robert (We’re on a first name basis now), was the script, the storyline. I must admit I never read the comic in my childhood, so I wouldn’t know if the comic was as plausible. But Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby created a script so believable, one has to wonder, how many over-ambitious techie geeks have, in the past, pulled similar, comparable stunts to be covered up by the government and U.S. Military? What technologies have really been uncovered already that we won’t be seeing for another decade purely for the sake of marketing strategies and revenue potential? Oh, the secrets we keep, the masks we wear. Deep thoughts.

Iron Man offers an example of those masks we wear for the good of mankind. The little secrets like white lies that allow us to believe jeans don’t make us look fat, innocent people aren’t being slaughtered, mint chocolate chip ice cream doesn’t taste like toothpaste, and people aren’t starving all over the world with no concept that mint chocolate chip ice cream could ever even exist for them. There are lies that count, lies that don’t. But in the end, most lies count. Iron Man, the Marvel comic, effectively tackles the issue: are we lying to ourselves? One experience changes Tony Stark's world, and he must redefine his very being. And so he transforms from a manufacturer of the world’s deadliest weapons, into a hero out to destroy his own creations: the men pushing the buttons, flipping the switches, soldering metal chambers, and connecting wires.

Tony Stark strips away the little lies surrounding his established fame, to attack the underlying truth. He is a manufacturer of death. In so many words, but yes. Is it necessary, maybe. If you're Iron Man, maybe not?

Sooner or later, we become the lies we tell. If you want to believe in something other than the truth, that’s your curse.

“I don’t believe in Ignorance is Bliss. I just believe in me.”

John Lennon didn’t believe in Beatles. He was a walrus.

Robert Downey Jr. will no longer believe in Stark Enterprises. For he is Iron Man.

And thank the lord for a good-old, unconventional end i n g .

Check out the details for IRON MAN and Audi
(we musn't forget to pay respects to our Lady R8) at:

http://ironmanmovie.marvel.com/

http://www.truthinengineering.com/

http://www.audiusa.com/audi/us/en2/new_cars/Audi_R8.html

The Ultimate Man, the Man’s Man, the Iron Man by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Don't Forget Sarah Marshall!

2008-05-10T01:58:00.000-07:00

I recently spoke to a friend, who insisted a friend of her friend’s friend is Sarah Marshall, (or is the character of Sarah Marshall in real life) and so cannot go, no matter how funny, to see a film that desecrates the meaning of respect in romantic relationships, be they intact or in mid-fract. But frankly, Madame, I don’t give a damn.

You must go see “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”. Not only is the script hilarious and well worth the cost of production and a movie ticket, but it is also, truthfully, astoundingly and irrefutably fair to all parties involved. If anything, the boyfriend who inspired the screenplay is more poked at, insulted, and painted an idiot than the girlfriend he mourns over losing. In flashbacks scoffing at their once “perfect” dating life, Peter Bretter (Jason Segel) looks like a badly matched handbag for Sarah Marshall’s red carpet ensemble, but not because she treats him in such a fashion (please excuse pun). Peter is out of place, because he and she are not a cohesive pair. While Sarah (Kristen Bell) stands on top of the world, Peter is lost and searching for a path out of a self-inflicted hell. He won’t let himself feel equal to her success. And so we discover, Peter is drowning in depression even before Sarah Marshall leaves him.

But, Sarah Marshall is by no means heartless for leaving him in the mire. She is no demon by nature, but flawed. Just as Peter cannot pick himself out of the cesspool of self-loathing, neither can Sarah fish him out, nor is the task her responsibility. Sarah Marshall, like Peter, is a three dimensional character, not Cruella de Vil. When Sarah discovers she is lacking the power to support Peter, a man that she, honestly, respects and admires, she fights. She tries to win him back. But her methods don’t work, and she encounters a new experience: failure. A new woman inspires him in a way Sarah could not. And suddenly, Peter’s struggle strikes a new cord in her heart. Perhaps she is ashamed, but these experiences are learning tools, so that we don’t repeat mistakes.

Which brings us to the character who steals the show: Aldous Snow. Sarah’s big mistake is leaving Peter for a sleazy, commitment-phobe Cassanova, the most revolting and ridiculous character, maybe in film history. Aldous Snow teeters on the edge of nauseating the audience with his erotic? dancing and causing them to urinate in their stadium cinema seats. At first, I thought for sure the character would get old. Really Quickly. Refreshingly, actor Russell Brand proved me wrong. The script allows for every character to achieve his/her full 3-dimensional potential. So even the man whore comes off as human in the end. His motive is simple: lust. His alibi is a life philosophy that justifies his behavior on every account.

So if you were expecting to skip a dumb comedy, don’t. This script explores every end of human frailty, stupidity, and growth in the world of relationships. Writer, Jason Segel, steers each character through complete revolutions and revelations of life. The viewers see themselves and their own set backs from their own experiences in this hysterical tale, and all from the breezy steamy islands of Hawaii. What could be better?

Check out the details at:

http://www.forgettingsarahmarshall.com/

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0800039/

Don't Forget Sarah Marshall by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

The Sign Says It All?

2008-05-02T02:35:00.000-07:00

You’ve seen the BBC series—two desperate, ageing women milk their martinis and memories for whatever youthful energies they can sap. They, like their clothes, are loud, ostentatious, and seemingly influenced by alcohol. But no matter how others sneer, and no matter how reality reveals their misshapen old bodies/faces in the mirror, to each other they are “absolutely fabulous.”

So it goes with the new digs: Absolutely PHObulous. I must admit I sneered. The sign read like an ABC stencil in red, blue, and yellow. And of course, the wordplay was corny. I looked at this sign, and this sign said to me: American-Vietnamese fusion, a McDonald’s of Pho. I suspected the name worthy of sarcasm as was the intention for the BBC “AbFab."

Nevertheless, a friend and I tried this kitchen out. Beyond the colorful marquee, the interior shot was more traditional with black furniture and deep red walls. It’s a narrow room for intimate parties of two or four, a casual date, or a quick bite with friends. And, unlike the Absolutely Fabulous women of the BBC, my friend and I could speak quietly amongst ourselves without neighboring tables overhearing. The scene here was calm. The music wasn’t set to hip hop or oldies. They weren’t even playing authentic instrumentals. We provided the soundtrack with our conversation, (though clangs from the kitchen occasionally mixed in too). Even the waiters were soft spoken. First they were there. Then they’d disappear. They said little more than what was necessary to get food to the table.

Now again, I’ll admit I smirked at the menu and the flagrant display of número dos: Thai chicken satay. Still, it’s my favorite, so I tried it out. Baked in a rich marinade, the chicken was tender and cut away from the skewer as if I were spooning through crème brulée. Earthy flavors of cumin and ginger brightened on my tongue, and a sweet dip of peanut sauce sealed my approval. It may have been Thai, but I’d leave the Pho to be authentic Vietnamese.

After our starters (My friend’s spring rolls were fresh and to her liking. I found them bland.), two steaming bowls of hot broth arrived before us. The beef was served rare on the side as is Vietnamese tradition. The broth cooked the slender cuts of meat before it cooled and we could eat. From a separate plate we scooped up fresh Vietnamese mint, chiles, and bean sprouts to drop in the mixture, until finally, the soup was ready. In truth, the broth tasted a bit salty. (But every review with a grain of salt, right? I mean, if we’re at liberty here to abuse word play...) Still, fresh lime, onion, cilantro, and a dash of (Thai) spice from the condiment tray, combined to flavor a decent broth. The once raw meat, now cooked, was the best of the three cuts of beef included in the dish. The next, as brisket goes, was a bit fatty. But the third and final beef selection was completely inedible. I could not chew through the beef meat ball. Needless to say, chicken is always a safe choice. Tried and true here, the chicken pho was just that: safe, tasty but ordinary. For both chicken and beef phos, the glass noodles were the first I’ve enjoyed of any asian cuisine. They’re served al dente, so enjoy them while they’re fresh. (You won’t be able to finish this dish, and the doggy bag is not worth adding Styrofoam containers to landfills.)

In short, we have here an exaggeration of a touch-and-go truth. The satay was fabulous but unauthentic, the spring rolls fresh but bland. The pho tasted savory and satisfactory if we disregard gristle and salt. The setting was perfect but I never would have known to look in beneath the flamboyant marquee. Absolutely Fabulous was successful because we acknowledged the sarcasm. We loved those two women for all their flaws because they were funny. I don’t know if folks will find gristle funny… It’s worth a try?

Absolutely PHObulous

350 N La Cienega Blvd
West Hollywood, CA 90048
Phone: (310) 360-3930
Mon – Sun: 11am – 9:30pm

15928 Ventura Blvd., Suite 101
Encino, CA 91436
Phone: 818.788.3560
Mon – Sat: 10am – 9pm
Closed Sunday
*Delivery 2 mile radius, $15 minimum

The Sign Says It All? by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Sweet Mother of Chili

2008-05-02T02:30:00.000-07:00

In a small country town outside of Paris, down a cobblestone walk and around the back of a fleuriste shop, you and your travel companion may applaud yourselves to find an unknown treasure: a mom and pop restaurant with the most exquisite (and inexpensive) dinner you’ll ever feast upon. But within city walls, be we in Paris, Rome, Beijing, or Budapest, for some reason or other to which we all fall victims, we hungry stilettoed pedestrians seek out white table cloths and leather bound wine lists. Especially on our own turf. Here, we pay homage mostly to star-ratings or hot spots to which Hollywood Stars flock. Tonight, I invite you, distinguished patrons of Los Angeles, to cast off said stilettos, and gentlemen, your silken ties.

While you sit at that red light on the drive home from work, look out your window again. There’s a mom and pop shop in West Hollywood you don’t want to miss. Sandwiched between sushi and a hair salon, Sweet Chili fires with a beauty only sniffed from within. Don’t expect tablecloths, fancy light fixtures, and hot towels. Rather, adopt the diamond in the rough mentality. What you see is not what you get. One must delight in the elusive wording of a true Thai menu. You’ll choose from highlights such as: Red Curry, Yellow Curry, Green Curry, and various combinations of Chicken, Beef, or Shrimp with Chili, Garlic, or Ginger sauces. But do not be fooled! Silence, you skeptic! Each dish is unique in its own right. And when the spices dance upon your tongue, you will admit that Here! the chef does not over-spice to compensate for bad meat, and Here! the vegetables are fresh as those from the Farmer’s Market, and Here! is a combination of flavors to win the high expectations of your refined palate. Here is a kitchen to spark a singular, unexpected symphony in your heart to praise the sweet mother of chili.

If true Thai is what you seek, and if comfort food to you means More Spice! ask and you shall receive. Quite frankly, I like to go home after a good Thai meal with a tear in my eye and a healthy glow of ladylike sweat on my brow. Start with the Tom Yum soup if you like that refreshing spice of lime. And if you’re dining with that friend who only eats salads…yes, yes. There, too, you will be impressed. Trust me when I say, it’s not your typical hot spot, but for a blustery grey day, or for whene’er you’re feeling spicy, this Thai kitchen is LA’s sweet spot.

Sweet Chili
Dine in, Take-Out, Delivery, and Catering
Mon – Thurs : 11am – 11pm
Fri : 11am – Midnight
Sat : 2pm – Midnight
Sun : 2pm – 11pm

8276 Santa Monica Blvd
(323) 654 . 2892

Sweet Mother of Chili by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

From Chicago

2008-05-01T22:11:00.000-07:00

This much is true: I have a dirty tennis ball.

I have a dirty tennis ball. It’s yellow still in some spots, but mostly it’s brown. The Odd Couple plays on the television, and I have a Wilson tennis ball. It sits on the floor beside the bags of recycling, waiting to go out. It’s just a dirty old ball with nothing to do, no one to play with, because it’s lost its bounce, and it smells, and it has no dog.

Dogs don’t care if a tennis ball smells. A dog loves a ball all the more when its fuzzy rubs off or its bouncy gets lost. A dog loves a ball when its lacing frays or a flap of rubber splits loose. People try to take a ball from a dog, but when they grasp it in their hands, they find it repulsive and throw it to the wind. But a dog always finds it. A dog always finds his dirty, old, lonely, bouncy-no-more tennis ball. A good dog, anyway.

I suppose not all dogs are good. They’re not bad either. But some dogs are less good than others. A less good dog must have been what happened to this tennis ball. It ended up by my recycling, and I don’t know how it got there. But no dog is ever going to find it inside my apartment. We’re not even allowed to have dogs in this complex. No pets. No such thing. No such love. Nevertheless, when I took the recycling out, I didn’t take out the ball. I couldn’t just throw it away. I figured, I’d find a grateful dog somewhere someday and let him have it. So I let the dirty old tennis ball be. And my roommate threw it out.

My roommate is a driven woman. She’s focused and content with where she stands in this city today. (This city is LA). And she’s clean, the organized type. She has a color-coded, post-it-note calendar, and she sprays the door handles and toilet flushes with Lysol on a regular basis. She likes to disinfect things. She made me beautiful homemade soaps for my birthday.

I took a photo from her vacation to Hawaii once, painted a copy of a golden sky in oils. When it was finished, the canvas smelled of turpentine. And as it laid to dry (over newspapers) on the living room floor, she smiled, opened the windows, and turned on the fan. But she likes it. Or I think she likes it. Anyway, she likes it more than I do. My roommate doesn't like art. She doesn't see the point, she says. But still, somehow, I think she thinks this painting is good. I, on the other hand, love art, but hate the art I make. The painting is a mess of oils, haphazardly and dull. It looks nothing like the picture. It looks nothing like I expected it would.

Nothing out here looks the way I expected it would. And nothing is like my home.

But what I have is blank space, and what is true is that I had a dirty tennis ball, and it sat beside the recycling where my art now sits, waiting to dry.

From Chicago by http://thewordofna.blogspot.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.