i HEART afternoon drinks

apfelwein from the new store down the street. jb apfelwein handlung. awesome packaging.

-- Post from my iPhone

Location:Bornheimer Landstrasse, Frankfurt

vespaless in los angeles

in an effort to streamline my personal finances in the changing global economy, contribute less to an environmental meltdown, and further challenge myself on the rough and rutty streets of los angeles, i have come to a decision.

henceforth, i will be vespa-less. in lieu of riding a 200cc engine on matching pirelli rubbers, I will be cruising down santa monica boulevard on a vintage schwinn frame, courtesy of dad. this summer, while dad was still on summer break from colombia, he found his '74 racing cycle in my uncle's basement and shipped it west, to my apartment in the city.

all that's standing between me and full-time cycling is my post on craigslist. i'm waiting for the right new owner to come claim his beloved — if gently worn—vespa. it was three year and many memories ago that i hopped on the seat of my first motor-powered ride, and losing him will be counted as a loss. living on art shows, oceans, and martinis in los angeles, however, my health may be the final winner in this change.

potluck

things are gettin' a little fresh around here. it may have something to do with the longer days and the higher thermometer readings. a few weeks ago, the mercury reading surged into the nineties, which provided the perfect excuse to don the summer short shorts and head to the malibu coast.

beaching it is the quintessential summer activity here in socal, but i recently joined up with a group of east-siders for another great pastime, the ever-popular potluck.

monday was a big holiday for the greater la area, cinco de mayo, so it made sense to celebrate sunday potluck in south-of-the-border style, complete with large donkey piñatas, taco truck tacos, plentiful churros and of course flowing tequila and cerveza. i contributed a dish of oaxacan molé, with the help of the kind chef's around the corner at the reputable mexican cafe gueleguetza. love the potluck.

i HEART basalt

the bulk of the last few weeks was spent in aspen, meeting friends at high altitudes near chairlifts and double blacks, clinking cocktails at the appropriate après ski hour of 3:30, and chatting fireside late into the evening before starting the routine again in the morning. those customary happenings in place, i opted to add a new tradition to my colorado holiday: time out in basalt.

effectively the younger sibling to the older and wiser aspen, basalt ranks as one of the most flourishing and urbane tiny towns in the country. officially populated at slightly over 3,000, basalt combines the unassuming air of a colorado mountain town, hinting at its outdoor orientation (flyfishing, mountian biking, skiing), with a slightly more knowing feel of a cultivated oasis (fine dining, boutiques, and expensive art). seemingly relegated to second place behind aspen's superior reputation, basalt still hits the mark where it counts.


many of the residents of the town are previously full-time aspen residents, and the move "down valley" was predicated by a desire to purchase property at a lower-priced ticket than the impossible sky-high real estate market in aspen allows. and since i have a number of friends who have made the valley their home, it follows that i have a number of friends who now reside in basalt. which is how i found myself, days on end, enjoying visits to the local coffee shop and sights of the roaring fork river from the comfort of my friend amanda's home.

among basalt's noteworthy exports are the delicately sweet, flaky 'morning buns' at the tiny cafe bernard. located smack dab in the middle of downtown, that description of the cafe doesn't go very far in pointing out the whereabouts of the restaurant, as everything in the two-block town is essentially in its middle. the cafe is more notable for its cheery blue exterior and large window framing the tiny seating area. early each day, morning buns—a sort of hybrid sticky roll and croissant—are placed at the counter and quickly disappear with locals and visitors headed up valley to the slopes.

probably the best and least obvious choice for a relaxing day in town is a visit to the town center booksellers, directly across the street from cafe bernard. specifically, it's one of the two large armchairs sitting before the hot crackling fire that is the destination. sitting for an hour or two in the calm bookstore setting is enhanced by the bookstore's offering of complimentary coffee and tea. for its role as a small-town bookstore, the shop exceeds expectations, offering the best in new fiction and non-fiction, well-curated art books, and a pleasant children's nook. and did i mention free coffee? yes, and free (delicious too!) coffee.

for a bite of lunch, choosing between discreet val's gourmet and popular saxy's cafe is a toss up. saxy's, while not quite making my list of top coffee joints in the country, hits the spot with a cozy atmosphere, a good assortment of panini, and the much-beloved wifi. i may be partial to saxy's, however, because of the friendly staff. one girl in particular, rebecca, became such a good friend during my short stay that she nearly joined me in my road trip back to los angeles. at the last minute, she pulled out of the deal, due to work conflicts, but she made up for my supposed openness by sending me off with a gigantic free latte on the morning of my departure.

and for a delicious evening on the town, there is no better option that than the italian-infused spanish cuisine of tempranillo. between the long communal table in the bar, the cozy entranceway flanked by a bench and coat rack (note the absence of the often pesky coat check girl usually found in aspen establishments), and the truly gregarious waitstaff, tempranillo easily secured my vote for best dining experience during my three week visit in the roaring fork valley. specifically, the inclination of our server to continue filling our wine glasses long after the bottle was finished, the two extra desserts complimentarily set on our table, and the most delicious gambas barcelona—freshly roasted shrimp complemented by a rich, tangy sauce of tomato and ginger—catapulted the evening's outing into a surefire entry into this account.

back to the city i go, where the traffic never stops, pretentious dining abounds, and starbucks and borders flank every great intersection in the expansive populated mass. i fondly think of my days by the river, next to the fire, and buried under the colorado snow.

i HEART danger

since coming to aspen several weeks ago, i have made the most of my penchant for penny pinching, while still indulging in some the area's luxuries. dinner at pinõns, takah sushi, jimmy's, and social. snowboarding daily on aspen highlands. après ski cocktails at 39°, hottubbing outdoors at the base of aspen mountian, and steaming at the aspen club and spa. (let's just say it really does pay to have connections. and...friends that love you). one evening of dining, however, had less to do with my connections and more to do with my own spirit of competition.

inevitably ending the week of festivities for aspen's annual gay ski week gathering is the anticipated downhill costume contest, this year hosted by the venerable miss richfield 1981, of richfield, minnesota heritage. the annual event never ceases to draw a hefty crowd of ski-week goers, out-of-towners, and locals alike. friday morning, in a flash of inspiration, i ran through town an hour before the competition was slated to begin, gathering materials for a costume i knew was sure to place.

actually, the idea was born some hours before, as the previous night's party was wrapping up on the dance floor of aspen's belly up club. mineshaft, the assumed moniker of the night out, was a continuation of the week's theme—a sort of "welcome to the dirty mining town of the west" idea, which was imbued from aspen's mining origins in the 1800's. complete with faux stone walls and red caution tape overprinted with the more alarming "danger", mineshaft hosted dancers late into the night, rocking the night away. as the last to leave, i—along with friend christopher (who's blog contains a more fully-painted picture of the week's happenings)—gathered every bit of red danger tape in a fit of inebrieted passion. christopher's suggestion to mummy me in the stuff was enough provocation to lead me out into the night, arms full of flapping tape, headed to bed with the first thoughts of tomorrow's costume in mind.

at roughly 1pm the next afternoon, danger boy was gliding swiftly down the steep face of aspen mountain, barely clad in tightly wrapped and precariously placed danger tape, skin exposed to the 10 degree weather, and guided by the bright flames of several road flares in hand. the descent was quick. audiences gawked. at the base of the mountain, a small stage stood between the hill and the onlookers. when danger boy approached, he took one gentle leap onto the platform, sliding towards the wide-eyed patrons in the front row, barely maintaining balance as he skidded to a stop at the front edge of the platform. unstrapping his snowboard, he continued the performance with deft movents around the stage, the light of the flares leading him into rapturously fluid movements around the host, across the stage, and in front of the judges. it was surely these dynamic, inspired movements set to "eye of the tiger" that won the hearts of the people and the scores from the judges. bringing this act to first place, the scores set a new precedent a single 9 and four 10's.

it was funny, then, that minutes later when the final places were called, danger boy failed to capture either the third place spot or one of the two first place spots that came in at a tie. in fact, there was no further mention of the dubious superhero, except for front-page coverage in the town's newspaper the next morning. wrangling in the top score, danger boy was nonetheless relegated to a local myth: much hearsay, but no concrete evidence.

days later, as i was beginning to pack my bags, mentally preparing for my fated return to the city, my cell phone started buzzing. denise, the woman who was in charge of the downhill competition—the one who gathered the contestents, seated the judges, and added the scores—was calling to let me know there had been a mistake.

"you should have placed in the top three. i'm so sorry, i feel so awful! i want to make it up to you." the next night, courtesy of denise, my friend natasha and i were dining at aspen's finest sushi spot, matsuhisa. the dinner was lovely, of course, and anyone who knows me understands the dynamics between me and a free meal. but really, i wasn't discouraged at all by the lack of correct computation in scoring the competition. by now, it is easy to see, that my reasons for such behavior transgress the mere desire of obtaining a prize. if it weren't for you, my dear blogging friends, i wouldn't have the desire at all.

a new hope

amanda speaks with a slight accent that is hard to place, a few dropped r's and some soft a's, her full australian accent buried beneath years of american influence. at full height, she stands about 5'7" and has the long, thick blond hair that hoards of women over the past decade have envied, one trip to the salon after another. at 40 years old, amanda has the spirit of a young girl, laughing contagiously and seemingly capable of taking on any situation with verve and determination, a smile perpetually tugging at her lips.

i'm planning to meet amanda on aspen's deeply powdered slopes tomorrow for a few runs. despite knowing her for four years, I have never ridden a double black—or a chairlift, for that matter—with amanda, but i'm eager to see her cruise. amanda sits in a chair specially designed and equipped with a single ski. reclining in her chair, she has two ski poles, one in each hand, and attached to the bottom of each pole is a smaller, single mini ski. for the past 18 years, amanda has been using her monoski to hit the slopes, her lower body always suspended above the snow, because she has no use of her legs.

on friday morning, amanda will board a flight headed to delhi, india. this trip will be amanda's second to india, as well as her second to visit dr. geeta shroff, an infertility specialist at delhi's nu tech mediworld. dr. shroff's knowledge of the human fertilization process has led her over the past decade into the controversial world of human embryonic stem-cell research, and because of the breakthroughs dr. shroff has made recently, a small window of hope has begun to open in amanda's life. during her first session with dr. shroff in the summer of 2007, amanda began to see the first signs in 17 years of an improved physical state. for the first time, amanda is able to crawl forwards and backwards, wiggle a few toes, and even control her own bowel movements—something she has not done since february 27, 1992, when a snowy mountainside tumble rendered her paralyzed from the waist down. now, with the help of a single embryonic cell, amanda is receiving treatment in a small, foreign hospital which, to much of the world, is still viewed with contempt and derision, and in some cases is dismissed altogether as the fluke of a veritable scientist gone mad.

but for amanda and scores of others from around the world who have made delhi their destination, hope is being restored. patients with challenges from across the spectrum, from diabetes to autism to brain and spinal-cord injuries, have received treatments from the very same, single human embryonic stem cell. and each of them—with varying degrees of challenges and improvements—has seen change, something that was previously deemed impossible. for amanda, the vision is quite clear: restored use of her legs is a possibility. one day, she may walk again.

moving forward

riding the train, i speak to a woman about two workers who are dropped at a work station in the middle of our journey. light snow is swirling its way to the ground, building upon deep snow drifts through which the workers must wade to reach the station. the woman, with a soft southern drawl—and inexplicably headed west, toward her home—offers opinions and tidbits of trivia and knowledge that ostensibly help us understand this vehicle, the romance of which seems to be lost in our modern culture. "in the 1800's, it was common for trains to stop along their routes to pick up passengers. some were workers, but others...well, if the trains saw people standing there, needing to get on, they would stop. it was the only way for some people to travel."

strangers on this trip are eager to give their two cents. it's as if we are removed from the world of post 9/11 behavior, where people are frightened of foreigners, of the public, of each other. there was no security screening before hopping on board, 5 minutes prior the train's departure. earlier, when my dad asked what time i was arriving at the station, i told him i didn't need to allow more than 15 minutes. despite my misgivings about public travel, there may be respite in this form.


the winter landscape passes by slowly. i want the train to move faster—not because I'm in a hurry, but because i want the thrill of a speeding vessel on slick tracks, careening precariously over rocky edges, weaving in and out of small tunnels.

"a bald eagle! a bald eagle right there on the river!" remarks the husband "those things are kinda rare. you don't see much of them." beyond the river and the bald eagle, a lone house, no larger than a single room and a kitchen, stands amid a freshly fallen valley of snow, a large, cold quilt of pristine beauty. from my view in the lounge car—wide windows that frame my vision—the frost and tiny silvery pillows lay silently, untouched on the boughs of the spruces.

"it's a long ride" husband says. "it's much slower coming up this way than it is going back down towards the river." the words are uttered, meant to be forgotten, and i know he doesn't mind. now, neither do i. we are a culture of fast: get-it-done-and-on-to-the-next. hurry up to wait. this ride is a reminder of the peace that comes from contentment, enjoying the journey and not just the destination.

the stranger, the husband, their two little girls, sit perched on their swivel chairs, eyesight bounding across the imposing landscape, as our train follows the tumbling, icy river towards our next stop. as if to remind us that we are, indeed, still moving towards the end of a new decade, one of the little girls remarks, "it's just like in 'brokeback mountain!'" not quite i think to myself, a smile forming on my lips but. . . not so far off, either.

cheers!

re: © murakami, i would like to give a shout out, a little link of praise, if you will, to my friend mallory, who so lovingly supplied her vip pass so we could enoy said exhibition in relative splendor and ease. mallory offers her own review of the show here.

© murakami

anyone that's honest will admit that the best part of opening night gallery-going is the free booze. if you keep a tally of the city's best gallery openings based on its offering of liquor, the list won't be helpful in pointing the typical artforum fan towards the best new works in la, but it will be a handy tool in offering aunt elma from ohio the best night on the town: both for cost-effectiveness and as a shocking not-for-tourist look at what this dirty city of angels is all about these days. for instance, i know that if you have a hankering for the whisky-of-the-hipster-hour (dewar's) and the finest cheap ginger ale (reed's), head to thinkspace in silverlake. although the gallery's lowbrow curation may suck (haven't i seen enough mark ryden, tear-falling pre-teen nymphy goth knockoffs already?), all the better: it's at openings of this caliber that i don't mind making three or four trips to the bar (being sure to tip a buck here and there. this stuff isn't really free, after all), just in order to forget the mess of wannabe camille rose-garcia/tim burton hybrid imitations that adorn the walls of this establishment. the party is why we came, and the party will be had.



for a quiter evening on the town, steer aunt elma towards the beaujolais wine country, tastes of which were featured at blk/mrkt during the recent opening for its owner and artist in residence dave kinsey. while the art was palpable (even if in an overpriced, graphic designerly sort of way), and at least finely executed, the only way to forget about the slightly high numbers of west hollywoodians in attendance (we are in culver city, after all) was conversing with the wine servers who enjoyed imparting a quasi vinoteca atmosphere to the binge drinking with explanations of the beaujolais wines on tap. the servers, as opposed to the woman i overheard commenting "i just love big art" about the show's oversized and overpriced magnum opus (see above), at least sounded like they knew their stuff. even if they didn't, they gave me good wine that remained tasty as long as i could remember tasting it.

rarely, however, do the forces of a note-worthy and lustable party combine with the sheer force of the art in exhibit, as was the case at the murakami opening at moca's geffen contemporary. i say sheer force, because the exhibit is less a look at art in the contemporary mode of pushing intellectual boundaries as it is an in-your-face flaunting of the nature of what has now become art, namely over-sized flowered walls of easily mass produced vector artwork and ostentatiously commercial louis vuitton bags that will be knocked off tommorrow by the artisans of santee alley just steps away from the museum's little tokyo residence. not to mention that the loft space housing the exhibition itself plays a role in the efficay of the work as an intellectual scare tactic. it's imposible to step into a space of such magnitude—high ceilings, cement floors , industrial-clad stairs—and say, "this isn't art." the vast space surrounding the work acts as that assymetrically opposed "white space" necessary for any contemporary piece to be considered such. and all this enjoyed through the lens of inebriated joy makes it that much more spectacular. which is fitting, considering the only notable comment that the show offers is an inflated warholian ideal of pop accessibility and mass commercialization, an idea not altogether at odds with other postmodern fixations in attendance that evening, namely hollywood glamour, partying, and binge drinking. really, an opening of such ideals would not be complete without proper amounts of beer and liquor (which, now that i am pushing back through the hazy memories, i realize there weren't: my first drink was supposed to be gin. but i settled for vodka, as they were already out!). ultimately, the booze is what made the opening bearable, especially when thousands of party goers created massive lines and the waiting to look at equally massive canvasses painted with preteen-friendly smiling flowers crossed the threshhold of several hours. so a note when sending aunt elma to the moca: be sure to slip a vip pass into her pocket; it certainly made my evening much more bearable.

i HEART guatemala

a quick snapshot: my friend corbin, my boyfriend ryan

motorcycle diaries

so much for the gold lamé.

this last week saw me board my first aircraft since my rather uneventful winter break on the slopes at sundance. the events of the last few days though were hardly uneventful. spoiler alert: gold lamé and neon pink plaster casts will not be featured together in the same figh gnarts routine.

late thursday night, i boarded a plane with seven friends, destined for guatemala. after the flight into guatemala city, and skipping any tour of the city altogether, we headed directly for the sunny, tourist-driven colonial establishment of antigua. leaving no time for trinket shopping or mercado bartering, we lounged leisurely in a lush courtyard while nibbling on a traditional guatemalan breakfast consisting of an egg, slice of queso fresco, pureed blackbeans and fried plantains (not to mention the tastilty acidic guatemalan cup of joe).

straightway after the meal, our itinerary took us to the somewhat less-visited san pedro on the bank of lake atítlan, beneath smouldering vocanic peaks. all that need be said is that much hammock-lying, cerveza-drinking, and sunbathing ensued. although the population of san pedro is small, the influx of spanish-speaking, ganga-smoking, reggae-loving travelers over the last decade has transformed the dreamy area into a small, non-traditional tourist destination, a paradise of daytime relaxation and lively nightlife.


minutes before our return to antigua, several friends and i were cruising through rural guatemala, secretly playing out our own half-hour version of motorcycle diaries (maybe it was just me?). we cruised through tiny stone-clad villages, past local familes walking home from the fields, around the brightly-decorated "chicken bus," a typically crammed-full-of-passengers and teetering-precariously-along-small-country-lanes version of public transportation. despite my own history of two-wheeled riding, i do occasionally (or rather often some might argue?) take a small spill; which is exactly what happened on the outskirts of the bustling little village of san juan de laguna.

now i am somewhat sullenly resigned to my en-cast arm, and again enduring my daily life in los angeles (despite delaying plans for the sophomore figh gnarts release), the cool evenings eating al fresco and the warm days traversing village paths in the heart of guatemala are enough to make me think i would do it all again, even if the result is still a hardened neon-pink cast.

i HEART gold lamé

yes, dear friends and beloved fans, another few months of failed new-year's promises have passed. however, please be watching over the next coming week or two, as i HEART will be providing very entertaining new material.

the prodigious pair of prancers known as the figh gnarts will soon be debuting their new "dance single" which includes all the necessary spins and twirls one would expect in a performancde by ther duo, not to mention more than just a few yards of shiny new gold lamé to package the new product.

so, keep your eyes peeled.

i HEART a winter break

i left the breezy warmth of socal today for the bitter cold. the transition from blustering 40-degree los angeles nights to the harsher 15-degree utah frigidity is not easy to warm up to. but, just like my accommodating self (who not too long ago joyously frolicked in the sub-freezing colorado mountains), i managed to wrap the scarf a little tighter, zip the coat a little higher, and muster a bit of winter-air callousness, making my annual trek to utah's renowned film festival in search of a new big-screen gem or an old washed-up celebrity.

i intentionally woke up after my 7:45 am flight had already departed today. even though the thought of an early—and therefore dirt-cheap—flight sounded fine at the moment of purchase, yesterday's late-nite romping, in additon to a busy work week and lack of packing time (not to mention sleep!), put the terrible decision into its proper context. 7:45 is much to early to fly.

at 1:30 this afternoon, the interminable line at the check-in desk didn't wrest from me any anxiety, because my flight had already left hours ago, and i would be waiting any number of hours for another one anyway. after waiting for days for the single attendent to finish with the 5 people ahead of me, i was given a standby ticket by a questioning agent; and with my "i guess i'm a little late, but i just got to the airport" reply, i made my way to the den of hell: the tsa gate".

for those of you familiar with i-HEART politics, you understand that the staff here loves the act of traveling, but it is those pesky details like security and metal detectors and tsa agents that undermine the experience as it was intended. however, in an unusually chipper mood, i stepped up to the gatekeeper of the denizen, the little korean lady who takes id's and checks them against boarding passes. i'm not sure who told her it was her responsibility to maitain the airline's standard of two carry-ons per passenger, but it was with proud defiance that she denied my two bags and another much smaller tote containing a few essentials such as a very long green scarf, a pair of shoes, a winter jacket, all my toiletries, a few more scarves, a week's change of underwear, two weeks' change of socks, and a hair dryer.

at first i balked, for only three weeks earlier, and under the stress of holiday traveling, i had been stopped neither by tsa personnel nor gate agent when i attempted, successfully, to board a flight with these three same bags. my atypical accommodating attidude, however, prevented my making a fuss; instead, i turned around and found the nearest bench in the ticketing area. in epiphany, i proceeded to empty the contents of the tiny tote and rearrange its contents into my other bags and onto various body parts. minutes later, the three recently filled bags were condensed into two bulging—nay, exploding—pieces of luggage, while i myself was wrapped in two winter coats, three scarves, a pocketful of socks and a toiletry bag tucked safely somewhere underneath both billowing pieces of outerwear.

needless to say, tsa couldn't say much about two carry-ons, regardless of their over-abounding contents, nor could they dissuade me from donning such ridiculous amounts of cold-weather gear. after all, both they and i knew that in just a few minutes i would strip down to essentially my socks and panties anyway.

it's safe to say i'll be warm this week. and regardless of what happens over the next few days, it's safe to say that i have arrived at the film festival, with it's hollywood hullabaloo and petty partying, with the proper (though often berated) attitude: there is always a back door.

i HEART coffee

what was merely a staple of the yuppie scene 10 years ago, the american coffeehouse is now a staple of american culture. a majority of thanks is due to starbucks's institutionalizing of the product, and—while the staff at i HEART feels the green giant still brews a mostly decent cup—the trend has happily spawned (and maintained) hundreds of smaller establishments across the country.

the i HEART team is pleased to bring you its picks for the best of american coffee from those establishments.

best coffeeshop
lux coffeebar, phoenix

although the decor reads as shabby chic, the music rocks and the wallpaper is artistically pieced together from scraps of paper on which old poems and stories were scribbled. the homeade treats are flaky and perfect, and the shop even employs a roast master to finish off its own beans. the baristas are smiling and charming, and they definitely know how to pull a good espresso and steam a perfectly frothed pot of milk. while some shops like to feign coziness and forgo wifi access, lux realizes its place in the modern world and offers it for free. and despite its absurd locaton in one of the hottest (literally) places in the states, this phoenix shop knows how to make you forget.

best hipster hang:
chango, echo park, los angeles

beck moved long ago to the hills of hollywood from this east side neighborhood, but his 2007 counterparts are still the hippest hipsters on the west coast. while other cities' hipster haunts may do their best, it is only in a place like la where the casual bedheaded youngsters are disguising their beautiful looks under scarves, skinny jeans, and retro glasses since their last magazine spread or music gig. one of the best perks of this shop is its location just off the busy sunset boulevard, nestled on the corner of a slow street where one feels privy to a hidden neighborhood secret. and contrary to many of its los angeles competitors, it offers free wifi. not only does chango brew one of the strongest and cheapest cups of coffee, but if you order your coffee to stay, you are entitled to the unheard of free refill. and you might as well stay since you stood in line for 10 minutes just to get a cup.


best east coast scene:
doma cafe & gallery, west village, nyc

despite a lack of internet access, this west village establishment is always packed with mac computers, four-eyed thirty-somethings, and sexy librarian-looking lasses. going to doma makes one feel like he ought to be a writer, live in a brownstone, and wear cardigans all winter long. that is, if you didn't already before you visited this downtown shop. it's just the sort of place you want to sit on a windy autum day and watch the constant flow of customers at the counter. while the intensity of the coffee may be lacking, the atmosphere certainly isn't and that counts for a lot.

best west coast scene:
alcove cafe and bakery, los feliz, los angeles

if you have never noticed the lack of day jobs in los angeles, take a trip to the friendly alcove where the outdoor seating is always filled with pretty young things and their distinguished-looking counterparts. the sort of crowd that appreciates the boutique version of urban outfitters is always stylish in a casual los angeles manner. the decor is perfectly manicured (don't look, but the tiny plot of grass my not be real), which is refected in its decision to serve decadently sumptuous portions of salads, sandwiches, and cakes along with decent coffee. if alice escaped wonderland and opened up a subdued version of what she found in her adventures, this would be it.

best cappuccino:
joe the art of coffee, west village, new york city

one who knows a good cappuccino appreciates the perfect proportion of espresso to the minimal bit of milk, the tangy bite of the nutty shot, and a perfectly frothed cap of milk that—though warmed by the steam—is light enough to be almost suspended above the drink but still maintain its thick creaminess. a three-store manhattan chain, the best of the bunch is the west village location on waverly. although the small shop's ambience is eerily similar to that of any trendy chain's, the amazing, perfectly created cap overshadows any ill feelings toward's the operation's aim. besides, the two benches out front are perfect for people watching.

best home roast:
alterra at the lake, lafayette hill, milwaukee

the cold northern midwestern city of milwaukee is probably not next on your travel list, but at least when you do visit (most likely for christmas or a family wedding) you are sure to find a good morning stop, and one of the best at that. although alterra has become a mini-chain, serving drinks from a few mall installatons across the city, its lakefront property on the east side is still as good as it gets. not only does the location utilize a defunct city water treatment plant, but it does so well. the loft-like seating overlooking the main floor is typically full, and the atmosphere remains cozy despite the open, two-story plan. the best part about this city institution is its own assortment of beans, well roasted to any preferred darkness. with a hip aesthetic to match its baristas, it's safe to say that this establishment will only continue to do well.

best espresso:
cafe gitane, nolita, nyc

before nolita became the new soho just blocks away, cafe gitane was serving dark and morbid demitasse cups full of espresso to the haute hipsters downtown. still the place for a plate of greens or a crusty piece of baguette served with butter, this tiny, bustling joint manages to fullfill the fashionable francophile's fantasy of rivaling paris's offering on this side of the atlantic. but remember, the french expect good espresso, not pleasantries; and you shouldn't expect any either.

best newbie:
inman perk, inman park, atlanta

since its opening less than a year ago, inman perk has gained a steadfast audience. nestled on a sidestreet and hidden behind a single-story office building facade, the interior is a pleasant surprise of dwell-cum-wallpaper design. slinky couches line a wall-long bookshelf, and the island housing raw sugar and carafes of creme is custom made to fit the coffee condiments. the well-tuned staff serve great drinks, and they stream a playlist seemingly made from the morning's scouring of pitchfork. free wifi is the perfect accompaniment to the dark coffee ordered from the pretty girl at the counter.

best cuddling:
uncommon ground, lakeview, chicago

when the snow storms and the wind whistles (oh, and it does) duck into this cozy establishment just blocks from venerable wrigley field. although the once tiny hole-in-the-wall has been expanded and now has an entrance on clark street, the fire still roars, and the couches are just as inviting. large cappuccinos, meant to be cupped with both hands and served in small bowl-sized portions add to the fire-side appeal of the joint. it's easy to stay, especially when leaving means donning a heavy parka in favor of wrapping yourself in your date's arms.

best read:
bauhaus books & coffee, capitol hill, seattle

although it may not be the coffee capital's best cup, the remaining essential elements are in just the right place to make this capitol hill hang the sort of casual coffeeshop that fits seattle's reputation. the endless shelves of books nod to the fact that the regulars are the types who might sit and discuss green politics rather than pink paris. then again, that's seattle for you. the upstairs seating area is quiet enough for some down time, while the downstairs offers sweeping views of the city's skyline. one part dusty den, one part post grunge, and one part post grad, this is just what seattle ordered.

i HEART the new year

the staff at i HEART understands that there are moments when all possibilities for youtubing and googling have been exhausted, tedious seconds when clicking the refresh tab above an open email reveal no new note, or darkened hours continue when one wishes to stretch the minutes before depowering the computer and turning down the sheets yet the tired mind is unable to forage the net to yield new entertainment.

therefore, as the new year rings in, HEART this, i HEART, and all associates thereof pledge this as a new resolution: more coverage, more stories, more reporting, and more to HEART for 2007. when the mind numbs and fingers fail, simply click your bookmarked link to HEART this for a few more trivial words from us.

is the price really so right?

what is it that makes bob barker and his glittering, neon-colored curtains so appealing to the masses? and i don't mean only to the masses of 60-something grandmothers from north dakota and iowa. what about the 23-year old military boy from san diego who is almost a certainty on any episode of the price is right? there are even the young, beautiful college girls on vacation from the east coast who squeal when their names are called to "come on down." it's easy to relegate this excitement to the materialistic prizes offered on the show and their effects, yet when was the last time an average american kid reeled with melodramtic suprise and nervousness from a circa-1992 solid oak dining set or a standard two-door refrigerator? still, an overabundance of joy and bizarre excitement is very present and even expected on this show that is a classic staple of american daytime television.

to me, that's exactly where the pleasure lay: daytime televesion. sure, the glimmering lights, shiny new toys on stage, a chance to climb the stairs and drop the discs in a game of plinko, the barbie-esque figures of the show's presenters, and even the chance to see someone from ohio or arkansas on national television all contribute to the shows effects (and let's not forget the freakishly skinny microphone held so steadily in the host's hands. who doesn't love the thing?). to me, however, the magic is due to the mysterious hour of the show's air time. when i was young, i assumed the show came on about the time of elementary reading hour or mid-morning recess or maybe a very sleepy morning science class. but the point is, i never knew exactly when the show aired, because i only managed to catch a random episode (and watch it with a sort of guilty pleasure) when i knew i was really supposed to be doing something else. either i took a sick day from school, i was missing school on vacation with the family, or i was supposed to be at work but managed to get out of it in order to lie around the house in my underwear. how could something so wrong feel so right?

with news of of barker's retirement next june and with a lack of proper entertainment to keep me interested on my birthday, i decided to fulfill that life-long goal of seeing the skinny mic in person, and i treated myself to the show for my 25th birthday. i was willing to enter a state of undue euphoria for the sake of finally piecing in a part of the puzzle of classic american culture i lacked.


to make a long story short, and to condense the 9-hour day into a few sentences, i made a fool of myself in just the way one ought when attending a taping of such importance. despite the day's inherent importance as my birthday, none of my friends joined me when i found my place in line at 5:15 am on december 11. so i quickly became friends with several filipino girls who stood behind me in line, and for the remainder of the day was as much a part of their gaggle as were the sandwiches and donuts they fed me in the late moring. when it was time to enter the studio at 1:00 pm, it was only the adrenaline from seeing the multi-colored drapes and shiny stage props in person that boosted our energy. the next hour was a flurry of cheering for bob, waving the proper hand signals to contestants on stage, and nervously waiting to hear the next contestant's name.

i was never called down to the front, i didn't get to bid on a prize, and i walked away from the show with no birthday gifts. i was happy enough when one of my new filipino friends made her way to the front, swept the price boards, spun the wheel to the $1.00 mark twice, and won the showcase showdown. at least i was with the family of winners. and if one happens to watch the show on january 30th, it is possible to see six filipino girls followed by a blond boy in glasses jumping hysterically on the stage as the credits roll.

a puzzle piece in place, 10 seconds of daytime tv fame, and an embarrasing bit of overexertion later, i definitely feel—although i may not know why—that something seemingly so wrong somehow feels so right.

i HEART downtown

my newest hood: downtown. although the sum of my la life is a mere six months, i have spent it in many corners of the city. first it was the northern world of "the valley" in studio city. then i took a few months to explore the consciously trendy hipster hotspot of silver lake. this past week, in the middle of getting the boot from my swell silverlake pad and overtaking a two-month lease for friend hatnim's tiny studio in koreatown, i bunked with a fellow figh gnarts member on a quiet but urban stretch of street in la's mystifying downtown.

naomi and i took a "vacation in our own city," trying our darndest to become aquinted with the hidden little gems of the oft-overlooked portion of the city just east of the 110. here are my pics for a good time downtown:

a latte from the bishop, where owner susie (also a native coloradoan!) will let you have a bite of her amazing chicken salad. just be careful of the locale late at night, because into the upstairs lofts is where we spotted paris fluttering during an evening visit to her boyfriend.

for a more legitimate paris experience, try a flaky croissant at cafe angelique, nestled into a trianglar corner of traffic where spring and main meet.

for lunch, spend the afternon with a glass of wine and panini at the fashion district's tiara cafe, an organic gem.

lounge for at least an hour by the edge of the standard hotel's rooftop pool. just be certain to jet before the flurry of activity by the well-heeled picks up when the sun goes down. unless you're into that scene.


i propose, instead, a visit to the best little dive bar downtown: hank's. there's never beer on tap (they're still waiting for the keg to come in apparently), so a good gimlet or grolsch will do. be careful not to touch the mannequin or try dimming the harsh lights in the back room. although a great gal, deb is territorial about her bar.

for a snack, grab a delicious double-dipped french sandwich from the century-old establishment philippe's the original. still original, still delicious, still coffee for 9 cents.

for a less authentic gritty crowd, throw your cash down at the beautiful golden gopher. perhaps a little too trendy for it's own good, at least one can buy a pack of smokes (not for my delicate lungs, of course) at the tiny little liquor market in the corner or pop in a few quarters at the surprisingly well-curated jukebox.

and if the tunes you choose keep you partying well into the night, head to one of los angeles's very few afterhours venues, the deliciously illicit speakeasy. illicit, because there is no liquor license. delicious, because the no-smoking law is flouted in favor of a more aesthetically european experience: smoky, dimly lit, and sometimes even a little three-piece jazz number. only on thursdays. location undisclosed.

a good home

this weekend will be the final stop on my two-month long tour of some of los angeles's best loved homes. granted, i have only seen a sliver of what the city has to offer, but i was happy enough to tread on the precarious wooden mini-deck that skirts the exterior of the iconic case study house 22.


after reading a small clip in the times a few months ago, i mmediately signed up for the four-course tour of homes sponsored by ca boom that treats guests to private dwellings across the city, from silver lake and los feliz to the hills of west hollywood. this saturday i will finish up the tour in the hills of mt. washington, taking a peek at classic mid-century gems as well as brand new designerly dwell-esque digs.

i HEART sprinkles

naturally, there are delicious treats awaiting every corner of this city, but few delicaciesare as simple as the tiny expensive candy-coated cupcakes of sprinkles. so what if the 20-minute line is always out the door and down the sidewalk at the tiny beverly hills establishment? at least the red velvet—with which los angeles maintains a deep love affair—is some of the very best to be found.

hollywood and highland

for your viewing pleasure: the figh gnarts.