Fuck Yeah Fest has officially ended and it was Fuck Yeah-tastic. I was on my feet for nearly seven hours, regularly traversing Sunset Blvd to see ten bands perform on Sunday. Between eight rolls of film and hundreds of digital pictures, this is day two through my lens.

Fuck Yeah Fest has officially ended and it was Fuck Yeah-tastic. I was on my feet for nearly seven hours, regularly traversing Sunset Blvd to see eleven bands perform on Saturday. Between eight rolls of film and hundreds of digital pictures, this is day one through my lens.

Marilyn Manson and Slayer bashed open our collective brains, and feasted on our souls. We in turn worshiped and thanked them for every second of it. Of course, it's a haul getting one's ass all the way out to the damned Irvine Meadows/Verizon Wireless Amphitheater, but where else can these dudes play? Promoters aren't letting all of us head bangers and moshers into the Hollywood Bowl anytime soon. Pffft... we'd destroy that place.

The stereotypical Slayer/Manson concert-goer is either wearing a black shirt, or no shirt, denim shorts, or black jeans, always long haired, sometimes tattooed, and their arms raised in the air waiting to be raptured by Satan. Our kind of people. But it is ultimately a mixed crowd ranging from a girl dressed as Nazi cheerleader, to children, even the elderly. Everyone was really friendly and excited for the show.

If you didn't have a studded belt, or a chain wallet, getting through the gates was easy. But girls for some reason really got a more thorough frisking, and took twice as long as boys. Just a few yards in there was a pack of impatient looking, long haired dudes. I took my place in the pack, and stood with my arms folded, tapping one foot anxiously, until my girlfriend was finally done being groped by security. As we were approaching the stage in the middle of Slayer's first song we learned that an ambulance had already been called for the first major injury of the night. Nobody seemed surprised.

Slayer hooked it up, because they seemed to know that it's those classic older albums that we're going crazy to hear. They didn't focus too much on showing off their new album, choosing to only play a few songs from it. Our hearts raced each time Tom Araya approached the mic, and went into one of his weird monologues, before screaming "WAR ENSEMBLE!" or "MANDATORY SUICIDE!" And before you're jaw could drop, Kerry King was churning out the riffs while banging his bald tattooed head, and Jeff Hanneman was simultaneously drilling away with the fastest hands this side of Oktoberfest. You couldn't really see Dave Lombardo that well, but when the double bass kicked in, your rib cage felt like it was going to go into cardiac arrest so was impossible to stop feeling his presence. The crowd behaved like they were being electrocuted the entire time, and loving it completely.

When Manson hit the stage, the energy of the crowd was completely different. It was high energy, and the fans were no less passionate. People were in a more of a trance, but still on their feet and pumping at least one fist. That is suiting to the nature of Manson's music, which isn't thrash-based like Slayer and has a slower tempo. Manson is a great showman, and took full advantage of the catwalk, while his band are bathed in thick colors of light as they ground out their thick layered blend of evil.

over 50 photos after the jump

Last weekend's Sunset Junction Street Fair was so fun that another photo essay was necessary. So join us after the jump for more memories of the Silver Lake fiesta and lots and lots and lots of pictures.

But instead of pics of bands like in our other bad ass photo dispatches, this essay is about the people, the food, and the services.

If you were there perhaps you will see yourself...

It has been quite some time since we have seen the Yeah Yeah Yeahs in LA.

Last night's show at the beautiful Mayan Theatre downtown was a reminder of why we need to see this band here more often.

Full Review and Lots O' Pics of Karen O. and the boys after the jump...

My family spends so much time at the Farmers Market that many of the restaurant owners know my kids by name. I even married a man who grew up in the neighborhood and spent much of his childhood exploring the rows of fruit stands, butchers, and food from around the world. Though the market has added some chains like Starbucks and the soon to open Pinkberry, the vintage charm of old LA still prevails. The market continues to be a gathering place for both locals and tourists. Last week we spent a morning buying fruit, snacking on doughnuts, and visiting many of our Farmers Market friends.

It was hot, crowded, smelly, loud, and fun.

This was the way I saw Sunset Junction through my lens...

and after it was all over, I sort of felt like this guy.

Join me after the jump for dozens of photos from Sunset Junction.

A couple hundred bodies packed Silverlake's Spaceland on Friday night to the "secret", pre-Sunset Junction show by the classic punk band Buzzcocks. The band may have started off with "Boredom" but beer didn't get spilled and bodies didn't start going crazy until "Autonomy" threw the crowd into a frenzy -- at least in the front -- where I got properly shoved and blessed with beer from plenty of enthused fans.

Los Angeles' own 3-man band The Adored opened the night with their own take of pop punk. Audience members surrounding me can be heard muttering approval and surprise at hearing a support that was so close to the Buzzcock's sound. They closed off their set with two special guests, Pete Shelley and Dyan Valdés (of The Blood Arm), taking on the vocals and keyboards respectively.

After the jump check out a dozen more pics from the show.

Compared to Tony's pictures, mine look like they were taken from outer space. Nevertheless, there is a certain satellite-like grainy quality that makes me tingle when I look at them. I hope it does the same for you. Many more pix from the milky way cam after the jump...

Day Two of the Sunset Junction was even hotter. Hot Hot Heat, Buzzcocks, and She Wants Revenge continued the heat on Sunday. There were plenty of indie hipsters, shirtless gay men, junk food, amazing street art, cheap carnival rides, and of course photographs from me.

When Licensed to Ill came out in 1986 I was selling car stereos at the Federated Group in West LA. I sold so many good speakers and subwoofers thanks to "Brass Monkey" and "Slow & Low" that oftentimes my favorite demo tape would go "missing". I bought at least six of those tapes within a year. Only a few had been stolen, the rest had gotten worn out.

So when the Beasties played the Palladium the winter of 87 with Fishbone opening, I was all over it, and when they joined Run DMC on the Together Forever tour, I was even closer to the stage when they slid across the beer-soaked Greek that summer.

Twenty-one summers later the three bad brothers you know so well have returned, older, richer, and dressed way sharper.

Photo essay of love after the jump of the summer concert you'd expect from the Beasties as they support their funky smooth all instrumental cd, The Mix Up.

I don't care if the Golden Gate Bridge gets all of the attention. It's actually an orange vermillion anyways, as folk-rocker David Dondero reminds us. I have much love for the Oakland Bay Bridge, with its geometric patterns, sweeping lines and panoramic view of the city. By the way, they will be closing the bridge down for the long weekend, so beware.

Cyberspace has given me the virtual ability to drag the entire world down to my basement to make them look at my vacation slides, and I am going to take full advantage.

I spent last weekend in San Francisco, eating in as many restaurants and hitting as many museums as possible. Here are some of my photos, including a few that I couldn't cram into my overstuffed restaurant reports. Besides restaurants, and museums. I also am attracted to random moments of humor, beauty and surrealism.

So come on down to the basement. I'm making popcorn...

Sunset Junction on Saturday was one word: damn hot.

Tons of bands played, gallons of sunscreen was applied, and hundreds of gallons of fluids were ingested.

However, the sweat poured out in a way that was quite interesting. It was as if all the fluids inside wanted to go outside to see the pretty girls, be amazed by the variety of tattoos, and listen to the beautiful music.

It didn't matter how much you drank, that liquid found a way out of your body and wanted to rock on Sunset Blvd.

Jeff "The Kogasnake" Koga aimed his camera at the music stages last night and was nice enough to let us show you some of what he caught. Most of which can be seen after the jump...

Although it might not be a surprise to you that Manhattan Beach has the hottest volleyball tournament, we had only heard rumors of the infamous Six Man and didn't believe the unreal hype.

Manhattan Beach hadn't let us down. On Sunday we showed you a sweet photo essay documenting the AVP pro beach volleyball tourney that they held down there, which led us to find out more about the Slo Motion Wave.

But what we discovered to be even cooler was the crowning jewel of Surfest, the all-day, all-night Six Man vball tourney where you can see pros mixing it up with their bros, and you can also be amazed and amused at some of the most beautiful, uh, costumes this side of Halloween.

Pubclub.com describes it as a place where:

World-class volleyball players, top college stars and disguised AVP pros don costumes as if it were Halloween. In addition to a loose attitude, they bring their incredible skills to a 6-man beach tournament. Among the teams are the "Lakers" in Afro wigs, Magnum P.I., nurses, Matrix (girls in all leather), Boy Scouts, Abraham Lincolns, the Mullets and the Six Kittens.

Here at LAist, we find it hard not to celebrate summer beach fun, athleticism, and teamwork, especially if it involves a half dozen dudes dressed up as Oompa Loompas.

So please join us after the jump where you can get a glimpse of some of the best outfits, craziest costumes, and hottest teams who all took part in Six Man earlier this month down in the South Bay as part of Surf Fest.

All photos by Jeff Homer, used by permission, and to whom we owe great thanks

While the action on the sand was unscripted, the action around it was incredibly choreographed. AVP (Association of Volleyball Professionals) knows how to market their events.

Yesterday the men's finals of the Manhattan Beach Open was held in the South Bay on the sands next to the Manhattan Beach Pier.

AVP built a stadium in the sand, complete with corporate luxury boxes and flashy attention-grabbers everywhere you turned.

The PA announcer joked with the players, and even got the crowd to do The Wave at different speed.

When LAist first noticed, it was going in slow motion and we had no idea what was going on. It was downright surreal.

Surprisingly, girls in bikinis captured a lot of our attention, so we captured plenty of them for this photo essay after the jump.

Oh, and the result? Phil Dalhausser and Todd Rogers won for the second year in a row, for those of you scoring at home.

And if you're scoring at home, use protection...

There were cross dressers, women in fishnets, a little person, celebs, frat boy authors, tattooed artists, and musicians dressed as nurses. Just another night on Hollywood Blvd? Perhaps. But mix in the opening night of an art show totally dedicated to erotic, unusual, and sometimes disturbing images of tv legends, The Golden Girls, and you get something very different, even for Hollywood.

Curator Lenora Claire was glowing as she worked her way out of the hot and happy gallery to chat with those waiting in line outside trying to get in. Inside, the walls were lined with dozens of Golden Girl-inspired art work in a wide variety of styles, and the work inspired a packed gallery full of smiles and laughter from pretty much everyone who was lucky enough to be there.

Join us after the jump for a very NSFW photo essay documenting the magical night.

The jury in the Phil Spector trial took a field trip to his home in Alhambra today. Only one member of the media -- Linda Deutsch of the AP -- was allowed in. Everyone else set up camp down the street and waited until she came out with her report.

Meet Lily the great dane, who on all fours is almost taller than Phil Spector. More behind-the-scenes photos after the jump.

Did you know that the Philippines' No. 1 fast food chain was here in Los Angeles? Well, it is. And with inventive flavor-concoctions and the best named foods around (Yumburger, Chickenjoy) what Jollibee lacks in nutritional value it makes up for in wow-factor. And grease-factor. And indigestion. Beyond the jump, behold the wonders of Jollibee...

Jollibee
3821 Beverly Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90041
(323) 906-8617

What is the point of elevating ordinary objects into works of art? Is it pretension? Is it creative genius? Under a cold, white light, and placed high behind glass, if I say a paperclip represents the complex maze of modern life and its circuitous parallels are symbolic of the duality of isolation and overexposure in an accelerated workplace, is it true?

Ask Murray Moss, the New York design guru and tastemaker extraordinaire, who has journeyed west to open the first LA outpost of his internationally celebrated, distinctively singular, shop/gallery/museum, Moss. Packed with an enviable capacity, opening ceremonies took place last weekend amid a Swarovski forest and a torched and sculpted 1938 Steinway baby grand.

The furniture and objects offered at the shop deliberately blur the distinctions between production and craft, between industry and art, and more recently, between industrial and decorative arts…The intention is to force a view of each piece based on the context of its presentation, rather than its function or material. [Moss Online]

My hunch is that snooty and magnificent design is really just prettily veiled, neo-Freudian, daytime-running, dream analysis made tangible. And with context as king and presentation with purpose, anything with a story can be admired and desired. I'm sure the floor to ceiling crystal chandeliers would agree with me. So would the sofa made out of stuffed animals.

There was a "'Funeral for State's Rights" at the Van Nuys courthouse yesterday. There has been lots of activity on the medical marijuana front of late, with the DEA busting legal dispensaries, seizing their assets and taking their medicine. I went to hear what the phriendly people adorned with pot leaves had to say, and to document the rally the best way i know how to: with a camera.

LAists Elise and Heath arrived at the screening party for David Lynch's Inland Empire last night with an hour and a half to spare, thinking that would be plenty of time to get a good seat. We had forgotten that David Lynch's fans put the cult in cult movie. There was a line stretching around the entire courtyard, with some people having arrived early in the day to stake their claim. It was not a press event, as we had thought, but an open call-out. And when Lynch calls, they come running. There was a full bar, which makes waiting in line a good deal easier. Unfortunately, there were no "free drinks" as we had been led to believe. The only thing free was Dewars, and you needed a special black VIP wristband. I asked an usher how you know whether or not you know you are on the VIP list. He asked me, "Did David Lynch call you and tell you that you are on the VIP list?"

Immediately after seeing Lost Highways in the theatre, I had had the distinct feeling that David Lynch was playing a practical joke on the audience; that maybe it was all just a big experiment to see how much we would put up with. As every single person living in LA already knows, it was really hot and muggy yesterday. Standing in line sweating, my conspiracy theory seemed more and more feasible. Maybe Lynch was standing somewhere, hidden behind a screen, watching us and taking notes.

The screening room filled up quickly, and a number of us were herded into an overflow room. We were in the very last seats in the very last row of that very last room. I would guess that there were approximately 100 people who did not make it into either screening. A movie screen was set up on a tripod in the front of the room. With the lack of ventilation and the cement ceiling with exposed pipes, it had the distinct feeling of watching home movies in your uncle's basement. Then there was one of those hilarious moments of total surrealism that made everything worthwhile.