Results tagged “laweekly”

's coming back on Sunday, 9pm on Showtime! This means weekly installments of nothing but gloriously bad decisions, lesbian sex both complicated and primal, stylishly coiffed men, women, and those who have yet to make up their minds, and -- possibly our favorite part--endless cups of coffee, gossip, and star guest performances at (all-purpose meeting point) The Planet.

Sometimes when you start going off about how *hysterically funny* someone is, people take it as a dare not to laugh. But Lauren Weedman cracks us up, and we don't care who knows it.

The Detroit Cobras, from the selfsame city, mix the old and the new, combining the sounds of Motown girl groups with raw garage rock. With their tough chick singer Rachel Nagy (and female guitarist Mary Ramirez), the Cobras are kinda like a certain big-haired British trainwreck minus the trackmarks. LA Weekly said it loud and clear: "No offense to Amy Winehouse, but it was the Cobras [and] Rachel Nagy who first reinvented the 60s soul-pop diva as a boozy, punk-informed, smart-mouthed chanteuse in the late 90s."

What fun! Another restaurant promotion! This one's called New Urban Eats, and it features 20 relatively new places offering three-course dinners for thirty bucks. Sunday through Thursday, throughout May except (wonder why?) Mother's Day...the one day nobody should eat out but everybody does.

Celebrate Ben Franklin's 300th birthday with the Bikini Bandits and Phillyist! (NSFW). Speaking of Mr. Franklin, send in a picture of Ben (or Ed Rendell) with a red tongue and win a free t-shirt. And they might have the next YearlyKos in Philly.

The weeks starts out right when a sucker punch on the field lands Chicagoist in the middle of a Sox/Cubs throwdown and the fists continue to fly in the comments. Despite suburban resident Ms. Pinney's best little try no books will be banned anytime soon and the El is really really gross.

That guy that's usually tapping at his laptop and gazing off into the middle distance at the cafe has suddenly disappeared. He's at home furiously typing his tell-all memoir: "The world knew me as a female refugee from the Phillipines who escaped a life of political oppression, violence, prostitution and drugs but now I must reveal myself as a midwestern white boy who lied about it all to sell a few books. The ironic thing is, none of the fake pain I was writing about can compare to the actual devastation of living with this lie for the past ten years."

Q: Hasn't Seattlest James plugged Roq La Rue enough lately?