Certainly some strangeness pervaded the Sunset Junction fest yesterday. Sure the mojitos and hors d’ouevres were flowing from its first-ever VIP Lounge inside the sweet Cliff’s Edge restaurant, but just across Edgecliffe Street was a fenced-off crater where the boulevard used to be courtesy some water that apparently exploded allegedly sending people to the hospital and the wet stuff shooting two stories high. So instead of the Edgecliffe Stage where Ashford & Simpson were supposed to be singing their signature “Solid,” there was a much more somber air along with a fleet of LADWP vehiculars and a platoon of orange-vested and hard-hatted workers milling about.
The festival wouldn’t be complete without some funk ensuing at the point of entry, and sure enough when standing in line to pay the $15 mandatory extortion fee one of the gatekeepers marched up and down the patiently waiting people announcing that jacksons were no longer fashionable. When asked WTF’s up with that she shrugged and said there was a shortage of lincolns with which to make change, to which there was much pfffff’ing and no one budged and when the wife and I arrived at the front of the line I defiantly forked over two twenties and dared the moneytaker to tell us that our bill demonination wouldn’t allow us to support the youth programs that benefit from this dysfunctional junctional. She just couldn’t. Instead she peeled off a hamilton and handed it over while another staffer adorned our wrists in bright pink cuffs.
Inside we swam a lap to
The Cramps The Black Rebel Motorcycle Club who were ripping things up on the Bates Stage. Along the way the dance pavilion at Hyperion was hopping. The freaks up above Rough Trade were freaking as if atop some strange dry-docked float in some strange Mardi Gras parade. And of the tactically alert batallion of cops that weren’t stationed stoicly on the sidelines the rest traveled mostly through the flow in standard two-by-two cover formation. Indeed, it was pretty much business and play as usual and there may not have been much to differentiate the scene from the last three I’d attended, but on the way back in between passing and saying hey to Ryan of losanjealous and spying the ever-adorable Jane Wiedlin kicking back near the Vomitron ride, there was this miracle monster tank of a unique canine we encountered hanging out near the El Cid:
His waycool handler Timothy (pictured) told us that Sebo (thanks for the dog’s name James!) is a rescued American bulldog, around five/six years old who tops out at massive and muscular 125 pounds. While I hope the image captured the creature’s super-sweet disposition, it doesn’t do the dawg’s size justice. He had the thickest neck and biggest head I’ve ever seen on a domesticated animal and we pondered the anomaly afterward at El Conq fover margaritas and munchies before threading our way home.
Other images of little or no quality are here.