and big city color with cultural flair.

I owe the drummer an Impala. The least I could do is write a glowing review.

He did, after all, save hip-hop from itself. But he's also a bit of a twit.

Chaka Khan! Let me say it again... CHAKA KHAN! Damn, that's fun. Probably best done in the privacy of your own home and not at work, but hey.

...so I Google-mapped the address, switched to street view, spun the little guy around, and hit Command Shift 4. I'd have given the rest of the fifth star if Maps noticed this was home and done something special.

Channeling a higher power, Rickles is a comedian who not only seems to know exactly what to say, but exactly how to say it without needing to apologize. Brutally, uproariously funny.

Part punk singer, part opera diva, part comedienne, part space alien - she was too much for Reagan America. Alas today, it wouldn't even be worth trying.

Kublacon mixes a variety of gaming genres in a seamless fashion. Miniatures, traditional role-playing games, trading card games, board games, games galore - but without the over-hyped sales pitch or "I just want to party" feel that has turned me off the convention scene. A good time!

To think a bunch of useless idiots would subject an artist of this caliber to a "scandal" over pictures of a Mousekatwinklestick's upper back. Perhaps there is some truth to human civilization imploding in 2012.

Everyone thought she was imitating Madonna, but really, it's Mr. Jackson she's got her sights on. Aim high, girlfriend!

...but he doesn't get five stars until he has a pony tail and thin sunglasses.

It's not about you, sweethearts! It's about the little cubes of marinated beef and pastries stuffed with ice cream.

...and that ain't bad for the elbow of Silicon Valley. Stuck between tracks and a freeway off ramp, P&E's has pool, booze, and not a lot else to get between you and tomorrow's hangover.

...can get in the way of that voice. Among today's pop vocalists, Keys stands conspicuously out; and though she must still face the proverbial test of time, almost certainly her destiny runs to that pantheon of R&B divas - alongside names we cannot name for fear of their wrath.

Typically, "singer-songwriter" translates: "if you think <singer-songwriter> is dull and whiny, it's because you hate Art." But with McLachlan, well, if you don't like her, you probably don't realize you're on the 1n7urn37, n00b20r2.

Drag shows start off with a reserve of comic goodwill, and they are certainly very colorful. But I'm thinking there really should be six.

It takes a special kind of guy to belt out "Love Story" while being stalked by Miss Piggy.

Better than all the rest; better than anyone. A genius of soul music, with more stage presence than all the beautiful girls up in front of the lights today combined. Her tragedies and caricatures only illuminate what it means to be A Star that much more brightly.

I thought at first I'd cringe going back to those old videos, but no. They were fun then, and they're fun now. Furthermore, the most little 90's boy band may also just turn out to be the most grown up.

They certainly have the skill and energy to make their own name, but right now, the AC/DC "tribute" bands seem a bit more honest.

Jones has risen above self-caricature, delivering songs with a stylistic and vocal range that exceeds both the parodies and any other singer on any other stage today. Check out the Kiss Festival video to see the old man move.

It was always difficult not to hum along back in the day, but I appreciate the unpretentious skill much more now that I am so much cooler than the cool kids ever were.

...and even seeing may not lead to believing. The orcs of Warhammer 40k have come to life and traded in their battle axes for thrash guitars (or maybe not "traded" so much as "combined").

With strong beats and lyrics that rise above the typical hip-hop front, she's a tough one not to nod your head to. Check out the video for "Bananas."

Not as flashy as disco giants, not as loud as larval headbangers, not as pretty as David Bowie or luminous as John Lennon.... There are a lot of "not as" combinations you can make for the Eagles, but they've kept what they had better than most.

There ain't no stage big enough to hold her voice or charm.

Although not quite as classically photogenic as comrade Gackt, Miyavi more than makes up for it with raw creative yin; disturbingly eccentric and no shrinking daisy.

Every anti-heroic anime Japanese video game villain out there wrapped into a freakishly beautiful real life body like just doesn't happen Out West. Oh, he sings and acts, too.

Amy Lee's lungs power one of the most recognizable voices in modern music, and the songwriting behind her puts it to good use. Powerful and creative, this rock act isn't all flash, but it is damn flashy.

Black is as profane as Archie Bunker off camera, and he wastes no time getting to the heart of our American conceits. "If there was a guy at the office who announced every day that he was greatest, by the end of the week, you'd have killed him."

They were a crazy train, those days of metal guitars and piercing vocals. He's older now, that bat out of hell, but he can still scream.

Way too many years later, I still catch myself spontaneously breaking out with "all the colors of the world, spice up your life! Every boy and every girl, spice up your life!" They were fun, those girls. And if you check out the London Live video... they actually, like, sang. Of all the "hey, remember us" tours going on, now, this act is certainly the least pretentious, and will probably be the most all out fun (possible exception: Bon Jovi).

I thought Moby threw his Wii remote into a collection of old Billie Holiday recordings, or something.

Jackson was two decades ahead of his time as a performer, and to this day, no one does the liquid dance with his command of a stage. Footage of his live performances will outlive the scandals, and his creative force can't be denied.

Though young, Dangerous Muse captures 80's technopop (Depeche Mode, DM, Dangerous Muse, get it?) remarkably well. Fleshier - "more American" - than those pasty Brits of twenty years back, this duo exudes pampered sex.

They're a toxic brew, this lot, jaded bitter old anarchists mixed together with some young turks as God never intended. Hey, is that the guy from the Verizon commercials?

No, there's not much here we've haven't seen before. It isn't about us. It's about Disney. While many of the company's other works (e.g. Sleeping Beauty, Little Mermaid) maintain a relatively timeless appeal, pop stars must be forever young, and kids today know Justin Timberlake as some old guy with a shaved head, Britney as a tragedy, the Backstreet Boys and N'Sync as... who?

Love of the self. If you don't love yourself, you can find someone who will on Polk Street. It will cost you. A lot. Matthew Melmon hasn't been to Polk Street. It's too long a drive. Maybe when he gets his ten billion dollars, he will have Polk Street moved to him. One brick at a time.

...for delivery. Would you like any rocket propelled grenades with that?

The name isn't stupid, which stands out among Yet More Emo Metal Whatsit Bands. That suggests the sound won't remain stuck between what you've heard everywhere else forever. But right now, "sounds like chicken."

One of the iconic voices of England's New Wave, Lennox has proven with longevity that success wasn't a fluke. Oh, and Manson, baby, you're beautiful, but you should have left that one alone.

Check out her home page: art deco apes, flyboys, stolen diaries, a big black horse and a cherry tree. What's not to like about this hot rock mama? Yeah, that's right. Nothing!

A self-caricature back when there was a difference between hip and trendy, back when cool meant cool but not the opposite of warm, back when hair was awful and cars were worse, back before every emotionally disturbed teenager in America had memorized every last one of a sweet transvestite's facial ticks - yes, this guy had It, baby.

Although a naughty Ganymede splashing in giant clam shells always adds a certain je ne say quah to any Greek restaurant, it's perhaps enough the seafood at Evvia is fit for tanned and preening demigods. Barely a block from University, and still it feels off the beaten track, with a fine interior and an undeniable Mediterranean buzz.

With the best interior among Palo Alto eateries, MacArthur Park provides understated, dependable elegance - somewhere one of Tom Wolfe's characters might remember how things used to work back when everything worked better. Not chic young model, but old painter, faded and better, these American ribs come with a ribbon of Tokyo silk. Not a place for every night, here's one for fond reminiscence, instead.

The interior is provincial and warm, cozy without being cramped, with enough space between tables to know that you are not alone without wishing you were. The staff sports a consistent professional look, a pleasant California interpretation of what France might be like if it were fortunate enough to also be in the Golden State. The food is also a Californian interpretation of what France might do if it were not so infatuated with cheese for the sake of cheese: the food exists in its own right, with its own flavor.

And the deserts are like buttah.

Edgy with unapologetic quirkiness, the White Stripes display a mix of visual and musical fashion that is not sure to please everyone, and that has turned out to please quite a few. Are they Bjork, or Bork? More time will tell.

The superstar of marketing self parody to millions who didn't care (and wanted everybody to know), Manson screamed his way through the 80's monster hit Sweet Dreams into a bloody fortune of wild fashion and unspeakable fame. He did everything about crap-metal better than bands who wanted to be taken seriously, and certainly knew how to make a video. He also knew when to drop out of sight, taking his recent reappearance out of "dear god not him again" and putting it in "oh yeah, that was cool."

Nothing puts the finishing touches on a supermodel like a little scandal, and Moss wears it like a diamond choker. With a body like that, she doesn't much need the sanctimonious whiners, anyway.

Three decades isn't enough to loose the disco funk, while over in Japan a biker in latex has taught the youth of Earth's most traditional economic superpower how to Y.M.C.A. It doesn't get old. No, really.

In his house at R'lyeh, dread Chthulu lies dreaming... of an invitation to tour with Ozzy.

...is sometimes better than having. This has also been put "be careful what you ask for, you just might get it." The Police had their moment in the sun, a long time ago. After a re-union tour like this, can a Vegas musical be far behind?

...than today's laser lights and drum machines, but this band has gone longer than the Energizer bunny without running out of something to say. They deserve credit for that, yes. But the world turned out less interesting than the Blade Runner dystopia late seventies prog rockers envisioned, and their message has been overtaken by more adaptable (if less skilled) species.

Timberlake looks good on the cover of a magazine and doesn't take himself too seriously despite screaming legions. With such fine marketing skills, think Madonna with a higher voice.

...but it sure is fun to sing along.

The Story reads like one of the best Dusty Springfield covers Dusty never sang. Someone needs to introduce Ms. Carlile to the son of a preacher man.

Queen was better at being Pink Floyd than Pink Floyd, and everyone knew which one was pink. Dynamite with a laser beam, baby.

Really, they were better than the rest.

Somewhere, the best thing about Fall Out Boy went from watching YouTube videos skewering the lead singer's inability to pronounce simple words to the bouwncy wouwncy woodling mewoodies. Having been burned by bands that float two radio hits on a sea of blah (Pet Shop Boys, anyone? anyone?), I now wait patiently for proof that catchy really is. "Dance, Dance" sure sounds catchy, and who can resist screaming "I am an arms dealer" stuck between Palo Alto and Cupertino for evening rush. But now at last "thanks for the memories" closes the deal: a song that is as catchy as its title (thnks fr th mmrs) is clever self-parody. But really guys, that "what the hell is he saying" thing is starting to get old.