Entertainment

Mark Morris breezes into Sandy Hill's Los Olivos ranch house, necklaces dangling, a shawl draped loosely about his shoulders and dance company directors Nancy Umanoff and Lauren Cherubini in tow. Once dubbed "our Mozart of modern dance" by the Washington Post, Morris is the first speaker in a series of Sunday lunch-salons at Hill's ranch and Oak Savanna Vineyard.

YouTube surfers weary of webcam rants and lo-fi homemade dance routines will now be able to watch real celebrities in professionally produced shows on the popular Google Inc.-owned video site. Partnering with CBS Corp.

Back in 1966, the Sunset Strip was at the heart of the counter-culture music scene when the problems started. The famed row of nightclubs and hotels was hit by what became known as the "Sunset Strip Riots," when hundreds of young people waving "We're Your Children! Don't Destroy Us" and "Ban the Billy Club" signs protested a police-imposed curfew and anti-loitering laws.

YOUR favorite bar got you down lately? The miasma of dismal parking opportunities along the Canter's-dominated stretch of Fairfax Avenue has had you circling the Dime more times than you'd care to count. The last time you cozied up to the bartender at Frank 'n Hank's in Koreatown, a dart whizzed by so close to your ear that you could have come away with an unintended piercing.

CALL it "Korean American Idol." Soo-Man Lee's search for the next big Korean star brings him to Los Angeles to watch young performers flip their hair, swivel their hips and do their best Christina Aguilera and Justin Timberlake impressions, almost entirely in English. "The language doesn't matter. We can teach them that," Lee said. "What we need is people who understand American culture. That is what will make them stars in Asia." Lee's view may seem counterintuitive, but it appears to work.

Stephen Colbert strode up to the green marble security desk in the lobby of News Corp.'s Manhattan headquarters, where in minutes he would face off with Fox News host Bill O'Reilly, the muse for the strident, preening cable pundit he plays on Comedy Central. Suddenly Colbert realized he had forgotten something. "Uh-oh, I don't have an ID," he said with chagrin to the skeptical woman behind the desk. No worries.

FLOATING through the snow in their tinted-windowed SUVs, shrouded in baubles and whispered fears of losing it all, the Russian rich sometimes sense that their imaginations are not as outlandish as their offshore bank accounts. And so they turn to Sergei Knyazev. They call him the "producer." He loves saying that; he even embossed it on his business card.

GOING to Las Vegas without seeing a show is like getting married there without an Elvis impersonator. But how do you score the best bargains in a town where 75 ticketed shows are playing? How do you beat the ticket brokers and the high rollers to get a decent seat at a decent price? The stakes have never been higher. The average cost of a production-show ticket (excluding tour headliners) is $68.

On a Sunday afternoon in Las Vegas, at the hottest pool party in town, the Hard Rock Hotel's Jack LaFleur is the man to know. The promotions director stands at the velvet rope, deciding who will shake their booties in the sun -- and who won't. "Only girls, send 'em up!" LaFleur barks as a stream of 20-something, bikini-clad women hop the line, leaving a couple of hundred frustrated men in their wake. "No more guys. It's out of control."