Year In Review
I learned my lesson from last year. I chose to stay in this year to start 2005. And anyway, I’m curious to see how Regis will fare in Dick’s stead. I interviewed Mr. Clark once, you know. He really did look about 38, but his hands didn’t.
Jose said that I should also do a "Worst Of" for contrast. I thought about that, and decided that I didn't want that list memorialized. It's in my head somewhere. Those things happened and for better or for worse, left their impression. And I don't even want my wicked mind going through the selection process.
A new look for a new year. And look, Alex, comments!
Karen’s Best of 2004(in no particular order)
Nashville, Tennessee. I got to see my very first plantation after 11 years of anticipation. I saw the rolling green hills and listened to country music the whole time (frankly, I had no choice). I ate fried chicken pretty much every day. Hip hop and dirrrty South! And I had a couple of nice escorts.
San Francisco, California (twice). What I will never forget is that amazing Thai restaurant down by Union Square. And almost panhandling in Berkeley, for some reason I do not forget.
Portland, Oregon. I was a repeat offender. But everything there drew me like a moth to a flame – greenery, serenity, roses, everything I never knew I liked.
Moot Court. Attending a banquet where both Justice Scalia was present and I had on great Prada heels. And whiling away the down time with Paige and Mel, with whom I started it all.
Third Avenue. The last year in San Diego with Bread et Cie, Saffron, Bombay, Rags, Extraordinary Desserts, and Tandoor. Unfettered freedom, an incomparable time.
L&R on First Avenue. Everything I learned was invaluable, and in the end I was so grateful for finding goodness in the most unlikely of professions.
My surprise birthday party! One of the best and most perfect nights.
Getting the hell out of law school. Oh yeah, I cried up there as I picked up my J.D. And then we all had Japanese buffet somewhere where I picked up a shitload of fancy gifts. Too bad law school didn’t refine me none.
San Diego friendship and family. The best group of people in the world.
BEC and Associates. What a character.
”Distraction”. Confucius say, “Just when girl think girl hit rock bottom, girl go and win car somewhere.”
Karaoke Champ!. So hokey that it merits mentioning.
Cirrus. Together at least 18 hours a day for 3 months, with the Bar and pilates and Let’s Go and dim sum and Indian food and sinful chocolate indulgence, la bella originale.
Po. Parallel lives since August 2001, and never more than an impromptu phone call or instant message away.
Tracy. Whose joyfulness is infectious, whose support is empowering.
Jose. You’re back, and it’s like you never left, and you make the days better. And you drive stick.
The (Now Annual) Holiday Party. Best cast of characters and lasting warmth.
Dozer. With me.
Los Angeles, California. Thank you for having me back.
Happy New Year, everybody!
Have Gas, Will Travel
There is something very exciting for me in having a full tank of gas. It is as if there are a myriad of possibilities in the freedom to roam. I try not to remember on these occasions that my full tank of gas actually costs close to forty dollars. Well, every type of freedom has a price.
I found myself today in another part of LA that I hadn't seen, with stately homes in all different colors. I ended up on the wrong doorstep, making my apologies and rushing off to find the correct address. My work days are so strange.
And then I was driving back to the Westside, running on empty not in my gas tank, but in my stomach. But the problem with driving home in LA is that there is not just one way, but rather, some eighteen ways. The consequence of a gridded urban plan is that the shops on every corner and lane will tempt you on the road home. I tried to plot a path back where one could be a stopover. But I was partially delirious with hunger, and nothing made sense. And one by one, the cafes passed me by, and the promise of a new pastry treat or a novel panini combination lapsed.
It amazes me that you can dwell on something, live with something, and be that something for so long. And then one day you will wake up and it is just not there anymore. And with that, there is a rare clarity, coupled by a sadness in having let go. It is always difficult allowing yourself to forget, even if they are bad memories.
A new year means having new hair. Especially if it's done by Carlos!
Prone
The clue was, "One way to lie." I'm having a tough time with the Times crossword puzzle today. Does anybody know the 10-letter word for "British benevolent society since the 18th century" ending in D?
Very much feeling like myself again.
Love the 007 Days of Christmas, despite disliking most of Spike TV. The marathon is perfect for Bond fans who work from home. However, it does appear that they were not able to acquire the rights for
Goldfinger, my favorite.
"Distraction" will be on Comedy Central on January 18. Can't wait until my episode airs!
A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Produce Section
I have a friend who says that he is a lightning rod for drama queens. I may well be a lightning rod for crazy old codgers. My mission today was to pick up some olive oil and grape tomatoes. At the tomato section, I came across a portly and somewhat disheveled gentleman carefully picking out these tomatoes of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
He was aware of my presence. "These are
heirloom tomatoes!" he told me, turning to me as if I would naturally be curious.
"Oh," I commented, "Yes, they're very interesting-looking." There were some very large ones, some spotted ones, and some tiny green ones that had the look of lizard skin.
"They are delicious. Just delicious." And then he began detailing to me how he had gone to several markets just to stock his supply, and how this particular Ralph's was one of the only ones to sell them. ("Yeah, I get my Grapples here," I agreed.) He told me that the best way to eat them is to have a paper thin onion slice, preferably Maui, along with it, and use a little vinegar and perhaps a little salt. Don't bake it, though. Have it at room temperature. Did you know that refrigerating tomatoes actually makes them rot more quickly? I was getting wrapped up into it. I started picking out tomatoes with him and we quickly found the ones that were bruised. I decided I had to try one, as well.
He started examining the tomato I had in my hand. "Um, this isn't quite ripe. Listen, let me buy this for you. You've never had one before and you can't very well spend six dollars on a tomato. I'll just buy this one for you."
And then we got into another conversation where he revealed that he is an attorney. We began talking about the Bar exam and the typical February passage rates. He was a Trojan, and ribbed me a little for being a Bruin. Oh, you do insurance defense? Tell me you are not working that many hours a week! Karen, you have to study!
Back to the tomatoes. This one's perfect. You see how this one is sort of dark orange? I generally cut off the top, and the bottom, but have a very thin slice. Yeah, it will taste good too if you have it like a caprese. Tell me that you have very good balsamic though.
"Listen," I told him, "I can't have you buying this for me. How about you give me one of the hand-picked tomatoes from your stash instead?"
He looked at his little collection. "Yeah, I have more at home. That's a good idea. I'm a little eccentric." (You think??) He weighed one of his perfectly ripe tomatoes, then handed it to me. Not quite a pound. Affordable.
He handed me his business card. "If you're interested in criminal work... anyway, let me know how that tomato turns out!"
On his way to the checkout, I noticed that several of the grocers waved at him and greeted him. Just another day for this heirloom tomato-collecting lawyer.
And that is how I ended up buying a four-dollar tomato today.
On the South Beach Diet
That is, if the South Beach diet is a steady consumption of warm flourless chocolate cake and coffee.
I make warm chocolate cake. I make it often and I make it quite well. I experiment with it every time, and I can't get enough of it. I feel guilty after I've eaten the whole thing, but it's such a satisfying, decadent, and luxurious experience. The chocolate sauce oozes out when I delve into it with my spoon. The powdered sugar helps crust the top. And the vanilla bean ice cream makes the gooey sauce even creamier. I add a dab of espresso to the batter if I don't have Valrhona handy. I know how much butter, eggs, sugar, and chocolate go in it. And I will still let it enter my body.
OK, but actually, I am trying to get on the South Beach diet, if only to put Reyna's present to use. I had a mozzarella and artichoke omelette this morning, South Beach-inspired. After I phase this chocolate cake thing out, I'm in the clear.
Sam likes my blog! Thanks, Sam. Helping to make the workday tolerable, one entry at a time. So I'd like to think.
I Like Nice Things
Boy, do I like nice things. One of the best things about being back in LA is the ease with which I'm able to hit up Barneys promptly the day after Christmas. There was an unique liveliness to everything out there today, even if the weather was less than perfect.
There is something that I can't seem to get away from no matter where I turn or what I do. I would like to pick up something without seeing those words. I would like to browse everyday things and peruse text without it jumping out at me, catching my eye, or glimpsing it slightly. I'd almost like to forget that I know it, which is an incredible concept for me since I am a staunch keeper of memories. Today was almost the last straw, as I saw the words again and let my hands drop the item with a heavy thud.
Christmas was entirely a family event, even if I had to celebrate in two different places. Peter, Vicky, and I played Mario Party or some nonsense like that. I thought it was quite nice that at every dueling opportunity Peter's Luigi would try to ground-pound or smash Vicky's Toadette in some way. That's how you know a boy likes a girl.
Having Simply Wonderful Christmastime
The exhaustion spreads through my limbs and I have the feeling like I have been walking all day in an amusement park. It wasn't quite that; it was the Beverly Center, but there is the same sense of chaos and excessive stimuli, even if this holiday season I do feel enormously gratified.
We found ourselves going through winding hills to Pacific Palisades this morning, in search of salmon eggs benedict. Tivoli was closed so we ended up in Cafe Vida. My face lit up when I got a favorite game from Stella, and I broke into laughter that Reyna regaled me with
The South Beach Diet Cookbook. I'm seriously the easiest person to shop for. Anyway, Phase 1 involves having no rice. Goodness, how will this work?
Tina and I are wonderful and ill company for one another, all at the same time. We feed each other's vices and inevitably end up questioning each other, "Who's more crazy, me or you?" It's a tough race to see who is more melodramatic, extravagant, excessive, or high-strung. I find that she ends up having a calming effect on me because I feel that I must play straight man to her crazy hijinks.
A Portland face is coming into town tonight. What lies ahead?
Having a little live Italian radio this Christmas eve, courtesy of the internet and Radio Subasio. It's morning there already. I don't know how sentimental they are or if it's even Christmas-related, but it's definitely odd listening to "We Are the World."
Buon Natale!
Dinner For Eight
A Chinese girl could not ask for a more perfect number of guests. It was four boys, four girls, and four courses, and everything about the evening spoke of balance and comfort and of friends whose separate ways never strayed that far. On a lark, I decided to throw a holiday dinner party, and I never would have expected such a perfectly warm reception.
It was a convergence of Type A personalities. So there was exactly one bottle of pinot noir, one of cabernet, one of Grey Goose, and one of Martinelli's. I instructed everybody to bring a gift to exchange, but something that was totally selfish -- a token that told of their own personality, an item that had affected them in 2004. And strangely enough, that little piece found its way to exactly the right person in one of those times when mathematical probabilities and serendipity meet.
I fretted a little bit about the warm chocolate souffle. But Chris had actually worked under Jean-Georges Vongerichten's employ so he came equipped with the most helpful tips. Reyna brought extra chairs and lots of unstifled laughter. Jon brought the world's best vodka. Tina came in fantastic cowboy boots she hunted down in Montana. Jose could never keep a straight face. Jean-Daniel remarked on the extraordinary Dozerbear. And Stella, simply Stella, brought the house down at Boardwalk 11 with those Godsent pipes.
It was one of those seamless nights where the minutes melted away. Where you never watch the clock because you are too wrapped up in the velvety cosiness of happy company. The party moved to a local bar (
not dive, said Jose, because otherwise he would have felt more comfortable) and although amateur karaoke wailing threatened to dim the energy, private conversations provided another kind of pleasant vibe. One such friend did not tire of making racially charged statements, but at night's end all we could do was look at each other and burst out laughing. Plus, what's worse? That friend's persistently racial observations, or another friend commenting of a heavyset singer's cowhide skirt, "How many cows did they have to kill to make that for her?" It's a gift indeed to have friends so well-bred that are the first to clear the table and load the dishwasher, but turn around with this sort of wicked and delicious humor.
"You really know how to take care of your friends." I've heard nothing finer.
Martini Goggles
I specially requested that our Grey Goose cosmos be made with Grey Goose L'Orange. It made a world of difference. Plus, the drinks came out the perfect shade of pink and a girl can't complain with that. Then Justin made us Asian Pear martinis, which were divine. Reyna particularly liked the cinnamon, and cried, "Christmas drink!"
I wish I weren't that tipsy because then I could have soaked in the Manhattan Beach environs with enough detail to make an interesting blog. There were so many stores and quaint bistros, and the ocean was just right there. We were at Town, though, which reminded me of Japengo in La Jolla. Tonight, it hit me again how much I missed San Diego.
We were with cute boys from Texas. Regrettably, they were all fledgling actors. Their day jobs? Cabana boy, bartender, and landscaper. 3-second head-turn to Reyna. I... don't... think... so.
Happy Birthday, Jen B! Las Vegas will be so lucky to have you.
Things Sailing Through My Head While I Was Bored
Gold chains on guys are really wrong.
I love my Moleskine notebook, my favorite travel companion.
I miss the gym.
For Christmas, I want a big sack of cash.
Please tell me that Jude Law does not smoke in real life.
Though water at the Hyatt Regency was served in a water cooler, I was fully aware that it was tap.
That low-carb turkey wrap wasn't half-bad.
Today, Williams-Sonoma was teeming with gay customer service representatives. I felt like I was in a gay club, actually. And every day there is some kind of new find. Today was Graffeo, a small shop on Beverly Drive that roasts its own beans on the premises and sells nothing else. They don't serve drinks, they don't serve anything at all. They can only measure how many beans you want. As I typically do, I asked the store manager about the company history. He said that it was based in San Francisco. My eyes lit up.
"Oh, was it the place that, when you go in on the left side, you see the roasters behind glass, and there's a cafe?" Duke had taken me there a little over two months ago when we were in North Beach.
"Oh no, that's Caffe Roma, their beans aren't as good. But yes, we're in North Beach."
I recalled that Caffe Roma served me an espresso that I was entirely satisfied with. But Graffeo beans also mean business. I've got some brewing now and the whole apartment smells like la dolce vita.
Stir-Crazy
I think blogging is all I have now. I want to post cute pictures on here and blab about minutiae. It helps that my connection is ridiculously fast. But between always having to study or work, this is all I have in terms of goofing off. I can't accept fun invitations because I feel guilty that I peeled myself away from my responsibilities. I don't pick up my phone or return messages -- willful blindness. In fact, maybe the only fun I have is having crazy ladies scream at me at Starbucks.
I drove Emily to the airport and fantasized about hopping on a plane myself, to London, to Italy, to anyplace I'd been before that left me with a happy memory. I saw Virgin Atlantic and recalled enjoying
Bend It Like Beckham on my own personal monitor.
Keane is Gwyneth Paltrow's fave band for 2004. I knew that she and I had more in common than just our pretentiousness.
Emily gave me a fantastic new T-shirt, black and funky with "Ciao Bella!" scrawled on it. I love it. I'll wear it at the holiday party.
Call Me Ishmael
Starbucks continues to perplex me as the unexpected hub of social activity. The things you witness there are like what you might see in a train station or some other proverbial spot where people are coming and going. In the early law school days, Po and I practically lived at the Point Loma one, and some of the happenings there were incredible. The guy who would routinely drag a newspaper into the restroom with him and emerge 15 minutes later. The old frazzled man with the silver reflecting sunglasses who would sit in the corner and clip Sunday coupons, then clip his toenails. We had a good laugh about these things years later, but on the whole, I think I could do without those images in my memory.
So I was there again this morning -- where else would I be -- doing my usual thing of laptopping and newspaper-swiping. I received an unprecedented number of phone calls and had no choice but to gab in public. It was then that a Starbucks patron behind me made a big rustle as she came near my table. "If you had a real job, you wouldn't be talking on the phone in public!" She sounded frantic and supremely pissed. I had an idea that she was directing this at me, but I continued to listen in on my phone conversation. She saw that she hadn't really arrested my attention, so she made a big display of pushing open the glass door. "LOSER!" she cried at me as I darted my eyes elsewhere.
And Lins continued to chat on her end of the line while I was sitting there, stunned. I think I have a very low threshold for verbal attacks. This lady was most definitely cuckoo-crazy with her wild hair and feral eyes, her assorted belongings clutched to her as she stormed out of the store, but dang it, she called me a LOSER! My mind started racing to all the distractions that the average Starbucks customers might withstand -- two people talking, a PDA-couple canoodling, the occasional noisy baby, and yes, a lone person talking on their cell phone. Had I really crossed the line? Was I a nuisance to society?
Yeah, I did spend like 5 minutes recoiling from this event. That's Starbucks, though. Expect the unexpected with your latte.
Self-Fulfilling Prophecies
When I was a kid, I would always daydream about what I would be like 10 years from then, 15 years from then, at age 25, etc. I always imagined, for some reason, driving around a green Toyota Tercel and carrying groceries up to a condo right across the street from my parents' house off Pathfinder Road. That was the
loftiest of my goals, and looking back now it's apparent things have turned out pretty darn well.
And it could be a Sunday morning like this, when I get to really sleep in and wake up to streaming sunshine, when the first thing I lay eyes on is Dozer's furry head, when Literati serves me the best cappuccino in the West Side, that I start to reappreciate the many virtues of a charmed life.
And it also could be a great conversation with Erik. A year ago we were at Rock Bottom together toasting his birthday. Today it felt like we were having one of our many breakfasts together again as I chatted him up on the celly while having an omelette. He left me with so much invigorating positivity. Peppered into our exchange of news, were the messages that: 1) the kind of energy you give is the kind you receive, 2) every person you meet is a new opportunity, and most importantly, 3) if you expect too little out of people and your life it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
One of the funniest things is watching a movie with Jose when he is not enjoying it. He'll start fidgeting noticeably, moving forward in his seat, and massaging his temples with his fingertips as if he is mentally rubbing out misery. And then afterward he'll engage in severe mockery, imitating or quoting lines as a side effect of having caught whatever sickness plagued the movie. His primary beef with
Closer was that the dialogue was almost entirely two-word lines with characters spontaneously blurting out, "I love you!" He said that they were all answering each others' rhetorical questions. I pointed out that this type of colloquy was symptomatic of a play-turned-film. It still didn't stop Jose from only speaking in two-word phrases punctuated with an "I love you!" for the rest of the night. I had to remind him that this was not nearly as bad as the time I had to sit through Martin Lawrence in
Nothing to Lose.
Happy Birthday, Erik! So many December birthdays.
"Enjoy the lighter things in life, deeper joys will follow."
So says my fortune cookie today. Although I am fundamentally opposed to fortune cookies, occasionally the little sucker will spit out something wise, and today I felt that these words were particularly true. At least for this week.
I can remember when we went to one of our first Chinese restaurants here in the US. It was where Hong Kong Palace now is on Colima Road, only back then it was some Americanized Chinese joint with murky lighting and the red vinyl seat booths. They served crispy fried noodles as an appetizer and goopy orange chicken. At the end of a meal that none of us could puzzle out, we got four little fortune cookies. I asked Vicky, "What are these?" not ever having seen them in my five years in Taiwan. "Just eat them," was probably what she said. And I had limited English then, so the sage message was wasted on me. Nowadays, that same location is a bustling dim sum establishment with silver steaming carts and an almost entirely Cantonese or Taiwanese clientele. And now I let fortune cookie messages rule my life, so progress is to be had by everybody, really.
I spent a lot of time downtown today and what I have to conclude that it's not horrible at all. Around midday there is plenty of metropolitan activity, almost resembling the lovely downtowns of most other American cities.
Almost. However, I saw some perfectly marvelous things on the road... throngs of cars seizing an intersection as an opportunity to pass each other... cars in the lanes flanking me changing two lanes ahead of me so that they literally criss-crossed in front of me as we are all speeding down the 10 at 70 miles per hour... and in particular, a cute guy cutting me off and throwing the perfunctory hand and fake smile, distinctly leaving me with the impression that better-looking people had better chances on the road because they get away with moves like that. (I fell for it.)
I wish Anthropologie would just do me a favor and change their store sign to Shit You Don't Need Karen So Please Turn Around. It sucks me in like the vortex of all my shopping fancy. I behaved well there today and refrained from opening my wallet. But then, that's because today I discovered this:
Beauty, objectified.
You're like, Karen, it's so plain, what the fuck. But I say, I have been looking for a chocolate or latte metallic bag and please, honey, it's Marc Jacobs, can't you see it as my fave clutch? Perhaps
this is the deeper joy that will follow.
I did find the perfect cookie sheet today. Hooray!
Chatarra Inservible
Another eventful day, some parts of it slowed down by allergies and a strange need to take a nap at 1:00 pm. But that's the glory of working from home. I can fax out letters at midnight and take an impromptu snooze at noon. Yeah, things could be worse.
I was on a mission this week for the perfect cookie sheet and the perfect foam pillow. What can be more joyful than fresh cookies and great rest?
A bunch of us got together tonight to watch "The Apprentice" never-say-die marathon and munch on Italian from Ugo. Then out of nowhere we saw my cousin Sarah in the shot -- right there hugging Kelly after they announced his hiring (and after Regis Philbin blabbed about some shit). I immediately got on the phone and on IM trying to figure out how Sarah knew Kelly and what she was doing in New York. The verdict is still out on that, but my preliminary analysis is that it's some San Diego connection, since that's where he's from... And happily, Sarah looks as great on TV as she does in person.
Jose caught me today saying "inscrutable" twice in 12 hours. I also got a comment before that I said "serviceable" twice in at least a 12-hour frame. How do I befriend so many vocabulary police? "Well, you should be careful with high-profile words," Jose advised.
Today I remembered a time in Mexico, actually just south of the border, when we ended up at a cigar bar listening to a live band and having mojitos. (Actually, I had red wine.) A girl got to go up there and sing Shakira's "Antologia" with the live band. I was at once envious and enthralled because I knew every lyric and wanted to be up there, soaking in the perfect music. I remember the tone of the drums and the reverberating guitar, and how softly lit it all was. Maybe I'll be back someday.
Clear Skies
I have been lied to a few times recently. I turned the thoughts around in my head as I was driving down Pico Blvd. this morning. Sitting in my car, I waited for both traffic and the effects of the truth to seep through me. What is the irony of truth being empowering? But I still thought, in that instant when the sun hit my left cheek through the window, with Mariah's "O Holy Night" blaring, that most of us would prefer not being lied to over that brief sense of empowerment. Don't worry, though -- I had sunblock on.
It's fortunate that we were handed another beautiful day. And fortunate that I keep wanting to blog everyday details to as if I cannot bear not remembering them someday.
After all that Dozer has been through in the last week, we decided that he needed a good and proper bath. When I went to pick him up, the shopowner threw up her arms as I walked in the store. "Fabulous cat! Wonderful cat! Bring him back anytime! He's great!" I made her divulge every detail of Dozer's impeccable behavior, how the groomers were enthralled by his good looks and animal magnetism. (Sorry, had to say it.) They tied a little Scottish tartan Christmas bow around his collar, which we are all tickled over, though I know he secretly thinks it's so gay.
Happy Birthday, Janet! You're so fabulous, it hurts. NYC is lucky.
The Forum, Still Open
Jose: Yeah I got probs with your analysis, and since the forum is
open I'll bring it!
Karen: Don't mock me, motherfucker.
Karen: And by the way, I think my analysis is legit.
Jose: Well you set up a heirarchy [
sic]: Of course Jessica is above Ashlee, but that doesn't necessarily make her A-List.
Karen: I wish you could spell "hierarchy" right, because then I might be more inclined to respect what you have to say.
Jose: What's Julia Roberts?
Karen: Julia Roberts is A-List.
Karen: Look, no matter who I place in the hierarchy, you'd agree that Bob Saget is D-List, and no higher?
Jose: I mean he's about as bad as it gets without getting infomercial hosts involved.
It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Summer
The weather, oh, the weather! It's like summer in December and it makes a girl want to drag out her beach bag and drive to the Hotel Del and lay out on the silky soft white sand. I have been missing San Diego a lot these days, to my own surprise, and one of the things I remember most is the occasional spontaneous trip to the beach with only a plush beach towel and a copy of Vogue. Hearing the waves, feeling the sun, enjoying the nap of a lifetime.
What I am forgetting about San Diego is how bored I would sometimes get. Trips to Target got old fast, and I could only eat Saffron chicken so many times a week. And the towniness of things -- like when I would go get a bowl of pho and never be able to avoid having the excruciatingly polite conversation with those that recognized me. Oh, it was all charming and delightful, but I missed anonymity. Now it turns out anonymity is quite a bitch and the pendulum swings to city loneliness. But... it's nice to have both kinds of memories.
What was life like without Starbucks? I know so many people who consider it a second home, and for myself there is a great comfort every day in stopping by. Today's freaky episode was when I was waiting for my nonfat peppermint mocha with whip and I spotted a perfectly-sized Averatec laptop at a nearby table. It was all silver and small and electronically delectable. I wanted a closer look very badly and did the whole walking slowly back and forth thing around the guy and his computer, just to finangle a better vantage point. It escalated to me actually craning my neck near him, when he finally did the 3-second head turn as if to say, "What... are... you... doing." I blushed noticeably. "Oh, I like your computer," and scurried out of there. Ultimately, I reasoned no buyer's remorse for my Dell, especially when I remembered how prominently placed Dell products were in
Ocean's Twelve.
I wonder if it's OK that I watch this much Fox News Channel. Probably not. Sentimentality, what can I say.
Pearl Girls
Horrible crowd, great booze.
Two Faces
Poor Viktor Yushchenko! I've seen his face so many times this week and sadly, the foremost thought I had was how I could use this current event as a joke in conversation. "His face was like a Yushchenko," or "That was bad, I mean chloracne bad." And then there's something terribly interesting about the whole episode, that makes you think of
From Russia With Love and the possibility that S.P.E.C.T.R.E.'s involved...
I've had a stunning week that ran the full gamut of emotions. The glittering candles of Dolce and the stiff drinks at Pearl, the Latrec-like chaos of Bar Marmont and its oddball patrons ("I'm a security guard for... oh I can't tell you but she played Cleopatra."), all with my best partner-in-crime, Po. Hide and Coral Tree and Thai Town and rediscovering Eve's incomparable wisdom at El Floridita. Saying the F-word in front of my mom and her gently patting me on the back, saying in Chinese, "I notice that you like to say bad words a lot!" Waiting interminably outside just to buy a $0.60 piece of Taiwanese egg cake. Fending past the Christmas pandemonium at Target, all worth it when I glimpsed two old ladies shopping for adult diapers together. And delightful banter with Jose, sharing Dells and mochas and Wi-Fi.
And at the end of it all, there was Stella. Sweet Stella with her honesty and patience, who need only cast a glance to calm you. "I'll say a prayer for Dozer.. and for you." And that's enough.
Mojitos and Moxie
Po: So where's Steve tonight?
Eve: Oh, he's playing video games.
Po: He didn't want to come?
Eve: He
loves playing video games with his friends. I won't let him have an X-Box.
Karen: Why not?
Eve: Because when he has an X-Box, he pays no attention to
my box!
We had foie gras last night and it made me long for good Peking duck. Po made it very clear that the foie gras at Dolce was not served properly (to wit, that it was cooked). But everything else there was excellent, and I was pleasantly surprised. Especially when the "Golden Girls" theme began blasting over the speakers as dinner music. No joke!
Just how many episodes of "Three's Company" does Chrissy's dad, Reverend Snow, show up in? Seems like he's always caught in one of the kids' misunderstandings. Fie, "Three's Company" writers!
Celebrity, Part Two
Tracy and I were both driving on Santa Monica Blvd. (California Highway 2). I was headed towards Brentwood and she was headed onto the 405 South onramp. She called me, exuberant and excited.
"Britney Spears is in the car behind me!" She was giggling and shrieking.
"Oh my gosh, are you sure?"
"Yes it's an Escalade and there's like her bodyguard driving and she's in the passenger seat and oh my God that's totally her, we are stuck in traffic and I kept looking back at her do you think I should wave?"
"Oh no, don't wave, don't wave..." (Though I couldn't think of a good reason why not, except that we didn't want Britney to think we were uncool.)
"I wasn't sure if it was her but then she has a CHIHUAHUA with her!"
"A chihuahua, well oh my God, of course it's her then! Is Kevin there?"
"No, it's just her and the bodyguard... And her hair is all tied up like it is in US Magazine! Wow, this sighting has totally made my day!"
"Oh yeah, well I saw Bob Saget yesterday!"
(End.)
Celebrity
Jose made a pertinent observation about my last post, and what it prematurely suggested. Unseemly or not, it was just something that was in my mind.
I didn't know they had such good vittles at the Literati Cafe. My fruit bowl had watermelon, pineapple, cantaloupe, honeydew, grapes,
and strawberries. Ambrosia!
Emily and I were tooling around the Century City shopping center again and I marveled at how much airplay Jessica Simpson was getting in the music loop. Everywhere I turned there was some holiday carol she recorded being blasted. We then saw Bob Saget walk by ("What's Danny Tanner doing here?") and then began contemplating what it means to be on Hollywood's D-list. I firmly concluded that in the spectrum of celebrity, there were four tiers and where one fell depended on the 1) quality of their work, 2) level of wealth, 3) respect in the industry, and 4) amount of fame. Based on this four-part test, sorry, Bob, you are like, totally D-list. I posited Carmen Electra as a good example of C-list, Ashlee Simpson as a good example of B-list, and grudgingly, Jessica Simpson as a good example of A-list. The reality is, holiday music and face time on magazines is irrefutable evidence that you have arrived.
Got probs with my analysis? Bring it to me. I consider the forum for discussion
open.
Forgetting and Remembering
I think the hardest job that we have as individuals is to stay happy. "Stay happy" is that large umbrella (or parasol, as I'd like to think) of a category under which you'd find working, learning, loving, being healthy, etc. It takes so many things to stay happy and persevere at it.
The days have all had slow starts. I was only lured out of the house today by an unforeseen dinner invitation. Jean-Daniel showed up at an awkward time, though; it was right when I was on the phone with Dozer's vet.
But we went to the Sawtelle Kitchen anyway and I felt guilty that I could still eat, and eat I did. I never really get what the deal is with fusion Japanese; it's just not accomplished the same way fusion Cantonese is. But we had a lot of culinary delights, and between us there were pork chops and lamb shanks and cream puffs and custard and jasmine tea and an espresso and miso soup and salad... more soy sauce and ginger than I would have liked to have, but that's what you get with fusion Japanese.
I am lucky that people understand me, and they love me, and I know that the upcoming months will not be as hard as they seem to be now. At least there will be no undue surprise. But Dozer, I love you so much, and I know that even when you are in that big shabby chic armchair in the sky, you are turning your lazy brown eyes to me and saying simply, "Mrowr."
Guilty
Um, I just wasted a few hours of my life and a few thousand brain cells watching this horrid Laguna Beach show on MTV. I had a long debate about it with Jason about whether it's real or not, and I think we both concluded that whatever the fuck it is, there are clearly a team of slick producers in charge. What happened to the Laguna Beach I remember, ringing in the millennium on the cliff by Las Brisas, with only artists and gay men around me? When did all the photogenic teeny-boppers move in? I'm all ready to watch a version called, "Diamond Bar," where the overprivileged dramaphiliacs would have to be a passel of Asian kids.
Joke du jour
"Fidelity Investments has just used 'set it and forget it' as a tagline for one of their commercials. This leads me to ask, 'Can my mutual funds benefit just one person or up to an entire army?'"
- J. Lustre
He Hates Mondays
I know you'll be OK, Dozie.
It's not that I am a career blogger, or that I don't have a day job or other interests, but there are just times when I have a lot to say. I am a loss as to what to do with myself right now. I can't help being overly emotional or even a bit irrational. I just wish there were something more that I could do.
I haven't set foot in a hospital since I was 5 years old, and that was in Taiwan. Today, I was in 2. I went to an animal one and then a people one, and walked desolately out of both. Nobody is comfortable with pain and suffering, but I am downright prissy about it. But when it hits you on a personal level, I respond with whatever maternal and feminine instincts I am biologically entitled to. And where Dozer is concerned, it is doubly difficult to withstand.
I am going to be as optimistic as I can be, but there is something horribly Chinese in me in always having to expect the worst. Tracy passed me some research that was damning but I would not have preferred to not know about it.
I wanted the best for him, for his retirement years to fade elegantly and for him to be able to ring in the year 2010 with me. And if anybody ever dismisses my histrionics by saying, oh, he was just a cat, I would cast a cutting gaze onto them that would make Medusa proud. I am not a silly sentimental or a rabid Hello Kitty fan. I am just a loyal caretaker entrusted with a unique little creature, who would stay up late with me into the night, who watched me write English papers and legal briefs and rambling blogs, who would always stay by me and peer lazily at me with his chocolate brown eyes, who would take his fat pink paws and massage my shoulder, who would hear keys jingling at the door and be the first to greet me. The heart is big enough to love so many things, and it is a privilege to give selflessly without expecting a pet to return the investment with dumb tricks or sloppy face-licking. But I am not dog-bashing here. I am just saying that the sight of Dozer's perfection was always enough.
Over the weekend, I joked that among all the crap in my purse, I had the cure for cancer. I should have bit my tongue.
From Chino With Love
Being in LA means needing to have a distinct identity. Without it, you’d have no reason to be there, because the bedlam is worth nothing unless you can rationalize freedom and independence out of it. Leaving LA means being able to lose your identity for a while, and soak up those subtler, more delicate things in life. The way the air smells, the true color of foliage, the crispness of things untarnished by smog, and the softness and velvetiness that water used to have before it was being pumped through industrial city pipes. It was nice to step out of it for a few days and recall the many virtues of towniness.
Towniness means that other people already know who you are so you don’t have to go to laborious pains to prove it. It means that conversations are not laced with pretentiousness and subtexts. It means that kindness and courtesy do not necessarily come with a price. It means having the ability to turn small talk into meaningful conversations.
Cold weather is no big deal; it’s just a pain in the ass. Walking down 23rd Avenue in the Alphabet District, I marveled at my own shallowness in realizing that not being able to jive in cold weather actually comes from having to sacrifice fantastic strappy heels and skimpy tops. In LA, every day of the year is a good day for flip flops. And girls will dress skanky with a classic excuse at their disposal: “It’s just so hot today.” Well, as Jose has pointed out, a long flowing burqa made of yards of linen is much more practical in dry heat than skin-tight lycra.
Friday was pretty grueling, between not having any sleep and little to eat. My ride arrived in style, all dressed up in black and a sharp tie. “Well, of course, I just came from work,” Ryan informed me in his usual joking manner, lest I believe that it was actually in my honor. But I was instantly excited to be there, even with the characteristically dismal skies, which despite breeding pastey complexions, also breeds sadness and thus, good poetry. We passed by a billboard of his dad, which I couldn’t stop giggling about. It reminded me of something I had seen once driving through a Tuscan tunnel.
And then we were sitting comfortably in a Starbucks having Americanos and chatting Ian up. They are constantly on their cellies and rarely not keyed into each other’s haps and whereabouts. I teasingly termed it as a sewing circle. “But, Karen,” Ryan said to me very seriously, “None of us sew.”
A short time later I had on a skirt and boots and felt much more in my element, wearing a coat that usually sits in the back of my closet in LA. Ryan and I ran circles around the Pearl District as he was in a flux about taking the streetcar or not. We ran to the stop, ran to his car, ran around some more, and at the end of the obstacle course found Darrin and Donovan sitting placidly at the streetcar stop. Just like with Ian, it felt oddly familiar to see them. I kept asking why the streetcar was free – it just seemed like an incredible concept. Then the towniness factor kicked in some more as we ended up at a Banana Republic that I had been to before. Starbucks, Banana Republic, these are the standards of American living and as a rule of thumb, you should find yourself at one of these no matter what city you go to. Still exhausted and somewhat frazzled, I walked the long length of the Banana lobby and found myself blushing, blanching, and turning completely idiot in an unplanned-for encounter. Only in Chino.
But where was the crucial red wine that is the secret to Karen’s joie de vivre? This time, I was able to enjoy an upgrade to Syrah rather than the Carlo Rossi table wine served in a jug. I have little recollection of what I said except that I took on a new Chino BFF. It was all warm lighting and laughter.
They were in search of Spanish coffee, and I, Syrah, at Huber’s. The mood was even darker with cherry-wood tones, and I recalled the novelty of hanging your coat just nearby your stall. By now my loosey goosiness was apparent and my warden started to push the wine glass farther away, the water glass closer. There was an amusing pyrotechnic show that involved glass and liqueur, and a magician with an interesting haircut I hadn’t seen since 1992. Then we were at Gypsy, the kind of bar that I hadn’t been in since the San Diego days. All my fragile constitution could handle now was water and lots of it. I may have even threatened to dance on the tabletop again in my drunken sassiness, but luckily the warden intervened. When everybody’s battery life started to dwindle, we made fantastic promises to go dancing the next night and tear up Chino some more.
How much ibuprofen does a lucid girl make? Not too much, but it’s invaluable. In the morning we were at Starbucks again. I was contentedly chomping on a raspberry scone and reading about insurance fraud when Ian reappeared. The goal was to take me shopping, and I was a little dumbfounded because when have two guys ever suggested that to me? I wish I could have taken more advantage of the lack of sales tax, but it’s hard to find things to buy in another city when shopping is all I can possibly do to entertain myself in the City of Angels. Not that I ended up empty-handed. The pizza was also excellent.
By the late afternoon, I felt much more like myself. We were at the Rose Garden and I tried to absorb as much of the energy as possible. It was odd to feel the same kind of sheer, childlike wonder at a sporting event that I had last felt at the opera, even if I contained it to myself. Ryan pointed out that, sports aside, there were at least two things to keep me amused. There was the darling little blimp that floated around the building dropping little prizes in envelopes at people. And there was the little kid in front of us badly in need of Adderall. (“This kid has no chance at school or at life.”) I laughed a good deal at both things.
We were then at Muu Muu’s with bowls of fusion Asian in front of us. Was it Thai, was it Chinese, or was it Italian? Syrah made me a little cheeky and I was briefly admonished. (“You’re only allowed to ask about Asian girls one time per trip, OK?”) By now the rain had started to come down and the fantastic promise from the night before started to recede into everybody’s fatigued consciousness.
We ended up watching the second of the Rudolph movies, the plastic/claymation precursor to Pixar. I had never seen it and didn’t understand what Ryan meant when he said, “Baby New Year’s ears are brutal.” “What ears?” I thought, because Baby New Year was wearing a big-ass top hat. And then when the hat came off you realized that Baby New Year could probably achieve flight. At least it got that vulture off their back.
Sunday opened with a trip to the Urban Grind and free Wi-Fi. I watched with amusement at Ryan’s routine of stripping down the Sunday newspaper to substance only and then swiftly tucking it under his left arm. The cappuccino was my liquid crack, the Wi-Fi a heaven-sent luxury. Then I got a car tour of Chino, around winding, hilly roads and the chilly and balmy quiet of a town in Sunday repose. We saw rows of roses, notable real estate, the schools where legends may have been made, and a dairy compound. It was simplicity right outside the windshield and the charm of uncomplicated things.
I had crisply fried corned beef hash and eggs that Ryan pointed out were cooked fetuses. At this thought, I added some extra ketchup. The most profound statement of the weekend? “I believe that everything can be made better with cheese, bacon, or ketchup.” I knew then that my host was classy company. He also suggested that I may have eaten about 350 calories across the whole weekend. The final stop was Darrin’s digs, where I bid the BFF adieu.
I picked up some Lexapro parting gifts, and then went back on my merry way. Who knew that Chino had so much to offer?
So little time.
Try to understand that I
Try to make a move just to stay in the game,
I try to stay awake and remember my name,
Everybody’s changing, and I don’t feel the same.
- Keane
The Buzz
OK, so which Portlander read the "2004" post and then called Ryan to tell him that I'm nutty? Am I the only person who has introspective moments? (I'm just the one that publishes it online.)
Well, I got nothin' to hide, and as we know, whatever I tried to hide once backfired abominably. Natalia was right. I can't let a publishing error curb my artistic license. I'm already committed to making the law thing work, so this will have to do in the free spirit department. This, and fantastic shoes.
I took Dozer to the animal hospital yesterday, and the staff adored him. He was a little star! The nurse commented, "He's being so good about the examination. He must think he's in a show or something." I beamed and nodded enthusiastically. Well, duh.
I was puttering around today, doing this and that, and then I concluded, gee, I looove my life. And I'm making a roast chicken for dinner, so we're all set here.
