Boo
This week has been memorable for the numbers alone. The numbers of kinds of beer I've had. The number of clubs and restaurants frequented. The number of friends feted. You know.
Thursday night was one of the most colossally random nights I've ever had. It's amazing how much you can do within just one block. We started out at a work reception but wound up at Daily Grill, Standard's lobby bar, Standard's rooftop bar, and then back upstairs again. Many have carved this path before, but the events in between made the difference. Sometimes, the elements just fall into place.
Friday night was in honor of Stella, and Reyna and I were glad to be her fairy godmothers of nightlife. We offered the complete and comprehensive Santa Monica, trailing from Ma'Kai to Lounge 217 to Gotham and then back to Ma'Kai again. At a point when Stella and I were pleasantly distracted, Reyna detoured over to Voda. The assortment was good -- both in drink and company.
I vowed to detox on Saturday with a bottle of Kombucha gingerade, but Jan's never in town so I rallied for another night. (He's usually in Germany.) He's always in search of electronica. Mor Bar was strictly hip hop so we settled for Circle Bar instead. Standing in line, I looked on in amusement at the parade of skanky and macabre. It's a well-known fact that girls use Halloween as the no-excuses opportunity to dress up like a -- you choose the pejorative term. Skanky nurse, skanky boxer ("Everlast" suggestively across her derriere), skanky Alice in Wonderland, skanky Bo Peep, skanky cat, and the classic, skanky schoolgirl.
I realized that women do themselves no favors with this sort of thing. We cry in indignance at being objectified, we routinely shout perve when a guy jokes about dating "not yet legal", but truthfully we love debauching storybook heroines and sullying angels of mercy. It's Halloween, everybody, get out your tutu skirts, white knee-high socks, and stripper Mary Janes!
October 31. Billing due. Rent's due. But lotsa lotsa candy!
Doing Laundry and Other Broken Promises
Somehow, never did get around to washing the mountain of laundry, or dropping off the shopping bag full of dry cleaning. Haven't really fasted either, and tonight's dinner confirmed that threefold. Instead, there are various pairs of high heels in different colors strewn across my bedroom floor, a half-made bed, and suit jackets and overcoats hanging about. So I haven't really been here.
So many little luxuries, so many little kismet occurrences in a life moving so fast that I never stop to appreciate it anymore. Easy to forget that I'm actually living a life I once only dreamed of.
We tried to see Imogen Heaps tonight at the Hotel Cafe but KCRW's poor planning blew that plan to bits. So we sort of ambled around Hollywood and Vine (like a couple of hookers, maybe) and, with some time to kill, wound up at Popeye's. Had some chicken with the grease. Our backup plan (and my primary plan) was the El Rey, but we didn't have to see that show until 10:15, so we stopped by the aptly named Little Bar Lounge on La Brea.
We made it back in perfect time for The Like. They were darling, and there weren't as many lesbians in the crowd as I expected. A few, definitely, but plenty of men who maybe were there courtesy of KCRW's generosity. So I love concerts.
Jon and I are heading to the Troubadour on Tuesday to see American Analog Set. I have no idea who they are. But I love concerts.
Hits and Misses
It was pretty much an ideal weekend, one I had been imagining for a few weeks, at least. The opportunity to shop at my local Saks with discount in hand, a little extra cash, no time restrictions. To go out at an ungodly hour and return home at an even ungodlier one. To eat traditional Tuscan on Beverly Boulveard with your favorite culinarian. To have unplanned-for sleepovers with unplanned-for guests. Then, to sleep in and wake up to brunch.
It all started on Thursday night on Montana Avenue at a jewelry show at Rococo Flowers. They linked the party to the boutique next door, and opened up the garden in the rear. I had a glass of wine with the proprietress, who waxed nostalgic about how unspoiled Montana Avenue was in days gone by. We were between 10th and 11th so a visit to FO was in store, making it my third time in as many weeks. Of course, I had the burger, and the Belgian White. Reyna said there was turtle racing so I stopped by Brennan's. What a shithole. Questionable crowd, but live music, and I had no problem bopping to Def Leppard.
We had proper plans for Friday. A million missed phone calls to j. and Reyna until we were finally mingling together with LA's quasi-bohemia at the TarFest. Vokda sponsored by Pravda, so I took a Pravda-Ton. Browsed through little knick-knacks CAFAM had in gear for Dia de los Muertos, and upstairs, I dwelled a bit at the Christianne Elise work. I had an amusing conversation about the Lionel and Nicole Richie E! THS. Back downstairs, Reyna pointed out that Grant Show was by the bar.
We had a birthday party to attend at Falcon, which was right close by. Nice to be in touch with old friends, but Reyna and I agreed that the Falcon crowd was officially terrible. Aside from the stroganoff, I've never enjoyed anything at Falcon on a straight night. By this point we had many more in tow, and with the setting in of midnight, had to make a critical decision. The Jens B. and L. said St. Nick's on Beverly, the perfect wind-down pub. An assortment of overeager dudes, but I enjoyed my Amstel Light.
Not done yet. The girls were fiending for pancakes and we wound up at Reyna's local IHOP. I got into a little streetside fracas that may have woken up some of the Miracle Mile inhabitants -- who knows. But I really enjoyed those Swedish pancakes.
I overslept the next morning and had to pass over my weekly jaunt to LPQ. Undercaffeinated, Italian class became a sluggish affair. I decided to reenergize with a vigorous stroll through the aisles of Saks Fifth Avenue. A couple of hours later, discount used and shopping bag in hand, I emerged a happy camper.
And then one of my favorite people called, and off we were to Angelini Osteria. Such a divine experience of trippa and branzino, delicacies I had not eaten since 2002. It's not that I'm usually a fan of tripe and Italian sea bass -- I'm just hard-pressed to find it anywhere. You know how certain bites of food take you back. We saw Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman come in together and slip to the back of the restaurant, which made me wonder... Then, we had to finish our panna cotta quickly because we were already late.
There were a ton of kooks at the poorly named AfTar Party. My date was the hottest-looking guy there -- I'm sure his out-of-town boyfriend would think so, too. I had a Pilsner Urquell, upon a recent recommendation made to me, and Pilsner's sponsorship of the event. I stood around listlessly as indie-cum-diva Sylvie Lewis played her set. When the tortilla chips turned to crumbs and the crudites turned white, we decided to try out Magnolia instead.
Magnolia, the old Route 66, is a breath of fresh air in all that Hollywood haze. I hope it remains the understated gem it currently is, even though tasteful marketing brought us there to begin with. It's a unique hybrid of bistro-bar-lounge-late night eatery, with low, cushy seating, sparkling tea lights, wide and glossy open spaces. We had coconut, peach, berry, and dirty martinis over a very informative game of "I Never."
On Sunday, we tried unsuccessfully for the third or fourth time to brunch at Bread and Porridge. Rejection is always tough. Just northward was Cafe Montana, chicken hash and a bloody Mary.
Ridiculous amount of weekend eats, but the end wasn't quite there. It being my dad's birthday, I headed home for one of our typical Chinese feasts. Cantonese food is his favorite. By the time I had my fifth Peking duck sandwichette, I was
stra finita, extra done.
A weekend like this means dieting for the rest of the week and laundering the many outfits worn. Sure enough, I've got the empty fridge and heaping laundry basket to match.
Tables, They Turn Sometimes 
One of my favorite scenes from "Laguna Beach" is when Alex, the one that stole Jason from Jessica, is sitting at a cafe table at an outdoor shopping plaza with one of her vapid little friends. Maybe it's Casey, the brainless bleach blonde rich girl. Or it could be Taylor, the dull ingenue who actually channels Kirsten Dunst. Anyway, Alex is talking about how she might run into Jessica at the beach, or in Cancun, in their first face-to-face since the boystealing. She's making all kinds of disgusted facial expressions, indignant that her new boyfriend's ex-girlfriend who is also her former close friend might have a couple of things to say about the whole boystealing situation.
"I don't care," she snarls, "If Jessica says anything to me, I'll be like, '
EXCUSE ME, that's funny.'"
It's golden. I'll adopt this. If ever I have to express a wealth of scorn, irritability, or general loathing, I won't bother to go into any detail. I'll spare my listener any real words or description. I'll just go, "EXCUSE ME. THAT'S FUNNY." And we'll call it a day.
Today's picture is a rabbit, no special reason.
Waiting, Wasting, Wanting
It's infinitely better to be working here at home. I lit candles to go with the rain. Somehow, it makes this Power Point presentation that much easier to finish.
I spent most of the day looking outside the large window on the 45th floor, thinking for awhile, I am not in LA. There is an emptiness to the urban sprawl I do not recognize. It was gloomy and dreary and I felt very lonely.
And yet, it was a very clear day. I looked at building tops I could not identify and thought, for a city they call a cultural wasteland, there sure is a lot to look at.
Someday, I will finish this work project. I do hope that someday is -- today. And I will put on another suit, with little sleep, and chug through another day, with pent-up anticipation for better things I do not yet know of.
Wake Up
It was an inordinately full day. I didn't take hold of how much I had done until I was going up the last few steps to my apartment, and realized where it had began.
It started at Le Pain Quotidien for the third Saturday in a row. I discovered spelt this morning, even though I had been eating it all along and even baked a couple loaves of it without knowing that's what it was. Somebody at Rita Flora said it was a low-carb bread. The gal at LPQ this morning said it was half-wheat, half-rye. Either way, it tasted the way Jan-Oliver said bread should taste. Salty and flavorful, dense and chewy. They arrived in large, wide slices, and I understood this morning that the kind I baked were shaped incorrectly, which is why they ended up too tough. I also had a wonderful quiche Lorraine, one of the few items that I like to enjoy with a raw tomato.
Italian class was a very chatty affair. My instructor amuses me so much, for his cavalier way of speaking, witticisms, and unique masculinity. He told us today how the modern art at the Vatican museums "sucks" and how it should be kept in the Papal basement. Later, he said that one should stay away from white wine sold in cartons -- more like juice boxes, for us -- at all costs. I offered a story about how my Italian aunt will always bring the white
vino da tavola with her when she visits because she does not trust a California Chardonnay when preparing an authentic meal for us. What does she cook, he asked. Oh, pesce, I said. What else.
After that, I sped to the Chinese community center. I lathered on a bunch of stage makeup and got into a vibrantly green gown. And then I took the mic after they introduced me. I only practiced for an hour or so last night, and fully expected that they would cue up the words in the little screen at the foot of the stage. Nothing appeared. So I had to wing it -- after all, it was a good bet that none of the Chinese there understood Italian. Afterward, I wasn't too happy that it did not proceed without incident, but my mom looked very happy. I was relieved.
I made an appearance at the office well near 8:00 pm -- the real focus of my weekend. There was someone there still, which was a nice surprise. Three hours later, I dropped a completed memo on someone's desk and drove westward in the falling rain.
My leftover quiche was waiting for me. I was pleased with the completed tasks today -- one never knows about the best-laid plans.
Favorite song right now is "Wake Up." Question is, Hilary Duff or The Arcade Fire?
What would Honey say?
This Blond Bond business. Are we sure about this? This morning felt like Spanish class, period 2, 1993, when j. told me that they had cast a new Scarlett O'Hara and she did not have green eyes. No, Joanne Whalley was no Vivien Leigh. I have hope for Daniel Craig, but odds are, he is also no Sean Connery. Or even Pierce.
But, the Broccolis seem to be sticking to their age-old formula of pendulum swinging. Connery was the perfectly sardonic, overtly sexual Bond. So they brought in George Lazenby to sober it up -- and it went extreme. Enter Roger Moore, the most clownish Bond of them all. (
Moonraker, anybody?) So then their answer was Timothy Dalton, again, a return to the dark roots as Ian Fleming intended. After all that gravity, we wanted gloss and commercialism so they brought us Pierce. With the endorsements. And the cliches. And the babes. In the Bond timeline, then, Daniel Craig is what the Dr. No ordered.
Ian Fleming's Bond has grey eyes. Mentioned often in the books as cold, steely. Maybe this will work after all. Never did get around to seeing
Layer Cake, and now here's the motivation.
In other news, I have heard a lot of toxic things lately that challenged my perenially good mood. After another 10-hour workday (just a few this week), I went back to my parents' for dinner. It was oddly comforting to sit there amidst a bit of clutter, eating leftovers. We had pork spareribs that I hadn't eaten for years. (But these weren't leftovers; they were freshly made, I mean.) I felt as if I had come home from school. Being there, my life pared down to the simplicity of that moment and the reliability of home.
Later, I wondered, what is it about a long drive that heals everything? Another wave of calm, speeding down the highway, remembering the many happy moments that colored my week. What my friend's little boy said when he saw snow out their window. Jumping on a springboard in Pilates class, doing quick beats with my feet. The new pair of heels that just won't quit. Warbling on my dad's fancy mic with their encouragement. Beers with Reyna, the both of us smiling smugly. And recently, I gave a good friend a long hug, and told him that I loved him. "Don't let go," he said. That was so nice.
Ieri, Oggi, e Domani
I've only enough time to offer this week in outline format.
Work. Flies by. So much to do, I literally swooned this week. Am trying to acquaint myself quickly with brownfields and other hot topics of environmental law. If you know anything, drop the knowledge my way.
La Loren. Ci vediamo domani sera all'Aero sulla strada Montana, in onore di
Cinema Italian Style.
Audiovox. Have scoured the town for a better deal. Have bickered a couple more times with unwavering customer service reps. Have decided that maybe phone is bearable having since downloaded "Sex and the City" theme song from Get it Now!
Lexis training. Got some this week and felt like it totally streamlined my thought process.
Green Day. Have not stopped listening to their songs all week. Have gotten feedback about last post where people thought I was being serious. Have realized that I must work on tongue in cheek type of writing, because that was the original intention. But left post the way it was, because that's how these things are supposed to go down. Don't look back.
Carbs. Just can't get enough, which is a bit troublesome.
Green apples. Brought lovely new ones into the office.
Fresh coffee. Back in my life!
Who's This?
Seeing Brandon and Billie Joe in the same weekend, a very fine thing indeed. I have no more concerts on calendar. We were so damn impressed last night, more by the phenomenon* they have become than anything else. We just had no idea. The years passed by quickly. I remember when j. and I were talking about the cover of
Dookie, when we were tweens.
We noticed that Billie Joe had three tricks in his pocket. One was what j. termed "partisanship" which seems to get a rise out of everybody. He would direct one side to yell, then the other side to yell, and this basic dueling would send the stadium rousing. The second trick was screaming "Los Angeleees!" every four minutes or so, which sent us into compulsory fist-pumping hysterics. The last was hollering "Heyyy-o!" and requiring us to echo it, which made us wonder what kind of influence Harry Belafonte had on him. We got a huge kick out of screaming "FIRE!" whenever the pyrotechnics were activated. But underneath all the punk jumping and guttural screams, it was sort of obvious that Billie Joe has the musicality only prodigies have, with tinges of swing, oldies, arena rock, and who knows what else, affecting his repertoire. Even the beginning of "Hitchin' a Ride" sounds like the score from
Fiddler on the Roof.
There was so much music last night. Including all of j.'s mixed CDs, a wealth of well-known, lesser-known, never-known artists, spanning from Justin Timberlake to Trashcan Sinatras to the Academy.
Making music is the result of one of us having such depth of feeling, so many swirling thoughts, that it can only be expressed by being lyricized. They place thoughts with moods, words with melodies, and give life to buried emotions. So we flock to it because they say what we are too shy or composed to present ourselves. And then, for instance, 27,000 of us will convene at a soccer stadium for them to remind us of what we all feel or identify with, but cannot say ourselves. And although most of the crowd is composed of Republican families, we'll holler allegiance to the anti-establishment, briefly suspending our more conservative cornerstones in the name of rock and roll. We'll scream and light the place with our flipped-open cell phones, be more moved than at any point of the work week, and when the concert is over, we will tuck the emotions back inside, get in our cars and grumble about the traffic on the way out. So then, it's over.
Political dissension, repressed sexuality, mental delirium, coping with death. It's not conversation material, it's the stuff of concerts.
* OK, fine. The third time.
Otherweekend Otheroom Bullet Points
The peach martini at the Daily Grill (just $6 at happy hour!) is a winner, the chocolate one, less so. Later on that evening, I had a surprise visitor and she joined our little Abbot Kinney tour. Along with the ever beautiful Jen C. and ever sassy Em, we were a motley crew from my friend catalogue.
The Brig and the Otheroom do make a formidable combination when friends have different tastes and it's necessary to shuffle between them. Otheroom has been pretty consistent, and I don't mind their ridiculous Venice zip code rule or the absence of real booze. You can make a meal out of beer and wine, you sure can.
There is a terrible brilliance in the bar scene here. Seems at first that you are in a room full of unaffected poseurs, and the disconnect is great. But if you happen to start talking to someone, you can invariably point to one of the six degrees in which you are actually connected. In the Otheroom's trendy, candlelit murkiness, there were too many characters that we had met before in past nightlives. Or their friends. This is so-and-so #1, whom you've never met, but he's friends with so-and-so #2, who you do know quite well, and because of this, so-and-so #1 actually knows quite a bit about you already...
We did the dance of either avoiding them or making awkward conversation. And there were people from a certain entertainment outfit, of whose employees I just cannot avoid meeting these days. I think that there is no such thing as irony if this is happening all the time.
A Grip
One day you wake up, and it's gone. That which had been occupying your mind, is just not there anymore. I find solace in this. But the fleetingness of things is, at times, equally disturbing.
External forces are colluding this week to batter down my good attitude. First of all, thank you USC students, for returning to school and completely destroying the ease of my morning commute. I know there was no hidden surprise that 1) you existed, and 2) you would return during fall. But I do grumble at the false sense of security you lured me into when I started working in early August, when downtown was a breezy 12 minutes away. And I am irritated that, being overprivileged, you choose to live in the West Side when there is plenty of attractive and affordable housing in the South Central area.
Secondly, thank you Verizon Wireless, for doing everything in your power to make sure that I have a shitty phone. Thanks for having an in-store selection of phones that make a Dixie cup and dental floss look like better handheld communication devices.* On top of that, the insurer you picked has an even poorer variety of phones, and to my delight, are all refurbished. After I put in my claim, I love that you sent me the Samsung 530 as if I would regard the tinny ringtones and clip-art graphics as a vintage experience. Then I battled with your confused customer service representatives across half a dozen phone calls, and you sent me back to the store, where they threw their palms up in defeat and total blankness. So I got on the phone with a couple of Asurion managers, and finally you agreed to send me the phone I had been insured under, at a price now that would get me the latest and greatest at T-Mobile or Cingular. But I hung in there, because to break our contract would require liquidated damages that I could use on a pair of Chanel shades. So then I followed your multi-step instructions and got the DHL guy involved. And I waited patiently for many days. When you didn't respond, you said you needed the tracking number, which sent me into another third-party tussle with DHL. When we finally had that all sorted out, you dropped the bomb.
You didn't have the Samsung 670 in stock. But you had a "comparable" phone, and when you said "Audiovox," everything inside me turned to stone. We got on the website together as you tried to convince me that these phones are substantially similar. Left with no options, tired of negotiating, needing to bill more during my workday, I surrendered and let you put the package in the mail.
It is a done deal now. I have this stone-age so-called "camera phone" that is nothing more than a technological eyesore. A cursory inspection of available ringtones made me wonder if they were ripped off of bad Atari video games. 9 years ago, when my dad gifted me with my first cellular brick, I committed myself to a life of having state-of-the-art cell phones, at all times, at all costs. I would say that with the help of Verizon Wireless, this streak is officially broken. I have given up.
But, things are looking up. The thought of seeing Brandon Flowers tonight...
* Courtesy of Friend.
Smart People
There are a million things that I like about R. I guess we'll never outgrow each other, and in a way it's something I won't ever understand.
I said to him last night, "Let's go to FO!"
His face fell. "Oh, no, I can't have noodle soup, I had it earlier today -- "
I laughed. "Not pho, I meant Father's Office!"
It was all pretty seamless. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the baseball, all the while chatting nonchalantly about things his therapist said, computer programming, and girls professing an interest in football as nothing but utter fraud. I was concerned that there was too much red in my burger. Related to something else, he told me there were certain topics of conversation I should always stay away from, if I know what's good for me.
And then, "I'm learning a lot of things lately. You know, always needing girls, seeking them out because my mother spoiled me too much. That's what my psychologist said. She said I can't move out of a certain age group, that I can't mature. Hey, can we go?"
He was already off his stool. So we abruptly left, in the middle of a discourse about his own intriguing child psychology. He played the best and brightest Weezer that he had. For many years now, music always sounds different in his car. (And there have been several.) Better different, or maybe just loud.
"Ooh ooh," we both sang in "Buddy Holly".
"This song," he then said, "is just like
you."
Beverly Hills, that's where I want to be!
I wanted to give him a nice, hearty whack, but instead I just crinkled my nose at him.
City Girl, Country Air
There were season-changing movements outside my window last night, the kind where you know you will wake up to an entirely different sky. At first it felt like rain, and then my curtains billowed high against the wind. But when I awoke, it was all green and blue again. Today is a gorgeous day.
We discussed the arrival of pumpkin last night, over chocolate lava cake and vanilla bean ice cream. Pumpkin is one of the best parts of October and November. In recognition of that, today I introduced spots of orange into my office. On one end there are two pumpkinettes of varying sizes, on the other end, a Gerbera daisy in full bloom.
And on the topic of that lava cake -- Yu on Montana Avenue, really impressive. Chocolate souffle is one of the surest bets any chef can have under his belt, a four-ingredient crowd pleaser, a delight productible in 12 minutes or less. Under these conditions, it becomes just a question of timing and presentation. There was something so pure about the vanilla bean accompaniment that it reminded me of panna cotta. I wanted to run out at that exact moment to buy a Cuisinart ice cream maker. And a pint of cream and a vanilla bean.
Aside from my routine food commentary, I have to report that I have the heebie jeebies. I tried to look up a cure on WebMD but found nothing. I am just waiting for it to pass. You can't take any shots for this kind of thing. It will hit you when you least expect it. I put a couple of cucumber compresses on my eyelids last night. For now, I will just lay low.
Pret a travailler
I have been speaking in staccato. I am way behind on my storytelling. The benefit of blogging -- aside from, admittedly, the sprinkling of attention it sometimes provides -- is that it becomes an informal running log of all the little details I see and love looking back on. New restaurants, live performances, for sure. But more importantly, that je ne sais quois that define the Moments of your day, which you later access as a feeling or a smell or a sight that made you deliciously happy.
Cindy asked, what's been inspiring all the good moods (see
infra)? Hard work, dumb luck, things carefully planned, things totally incidental, all of the above. Not to be master of the obvious or nufin', but simply not relying on one thing to make you happy allows everything else to pick up the task. I am teaching myself to stop subscribing to the philosophy that everything should be content, all the time. That one or two things suck helps balance out the fact that other things are usually spectacular. Yes, and it helps that the last few weeks have been filled with a lot of activities that I really love.
I started an advanced Italian class this weekend at the Italian Culture Institute on Hilgard. This made a lot more sense than continuing French, given my schedule and what's already filling up my little head. (I do intend to continue French, if only to make my dad stop asking about it.) Watching my Torinese instructor speak was a marvel in itself. He had a languidness characteristic of the Piemontesi; none of the wild, gesticulating theatrics you might find in Romans and some Toscani. His facial expressions were priceless. I spoke more Italian that day than I have in a year, and thankfully this time I was not telling a waiter where I learned Italian and thanks, I'll have the linguine.
Somebody moved the apples in my office. There are five in the bowl, but when I came in this morning someone staggered four of the apples across the built-in shelf. Actually, it looks great. Good artistic eye, Co-worker.
Flora and Fauna
I've had few weekends as full as this one. Seriously.
Ate golden raisins and curried chicken. Had a glass of cab in the ampitheatre. Shared a mountain of a brownie crowned with vanilla ice cream. Had some quiche Lorraine. Spoke of Italamerica with my fellow studenti. Got full in Fullerton. Sampled a little
Lion King on LCD. Checked out flora on La Brea. Checked out fauna on Exposition. Traversed the Promenade. Had the blue plate special with a gathering of the AARP on Wilshire. Was distracted.
I've gotta see an optometrist.
La donna e' mobile. Credimi.
This week has been memorable for the numbers alone. The numbers of kinds of beer I've had. The number of clubs and restaurants frequented. The number of friends feted. You know.
