She was a visual artist and this was a blind date. The kind you set up for yourself when you don’t know anybody in town yet. This was 2001. She was very attractive. Maybe too attractive.

I had taken to meeting all my blind dates at the same spot: Abbot’s Habit in Venice. It worked out well for the most part. Walkable options were bountiful. Best of all, the staff never gave me shit for showing up and meeting some random two-to-three times a week.

We were done with our coffees and we had just walked four short blocks down Abbot Kinney, towards Main. There was nothing more to see and little more to say, but she wasn’t ready to drive back to Long Beach just yet.

“Isn’t there another place over there on Main where we can just read or something?”

“Yeah there’s a decent café over there. It has a bunch of inappropriately-named dishes. Like, one’s named after Todd Bridges, one’s called the dimebag, something like that. And then they also have coffee and juice drinks you can take upstairs to the room where they have the AA meetings.”

“What’s it called?”
»continue reading My Introduction to The Sea and Cake

Above: Re-enactment soundstage. Professional actors. This is not ‘Samosa Mel’

When my mother found out I had finally taken the plunge and waxed my underarms and legs, her first question was, “Who did you go to?” When I told her I’d gone to the lady that works in the back of my local nail parlor, she was less than approving. The leg hairs ARE going a bit unevenly, but I’ve heard this is to be expected. When the conversation moved to bikini waxing, she told me that there is only one place in town to go: Sylvia at Sweet Dreams on Ventura Blvd. According to her, it’s the best ‘Brazilian’ in town.

I have avoided waxing this particular area for a few reasons. First of all, it’s a sensitive area. Slathering wax on one’s outer labia and yanking out all the hair doesn’t sound like a good time. Secondly, I don’t care for the look of a waxed crotch–it sort of creeps me out. Aesthetically, I am a strong supporter of the “70’s bush”.

There is one reason for waxing that I find rather compelling…hygiene. I’ve been told that the ‘Brazilian’–removing ALL the hair from ‘down there’– leaves you feeling unbelievably clean. Now, I am a bit of a clean freak and I’m a sucker for any product that claims to freshen my linens, kill germs anywhere and everywhere, remove odors from my carpet or pull pollution from my pores. Keeping a tidy snatch seems logical enough.
»continue reading Sweet Dreams: Wax On, Wax Off

Denizens! As promised, our Losanjealous Escort Service participants have written up last Saturday’s historic undertaking. To commemorate the ‘Day of Cupids Hearts and Shit Like That’, we now present both sides of the tale for your enjoyment.

Up to bat: PhotoJanitor tells his side of the tale……

Let’s back up a bit. From the initial posting on the site to the actual date, I had garnered some underground fame. Someone stopped me at the gym, having recognized my eyeless face. A friend of a friend asked Isn’t that [redacted]? Some homeless guy on the street looked into my car and asked for change and an autograph. It was a quite a trip for three days, though the zenith of this whole stunt was still to come.

Above: Escort and charge enjoy La Bodeguita De Pico (Credit: Losanjealous MustacheCam 8000)

I had made verbal contact with #2 and I made sure she wasn’t Karl Rove’s niece. Check. Actually, she sounded rather pleasant, which was a welcome respite from what I might have had to undergo had some of you’s gotten your way. We agreed to meet at the Little Wine Cellar and we were on our way.

From the first minute of our dinner at La Bodeguita, it was clear that it would be a harmonious evening in which conversation would flow and stories would be told.
»continue reading Point/Counterpoint: The Losanjealous Escort Service Recap: A Janitor’s Tale

Denizens! As promised, our Losanjealous Escort Service participants have written up last Saturday’s historic undertaking. To commemorate the ‘Day of Cupids Hearts and Shit Like That’, we now present both sides of the tale for your enjoyment.

First Up: Contestant #2 tells her side……

Above: Escort and charge enjoy La Bodeguita De Pico (Credit: Losanjealous MustacheCam 8000)

I must admit that, as shocked and humbled as I was to win, I expected to be much more nervous than I actually was, especially since I was a blind-date virgin. I attribute my composure, in part, to the fact that I knew what PSJ would look like, in part, whereas he had foolishly agreed to spend an entire evening with a potential ogress. As I conducted my pre-date primp, I felt pretty confident in knowing I would at least start out with points on the board, since there was a better-than-average chance that PSJ’s first impression would be something along the lines of, “thank God she’s got all 10 digits and a full set of teeth.”
»continue reading Point/Counterpoint: The Losanjealous Escort Service Recap: Number Two’s Tale

I went to the Upright Citizen’s Brigade to check out a show last Saturday with some friends. Take note:

1) UCB’s a great theatre and good fun. I give UCB the thumbs up.

2) UCB veteran Paul Scheer is funny. I saw him at the UCB New York a few years ago. I give Paul Scheer the thumbs up, even when he’s hidden behind a Vader mask and his voice is muffled. However…

3) The 10pm Darth and Kevin Vader Show was not too hot. I give Darth and Kevin the thumbs down. A few laughs but largely vapid. I shan’t dwell on it, but I was promised the following:

Los Angeles, CA-January 4, 2007- You are Invited to a Live Taping of the Darth Vader Talk Show! Everyone from Endor to Outer Gungan Knows that there is only one Dark Ruler of Late Night TV, Darth Vader. Join Darth and Kevin Vader (His younger 1/2 brother) for a special episode of their interplanetary award winning nightly talk show celebrating Star Wars. As always they are joined by the Mos Eisely Cantina Band and perform the show under the watchful and sarcastic eye of Emperor Palpatine. Guests include: George Lucas, Jar Jar Binks, John Williams, Peter Mayhew (Chewbacca), The Director of The Star Wars Holiday Special, the Architects of the Death Star , and many more… Plus: Stupid Jedi Tricks and a Erotic Star Wars Fan Fiction, More Deleted Scenes, and a Film from Sean Conroy

Time out. With hindsight and an editor’s pen that last bit should actually read as follows:
»continue reading Saturday Riffs on Vader, Lando, Collins

Disclaimer: A Curve Across The Pond has nothing to do with Los Angeles, other than the fact that it is written by an Anjealeno.

Here we are now having the time of our times back at The Paco. This time it’s packed to the Paco. I’ve never seen a bar so small and yet somehow people continue to stream through the door and manage to get drink service in a normal amount of time. Oye, Paco! Ambassador of greatness in yon Catalonia.

Allow me to describe the physical size and autentico vibe of Paco. If I can. What’s the smallest bar in LA? Anyone?… Tiki Ti? There’s gotta be something smaller. You take the Ye Rustic Inn in Los Feliz – same neighborhood. Now take just the first room of Ye Rustic Shithole. Now chop that room in half and you basically have the size of Casa Paco. »continue reading Part Eight: The Paco

Disclaimer: A Curve Across The Pond has nothing to do with Los Angeles, other than the fact that it is written by an Anjealeno.

The Chelsea goal had sent the room into a palpable funk.

Palpable. Heat rises. Surrounded by Arsenal jerseys here. Drizzle outside. Room gets warmer. I go for a beer. They have Red Stripe™ on tap here. Tap! That´s a rarity. There are some arguably skeevy places to watch a match in the south of London and I´d somehow picked the one with the Stripe on tap. Natch. Watering holes like GrAsshopper and Bar Costena have a tendency to condition one for all manner of life. As such I was, for the most part, in my element.

But back to my shins. Was my hotel in fact built by hobbits, for hobbits? Bloomsbury had been treating me right…a visit to the Horse Hospital … the ominous reading room @ British Museum…overly extravagant consumption at the local socialist bookstore…said goodness aside, a stairway mishap on one of said hotel´s tossing (bleeding? blooding?) hobbit staircases Saturday eve had offered both shins massive bruises and swelling. Pulsing. Flesh wounds that would carry into España and beyond. I could already tell.

The match ends one to one and the crowd disperses into the drizzle.
España! Jesuchristo . . . Y ahora?

Related
Part One

Here I Dreamt We Were an Audience

The Crane Wife
I cracked open the binding and flipped past the title page, landing squarely upon the first page of the first chapter and began to read the starkly beautiful and tragic folk tale of the sail maker and his beloved. Osamu’s sad tale had barely begun when I looked up to see eight bright red lanterns suspended in a false sky. Behind them was a large woodcut printed on laid cotton paper with dark India ink. The image evoked Osamu’s home, perched high above the sea, serene and still, and it remained so as other images swirled in and out of the foreground. I was inside the story, but which one? Was this Osamu’s tale or another, taken from a different place and time? It wasn’t clear, but there was no time to question the images, for they would come and go like the sweetest of pop songs, and they compelled me forward.
»continue reading The Decemberists at the Wiltern, 10/21/06

“Hullo?”

“Oh. Hello!”

“Ha. It’s three o’clock in the morning, jesus where are you? Are you on the road?”

“Onnn the road. But near my house. How was Frampton! That’s so awesome. Did he wah-wah-waah, wah wah?”

“You’re goddam right he did. He totally Came Alive. All over my ears and face. All over the wiltern. Everywhere.”

“I knew you were going to say that. How was the wiltern, old crowd?”

“It was weird. They had chairs set up. I’ve never seen that…but I guess that’s what they do for old dudes. I was just there two nights prior for Sonic Youth and I can guarantee those guys had no chairs. I’ve never seen chairs. Whatever. Originally it was billed as, like, Pearl Frampton. Peter Jam or something. Two dudes from Pearl Jam were supposed to be onstage with him. Then we get this message saying they’re not part of this tour, after all, and it’s just Frampton with Frampton. Very hack.”

“Huh.”

“But think about it man. Thurston Moore has to be about the same age as Frampton. And he’s still coming alive all over the wiltern, without the chairs. But that’s neither here nor there.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually awake.”

“I just got in here, I just got back from karaoke. I’m hoarse as hell.”
»continue reading How We Arrived at Yi Ga Ju

“…So we actually have four iPods in the car? That’s a full deck. Good to know.”

“…That house right there with “The Party’s Here!” in neon. Christian used to always threaten to just go ring the door one day with a sixpack in his hand. “Somebody told me the party was here?”

“So apparently Dennis Hopper actually made a giant replica of that La Salsa Muffler Man.”
“Is it art, if you just take something that’s already been done and make it again basically the same?’
“Arguable. Arguable. Thing about muffler man though is that he apparently has a lantern jaw. One arm up, one down.”
“Yeah, like he’s wielding a club, right?”
“Muffler.”

“…A toast to the Riviera of the West Coast: It is good to be alive.”
“You mean of the Americas.”
“That too. Why limit. It’s got the burden of two continents… it’s pulling weight, I’m saying!”

“…I had to sit down and go over the statutory laws of Idaho with at least two different members of the group…”

“…I would love to just punch you in the jaw right now…”

“…It was pavlovian. Even if you weren’t tired you’d get in this habit of falling instantly asleep in the other guys’ cars. So you were basically guaranteed two extra naps per day…”
“Damn it I love naps.”

“…We need to go over your strategy. Approach the counter. Bracelet on the one hand, inside your sleeve if possible. Glass in the other hand. Then you distract them. Talk about the vineyard, the band that’s playing, their shirt or something. Get ‘em off on a tangent and eventually just sort of drift away. If they ask for it, fine, no loss. But your chances of a free pour are increased immeasurably. G’head, give it a try…”

“…Without doubt you are an auteur. Your skills in metallurgy, art, crafts are second to none. Of course you are peerless. Perchance… do you have anything a little less…horseshoey?”
“You know, the fourth time it really was funny to me. The first three times…it was ok but the fourth time I heard the joke, it was funny.”
“Oh you’re going to hear it several more times, my friend. I can’t stop saying it. I’m going Letterman approach here, pound ‘em over the head with it…”

“My good god. She’s completely passed out cold on the table!”
“I know.”
“Who’s in the other chair d’you s’pose… It’s gotta be that girl over there. Drunk as hell.”
“Naw. The lady at the table is….this dude’s wife.”
“This guy right here playing pool with the drunky?!”
“Yeah.”

“So do your students ever make you feel old?”
“Yeah. And then I make them feel dumb.”

“…This bathroom situation is bullshit. You can believe I’m taking it up with the Mayor and the Rotary chair when I see them…”

“…You don’t understand how bad I just want to punch you in the jaw right now, it is this song…”

“…Sturgis is amazing. They have these gigantic warehouse-sized bars that are basically open for ten days out of the year.”

“…Hey! Do you want some stickers? Do you want to register for ozzfest?”
“Nah, just wanted to come over and say thanks for rocking the Zeppelin, guys…”

“…What’s the secret in the secret sangria?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t be secret, of course…”

“…Good god the juice is loose up there…”

“…What the hell is this movie. British Batman? Beginneth! …”

“You are talking to the surliest woman in the world right now. Seriously the world. It is time to stop.”

Above quotes taken from PCH, SB & Ojai, Saturday-Sunday. Year two for us.

Millerman23: I saw the EELS on Thurs. They were weird, have you ever seen them? The drummer was dressed like a Confederate soldier.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I saw them years ago — I don’t remember.
Millerman23: Were they good?
xxLittlesis8200xx: I don’t remember, they were opening for Fiona Apple. I think I enjoyed them … I didn’t know who they were then.¹
Millerman23: Well they are weird. I didn’t really like it. I thought they would be kinda soft bc I heard that’s what their last album sounds like [from Victor], but they were loud and fast. And the main guy was dressed up as an aviator or something.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Interesting.
Millerman23: And they had this guy on stage who was dressed like a bouncer with a shaved head who just stood there with his arms crossed and sometimes danced.
xxLittlesis8200xx: That is weird.²
Millerman23: How’s school?³
xxLittlesis8200xx: Only Sufjan Stevens can get away with random shit at a concert. School is okay … I am slacking.
Millerman23: Ya even if mom was there and threw up in her hands like she did at Sufjan in Aspen this still would have sucked.⁴
xxLittlesis8200xx: Haha. So ur not gonna be at dinner Fri. night?⁵
Millerman23: No. I am going to a Dodgers game, Jessica’s work gave her ridiculous seats. Front room, behind home plate.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Oh.
Millerman23: When you saw them, did the EELS play that song, “Novocaine For My Soul?”⁶ I wanted them to play it cuz it’s their only hit … cuz sometimes you just want to hear the 10 yr. old hit song even if you know the band hates it. Ya know?
xxLittlesis8200xx: Yea like Weezer still plays all the songs from the blue album.
Millerman23: Yes.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I really don’t remember the EELS, just Fiona … except it was a small venue, and someone yelled “I love u” to the EELS guy⁷and he responded with “thanks” or something which was funny/unexpected.
Millerman23: Like in a calm way?⁸ At the show I saw, Mr. E seemed very sedate like he was on drugs.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Haha he prob. was.
Millerman23: Apparently some band of 2 twelve yr. olds opened for the EELS but I got there late.⁹
xxLittlesis8200xx: Wow, very interesting.
Millerman23: Yes, so interesting.¹⁰ Alright I’m outta here.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I like the stuff I have downloaded, but I guess the EELS are weird live.
Millerman23: I can send you a link to download some of it.¹¹ It’s better on the album than live, at least the way they played it.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Yea send it.
Millerman23: Ok. I gotta review it for the website I write for. I don’t know what I am going to say.
xxLittlesis8200xx: Don’t be too harsh, but say ur opinion.
Millerman23: Thanks for the tip. I will do my best. Any other advice?
xxLittlesis8200xx: Uhhh no.
Millerman23: Alright.
xxLittlesis8200xx: I have to go to my last Kappa meeting of the quarter. I’ll ttyl.
Millerman23: K bye.

___________________________
¹If I recall correctly, Felicia’s friend Meredith got free tickets to that show because her dad was Apple’s doctor.
²It was really weird, though also strangely comforting.
³Felicia is a third-year at UC Davis, studying English.
⁴My sister and I saw a Sufjan Stevens show in Aspen last summer with our family. My mother drank too much and threw up, but concealed the barf by neatly vomiting into her cupped hands.
⁵Felicia will be in town this weekend, and I was meant to have dinner at home with my family, but bailed. People are unhappy about this.
⁶It is actually called “Novocaine For The Soul.”
⁷Felicia is referring to the band’s leader Mark Oliver Everett, who goes by “E” or “Mr. E.”
⁸ Syntax unclear — what I meant to ask was whether the “EELS guy” responded with “thanks” in a calm manner.
⁹That band is called Smoosh, the sisters in the group are more like 16 and 14, and you can hear about Smoosh here.
¹⁰At this point, I sensed my sister’s boredom with the conversation.
¹¹Legally, natch.

It’s 11:24 pm on Sunday night, and the Patrón hangover has just now worn off. I put the 3121 CD back on; attempting to work up a black enough sweat to recap last night’s partying at Prince’s house.

Yes. That Prince. The Purple One.

So in honor of Prince’s creative usage of the English language and singular letters, I’ve chosen to review the night’s events with an A-to-Z list.

A- Attention to detail: 3121 purple doormats, 3121 cocktail napkins, 3121 outfits for the wait staff, purple entry carpet, purple-chalked pool cues…

B- Bathroom antics: My goal was to text as many people as possible from Prince’s bathroom. Not only did I manage that, but I also got this pic of Prince’s mirrored bathroom and the Baby Wipes a thoughtful Purple One set out for his sweaty partygoers. (And I’ll admit it. I looked through all of the drawers and cabinets in the bathroom, finding very little of interest except these weird ball things and a purple hand towel.)

C- Celeb-sandwich: We provided a lovely, yet slightly jaded filling for the bread made from David Duchovny, Angela Basset, Sharon Stone, Hugh Dancy and a guy in a metallic purple leather jacket who we thought was Kenny Rogers.

D- Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough: A fierce cover played by the Purple One… made me question whether Michael was really the right man for the job.

E- Elevators: Safely hidden from Sherwanied bouncers, we snapped some schweet shots in one of Prince’s elevators. With the fusion of purple, O(+> and heart mirrors, I felt loved.

»continue reading A to Z Starts with P

We sent two of our reporters to the Brian Jonestown Massacre two-day stand at little radio warehouse alongside our fan fiction winner, who flew down from San Francisco for the show. All three came back with varied reports. The real story is still out there someplace.

The bouncer/doorman took a fancy to me and gave me and my friend VIP bracelets so I got to sit on the stairs with a perfect view the whole time. I could have talked to Anton a few times, but it seemed a bit cheesy, esp. since his female entourage was standing in line for kisses and I was kind of grossed out about it. So I admired His Crazy Majesty from afar. It was great.

While Bright Channel was on, a couple young dorks arrived and decided people needed to be dancing and moshing. So they dove into the crowd and accidentally kicked my friend in the chest. We were not amused. “Is this the future of rock and roll? Everyone standing around like wax figures?” the dorks asked rhetorically. “Quit jumping my friend!” I yelled. Later on in the evening, Anton made fun of these guys yelling “rock and roll” over and over again. He mocked them and said something about how they must watch “Jackass” a lot.

I was tired of it and went to get a drink at the bar. That’s when my surreal night got more surreal. The gangster/David Lynch bouncer in a suit David (Dave, dave? –ed) bought me a drink and told me to call him in 15 minutes, at which time he’d magically produce VIP bracelets for my friend and me. I just had to meet him at the stairs. I came back and told her about it and she asked “How do you disappear for drinks and come back with VIP bracelets?” “I dunno. He said he liked my smile!”

So we’re sitting in our (relatively speaking) cush seats on the stairs, with perfect views of Anton facing our way. Yes!
»continue reading The Losanjealous BJM Two-Day Recap

WEEKEND WHITE SHEET: BLIZZARDY ‘BIGGIE SMALLS’ BEAR RECAP ‘06
aka How I Very Nearly Died In My Car 188 Times Over Two Days

Some good friends of mine invited me up to Big Bear for a weekend of skiing. I said, Hell yes. As the predetermined weekend approached I began to check the forecast and grew, shall we say, concerned. Saturday morning. Zero hour. It’s a downpour here and a seriously nasty blizzard up there. Ben’s Weather advises ‘Travel to this area is highly discouraged.’

I pack my shit and take off.

I’ve been to Big Bear a few times, last time being in 2002. Let me be perfectly frank and earnest, Losanjealenos: When it does finally get the snow you’d like, Big Bear is a complete and total pain in the ass to reach. Imagine taking the 15 to Vegas on a Friday night. Now add a shitload of ice. And mountain roads with sheer dropoffs. Why not add fog, hail, poor visibility and torrential snow for good measure.

Still, everybody and their mother loads up. Not just the boarders and skiers. People who have no intention of reaching the resorts load up. Hundreds of cars haul sleds and toboggans a few miles up the mountain, park haphazardly on both sides of the road and engage in snowball wars while you’re steaming in your car, stopped dead in your tracks with hundreds upon hundreds of cars waiting in front of you. You steam and sulk. Your knuckles are not yet white. You haven’t endangered yourself (yet), but you probably will. You consider pulling the plug and turning around, but you never do. Most of all, you wonder when you’ll get to wash your hands free of greasy road-and-tire shit after ‘installing’ mandatory chains.

Before I continue, I should say that I enjoyed the hell out of this weekend; I’m simply being pragmatic. I have a very light front-wheel-drive coupe, arguably the worst car for inclement weather. I knew good-and-goddam-well what I was getting into and I charged into it, head-first. As I approach my mid-thirties I’m almost proud of my continued foolishness. Enough with this. Table time:

Sure, you could leave at 3am and arrive at Mammoth Village in the same amount of time that it took me to get to Big Bear. In fact, I’ve done it. (Aside: You really haven’t lived until you’ve seen the hulking shadow of Mount Whitney agelessly staring at you and your car at 6 in the morning)

Mammoth. You trade 140 more runs for 140x more people. Sometimes. Both places have their merits, but Big Bear has been and always will be considerably more nightmarish to get in and out of, inclement weather aside, strictly for the single-file-traffic-line factor. After a long day of skiing that drive home can be downright brutal. Add a blizzard and, provided you live to tell the tale, you suddenly find yourself hand-crafting a long-winded HTML chart for your website following booze and a well-earned soak.

Next stop: Tahoe. Who’s in.

8 March 2006. My fever tops 108F. My tonsils look like malformed mussels in a ruby-red tidepool. I roll into dreamland…

It’s hotter than hot this time. I’m a crumb-topped cassoulet™. I shiver. I shake. Grandma leaves the room, puttering on woolen slippers. I blink twice and find self sitting with a handful of cards. I’m playing five-card poker at the Benev Society in Chinatown. Food poker. I glance about the place. Myself. Jgold. S Irene Verbila. Mair the Intern. Pete.

Fuck this game. I splash some ice water onto my face and rise slowly. Pop the plastic on an antibiotic caplet the size of a horse suppository and dump the powder into my cold coffee. Time to dose up.

Outro: First person to find the secret poker hand hidden in one of the links above wins $6.29 voucher for Maria’s Ramada, Little Armenia. Is it worth your time?

Is it worth your time. Have you been to Maria’s Ramada? Don’t ask me this.

At the height of my Lazy Unemployed Son-of-a-Bitch phase last year, I found myself engaged in various e-mail transactions with shady third parties across state lines, hoping to secure a (questionably legal) wireless gaming system in order to practice Dr. Mario all day, every day.

Gaming system arrives, parcel post. I’m on my fifth cup of coffee and still in my houserobe. I hook it up. A silly-looking penguin houses the wireless sensor. Thing weighs about an ounce. I set him up near the TV. Plug him in. Penguin’s eyes blaze red, I’m in business. I do not move from my position on the floor for the next seventy-two hours. The phone rings from time to time. I lose track of seasons. I’ve a beard. I am in serious need of a shower. I get up. I notice the wall wart protruding from the power strip. It’s connected to the penguin. It’s in the way. I want to move the wall wart. Move the wall wart. I want to move the wall wart. Move the wall wart, plug it in, and play me. Who’s talking here. Those aren’t the droids you’re looking for. He can go about his business. Move along.

I move the wall wart to another power outlet.

The penguin’s eyes are dull. He does not burn for me.

Around this same time I’d spent days studying an MIT grad student’s blueprints of incredibly useful creations forged from the guts of gaming systems using solder, brains and little else. I own both a soldering gun and a solder-sucker. Not a problem. Piece of cake. Time to operate. Let’s do this. Penguin I am going to give you Lasik, motherfucker. Before the week is through your eyes will shine blood-red, burn with the seething hatred of third-eye blindness, red like the walls of the Sea of Reeds in Exodus, burn burn burn, burn a hole in my couch if they must but red they will burn and goddammit you will work and I goddammit will be sitting immobile on my ass playing Dr. Mario growing a beard for the foreseeable future. Done.

The ending of this story involves three operated-on gaming systems and a fried, less-than-a-year-old widescreen Sony HDTV requiring in-house repair [photo]. Truth be told, it’s not something I’m prepared to discuss at this time. Ask me in six months.

Penguins aside, learn from my mistakes and solder with the pros at machine project this Saturday:

Saturday afternoon at 1pm – episode 11 of Dorkbot Socal, a monthly
meeting for people interested in doing weird things with electricity.
This will be our second open hack event with a special bonus soldering
demo for beginners (free, supplies will be provided). This is a nice
opportunity to get help/advice on an electronics project and socialize with
other humans while risking mild electrical shock. If you have a
specific project that you need help with, bring it along and our semi-experts
will attempt to help. If you don’t have a project and just want to
check out what other people are doing that’s cool as well. Bring your
friends, bring your projects, and bring your questions! Free!

http://dorkbot.org/dorkbotsocal/

Also of note at machine project, Saturday:

Saturday night at 8pm – episode two of “You to can play difficult
music”. Liam Mooney and Thadeus Frazier-Reed present new works which
investigate drifting deviations, genetic algorithms, and hidden forms,
using an array of simple choices to create complexity and wonder.
Volunteers will get to play an adaptation of the electronic game SIMON, fiddle
with the live performance of an innocent cellist (April Guthrie), trace
the tolerance of consumer electronics, and manipulate the very forces
of nature towards unseen ends. Participants will be sternly warned to
keep all hazardous materials away from mouth and eyes. Enjoy!

http://www.machineproject.com/difficult/mooney_frazierreed.php

Finally, for our hundred-dozen readers who dial in from Pomona, something to do after the church picnic this Sunday:

Sunday afternoon 3-5pm – Ryan Taber and Cheyenne Weaver. As part of
our ongoing show at the Pomona College Museum of Art, Ryan Taber and
Cheyenne Weaver have installed a sculpture in the process of transforming
itself from a raft, to a printing press, to a giant map cartouche.
Please join us at the Pomona College Museum of Art this Sunday, March 5th
from 3-5 pm for light snackery and to view the installation
mid-transformation. Directions >

http://www.pomona.edu/museum/information/location.shtml

Food memoirs of a relationship just off Normandie

Late last year I found myself briefly involved with a woman who lives in Koreatown. One Friday night we wanted sushi. She, beaten down by the work week. Me, lazy jobless son-of-a-bitch, beaten down by the Friday traffic. Try picking up somebody on the west side and bringing them to the part of town where Hangul flashes in every direction during rush hour, Friday, if you haven’t recently. Sushi though. Koreatown nothing, we needed sushi. Sushi delivery? What would that taste like. You see where this is headed. Of course yours truly was going to have to truck the hell out someplace, be the hero and bring back the sushi. Enter: Sushi Bar, 3rd and Normandie.

Above: When not open, Sushi Bar offers ample parking

I stumbled upon Sushi Bar while driving toward a trusted japanese establishment on Wilshire just east of David Lynch’s Bob’s Big Boy. Denizens, I didn’t have to drive half that far. Sushi Bar threw itself at me and I responded: SOLD!, not knowing if their version of sushi would be the real deal or some bastardized Kim Bop loaded up with spam and pineapples. Although I did want to impress by bringing home the goods, traffic being what it was, I was suddenly prepared to make whatever Sushi Bar had to offer workable.

As you might expect, Sushi Bar had no available parking. I circled the block. Deftly dodged a Metro. Clumsily dodged a Ford Taurus making a left. Became unseasonably lucky on Normandie. Parked, clubbed, safety-lock-beeped. Trekked inside. Scoped the menu. We’re in business. This looks fantastic. Resisted the urge to share a Crown Royal with the Korean man down the way, toasting himself, attempting to chat up a mother-daughter combo. Next challenge: Will they make a fried tofu roll for the lady.

Me: You have fried tofu?
Waitress: (smile)
Me: Tofu. Tofu? To-Fu?
Waitress: (smile)
Me: To-fu? you know, veggie, Tofu, soy…
Waitress: (smile) ah. excuse please one second!
Host: (off phone now) Yes, hello? Sorry about that. Can I help you?
Me: Do you have fried tofu rolls?
Host: (perplexed) Topu?
Me: Tofu. Fried tofu?
Host: Topu. YES!

The banter continued for some time, but I eventually got everything we’d ever need at this joint and more. Affordable, to boot. Mere blocks away from my ultimate destination I’d stumbled upon some truly incredible, truly wonderful sushi. The order looked amazing. To top everything off they were adding very distinctive garlicky Korean garnishes right there alongside the textbook wasabi/soy/ginger triumverate. I could throw a rock and hit Jon’s market from here. What is a sushi bar of this caliber doing in this stretch?

The chef beams and asks me to approve his handiwork before we seal the deal. These guys are the real thing. Tonight, jobless Ryan wins. Tonight, Ryan’s 32. Tomorrow he’ll be 33. This is Friday Night Sushi in the heart of Ktown.

Takeaway: If you find yourself in the vicinity of 3rd and Normandie with a sushi craving that must be sated, look for this sign. Look for this frontage. Bring your appetite for the delicate and a penchant for Crown Royal. Call a cab. Know that they can make fried topu rolls, if only you ask.

The B-Side: Essence Coffee, Wilshire

Every relationship, no matter the length, demands a temple you call your own in the significant other’s neighborhood. This go-round, my comfort zone ended up being Essence Coffee on Wilshire. Much as I’d preferred it to be Koffea, those jokers don’t open until a ridiculously late hour, threatening me with a pounding headache from caffeine withdrawal. Leaving the woman’s place I would make the trek down to Wilshire and Normandie, wherein I would be assaulted by the sheer number of coffee purveyors at my disposal — upwards of a dozen. Time and again, I would head straight to Essence Coffee for a small americano with extra shot to watch the working people come in for their pre-work fix. Me: Crumpled walk of shame clothing. Them: Sharp as a tack. Me: Happy and tired. Them: Working. All of us: Soon caffeinated. All of us: Comprehending but not really absorbing the view of Wilshire and the church across the street [photo]. All of us: Wondering if we should wait a few hours and walk around the corner to Brass Monkey for a shot of something stronger.

Essence coffee was a nice place with a very nice staff. At times I miss it. Onward and upward.

Sushi Bar
3922 W. 3rd (at Normandie)
213.383.2058

Essence Coffee
3458 1/2 Wilshire Blvd (at Normandie)

I am the Burbank Booby Genius. Attend my genius, and learn.

I go to the Hooters of Burbank with my SAG card wielding Ombudsman every Friday. It is without a doubt that we have a scheme to pick up one of the waitresses — usually as a producer or actor of some invisible and unproven merit — but this time, this time I achieved something like anaphylactic shock to think of something so criminally fun and irresistible to these meat nymphs.

There, at the table, we sat sipping our drinks and making suggestive eye contact with the staff when I noticed my partner making clumsy conversation with a disinterested party. I don’t know where I get my ideas, but it was time to call in a surreal cerebral air strike and straighten this out. With booming, stentorian aplomb, I said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I want to dress you up in a piranha outfit for a commercial I want to shoot at house in front of a green screen.”

She heard the word piranha and leaned in. I believe most piranhas have freckles on their bosoms, so I was almost there. Ah, the crew grimaced. I’m out on a limb. Will I jump? No. She’ll jump. She’ll jump into my arms. The word piranha made her molecules get all funny.

“You want to see me in a piranha outfit?”

Yes. Your face in piranha makeup, no clothes over the shoulders. We hear Hall and Oates’s “Man Eater”, whoa here she comes… tum tum tum, tum tum tadum… I want you to be swimming in front of the green screen, minding your own piranha business, when something dangles over the far left side of the hypothetical fish tank. You see it! It’s a man! A man made out of Slim Jims!”

Laughter. I said to my partner with my eyebrows raising and lowering in code, “Watch this. I’ll have them all over hear petitioning for our phone numbers.”

“Oh. My . Gawd! That’s so funny! Oh. My Gawd.”

The Oh My Gawd First Alert signal pulls all Hooters waitresses to our table to the scowls of local firemen. Player, play on!

“You become incensed with hunger! You perniciously bite and chomp your way over to him and start lashing out at it and biting at him — gnakk! gnakk! — until you have him like a pinch of Skoal’s Bandits between your lip and gum. Then tear him asunder. Cut to graphic. OUT. Thirty seconds. It can’t miss. What do you think. Wanna do it?”

Oh. My. Gawd. Where did you get this idea? Did you just think of it here? Are you serious? You want me to do this? Oh my Gawd. That’s so nuts! You’re serious? When did you want to do this?”

I think, perhaps, some of my claims resonate as fiction in the ears of my colleagues. This couldn’t be further from fact. I rarely, if ever, deviate one micrometer’s measurement from titful truthfuls of the Hooterotic. I don’t have to.

Sitting here, warm, dry, watching the sopping Rose Parade (It’s magical!) on KTLA HD. Watching Lance Burton, Master Magician, deftly performing yet unable to keep himself dry with sleight-of-hand. I begin to reflect as I do each year. Thoughts cascade the waterfall of my mind. Hickory Farms’ Christmas Celebration coffee has some type of flavored shit in it. Remember this. It is time, finally, to make my new week’s resolutions. If you’re like me, a year is far too broad for goals to be of any use. Simply ineffective. Am I really going to remember my resolutions in August? In April? Next week? Forget that. I make resolutions one week at a time.

This week:

• Watch this game
• Figure out when the hell that Sparklett’s guy is appearing next and pre-emptively cancel delivery, post-haste
• Brainstorm fundraisers to get Dave Hart’s puppets industrially scoured. Be honest, if hand puppets received a public health rating his would be hard-pressed to come up with a “C”…(Did these people use sani-gloves?)
• Consider posting some bullshit story about Chinatown in order to be able to use newly-rediscovered two-year-old photos
• Determine if there’s enough material in my New Year’s toast with Canter’s Lightshow and FlameDrink Man to merit a full post
• Look for a job
• Watch the entire Sopranos: Year One series before it disappears into the On Demand void eternally
• Define and write up the rules for Central Library: Hide-And-Go-Scare
• Do something about that pile of crap on the corner of the desk
• Do the dishes
• Cough up 3lbs expectorate from lungs
• Send out plagiarized CDs

Update, 1/3/06! I completed five of my New Week Resolutions yesterday. Not a bad ratio for one day. Newest New Week Resolution: Buy flashlight and battery-operated boombox immediately, I’ve been without power for the last 24 fucking hours

24 December 2005. My fever tops 103F. Throat raw. Swallowing razorblades. I roll into dreamland…

My head’s on the chopping block. The cook from my freshman year dorm’s pinned my arms behind my back, laughing at me, preparing to make me into a crumb-topped cassoulet. I shiver. I shake. The bed melts around me. I’m sinking into a great fondue of sheets. My gramma appears over the edge of the bed with a two-pronged fork, bread bits skewered, priming to dip into the steaming cheesy goo. She leers at me over a gin and tonic. ‘Fondue!!’ I think of the book Stop This Man! by Peter Rabe, acutely aware that Erskine Caldwell, author of God’s Little Acre, ‘couldn’t put this book down!’ I wonder what Dave Hart’s Christmas is like. Did he come down the chimney and deliver gifts to Chip and the gang? Did he get any window-painting gigs for extra cash? I’ve got his Christmas CD. Why on earth haven’t I called him? I wonder of Fancy Dancer. My father would look good on rollerblades. I think of Victor, Ron, Frederick Chest, DeMarco. What does a DeMarco do for Christmas, do you suppose? Anything he wants. The cook is sharpening his butcher’s knife now, slathering and slimmering all over the industrial kitchen. Six guys from my hall are filling their trays, getting iced tea, paying me no mind behind the counter. There’s Sweany. There’s Davis. Guys, over here. Cook’s laughing. His apron is bloodied. He tap dances to Andy Williams. I can’t shake the image of a Lego® TIE Fighter in shimmery gold paper. IPods, DVDs, novellas, divinity fudge, rum-spiked eggnog, sausage balls, cheese balls, cheese logs, sausage logs, logs and balls devoid of sausage and cheese entirely. I think of firewood. My fever breaks. I wake in a pool of blood, sweat and tears. The bedside alarm plays a song by earth, wind and fire. I yearn for Andy Williams. I awake on Christmas morn and immediately call for vitamin C, sudafed, throat lozenges, coffee, kleenex. 2005 is winding down, but it’s not over yet.

Related: My Fever Dream