Loz Anjaleez

A few weeks ago Dan had to go to Orange County for work, so I tagged along and we made a mini-vacation out of it.  I can't believe I hadn't been to LA since I moved to New York, over five years ago - uh, sorry Angelenos!  (They all moved too).

Anyway, Dan and I touched down, rented a convertible, and made a beeline for Santa Monica, my former stomping grounds.  First off, I had to take him to LA SALSA.

La Salsa is a chain and any true LA person will roundly mock me for LOVING it, but I do.  Their tacos etc. are fine but the real draw is their unlimited salsa bar:

Yes yes salsa delicious!

Then we walked down to the Santa Monica Pier, where our relationship more or less began.  A tourist took this great picture of us by the entrance:

(Thanks guys.  Thanks) - but we got a better one in front of Rusty's Surf Ranch, an incredibly terrible bar where we shared our first eighteen Bud Lights.

Then we had to book it over to West Hollywood for lunch at Mozza.  But we still drove by some old haunts.

We arrived at Pizzeria Mozza an hour and fifteen minutes late (oh right, LA has traffic) but they squeezed us in and we proceeded to have an absolutely ridiculous meal.  It started with this caprese plate, which you know, whatever, tomatoes and mozzarella, but the blistered tomatoes were perfectly sweet and the cheese was so soft and creamy... really good.

Then we had a plate of arancini, which were the best arancini I've ever had.

Followed by a pizza.  This pizza was perfect - the crust is thin and crunchy, and the outer edges perfectly light and crisp.  Seriously, it was perfect.

We sat by the bar and watched the chefs assemble each pizza, including the one on the left covered in zucchini blossoms.  So cool.

Then dessert.  Okay.  This dessert.  It's a sundae ("it's our play on a sundae," the server said.  Ummmm okay ice cream + toppings equals what else?) of burnt caramel ice cream, caramel sauce, marshmallow sauce, and salted peanuts, all sitting on a thin waffle cookie.  It was OUTRAGEOUS.  Oh dear.  I can't even think about it.  Dan and I fought over it.  I want another right now.

Later that night we had dinner with Kristy and her boyfriend, met their cats, saw their apartment, and caught up.  It was so nice.  This is the only picture I took:

A skateboarder we saw from her roof.  I'm an idiot.

BOT!

Back when I lived in LA, every Thursday was "Blackout Thursday." Our little group would congregate at Q's, a semi-fratty bar in Westwood, and enjoy half-price pitchers and free food until 7, and then just stay there for the rest of the night. We'd call things "mysto," and "epic." Chris P would look terrible in pictures. We'd yell at Katie for leaving early because she had a real job. Dennis would Photoshop all the pictures. BOT. A beautiful time. But things change. I moved to New York. Rachael got married. Bralex decamped for NorCal and adopted a seriously cute dog. Katie went on a globe-trotting odyssey. Kevin randomly moved to China, fathered half-Asian twins, and never came back. Even Dennis left Westwood for the greener, gayer pastures of West Hollywood bicoastalism.

But tonight, for just this evening, a decent chunk of the BOT crew is in NYC for one night only.

It's BLACKOUT FRIDAY!!!! Except with better beer. And no blacking out, I guess. Or walking through the drive-through at McDonald's. Or passing out on Dennis's random mattress.

I'm so excited!

A rare picture Chrispy looking nice and normal (this is only possible when everyone else makes a face).

This would be more typical.

Or this.

(most of) The crew!

My giant Photoshopped boobs!

Face-stuffing!

Chris's picture help.

2-for-1 margs at the cantina next door.

Katie's bday.

We were all really into home decor.

After a little stroll through the drive-through across Wilshire.

Balanced Thursday meal.

The crackwhore mattress.

That happened.

And a special treat for Model Matt.

BOT 4-eva!

Chocolate Chips and Ice-Nine

This guy I met at Q's called me the other night.

"So... I'm standing outside of Ralph's. And I'm thinking... I want cookies. Want to bake cookies?"

"Now?"

"Yeah, now."

"Um... well, you know, it's Saturday night, I'm kind of already on my way somewhere."

Cookie Man persisted, and we do baked goods until the next day. He arrived bearing Country Crock Spreadable Sticks and a bag of Ghiradelli, and I dug out Saint Roommate's KitchenAid (mine's been packed, dear thing). Things were going fine--pleasant chatter, amusing anecdotes, etc. Despite my aversion to margarine, the cookies were smelling pretty good. We sat on the floor with Mildred, listening to the tick of the timer.

"Hey," he said, moving closer. He kind of cocked his head. "You should bite me."

I looked at him. He was displaying his neck.

"Seriously, bite me." He wasn't telling me to fuck off; it was a literal request. He wanted my teeth in his epidermis. I began to realize why this very cute guy was still single.

I'm not proud of what I did next. I thought it was weird and I'd known him for like an hour and a half and all logic points to throwing him out or at least faking a need to pee, but the "eh, whatever; I'm moving" thought took over and I did it; I gave his neck a nip.

And did he sigh in gratitude and then explain how this was some odd test of my open-mindedness and that I had passed with soaring colors? Uh, negatory, my friends. He felt that I could do better. "No," he said. "I want you to bite."

It was just a bit much. Am I judgmental? I don't care. I sat back, put on my noncommittal scrunchy face, and picked up the cat as a physical barrier between us.

"Oh, listen, the cookies are ready!"

He later suggested boku-maru (I am not making this up) and mentioned that he had a bottle of wine in his car. I told him I had somewhere to be at 3.



Yeah... good bye, you LA dating world. Good bye, and good luck.

He Returneth

So yesterday Dennis and I went to a "Friends & Family" Superman Returns screening on the Warner Bros. lot. Narni's invite had teased: "Get ready for a Legendary experience..." (She works for Legendary). She did not disappoint.

As far as the movie, I can't give an unbiased review. You will not have it introduced by an endearingly, pants-crappingly nervous Bryan Singer. Nor will Brandon Routh and Kevin Spacey bound on stage afterwards, to tout our presence and support and explain what those little green men in the HBO First Look special were doing behind the Man of Steel.



That said, you'll still see the close-up of a bullet bouncing off Superman's eye, and all of Parker Posey's batty hairstyles. The movie was pretty awesome.


At the reception, Narni and her Black Sunglasses of Rejection protected the talent from those without photo passes.



Who are presumably people like me, who try to catch famouses fixing their hair.



We eventually met the Man of Steel, who was very nice and I'm pretty sure dreading next weekend, when normal life officially ends for good. You could kind of see the repressed fear in his eyes. There are pictures, but they are TK.

After that we drank about a million wee cups of wine and flitted about Fake New York.





La la!

Thank you Narni!

California, I will miss you.

(But I can always come back).

Hollywood Hillsbillies

Narni and I went to Hirsh's birthday party last night. I barely know the guy, but I do know that he's worth ~half a billion, and so was curious to see his surely impressive Beverly Hills manse. If only the "beverages welcome" disclaimer on the invite had tipped me off.

We putted up Benedict Canyon, the street getting bumpier as we climbed. After manually moving a grate to park in a ditch, we noticed the house at the top of the hill. I think he bought it from the Clampetts, who had it built when they first moved to LA in a fit of Appalachian nostalgia. It looked, from a distance, as though we were actually attending a barn-raising. Narni picked through the gravel paths, rather regretting her heels.

Nothing much to report, although I am happy to share that the Paint LA Brown crowd has gotten over its velveteen blazer thing (and the house, closer up, was really nice, with a sweet kitchen. Hirsh, in a fit of drunken friendlies, told me all about the discount oven supply warehouse that I must check out).

Also, I'm pretty sure that Turban is on next season's Apprentice.

Your Day Will Come

If you spend any time on the Promenade on the weekends, you might know Crazy Dude With The Glasses. He stands at the corner of Third and Santa Monica and proselytizes loudly behind his thick, taped bifocals. They aren't taped in the nose or on the side in manner of Revenge of the Nerds, but rather on the glass itself. Two decorative squares of electrical tape. One black, one red.

He's sitting across from me at the library right now, deep into some kind of book and about to move on to The Paintings of Joan Mitchell, which I can't really fault, and is wearing a "Turner" emblazoned cap, to which he has added, also in red electrical tape, the words "Ted" and "Jane Fonda Tanks."

I think he's napping now.

Attached to his suitcase is a small banner reading "Shabut Ra."

Neither Google nor Wikipedia know what this is.

It's Brilliant!

What's better than watching Jamie Oliver create flour crust chicken on the Food Network?

I think it's being able to call a friend and have your "Hey, let's make that weird chicken-in-a-crust thing from Oliver's Twist" met with an alacratic, "Okay!"

We were skeptical--Jamie's instructions were, to put it mildly, vague. "Jes pop it in th' oven fer two ow-ahs! I like to do me own on a stack of newspapah"--

But somehow, it worked.






Yeah, denude that bitch. Biddie. Hen. Whatever.

The List (updates to follow, I'm sure)

- visit the Vegetable Shop.
- go to Vegas with the girls.
- [redacted].
- [redacted].
- crash a club.
- taste wines in Santa Barbara.
- visit the Getty.
- go to the Grand Canyon.
- pirate necessary software.
- eat at Koi.
- go to Magic Mountain.
- call William Morris.
- drink with friends.

A Riddle

Why did the chicken cross the road?


I don't know.


But I'm pretty sure it was to get the bejesus out of the chicken's least natural habitat option, West Los Angeles.

Home Sweet Temporary Shelter

They're pouring concrete around my apartment this weekend, so I must either get out and stay out, or remain inside, at the mercy of whatever food I happen to already have in the house. If I weren't working today I may well have chosen "hole up and be antisocial with the perfect excuse," but I have instead moved into the DK Crackhouse. Dennis has a friend in town and Euge sleeps there often as well, so it really did resemble a crackhouse last night, with people in various degrees of fucked-up-edness draped on couches and mattresses around the floor, although the clean walls and lack of biohazard sharps kind of throws it.

My family left yesterday. We had a great time. Mom saw Michael Keaton drinking coffee by her hotel.

Matt insisted it wasn't him; he was too doughy and drove an Acura.

Mom saw him the next day, and went to talk to him.

"Are you Michael Keaton?"

"I am."

"I saw you here yesterday. My son doesn't believe me."

"How about I sign him an autograph?"

So now Brother Blotto has his very own message on an Amelia's Cafe napkin from Batman the First. Or Jack Frost.

Weekend Update

Thursday (my weekends start Thursdays. Sometimes Mondays. Whatever).

Qs, glorious Qs! I sing it to the tune of that "Food Glorious Whatever" song from Oliver.

Friday

I'd missed Micky's. Dennis and Bri and I shaked and shimmied with the go-go boys and $2 beers that make West Hollywood grand. I kept looking around and thinking about Babylon from Queer as Folk (US), wondering where they hide the back room. I think it's in Chelsea.

Saturday

The Gaslite! Everyone's favorite bedazzled karaoke shitbox. Had a line. WTF?

Sang: Sk8er Boi. Ran into some McMasterites who invited me sailing. I, certain they were being polite/drunk, requested a wake-up call of "You're coming sailing, bitch!" were it genuine. K. slept at my place and yelled at Mildred for biting her toes.

Sunday
My phone chimes: "You're coming sailing, bitch!"

Glorious, glorious day. (cue music) Saaaaaaaaaaaaaaail glorious saaaaaaaaaaaaaail glorious sailllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!

Dolphins came to play; several of K.'s thousands of pictures TK.

Seasickness ensued. I booted several times.

Oh, Happy Day

It was a happy day yesterday. Duke beat Indiana. I met up with an old acquaintance. Dennis and I went and stared at Adam Sandler at the bar, because we are tools.

And Defamer published my bitchy little Nellie McKay story!

My story. On Defamer! Validating me! Validation! Yes!

The Great Outdoors, as in That John Candy Movie, rather than Actual Nature

Yaf is here!

MB: Let us go experience The Great Outdoors!
Y: Let's!
MB: To the Santa Monica Mountains! Despite the $7 parking fee, we shall for a few hours retreat from the civilized world, attune our spirits, and align our souls!
Y: Ok!
MB: This hike is great!
Y: Very refreshing.
MB: What is that yonder? I daresay a piece of litter!
Y: Let us pack it out.
MB: I shall get it. What do you think it is?

(pause: careful examination).

Y: My friend, I believe it is a poo-rag.

Joooooooooan

Dennis came over yesterday and we played with his new eleventy billion dollar camera.



Awwww! Kitty! (Dennis calls her Joan).

We then took frolicky pictures by the ocean walk.



I FEEL it! In the EYES! FIERCE! (Everything I know about picture posing I learned from America's Next Top Model).

Um... Dennis and I have a lot of free time.


He also takes great party pictures. Except for maybe when he very furtively follows me down the hall when I am leaving a particular party to take shots like this:



where I look all sketchy but am really just pressing the elevator button, and then posts them on ImageStation with suggestive, misleading captions about why and when I am leaving, and with whom, Dennis.

But then I laugh, and all is well.

Busby's

Went to Busby's last night. Had last been to Busby's on St. Patrick's Day, and greeted March 18th with a liquified brain and this "You have an interview at Bruckheimer in 40 minutes" message on my voicemail.

The Bruckheimer peon was very nice but I think he knew about the hangover, because he kept staring at the bits of congealed brain around my hairline. Guess it leaked out my ears or something. He didn't say anything. Don't you hate that? You think everything's fine, and just maybe someone has a little eye-twitch problem, and then you look in the vanity mirror on the drive home.

Anyway. Last night.

It was supposed to be a holistic night. A get-over-jetlag night. A domestic night. And it was going so well: I went to yoga, played with the cat (I have this baseless theory that attention will quell her biting problem), and was getting kind of excited to kick back with some Pinsky-translated Inferno. Circles. Hell. Virgil. Pinsky. I like Pinsky. I interviewed him several years ago for the Chronicle. Then I received a book of his verse from my Chronicle Secret Santa at Christmastime, and I only mention it here because it was among the most thoughtful gifts I've received, and I barely knew the guy. I got all misty-eyed when he gave it to me. I actually developed a little crush on him for it.

I wonder what he's up to these days.

Oh right. Last night.

I'd already declined Qs and told Dennis I was staying in, but my roommate is one smooth motherfucker, talking me out of sweatpants and into... jeans... with just a few choice words and a disco CD. Toot toot beep beep! Busby's!

At Busby's, I learned this sweet line. Men, take notice. This line is foolproof. Some guy used it on us and ended up with A., my roommate's very sweet friend who looks like a Barbie doll and isn't even really done breaking up with her boyfriend yet. The line is:

"I would like to buy you all a round of shots."

Santa Monica: Where Bums and A-Listers Collide

Perhaps this reporter, writing for American OK!, has yet to arrive stateside. In any case, s/he has certainly never been to Ebersole Park.