Take my husband, PLEASE!

Bukowski tells a tale of a stud that could not mate with a mare because she was "too attractive". The handlers had to lather the mare with mud to entice the arrogant stud into mating. The point of the story published in "South of No North", was that the stud was intimidated by the mares beauty. And it was not until he believed that she was uglier than him, that he felt confident enough to perform. I always remembered that story as an interesting insight into the male psyche.

The other nite i engaged Mr. M in the always dreaded instantly regrettable, "who would you rather" conversation. He begrudgingly participated and was a good sport about it; going into the pros and cons while carefully weighing his options (within the realm of the game and otherwise).Then i chimed in with my usual narcissistic-all consuming-insecurities. He replied, "why do you always have to make everything about you?" Needless to say, that was the end of the game, and i never did find out if he preferred Bijou Phillips or Donna Pinciotti.

I later apologized for ruining the game and i explain that i was not trying to make it all about me, that in the big picture i did not care about the outcome of the game. I simply felt suddenly insecure. Insecurities born in every woman who have ever watched t.v, opened a fashion magazine, had a class with THAT hot chick. It made me question if having a "hot body" was an important component for his ideal woman. He was right, i did make it all about me and about how i measured up to what i imagined his ideals of a "perfect" woman to be. I asked him, "would you like me more if i had a hot body?" he said no. i suspiciously suspected otherwise, when his follow-up response brought complacent contentment. He said, "if you were really hot i would be happy, but i would worry. right now i am just really happy, and this is better." When he said that i remembered that old song about being happy for the rest of your life by Jimmy Soul:

...A pretty woman makes her husband look small
And very often causes his downfall

As soon as he marries her, then she starts

Doin' the things that will break his heart

But if you make an ugly woman your wife
You'll be happy for the rest of your life

An ugly woman cooks your meals on time
An she'll always give you peace of mind...

Its a clever song that takes me back to The Buk's story. It became abundantly clear to me that women really don't know what men want, nor do we fully understand them: MEN. Rather than dwell on the "whatifs" i am gonna let myself feel pretty and loved and accepted just the way i am; as a muddy mare, although i rarely have a meal made on time.

This is not a Food Blog

Apparently, there is a code of ethics one should follow when writing a food blog, which i think should just be left to common sense and not a group of word Nazis who think they alone have the write to write. (Get it?) it's punny...

Food Blog Restaurant Review Guidelines
1. We will be thorough.
We will consult the Association of Food Journalist guidelines to maintain a standard for reviews.
2. We will be fair when reviewing a restaurant
We will visit a restaurant more than once (more than twice, if possible) before passing a final judgment.
We will sample the full range of items on menu.
We will be fair to new restaurants. Establishments experience growing pains. We will wait at least one month after the restaurant opens, allowing them to work out some kinks, before writing a full-fledged review. If, however, we chose to post about a new restaurant because of timeliness and competitiveness, we will instead offer readers “initial impressions.”
If we receive an item for free or if we are recognized during our reviewing process, we will mention so in our review.
While anonymity is important when dining out and conducting a review, we will not hide behind a pseudonym. If complete anonymity is required for personal or professional safety, we will not post anything that we wouldn’t feel comfortable putting our name on and owning up to. Readers should also be able to respond to the reviews.

***
I will press on. Last night Mr. M and i went to Casa Bianca. It's a mom and pop Italian restaurant located on 1650 Colorado in Eagle Rock. Mr. M and i have been there before.(AND yes i have been there more than 2 times before). All bias aside, i sort of prefer Tarantinos in Pasadena on 784 E Green Street. It too is a mom and pop operation, is a CASH only establishment, has marvelous pizza pies, (i have been there more than twice too) but i have never had to wait 45 minutes to an hour to eat there. Casa Bianca does not need me to review it. It has been reviewed and revered in various publications', 'BEST OF ' lists. It shares the charm of Palermo Ristorante Italiano located on 1858 N Vermont Ave in Los Angeles. You can buy a glass of wine while you wait for your table there too and the walls are plastered with 8x10 glossy head shots of D list TV stars from yesteryear. The food is better at Casa Bianca than that of Palermo's but the price is about the same. But i digress, this is not a FOOD BLOG.

Last night Mr. M and i went to Casa Bianca, we were prepared to wait so we walked down the street to a Liquor Store and bought a 32 of the high life and 2 cans of Boddingtons. We sat outside talking about "Son of Rambow", a delightful little movie we netflixed this week. The night was warm and balmy, due to the rain that had just misted everything. We were yucking it up and i was especially enjoying making fun of the other parties waiting to be seated. One group in particular went through several packs of cigarettes while waiting to be seated. It appeared to be a party of 10 gathering to celebrate the birthday of the ring leading hipster blond. Classic hipster look: long bangs, tight jeans, and that dirty but not dirty put together look. Little by little her friends kept showing up and they all awkwardly stood around chain smoking because it appeared that many of them did not know each other. Which begs the question; is a dinner birthday party really a good setting to meet new people? They got seated before us and then a mid forties couple joined the fun outside. The ass clown had long hair and kept trying to butch up the conversation by talking about things he had no idea about. He actually said that Mark Sanchez went to the LIONS; idiot! And his lady friend was one of those divorcee's that had a lot of work done: had fried blond hair but a tight little body. A real match made in heaven. We finally got seated and wouldn't you know, we got to sit right next to the party of 10. Turns out the chain smokers were all, wait for it, wait for it, VEGETARIAN!

Now some of you loyal blog followers know that i fasted, and that i can MacGyver the shit out of some tofu, so being a vegetarian is all good. But Vegetarians that chain smoke and wear "MEAT IS MURDER" shirts put me over the edge.

(See i told you, this was not a FOOD BLOG)

Here i go on my soap box. SMOKING is MURDER and SUICIDE and Smoking is Puffthetic! If you can't find something better to do with your hands while you wait around then you are socially inept. If you can't sit through a meal without stepping out for a smoke break, you are a LOSER JUNKY. And if you really care about animals stop smoking! NEWSFLASH! We are all animals and while i was sitting outside with you for 45 minutes breathing your second hand cancer you were slowly murdering me.

I used to smoke. It was cool. I was a bad ass and i wanted to announce my presence with authority. But its an expensive ridiculous habit. Many of my friends tell me now that they cant imagine me smoking. It has been about 2 years and i can honestly say i don't miss it. But back to my point. DON'T BE SUCH A HYPOCRITE! Don't push your vegan bullshit in my face while puffing cancer at me as well. If you want to commit to making earth a better place, start with yourself. Better yourself first.

In conclusion, the pizza we ate was wonderful. The sausage was excellent. The meatballs were whatever. But the little cockroach that joined us in our booth at the end of the meal was an especially nice touch. I think from now on we will do carry out.

12:01

FRIDAY:
Every year on Good Friday the Catholic church across the street puts together a commemoration of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ by re-enacting the event. I've lived here for 3 years and this was the first year i caught the spectacle. It was a low budget yet heartfelt affair. Members of the congregation made the mile hike around the hilly neighborhood while "Jesus" was whipped by Romans, and a pickup truck with speakers jimmy rigged onto it blared dramatic 'Passions of the Christ-esque' instrumental music. I watched the whole thing from the roof of my building. Some of my neighbors came up too and it was truly an opportunity for togetherness and reflection, mostly because we all complained about what slumlords our landlords are and how all of us have issues with water pressure. Irregardless, leave it to Jesus to unite the village.

SATURDAY:

On Saturday night/Sunday morning at 12:01 i poured myself my first beer in almost 50 days. I took special care to frost the glass and chill the beer. It was like Christmas, my birthday, and PROM nite all rolled into one. the anticipation was palpable. Then as i brought the ice cold glass to my lips and took my first sip i realized that it was exactly like Christmas, my birthday and PROM nite; totally and utterly overrated... the anticipation far exceeded the actual excitement of the event. I don't quite know what i expected. I've tasted beer before so i did not expect it to make me drunk at first sip, but i expected it to taste better, to be more refreshing. It was bitter, and made my tummy ache. i can say with all honestly that it was a little disappointing.

I must confess that as Lent was coming to an end i began to worry about drinking again. It was such a relief to drive around at any hour of the day and not worry about getting pinched by some flat-foot. It was nice to save money that would have otherwise been squandered at countless bars. AND best of all, it was wonderful to learn that i can hang out with my man and have as much; if not more, fun with him than i did when we drank together. (don't get me wrong, he's my favorite drinking buddy. Now he is my favorite sober buddy too!)

SUNDAY:
Lazy Sunday went off without a hitch. The day was on Indian time. (for you non speakers suspecting that i am politically incorrect[i am], but i implore you to hear me out. I dig the idea of Indian time, getting there when you get there, being more ONE with the universe and going with the flow rather than being bound by the annoying restrictions of TIME: minutes, hours, micromanaged seconds...) at least on Sundays. The usual suspects started trickling in and the feasting began. We stocked the fridge with beer and fired up the grill. My brother made a cameo and assumed the role of alpha male by manning the grill: topless. When i asked him to put his shirt back on he replied, "sun's out, guns out". He bombarded the guests with a litany of racist epithets, and kept touching the carne asada with his fingers which he wiped on a blue bandanna he pulled out of his back pocket. For years i would make myself crazy trying to control him, trying to get him to act right and not embarrass me. It has taken me a long time to realize that although i love my brother and care for his welfare, i am not responsible for what he says nor what he does, and therefore i should not feel guilt nor shame at his shenanigans.

Overall it was a beautiful day that was not hot even though the sun shone bright, and was breezy without being windy. The lesson from this years exercise in self discipline was very valuable. I learned that i did not love drinking booze as much as i thought i did and i learned that i love my brother just the way he is, shirtless and asking for a to-go plate.

P.S. if you ever stop eating meat for any extended period of time, its not a good idea to gorge yourself of flank steaks right out of the gates.

Trying is the first step towards failure

I really dislike the antiquated notion of "woman's work", stuff like sweeping, ironing, dusting, window washing. But when i was 6 years old i knew nothing about gender politics, just that the center of my universe: MOM did these things and all i wanted more than anything was to be like her, and for her to love me. One day i begged her to let me sweep, she said the broom was too big and that i could not do it, but i tried hard and she seemed pleased. After the novelty of the praise i sought from mom and even that pat on the head she threw in for good measures wore off, i was stuck with a broom in my hands and a daily chore on my plate. I remember learning a valuable lesson soon after that: to never volunteer for anything-EVER. And if asked to do something, to do it as half-ass as possible to avoid ever being asked to do it again.

I have fared well with that lesson learned. I have avoided doing many things, and have found comfort in the freedom my under achieving affords me. For the most part, when it comes to my half ass endeavors i can give two shits what people think of my capabilities but when it's something i care about, something i wish to do well, i become a 6 year old looking for praise. The unfortunate thing about praise is that it is short lived and not to mention incredibly crippling.

Recently i have become angry, overwhelmed, and worried with my inability to write. I don't fancy myself a talented writer in the least, I'm just a gal from some place who truly enjoys the cathartic dance of words across a page. But old habits die hard and the fear of failure lingers like a motherfucker. I understand now that a good review is just as detrimental as a bad one, that the expectations that come with praise stymie creativity. Its easy to quit something you don't like, but impossible to deny doing something you love, even if you suck at it. So here i am 32 years old with a broom in my hands wondering what the fuck I've gotten myself into.

MacArthur Park

Just another Saturday afternoon in the park with Hookers, Pushers, Paleteros, and bible bangers.

The park, built in the 1880's and once referred to as the Champs-Elysees of Los Angeles is; hold onto your crack pipes, a shit hole. I don't ever remember a time when the park was not synonymous with violence, drugs, prostitution and fake I.D's. In fact, during the construction of the Red Line i remembering hearing rumors that once the lake was drained thousands of weapons were found at the bottom. Of course those are rumors as i can only believe are the fabled tales of this shitpile actually being like upper east side Manhattan in the 1920's. I tried to find pictures of this majestic park in its heyday and found bupkis! I remember Bukowski talking about playing Chess in the park; or maybe that was Fante? i forget...but they never mentioned the park being anything other than a place for vagrants to gather and nap.


Still, i love L.A. and moreover, i LOVE LANGERS! Langers is a deli in the heart of the MacArthur park area. It closes at 4pm, and you can imagine why. The area is crowded with Latin markets selling all kinds of chachki. There is a Dr.Pacheco's herbal abortion clinic, an oddly lone Chinese restaurant, and a pawn shop that NEVER has any wares in it. But the true gems, are the photo studios. Any event; prom, birthdays, pregnancy, just for sluts and giggles... these studios can capture all your precious moments! Shit, i was young once and i totally remember that in Jr. High it was the latest rage to get a Glamour Shot of yourself, with big fluffy hair, in a foggy haze poppin' the collar of your acid washed jean jacket, but this may be going too far...

(whatever, whatever she do what she wants, she's grown!)

I wonder if MacArthur Park will ever be restored to its mythical origins? Sadly, while i would love to take a romantic after lunch stroll in the park without being offered crack, an ID or a blowjob; i don't want to see yet another part of Los Angeles become gentrified. Perhaps i am being too hasty in calling the park a shitpile. I can remember in my childhood my mother bringing me to MacArthur Park to ride the Swan paddle boats. Sure it was a creep show back then too, but i had fun. MacArthur Park may not be or very well may have never been Champs-Elysees but its a part of the Los Angeles landscape and shit hole or not it's still a swell place to visit.

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia

(background on the musing below. i wrote it about 2 years ago. i was contemplating quiting my job for another job. i had taken a leave of absence and was commuting to Hermosa Beach to tryout the other job. it was a shitty job and i resolved to return to HELL. the story of Joan reminded me of this one. Also, the title means fear of something man-made, and stupid, specifically the sequence 666)

After dancing with depressions for a couple of weeks my sore, blistered feet have called it quits. I am filled with a sense of panic, but rather odd happiness, and hope. That blister of uncertainty finally burst; bringing much anticipated relief and leaving a scar that while healing will remind me of my journey.
Four long and tiresome train rides later, I sat dozing off, clutching my stuff in my lap when a handsome tall black man with a nice neat Afro wearing a simple cross around his neck, holding a red bag, and a loose fitting button up shirt which depicted Jesus ascending to heaven with angels and clouds framing him, stood up in the quiet overstuffed cabin filled with dejected and tired workers going home. With a bible butterflied open in one hand and the other awkwardly holding the rail above his head, he began to talk about GOD. The sun was setting and filled the compartment with a warm orange light. Everyone ignored that invisible man. I however, could not take my eyes off of him. His voice was strong and sweet. He looked nervous, as he searched the cramped compartment for a face, a gaze, a soul to connect with. He caught my smile and smiled back. He spoke proudly of GOD for about 3 minutes and then sat down. I said "thank you" under my breath. i thought, “Thank you” for doing and saying what was in your heart, for sharing for taking a risk for not being a humanoid.
At my stop I rose to exit and he got up and walked toward me. He told me that GOD loved me very much and that GOD knew that I in-turn loved him. He continued to say that I was a very blessed woman. That I had a great deal of courage and strength and that I would be very happy in life. I thanked him again and he smiled and his smile filled my whole body with warmth that washed away the panic that consumed me the past weeks. As we shared that brief exchange, people looked at me as if my voice, my response to the invisible “crazy-Jesus” man, that they all collectively did not want to see, was a disturbance. He let me exit before him. Nobody looked at him. But he was so beautiful I could not understand how he was so invisible. When I turned around again to look back one last time, he was gone. He vanished. i began to wonder if in my tired, depressed, fragile mental state i had imagined him? Or maybe he some amalgam that GOD sent to my mind to project on my eyes to remind me that everything in my troubled life would be okay? I imagine death will visit me in a similar manner. Singling me out of a crowd, and calmly ushering me off the train to the next realm. I certainly hope so.

Joan Smith

In HELL i talk to all kinds of yahoos and simple jacks, but every once in a long while there is a Joan Smith. She called on Wednesday. She was 94 years old and lived alone in a trailer. Her husband died 20 years ago. She wrote books of poetry that she published herself at the local print shop; zippy copy. She published 4 books and she quilted. She talked about all her stuff cluttered in her small trailer, and how she had outlived everyone, even some of her own children. She was sad and lonely and longed for death but resolved that GOD had a plan for her. I told her that maybe he wanted her to write another book. She said something about her husband being a builder and how he was building their home in heaven. That's why he went up first, to get things ready for her. It was sweet how she wanted to believe despite how afraid she was. Who knows, maybe when she dies she will be dreaming of her husband welcoming her home and she will never wake up from that dream and it will all have come true. i really hope so. i hope she writes one more book. thank you Joan. :-)