UNIVERSAL DONOR: MA VIE EN CROUTE
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Universal Donor
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Tuesday, June 28, 2005
NOTES ON CALIFORNIA, PART I
Shit, bitch! I'm back in the NYC and it's more humid than swamp crotch. How do you people live here? Oh fuck -- I live here, somehow. I can look forward to two months of punching my way through a visible wall of airborne water molecules. But who cares about that? I just had one of the most restorative vacations of my life, and I'm gonna tell you all about it, and you can't complain that I'm bragging or anything because you KNOW I've been feeling like Hot Buttered Shit What Got Hit With a Hammer for the last godknowshowlong. I will spare you the boring story of my replacement credit card. But you will hear about how Zorgot and I almost got Mystic Rivered! I arrive on Thursday night and Claude le Monde lets me rest for one hour before taking me to see Batman Begins, which I'm told was awesome. I fall asleep through most of it, which was really only a result of monstrous fatigue and NOT a judgment on the flick. My ViewMaster-style still-frame memories of the movie look pretty cool, anyway, like the world's most vivid presskit. The next morning we have Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles as I shout at my credit card company for about 20 minutes after being on hold for about the same amount of time. The first time I ever went to R'sC&W I got all contrary and ordered a plate of liver. Um. Have you ever looked down at a big steaming plate of liver? It has a bluish cast and smells like underpant. So this time I play it safe with the C&W, and the Lord saw the C&W and they were good. I'm relatively okay, energy-wise, for most of Friday, but it's just adrenaline and on Saturday I crash like Sam Walton's heir. I stumble through a trip to the Natural History Museum like a reanimated corpse, leaning on anything I can. "Wolfgang Puck" created the snack bar's menu, but if I'm supposed to believe that a five-star chef was ever in the same county as the burger I was served, I'm not buying it. I think Wolfy sold the right to his name in perpetuity, and now anybody who pays a high enough fee can slap his Teutoniker atop their recycled-falafel stand and make bank off gullible tourists. People hate tourists, but they love their money!!! (If somebody ever asks you "are you a tourist?" they are actually asking "are you an asshole?" and you should never answer "yes" to the first question unless you would answer "yes" to the second.) If our tour guide hadn't been Dean, the most hyperkinetic dynamo in the history of museum tours (I'm talking a children's-show-host energy level, like boi-oi-oi-ngggg!!!!), I would have fallen down dead and been preserved in a diorama of early-21st Century East Coast hipsters. What pisses me off about people like Dean is that they can do that shit all the time without any help other than a large coffee at breakfast and maybe not even that. Motherfucks. I could eat Ritalin like Skittles and I'd still fall face first into my Penne after a one-hour session of explaining early dinosaurs to overprivileged third-graders. Gabble. I elected to skip the insect zoo, which was like a live, crawling display of my personal nightmares. Instead, I kicked it in the zoo lobby with another 'phobe, a nice girl from New York, whose name I don't remember. I'M SORRY I DON'T REMEMBER YOUR NAME, NICE GIRL. But it's been like that lately. If I meet you, I will forget your name unless you kick me in the balls, give me a present, or exchange fluids with me. My brain's namespace is full. I needed to make room for trivia like the name of the leader of the Decepticons. Later that night, despite being half-asleep, I win a game of Trivial Pursuit, because of the headspace thing. Several of my opponents, who will go unnamed, advanced a theory that I won because I was asked an unending string of easy questions, while they were consistently asked "impossible" questions. It is my belief that I won because I offered a large number of CORRECT ANSWERS to the questions I was asked. This wasn't too hard to do, since we were playing the GODDAMN YOUNG PLAYERS EDITION. Still, I can appreciate the ignominy of being defeated by an obvious zombie who catnapped between turns. I just hate sour grapes over board games, unless you were totally victimized by a supposed loved one in a game that allows for aggressive acts against opponents (e.g. Risk, Diplomacy, Settlers of Catan, Sorry!), in which case I know that some people take that shit very personally. Those people should not play those games. When you first get to LA, you think that you are surrounded by assholes, because everyone is wearing sandals and sunglasses. But pretty soon you figure out that you need sunglasses too, because your cheeks hurt from squinting. But you don't have to wear sandals -- especially not Tevas or their knockoffs -- if you have any sense of style or pride. I went to a Ralph's, which is a chain supermarket not unlike Grand Union or Stop N Shop for you Easterners, with the significant difference being the produce section. Oh my god. OH MY GOD. I know it's awfully gay of me to utterly poop my pants over a goddamn produce section, but people, it was a work of art and love. Someone loved that place and polished it and smoothed its edges and perfected the ordering and made the displays look like something Caesar would have had for a party. Except better! First of all, I noticed the rhubarb right away, because several people had been like "You'll never find rhubarb in LA, duuuude" and I had been kinda bummed about that. Not bad at $4/lb, either. Not great, but I can appreciate that this place had some overhead to take care of, like the well-deserved and hopefully astronomical salary of the guy who manages the produce section. They had eight types of plum, bitches! Don't get me started on apples, because who cares about apples, but the selection of mushrooms, salad greens, and bizarre tropical fruits, would make a vegan weep. I guess when you have a lot of vegetarians in town, it pays to watch your (wait for it) Peas and Kumquats (snorf!) but goddamn, bitches! I can only take so much freshness before I start to get giddy! Fuck yeah! Produce! More to follow, kidlets. 0 comments |
OTHER REVIEWS: Scrabble NEW! LATEST BOOK REVIEWS: The Game Moneyball One-Upsmanship Siddhartha You need the Fear Not Guide to Life. Buy it already. ($4) Now available! The Broomfield Variations CD ($10) or go to The UD Store 
MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS Chan Marshall Rotem of the IDF Eleanor Friedberger Amy Goodman Bernardine Dohrn ('69) Maya Rudolph Joanna Newsom Imogen Heap Caroline Dhavernas Shana Rae Ray DISALLOWED FOREVER "I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!" - "from whence" - "...the exception that proves the rule" - any use of the question "spit or swallow?" - the phrase "drop trou" - fake-o reviewer verbs: "penned" for wrote "helmed" for directed "lensed" for whatever - "expat" - the euphemism "passed away" - pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!" (see also: "grassy-ass!") PET PEEVES "confinscated" - trying children "as adults" - "drownded" - misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT. - tattoos in the Courier font - any use of Comic Sans |