Thursday, April 29, 2010
The Rains
It started raining on Monday.
On Monday I went to a screening of Nicole Holofcener's new film "Please Give" with my friend Jenny. We met at the Westside Pavillion mall. First for hot dogs and really good Pinot Griggio. I thought the Pinot Grigio would stop the rain from coming. Wrong.
When we watched Nicole Holofcener's movie I just lost it. I mean really these tears were crying me. The movie was about loneliness and a family living in New York. It was simple. But what I like about Nicole's films is that she reveals human character, and doesn't really make us something we're not.
I don't know about you, but there have been moments, let's say in Bed Bath and Beyond where I have had to clamp down on my lip, to keep the tidal wave of irritation and annoyance, at just plain life, from spilling out. Take mortality. Mortality makes me just about lose it, at Bed Bath and Beyond, almost once a year.
I want to scream at the other patrons in the line
"We don't have that much time! Why are we waiting in line? Why is so much of this gorgeous experience spent in line? Isn't there someone you have to tell you love? RIGHT NOW???"
I am the "Beyond" of Bed Bath and Beyond. I am THAT woman in line. I like Nicole's movies because she seems to write about THAT woman in line. After the screening there was a Q and A, which she gamely participated in. Although, I could tell some of the questions were annoying her. And she didn't hide that she was irritated, and this made me cry even more. Seriously. I'm surprised Jenny's still my friend. I just feel like so much of being human requires hiding how it actually feels to be human.
When the screening finished the guests filed out, all three hundred of them except for me and Jenny. Jenny had a much bigger problem on her hands: me. I was fine, I had thought before the movie. I had had Pinot Grigio and red vines, the combination usually quiets the rush of my own humanity. Jenny sat with me for a long time.
"I'm scared to go home" I whispered. "I'm scared to be this single."
And as Jenny coached me on the fact, that I wasn't that single, that yes, it was true that everything recognizable in my life was gone, but perhaps I could take up painting, more and more water fell out of my eyes. Then Jenny said the kind of thing that Jenny says, "You need to lean on your friends more". And when Jenny says that kind of thing I listen. Jenny is the hearth, the light we gravitate towards. Jenny is a human embodiment of a candle flame.
Before the movie Jenny had run into an acquaintance who's husband had died unexpectedly of a brain tumor in their first year of marriage. At Christmas. So. Go figure. I don't know. That made me cry too. The crew was dismantling the equipment used for the Q and A. They kept kind of tip toeing around us. I was THAT girl. The one crying in the theater. Finally I wiped my face. Trying to get the mascara before it dried.
We crept out of the theater, but the tears would not stop. We stood in the florescent lights of the outside world. I glared at the red vines, in the glass case.
You let me down. You stupid red vines.
And then Nicole Holofcener, her husband and mother walked by us. Trust me if I could have a superpower of fading into the wall, and if I could have used it just once it would have been then.
Nicole, stopped, looked at me and whispered, almost in awe "You're crying."
"Yes" I said.
And then I said "Thank you for your beautiful work. It's not easy out here in LA being a single chick".
Then I started to cry some more, (somehow my tears sprung tears), then, Jenny started to cry, and then Nicole started to cry, and her mother started to cry and we all stood there crying, making the red vines blush.
But the crying didn't stop it kept on keeping on. I cried at Real Food Daily with my friend Brian. The waitress came over and asked if everything was okay, then noticing my tears whispered- "oh". Again almost in awe. "Life's just really complicated" I whispered back. I didn't know what was wrong with me. Or why the torrential down pour. But here they were. The rains.
When I was a little girl of 8 my father died. And I never cried. But I never expected the tears to come, like a flu, so many years after the fact.
The entire time my father was dying (two months) I refused to accept it. Instead I woke up at 6:58 am, almost religiously to watch "my shows".
My poor mother would creep into the living room at around 7:15am and ask if I would like to join her at the hospital that day. "No Mom," I would say solemnly "I have to watch my shows". I followed Gem and The Rockers, as if they were animated angels.
I find myself now, however many years later, waking up early and turning on the TV. Gotta watch my shows. I make some breakfast and sit in front of the TV, alone, and try and ward off the impending loneliness. For anyone reading this, who might feel the slightest bit lonely, let me say that I have found that being around people who love you is a really great solution, whereas sitting in isolation just prolongs the problem.
I don't know if it was the tears, or the luxury of being single, but as I reached for the remote, to press that green power button- I didn't.
Instead I throw my running shoes on and head for Runyun Canyon. I run up the hill. And as I'm about to sit/crawl down the steep part, on my ass, as I've always done, an elderly gentleman and his wife slide past me. The man stops, looks up at me, and then in a very fatherly way, explains, that if I go down the hill, looking for rock rather than dirt, and walking on train tracks rather than on a tightrope, I'll have a much more successful descent.
So I do, and then perched above the city, above the smog, above the buildings and houses- I find a rock- I sit on the rock- and you guessed it- I cry. I rain all over Runyun. I let myself really go. And it feels so good. To be in my body. To have my feet in the dirt, my head in the clouds. It feels good to be a joiner.
When you watch a parent die as a young person your sense of time gets so warped. That is why I get so Beyond, in Bed Bath and Beyond. So irritable. It's why I can't get off the phone without saying "I love you". It's why I tell the Barista at Starbucks that she really means something to me. Because sometimes all I can hear in my ear is: tick. tick. tick.
I didn't realize setting off on my single journey that I was this terrified of being alone. Of being in the world without a father, a boyfriend, or a lover. So I let myself cry. And cry and cry and cry.
ee cummings wrote-
let all go
dear
so comes love
Or in my case... so comes dinner.
It's the following Monday night, Dionna , one of my buddies, glamazon, rock star, sweetheart, (who seems to cascade into a room on her life force alone) and I drive over to Nicks, in Silverlake. Nick has invited us for dinner. I stand in his kitchen between my two friends and look at the light hitting the dishes, the light on the tomatoes, the steam rising from the frying pan, the bread fresh and sliced. We carry trays up the stairs to sit on his deck. I see the fancy houses surrounding Nick's, I hear the traffic, I smile at my friends, and in the distance is this proud fucking mountain, just standing there, bearing the light.
I feel like a city looks after it rains.
Nick's Basil-Butter Broiled Swordfish for 3
Cook the swordfish in the broiler on high for 4 minutes, on each side, with some improvised compound butter
about 1/2 cup to 1 cup of Thai Basil leaves (but any basil or herb you like with fish works)combine with about 3 or 4 tablespoons of softened butter
Combine the basil and butter with a mortar and pestle, but you can use your hands if you're willing
For the mustard sauce, (from Mark Bittman's "How to Cook Everything")
"Combine 1/4 cup olive oil, 3 tbsps Dijon Mustard, 1/4 cup minced shallots, 2 tbsps minced fresh parsley leaves, 2 tbsps freshly squeezed lemon juice and salt and pepper to taste"
If you happen to have Zinfandel Mustard from the Hop Kiln Winery in Sonoma instead of Dijon all the better.
*Oh Nick, I think you are the only person I know who would "happen" to have Zinfandel Mustard from the Hop Kiln Winery, in Sonoma.
Real Food Daily
414 North La Cienega Boulevard,
West Hollywood
(310) 289-9910
www.realfood.com
Bed Bath & Beyond
1557 Vine Street, Hollywood
(323) 460-4500
www.bedbathandbeyond.com
On Monday I went to a screening of Nicole Holofcener's new film "Please Give" with my friend Jenny. We met at the Westside Pavillion mall. First for hot dogs and really good Pinot Griggio. I thought the Pinot Grigio would stop the rain from coming. Wrong.
When we watched Nicole Holofcener's movie I just lost it. I mean really these tears were crying me. The movie was about loneliness and a family living in New York. It was simple. But what I like about Nicole's films is that she reveals human character, and doesn't really make us something we're not.
I don't know about you, but there have been moments, let's say in Bed Bath and Beyond where I have had to clamp down on my lip, to keep the tidal wave of irritation and annoyance, at just plain life, from spilling out. Take mortality. Mortality makes me just about lose it, at Bed Bath and Beyond, almost once a year.
I want to scream at the other patrons in the line
"We don't have that much time! Why are we waiting in line? Why is so much of this gorgeous experience spent in line? Isn't there someone you have to tell you love? RIGHT NOW???"
I am the "Beyond" of Bed Bath and Beyond. I am THAT woman in line. I like Nicole's movies because she seems to write about THAT woman in line. After the screening there was a Q and A, which she gamely participated in. Although, I could tell some of the questions were annoying her. And she didn't hide that she was irritated, and this made me cry even more. Seriously. I'm surprised Jenny's still my friend. I just feel like so much of being human requires hiding how it actually feels to be human.
When the screening finished the guests filed out, all three hundred of them except for me and Jenny. Jenny had a much bigger problem on her hands: me. I was fine, I had thought before the movie. I had had Pinot Grigio and red vines, the combination usually quiets the rush of my own humanity. Jenny sat with me for a long time.
"I'm scared to go home" I whispered. "I'm scared to be this single."
And as Jenny coached me on the fact, that I wasn't that single, that yes, it was true that everything recognizable in my life was gone, but perhaps I could take up painting, more and more water fell out of my eyes. Then Jenny said the kind of thing that Jenny says, "You need to lean on your friends more". And when Jenny says that kind of thing I listen. Jenny is the hearth, the light we gravitate towards. Jenny is a human embodiment of a candle flame.
Before the movie Jenny had run into an acquaintance who's husband had died unexpectedly of a brain tumor in their first year of marriage. At Christmas. So. Go figure. I don't know. That made me cry too. The crew was dismantling the equipment used for the Q and A. They kept kind of tip toeing around us. I was THAT girl. The one crying in the theater. Finally I wiped my face. Trying to get the mascara before it dried.
We crept out of the theater, but the tears would not stop. We stood in the florescent lights of the outside world. I glared at the red vines, in the glass case.
You let me down. You stupid red vines.
And then Nicole Holofcener, her husband and mother walked by us. Trust me if I could have a superpower of fading into the wall, and if I could have used it just once it would have been then.
Nicole, stopped, looked at me and whispered, almost in awe "You're crying."
"Yes" I said.
And then I said "Thank you for your beautiful work. It's not easy out here in LA being a single chick".
Then I started to cry some more, (somehow my tears sprung tears), then, Jenny started to cry, and then Nicole started to cry, and her mother started to cry and we all stood there crying, making the red vines blush.
But the crying didn't stop it kept on keeping on. I cried at Real Food Daily with my friend Brian. The waitress came over and asked if everything was okay, then noticing my tears whispered- "oh". Again almost in awe. "Life's just really complicated" I whispered back. I didn't know what was wrong with me. Or why the torrential down pour. But here they were. The rains.
When I was a little girl of 8 my father died. And I never cried. But I never expected the tears to come, like a flu, so many years after the fact.
The entire time my father was dying (two months) I refused to accept it. Instead I woke up at 6:58 am, almost religiously to watch "my shows".
My poor mother would creep into the living room at around 7:15am and ask if I would like to join her at the hospital that day. "No Mom," I would say solemnly "I have to watch my shows". I followed Gem and The Rockers, as if they were animated angels.
I find myself now, however many years later, waking up early and turning on the TV. Gotta watch my shows. I make some breakfast and sit in front of the TV, alone, and try and ward off the impending loneliness. For anyone reading this, who might feel the slightest bit lonely, let me say that I have found that being around people who love you is a really great solution, whereas sitting in isolation just prolongs the problem.
I don't know if it was the tears, or the luxury of being single, but as I reached for the remote, to press that green power button- I didn't.
Instead I throw my running shoes on and head for Runyun Canyon. I run up the hill. And as I'm about to sit/crawl down the steep part, on my ass, as I've always done, an elderly gentleman and his wife slide past me. The man stops, looks up at me, and then in a very fatherly way, explains, that if I go down the hill, looking for rock rather than dirt, and walking on train tracks rather than on a tightrope, I'll have a much more successful descent.
So I do, and then perched above the city, above the smog, above the buildings and houses- I find a rock- I sit on the rock- and you guessed it- I cry. I rain all over Runyun. I let myself really go. And it feels so good. To be in my body. To have my feet in the dirt, my head in the clouds. It feels good to be a joiner.
When you watch a parent die as a young person your sense of time gets so warped. That is why I get so Beyond, in Bed Bath and Beyond. So irritable. It's why I can't get off the phone without saying "I love you". It's why I tell the Barista at Starbucks that she really means something to me. Because sometimes all I can hear in my ear is: tick. tick. tick.
I didn't realize setting off on my single journey that I was this terrified of being alone. Of being in the world without a father, a boyfriend, or a lover. So I let myself cry. And cry and cry and cry.
ee cummings wrote-
let all go
dear
so comes love
Or in my case... so comes dinner.
It's the following Monday night, Dionna , one of my buddies, glamazon, rock star, sweetheart, (who seems to cascade into a room on her life force alone) and I drive over to Nicks, in Silverlake. Nick has invited us for dinner. I stand in his kitchen between my two friends and look at the light hitting the dishes, the light on the tomatoes, the steam rising from the frying pan, the bread fresh and sliced. We carry trays up the stairs to sit on his deck. I see the fancy houses surrounding Nick's, I hear the traffic, I smile at my friends, and in the distance is this proud fucking mountain, just standing there, bearing the light.
I feel like a city looks after it rains.
Nick's Basil-Butter Broiled Swordfish for 3
Cook the swordfish in the broiler on high for 4 minutes, on each side, with some improvised compound butter
about 1/2 cup to 1 cup of Thai Basil leaves (but any basil or herb you like with fish works)combine with about 3 or 4 tablespoons of softened butter
Combine the basil and butter with a mortar and pestle, but you can use your hands if you're willing
For the mustard sauce, (from Mark Bittman's "How to Cook Everything")
"Combine 1/4 cup olive oil, 3 tbsps Dijon Mustard, 1/4 cup minced shallots, 2 tbsps minced fresh parsley leaves, 2 tbsps freshly squeezed lemon juice and salt and pepper to taste"
If you happen to have Zinfandel Mustard from the Hop Kiln Winery in Sonoma instead of Dijon all the better.
*Oh Nick, I think you are the only person I know who would "happen" to have Zinfandel Mustard from the Hop Kiln Winery, in Sonoma.
Real Food Daily
414 North La Cienega Boulevard,
West Hollywood
(310) 289-9910
www.realfood.com
Bed Bath & Beyond
1557 Vine Street, Hollywood
(323) 460-4500
www.bedbathandbeyond.com
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Treats
Picking Rachel "Treats" up from LAX I am listening to pop rock on the radio. Because Ne-Yo got it right I'm so sick of love songs and I can't turn off the radio. So I just change the channel. I don't care: Korean rap- Mexican news- Brittney Spears- anything without connotation, is my jam these days.
Rachel produces the Canadian radio arts show Q on CBC. We've also been friends since before she had a clear queer consciousness- in other words since we were seven years old, trying to make our way on the playgrounds of Toronto. As we drive back from the airport, we talk, of course, about Jesse James and Sandra Bullock. There are some people I would drive across town from in order to avoid their opinions about health care reform - with Rachel I would fly across the country to ask her her thoughts on butter. She's my Dorothy Parker. In terms of Sandra and Jesse- she likes Sandra, she wants to remain on the correct side of history, but the man was married to an ex porn star...
I take us immediately to the 101 Coffee Shop. It's Thursday and I know the UCB show will be letting out around the time we get there. So there we are in hipster highschool heaven, Charlyne yi, Aziz Ansari, adjacent, sipping on decaf coffee and successfully avoiding my ex boyfriends.
Upon arriving at my apartment we immediately decide that the best action plan is to leave Los Angeles. Rachel has scored us some passes to the Dinah festival in Palm Springs. The Dinah Shore Festival is Disney Land for Lesbians across America and Salt 'n' Peppa is playing. Enough said.
We arrange to stay with her cousin, I put together a California mix, with Dr. Dre, Chili Peppers, and some Ani DiFranco (lest we forget our hippie, feminist, tortured, vegan roots in a sun drenched moment of bliss) and we hit the road.
Palm Springs comes and goes in a quick 24 hour blur. There are a lot of women. Salt n Peppa plays "Shoop". And interestingly enough "What a Mighty Good Man" to which Salt calls her husband on stage, and makes all the girls cheer. It was one of the most culturally confusing moments of my life. It was the 90's intersecting with Lilith Fair, with palm trees, and way too many Mojitos. Rachel's cousin took us out to eat at Spencers. An aptly fancy restaurant with beautiful California casual undertones.
I remember when I was a teenager, my cousin worked as a storyboard editor for Ren and Stimpy, and my best friend and I used to fly out to Los Angeles to visit her. She had connections with Woody Harrelson's drug dealer in Venice. We used to get really high and drive out to Palm Springs. We would sit in restaurants like Spencers, and I would try to imagine what it would be like to be famous, and to be loved. Two dangerous aspirations. As a teenager, in sleepy dreamy Palm Springs, the combination of the repose and the rich always made the hairs on my arm tingle.
Spencer's was perfect. A group of 60 year olds looking like teenagers were there for a disco themed birthday party. We ordered Mojitos which is definitely the drink of choice in Palm Springs. The dishes were farmers market fresh. And the molten chocolate cake was perfection.
It rivaled the molten chocolate cake at Pace. Pace, nestled in Laurel Canyon, is one of my favorite restaurants. It is Bohemian chic, softly lit, with the likes of Hilary Duff getting her Joni Mitchell on in the fairy lights of another era. At the beginning of the meal the waiter will ask you if you would like the Molten Chocolate cake. The only answer to that question is: yes.
They begin cooking the cake at the start of your meal, so that when it arrives it is baked at a temperature that feels personal to your palette. A temperature that is sexy and loving. Who needs a boyfriend when you can have warm chocolate in the canyon? However if you can eat that cake in Laurel Canyon when in love, (which I have been lucky enough to do) well then, the temperature will feel even more personal, even more sensual, even more calculated to your own DNA, as everything does, when in love.
We drove back from Palm Springs directly to Downtown L.A. It was Easter and we stopped in at Royal Clayton's for some fish and chips. Rachel had one of the best Bloody Mary's I have ever tasted.
Then we met our friends at the Basketball game at The Staples Center. We were watching from a suite: the Clippers play the Knicks. Two teams that were sure to lose. Nick and I have a running contest to see who will be signed by CAA first. Again, two teams that are sure to lose. In the middle of the game, Nick leaned over to inform me that his manager was pitching his (excellent) script at CAA that week, and that it looked like it would be me who would be buying him dinner at AOC, as I was undoubtedly going to lose the bet.
This sent me on a downward spiral of questioning how every decision I'd made in both love and career had brought me to this moment in time. This very well fed, losing moment in time, in both career and love.
During the game I couldn't decide which team to root for. Nick being from New York, is a die hard Knick's fan, and the rest of the suite was rooting for the Clippers. I kept switching teams. Because I wanted some sort of guarantee of winning. In the fourth quarter, I decided to cheer the Clippers on. Because here I am in L.A. Because in basketball, in love, in career, pick a side and fucking play your heart out. The side that you choose can be arbitrary or connected to some tribal pulse so deep within you that it seems to choose you. Play to Win. In the heat of the game, the moment of passion, you make choices, whether the crowd is cheering or booing. And sometimes you pay for those choices for years to come. But looking back on that moment you remember: there was a crowd, a cheer, a choice, and a play. And you played yours- no one can ever take that away. We're always made more interesting by the games that we lose anyway.
The Clipper's lose about 30 seconds after I make that realization.
With Molten Chocolate cake, and with love, with life, it's the heat that you apply that matters. It's the passion you bring to the moment that matters. The game is always losing, there is always the timer as we play, but somehow in the playing itself, we win. So as Juliet says when dreaming of her Romeo "learn me how to lose a winning match"
It's an old worn metaphor that love is a game. Two teams show up to the Staples Center ready to match each other. And two teams play. Same with career. I often find myself questioning choices. What would have happened if I'd gone this way rather than that? What if I had played that one game differently? What if I had let my guard down more? What if I had held it up? What if I had stayed with my manager even after he asked me to sit on his lap at the Rickie Lee Jones concert?
Driving Rachel back to the airport, I still have dust on me from our weekend of playing. I still have dust on me from our childhood days of running around in the playground. I still have the taste of chocolate in my mouth,from when I did have that chocolate cake at Pace, when it was the perfect temperature, when I was in love, and the night seemed to sing to us. I still have the red sharpened CAA pencil that someone, yes a special someone, stole for me at a meeting he was at, in my purse, because a bright red sharpened pencil says more to me about hope than a penthouse.
Remember being a kid and playing for hours out in the street? Playing so hard that you're only opponent was the night itself coming. Playing hard enough to over ride the sound of your mothers voice calling you in, playing hard enough to shake off all the cuts on the playground, the racial slurs, the pains of home, playing so hard that you shook it all off, until you kind of were the game. Until you were free.
I call Rachel "Treats" because she has the same insatiable taste for sweets that I do. We arrive at the airport, she grabs her bag out of the backseat. I tell her that her leaving is not helping my state of mind. She smiles her perfect smile at me. I can almost hear the streets of Toronto calling us back outside.
"Get home safe Treats" I call after her.
I drive away. Windows down. Listening to terrible music on the radio, which I still refuse to turn off, searching for a match for the cigarette I am trying to light, and being as much of a Juliet as I can muster, as the bill boards hustle past me. Please, learn me how to lose this winning match.
Pace'
www.peaceinthecanyon.com
2100 Laurel Canyon Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046-2004
(323) 654-8583
101 Coffee Shop
www.the101coffeeshop.com
6145 Franklin Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90028-5220
(323) 467-1175
Spencers Restaurant
www.spencersrestaurant.com
701 West Baristo Road
Palm Springs, CA 92262-6325
(760) 327-3446
Royal Clayton's
1855 Industrial St
Los Angeles, CA 90021
(213) 622-0512
www.royalclaytonsenglishpub.com
Q
www.cbc.ca/q/
Dinah Shore Festival
www.dinahshoreweekend.com/media.html
Rachel produces the Canadian radio arts show Q on CBC. We've also been friends since before she had a clear queer consciousness- in other words since we were seven years old, trying to make our way on the playgrounds of Toronto. As we drive back from the airport, we talk, of course, about Jesse James and Sandra Bullock. There are some people I would drive across town from in order to avoid their opinions about health care reform - with Rachel I would fly across the country to ask her her thoughts on butter. She's my Dorothy Parker. In terms of Sandra and Jesse- she likes Sandra, she wants to remain on the correct side of history, but the man was married to an ex porn star...
I take us immediately to the 101 Coffee Shop. It's Thursday and I know the UCB show will be letting out around the time we get there. So there we are in hipster highschool heaven, Charlyne yi, Aziz Ansari, adjacent, sipping on decaf coffee and successfully avoiding my ex boyfriends.
Upon arriving at my apartment we immediately decide that the best action plan is to leave Los Angeles. Rachel has scored us some passes to the Dinah festival in Palm Springs. The Dinah Shore Festival is Disney Land for Lesbians across America and Salt 'n' Peppa is playing. Enough said.
We arrange to stay with her cousin, I put together a California mix, with Dr. Dre, Chili Peppers, and some Ani DiFranco (lest we forget our hippie, feminist, tortured, vegan roots in a sun drenched moment of bliss) and we hit the road.
Palm Springs comes and goes in a quick 24 hour blur. There are a lot of women. Salt n Peppa plays "Shoop". And interestingly enough "What a Mighty Good Man" to which Salt calls her husband on stage, and makes all the girls cheer. It was one of the most culturally confusing moments of my life. It was the 90's intersecting with Lilith Fair, with palm trees, and way too many Mojitos. Rachel's cousin took us out to eat at Spencers. An aptly fancy restaurant with beautiful California casual undertones.
I remember when I was a teenager, my cousin worked as a storyboard editor for Ren and Stimpy, and my best friend and I used to fly out to Los Angeles to visit her. She had connections with Woody Harrelson's drug dealer in Venice. We used to get really high and drive out to Palm Springs. We would sit in restaurants like Spencers, and I would try to imagine what it would be like to be famous, and to be loved. Two dangerous aspirations. As a teenager, in sleepy dreamy Palm Springs, the combination of the repose and the rich always made the hairs on my arm tingle.
Spencer's was perfect. A group of 60 year olds looking like teenagers were there for a disco themed birthday party. We ordered Mojitos which is definitely the drink of choice in Palm Springs. The dishes were farmers market fresh. And the molten chocolate cake was perfection.
It rivaled the molten chocolate cake at Pace. Pace, nestled in Laurel Canyon, is one of my favorite restaurants. It is Bohemian chic, softly lit, with the likes of Hilary Duff getting her Joni Mitchell on in the fairy lights of another era. At the beginning of the meal the waiter will ask you if you would like the Molten Chocolate cake. The only answer to that question is: yes.
They begin cooking the cake at the start of your meal, so that when it arrives it is baked at a temperature that feels personal to your palette. A temperature that is sexy and loving. Who needs a boyfriend when you can have warm chocolate in the canyon? However if you can eat that cake in Laurel Canyon when in love, (which I have been lucky enough to do) well then, the temperature will feel even more personal, even more sensual, even more calculated to your own DNA, as everything does, when in love.
We drove back from Palm Springs directly to Downtown L.A. It was Easter and we stopped in at Royal Clayton's for some fish and chips. Rachel had one of the best Bloody Mary's I have ever tasted.
Then we met our friends at the Basketball game at The Staples Center. We were watching from a suite: the Clippers play the Knicks. Two teams that were sure to lose. Nick and I have a running contest to see who will be signed by CAA first. Again, two teams that are sure to lose. In the middle of the game, Nick leaned over to inform me that his manager was pitching his (excellent) script at CAA that week, and that it looked like it would be me who would be buying him dinner at AOC, as I was undoubtedly going to lose the bet.
This sent me on a downward spiral of questioning how every decision I'd made in both love and career had brought me to this moment in time. This very well fed, losing moment in time, in both career and love.
During the game I couldn't decide which team to root for. Nick being from New York, is a die hard Knick's fan, and the rest of the suite was rooting for the Clippers. I kept switching teams. Because I wanted some sort of guarantee of winning. In the fourth quarter, I decided to cheer the Clippers on. Because here I am in L.A. Because in basketball, in love, in career, pick a side and fucking play your heart out. The side that you choose can be arbitrary or connected to some tribal pulse so deep within you that it seems to choose you. Play to Win. In the heat of the game, the moment of passion, you make choices, whether the crowd is cheering or booing. And sometimes you pay for those choices for years to come. But looking back on that moment you remember: there was a crowd, a cheer, a choice, and a play. And you played yours- no one can ever take that away. We're always made more interesting by the games that we lose anyway.
The Clipper's lose about 30 seconds after I make that realization.
With Molten Chocolate cake, and with love, with life, it's the heat that you apply that matters. It's the passion you bring to the moment that matters. The game is always losing, there is always the timer as we play, but somehow in the playing itself, we win. So as Juliet says when dreaming of her Romeo "learn me how to lose a winning match"
It's an old worn metaphor that love is a game. Two teams show up to the Staples Center ready to match each other. And two teams play. Same with career. I often find myself questioning choices. What would have happened if I'd gone this way rather than that? What if I had played that one game differently? What if I had let my guard down more? What if I had held it up? What if I had stayed with my manager even after he asked me to sit on his lap at the Rickie Lee Jones concert?
Driving Rachel back to the airport, I still have dust on me from our weekend of playing. I still have dust on me from our childhood days of running around in the playground. I still have the taste of chocolate in my mouth,from when I did have that chocolate cake at Pace, when it was the perfect temperature, when I was in love, and the night seemed to sing to us. I still have the red sharpened CAA pencil that someone, yes a special someone, stole for me at a meeting he was at, in my purse, because a bright red sharpened pencil says more to me about hope than a penthouse.
Remember being a kid and playing for hours out in the street? Playing so hard that you're only opponent was the night itself coming. Playing hard enough to over ride the sound of your mothers voice calling you in, playing hard enough to shake off all the cuts on the playground, the racial slurs, the pains of home, playing so hard that you shook it all off, until you kind of were the game. Until you were free.
I call Rachel "Treats" because she has the same insatiable taste for sweets that I do. We arrive at the airport, she grabs her bag out of the backseat. I tell her that her leaving is not helping my state of mind. She smiles her perfect smile at me. I can almost hear the streets of Toronto calling us back outside.
"Get home safe Treats" I call after her.
I drive away. Windows down. Listening to terrible music on the radio, which I still refuse to turn off, searching for a match for the cigarette I am trying to light, and being as much of a Juliet as I can muster, as the bill boards hustle past me. Please, learn me how to lose this winning match.
Pace'
www.peaceinthecanyon.com
2100 Laurel Canyon Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046-2004
(323) 654-8583
101 Coffee Shop
www.the101coffeeshop.com
6145 Franklin Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90028-5220
(323) 467-1175
Spencers Restaurant
www.spencersrestaurant.com
701 West Baristo Road
Palm Springs, CA 92262-6325
(760) 327-3446
Royal Clayton's
1855 Industrial St
Los Angeles, CA 90021
(213) 622-0512
www.royalclaytonsenglishpub.com
Q
www.cbc.ca/q/
Dinah Shore Festival
www.dinahshoreweekend.com/media.html
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Last Supper
Where do you have it? That final meal with the person you know you will spend the rest of your life not texting? The person who's name you will avoid. The person who when you run into on the street, you will automatically decide to a. believe in God b. pray that she put the right shade of lip gloss on you c. hope that the hours you spent lunging in yoga class has made your ass look like a Mazarati. Oh you know. That one. That always has your heart wrapped around his finger.
When I was a little girl I had a pink transistor radio in my bedroom. I used to listen to Bonnie Rait's song "You can't make me love you" on that radio over and over again. I was sad. Because my mom didn't love me. Or know how to love me. "You can't make your heart feel something it won't". Underneath the bulletin board in my pale blue bedroom unrequited love was given a very specific place in my psyche. Now I call it pink transistor radio pain. You know the pain. The pain you feel shoot through your heart when someone is ambivalent about you. When someone takes your beautiful face in their hands, tears pouring down both of your faces, in the parking lot behind M De Chaya and says "I gotta R.S.V.P with a maybe." It sucks whenever anyone chooses to evaluate you. Like a garage sale.
I think the reason I chose M De Chaya for my Last Supper was because of their kale salad. I think when you're about to go off the deep end in any romantic situation you should choose macrobiotic. Very grounding.
Also something about the oak tables and the light that streams through the windows makes me feel like I do add up to the sum of my parts. Like I am something worth considering. And even if I can't "make your heart feel something it won't", there are six billion people in this world, and more than enough love for me to fall into. Also they've got great sushi at an affordable price. But I'm getting three days ahead of myself.
On Tuesday night it was the Library Ale House with three artists. We discuss art, and commerce. The lights twinkle, and I think,
"Oh so this is what it is to be an adult".
I don't pay.
On Wednesday night it's a friends birthday party at Koi. We can't tell if the table next to us are playmates or hookers. Tomato, tomahto. The waiter brings over the dish and tells us that it just won the award for best sushi. That's L.A., everything's a contest. I don't pay.
Thursday is dinner with a writer who I dearly admire both as a person and as an artist. We venture off the 110 into downtown LA to, Church and State. A table filled with Montreal- ers is next to us and we are relieved. Finally a bit of home. He wears Converse. I wear heels. The Montreal-ers take smoke breaks during the meal, we order the ribs. There is a recipe for making absinthe on the chalkboard. The walls are deep read with with great art and just the right amount of exposed brick. It is both heaven and home to have a conversation, that is aerobic, that is never ending. Church and State is wonderful. It seems to be where all the smart, funny, cool people are hiding out. And that night I feel like one of them. I don't pay.
Friday is the Last Supper, at M De Chaya. I eat carefully and nervously. I cultivate a deep compassion for anyone who has given up heroin. I pay. Through my teeth.
It's always that way with pain. Walking away from whatever it is you are called upon to walk away from. Whatever situation is replying Maybe to your R.S.V.P. Ambivalance in love or in food is the least attractive quality I can think of.
Can't decide what to order.
Can't stay for the whole meal.
Always looking at the food next to you and wondering if it tastes better, than what's right in front of you.
That night I sleep on the couch and wake up three times to check and see if maybe his heart did feel something. Maybe he's outside my door. He isn't. Pink transistor radio pain.
Tonight the moon is full. The moon is free and full. Pouring down on me. Pouring down on any of us who have lost something that meant something. I guess that means all of us. Because this week between the meals, and the high voltage conversations, I talked to a lot of people who were losing things.
The city itself has lost a lot in the past few years. We tip toe around words like "recession". But I see it. I see people being scared to help people. Friends and friends of friends are losing their jobs. I see people moving to different cities, starting all over again. And I see myself, listening to my Bonnie Rait songs, in a room in Toronto a million years ago. I see us at our fancy restaurants, in our converse, our heels, feeling a bit like we're all dining on the upper deck of the Titanic.
The truth is we are all losing all the time. That is change. That is transition. And sometimes we are savagely torn from the thing we love. And sometimes we look up and see the moon shine on us anyway.
This week is dedicated to a dear friend, who is a bit of an angel, thinking of you.
Library Alehouse
www.libraryalehouse.com
2911 Main Street
Santa Monica, CA 90405
(310) 314-4855
Koi Restaurant
www.koirestaurant.com
730 N La Cienega Blvd
West Hollywood, CA 90069
(310) 659-9449
Church & State
www.churchandstatebistro.com
1850 Industrial St
Los Angeles, CA 90021
(213) 405-1434
Greenblatts
greenblattsdeli.com
8017 Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046
(323) 656-0606
M Cafe De Chaya
www.mcafedechaya.com
7119 Melrose Avenue
Los Angeles , CA
(323) 525-0588
I Can't Make You Love Me By Bonnie Raitt
www.youtube.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQgDnZQogDM
When I was a little girl I had a pink transistor radio in my bedroom. I used to listen to Bonnie Rait's song "You can't make me love you" on that radio over and over again. I was sad. Because my mom didn't love me. Or know how to love me. "You can't make your heart feel something it won't". Underneath the bulletin board in my pale blue bedroom unrequited love was given a very specific place in my psyche. Now I call it pink transistor radio pain. You know the pain. The pain you feel shoot through your heart when someone is ambivalent about you. When someone takes your beautiful face in their hands, tears pouring down both of your faces, in the parking lot behind M De Chaya and says "I gotta R.S.V.P with a maybe." It sucks whenever anyone chooses to evaluate you. Like a garage sale.
I think the reason I chose M De Chaya for my Last Supper was because of their kale salad. I think when you're about to go off the deep end in any romantic situation you should choose macrobiotic. Very grounding.
Also something about the oak tables and the light that streams through the windows makes me feel like I do add up to the sum of my parts. Like I am something worth considering. And even if I can't "make your heart feel something it won't", there are six billion people in this world, and more than enough love for me to fall into. Also they've got great sushi at an affordable price. But I'm getting three days ahead of myself.
On Tuesday night it was the Library Ale House with three artists. We discuss art, and commerce. The lights twinkle, and I think,
"Oh so this is what it is to be an adult".
I don't pay.
On Wednesday night it's a friends birthday party at Koi. We can't tell if the table next to us are playmates or hookers. Tomato, tomahto. The waiter brings over the dish and tells us that it just won the award for best sushi. That's L.A., everything's a contest. I don't pay.
Thursday is dinner with a writer who I dearly admire both as a person and as an artist. We venture off the 110 into downtown LA to, Church and State. A table filled with Montreal- ers is next to us and we are relieved. Finally a bit of home. He wears Converse. I wear heels. The Montreal-ers take smoke breaks during the meal, we order the ribs. There is a recipe for making absinthe on the chalkboard. The walls are deep read with with great art and just the right amount of exposed brick. It is both heaven and home to have a conversation, that is aerobic, that is never ending. Church and State is wonderful. It seems to be where all the smart, funny, cool people are hiding out. And that night I feel like one of them. I don't pay.
Friday is the Last Supper, at M De Chaya. I eat carefully and nervously. I cultivate a deep compassion for anyone who has given up heroin. I pay. Through my teeth.
It's always that way with pain. Walking away from whatever it is you are called upon to walk away from. Whatever situation is replying Maybe to your R.S.V.P. Ambivalance in love or in food is the least attractive quality I can think of.
Can't decide what to order.
Can't stay for the whole meal.
Always looking at the food next to you and wondering if it tastes better, than what's right in front of you.
That night I sleep on the couch and wake up three times to check and see if maybe his heart did feel something. Maybe he's outside my door. He isn't. Pink transistor radio pain.
Tonight the moon is full. The moon is free and full. Pouring down on me. Pouring down on any of us who have lost something that meant something. I guess that means all of us. Because this week between the meals, and the high voltage conversations, I talked to a lot of people who were losing things.
The city itself has lost a lot in the past few years. We tip toe around words like "recession". But I see it. I see people being scared to help people. Friends and friends of friends are losing their jobs. I see people moving to different cities, starting all over again. And I see myself, listening to my Bonnie Rait songs, in a room in Toronto a million years ago. I see us at our fancy restaurants, in our converse, our heels, feeling a bit like we're all dining on the upper deck of the Titanic.
The truth is we are all losing all the time. That is change. That is transition. And sometimes we are savagely torn from the thing we love. And sometimes we look up and see the moon shine on us anyway.
This week is dedicated to a dear friend, who is a bit of an angel, thinking of you.
Library Alehouse
www.libraryalehouse.com
2911 Main Street
Santa Monica, CA 90405
(310) 314-4855
Koi Restaurant
www.koirestaurant.com
730 N La Cienega Blvd
West Hollywood, CA 90069
(310) 659-9449
Church & State
www.churchandstatebistro.com
1850 Industrial St
Los Angeles, CA 90021
(213) 405-1434
Greenblatts
greenblattsdeli.com
8017 Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046
(323) 656-0606
M Cafe De Chaya
www.mcafedechaya.com
7119 Melrose Avenue
Los Angeles , CA
(323) 525-0588
I Can't Make You Love Me By Bonnie Raitt
www.youtube.com
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQgDnZQogDM
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The Swish of Life
Upon a terrible break up there is only one place I can suggest with any authority. It’s not The Counter. The Counter is perfect for a girls night out- but I’m talking about your boyfriend left you for an Australian model- or some other specifically West Coast atrocity and you and a burger need to get down- with a milk shake- probably without a straw. You could do Fathers Office if you wanted to flirt with a group of twenty four year old douche bags wearing euro shirts. But you don't. You want to feel your heart beating again. A tall order in a city where most of us actors, are rejected from 9 am to 5 pm Monday through Friday, and then expected to open our hearts back up for a date on Saturday.
The place I suggest for a little opening up of ye olde heart chakra is: Apple Pan.
At Apple pan the waiters wear white, and are short order cooks- the diner has become them and they have become the diner. The line up is worth it- everyone is hungry- hungry for conversation- hungry for the one thing we are all starving for: belonging, being a part of something that is bigger than us.
And it is here. Across from the West Side Pavilion mall, where you can see couples who have been together for thirty years arguing over who gets the extra ketchup- you can hear the swish of life - and it sounds good.
When I was about eleven years old my mother and I came to LA for a wedding. That was when Los Angeles was Beverly Hills to me. It was Marilyn Monroe in her white skirt over the subway grate. It was the beckoning of the mysterious hills that lit up at night. It was Blossom. The sit com.
My mother had bought me a button down shirt/ skirt combo, with the most amazing black, Blossom worthy Fedora to wear to the wedding. The marriage was between a most beautiful Indonesian woman, and Bradley a pianist from New York. Bradley was always trying to get me to find my voice, which led to a life long obsession of me thinking I had lost it to begin with.
The reception following the wedding was at the newly weds mansion in the Hollywood Hills. As we barely parked our rental car, I reminded myself not to hope for a boy to be at the reception. There were never boys in magical circumstances I had come to discover. There was really only ever magical circumstances or boys. The two seemed forever divorced to me. As we walked into the backyard which was lit up by fairy lights and my youth, I could almost feel the letters of the Hollywood sign whispering to me, as if they were spelled out on that hill for me. We walked towards the guests, and as if in a movie a wind blew, a warm nurturing mysterious wind, and there he was.
Central casting had provided me both a magical circumstance and a boy. He was blond, with a surfers freckled face. I was gone. Irreverocably in love with this city of angels. In that moment in time, movies, and burgeoning lust, and laugh tracks, all intersected, and I fell. I fell hard.
The wind, the guests, the boy and the silence. That's right, there was a silence, a space between peoples words and their jokes. A silence after a glass of champagne was placed on one of the oak tables. A silence that seemed to be the city itself saying to us, go ahead take a look, I really am that gorgeous.
I don't think the boy and I uttered one word to each other, we were too shy, and I was too concerned with shattering the fantasy world that I had stepped into. One guest had a notebook with 12, 000 jokes recorded in it. He said he started recording the jokes when he was my age, and never left his home without the tattered notebook. I saw the notebook, and read a few jokes, some terrible, some wonderful.
I think of that night, usually when I am driving home, looking at the lit up hills which cradle all of us dreamers, and foodies, and joke recorders. I think of the wind that I felt, how soft and cool it was. How purely possible it was.
I think of that night when I am rocking a burger from Apple Pan, and allowing myself to lean into the bustle of the city.
I think of that night, when I sink my fork into the best Apple pie this city has to offer. I think of that night as I trace the year 1947 written on the Apple Pan Menu. I think of that night while enjoying a perfect glass of red wine at Little Doms, or when having a bit of mozzarella flown in all the way from Italy, at Mozzo. Yes dear reader, this life is ours and it is meant to be lived quite pleasurably.
Apple Pan
10801 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90064-2105
(310) 475-3585
www.applepan.com
Mozza LA
641 N. Highland Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90036
www.mozza-la.com
Little Dom's
2128 Hillhurst Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90027
www.littledoms.com
The place I suggest for a little opening up of ye olde heart chakra is: Apple Pan.
At Apple pan the waiters wear white, and are short order cooks- the diner has become them and they have become the diner. The line up is worth it- everyone is hungry- hungry for conversation- hungry for the one thing we are all starving for: belonging, being a part of something that is bigger than us.
And it is here. Across from the West Side Pavilion mall, where you can see couples who have been together for thirty years arguing over who gets the extra ketchup- you can hear the swish of life - and it sounds good.
When I was about eleven years old my mother and I came to LA for a wedding. That was when Los Angeles was Beverly Hills to me. It was Marilyn Monroe in her white skirt over the subway grate. It was the beckoning of the mysterious hills that lit up at night. It was Blossom. The sit com.
My mother had bought me a button down shirt/ skirt combo, with the most amazing black, Blossom worthy Fedora to wear to the wedding. The marriage was between a most beautiful Indonesian woman, and Bradley a pianist from New York. Bradley was always trying to get me to find my voice, which led to a life long obsession of me thinking I had lost it to begin with.
The reception following the wedding was at the newly weds mansion in the Hollywood Hills. As we barely parked our rental car, I reminded myself not to hope for a boy to be at the reception. There were never boys in magical circumstances I had come to discover. There was really only ever magical circumstances or boys. The two seemed forever divorced to me. As we walked into the backyard which was lit up by fairy lights and my youth, I could almost feel the letters of the Hollywood sign whispering to me, as if they were spelled out on that hill for me. We walked towards the guests, and as if in a movie a wind blew, a warm nurturing mysterious wind, and there he was.
Central casting had provided me both a magical circumstance and a boy. He was blond, with a surfers freckled face. I was gone. Irreverocably in love with this city of angels. In that moment in time, movies, and burgeoning lust, and laugh tracks, all intersected, and I fell. I fell hard.
The wind, the guests, the boy and the silence. That's right, there was a silence, a space between peoples words and their jokes. A silence after a glass of champagne was placed on one of the oak tables. A silence that seemed to be the city itself saying to us, go ahead take a look, I really am that gorgeous.
I don't think the boy and I uttered one word to each other, we were too shy, and I was too concerned with shattering the fantasy world that I had stepped into. One guest had a notebook with 12, 000 jokes recorded in it. He said he started recording the jokes when he was my age, and never left his home without the tattered notebook. I saw the notebook, and read a few jokes, some terrible, some wonderful.
I think of that night, usually when I am driving home, looking at the lit up hills which cradle all of us dreamers, and foodies, and joke recorders. I think of the wind that I felt, how soft and cool it was. How purely possible it was.
I think of that night when I am rocking a burger from Apple Pan, and allowing myself to lean into the bustle of the city.
I think of that night, when I sink my fork into the best Apple pie this city has to offer. I think of that night as I trace the year 1947 written on the Apple Pan Menu. I think of that night while enjoying a perfect glass of red wine at Little Doms, or when having a bit of mozzarella flown in all the way from Italy, at Mozzo. Yes dear reader, this life is ours and it is meant to be lived quite pleasurably.
Apple Pan
10801 West Pico Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90064-2105
(310) 475-3585
www.applepan.com
Mozza LA
641 N. Highland Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90036
www.mozza-la.com
Little Dom's
2128 Hillhurst Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90027
www.littledoms.com
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Pleasure of The Plural
I'm bending over backwards. But it's not that kind of Saturday night...
They say all roads lead to lawyers. But anyone living in Los Angeles can attest: all roads lead to yoga. In my case. In my hyper intense, slightly dyslexic, and mildly masochistic case (again not that kind of Saturday night) it's Bikram yoga.
They say there are only five stories, and it's just the retelling of them that matters. In Los Angeles however, there are really only five questions.
1. Where do you study acting? (and by the way everyone has a Larry Moss experience or connection.)
2. What diet are you on?
These days everyone says gluten and sugar free. But we're all liars. Because you know you can find me lying on my coach, yelling at Simon Cowell and eating red velvet cupcakes by the dozen from Doughboys, any ol' night of the week.
3. What neighborhood do you live in?
Silverlake= skinny jeans, skinny ties, and an ability to read fiction.
West Hollywood= Runyun Canyon, a mid level agency and a deep desire for a dog.
Brentwood = possible addiction issues, a very rich family, and not afraid to wear rhinestones. On anything. Including UGGS. And if the rhinestones form an angel wing pattern. Well. Even better.
Santa Monica= surfboards, UGGS, and working your way up (quickly) in the mail room at UTA.
Pacific Palisades= Intimidatingly beautiful, impeccable bone structure, married to the owner of UTA
Burbank= pregnant.
4.How are you working on yourself?
Therapy = Everyone.
(but does your therapist actually live in LA, or do you pull over on the 405 to take much needed phone sessions with your shrink in New York).
Twelve step groups= There is actually a twelve step group in this city for people who are addicted to twelve step groups.
Energetic healing= Which involves shifting your paradigm, and does not necessarily mean you're repped at Paradigm. Usually you have to give up carbs for the latter. And the former.
The self help aisle at Barnes and Nobles= For the thrifty.
Life coaches= For the successful.
5. And finally dear reader: what kind of yoga do you do?
The debates on the best types of yoga are varied and heated. In fact where you go to yoga means more than where you worship God. In this city, your body is God.
Which brings me back to Saturday. Where I am in a Bikram yoga class. The room is heated to 105 degrees, the doors are closed. This is serious.
I am bending over backwards, sweating out every pore, cursing the burrito I ate fifteen minutes before the class and trying not to pass out. It is intense. The heat is intense. The teachers have told me to expect nausea, to expect black outs, to expect fear.
But they didn't say anything about panic. I can feel the panic rise in me. As I stare jealously at the perfectly formed ass bending over in front of me. Why am I so jealous? I ask myself. Don't think that way, I yell inside my head, where all the great battles are waged.
I remember my friend Skylar told me that she took a Brazilian dance class after a terrible break up, and she spent the whole time staring at this ass in front of her, convinced that her ex boyfriend had at one point or other, tapped that ass.
Ahhh. Love.
"Be calm be calm be calm" I scream at myself.
Why don't I drink more water, and why isn't the teacher using any plurals? My mind sticks on this point.
She is speaking into a headset, wearing a bikini, and saying:
"for maximum happiness bend knee, lift leg, think happy, bend knee."
But we're bending both knees I want to holler at her! Both knees! Why do you deny me the pleasure of the plural? Not to be too literal, but I am single.
"Practice four time a week for maximum happiness." She continues on.
"Four timessss a week!" I want to scream back. I want to step off my mat and get up in her face, how dare she give up plurals? She's a twenty five year old who grew up in the valley! With a perfect body! Only true gurus can have bad grammar.
What an asshole.
The worst part of my mental breakdown, is that I know the only asshole in the room is me. I smoked three cigarettes the day before. I ate the burrito. I insist on lattes and wine. And then expect to find Nirvana, (or at least a really toned ass that someone might want to one day tap) in an hour.
My mind now is in full Nazi mode. Screaming at myself. Screaming at the other people in the class. At least when Elizabeth Gilbert decided to Eat Love and Pray, she got an Ashram. I know I'm about to lose it, when I'm muttering under my breath:
"Where's my bloody ashram, where's my bloody ashram?"
I look around the room, I am comparing myself to everyone, and then suddenly I hit, what I believe they call bottom, my head hitting the orange of my sweaty yoga mat.
I see how many years I have been in yoga class, in ballet class, in cardio barre class, in beer commercial auditions, in my bikini,in bridal showers, trying to be something I'm not: perfect.
The number one rule in Bikram is: don't leave. Ever. And I have always been really good at following rules. And then I see all the rules I followed, all the people I tried to please, all the times I tried to be someone that I wasn't in order to be loved, approved of, or even just looked at. All the times I stayed, when I should have left. Blacked out on my mat, I try to breathe and beg for her to give me the mercy of a plural.
Instead she screams out: "maximum happiness come from maximum struggle."
I roll up my mat and leave.
I drive home. I can barely breathe. I'm so nauseous, I'm so scared. I'm so scared of finding out who I am. And I'm even more scared of not finding that out.
I get home, peel off my yoga clothes and stand in the hot shower.
Mercifully I have leftovers from Vivoli.
My friend Nick, a no nonsense screen writer from the East Coast, understands about food. We eat good food, rich food, together. A post break up ritual that has been saving me. He always leaves the leftovers, and finishes the wine.
Vivoli has the most honest el dente pasta, with garlic bread this city has to offer. I re heat, the Bolognese.
Nick knows how to pronounce "Bolognese" because he went to Harvard. But you don't need to know how to pronounce something in order to eat it, and I am hungry. I pull on my flannel pyjamas, and dig in. I want bread. I want, the warmth of it. I turn on American Idol, and realize that I am in fact happy. No I'm not at an Ashram. No I haven't figured it all out. My left hand is not being pleasurably weighed down by a diamond ring... But I know how to feed myself. I know how to eat. And that to me is the best therapy, the best yoga class. The best. Warm food. Bad TV, and the sound of my own heartbeat, nestled safely at home.
*******
However, because I am insane, I go back. To the heated yoga. My next time back I make it halfway through the standing poses and then collapse again. On my back the room spinning around me I start to imagine my best friends. It's a trick I've learned to do in challenging situations. I imagine the people who think I am a rock star surrounding me. It's sort of an imaginary friend Entourage. As I'm imagining them I open my eyes, and it's Miss No Plural herself leaning over me and staring into my eyes with such love and concern that I start to tear up. In fact I forget to be jealous of her perfect bikini body.
"It's okay to leave" She tells me. I wipe the sweat and tears from my face and quietly, exit the room, still trying to maintain the slightest bit of Yogini grace. I'm still Buddha I tell myself. Even Buddha misses the train sometimes. After the class Miss No Plural, tells me to eat more miso soup and drink coconut water. Looking into her eyes, I note that she's the type of girl I'd be friends with. And again, I feel like an asshole.
The next week I return. Having stayed up drinking water all night, and beginning my day with miso soup for breakfast, I feel nervous, and something else I'm really not used to: I feel humility. I stand by the door, where I think it might be coolest, and begin the class. The miso, and the water has made a huge difference. Also I didn't smoke a pack of cigarettes the night before which helps too.
I move carefully through the poses. Not assuming that I can do them perfectly. Not trying to show off. In fact just trying to be me in a hot room, with a group of other people.
With my two new friends, sodium and humility I am able to work through the class, and not black out. I don't even mind the teachers lack of plurals. Sun streams in through the window, and I am grateful for the Bolognese and the miso. The Cathedrals, and American Idol. Yin and Yang, yo.
After the class I ask Miss No Plural about Triangle Pose, and she tells me how important it is to bend my knees.
"My knees?" I ask,
Alex did you just give me a S?
"Your knees." She replies.
Vivoli Cafe
www.vivolicafe.com
7994 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046-3307
(323) 656-5050
DoughBoys Cafe and Bakery
www.doughboyscafe.com
8136 West Third Street
Los Angeles, CA 90048
(323)852-1020
They say all roads lead to lawyers. But anyone living in Los Angeles can attest: all roads lead to yoga. In my case. In my hyper intense, slightly dyslexic, and mildly masochistic case (again not that kind of Saturday night) it's Bikram yoga.
They say there are only five stories, and it's just the retelling of them that matters. In Los Angeles however, there are really only five questions.
1. Where do you study acting? (and by the way everyone has a Larry Moss experience or connection.)
2. What diet are you on?
These days everyone says gluten and sugar free. But we're all liars. Because you know you can find me lying on my coach, yelling at Simon Cowell and eating red velvet cupcakes by the dozen from Doughboys, any ol' night of the week.
3. What neighborhood do you live in?
Silverlake= skinny jeans, skinny ties, and an ability to read fiction.
West Hollywood= Runyun Canyon, a mid level agency and a deep desire for a dog.
Brentwood = possible addiction issues, a very rich family, and not afraid to wear rhinestones. On anything. Including UGGS. And if the rhinestones form an angel wing pattern. Well. Even better.
Santa Monica= surfboards, UGGS, and working your way up (quickly) in the mail room at UTA.
Pacific Palisades= Intimidatingly beautiful, impeccable bone structure, married to the owner of UTA
Burbank= pregnant.
4.How are you working on yourself?
Therapy = Everyone.
(but does your therapist actually live in LA, or do you pull over on the 405 to take much needed phone sessions with your shrink in New York).
Twelve step groups= There is actually a twelve step group in this city for people who are addicted to twelve step groups.
Energetic healing= Which involves shifting your paradigm, and does not necessarily mean you're repped at Paradigm. Usually you have to give up carbs for the latter. And the former.
The self help aisle at Barnes and Nobles= For the thrifty.
Life coaches= For the successful.
5. And finally dear reader: what kind of yoga do you do?
The debates on the best types of yoga are varied and heated. In fact where you go to yoga means more than where you worship God. In this city, your body is God.
Which brings me back to Saturday. Where I am in a Bikram yoga class. The room is heated to 105 degrees, the doors are closed. This is serious.
I am bending over backwards, sweating out every pore, cursing the burrito I ate fifteen minutes before the class and trying not to pass out. It is intense. The heat is intense. The teachers have told me to expect nausea, to expect black outs, to expect fear.
But they didn't say anything about panic. I can feel the panic rise in me. As I stare jealously at the perfectly formed ass bending over in front of me. Why am I so jealous? I ask myself. Don't think that way, I yell inside my head, where all the great battles are waged.
I remember my friend Skylar told me that she took a Brazilian dance class after a terrible break up, and she spent the whole time staring at this ass in front of her, convinced that her ex boyfriend had at one point or other, tapped that ass.
Ahhh. Love.
"Be calm be calm be calm" I scream at myself.
Why don't I drink more water, and why isn't the teacher using any plurals? My mind sticks on this point.
She is speaking into a headset, wearing a bikini, and saying:
"for maximum happiness bend knee, lift leg, think happy, bend knee."
But we're bending both knees I want to holler at her! Both knees! Why do you deny me the pleasure of the plural? Not to be too literal, but I am single.
"Practice four time a week for maximum happiness." She continues on.
"Four timessss a week!" I want to scream back. I want to step off my mat and get up in her face, how dare she give up plurals? She's a twenty five year old who grew up in the valley! With a perfect body! Only true gurus can have bad grammar.
What an asshole.
The worst part of my mental breakdown, is that I know the only asshole in the room is me. I smoked three cigarettes the day before. I ate the burrito. I insist on lattes and wine. And then expect to find Nirvana, (or at least a really toned ass that someone might want to one day tap) in an hour.
My mind now is in full Nazi mode. Screaming at myself. Screaming at the other people in the class. At least when Elizabeth Gilbert decided to Eat Love and Pray, she got an Ashram. I know I'm about to lose it, when I'm muttering under my breath:
"Where's my bloody ashram, where's my bloody ashram?"
I look around the room, I am comparing myself to everyone, and then suddenly I hit, what I believe they call bottom, my head hitting the orange of my sweaty yoga mat.
I see how many years I have been in yoga class, in ballet class, in cardio barre class, in beer commercial auditions, in my bikini,in bridal showers, trying to be something I'm not: perfect.
The number one rule in Bikram is: don't leave. Ever. And I have always been really good at following rules. And then I see all the rules I followed, all the people I tried to please, all the times I tried to be someone that I wasn't in order to be loved, approved of, or even just looked at. All the times I stayed, when I should have left. Blacked out on my mat, I try to breathe and beg for her to give me the mercy of a plural.
Instead she screams out: "maximum happiness come from maximum struggle."
I roll up my mat and leave.
I drive home. I can barely breathe. I'm so nauseous, I'm so scared. I'm so scared of finding out who I am. And I'm even more scared of not finding that out.
I get home, peel off my yoga clothes and stand in the hot shower.
Mercifully I have leftovers from Vivoli.
My friend Nick, a no nonsense screen writer from the East Coast, understands about food. We eat good food, rich food, together. A post break up ritual that has been saving me. He always leaves the leftovers, and finishes the wine.
Vivoli has the most honest el dente pasta, with garlic bread this city has to offer. I re heat, the Bolognese.
Nick knows how to pronounce "Bolognese" because he went to Harvard. But you don't need to know how to pronounce something in order to eat it, and I am hungry. I pull on my flannel pyjamas, and dig in. I want bread. I want, the warmth of it. I turn on American Idol, and realize that I am in fact happy. No I'm not at an Ashram. No I haven't figured it all out. My left hand is not being pleasurably weighed down by a diamond ring... But I know how to feed myself. I know how to eat. And that to me is the best therapy, the best yoga class. The best. Warm food. Bad TV, and the sound of my own heartbeat, nestled safely at home.
*******
However, because I am insane, I go back. To the heated yoga. My next time back I make it halfway through the standing poses and then collapse again. On my back the room spinning around me I start to imagine my best friends. It's a trick I've learned to do in challenging situations. I imagine the people who think I am a rock star surrounding me. It's sort of an imaginary friend Entourage. As I'm imagining them I open my eyes, and it's Miss No Plural herself leaning over me and staring into my eyes with such love and concern that I start to tear up. In fact I forget to be jealous of her perfect bikini body.
"It's okay to leave" She tells me. I wipe the sweat and tears from my face and quietly, exit the room, still trying to maintain the slightest bit of Yogini grace. I'm still Buddha I tell myself. Even Buddha misses the train sometimes. After the class Miss No Plural, tells me to eat more miso soup and drink coconut water. Looking into her eyes, I note that she's the type of girl I'd be friends with. And again, I feel like an asshole.
The next week I return. Having stayed up drinking water all night, and beginning my day with miso soup for breakfast, I feel nervous, and something else I'm really not used to: I feel humility. I stand by the door, where I think it might be coolest, and begin the class. The miso, and the water has made a huge difference. Also I didn't smoke a pack of cigarettes the night before which helps too.
I move carefully through the poses. Not assuming that I can do them perfectly. Not trying to show off. In fact just trying to be me in a hot room, with a group of other people.
With my two new friends, sodium and humility I am able to work through the class, and not black out. I don't even mind the teachers lack of plurals. Sun streams in through the window, and I am grateful for the Bolognese and the miso. The Cathedrals, and American Idol. Yin and Yang, yo.
After the class I ask Miss No Plural about Triangle Pose, and she tells me how important it is to bend my knees.
"My knees?" I ask,
Alex did you just give me a S?
"Your knees." She replies.
Vivoli Cafe
www.vivolicafe.com
7994 West Sunset Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90046-3307
(323) 656-5050
DoughBoys Cafe and Bakery
www.doughboyscafe.com
8136 West Third Street
Los Angeles, CA 90048
(323)852-1020
Friday, February 26, 2010
Single In The City
In this city even the weather wants to be hot. But today the weather is slightly mousy and unattractive.
I step into Sams on Sunset. Mostly because a few months ago I'd seen William H Macy having what looked like a business meeting there. Before that I had assumed the "restaurant" was a mafia front, and I wanted to see for myself what the fuss was about.
It looked like an Italian bagel nosh, without the corporate flare, a very under the radar, establishment so close to the Griddle, I was surprised it had stayed open this long.
The Griddle, has a line outside of it, of cut out girls clad in Lindsy Lohan leggings, waiting on Sunset past the DGA to get in, pretty much every day. It's the kind of place people congregate at hoping that their coolness will be mutually contagious. I didn't understand why anyone would open up a place next to The Griddle. the Griddle is like that rare popular guy in high school that everyone kisses up to and at the same time genuinely likes.
Sams on Sunset reminded me more of the girl in high school who will do your chemistry homework for you and like you all the same, even though she knows you're using her. The girl who somehow manages to keep her eye on the world outside of high school while still remembering her locker combination.
I ordered the oatmeal with strawberries, and the woman running the place assured me I would love it. There was something about her. Something about her face, was softer, a light flickered behind her eyes. That's the thing about LA. The waiters are kinda magical.
There's Hope at Du-Pars, in the Farmer's Market at the Grove. Yes, her name is actually Hope.
The first day I met Hope, she stood over me and my BFF Jen as I took my first bite of a stack of five fluffy Du- Pars pancakes.
She smiled, watching over me, like a pancake angel, in a 1950's diner waitress outfit, as I relinquished my Du-Pars virginity to the fluffy body of Christ (aka the Du- Pars butter soaked pancake). In that moment I felt that Hope truly loved me, only had my best interest at heart, and actually believed in my potential as a human being. The way she smiled, and supplied extra napkins was divine. Believe me I have looked hopefully into the eyes of many a super hot, super coiffed boyfriend, hoping for a modicum of the acceptance that poured out of Hope's eyes.
BFF Jen is herself a little dreamy. She grew up in LA and never seems to run out of giggles, or amazing purses. Everything is a little Mary Poppins when she's around. Her Prada purses don't intimidate, because she carries them with the fearlessness of a teenager, and the aplomb of a post feminist theory advisor.
Jen and I will often find ourselves post break up, at DuPars, with Hope smiling over us as we slip quietly into the magical world of pancakes. Into the Los Angeles that once was. A los Angeles that hums underneath the Apple Store, the gurus, the Prada purses.
A Los Angeles that is softer, that doesn't mind a woman with some hips. A Los Angeles that remembers that people come here to fall in love or to make people fall in love. They come here to stand up from the audience and leap into the silver screen. To loom over the people in the theatre, and somehow crack open their hearts, and make them wake up to the person sitting next to them, or the person who they left in Ohio, or the person who they secretly wish they were brave enough to kiss.
This Los Angeles isn't about doing nine lines of cocaine before doing fourteen pilates classes, throwing up and attending nine twelve step groups.
This Los Angeles that I see , in the relic faces of the occasional waiter, has a sense of humor about itself, a sense of love towards all of us who sit in the audience longing to be on screen.
When it's me that's gone through the break up Jen always pays for dinner, and vice-versa.
Which means that Jen always pays.
We walk into the movie theatre at The Grove and Jen also buys our tickets.
As we walk into the safety of the dark theatre Jen whispers
"You're going to have to learn to let your friends date you"
"Stop being such a lesbo" I whisper back.
Giggles. Giggles. More Giggles.
It makes me want to cry when people are that kind. Especially people you've known for ever. It means more somehow. And then to sort of top the whole thing off, Jen gives me a perfect brown leather boho purse. Because really in LA, as long as your purse and your sunglasses are slamming, you can kind of wear whatever the fuck else you want. It takes a best friend to understand the importance of that.
Back at Sams, on this unattractive day, the woman running the place, with the kind eyes hands me a bowl of oatmeal and tops off my coffee. The oatmeal has a simple arrangement of red sliced strawberries. The red of the strawberries is like a transfusion into my own heart. I start to feel it beat a bit. And as my heart beats the city of Los Angeles stirs with it.
I take a bite. It's been sweetened to perfection. The woman who runs the place looks at me and smiles.
"Perfect, isn't it?" She acknowledges.
"Yes" I say. Nodding my head. "Perfect".
Sams On Sunset: 323-850-7267
7864 W. Sunset Blvd
Du-Pars, Farmers Market: 323 933-8446
6333 W. 3rd St. @ Fairfax
The Griddle: 323 874 0377
7916 West Sunset Boulevard
In this city even the weather wants to be hot. But today the weather is slightly mousy and unattractive.
I step into Sams on Sunset. Mostly because a few months ago I'd seen William H Macy having what looked like a business meeting there. Before that I had assumed the "restaurant" was a mafia front, and I wanted to see for myself what the fuss was about.
It looked like an Italian bagel nosh, without the corporate flare, a very under the radar, establishment so close to the Griddle, I was surprised it had stayed open this long.
The Griddle, has a line outside of it, of cut out girls clad in Lindsy Lohan leggings, waiting on Sunset past the DGA to get in, pretty much every day. It's the kind of place people congregate at hoping that their coolness will be mutually contagious. I didn't understand why anyone would open up a place next to The Griddle. the Griddle is like that rare popular guy in high school that everyone kisses up to and at the same time genuinely likes.
Sams on Sunset reminded me more of the girl in high school who will do your chemistry homework for you and like you all the same, even though she knows you're using her. The girl who somehow manages to keep her eye on the world outside of high school while still remembering her locker combination.
I ordered the oatmeal with strawberries, and the woman running the place assured me I would love it. There was something about her. Something about her face, was softer, a light flickered behind her eyes. That's the thing about LA. The waiters are kinda magical.
There's Hope at Du-Pars, in the Farmer's Market at the Grove. Yes, her name is actually Hope.
The first day I met Hope, she stood over me and my BFF Jen as I took my first bite of a stack of five fluffy Du- Pars pancakes.
She smiled, watching over me, like a pancake angel, in a 1950's diner waitress outfit, as I relinquished my Du-Pars virginity to the fluffy body of Christ (aka the Du- Pars butter soaked pancake). In that moment I felt that Hope truly loved me, only had my best interest at heart, and actually believed in my potential as a human being. The way she smiled, and supplied extra napkins was divine. Believe me I have looked hopefully into the eyes of many a super hot, super coiffed boyfriend, hoping for a modicum of the acceptance that poured out of Hope's eyes.
BFF Jen is herself a little dreamy. She grew up in LA and never seems to run out of giggles, or amazing purses. Everything is a little Mary Poppins when she's around. Her Prada purses don't intimidate, because she carries them with the fearlessness of a teenager, and the aplomb of a post feminist theory advisor.
Jen and I will often find ourselves post break up, at DuPars, with Hope smiling over us as we slip quietly into the magical world of pancakes. Into the Los Angeles that once was. A los Angeles that hums underneath the Apple Store, the gurus, the Prada purses.
A Los Angeles that is softer, that doesn't mind a woman with some hips. A Los Angeles that remembers that people come here to fall in love or to make people fall in love. They come here to stand up from the audience and leap into the silver screen. To loom over the people in the theatre, and somehow crack open their hearts, and make them wake up to the person sitting next to them, or the person who they left in Ohio, or the person who they secretly wish they were brave enough to kiss.
This Los Angeles isn't about doing nine lines of cocaine before doing fourteen pilates classes, throwing up and attending nine twelve step groups.
This Los Angeles that I see , in the relic faces of the occasional waiter, has a sense of humor about itself, a sense of love towards all of us who sit in the audience longing to be on screen.
When it's me that's gone through the break up Jen always pays for dinner, and vice-versa.
Which means that Jen always pays.
We walk into the movie theatre at The Grove and Jen also buys our tickets.
As we walk into the safety of the dark theatre Jen whispers
"You're going to have to learn to let your friends date you"
"Stop being such a lesbo" I whisper back.
Giggles. Giggles. More Giggles.
It makes me want to cry when people are that kind. Especially people you've known for ever. It means more somehow. And then to sort of top the whole thing off, Jen gives me a perfect brown leather boho purse. Because really in LA, as long as your purse and your sunglasses are slamming, you can kind of wear whatever the fuck else you want. It takes a best friend to understand the importance of that.
Back at Sams, on this unattractive day, the woman running the place, with the kind eyes hands me a bowl of oatmeal and tops off my coffee. The oatmeal has a simple arrangement of red sliced strawberries. The red of the strawberries is like a transfusion into my own heart. I start to feel it beat a bit. And as my heart beats the city of Los Angeles stirs with it.
I take a bite. It's been sweetened to perfection. The woman who runs the place looks at me and smiles.
"Perfect, isn't it?" She acknowledges.
"Yes" I say. Nodding my head. "Perfect".
Sams On Sunset: 323-850-7267
7864 W. Sunset Blvd
Du-Pars, Farmers Market: 323 933-8446
6333 W. 3rd St. @ Fairfax
The Griddle: 323 874 0377
7916 West Sunset Boulevard
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Truth is Sexy
Had a frustrating meeting with my agents today. They brought me in as if under a firing squad and told me that I was of a certain age. It's true. I am of a certain age. That age being thirty. I believe the day I turned thirty they dimmed the lights on all the street lamps. Another girl who didn't make it by the end of a sultry decade.
A decade that began by lighting a cigarette, donning a pair of knee high, kick ass boots, filling diaries, living in New York, moving to Los Angeles, hurling my soul into the depths of romantic love, as if I was a French Poet,and hopefully learning somethings along the torrid way . A decade that ended by putting out a cigarette, still wearing boots and dancing to a Cure song in front of the beach.
And now I roam these streets. Oh who am I kidding. There's not a lot of roaming to be done in these streets. Mostly it's parking. So I park in these streets looking for the authentic. Looking for the heartbeat.
I can feel the pulse. The pulse is undoubtedly sexual. The pulse of twenty two year olds, drug addictions, short skirts, gas stations, worn out head shots, lost memories, forgotten promises, a willingness not only to sell ones soul but to photograph the garage sale.
But the heart. The heart of the city. I'm not sure what it is. Joan Didion says it's in the piano bars of the old hotels. But I've lived here for five years, and never found myself understanding LA in a piano bar. Perhaps in the nature. Although yesterday when my girlfriend and I went on a hike, we heard more cell phone chatter, than birdsong. One girl in particular striding past us, said into her phone : the truth is sexy.
So I'm in search here. For the heart of this city. Underneath the desire for validation (parking, and other) the need to be the hottest in the room, the funniest, the most fuckable, the highest paid, the most evolved, where is the heart? There's gotta be more heart in this city than the red blink of my blackberry. So I'm gonna look- and I'm gonna record- what I see- what I recognize as truth in this city.
Someone else said that truth is beauty. But if it is sexy. Then bring it on. I want to find what is true beautiful and sexy about this city. I know it's here. I can feel it, underneath the blink of my blackberry, the laugh of my best friend, the daily reach of the forever ambitious, the breath of the surfer, the insecurity of the class clown. I hear something. I think it's a heart. I hope so.
A decade that began by lighting a cigarette, donning a pair of knee high, kick ass boots, filling diaries, living in New York, moving to Los Angeles, hurling my soul into the depths of romantic love, as if I was a French Poet,and hopefully learning somethings along the torrid way . A decade that ended by putting out a cigarette, still wearing boots and dancing to a Cure song in front of the beach.
And now I roam these streets. Oh who am I kidding. There's not a lot of roaming to be done in these streets. Mostly it's parking. So I park in these streets looking for the authentic. Looking for the heartbeat.
I can feel the pulse. The pulse is undoubtedly sexual. The pulse of twenty two year olds, drug addictions, short skirts, gas stations, worn out head shots, lost memories, forgotten promises, a willingness not only to sell ones soul but to photograph the garage sale.
But the heart. The heart of the city. I'm not sure what it is. Joan Didion says it's in the piano bars of the old hotels. But I've lived here for five years, and never found myself understanding LA in a piano bar. Perhaps in the nature. Although yesterday when my girlfriend and I went on a hike, we heard more cell phone chatter, than birdsong. One girl in particular striding past us, said into her phone : the truth is sexy.
So I'm in search here. For the heart of this city. Underneath the desire for validation (parking, and other) the need to be the hottest in the room, the funniest, the most fuckable, the highest paid, the most evolved, where is the heart? There's gotta be more heart in this city than the red blink of my blackberry. So I'm gonna look- and I'm gonna record- what I see- what I recognize as truth in this city.
Someone else said that truth is beauty. But if it is sexy. Then bring it on. I want to find what is true beautiful and sexy about this city. I know it's here. I can feel it, underneath the blink of my blackberry, the laugh of my best friend, the daily reach of the forever ambitious, the breath of the surfer, the insecurity of the class clown. I hear something. I think it's a heart. I hope so.
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