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