Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Favorite Quotes:
"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
"Put on your big girl panties, and deal with it." - Mom
"How you do anything is how you do everything."
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If anyone asks, I had seared ahi tuna and something involving micro-greens, got it?
I've eaten the same thing for lunch everyday for a month. I'm telling you this because acceptance is the first step to recovery...or something like that. In any case, there's going to have to be an intervention. I'm addicted.
To corn dogs.
I know. I KNOW. It's not even a real food! It's the Velveeta of meat products. But in my own defense, they're vegetarian corn dogs. I'm pretty sure that means soy. It might also mean cardboard. It's not entirely clear. And to make matters worse, I only eat them with ketchup, which is somehow so much less cool than mustard.
In L.A., even food is a status symbol, where whether or not your spinach is organic says something about your moral fiber. So I've been going to the grocery store incognito. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. (No trench coat. I think trench coats look frumpy on anyone under six-five. And we have not yet been reduced to frumpy.)
Still, I'm pretty sure the cashiers have started noticing. I am, after all, up to three boxes a week. Three boxes. Soon I'll hear whispers behind my back. "Psst. It's the corn dog lady!" they'll snicker.
It'll be horrible and embarrassing. And in retaliation, I'll be forced to hit somebody with one of those foot-long sausage sticks, and you just know that's going to end badly.
"Writer Uses Processed Meat as Weapon, Cashier Hospitalized. Film at 11."
To corn dogs.
I know. I KNOW. It's not even a real food! It's the Velveeta of meat products. But in my own defense, they're vegetarian corn dogs. I'm pretty sure that means soy. It might also mean cardboard. It's not entirely clear. And to make matters worse, I only eat them with ketchup, which is somehow so much less cool than mustard.
In L.A., even food is a status symbol, where whether or not your spinach is organic says something about your moral fiber. So I've been going to the grocery store incognito. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. (No trench coat. I think trench coats look frumpy on anyone under six-five. And we have not yet been reduced to frumpy.)
Still, I'm pretty sure the cashiers have started noticing. I am, after all, up to three boxes a week. Three boxes. Soon I'll hear whispers behind my back. "Psst. It's the corn dog lady!" they'll snicker.
It'll be horrible and embarrassing. And in retaliation, I'll be forced to hit somebody with one of those foot-long sausage sticks, and you just know that's going to end badly.
"Writer Uses Processed Meat as Weapon, Cashier Hospitalized. Film at 11."
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