Saturday, November 17, 2001
Two exciting discoveries yesterday! Just found Found Magazine, a charming and addictive site I heard about by wandering around nil by mouth, the blog of someone with very good taste. It's good to have friends with good taste, even if they're only imaginary friends.On that note, don't you wish Snuffleuppagus's name was actually Snuffleuffagus, like you used to think? And while we're discussing trite '70s nostalgia... Ha ha, no. Bad idea. That kind of talk is best reserved for the 2 a.m. 4-beer buzz (that used to be a 4 a.m. 8-beer buzz, but then that stopped being respectable at some point about 3 years before I finally noticed) (But don't tell that to the local winos, it'll just hurt their feelings).
Didn't you hate it when you were younger and some kid said "You hurt my feelings!" In my family, them's fightin' words.
OK, back to the point. The second discovery: Amelie, the new film by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. It's GREAT!
5:03 PM
YET ANOTHER REWARDING INTERACTION WITH MY SIBLINGS
Guaranteed 100% Real or Your Money Back!
Rabbit: Hey, I know where we can go to dinner! Fartknocker's!
Sister: What?
Rabbit: Fartknocker's. We go there a lot. It's great!
Sister: What kind of food is it?
Rabbit: Beans, all kinds of bean dishes. Chili, three-bean salad...
Sister: What's it called?
Rabbit: Fartknocker's. We should totally go there.
Sister: I don't think so.
10:28 AM
Friday, November 16, 2001
THE NOVELDon't you think it's wonderful that I'm writing a novel? Don't you think it's courageous and admirable of me, to take on such a monumental task, to rise to such a serious challenge? Don't you think it's fantastic that, in the face of poverty and destitution, I could be bothered to put words on the page, however worthless and empty and rambling and stupid those words might be? Isn't it utterly too too? Isn't it delovely? Isn't it rich? Aren't we a pair?
WORD COUNT
I have written over 30,000 words. This is because I panicked on Wednesday and wrote 12,000 words.
Skeptic: Is that possible?
Rabbit: Why, yes, as it turns out, it is.
Cynic: How is that possible?
Rabbit: Well, you just type, really fast, and you keep typing. It helps to do this in public, where you're embarrassed to pace or mumble or stare blankly at the ceiling for hours. Yesterday I went to a place not far from my house where they serve coffee and salads and people have loud conversations about how creative and special they are. Hence the term "salad days."
Naysayer: You go to a cafe? You haul your fucking computer into a cafe and you plug the thing in and you sit there and type? Doesn't that make you a huge jackass?
Jack "Rabbit" Ass: Maybe. Maybe it does. But hey, 12,000 words. I mean, come on. I can't complain.
Devil's Advocate: You can't complain?
Rabbit: Well, I do complain. But I shouldn't. On the other hand, when I complain, that just means more words.
Hatchet Man: And how many of these 12,000 words are complaints?
Rabbit: Roughly half.
Tweedle Dum: And you call that a novel?
Rabbit: Ever read any Updike? Jeez.
And now for our theme song...
I'm just too marvelous, too marvelous for words,
Like glorious, glamorous, and that old standby, amorous!
I'm just too wonderful, I'll never find the words,
that say enough, tell enough,
I mean they just aren't swell enough!
1:17 PM
Thursday, November 15, 2001
L.A. FOODIE, WIND-SWEPT FOODIEMan, oh man. Remember "step on a crack and you'll break your mother's back"? Well, step on anything related to Los Angeles, and the natives here start sharpening their wee little sticks and stones. My negative take on local restaurants (no, I haven't been to every restaurant in this unfathomably massive city) has earned me a great deal of snipping and sniping. Which is more than welcome, of course.
"...if there's one thing that bugs it's San Francisco transplants bitching about LA food. OK, the choice dishes here aren't served in centrally-located, precious, theme-y joints that cater to right-on hipsters, and yes the service sucks at Mexico City (or as we call it, Mexico Shitty) and there's an overabundance of yellow-cheese Mexican. BUT... ask around and be willing to experiment and you'll find a feast awaits you."
Hey, I don't care if it's theme-y and precious or not, I just want the food not to suck. I lived in the Mission in '94, when the prevailing theme was "try not to get shot on the way to dinner." Hipstery or not, a lot of those places were inexpensive, consistent, had great service, and were owned by nice people you knew by name. Yeah, and I'd rather walk for 3 minutes than drive for 40 minutes to get to a good meal, whether there's bad art on the walls and "The Girl From Ipanema" on the stereo or not. So sue me.
LA isn't San Francisco - I live here, not there, for a long list of reasons. But insulting people who like cheap food within walking distance sort of makes you sound like a Canadian whining about how the north side of Niagara Falls is way better.
Actually, let's have that list of reasons I don't live in San Francisco right now, shall we?
WHY I DON'T LIVE IN SAN FRANCISCO
1. It's cold.
2. It's small and brightly lit and filled with cute stores and cute restaurants and butt-white people, like a big, indoor mall, except without the central heating.
3. It's arguably more provincial and goofier than a much smaller, more isolated town.
4. It's a well-established, widely-known fact that the women are all smart and funny and great and the gay men are great but the straight men either have bed-head and play in joke-rock bands, or they're sort of wiener-y.
5. It's chilly and wet and you never have a coat with you, because you're a moron who'll never learn.
6. It's filled with perpetual adolescents who share a scornful attitude toward mainstream America, like you're not cool unless you drink green tea with soy milk and listen to This American Life and have the inside scoop on Salon. Snore.
7. Yeah, I like those people just fine, too. But still. It's cold.
8. Ambition is seen as an affliction that only strikes the shallow and the soulless.
9. There's a fundamental flavor of alienation in the air, like you're all living in some huge hipster ant farm. You tire of the other ants, but you're afraid of the real world. It's sort of like college, really, only everyone's dumber and uglier and you have to pay for the beer. And it's really fucking cold.
Yeah, I'm generalizing. What else is there to do? I'm a fucking rabbit!
Now that that's out of the way, we can begin the "L.A. is a smoggy dystopia for anorexics with fake tits and jackasses with gelled hair" part of our journey. Bring it on, ladies! But unless you've lived here, your jabs will be filed under "Opinions Formulated By Watching CHiPs." And don't think about writing if you don't want your letter published. Don't worry, Chumpy, I won't print your name. Unless you ask me to, real friendly-like.
FURTHERMORE
If they say I never loved you,
you know they are a liar!
Let's add that to the list...
10. They are a liar. [See also: You's a lie!]
4:44 PM
U.S., Allies Urge Afghan Rivals to Govern Together
[LA Times, 11/15/01]
IN OTHER NEWS...
Bush Urges Palestinians, Israelis, To "Live In Peace" and "Stop Killing Each Other"
Big Bird Tells Bert, Ernie: "The Bickering Must Stop!"
Audiences to Hollywood: "Forget Profits, Make Better Movies!"
Male Population to Britney: "Show Us Your Tits Already!"
2:55 PM
I've been thinking quite a lot about being the Boss of You. Fortunately my wife is very indulgent. I don't want to say that I'm perfect for the job - heaven knows that I never did very well as the Boss of Me, but that's the problem with working for yourself, isn't it? Maybe we could trade back and forth. Be still, my beating heart.
Anyway, I am available on a part-time basis. I think you'd enjoy working with the Boss of Me, an adorable sixteen-month-old boy. You could move, or at least commute, to Dallas. Stop laughing. Life is affordable here, and worth it. Stop laughing. Our city government and our daily newspaper would provide enough hilarious material to keep you writing as long as you want to. Even a fiscal idiot can own a house here, and ours is within blocks of veal, carnitas, pho, Cuban sandwiches - let's just say that Carryout Derby day is always a party at our house. Let Ken Layne stay in California. Sure, people are dumber here than on the coasts, but that just makes you look smarter. You'd spend so much less time in traffic that you could learn to cook, too - I did.
Dallas is the perfect frontier, bullshit town to light and nourish your creative fires. Well, it hasn't worked for me, but this *is* the town that killed Kennedy. Our concert hall is named after a person who is still living. Our biggest internet entrepreneur cashed out the day before the bust, bought a basketball team, and now pursues his first love, playing bit parts on shows like Walker, Texas Ranger. No shit.
And the couches! Dallas is the Silicon Valley of leather furniture. Did I say that? Well, it's true. People come from all over the country for our leather sofas.
Dallas is a place where a little professionalism goes a long way, and that's what I can offer the position of Boss of You. A little professionalism. Damn little. Word up.
Daddy
Dear Dallas Daddy,
First of all, you're the one relocating, not me. I'm offering a job, here, not begging for an invitation to eat Spagettios at some kitchen table with you and Dorris and Little Mr. Poopypants. I've got nothing against Dallas, personally, but if I wanted to waste my time laughing at bad city government and bad daily newspapers, I'd move back to San Francisco. Besides, the local TV news here provides more comedy than I have time for.
Have I mentioned that I'm incredibly busy and important?
Here's the trouble: I wouldn't want to hire any Boss of Me who would actually want the job. The Boss of Me must hold me in utter contempt, must be repulsed by the sight of me. I have to be intimidated by the Boss of Me, otherwise I won't do my stupid job, I'll just sit around making free chamomile tea and reading back issues of Newsweek featuring articles with titles like "Generation 9-11".
Furthermore, the Boss of Me need not be professional at all. Oh, no. I'm the one who needs to be more professional. In contrast, the Boss of Me should be prone to temperamental outbursts and totally unprofessional bouts of violence, punctuated by simmering rage, grumbling, and snarky insults. That way I'll be afraid to write long, pointless emails and babble endlessly on the phone with my equally dysfunctional friends.
I would be much happier as a jumpy, twittering workaholic. The Boss of Me will know this. Unfortunately, he or she will not want the job.
That's a problem for which I have no solution. The Boss of Me would have a solution for that problem, but I don't have a Boss of Me yet, so I guess I'm shit out of luck, huh?
Me, obvious me!
Warm, mungy lettuce and me me!
Rabbit
1:51 PM
Wednesday, November 14, 2001
Scrappy devil-may-care journalist Ken Layne keeps trying to pick a fight with me. Keep yelling all you want, little man!He did offer this humble list of cheap restaurants in my area, which is nice, but the truth is, I'd trade in all of the above for a falafel deluxe at Truly Mediterranean, the spicy eggplant at Firecracker, a steak and cheese at that steak and cheese place off Valencia that I can't remember the name of, a pot pie from Liberty Cafe, a tuna roll from Ebisu, a pizza from almost any place in the Mission, a carnitas burrito from El Farolito, a Mediterranean crepe from Squat and Gobble, a salade de mer and a ham and cheese crepe from Ti Couz, some kind of spicy beef from Brandy Ho's, and pretty much anything from Angor Wat. And I'm leaving out countless other insanely good, affordable places in San Francisco. Not that I feel like choking on patchouli as I creep through the fog, but still. I guess a few of those places have changed since I left.
Still... Ken's list is downright unfathomable. El Chavo? Is that Spanish for "stinky dog"? Palermo? Is that Uncle Junior's little brother, the one who likes a tablespoon of salt on all his food? Zankou? Is that the chemical agent we used during the Gulf War? Mexico City? Is that the capital of overpriced, overcrowded, overrated restaurants with really, really bad service? The sushi joint next to the Coffee Bean? The one where the tuna is grey, where they stuff fishy salad in the California roll where the krab should go? Now you're just being funny, right Ken?
I like the Hillhurst taco stand, and Netty's is ok when the owners don't kick you in the shins as you come in the door, and the ravioli at Michelangelo's is good, and El Cholo is good for tamales and margaritas only, and then there's R-23 (not cheap), La Cabanita, Black Cow in Montrose, Leela Thai with all white meat... but the best move is really to save up your money from all the countless crappy meals available here, and blow it all in one trip to Joe's Restaurant in Venice, the only truly excellent place I've been to here.
I'm glad you're so easily satisfied, Ken. As I've oft remarked to whatever lazy aristocrat is nearby, dizzy from hours of chess and fine brandy, "Darling, life must be so much easier for those of poor taste! Yes, those who can hardly tell veal from carnitas must live rather well indeed!"
Cheers to you, little man! A tip of the hat! El Chavo es mui bravo!
10:59 PM
My apologies for the slackerly rate of publication. My sister was in town for a long weekend, thus, I've been engaged in the appropriate activities that accompany such an event: going to the gloriously dull Getty and driving around the mobius strip mall that is Los Angeles for hours, occasionally mumbling things like, "Now we're getting into West Hollywood. That's the Chateau Marmont, I think."
TYPICAL CONVERSATION WITH GUEST VISITING LOS ANGELES
Rabbit: That's The Humpy Dumpty. That's where Sneezy Shnorzle lost his creme-filled crullers and had to be carried away in an ambulance.
Sister: Have you ever been there?
Rabbit: Oh, god no! There's Snaggo's. That's where stars like Smugmug Doodoohead and Snippy Whinola go to "see and be seen".
Sister: What's it like?
Rabbit: Oh Jesus, I have no fucking idea. Now we're getting into Brentwood, where that guy who drives a Bronco lived, before he started hanging out at that Roasters 'n' Toasters in Florida...
Sister: What's that place over there?
Rabbit: Fuck if I know. Some bar, looks like.
Sister: Do you ever leave the house?
Rabbit: Only when someone comes to town to visit.
*One hour later...*
Sister: All these neighborhoods look exactly the same.
Rabbit: Yeah. Hey, let's go home and order Thai food and play Risk.
Sister: OK.
Rabbit: Take a little nap. We'll be there in about an hour.
DISCLAIMER
I love it here, a lot of the time. I just don't think it's a great place to visit. Visitors tend to want to do ten things in a day in ten different places, even when you try to explain that that means they'll spend the majority of the day on the freeway. Visitors tend to leave with the impression that living in LA means sitting on the freeway all day. Au contraire, I sit here all day, on my couch. At least they're jealous of the weird plants we can grow here.
The food here is also a problem. In San Francisco and New York, there are a wide range of high-quality, cheap places to eat. Here, good food and bad food alike are way too pricey. Also, chumpy LA denizens keep shitty restaurants in business for arbitrary reasons unrelated to food, like the lighting makes their skin look all glowing and dewy.
Now I'm going to get some letters from people listing off good cheap places to eat in LA. Which is the point, really. I need such lists. Keep in mind, though, I live in Silverlake, with the cooks and homebodies and poor people, not Westwood, where the perpetually shopping and dining full-service yuppies live.
9:19 AM
