Sauce Policy
Only in L.A. can you trek to a downtown warehouse district to buy designer labels at a Guess sample sale in an abandoned factory. Only in L.A. can you sit in a movie theater where 90% of the audience will remain seated to watch the end credits and spot the friend or acquaintance who worked on the film (shout-out to my girl Michelle, who did wardrobe for "Elizabethtown"). Only in L.A. can you be offered a politically correct version of a fortune cookie at an art exhibit so unstylish it’s stylish.
Fact: Los Angeles is a member of that small group of metropolises known as "Select Cities," you know, the ones that are mentioned at the end of movie ads: "’Corpse Bride,’ September 14 in select cities. Opens everywhere September 24." Like our bizzaro twin, New York, we get to preview the latest in cinema, couture, and cuisine. Little Andy McHick in Blandville, Wyoming will someday dream of moving to a select city. Hell, his hometown has finally entered "botox" into their vocabulary; that’s how behind they are, and little Andy wants to live in the now and not wait several months for the latest John Varvatos to hit stores.
It is easy to take pride in living in a select city. You can sample the best of all worlds. Drive down Fairfax and you’re smelling the rich aromas of Little Ethiopia. Take a wrong turn in downtown L.A. and suddenly you’re munching on sushi and edamame in Little Tokyo…
I will stop here before I turn into a total Frommer’s Guide to Los Angeles. This is how I am. My stream of consciousness goes into overdrive sometimes, and I don’t know what random ramblings will pour onto this electronic page. One moment I’m contemplating the possibilities of Ashlee Simpson getting run over by an 18-wheeler, and next I’m wondering how I will ever finish reading the remaining 700 pages of "The Goblet of Fire" before the fourth Harry Potter film hits theaters next month.
So, a heads-up - If my chapter veers off course at every paragraph, forgive me. This is my current mental state of mind, and I am connected to a Starbucks IV drip as I finger-dance my way across this keyboard.
After catching a screening (one of many this week) of Jake Gyllenhaal’s "Jarhead" on Sunday night, I regrettably drove through McDonald’s for a double cheeseburger and noticed a sign in the cashier window that read: SAUCE POLICY. I had to laugh, and the cashier at the window looked at me as if I were a schizo who had stolen a Ford and acted upon his impulses to terrorize the fast-food chains of greater Hollywood. I’m sure those lucky guys and gals at Mickey D’s get visits from passengers of the Crazy Train all the time.
For the curious dieters who have sworn off all things caloric, their Sauce Policy is as follows:
1 Sauce = 6 piece (Chicken McNuggets)
2 Sauce = 10 piece
4 Sauce = 20 piece
Apparently the McDonald’s management doesn’t know how to use their plural nouns. Doesn’t everyone need at least two packets of sauce for a 6-piece meal? I like submerging my chicken product in barbeque goodness. It’s the American way to eat pretend pollo; drench it to death in whatever condiment your at-risk heart desires.
It has come to my attention that many friends of mine are suffering from Twentysomethingitis. My writing partner IMed me this morning, feeling unusually down:
"I think our industry is so depressing - even when it’s going well…it takes a lot of energy to maintain relationships with a lot of people."
Well said, Jen. It is emotionally draining to keep yourself beeping on the industry radar. Can’t we all just get along…without getting along?
Before she instantly sent me this epiphanic message, my other dear friend Swaga (that’s pronounced SHaa-ga) gave me the full report (via IM as well) on a date gone bad from last night. How bad? Said Date brought him to a Chinese dinner followed by a visit to Date’s bed-ridden friend with cancer and a guitar serenade at Date’s apartment, culminating in the self-unzipping of Date’s pants with the promise, "This is never going to work." Fast-forward to an uncomfortable ride home in Date’s car. Needless to say, Swaga was confused and frustrated. Notch #143 on the Wall of Bad Dates.
I can’t make this shit up.
And here we have two symptoms of Twentysomethingitis: Career dilemmas and neverending quests for that perfect someone who can handle your luggage and make you feel beautiful in bed the next morning. Other cases have been known to suffer from student-loan debt, with which I am all too familiar, parental dependence, and general indecisiveness. If you or someone you know suffers from Twentysomethingitis, take a hard dose of Indifference mixed with a shot of Hopeforthebest. Side effects have been known to include: regular venting to peers over brunch, continuous cynicism, and consumption of entire pints of Ben and Jerry’s Half-Baked (or McDonald’s drive-thru visitations). Consult your physician before taking these medications.
My seven-week run of San Sebastian is nearing the end. But don’t shed any tears just yet. I will return to my hovel of an apartment for four nights next week when my boss is back in town. I shall then return to the manse for the long Halloween weekend and stay there again during the week of Thanksgiving. I can’t wait to pop a Butterball in that gorgeous oven. Ah, the culinary possibilities - mashed potatoes, creamed cauliflower, string bean casserole…
And I can use as many different types of sauce as I want.
