Of events in the rather dullllife of D and P.
Backtracking from the weekend just past.
Sunday, 2nd of July, was spent in a leisurely fashion, starting with a large cappucino and pain au chocolat (for D) and almond croissant (for P) at Amandine Patisserie on Wilshire (cross street Bundy*). During breakfast (wot? no photos? yeah, no photos), we had a scholarly discussion of the pros and cons of supermarkets vs corner shops, and how Edinburgh was going downhill with the muscling out of the once ubiquitous corner shop by “metro” outlets of large supermarket chains. Yes, even after a year in LA. Pathetic, isn’t it? It was, however, sparked off by a simple suggestion that we swing by Ralph’s on the way home to get some bog roll. And somehow turned into this huge, 30 min long rant about how Ralphs was like Safeway (our old local supermarket), which was absolute shit for fresh produce (their steaks leak water), but critical for daily necessities like toilet roll.
A pathetic Sunday morning in the supermarket was saved by the brainwave that we should escape the heatwave by visiting a museum. After the fiasco of the last attempt to visit an LA museum, we settled on a fairly local one: the Armand Hammer museum in Westwood. They’re currently exhibiting works of the Société Anonyme, a disparate collection of 1920s-40s artists, some with intentional Dadaist streaks, and others with pretention so pure that you could only view them as Dadaists. No matter. I likey. And I laughed. Unfortunately, eveyone else in the gallery seemed quite serious, which made me feel somewhat disrespectful. [mini rant] Honestly, when did art become something one had to take seriously? Sure, if you’re a student or an enthusiast, you could/should view it with a critical eye. But who decided that the atmosphere in galleries and museums should be quite so sombre? Yeesh. Loosen up. [rant ends] That said, the Hammer is a nice wee museum, and being free all summer, it’s the perfect place to escape the LA heat and learn a thing or two. Or laugh inappropriately. Or take photos of their soothing monster bamboo:
Saturday, 1st of July, was the day I finally met Santos/chotda, of green bananas fame and made the aquaintance of Sarah from who writes of her delicious life. This also being the day of the game-I-still-cannot-talk-about-rationally, we made plans to watch the game-I-wish-never-happened in an Ingerland pub way off in the Valley. Stepping into the Fox and Hound on that fateful day was like visiting an English pub giving away beer for free. In fact, it was so full that we had to split up. So I can’t even give a mouthful-by-mouthful account of shared food/drink. And I still can’t talk about that game. But Santos can, and with a sense of humour I don’t possess early in the morning or when Ingerland loses (again)…. (btw, that was not horror from sartorial comments, more from the abject patheticness of Ingerland at fitba. omg, i *still* can’t talk about it.)
Further plans to meet up for a trendy evening of watching Dr. Strangelove on the side of Douglas Fairbank’s tomb came to naught. Mainly cos we were late. When the website says “doors open at 7.30pm” in LA, one should be there at 7.30pm, not nearly 9pm. Or one will come face to face with security refusing to let anyone in unless they’re on a guest list. Even if you dared to tell them that P tackled the monstrous watermelon specially for the picnic. (Not that we did; security in LA probably comes with guns…) No worries. D had a plan to salvage the crazy bus ride from West LA: soon dubu at BCD Tofu House! So, a 5 min walk, 10 min wait, 5 min bus ride, and a 20 min walk later, we arrive at Wilshire and Normandie to find… that BCD Tofu House, the always-open, 24 hour, round-the-clock home of emergency soon dubu of Koreatown, was shut. For renovations. We were a 1 min wait from tears. Then D, master of all failed ventures, queen of bad luck, bane of P’s life, spots a light in the distance. Long story short: found a Korean BBQ place still open. The Safety Zone (no idea why they’re called that, other than the fact that they were our safety blanky that night) is a pretty spartan, patio-style, cheap and cheerful place. And it’s open till late. (At least till 11pm, as far as we could tell.) It’s not as swanky as Chosun Galbee, but service was fast. P allowed me a couple of minutes to grab this shot before diving tongue-first into the standard-order Korean side dishes:
The week before the relatively eventful weekend was as dull as ditchwater. If you thought your life was dull, you should come and live mine.
Sunday, 25th of June, flew by without either P or I leaving the apartment. You will find out why below. If you cared.
Saturday, 24th of June,: the day the Scots beat the hell out of the English at the Battle of Bannockburn in the year no-one-knows-and-no-one-cares. Also, the day perspiration flowed freely and D’s chin-zit grew to magnificent proportions.
Yeah, a couple of idiots thought it would be a good idea to invite both their labs to a BBQ. The preparations started on Monday, and carried on right to the end of the Argentina vs Mexico game. Even into penalties. Significant amounts of meat were marinated and grilled. Including the flesh on my arm. Stupendous amounts of vegetables were cut/julienned/sliced/pickled/dressed/boiled/grilled/macerated/steeped. And for all that effort: no bloody photos! After the last time it happened, I swore to have an “official” photographer. And what did I do this time? Forget to take any bloomin’ photos, that’s what.
No matter. I must learn to accept that any future efforts for BBQs will just have to remain undocumented. You’ve either experienced one of our slapdash, uncoordinated BBQs, or you very fortunately haven’t. As day turned into night, and folk (other than my lab) started trickling home, our final two guests arrived to save us from yet another evening alone with my lab (wot have no other social life to leave for, like us). Round two, dinner began. Quite luckily, an attempt at glutinous rice had failed for the BBQ. Five hours of constantly resetting the rice cooker later, our guests, not knowing any better, tucked in quite happily. And the camera finally made an appearance when the evening descended into whisky. Best part of the day: I finally learned what the weird 2nd-last icon on my new camera is for: indoor shots! I’d been using the “incandescent” setting with poor results. Two tired drunkards, glad most guests left well-fed:
Friday, 23rd of July, right up to 4am: D and P are super grouchy and still marinading meat.
*note that I have finally realised, after one whole year, that this is critical when mentioning street names in LA. especially when wilshire stretches from the pacific to smoggy downtown LA. and maybe even beyond. i just haven’t gone that far yet.