Myra's Favorites: Going Bra-less.

And no, not other women's bras. I mean my own. Non-sexually. Most men don't understand the feeling of their chest being trapped in a wire encasement. After a long day of upper body immobility, it's such a feeling of liberation and freedom to unhook one's bra and let it all hang loose (that is if you can hang, unlike me, I just barely protrude) in all their glory. I'm glad I have little ones because sometimes when I don't feel like wearing a bra, I can just wear a sweatshirt and be fine without having to worry about my little berries saying hello. But that's just me.

(This is the first entry in a new series of posts entitled: Myra's Favorites.

Funny bras:

San Diego Traffic

(Note: This post is long, with no images and less humor than I'd like there to be because I started getting really angry as I continued to rant. So I don't care if you can't muster up the patience to read it, it's not my problem since stupid San Diego drivers are.)

I’m going to assume that most of the readers of this blog are Los Angelenos, so I’m going to write about something completely irrelevant: San Diego traffic. So, if you ever plan on taking a small excursion down south or even living there in yet another Californian blonde and tan infested city, here is your how-to guide in surviving the stupidity that is San Diego drivers.

San Diego drivers. Do NOT. know the basics of freeway etiquette. Granted, when you signal, most let you in instead of speeding up to block you like they do in Los Angeles. I appreciate that. But I don’t appreciate about 25% of the population who drive under 40mph in every single lane each freeway provides. I honestly don’t understand why San Diegans can’t comprehend that the further right lanes are the slow lanes and the further left ones are the fast lanes. Traffic would go much more smoothly if you follow this simple concept.

And let’s go on to their traffic lights. Every single major intersection in San Diego has arrows. This means when you’re stopped at a light, you can guarantee you’ll be sitting there for 5 minutes until it turns green again ‘cause you have to fricken’ wait for the left turn people to go through their arrows. It’s absolutely unbelievable. It takes FOREVER. There are moments when there are NO cars going through the intersections in either way because of the green arrows for non-existent left-turning cars. Inefficiency can really bug me! At least in Los Angeles, left turners can turn when the coast is clear instead of having to wait for the man to tell them to make a left. Left turn arrows are only implemented in high-traffic intersections where there are many many cars who need to turn left and yielding is therefore no longer efficient.

Oh and before I move on, here are more tips on traffic lights. Freeway entrances are hell by 3pm. It WILL take you 10-20 minutes to even enter the freeway that’s averaging 55mph because freeway entrance stoplights begin operating by 3pm and are turned off by 7pm. These lights are supposed to control the numbers of cars entering the traffic infested freeway going the hellish 55mph, but in reality, it just makes you infinitely later to where you’re supposed to go, just for the hell of it.

Now onto the sensors. Aren’t sensors supposed to help you? For example, I know a few sensors in Los Angeles that when they sense you and the arrow is red, it will turn green almost instantly. In San Diego, there are many lights that turn yellow, right when I’m rolling over a sensor. Or when that green arrow finally shows itself to me, on the street that I turn left on, the light turns yellow right before I am able to reach it. You would think that since a light adjacent to it is letting cars down that way, that it would be programmed to turn green for all these vehicles. But no, they turn yellow and back up traffic which causes lots of annoying gridlock.

People wonder why I say I miss L.A. traffic. To drive in L.A. does require some skill and intelligence in order to not die. I do feel there are more accidents in San Diego. Whether that is true or not, Los Angeles drivers can at least weave around without getting themselves killed. At least when LA drivers pull off some ridiculous stunt without crashing, I am impressed on the road and mildly entertained. ‘Cause God Knows if anyone in S.D. tried that sh*t, it would be Red Asphalt all over the place.

(Sorry for lack of images. San Diegans don’t like to have evidence of poor driving.)

Movie Review: Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007)

*This entry has been brought over from my Facebook account, where I had written a movie review via the Movies application. I watched Sweeney Todd when it was first released in theaters back in December. It will be released on DVD and Blu-Ray, pun intended, on April Fools Day, 2008.


It was a mixture of elements that echoed Moulin Rouge's digitally fabricated city, a torn and twisted soul like Phantom, and a rehashing of a few memorable Harry Potter actors (Alan Rickman, Helena Bonham Carter, and Timothy Spall), this film is a hodgepodge of a stunning spectacle. When Johnny Depp p...(read more)ulled out the razors, his "friends," I even caught a glimpse of Edward Scissorhands in there. Perhaps an ode to the old character he portrayed? After all, Tim Burton directed both Scissorhands and Sweeney. One cannot ignore the blatant similarity between Edward and Sweeney based solely on the fact that they were blade wielders.

As a huge lover of musical theatre, I anticipated that Sweeney Todd had "singing." I had heard of people being put off because they had expected to see a horror film and did in fact cringe with horror when watching it. They cringed in horror when Johnny Depp started to sing. If you don't dig musicals or can't get over yourself to hear Depp sing, then I suggest you watch the film anyway just to get over it. It's an easy film that bridges between both art forms. I promise you that you won't start belting The Sound of Music tunes the next day just because you watched one musical.

As for Depp's individual performance, it is needless to say that he is, as expected, brilliant. However the supporting cast rounds does a splendid job of rounding out the entire film for the bacbone. There is an amusing appearance by Borat. I mean that Jewish English guy Sacha Baron Cohen as a conniving barber businessman that is on a mission to take Sweeney Todd out of business.

One of my favorite scenes was when Mrs. Lovett, played by Helena Bonham Carter, sings of her happiness and success of their meat pie business. The contrast of the lush background, ranging from a beach side picnic, to frollicking on a ship and their Gothic and stoic made for a beautiful juxtaposition.

One major problem I had with the film was with the portrayal of the young lovers, especially with Anthony, for they possessed the screen presence of melted wax: dull, flimsy, and utterly uninteresting. Anthony, played by Jamie Campbell Bower, does not possess youthful, handsome looks. He looks like a male Claire Danes.

Meet the stars of the revival of the sitcom Sister, Sister.

He is horribly un-sexy. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of thousands of girls pulling their panties up and clamping their legs shut. I say only mere thousands because there are probably an equal, maybe even higher number that find this effeminate creature a virile and drool-worthy young man.

Although I'd rather have the unknown actor play Anthony, rather than a Zac Efron type or whoever is "hot" right now, his acting was all urgency and no passion. I feel that the audience never truly gets to connect with Anthony, nor sympathize with his emotions. The character Anthony is trying to be chivalrous in order to save his love interest but Bower is unable to pull that through his character. On the plus side, the boy has pipes. His rendition of "Johanna," where he first lays eyes on his future booty call was pure, sweet, and innocent.

Johanna, played by Jayne Wisener, is much more unfortunate than our male. She looks like a poor man's Christina Ricci and her eyebrows looked like they had been humiliated by an acid attack from the Clorox Bleach company.

"Oh Anthony...your song about me is so lovely. Yet I cannot see you very well as there is such a sharp glare from my albinism-afflicted brows."

Someone tell Juliet that this chick is trying to copy her style.

A few more things to look out for in the movie: Watch Ed Sanders, who plays Toby, a young boy who at first works for Sacha Baron Cohen's character Signor Pirelli, and then later an apprentice for Mrs. Lovett. He has such a strong and emotive singing voice, full of control and power for someone so young. Be careful of the beggar lady afflicted with syphilis, gonorrhea, genital herpes, and psychotic episodes. The camera does close-ups of her and makes you feel like you can catch any of the above just by staring into her pustule-covered eyes. Yummy. She's the real reason for the R rating.

This April 1st, visit your barber in commemoration. Then buy a pizza with extra bubbly cheese that resembles pustules, sing on your way home, and invite your friends over. It's a movie night and when the mock you for renting Sweeney Todd, you will say "It's April Fools, bitches!" and pop the movie into your DVD player. And if they refuse, then...well...I have a meat grinder you can borrow...



:D

My Official Will

I'm going skydiving today in celebration of life.

With that said, this is my official will.

Unfortunately for you all, in the circumstance of my death, I won't have anything too awesome to hand out since I am $20,000 in debt with student loans. This obviously goes to my parents by default.

To compensate for this, I will therefore relinquish to them my prized green binky.



It's soft, it's warm, it's cozy, what better else to comfort one who suddenly has to pay off their own daughter's debt? I'm so considerate.



Nibbles, my beloved lil hammy. This little monster has been dear to my heart since my purchase almost three weeks ago. But careful, she bites. She goes to Mellie Grafil because she plays the guitar and I know her fingers can handle bloody hammy bites of love.



Cell phone/Macbook/Facebook account must go as far away from my parents as possible so they may never know the shenanigans their one and only precious daughter has ever gotten herself into... so how about to Africa, so may the little children there may lessen their impression on the holier-than-thou United States of America. We may be the land of the free and rich, but what use do we put it to? We create shows like That’s Amore, The Hills, and other brain deteriorators (I think I invent a new word every blog) that I am shamelessly addicted to.




Ipod touch go to Jenny Dolz so she may rock out with her cock out. And who doesn’t love a cock rockin’? ...Awkward sentence. Does hand motion of ‘awkward sentence’ similar to ‘awkward turtle’ except more sentence-like than turtle-like.



My unnamed Prius goes to someone who should be renamed who shamelessly attempted to name my precious car after him but failed miserably. I know he secretly wishes he had a Prius instead of his BMW. We all can’t have amazing tastes in motor vehicles such as I do.

Disneyland Annual Pass goes to Lainey since she somewhat resembles me (all Filipinos look alike!) and since she is being lame and isn't getting one this year! You’re already happy so I guess the only thing I can give you is the happiest place on earth, except on days these people go:



I could go on seeing that I have such wonderful possessions. But time's a'wastin' and I gots to jump out of a plane. So... everything else you can fight for in a battle of wits by playing Scene It: Harry Potter.

The Science of Sleep

I lie in bed curled up in a semi -fetal position. I'm surrounded by a pod of blankets and pillows. My thoughts are loud. They reverberate through my skull like an earthquake as silence vainly attempts to engulf me. I liken my thoughts to color. Though my eyes are closed, I see every hue scatter and dance across the center of my mind. Reds fire up, along with silvers and purples, but blues take all the glory. An assortment of cerulean thoughts skip in and out like the constant ebb and flow of a wave, never ceasing. Darkness heightens every sense. I feel the warmth of my breath as my exhalation hits the pillow. I feel the blanket on every inch of bare flesh, its softness nearly unbearable. The back of my exposed neck and shoulder are cold in comparison to the cocoon of warmth I’ve created around me. I hear my own heartbeat. I hear the blood flow of my body. I hear my breathing. My mind goes on and on and on. So much is happening in this idle state. It’s beautifully overwhelming. I feel like I’m about to burst. I open my eyes, and I write this.

Whoa, Pie!

(note of caution: This is a magnificently long blog, which will require the use of your attention span muscles.)

It is a surprising feat that my friends and I are not obese. We love to eat; eat often and a lot. Well I’m a pound-packer, but my friends are perfectly healthy and well-managed people. Our outings usually revolve around food, and if we do embark on an expedition that is non-food related, the chances are very good that food will appear somewhere along the way.

This last Wednesday I had a gut-busting tour of the heart of Los Angeles. My friend Jenny wanted to go to the beach and I wanted to get out of my roach-infested apartment. She also wanted to eat Pinkberry, the very L.A. chain yogurt place. Yes, that is an important detail. By the time, she reached my house, our meeting place for the day, the beach was out of the question. Traffic is shit by certain hours and the day was getting late. We needed to go somewhere else. She was ravenous, so I suggested Philippe’s, the famous French-dipped sandwich house in downtown Los Angeles.

Philippe’s is the home of French-dipped sandwiches in Los Angeles. Since 1908, it has been serving all of Los Angeles these juicy sandwiches, in addition to tasty soups, divine desserts, and um…beer. Woo! Now this place is not a delicatessen because it’s low on the Jewish food. No matzah bawlls or knishes. What you’re looking for here is real deal French-dipped sandwiches. The interior looks like it hasn’t changed in decades, most likely because it hasn’t. The walls are adorned with accolades and achievements from newspapers, magazines, the city of L.A., the world, and everyone who has taste buds. The floor is covered in sawdust to give the place its character and personality. So if you have some bizarre aversion to sawdust then you might have a reason to not go to Philippe’s. Weirdo.

Are you now asking what the heck is a French-dipped sandwich, Melanie? Basically, you have a French roll, meat, and if you want cheese, you can have it. At Philippe’s they serve beef, lamb, ham, oven-roasted turkey, and pork. Since I neither eat pork, lamb, or ham, I go with beef. Turkey? Save that for Thanksgiving. It’s good, but this place is known best for their beef French-dip. The actual dip is beef au jus, which are the natural juices that are released from the beef when it is roasted. The sound of that might be off-putting to some people, but to me “natural beef juices” screams succulent deliciousness. Ohhh yes. They dip the bread lightly in the jus, top it with your meat choice (beef *cough*), and cheese if you want it. They also have side dishes like bag o’chips but that’s shit. Go for the cole slaw, potato salad, macaroni salad, dill pickles, pickled pigs’ feet. Whatever suits your fancy and whatever they have laid out in the display cases. They also have iced tea and lemonade, for the dirt cheap prices of $0.60 and $0.70 respectively.

That particular day, Jenny ordered a French-dipped, roast beef sandwich with American cheese and a lemonade. I had boysenberry pie à la mode; the ice cream came courtesy of Balian’s. I don’t know who Balian is and/or why that brand is special, but that is one kick-ass Armenian ice cream maker! I was quite filled up when I had my pie, but Jenny was hungry and she was loving her sandwich. Philippe’s lays out courtesy jars of hot mustard. (Read: motherfucking hot, tear your eyes out bitch hot). Jenny had quite the catastrophe when she opened the lid of the jar.

I said to her, “Oooh be careful. That’s hot stuff.” I told her with a coy grin.

She was wide-eyed and intrigued. “Really?” she asked while dabbing on a spoonful of the good stuff in a concentrated area of her sandwich.

I just love big beefy things.

Jenny's face became fire! Her eyes watered like a fountain and gushed like a geyser. Her eyes conveyed a sense of astonishment and overwhelmed senses, like the twinges of a person's first climax. My poor friend Jenny fell victim to the hot mustard that plagued every new customer of Philippe’s, myself included. Jenny described it as similar to a hit of wasabi, or mixed with horseradish. Don’t let the hot mustard scare you away from wanting to visit Philippe’s. It does not come with the sandwich, but as I had described, it comes in jars laid out on the tables. In small doses, the mustard is tasty and adds a tantalizing dimension to your already amazing sandwich. I didn’t want the rest of my pie, so she ate it. Mmmm betrayal to Coco’s never tasted so good!

After lunch at Philippe’s, we hit Olvera St. This place is old, too. Oh and historic. This street was one of the first. In the 1800’s through the early 1900’s, Olvera St. was the epicenter of the Mexican American community that had settled in that area. Up until 1877, the street was named Wine St, before it became Olvera. In the early twentieth century, the place had become run-down and dilapidated. In 1930, it became a marketplace. Today, it is the symbol of the olden days of L.A. and homage to the Mexican American community. Although homages to the Mexican-American community can be found all over LA, this is one of the few places where white people can visit and feel safe during their visit.

It’s a touristy place and the vendors sell a large number of kitschy items like fake guitars, shawls, and sombreros. They sell trinkets and Mexican candies like the infamous Pelon Rico, Lucas, and spicy mango lollipops. The old houses where people used to live still stand and you can take guided tours during the day time. Frida Kahlo and her unibrow are all over the place, so if you’re grossed out by caterpillar faces, I suggest you eat before you visit Olvera St. Of course, then you’d be missing out on all the food Olvera has to offer. There are many little shops that sell food like taquitos and taquito-type of things but there are three sit-down restaurants and sometimes you can have someone serenade you as you eat your meal. It was very romantic. Too bad it was Jenny and I. Neither of us have a man-organ, therefore nil romance. No penis, no romance? You betcha.

We visited the oldest Catholic church in Los Angeles, La Placita Church, or Our Lady the Queen of Angels. I admire the devotion of Catholics.

Last on the tour, you cannot forget Mr. Churro who deep fries and then buries your churro in sweet cinnamon sugar right before your eyes. Mmm long, crunchy, sweet, phallic things…

Two thumbs up to Olvera Street for a fun trip through historical Los Angeles and for the Frida Kahlo portraits. I’ve got enough eyebrows to last me a lifetime.

After a trip to Mexico, Jenny and I went further on our trip around the world. We went to Little Tokyo, by way of Cuba. In Cuba, we stopped at a bar for drinks. I had water with lime, she had Yerba Mate soda. It was very Ernest Hemingway. Except we’re not Hemingway, we never went to Cuba, and we did not have any alcohol like Hemingway. But we did go to a Cuban restaurant, Cuba Central, after having just eaten Philippe's and a churro. Cuba Central was across the street from Little Tokyo. I really wanted Cuban appetizers and to take advantage of the Happy Hour mojitos. Alas, my stomach was already blossoming into heifer status. I could not take food, nor allow it into my system.

In Little Tokyo, we found a shoe shop and I was goofing off with the lady who worked there because she was telling me about the beautiful Crocs with the Fur at 20% off. Gee, I wonder why those stank factories are 20% off? Jenny and I continued to complain of our achingly full bellies when she quietly reminded me that despite everything, she still wanted to fulfill her craving of Pinkberry. We walked around Little Tokyo some more, and perused the sights. There was not much to see, apparently, or we had just gone to the wrong spot. All of a sudden, a tiny yogurt place called ceFioré and we were amazed because it looked exactly like Pinkberry and they served frozen yogurt on top of waffles. That’s fucking fat kid paradise. Not minutes later, we then turned a corner and lo and behold…

There was a Pinkberry before our eyes. We had no words until I finally broke the silence with a hand gesture and a happy grin: “There you go!” Pinkberry is here! We could do nothing but laugh. Our search for Pinkberry and we could not fit a single ounce into our bodies. Life is over.

But it’s okay because then we went to a skater shop that smelled like leather and weed. The guy that worked there was this dude with messed-up teeth. He talked to us about…absolutely nothing. Because he’s a stoner.

After we left Little Tokyo we weren’t sure where to go next.

“Let’s just get lost in L.A. then,” I suggested to Jenny.

“Sure!” she concurred. “What’s the worst that could happen? Unless you go to those weird places if you know what I mean.”

I thought about this for a moment. This is true. There are some pretty awful places to get lost in L.A. and I certainly didn’t want to take that chance. My only suggestion for a solution was to say:

“Well…you have instincts don’t you?”

After driving around, we decided to go to the Los Feliz area, the place of our adolescence. And because it reminds me of my friend Flo, who I miss. It was yet still early and the sun was out. It was much too early to go to Los Feliz at this hour and we weren’t even hungry yet!

“Want to go to the park and play?” I asked Jenny.

“Yes! And it’ll help us get more hungry,” she happily agreed with glee.

We played at a playground in Griffith Park, Los Feliz that we realized was a park built for able-bodied children and for disabled children, which I thought was just precious. I wondered if others must have thought we were mentally disabled, though, because we are 21 years old, we play at a park, and we squeal. It takes a huge amount of confidence and a cemented sense of identity to admit that you want to play at the park and actually do it. And squeal. If people stopped caring so much about what other people thought, we would do so much more of the things we want to do.

After the park, we exercised our brain at Skylight Books on Vermont Ave. Then we ate at House of Pies. We were hungry again and even though HoP is a shitty place for food, it's got a special place in our hungry little gluttinous hearts. Towards the final stretch of our meal, I spotted a bulbous piece of pie, burgeoning full of banana slices and whipped cream. The kind of pie that makes you want to throw in someone's face as a joke. Or lick off someone's body, I don't know, that's your fantasy not mine. When I saw that pie, and I thought of all the the things we did, the people we talked to, the volume of food we ate, I could think of nothing to say but, "Whoa, pie!"

In conclusion, did you ever wonder if Jenny got her Pinkberry after all? No, she didn’t. But that’s okay. We ate most of the rest of what L.A. has to offer, anyway. I'm glad we are hungry friends.

Ravens Revenge

In the early to mid 90’s the divinity of all candies came into existence. This candy is called Ravens Revenge. Ravens Revenge hit hard and fast amongst elementary school kids at the time. Well… at least where I went to school. It consisted of a candy powder very similar to pixie stix but had the aesthetic appeal of being packaged in a plastic test-tube-like vial.

These vials gave eating and bringing the candy to school a very furtive vibe; mainly because we related it to drugs and the imaginary suggestion of illegality made eating the candy so much cooler and rebellious. It came in many different flavors with bad ass names like electric blueberry and black widow, and turned your tongue unnatural colors like green, blue, purple, etc. for hours on end. I had heard it before, but rumor has it that it also had the ability to turn fecal matter into the color in which one consumed. Upon further research, I found this theory to be factual, thus adding extra gnarly points to the candy. Perhaps one of their flavors should have been Dingleberry… oh well. (Click here for more info.)

Unfortunately though, like all good things of the 90’s, Ravens Revenge vanished from the face of the earth as quickly as it arrived. In fact, it’s become so obsolete, many people even question its existence; thus, becoming a mythical creature along with Bigfoot, elves, and virgins. In fact, the other day I mentioned it to my friend *cough* Charles *cough* and he had the audacity to accuse me of making up this ingenious product! Well, I believe this is proof enough for the validity of its existence.

Maybe it was the high dye content or maybe it was because kids were sniffing the stuff up their noses, who knows. One thing’s for sure, I will never forget. So here’s to you Ravens Revenge, for being the imitation drug-candy that acted as the gateway for drug use and corruption amongst American Youth. Kudos.

Goodbye Barnes & Noble

Barnes & Noble, a corporately-owned chain bookstore will be closing its Glendale location doors on May 1st of this year. Its location on Glendale Ave at the Glendale Fashion Center, on the northern side of Glendale was an excellent, quieter location because it was so removed from the faster-paced (if you can call any part of Glendale that!) style on Brand Blvd and Central, where the Glendale Galleria and Marketplace are located.

I patronized this location for years. Since 2000, when its doors opened, I fostered my salacious love for books and reading. In high school, I chose this place to interview for a business computer class. I spent long nights reading books, buried in the Fiction & Literature section. Prior to 2000, I shopped at Borders, and even before that, I did my business at the small bookstore Waldenbooks, which is now [practically obsolete. I have nothing against Borders, it's all the same, it's all books. Barnes & Noble is much higher-brow. I love the design and the classiness that Barnes & Noble exudes. The art on the wall is decorated with the covers of the most well-known and canonized works of literature. A Starbucks resides in every location. While I myself am not a regular patron or supporter of Starbucks, it trumps Borders coffee any day, all day.

When I spent two years at Glendale Community College, this B&N location was not too far from the campus. It was a cozy home away from home. Sadly though, as I grew older and poorer, B&N had little time in my own personal schedule and I strayed. I went to libraries to read because *le gasp* the books are free?! I am an English major, hence my requirement and general love for books. If you were to catch me on my current college campus Cal State Northridge, you will see me carrying several in my bookbag or one or two in my hands. Mind, I don't choose to carry such a high volume of books. My professors do, those damn literary...doctors...ha!

When this location closes, I do wish that the building managers not replace it with some low-brow, low-culture, vapid mind-numbing store. I want this little strip mall to keep its integrity. This strikes the perfect balance because it is neither too yuppie nor does it lack culture. That's how Glendale is anyway, which is why I enjoy living in the area. Okay, I live in Eagle Rock but other than really good food and Filipinos, ya got nothing there.

Further research led me to realize that this Barnes & Noble location is not permanently closing its doors to the Glendale community. It will be moving to the new Americana on Brand, the fancy, hoity-toity shopping center that will be across the street from the ... ugh mall. Oh yeah, fuck that, it is a mall and it will be even more pretentious than the Glendale mall ever could be. The fact that this B&N was located away from the mall was a prime reason for why I went there. They sold out. They went over to join their real yuppie friends because they couldn't hang with the real people on Glendale Ave.

Americana will be a knock-off of The Grove in West L.A. Here is a conceptual drawing of your fate, Glendale.

Oh. Oh well. Barnes & Noble didn't even have the book I wanted when I went in for a visit the other day. And they charge too much, even at 40% clearance prices. I wonder what time the library opens today...

Molto Bene!

I love coffee. I love tea. I love espresso. I love caffeine! Just like my hero, Giada di Laurentiis, I love caffeine and I love chocolate. I am speaking in simple sentences because I have been overwhelmed by yet another product by Mr. Joe, the Trader.

You know you love Trader Joe's and you might have affectionate nicknames for this store. Trader Hoes, Trade Your Hoes, Trading's Gross, etc. It is an intimate atmosphere where you can find organic food, wine, and other obscure items that are cherished in the culinary world. I can spend hours in this trading post wandering up and down the aisles to stare at things like wheat germ, couscous, and organic dog food, and yes I am serious. Though usually, I spend less than an hour at Joe's, and most of the time spent inside is checking out the beautiful boys, but that is entirely beside the point. (Check out Silverlake TJ's for a fabulous selection of produce, cheese, and real beautiful man meat. Ooh aah. >:D)

I was standing in line to check out and I spotted a box of espresso chocolates, made by this trading Joe. There inside a small morsel of dark chocolate is an espresso center. I don't normally go out to buy candy because I am not a big candy eater. But this box caught my eye. It called my name. It was such a pretty hue of blue! I tossed that shit right into my basket. Score one for the stock manager of Trader Joe's Glendale, because he/she obviously understands the game of impulse buying.

When I opened the box, I was delighted to see many individually wrapped pieces of candy. I salivated with joy. I took one out to unwrap it, twisting the ends and peeling the wrap down the middle was titillating. As I popped it into my mouth, I was greeted with instant gratification. I let out a very Giada de Laurentiis type of moan, the kind of reaction she releases when she tastes her own food. "Mmmmm it's sooo creamy and thick and rich!" Oh yes, Giada...creamy, thick, and rich. I love it, too.

As I continue to let the candy melt, all of a sudden...

The chocolate candy burst! Espresso erupted from the dark, nugget piece. It was a warm liquid, that rushed into every crevice of my mouth and danced on the receptors of my tongue. I felt my eyelids peel back as the espresso made its journey through my system. Why yes, caffeine's effects are that instantaneous on me! I had never experienced such a feeling from a piece of candy before, let alone food!

Oh, you can interpret this feeling and liken it to something else stupidly sexual, ya nasty sicko...or wait, maybe that's just me interpreting it that way. Because when I realized how orgasmic I reacted, I busted out laughing. What other could I have reacted to such a response than to laugh?

That's how Giada might react if candy just splooged in her mouth, as well.

Trader Joe's Espresso Chocolate candies are a delicious treat that can give you a small, sensual boost of espresso and chocolate. It comes in small portions, individually wrapped so you don't go overboard on your pseudo-sexual feast. If you can accept the fact that this candy spurts liquid in your mouth, I highly suggest it! And I love suggesting. Thank you for this product, you dirty, dirty Trader Joe.

Do you take cash?

Back in September, a friend and I decided to hang out one evening. Seeing as we were unsure of what to do, we decided to venture out to The Grove for a bite to eat. Now, for those unfamiliar with this general area, The Grove is a pseudo European- esque, overpriced, outdoor shopping mall located in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles. The Grove (or The G-Spot as I like to refer to it) was constructed to give off the effect of looking like the central historic district of an old Mediterranean city. The novelty of this concept is ridiculous considering the older surrounding areas of this location, like much of Los Angeles, are left to decay in the shadow of new and trendy conglomeratic businesses. The funny thing is that the Grove was built right next to the famous Farmers Market, which is one of the last landmarks of Old Hollywood. In the juxtaposition of placing old and new together, one can see firsthand how the progression of time truly changes everything.

Upon tiring of the newfangled phoniness that is the Grove, we decided to explore the more antique and culturally distinguished Farmers Market. This place is very neat. Having opened back in 1934, you can still sense a lot of history when meandering through the different little stores and vendors. But just as I was getting used to the less uptight surroundings and fewer hoity-toity people, I see a Pinkberry. The bright and fruity colors of the Pinkberry stood out like a pubescent boys raging boner. It completely did not belong there. But, those colors mesmerized and hypnotized us, and before we new it, we were in line to get some of this overpriced, addictive frozen yogurt. There is indeed a reason why it’s been lovingly nicknamed, “Crackberry.”

Naturally, there was a wait to purchase the frozen treat, but we didn’t mind. While in line, I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the two women in front of us. If I remember correctly, it was more or less something about clothes, shoes, or babies, but that doesn’t really matter. What struck me most wasn’t WHAT they were talking about, but HOW they were talking; particularly one woman. Her vocabulary was basically limited to “Like,” “Oh my God,” and, “Like” again. I found this very amusing and I appreciate every moment that makes me feel infinitely more intelligent than those around me. I felt the urge to give her a hug in gratitude, but restrained myself for fear of being arrested or accused of being called a lesbo. It was finally her turn to order the crackberry, but just when I thought things couldn’t get any more interesting, she uttered this question: “Like, do you take cash?”

It was as if someone punched me in the stomach. My friend and I looked at each other in complete shock. The circuits in my brain were on cognitive overload as I tried to make sense of the situation. Had she seriously asked that question? I hate to inform you, but yes ladies and gentlemen, she did. My prior amusement turned into complete anger. Not anger towards her necessarily, but anger at yet another confirmation that the human race is in fact getting dumb and dumber. I tried giving the benefit of the doubt, but one glance at the mammoth plastic orbs jutting from her chest and the juicy couture purse should have been a hint at what I was dealing with. This question not only validated her stupidity, but also gave insight towards her character. The fact that she asked if they took cash obviously shows that this woman is addicted to the plastic form of payment, also known as a credit card. Yes, credit cards are important because if used correctly, responsibly, and by paying on time, you can raise your credit score which will in tern help you purchase a car or house in the future. A pretty nifty deal if you ask me. But, the majority of people abuse this because it’s quick, “invisible” money. And as mentioned before, just by the looks of her, she’s most likely one of the dim witted materialistic women that seem to be popping up more often in our society. It’s all very depressing, but very true.

I wanted to inform her that cash is in fact used as a medium of exchange used throughout the world. Yes, even in California, even if it doesn’t seem like it. It is a socially and legally accepted method of payment for goods and services, goods in this case being Pinkberry. The first coins started being used by Kings around 560BC; Proof that if royalty used it way back then, it is far superior to a stupid plastic credit card any day. Cash will never go out of style and being a server through college, I have a personal sweet spot for cash therefore I found this question to be insulting to my being.

But, I have no one to blame but myself. I should have known better that the cretins from the Grove would venture into the Farmers Market. How silly I was to think that I could escape, even for a moment, from their shallow, superficial, fashionista ways. I guess I’ll keep wishing.

A buncha Croc crock.

Finally, a public outlet for me to complain about the stupidity of the world and my personal ideas on how to eradicate all the brain/eye/ear garbage that I experience on a daily basis. Or where I can discuss the seemingly infinite amusements that is my life.

Let me begin with the first of a series of posts providing evidence that humans are in fact de-evolving.

One prime example is this:

And just when I thought things couldn't get any worse....:


...they do:

WHY, God, WHY?!:

I suppose I'm being a little dramatic. Horrific fashion sense isn't a sign for the end of humanity... but honestly, doesn't just looking at Crocs make you question the validity of human life?

I researched the Pros for purchasing such footwear, and this is what I got according to Crocs.com:

"top reasons you gotta have 'em

1. Really soft, super comfortable, molds to your feet
2. Barely there, weighing only 6 ounces
3. Vented so air passes through, keeping feet cool

and even more reasons

4. Non-marking slip-resistant soles
5. Bacteria* and odor resistant
6. Ultra-hip Italian styling
7. Port holes allow water and sand to pass through
8. Can be sterilized in water and bleach
9. Easy maintenance, just wipe clean
10. Orthotic molded foot bed for ultimate comfort and support"

*Bacteria resistant? How in the...?!

Why must people be so difficult? You must be a little bitch if you can't handle normal shoes and must have one that molds to your ugly feet, is easy to clean and has holes in it to keep it cool and less stanky. I mean, none of those reasons justifies the ugliness that are Crocs.

Crocs... you think you are so innovative and cool. Kind of... but not really. Especially on the "cool" part.

Inception

Hello there minions. It’s clear that the stars have aligned and destiny has brought you here to this blog. Thank the heavens on high for this fortune because it is truly your lucky day. From here on out, you will experience literary genius from some of the most phenomenal females known on the West Side. Represent. We’ll be talking about everything and nothing in particular. So as the say, expect the unexpected…