Bloody Marys vs. Stale Mallomars
As some of you know, I went to LA for work this past week. I had a great trip. In my opinion, 4 days is the perfect amount of time to spend there. Good thing Brad & Angelina were in Haiti because they did NOT want to run into me. It was a whirlwind trip - nonstop working, drinking, and eating. Best of all, it was all pretty much paid for. I thought of this just now as I went to have a mallomar (from a box purchased before I left) and the darn cookie was stale. LA was like, the opposite of stale mallomars. It was filled with crazy good meals, lots of drinking, B-list celebrity sightings, and arguably the best bloody mary I've ever had. Bloody Marys are a recent discovery for me - I like the idea of them more than I like the actual taste, but I lurve the olive prize at the bottom of the glass.
Thankfully I brought my own food (shout out to the Goldberg parentage) on the plane to LA because the fact that they charge for plane "food" now is just obnoxious. Even more obnoxious is playing the movie Dreamer, starring Dakota Fanning and a horse, on both the plane to LA and home from LA. Unless someone could guarantee me that Dakota Fanning's adult teeth had grown in, I wasn't watching that once OR twice. I did however check out an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond for the first time in my life because I was trapped and bored. And afterwards I breathed a big sigh of relief - no regrets on having missed ten seasons of that shit. The hotel I stayed at (the super trendy and dark Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel) was just good, not great, but I will elaborate no further than that for it seems silly to complain about a hotel suite that was the same size, if not bigger, than my entire apartment.
I had two goals for my stint in LA, the exact same two goals from last trip: (1) eat an In-N-Out burger and (2) swim in the hotel pool. I failed at both of these goals. But the disappointment was mitigated by the overall good times. And as you would probably guess, good times by me usually have something to do with food, specifically - dinners at Geisha House and Koi. Both are Nobu knock-offs, but who the hell cares. After a couple minutes of delicious food, I even forgave Geisha House for being part-owned by Ashton "Kabbalah Boy" Kutcher. In both instances, I just let someone else order (and pay) and it was really fun to have no say because then I was surprised by the food and the massive quantity of it. Filet mignon - sure. Lobster rolls - bring it on. Miso cod - I heart you. For some reason, Japanese food is just better on the West Coast - and no, I'm not betraying my East Coast roots - I'm still Biggie over Tupac.
The theme of the trip for me was blazers. I was around a lot of execs from my job and from our shows, not to mention attending a big event at the fancy Ritz Carlton in Pasadena, so I decided to dress it up. Which for me meant blazers. Cute blazers. I brought as many blazers as there were days of the trip. And I got compliments, which is nice, but now means I probably should keep it up even though I'm back. I always resent the fact that I can't pull off what others can. Katie RoRo always looked cute in big baggy collegiate hooded sweatshirts that if I wore, I might as well panhandle for change from the boys at school. Similarly, if I wear the same thing as an older co-worker, let's say for example: jeans, boots, and a nice sweater - she looks fine, and I look like I just came from 3rd period physics class. I put on a blazer and suddenly I'm the embodiment of Melanie Griffith's transition in Working Girl (you know, without the Staten Island Ferry).
If I were a prostitute, I'd definitely move to LA. Besides the weather and the kind lessons from Hector Elizondo Jr. as Barney, the manager of the Reg Bev Wil (you'll have to just accept the copious amount of movie references, this is my LA Trip Blog after all), prostitutes in LA have a really nice working environment, specifically The Four Seasons hotel. That's where the classier prostitutes are (the more obvious hookers, you can find them at The Peninsula - I'm being generous with the coveted info probably not included on the Star Maps). The Four Seasons bar is always packed and it's quite the diverse crowd: South Park creators Trey Stone and Matt Parker at one table, Robert Duvall at another. Burt Reynolds at one table, a gaggle of high-class whores working their magic on an older gentleman at another. And then of course little old me - nursing a glass of Chianti, people-watching the entire spectacle. At one point I realized that I should be careful at The Four Seasons, for in my glamorous blazer, some dude might get the wrong idea that I'm a hooker, and then before I know it, I'm getting slapped by Jason Alexander in his pre-Costanza days. Although, I think I'd take that risk, for I do love escargot and a shopping montage (I promise, that's the last film reference).
I accomplished a lot in LA: I drove, I had an iced blended from a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, I worked hard, I tested the boundaries of my alcohol tolerance, I got to order room service AND drink a bottle of water from the mini-bar, I saw Tori Spelling get bitten by her own chihuahua, I got into a political debate with a "fiscally Republican" actor, and I gave Kirsten Dunst a dirty look. Now I'm back home. It's raining and cold and the mallomars are stale. Gone are the nights filled with spicy tuna rolls and sake. I'm back to Special K for dinner. No more Bloody Marys. I don't think I even have a tomato in my kitchen. BUT, I wouldn't have it any other way. I just got Freaks & Geeks on DVD from Netflix. I drove AND parked in the rain today. I have last week's New Yorker and New York Magazine waiting to be cracked open. I can have a burger at JG Melon's or PJ Clarke's anytime I want. And at least this weekend, I can relax in my East Cost uniform: jeans which are ripping at the bottom, a t-shirt, sneakers, cynicism, and what many would call the opposite of a tan.
Thankfully I brought my own food (shout out to the Goldberg parentage) on the plane to LA because the fact that they charge for plane "food" now is just obnoxious. Even more obnoxious is playing the movie Dreamer, starring Dakota Fanning and a horse, on both the plane to LA and home from LA. Unless someone could guarantee me that Dakota Fanning's adult teeth had grown in, I wasn't watching that once OR twice. I did however check out an episode of Everybody Loves Raymond for the first time in my life because I was trapped and bored. And afterwards I breathed a big sigh of relief - no regrets on having missed ten seasons of that shit. The hotel I stayed at (the super trendy and dark Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel) was just good, not great, but I will elaborate no further than that for it seems silly to complain about a hotel suite that was the same size, if not bigger, than my entire apartment.
I had two goals for my stint in LA, the exact same two goals from last trip: (1) eat an In-N-Out burger and (2) swim in the hotel pool. I failed at both of these goals. But the disappointment was mitigated by the overall good times. And as you would probably guess, good times by me usually have something to do with food, specifically - dinners at Geisha House and Koi. Both are Nobu knock-offs, but who the hell cares. After a couple minutes of delicious food, I even forgave Geisha House for being part-owned by Ashton "Kabbalah Boy" Kutcher. In both instances, I just let someone else order (and pay) and it was really fun to have no say because then I was surprised by the food and the massive quantity of it. Filet mignon - sure. Lobster rolls - bring it on. Miso cod - I heart you. For some reason, Japanese food is just better on the West Coast - and no, I'm not betraying my East Coast roots - I'm still Biggie over Tupac.
The theme of the trip for me was blazers. I was around a lot of execs from my job and from our shows, not to mention attending a big event at the fancy Ritz Carlton in Pasadena, so I decided to dress it up. Which for me meant blazers. Cute blazers. I brought as many blazers as there were days of the trip. And I got compliments, which is nice, but now means I probably should keep it up even though I'm back. I always resent the fact that I can't pull off what others can. Katie RoRo always looked cute in big baggy collegiate hooded sweatshirts that if I wore, I might as well panhandle for change from the boys at school. Similarly, if I wear the same thing as an older co-worker, let's say for example: jeans, boots, and a nice sweater - she looks fine, and I look like I just came from 3rd period physics class. I put on a blazer and suddenly I'm the embodiment of Melanie Griffith's transition in Working Girl (you know, without the Staten Island Ferry).
If I were a prostitute, I'd definitely move to LA. Besides the weather and the kind lessons from Hector Elizondo Jr. as Barney, the manager of the Reg Bev Wil (you'll have to just accept the copious amount of movie references, this is my LA Trip Blog after all), prostitutes in LA have a really nice working environment, specifically The Four Seasons hotel. That's where the classier prostitutes are (the more obvious hookers, you can find them at The Peninsula - I'm being generous with the coveted info probably not included on the Star Maps). The Four Seasons bar is always packed and it's quite the diverse crowd: South Park creators Trey Stone and Matt Parker at one table, Robert Duvall at another. Burt Reynolds at one table, a gaggle of high-class whores working their magic on an older gentleman at another. And then of course little old me - nursing a glass of Chianti, people-watching the entire spectacle. At one point I realized that I should be careful at The Four Seasons, for in my glamorous blazer, some dude might get the wrong idea that I'm a hooker, and then before I know it, I'm getting slapped by Jason Alexander in his pre-Costanza days. Although, I think I'd take that risk, for I do love escargot and a shopping montage (I promise, that's the last film reference).
I accomplished a lot in LA: I drove, I had an iced blended from a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, I worked hard, I tested the boundaries of my alcohol tolerance, I got to order room service AND drink a bottle of water from the mini-bar, I saw Tori Spelling get bitten by her own chihuahua, I got into a political debate with a "fiscally Republican" actor, and I gave Kirsten Dunst a dirty look. Now I'm back home. It's raining and cold and the mallomars are stale. Gone are the nights filled with spicy tuna rolls and sake. I'm back to Special K for dinner. No more Bloody Marys. I don't think I even have a tomato in my kitchen. BUT, I wouldn't have it any other way. I just got Freaks & Geeks on DVD from Netflix. I drove AND parked in the rain today. I have last week's New Yorker and New York Magazine waiting to be cracked open. I can have a burger at JG Melon's or PJ Clarke's anytime I want. And at least this weekend, I can relax in my East Cost uniform: jeans which are ripping at the bottom, a t-shirt, sneakers, cynicism, and what many would call the opposite of a tan.
posted by Susan Goldberg at 4:17 PM
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