LA sucks, wish you were here.

Last night I had a dream that I wore a silver sequin dress to a party. Arnold Schwarzenegger was there and upon seeing my glittery assets on display, he proposed to me. He had a lot of complicated rules about what our marriage would entail (mostly around the fact that he wanted to have sex with other people, a lot of other people) but I decided to go with it because I was curious about the idea of domestic adventure.

I think this is the lasting impact of my recent trip to Los Angeles on my subconscious.

I know it's a cliche to hate LA. There is nothing new to dryly observe or wittily complain about, plus you know, Joan Didion liked it well enough so what the fuck is my problem? But seriously, that place is a humid snakepit and every moment I spent breathing in its smoggy air and the undeserved self-importance of angry, anorexic bottom-feeders I could feel my soul being forever tarred.

It's not all Los Angeles's fault, I know. It was a work trip, work was going lousy (lousily?) and I knew I wouldn't get a chance to see any of my friends who live there (who all enjoy it and probably could've taught me a thing or two). When upon my return (the increasingly blog-shy) Nancy asked "are you going to move to Los Angeles now?" I felt like projectile vomit was not a strong enough response.

So when we ran into an old friend, a very talented artist from OlyWA (hi Kanako!) and her girlfriend (hi Emily!) who were also visiting, my work-wife and I found a free hour to go to The Griddle Cafe and talk about the miserable time we were all having. The final game of the World Cup was on and the place was packed with merriment and carb eaters (whoa!) We all admired whatever intrepid sense of invention came to create the "Black Magic" pancake dish (Oreos cooked inside of two giant flapjacks) but I'm not much a sugar-eater so I stuck with a chop salad and cheering for the Netherlands (le sigh). Kanako had some kind of apple-explosion pancakes that were gigantic and amazing.

According to their official site, MEGAN FOX is a fan, even though sometimes she wears a BIKINI (being a ho for the SEO!)

Having chatted up our lovely waitress whose girlfriend's film had just screened with Kanako's, she arrived at our table with a french press pot (nice) and two Bloody Marys (what!) announcing that there was some kind of special going on. I'm used to being the one at any given breakfast table who has the most vices, but this morning the divergence was pretty absurd. Between the four of us I'm the only one who drinks alcohol or caffeine..! Needless to say by the time I drank two Bloodys and a french pot of coffee I was in no shape for this:

Oh and did I mention it came with a block of cornbread that could've been used to cordon off an 8-lane freeway?

So thanks, Griddle, yours is, as Depeche Mode would say, a pain that I'm used to -- and a welcome relief from a city I find little to agree with.

UPDATE:
Sorry, forgot the reason why we're all here:
Yeah, those are romaine lettuce leafs in my SoCali Bloodys, wtf?