From Coney Island to Venice Beach

Though I'm usually not prone to blogging sappiness, I had to share a huge event that happened yesterday. At about 11AM yesterday morning, my little guy waded into the ocean for the first time. Considering he's only 15 months old and the chop is really rough on that stretch of Venice beach, I consider it a really bold move on his part. I didn't even have to ask him to go. Little man took my hand, walked me all the way across the beach, then kept on going right into the water. I must be getting old, but crossing the magic 3-0 seems to have really mellowed me out. Ask any of my friends from the college days back at Howard University in Washington, DC, and they'll tell you I was one uptight dude. Now, I'm basking in my son's first steps into the ocean like the kid won a Nobel Prize or something. My daughter is currently traveling on the east coast with her mom (my ex-wife), but her seventh birthday is coming up on August 5th, and I'm more excited about that than I would be for my own birthday. She started swimming earlier this year by the way, so now I'll have my hands full with them both at the beach. Her first trip to the beach came at Coney Island (she was born in NYC), when she rocketed up and down the boardwalk chasing seagulls and trying to feed them her Nathan's fries.

As far removed as the beaches of Venice might seem, in many ways my son's experience harkens back to my childhood. The beach near my family's apartment in Coney Island is where some of my earliest memories begin to come into focus. In many ways the communities are similar, Coney Island and Venice, but they are in just as many ways different. As Mingus stepped into the ocean, wetsuit-clad surfers catching waves formed the backdrop. When I took those first perilous steps into the water, I was greeted by a sea of brown humanity, Coney Island then being the preferred beach of Brooklyn's black and brown poor. And when Mackenzie first caught wind of the Atlantic on that very same Coney Island beach, it was among fur-clad Russian couples. I can't say I prefer any of these images over the other, as they all leave indelible marks on your psyche. But I can say that where the city meets the ocean is one of the best places to be introspective and, sometimes, to even be inspired.

I should be writing this blog with more tenacity and less sagacity

Talk about the best gag gift ever. I was recently given a copy of the children's book "Word Jam: An electrifying, mesmerizing, gravity-defying Guide to a powerful and awesome vocabulary". The book was written by Knicks great Walt "Clyde" Frazier. For those who don't know, Frazier was the point guard on the last Knicks team to win a championship (yeah, in the 70s). These days, the still stylish Frazier does the play by play for the Knicks on the MSG network (at least he did the last time I checked). Many of my friends know that he was the only reason I would even bother watching Knicks broadcasts before the All-Star break. Walt was well-known for inserting multi-syllabic words into his courtside commentary, and he even admitted during some interviews that he kept a small pocket thesaurus handy for conjuring big words on the fly. I'll never forget the game back in the 90s when Latrell Sprewell threw down a particularly thunderous dunk and Frazier exclaimed:

"That's right! He needs to be attacking the rim with more tenacity and less sagacity!"

You tell 'em, Walt!

Anyway, his book claims to provide "the all-star words you need to succeed," and is every bit as entertaining as his live broadcasts. For example, here are some power words used by Kathy to keep the contents of her diary a mystery to her younger brother, Joey:

Instead of saying BASHFUL (adj. Shy), Kathy can say RETICENT

Instead of saying COVERT (adj. Hidden), Kathy can say SURREPTITIOUS

Instead of saying SNEAKY, Kathy can say FURTIVE

It's like I've been transported courtside to a Knicks-Heat games in the late 90s. Thanks Walt. In honor of your new book, I will endeavor to make my blog as delectable as possible over the course of the next week. I promise not to adopt an apathetic attitude towards my blog's upkeep, for it would be puerile for a neophyte blogger like myself, being both loquacious and full of zeal, to let such a lofty project simply fall by the wayside.

I wonder why Zagat doesn't do THAT survey...

I just received the August issue of GQ and noticed the bold cover line "The 4 Greatest Food Cities on Earth". I think the neighbors must have heard my eyes rolling, because a baby suddenly started crying. I immediately flipped to page 158 to see what I expected to be the usual combination of cities that are repeated endlessly in these "bests" lists (New York, Paris, blah blah), and was pleasantly surprised to find that their four picks were Bangkok, Madrid, Piedmont and...Los Angeles! About time! Gold star to the writers for daring to highlight some overlooked food destinations. There are plenty of things to complain about here in LA, but since moving here, I've been shouting to anyone back east who would listen that this city is really on a tear when it comes to food and wine. Among LA's many strong suits are Korean, Thai, Japanese, American, Lebanese, French, Indian, Soul Creole and (duh) Mexican. Some of the weaker areas are Chinese (compared to New York), Spanish and Cuban. I'm not a big fan of Mexican food, and being from the east makes me a huge fan of Spanish and Cuban. However, if I had a choice between my favorite Spanish restaurant in New York (El Pote) and my favorite "other" restaurant here (A.O.C.), I would take the LA restaurant without a second thought. Also, no burger chain can hold a light to In-N-Out Burger. I don't miss White Castle in the least anymore.

Still, reading that article got me thinking about one of the major gaping holes in food coverage. There are a thousand lists of "best this" or "best that" that are printed every year. However, no one ever compiles a list of the foods you should avoid at all costs when visiting a certain city. Think about it...don't you wish someone had warned you not to get a slice of pizza in Venice, Italy? I know I do.

In fact, here for the first time is my compilation of the worst cities for particular types of food. If you have suggestions to add to the list, please send them my way. Expect this list to grow over time:

Worst Creole: Seattle, Washington
I must admit, I don't have an extensive knowledge of the Emerald City's Creole cuisine. However, I'm picking Seattle because it is where I had the worst Creole meal of my life. I ordered red beans and rice, and I sincerely believe they dumped a can of pork and beans onto a plate. Great city for halibut. Bad city for soul food.

Worst Chinese: Paris, France
My buddy "O" can also attest to this. We ate at several Chinese restaurants there when I last visited several years ago. They all had the terrible habit of scooping cold, pre-cooked food onto a plate and tossing it into a microwave. I'm not kidding. Think that's ridiculous? Well, poor "O" got scolded at one place for not paying the correct amount (I took french...he didn't). Have you ever heard a Chinese woman shout obscenities in broken French? It's almost worth dealing with the crappy food. But not quite.

Worst NY Style pizza: Chicago, Illinois
Worst Chicago Style pizza: New York, New York
Maybe it's done on purpose, but these cities seriously screw up each others pizza. Most New Yorkers don't even know that Chicago style does not mean "deep dish" (it's actually flat, with no crust, cut into squares) and most Chicagoans think anything served by the slice is New York style. Can we have a truce folks? Please, leave each others pizza alone.

Worst anything other than steak: Buenos Aires, Argentina
True story. Now, I love steak. I love $8 filet mignon cuts even more. When it comes to great, cheap steak and delicious Malbec wine, no one can touch Buenos Aires. But after a couple of days of steak three times a day, your body begins to beg for a vegetable. During one meal, I was on the verge of withdrawal. I called the waiter and asked him if it was possible to get some vegetables. I don't know Spanish (took French, remember?), so after some very bad sign language the waiter finally uttered the magical word I'd been waiting for.

"Broccoli?"

Yes, my good man, bring me some broccoli! Ten minutes later, he shows up at my table with ANOTHER steak. After smiling for several seconds, he confidently repeated the word.

"Broccoli."

Once again, I don't speak Spanish. Even if I did, I know that pronunciation is very different in Argentina than in other Spanish-speaking nations (two "L"s is pronounced as a "J" sound, for example). Still, I don't think that "broccoli" is Spanish for steak, no matter the pronunciation. Still, I would have felt terrible to send the steak back after the waiter's hard work, so I forced it down. Have you ever watched one of those nature programs on the habits of wild pack animals such as wolves? I've heard it remarked that, after gorging themselves on raw flesh, a wolf can actually end up in a state that is best described as drunk. I now completely understand what that means. Smuggle a few cans of green beans with you if you ever travel to Argentina.

What happens when two reality shows collide?

Did you ever notice how most of the b-list reality TV shows (Blind Date, the Fifth Wheel, et al) seem to be taped in LA? Part of the reason is that a handful of local production companies are responsible for many of the dating reality shows. But I also believe that the shows are based here to capitalize on the hordes of wannabe celebs. Notice I say wannabe celebs, and not wannabe actors. Trust me, a lot of these people don't want to act. They just want to be recognized on the street. A few friends of mine are guilty of having bounced around and appeared on several of those aforementioned dating shows. I always tape their episodes so that I have something to laugh about when they come over.

I've had reality shows on my mind a lot lately, partly because my latest guilty pleasure is the Bravo program Being Bobby Brown. I've seen some really scathing reviews of this show, calling it the most appalling thing on reality television, yada yada yada. I don't understand why it's so upsetting to so many critics. I see Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston as being the ultimate ghetto couple. If anything, the show proves both that (a) their relationship is a real one and (b) Whitney is in fact the crazy one, not Bobby. I called the wise Evelyn Powers the other night to get her feedback on the show. Her assessment was better than anything I've seen in print anywhere:

"They're behaving like they don't realize they're being filmed."

What an illuminating comment. Thanks mom. I think she nailed the current state of reality television in that one sentence. Reality television has become a career option for many people. Don't quite have what it takes to be an actor? Hit the reality television circuit. Don't have the chops to launch a singing career? Spend some time in the Real World house to prove you are worthy of stardom (or at least worthy of appearing on numerouse Battle of the Sexes shows). That's why, with only the slightest bit of effort, it's possible to find many of the same people showing up on numerous reality shows. Appearing on as many shows as possible is seen as a gateway to a career. Today's Blind Date reject is tomorrow's Bachelor. Tomorrow's Bachelor reject is next week's Average Joe hunk. So of course, whether they'll admit it or not, EVERYONE on reality TV shows are acting to a certain extent. They have to play to the camera...their wannabe careers depend on it. That's why Being Bobby Brown is so equally enthralling and horrifying...they really don't seem to be acting in the least.

We're far enough along in the reality show epoch that many of these shows are in syndication. This is great, because it provides a wonderful opportunity to compare and contrast. For example, I caught a rerun of Growing Up Gotti the other day. It was the first episode I had ever seen (honestly). In it, materfamilias Victoria threw a dinner party for her boss. Among the invitees were New York PR maven Lizzie Grubman. Now, unless I'm mistaken, doesn't Grubman have her own reality television show on MTV? This begs the question...when two people being followed by reality show crews (on different networks) interact, how do they decide whose crew gets to document their interactions? Is there some kind of reality show protocol? Is there a heirarchy, or is it decided by rock, paper, scissors? How cool would it be for Bobby Brown to be partying on his show, then get crazy drunk, try to drive home, and get pulled over by the crew from Cops? Then he could end up in Judge Joe Brown's court! It's delicious possibilities like these that put a smile on my face.

I'll end this post with a reality show tidbit, courtesy of one of my nephews, who flew out to California once to appear on Judge Joe Brown (I couldn't talk him out of it):

Did you know that court reality shows (e.g. The People's Court) agree in advance to pay for whatever judgement is meted out? That's right. If you agree to go on the show to dispute some amount of money you owe, the show will simply pay the amount of the judgement if you lose. Basically, by having the producers pay the settlement amount, you're agreeing to let the judge insult you on television. That explains why so many defendents take those tongue lashings with a smile on their faces.

All I want for Christmas are some brake pads

There are a lot of automobiles in Los Angeles that are in desperate need of pimping. Unfortunately, most Angelenos don't have Xzibit on their speed dial, so they have to do whatever it takes to keep their automobiles running. The freeways of the city are packed with cars that seem as though they are being held together with duct tape. And contrary to popular belief, most of the occupants aren't suburban teenagers who spend all of their time volunteering to help the homeless.

Keeping your car roadworthy becomes such a difficult task in Los Angeles simply because it is so damn easy to do...initially. The east coast and midwest can be particularly unforgiving to automobiles. If you don't give your car the proper attention it will rapidly fall victim to rust (thanks to the winter salted roads) and many other problems brought on by the weather. LA's moderate year round temperature makes it a lot easier to ignore the little problems in your car until they become pretty big. Compare that with the rapid build-up of mileage and you have the perfect recipe for hooptie stew.

For example, my car is not that old. I brought it new in 2001. But since I've been in LA (two years now), I've had more problems with that car than I ever had when I was back east. I blame myself. I've got 71,000 miles on it. I started skipping regular services. I see an indicator light on my dash, and I decide to wait a week or two to bring it in. It turns out the indicator was for my brake pads being worn out. Now the pads are gone, and its been eating into my rotors. What would have been a $150 job will now be a $650 job. Just like that.

There are some nice tradeoffs, or course. In New York you're stuck with either street parking (so long clean bumpers) or garage parking, and it seems like every garage in New York reeks of mildew. After a couple of months, the odor will definitely find its way into your car. The car I drove when I lived in Queens smelled after about a month of garage parking it. Most of my friends in NYC also garage their rides. Many people think New Yorkers are a car-free sort. I usually laugh at that one. Maybe if the person is from Manhattan. But everyone in Queens and Staten Island (and most of the natives in Brooklyn) own cars. I've written extensively about my mother's game of cat and mouse with neighborhood car thieves growing up. Her cars were stolen no fewer than three times. When she finally gave up and traded down from a Cadillac to a Plymouth Volare, they simply began to steal parts of the car (like the battery). All of my friends and relatives who are from New York currently own a car (even the ones now living in Manhattan). How do you think they get to Ikea? Just kidding.

Cars are pretty vandal-free here in LA though, which is nice. Almost everyone has a driveway, and those who park on the street don't have to worry about break-ins too much. However, recently a friend of mine had someone steal the registration sticker off of his license plate. Considering the cost of regisration fees here, I understand why.

Pico Blvd, the one-stop shop for all your hood film needs

I live very close to the intersection of Crenshaw and Pico boulevards. Crenshaw has been immortalized in numerous hood movies from the 1990s such as Boyz in the Hood. Pico, meanwhile, is a relatively unknown strip to anyone living outside of Los Angeles. The funny thing is that I notice a film crew shooting on the street at least once a month. I've determined that Pico must be one of the prime locales of urban film set pieces. For example, on one mile-long strip of Pico between La Brea and Fairfax, you'll find Lucy's Drive-In (the burger joint from the Singleton film Baby Boy), Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles (from every friggin' where), We Jammin' Jamaican food, The Comedy Union (LA's top black comedy club), C.J.'s Diner, the Black Dahlia Theater and several art galleries. The film crews are almost always shooting on this particular strip. My guess is that the area must be particularly suited to films in which it's necessary to show black Angelenos in street scenes. Even the Vons grocery store at Pico and Fairfax has a kind of ghetto superstar mentality. Recently while I was shopping there I ran into Bishop Don Magic Juan. You know, the pimp from the Hughes Brothers doc "American Pimp" who has been a regular stage presence at Snoop Dogg performances. It was hard to miss him. He was wearing his trademark green and gold shades, as well as a complete green and gold ensemble. I honestly believe that in this particular Vons, someone like Ethan Hawke, Uma Thurman or Natalie Portman could walk in and no one would recognize them. But you wouldn't believe the response people had to seeing Bishop Don Magic Juan! You could determine his location within the store by simply listening for someone to shout out his name as he entered their aisle. "Don Juan!" Sounds like he's in the pasta aisle. "Bishop Don Juan!" Oh, it sounds like he's in the meat section. One of those priceless LA moments.