Clooney & Me

They finally the made the movie of my life and it depressed the hell out of me.

On the plus side, I get to be played by George Clooney, which once and for all validates what I’ve always believed was a spiritual connection between us.  Seriously.  Why else would I revel in suits with no ties and open collars, or have suffered through the penultimate seasons of The Facts of Life, the sit-com E/R (with Elliott Gould, Mary McDonnell and Conchata Ferrell) or Ocean’s Twelve (Bleh)???

Seriously, though: go see Up In The Air right now.  You’ve probably already seen some reviews or the trailer, and have an idea of what it’s about, but here’s a brief synopsis:

Ryan Bingham (Clooney) is a traveling executive who is hired by companies that are undergoing layoffs.  His job is to dismiss the employees, provide them with information about the transition (severance, etc.) and manage their emotions.  He eagerly spends 300 or more nights away from his barren Omaha apartment, finding a freedom in an untethered life of independence.  Suddenly, his way of life comes under fire by a young upstart (Anna Kendrick, in a career-making performance) who proposes to reduce costs by shifting the workforce from face-to-face terminations to video conferencing.

The irony that all of a sudden Bingham’s own way of life is threatened is fairly predictable, as is how it transforms him – first into a humanist and then, ultimately, a human.  In fact, the entire plot is either predictable or loudly telegraphed, which ends up being beside the point.  The plot is just a device to tell a story about how we make and miss connections all the time – often without an airport in sight.

And to showcase some of the finest screen performances of the year.  Clooney is tanned, trim and irresistible; he sells you on a lifestyle that is so isolating – a career so airless, joyless and soulless – that you almost want to go out and find one for yourself.  Kendrick – who telegraphed such promise as early as 2003’s Camp – is a revelation; her performance is a dance of bravado and fear, self-confidence and doubt.  She truly captures what it feels like to make the transition from being a student to living and working on your own, and her final scene showcases the complexities of humility and the freedom of choosing for yourself without compromise.

Vera Farmiga, as the woman Clooney first – and finally – manages to connect with is perfectly cast as his female doppelganger.  She’s luminous, and so completely convincing that the one plot development you expect – and then begin to doubt – involves her, and you doubt it because she’s so good inhabiting that woman you’ve seen a million times.  You know her, the blond who always has a blue suit and a black roll-aboard.  She’s somewhere between 30 and 50 but you’re not quite sure where.  She sells medical devices or software and she’s always in a good mood, she drinks scotch and laughs with the fellas, and she is unruffled by everything; impossible to penetrate.  You’re pretty certain she’s a bitch, but she’s always so composed and funny and flirtatious that you can’t prove it. 

That’s her.

The briefer performances are no less powerful.  Jason Bateman, as Clooney’s boss, chews through his scenes with smarmy joy.  J.K. Simmons (the dad, from Juno) is winning as a just-laid-off worker at a loss for his next move.  Only Bingham’s family is a let-down.  Melanie Lynskey, as his about-to-be-married younger sister is woefully underused in an underwritten role that could have been funnier.  Her wedding could have helped raise the stakes for Bingham but somehow feels to let the air of the urgency instead.  And Amy Morton, in what is essentially a reprise of her August: Osage County role, does her put-upon-sister-whose-really-the-matriarch thing.  She’s good at it, but it showed no range and sticks to pretty much one note.

That this film should come along – after all those years I said there needed to be a movie that captured the quiet desperation of the road warrior – feels like a message as I wrestle with taking a job with a software company while I continue to pursue my television career.  It asks all sorts of questions about what compromises we’re willing to make, why me make them, and what they really cost.  True, while some of the issue is not what we do, but how we do it, there is an inevitable disconnectedness that comes from living your life up in the air.  And the most powerful, most resonant moment in the picture comes when Clooney, in his role of sincerely selling insincerity, connects with a recently terminated worker by asking, "How much did they pay you to give up on your dream?"

The movie was just named best film of the year by the National Board of Review (one of the first organizations to announce its year-end awards) and it's not surprising.  In our anxiety-ridden times of 10% unemployment, this film truly is the movie of 2009, the year the economy forced us all to reconcile who we are (who we've become, who we are becoming) with who we want to be.

What’s not up in the air is how I feel about Ocean Grill, on Columbus Avenue between 77^th and 78^th St., where Neil and I ate on Thursday evening.  If I were shooting a film set in New York during Christmas season, this would be my first choice.  It’s spacious, but not cavernous, with dark wood floors, lighter-colored walls adorned with photographs (echoes of Sardi’s, but not tacky) and a chair rail.  It’s one of those places that feels elegant, in a very New York way.  Every table is intimate enough for private conversation, but the layout allows you to feel that you’re “among the people” and you wonder if somebody who is somebody is seated just a table or two away.

We shared a split pea soup to start.  Smoky with the flavor of bacon, without any lardons actually in the soup, it was rich and delicious, without being overly weighty for an appetizer.  Neil ordered a horseradish-crusted salmon with goat cheese gnocchi, forest mushrooms and butternut squash.  The salmon was expertly cooked, enhanced by the crispy crust, and set off by the squash and gnocchi which managed to add not just sweetness, but lightened the dish.  I enjoyed an oven-roasted Chilean sea bass that was moist and flavorful, served atop honeyed eggplant prepared with curry and raisins that was unexpected and delicious.  It was accompanied by polenta fries and a tangy emulsion of violet and mustard.

Meanwhile, it’s pouring down rain and very cold today.  A bleak day, made bleaker as I struggle through an episode of Melrose Place.  Did they really just introduce a plotline about Ashlee Simpson Wentz having slept with her brother.  Adopted, yeah, but so what. That’s gross.  This show gets one more episode before I give up completely on it.  (Why was incest so much less creepy in the movie Clueless?  Was it because they were step-borther/sister, and their parents were only briefly married?  Or is the magic that is Alicia Silverstone?  The world may never know.

So, I’ve got some time before the Florida/Alabama game.  I’m off to the kitchen for another batch of Christmas cookies.  These chocolate-toffee bars are always a hit.  Make two pans – one is never enough.

Shortbread:

1/2 cup unsalted butter, cut into pieces

1/2 cup light brown sugar

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 cup all purpose flour

Topping:

6 ounces semi sweet chocolate, chopped (can use 1 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips)

1/2 cup almonds or pecans, chopped and toasted.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees and place oven rack in the center of the oven. Line the bottom and sides of an 8x8 inch square baking pan with aluminum foil.

Melt the butter in a medium sized saucepan. Remove from heat and stir in the sugar and vanilla extract. Then add the salt and flour and mix just until incorporated. Spread the shortbread evenly on the bottom of the prepared pan and bake for about 20 to 25 minutes or until the shortbread is golden brown with well browned edges.

Remove from oven and immediately scatter the chopped chocolate over the hot shortbread. The chocolate will begin to melt; with an offset spatula or back of a spoon, evenly spread the chocolate. Sprinkle the choppeds nut over the chocolate. Place the pan on a wire rack to cool.

Once the chocolate has set, lift the shortbread from the pan using the edges of the foil. Place on a cutting board and, with a sharp knife, cut into 16 squares.

Cool completely and then chop.

THE LAST WORD:

DO THIS, New York:

Go see Up in the Air

Eat at Ocean Grill

Make my chocolate-toffee bars.

DON’T DO THIS, New York:

I’d skip Melrose Place.  And incest.

The Birthday Blog

I recovered from my funk just in time to celebrate my birthday (does this distance me from you, Dear Reader?  This habit of picking up where I left off, arrogantly assuming you’re reading my blog, hanging on my every word, waiting with baited breath for my next epistle?  To help anyone new catch up: on Monday I was sad and angry and a little stressed out.  Kind of like my mother was once.  From 1985-1993.)

Anyway: YAY! Birthday!

Actually, I’m well past the “Yay” birthdays.  I’m closer to the Gray birthdays, the Go Away birthdays, and the Oy Vey Birthdays.  Nonetheless, a birthday still promises three things I love: cake, liquor, and being the center of attention.

Neil actually planned a three-day bonanza for my birthday, which is kind of awesome, and proof of how important it is to marry someone who actually likes you.  These are the moments you remind yourself about when he’s sitting on the couch yelling at a magazine or surfing to three different weather forecasts in less than 2 minutes or making curmudgeonly comments to get your attention and then – when you finally start paying attention – somehow you’re the villain.  My father once said marriage was about compromise – and he’s right – but he also seriously understated the situation.

First we had Brette over for dinner, the next night we went to Blue Hill for a romantic dinner, and last night we went to John’s on 12^th St. out with a bunch of friends. So this post is chock full of recipes and restaurant reviews.

For dinner, Neil made one of our favorite dinners.  An easy meal we actually eat quite often: it can be made quickly, requires little prep and little clean up, and is really delicious.  We can’t decide if they’re closer to fajitas or burritos or tacos, so let’s just call them:

TURKEY BURJICOS 

(Pronounced: Bur-hee-koh.  Whatever, it’s my word, I can pronounce it however I damn well please.  It’s my birthday.)

1 pound ground turkey.  (I like the 99% fat free; Neil prefers the 94/6.  The decision is usually made by whomever does the shopping.  We prefer to passive-aggressively keep this issue alive, rather than resolve it like adults.  More fun that way.)

1½ tsp Walkers Wood Jerk Seasoning (this should be in the ethnic aisle of your market – where Mexican, Caribbean or Latin foods/seasonings are shelved.  If you don’t have a market with such a section, try the frickin’ internet – you’re on a computer, aren’t you? – it’s 2009.)

Olive oil

One onion, sliced

One Green Bell Pepper, seeded and sliced.

American cheese (optional.  But recommended).

Heat a big iron skillet or large pan.  Add the turkey.  When it’s almost done, add the cheese.  Sautee the onion and pepper slices, either in the same pan, or in a separate one.

Serve with warm flour or corn tortillas.  Garnish with sliced avocado, diced tomato, and/or diced onion.

CILANTRO RICE

Boil a bunch of rice.  Enough to serve however many you’re serving.  We like brown rice.  Blend olive oil, cilantro and salt in a blender.  You can also add jalapeno and scallion if you like.  Add mixture to rice.  Blend in the zest of one orange or the juice of ½ lime.  Mix and serve.

BLACK BEANS

Open a can of black beans. 

Put the beans in a pot.

Heat them up.

Serve.  (Wasn’t that simple.)

This may sound fairly pedestrian, but it’s a really delicious dinner.  Throw in a nice salad and a glass or 4 of wine, and you’re good.

We sat around eating the Burjicos and watching Melrose Place, which was when the weirdness of my birthday kinds of hit me.  First, sitting around my apartment, eating an inexpensive but calorie-conscious homemade dinner, watching Melrose Place – it could have been 1995 instead of 2009.  Even Laura Leighton – through the magic of television, the miracle of science or the tenacity of some sort of mental illness cleverly hidden from the press – has managed to look exactly the same, if not better, than she did fourteen years ago. 

That makes one of us.

I’ve got my funny, arty, female confidant next to me, who slid effortlessly into the Sancho Panza role.  Seriously – if it weren’t for the ring on my finger, the man across the room, and the image that stares back from the mirror (which scares me now, but would have been truly terrifying at 23) – I’d believe in time travel.  I might as well be amusing her with stories of one-night stands with identical twins or the the guy who would only fool around in his car, while she talks about the guy who broke her heart and set her loose on an unsuspecting series of mediocre actors, frustrated writers, and accomplished cater-waiters.  Actually, we are having this conversation, but at least we’re using the past tense.  Ahhh, progress.

Anyway, my point is that I tend to treat birthdays (along with the unholy mess of a week that spans Christmas and New Year’s) like a break in the action at the Jerry Lewis Telethon: “Let’s Take a Look at the Scoreboard, Folks!” 

For years, it was easy.  The job was killing my soul, the frequent travel made me feel lonely and distanced and unable to create any semblance of a real life at home, and my sense of responsibility toward my customers, my family and my husband sometimes made me feel as if I was responsible for addressing everyone’s happiness except my own.  It got better in recent years, because of Neil, but I still kept score by looking at the house, the bank account, and the things we owned, as if money or comfort could somehow balance the misery of feeling like I was aging but not growing; that I was always moving but never getting anywhere.  I spent years convinced I was put on this earth to do something creative – something special – and yet all I seemed to do was get older, wealthier, and angrier.

So you’d think that, after making a huge career change to pursue all these things, I might have seen some movement on that scoreboard.  But what I found, instead, was that I no longer knew how to keep score at all.  The income is now client-driven, and not as stable, the creative pursuits are just getting started and generate a lot of work but no revenue, and each day is an emotional roller coaster where moments of excitement and self-confidence can transform into frustration, fear and self-doubt without notice.  It’s like living in a Soap Opera, but without the hot shirtless men and crazy evil twin.

Anyway – I find that, until I’m ready to deal with these feelings, it’s best to use the three Ds – drinking, denial, and defense mechanisms.  Like changing the subject.

Wednesday we went to Blue Hill.  It’s an incredibly unbelievable experience; you have to go.  Call now. You might get a reservation for mid-October.

Blue Hill is the Manhattan outpost of a restaurant with the same name that was opened on the site of the Stone Barns Agricultural Center in Pocantico Hills (Westchester County, New York).  Stone Barns is a working farm with roots in the organic and local food movements.  I actually hesitate to call them “movements” because that makes it sound all affected and cult-like and weird, when really it is just about not destroying the planet with chemicals or pollutants in order to eat chicken and a salad. 

The chef, executive and restaurateur who created Blue Hill and Blue Hill at Stone Barns is Dan Barber, considered one of the greatest chefs in New York and a driving force in what has become known as “haute greenmarket.” (Translation: really expensive vegetables.)

Eating at Blue Hill is a fabulous experience.  It’s one of very few restaurants in New York that remains difficult to get a reservation at, years into it’s operation.  This place is booked because it’s good, not because it’s new, and because a relentless amount of work has been done to keep its profile high and its message in the public consciousness, without becoming overexposed or preachy.

We enter down a small flight of stairs on Washington Place, just off Washington Square Park.  The fountain is bubbling and the arch is bathed in light and the construction is done so you can see the streetlamps.  You’d almost think you were in Paris if the people were a little less rude and spoke French.  Or better English.

The restaurant is small, but not tiny – there’s a rectangular bar area against the wall to our left, and seating runs along three of its sides (the fourth, obviously, is a wall), providing plenty of space to have a drink while waiting for a table.  The hostess approaches us for our name, then invites us to enjoy a complimentary glass of champagne in celebration of my birthday while we wait.  (Nice touch.)

The dining room is simple, but looks elegant – a smattering of plants with tropical fronds, exposed brick, colors of deep red and ivory and espresso.  Other than the low ceilings, which increase the intimacy but still give a slight claustrophobia, the décor does its part to create a lavish experience.

The menu is produced daily, based upon what the farm produces.  Everything is local, seasonal and fresh.  As we order, a small dish of fresh cherry tomatoes and some warm bread arrive at out table.

Neil orders the quinoa and emmer, served with Berkshire pork shoulder and jowl.  The grains are cooked to effect a gravy, blanketing the entire surface of the plate, while the pork is plated almost effecting the appearance of a clock-face, long strips of jowl at 12, 3, 6 and 9, dotted with chunks of smoky shoulder.  It’s a high-degree of difficulty dish, and it succeeds on every level.

My chicken is cooked sous vide (actually, everything at Blue Hill begins in a sous vide – a warm water bath of 120-130 degrees where food cooks slowly, often over many hours – even though many dishes finish in a pan or an oven.  It’s a technique I don’t have much patience or appreciation for, prior to tonight, as it strikes me as kind of weird and creepy and too much trouble.  Now, of course, I’m forced to admit that it works quite well, but since it has also been executed by master chefs anywhere else will pale by comparison.  This is the best of circumstances for me: I can wax eloquent on something trendy and turn my nose up at it at the same time.  Happy Birthday to me!)

The chicken is moist and flavorful, but still retains its heft and chew – sous vide doesn’t break down proteins as severely as higher heat – and is remarkably seasoned.  It is served atop a warm curried salad of late summer squash and almonds.  The flavors are clean and full, and the whole dish is delicious.

Dessert arrives, as a birthday gift from the manager, a chocolate bread pudding with vanilla bean ice cream that reinvents the horrid molten chocolate cake that has now been so done to death you can buy a kit from Williams-Sonoma and make it at home with your mildly retarded six year-old.  Here, however, it achieves a certain distinction.  It is still a rather pedestrian dish, and clearly designed for universal appeal, but it has subtlety – not cloying in its sweetness.  I wouldn’t call it a home run, but in not temporarily transporting us to Bennigan’s, it’s a solid double.

The check arrives with some petit fours – toasted coconut marshmallows (note to Blue Hill: bring more.  Yum! Slurp!) and cocoa dusted almonds.  I didn’t really enjoy the almonds – but I don’t understand the point of chocolate that isn’t at least mildly sweet.  It’s like when, in porn, they have all the sex but someone doesn’t have an orgasm.  Seems like so much work for so little pay off.

The next night took us to John’s of 12^th St, in the East Village, and a totally different experience.

John’s is one of those classic Neapolitan Italian restaurants (Neil calls it “Red Sauce Italian.”)  It’s sort of dark, they’ve got the checked tablecloths (or, if they don’t, in my memory they do because that’s the vibe), and you half expect a bottle of Chianti swathed in wicker on every table.  You’re not quite sure if it’s mafia, and you don’t really care because everything is heavy and rich and delicious.

We chose this place because it easily accommodates a group of eight, and our friends Bart and Billy wanted to come – changing us from 6 to 8 and forcing us to change our location.  We were actually supposed to go to Blue Hill tonight, with this group, but they couldn’t accommodate eight people.  Fortunately, Blue Hill turned out to be better as a romantic venue for two, since – at the last minute – Bart informs us that he and Billy aren’t coming.  Still, I can't deny my feelings were hurt - you don't want your friends blowing off your birthday.

We settle into our modified table for six: me, Neil, our friends, Alec, Robert, Brian and Antoinette.  The boys are in our beach house – Alec and Robert being two of our closest friends.  Antoinette (The Fabulous Miss Toni Banks) is a friend from law school who’s hung with this bunch before, and goes through men with such alacrity that we’ve made her an honorary gay.

Stuffed mushrooms, baked clams and garlic bread arrive.  The flavors are a bit muddy – everything a little too bready and garlicky and salty – but it achieves a certain effect some diners might be looking for, that of an Italian restaurant that might as well have sprung from a Billy Joel song.

As for entrees, Neil works his way through an eggplant parmigiana that could be a little less mushy.  Brian inhales a plate of ravioli in butter sauce that must have been good because it seemingly disappeared seconds after hitting the table.  Robert ordered one of the specials, a pappardelle with Bolognese which he says was very good but which preceded a day’s worth of garlic farts (no mincing words here, folks.)  Alec’s meat lasagna was hearty and delicious – achieving the right balance of pasta, sauce, meat and cheese.  The Fabulous Miss Toni Banks and I both ordered the chicken arreganata, dredged chicken sautéed in a light tomato sauce with garlic.  I loved it – not too heavy but all the flavors I was looking for. 

And that, my friends, was my birthday.  I’m a year older (which always strikes me as a stupid thing to say, because the day before I was 364 days older – it’s not like one day magically aged me a whole year.)  I’m now a middle-aged man who completely turned his life upside down to pursue a vague notion of what he was meant to do with his life.  If I don’t succeed, I hope it seems like I’m doing something brave and original because right now I’m worried that I sound like a self-indulgent upper middle-class dickweed going through a midlife crisis. 

At least I managed to skip the Porsche and the hookers.

THE LAST WORD:

DO THIS, New York:

Make our Turkey Burjitos with Cilantro Rice.  It’s like a taste of Mexico, without that annoying subway ride to the Bronx.

Go to Blue Hill.

Have a Happy Birthday.

DON’T DO THIS, New York:

You can probably skip John’s.  I used to really like it, but the food isn’t what I remember it being; for better southern Italian try Grano Trattoria on Greenwich Ave and W 10^th St (Marcelo and his brother are the nicest guys in the West Village).  We also actually like Carmine’s – the one on the Upper West Side not the horrible tourist trap in Times Square – and Dean’s on W85th.

Don’t be a dickweed.

The TV Post: Melrose Place, L.A., Rachael Ray, and other Stoup-id topics

It's amazing, but it took less than a week of being back in New York for 11 days of relaxation to evaporate like mist in the Las Vegas desert.  The three-minute walk from our apartment to the subway resulted in my body slowly morphing into that clenched posture common to boxers as I prepared to do battle with the people who step onto the subway car, unaware that any one of the three million people who inhabit Manhattan on a weekday might be behind them, apparently believing that the middle of the subway car arrives at a destination substantially different than the spot right inside the doors.


Additionally, my walk took me past two episodes of street vomit, which isn't exactly a sight that puts a song in your heart at 7am.  Why does morning in Manhattan bestow sidewalk puke like dew on the Elysian Fields?  You never see puke in L.A., though, to be fair, no one walks in L.A.  Ever.


When I visit Los Angeles I generally stay at the London West Hollywood (formerly the Wyndham Bel Age, formerly the Bel Age, notable for being the site of the fictional West Beverly High School Prom, where Mrs. Teasley found Donna Martin inebriated and almost didn't let her graduate. Ahhh, remember the 90s - when protesting the fictional expulsion of a television character seemed fraught with meaning.  Contrast that to the people holding a Tea Party in Washington, D.C. today to protest something as horrible and destructive as lowering health care costs so sickness doesn't trigger bankruptcy, covering the uninsured so we can reverse the damage we've done to our collective conscience over the past 8 and half years, and stop monopolistic corporations from profiting mightily of the misfortunes of our friends and neighbors.  If you have any confusion over which march I'd be more likely to join, I have three words for you:


"Donna Martin Graduates!")


I love the London West Hollywood.  It's almost entirely white and dove gray, the staff wears impeccable gray suits that make all the women look smart and all the guys look hot (except the dork in the fedora.  It's over.  Lose the hat.) and it's got a Gordon Ramsay restaurant in it, and that guys is crazy, and crazy talented.  Seriously, give me a selection of his appetizers and an episode of Kitchen Nightmares, and I'm in heaven.  Plus, last year when I was at the London, John Slattery (of Mad Men, also the episode of Sex and the City where he played a politician who wanted Carrie to pee on him) was there for the Emmys.  Gimme some Slattery at the rooftop pool and I'm a happy blogger.


The best thing about the London - much like my other favorite L.A. haunt, the Sunset Marquis, is that they are steps away from the Equinox in West Hollywood.  It makes it simple to walk to the gym in the morning, except for the fact that no one walks in L.A. and I find myself stared at by all the people driving down the Sunset Strip in their BMWs and Hummers. (Yes, they still drive Hummers in L.A. A lot.  Apparently news of global warming can't make it past the smog.)


Of course it could be because I'm cute.  


Anyway, all this side chatter about L.A. isn't really side chatter - it's quite germane to today's posting, which is about my brush with L.A. this week.  Late Thursday afternoon I received an email from Actors Access, a service which consolidates solicitations from casting directors, production companies, etc, for projects seeking talent.  Though the postings for hosts, sardonic Gay Jews, and neurotic bloggers are few and far between, I've kept my subscription and this week it paid off: a posting seeking Male Hosts, Age 25-45, for the Food Network.


This, for me, is basically like finding the Holy Grail.  All of the concepts I'm developing are related to food (restaurant dining, weight loss, instructional cooking....)  Plus, I'm age 25-45 (and unwilling to be more specific than that, what with my birthday being next week) and male.


So - clearly - I need to find a way to get an audition.

The first thing I notice is that the posting is filed under the Los Angeles section of the website, not New York, which is odd since the Food Network is located less than 60 blocks from our home, in New York's famed Chelsea Market (mmm...Fat Witch Brownies.  Choco-licious.)  I conclude that the show or shows seeking talent are being produced by outside production companies which have pitched, or intend to pitch, the concepts to Food Network.


The posting lists a casting agent, so my first call is to Brette - my co-producer for the tv shows and a casting director here in New York.  I call Brette and she and I do some mutual research on the internet.  We find out that the casting producer is affiliated with a Casting Agency in Los Angeles.  Brette offers to call the agency in her professional capacity - one casting director to another.


After two attempts, Brette calls me sounding a little exasperated.  She's called the agency and been told that Erika, the listed casting producer, isn't there.  She's put on the phone with Robyn (in L.A. it's always Robyn, never Robin, unless it's a British man.)  After explaining why she's calling, Robyn pretends not to hear Brette.  Brette hangs up and tries again, with the same result.


"Relax," I tell her, "I think you've simply encountered L.A. Girl Type #3.


See, I've spent a lot of time in L.A. and there are only 4 types of women in L.A.  L.A. Girl Type #1 is 28 - ALWAYS.  She's an aspiring actress with an apartment in Silverlake, she goes out 7 nights a week, and only consumes pineapple, vodka, and Orbit chewing gum.  If her weight hits 100 pounds, she cuts out the pineapple.  She looks forward to pilot season the way a 7 year old anticipates Christmas, and can't seem to speak in complete sentences without a script in her hands.

L.A. Girl Type II is blonde - ALWAYS - and 34 - ALWAYS.  She doesn't work in show business, has no interest in it, and appears to be annoyed by anything having to do with entertainment.  Her wardrobe costs a fortune, she generally works in sales, and is almost always driving a convertible, wearing a blue suit, or wheeling a black roll-a-board behind her.  She has not had sex since her boyfriend left her for L.A. Girl Type #1.  She is angry.


L.A. Girl Type #3 is what happens to most L.A. Girls Type #1.  She's admitted to being 30, even though she's 36, now works in the industry as an agent or development executive or casting director (ding! ding! ding!) and has, at various points, been a vegan, a Scientologist, and a lesbian.  She is apparently afflicted with a hearing disorder that allows her only to hear male voices.  She wants a labrador and a house on the beach.


L.A. Girl Type #4 is either over 40, overweight, or aggressively unattractive.  She is moving, probably to Montana, or maybe Washington state.

Anyway, I'm thinking that I may have better luck with the Casting Agency, so I call them up.  Before I do, however, I Google the casting agent again, this time finding that she is, or shares a name with, a woman who did two seasons of tv's Big Brother (I LOVE Big Brother.)  Since the casting agency casts reality television shows, Big Brother among them, I take a chance that it's her.


When I call, I ask for "Erika" and, when I learn that there's no Erika there, I ask for Robyn.  Robyn takes my call.  Yes, Erika does some work for her, but more in a freelance capacity; she may be casting this on her own.  "Is she the same Erika who did two seasons of Big Brother?" I ask.  It is.  I convey my sympathy at how badly she was treated by Mike "Boogie" and - a sidebar here.  I really do believe this woman was badly treated and nationally embarrassed by this dork who calls himself "Boogie" and managed to win half a million bucks.  However, when you fall in love on Big Brother, you sort of get what you pay for (though I'm totally rooting for Jeff and Jordan on BB11.)


Robyn takes my contact info and offers to pass it on....


With time to kill while not waiting for the phone to ring, I invite Brette over for dinner and to develop a Plan B.  I love the term Plan B.  It makes me feel like I'm plotting espionage.


I can't decide which recipe to make for dinner, so wind up making both.  What the hell - we'll eat the rest as leftovers.


Recipe #1: Greek Cruise Inspired Chicken:


1 package boneless, skinless chicken breasts, or whatever part of the chicken you like.


Thyme (preferably fresh)


Oregano (preferably dried - yeah a contradiction.  No, I don't know why.  If you want fresh, get fresh.  Leave me alone.)


Extra Virgin Olive Oil (2-3 Tbsp)


1 medium onion, sliced.


2 cloves garlic, pressed.


Put a bunch of thyme and oregano on the chicken.  Use a lot.  Put Olive Oil in pan.  Get pan hot (medium heat).  Put chicken in hot pan.  Cook until until the chicken is not raw enough to kill you, but don't dry it out - that sucks.  Remove cooked chicken from pan and place in warm oven.  Add onions and garlic, saute until brown and delicious.  Serve on top of chicken.  Good with peas.




Sauce My Mother Might Have Made:


Can of crushed tomatoes (28 oz)
2 cans of tomato sauce (15 oz ea)
1 chopped medium onion
7 cloves of garlic.  Or 6, or 4 or 9.  Whatever - I like garlic.  Slice half; crush half.
Italian Parsley
Fresh Basil
Fresh Oregano (or dried. Get off my case.)
1 package ground meat - about a pound.  I like Beef/Pork/Veal.

In a large stockpot, saute onion and garlic in 1 Tbsp Olive Oil.  Add crushed tomatoes.  Add sauce.  Add herbs.  Combine the ground meat with 1 egg and some bread crumbs, and maybe some onion powder or garlic powder.  Make little balls.  Put them in the hot sauce.  Leave everything on a low flame for a while.  Like an hour. or 3.  Whatever, just don't burn anything.


Serve. (Store leftovers in Tupperware.  Buy it from Dixie.)


I realize I have a bit of a laissez-faire approach to cooking, but apparently this works, as I learn after cooking this feast for Neil and Brette, because Rachael Ray has just won another Daytime Emmy.

Now, you can put me in the camp of people who actually like Rachael Ray and think she's cute and approachable and totally understand why she's famous.  However, she apparently is only capable of making burgers, as everything on her show is a burger.  Hamburger, Turkey Burger, Breakfast Burger (not kidding), Salmon Burger, Burger with cheese crammed into the meat.  I'm exhausted by the burgers.  And by the "stoups" - a cross between a stew and a soup, which is basically a hot wet mess that might as well be a bowl of Chunky soup.


My dinner may not have been much more creative, but it's apparently Emmy-worthy.  So, if you know anyone at Food Network, or someone who can get me that audition - let me know.   Meanwhile, I'm gonna get a sandwich from Lansky's on Columbus Ave at 70th St (yeah, we have leftovers, but I want some Matzo ball soup and chopped liver.  Yum.)  Then I'll be on my couch watching the New Melrose Place - it won't be Kimberly blowing up the building or Amanda torturing Allison, but Sydney's back - and she blackmailed someone in the first five minutes.  Love me some Laura Leighton...

THE LAST WORD:  


Do this, New York:

When you're in L.A., stay at the London.  I once saw my friend Susan starring in a Target ad on a billboard from my balcony.  www.thelondonwesthollywood.com

Go to Chelsea

Watch 90210.  The original.  The new one kind of sucks.  Buy it at Amazon.

Watch Big Brother.  It's awesome.  Root for Jordan.  www.cbs.com/primetime/big_brother/

Watch Melrose Place and Mad Men (dude, Peggy's smoking pot; little Zoey Bartlet's come a long way.)

Go ahead, watch Rachael Ray.  Even though I totally could've gotten that Emmy (someone get me that audition!)

Eat at Lansky's - the best Jewish deli on the Upper West Side - great prices, less greasy than Artie's, and delicious chopped liver (I know, most people hate it.  But it's delicious.)

DON'T DO THIS:

Please don't puke on the sidewalk.  So gross.

Don't be L.A. Girl Type #3.

Don't protest meaningful health care reform.