ahream

My husband loves to watch this reality show on the Food Network that follows this crazy guy around his custom cake-making shop. He’s bald and has tattoos and uses power tools on pastry, which is mostly why I think Austin likes it. In one episode, crazy guy delivers one of two cakes to a bat mitzvah, the other cake being provided by another pastry chef. They engage in some chefy-chefy talk, which ends with the woman explaining to him that fondant comes in colors other than white.

Apparently, crazy guy had been dying his own fondant for, presumably, decades without ever knowing he could just buy the damn stuff in any color he wanted. This would be the pastry equivalent of only buying white house paint and trying to use Rit dye to make it match the drapes.

“Why does nobody tell me anything?!” he exclaims to the camera.

Pee-shaw! I thought. What a DUNDERHEAD. I mean, COME ON. You make cakes for a LIVING. How could you not know this? Are you raising your own chickens for the eggs, too? And then I laughed a superior and knowing laugh. Hardy-har-har.

You know what’s coming.

Today, I was innocently, INNOCENTLY, reading the L.A. Times coverage of the on-going Writers Guild strike. The current story is the impact the strike is having on coffee shops and other writer-gathering places. (It would appear that I am the only writer in L.A. that works from home.) The article opened by explaining that the once harder-to-get-into-than-a-nun’s-pants workplace called theOffice is now practically vacant.

TheOffice, you say? What is theOffice? I have never heard of theOffice?

TheOffice, it turns out, is a full-service author oasis mere miles from my very own home. Free parking! Noise-blocking headphones! T1 internet! ALL THE COFFEE YOU CAN DRINK!

I can’t…there aren’t…no words. No words to describe this wondrous place, this heaven on earth. Frankly, I’m getting a little hot just thinking about it.

Can you even imagine the joy, the mirth, the near-orgasmic pleasure I could have had at such a place while my apartment complex was ripping out the entire outer wall of my apartment WHILE I WAS IN IT?!? Oh yes, people. I continued to write at my little desk while men in hard hats tore out walls ten feet from my head. Little foamy earplugs don’t cover that, just in case you were wondering.

(Why didn’t I just go to the library, you ask? Because the university library I usually frequent won’t let non-students use the internet I needed for research, and the public libraries near me are populated by scary homeless guys that stare at my boobs.)

And to think, I could have luxuriated in this caffeinated, noise-reduced, T1 bliss all this time!

Why does nobody tell me anything?!?

ahream Dispatches from the City of Angels I'm a mystery writer living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my short story, "Running Venice," in the new anthology LAndmarked for Murder. Look for it in bookstores and on Amazon.com now. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (3) Most Recent Twitters: Reading Tony Broadbent's book, The Smoke. It's too good. I'm losing sleep. Nocturnal pattern shot to hell. Productivity declining. L.A. Finds: The Denver omelet at Pat's in Topanga is sublime in its simplicity. Exactly what you need and nothing else, much like the restaurant itself snuggled smack in the middle of an old hippie community where the peace signs and tie-dye still reign. Flickr Updates: The second Thursday of every month is the Downtown Art Walk. The galleries stay open late, the restaurants are packed, bands perform on the streets. God, I love L.A. What I'm Reading: The Smoke by Tony Broadbent What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami Want E-Mail Updates? Click here, type your e-mail address into the first field (for public entries) and receive an e-mail note each time a new blog post goes up. (Photo updates, Twitters and "L.A. Finds" features not included. Those you have to swing by and check yourself.) Absolutely, positively no spam. Promise. Other author blogs: Sue Ann Jaffarian Eric Stone Christa Faust Lipstick Chronicles		2007-11-08 6:53 PM Why does nobody f-ing tell me anything? My husband loves to watch this reality show on the Food Network that follows this crazy guy around his custom cake-making shop. He’s bald and has tattoos and uses power tools on pastry, which is mostly why I think Austin likes it. In one episode, crazy guy delivers one of two cakes to a bat mitzvah, the other cake being provided by another pastry chef. They engage in some chefy-chefy talk, which ends with the woman explaining to him that fondant comes in colors other than white. Apparently, crazy guy had been dying his own fondant for, presumably, decades without ever knowing he could just buy the damn stuff in any color he wanted. This would be the pastry equivalent of only buying white house paint and trying to use Rit dye to make it match the drapes. “Why does nobody tell me anything?!” he exclaims to the camera. Pee-shaw! I thought. What a DUNDERHEAD. I mean, COME ON. You make cakes for a LIVING. How could you not know this? Are you raising your own chickens for the eggs, too? And then I laughed a superior and knowing laugh. Hardy-har-har. You know what’s coming. Today, I was innocently, INNOCENTLY, reading the L.A. Times coverage of the on-going Writers Guild strike. The current story is the impact the strike is having on coffee shops and other writer-gathering places. (It would appear that I am the only writer in L.A. that works from home.) The article opened by explaining that the once harder-to-get-into-than-a-nun’s-pants workplace called theOffice is now practically vacant. TheOffice, you say? What is theOffice? I have never heard of theOffice? TheOffice, it turns out, is a full-service author oasis mere miles from my very own home. Free parking! Noise-blocking headphones! T1 internet! ALL THE COFFEE YOU CAN DRINK! I can’t…there aren’t…no words. No words to describe this wondrous place, this heaven on earth. Frankly, I’m getting a little hot just thinking about it. Can you even imagine the joy, the mirth, the near-orgasmic pleasure I could have had at such a place while my apartment complex was ripping out the entire outer wall of my apartment WHILE I WAS IN IT?!? Oh yes, people. I continued to write at my little desk while men in hard hats tore out walls ten feet from my head. Little foamy earplugs don’t cover that, just in case you were wondering. (Why didn’t I just go to the library, you ask? Because the university library I usually frequent won’t let non-students use the internet I needed for research, and the public libraries near me are populated by scary homeless guys that stare at my boobs.) And to think, I could have luxuriated in this caffeinated, noise-reduced, T1 bliss all this time! Why does nobody tell me anything?!? Read/Post Comments (3) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top