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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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Read/Post Comments (5) 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 |
2008-03-24 1:56 PM If anyone asks, I had seared ahi tuna and something involving micro-greens, got it? I’ve eaten the same thing for lunch everyday for a month. I’m telling you this because acceptance is the first step to recovery…or something like that. In any case, there’s going to have to be an intervention. I’m addicted.
To corn dogs. I know. I KNOW. It’s not even a real food! It’s the Velveeta of meat products. But in my own defense, they’re vegetarian corn dogs. I’m pretty sure that means soy. It might also mean cardboard. It’s not entirely clear. And to make matters worse, I only eat them with ketchup, which is somehow so much less cool than mustard. In L.A., even food is a status symbol, where whether or not your spinach is organic says something about your moral fiber. So I’ve been going to the grocery store incognito. Baseball cap. Sunglasses. (No trench coat. I think trench coats look frumpy on anyone under six-five. And we have not yet been reduced to frumpy.) Still, I’m pretty sure the cashiers have started noticing. I am, after all, up to three boxes a week. Three boxes. Soon I’ll hear whispers behind my back. “Psst. It’s the corn dog lady!” they’ll snicker. It’ll be horrible and embarrassing. And in retaliation, I’ll be forced to hit somebody with one of those foot-long sausage sticks, and you just know that’s going to end badly. “Writer Uses Processed Meat as Weapon, Cashier Hospitalized. Film at 11.” Read/Post Comments (5) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top |
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