All Bark, No Bite

So, nearly 4 months in, and only last week did I really take my first legit foray into the Hollywood night life. Despite outward appearances, I'm actually one of the squarer, bad-ass guitar players you'll ever come by. Don't let the long hair fool you. I tend to get my kicks osmotically and observationally.

Anyway, Shawn, Holly's husband, has a band (Daughter's of Mara) that is about to make its major label record debut, so in preparation, they're doing a few shows around town to start up the buzz. Gotta support the brethren, and since it was in W. Hollywood, at a civil hour (9:30), I figured this would be a good show to hit. Shawn's music is, er, how would you say, "aggressive" to put it mildly. And since Bubba is the Queen of 70's "wuss" rock, I figured I'd best fly solo on this one. She agreed.

So, as luck would have it, the show was at the infamous Viper Room. For the uninformed, the Viper Room is a notorious Sunset Strip rock and roll club, maybe a block from the Whiskey, and smack dab in the middle of bumpin' Sunset. Before I get into the Viper Room proper, a few comments on Sunset. I don't know if I just watched a few too many Guns 'n Roses videos as a kid or something, but my preconceived notion was that Sunset would be like Times Square (circa the 1980's) west. You know, real seemy and treacherous. Strip clubs, dive bars, trouble on every corner. Well, there ARE bars, strip clubs, etc., but it's not seemy at all. In FACT, it's downright, borderline chi-chi. Put it this way, most of these places have valet parking. I don't recall CBGB's offering that service back in the day. This isn't a complaint, just an observation.

So, I park my car, or, "Jeeves" parked my car more appropriately, and I made my way to the door of the club. Much to my surprise, it had a velvet rope. Been a while since I'd suffered that humiliation. Ah, the good old days. So the doorman is gnarly enough looking I guess. Spiked hair, some combination of tatts and piercings, requisite black clothes of some form or other. He just lacked the imposing air I would've anticipated. I want my doormen/bouncers coming in at like, 6'6 250, and looking like they just got out of the joint, and they were given the job because they stopped the club owner from getting shanked last year. I want to feel a sense of accomplishment when I get past a doorman. Like I just looked the devil in the eye, and he blinked first. Alas, this chap checked my name for his list, gave me the hi sign, told me to enjoy the show, and off I went.

The Viper Room is a club that used to be owned by Johnny Depp until 2004 I believe. It's also known for being the place where River Phoenix od'ed. So what do I do first, but go check out the bathroom. Not because I had to go, but because of the cache surrounding it. Is it wrong that I took a picture to show Bubba? "Hey Bubbs, over here is where he must've been slumped over?" Well, to paraphrase the song, "If takin' pictures of bathrooms where junkie celebrities died is wrong, I don't WANNA be right!" Anyway, I was stunned at how nice the club was. An actual decor, mood lighting, a nice elevated stage, proper sound and lights. Plus, the bartender looked EXACTLY like Fidel Castro, with thick beard and all, so that was neat. The crowd was civil. Enthusiastic, but not unrully. They even had a few mugs circulating about to make sure folks stayed in line. Turns out, I was one of the troublemakers, because I tried to take a picture without express written consent or something, and the guy made me put it away.

There was not an ounce of danger to this place. Not one. My shoes didn't stick to the floor. When I bumped into someone, he DIDN'T crack his empty on the bar to slash me with it. He excused himself. The show was slated to start at 9:30. It started at 9:30. Somewhere, Axl Rose is turning over in his rock and roll grave (HE's not dead, but his career, and more importantly, his hell raising ways apparently are).

Has the whole world been gentrified? Again, I'm no Hell's Angel. BUT, here's the thing. IF I go out to a rock and roll club for a show, I WANT there to be the dangerous rock and roll element. I don't crave that often at this point in my life, but if ever I want it, that's where it SHOULD exist. I mean, 90% of that crowd had piercings and tattoos. When I was a kid, I remember very vividly seeing someone with a spiked mohawk for the first time. It was petrifying. I sized up these kids at the club, and I just laughed to myself. I felt like I could kick the ass of the entire room. Mind you, this was a METAL show. This was not Coldplay. This was METAL.

When my mom and I talk about pro football, she'll always side with the team from the colder climate. "They're cold and angry. Those sunshine teams are too happy and soft." That's what it is. All this sunshine out here must just sap the hostility right out of you. Not just football teams. Everyone.

Social Studies

So, almost 4 months into my new life now, I think I can safely make a few sweeping generalizations and pigeon-hole this entire population of double-digit millions. I was joking when I said that, but kidding aside, I actually, genuinely believe there IS one remarkably common trait they share out here, and it's in stark contrast to my New York City experience. Namely, WHEN I have interaction with people out here, 9 times out of 10, if not more, it's been positive. Ahhh, but here's the rub: Unless there's a REASON to talk to you, it's VERY rare that strangers will engage you.

Historically speaking, I have what people have considered to be a "kind" face. Big cheeks, freckles, non-threatening, and I smile a lot. (Either that, or I look like a sucker. Too close to call really). For whatever reason, people of all walks have always felt compelled to talk to me. Deli guys, cabbies, homeless, doormen, in elevators, sitting in the park, you name it. Fine by me really. I like to talk. I like to listen too. Out here though, it just doesn't happen. Again, when I do interact with folks, it's fine. Very pleasant. But they just don't engage you out here.

I've only seen one person really kick it New York style. There's a diner I go to from time to time for lunch. There's a woman I see there more often than not. She's beyond being a "regular." You can tell she straps in for the long haul when she's there, like it's the days' event. She brings her crosswords, and even though I get my order to go, she only takes about two bites the entire time I'm there. Meanwhile, she'll engage ANYONE within earshot, about anything. The ol' gal is just lonely really, which isn't the biggest crime in the world. Anyway, an old episode of "Lucy" was on the other day. Lil' Ricky was playing the babaloo on the drums, and she asked whomever, "Is he playing those things?" Undeterred at the initial silent response, she persisted. "Is that him playing? Do you know if that was over-dubbed? He sure looks like he's really playing!" Finally, knowing that my to go order was safely ready to go, I jumped on the grenade and said, "Yes, he's really playing," then bolted like a gunshot, lest she consider the bait taken and she come back with a follow-up conversation starter about the genius of Fred Mertz or something. In New York, she represents "business as usual." But out here, she looks THAT much more loco, because NO ONE engages strangers. I'm telling you.

Similarly, I love my neighborhood, but it's the same thing. In my building, there are three other units. None of my neighbors explicitly introduced themselves upon our moving in. (Hannah, the 87 year old, gets a pass though). When I DID meet them, nothing but pleasant. But one of them, I only met for the first time 2 weeks ago! (The exception to all of this, of course, is when we are walking Orville down the street).

Maybe I'm using revisionist history here? Maybe I'm waxing nostalgic for something that actually didn't exist? It's not like my New York neighbors and I were always "kickin' it." Still, I remember time after time, coming home and saying, "Bubba, you should've heard this conversation I just had." It's like, people care too MUCH about your business in New York, and could care LESS about your business out here. I don't know which I prefer honestly. I think for me, I like to be in the PRESENCE of busybodies and loose cannons to observe, with an OPTION to engage, if that makes any sense.

Mr. Pig Stuff

All right. I've put it off long enough. The shock that there's a pig roaming my house as I speak has ALMOST worn off, at least enough for me to begin regaling the inquiring masses as to what cohabitation with a pig is like. As much as I'd like to think otherwise, I think my legion of fans is more interested in the pig's life than mine.

So, what have I learned thus far? Well, I've learned that everything is a snack if you look at it right. (Bubba and I have even fashioned that into a song we sing to Orville when he's on the food warpath). Dry pig food? Of course. 'Mato? Sure. Crabapples? Mmmhmm. Cat food? Forbidden fruit. But it doesn't stop there, see. Phone books? Delicious. Mail? Heavenly. X-Box games? Crunchy. You get the idea. But here's the kicker, apparently, where it DOES stop is with....drumroll please............carrots. We'd been giving him these little cherry tomatoes, which he ravaged. Great, but a little pricey. So we figure, let's get him going with carrots. Crunchy, cheap, non-fattening. Perfect. Except the sonofabitch doesn't like them. He begrudgingly ate them once, then decided, "no thanks." I said, "Bubba, is this some kind of a sick pig joke? Wasn't he eating his own litter just last week? Didn't he just get finished trying to eat my bare feet like they were Vienna sausages? And now he has STANDARDS?!? Now he's a gourmand?!?! Unbelievable.

I have to reiterate, we should all be as passionate about SOMETHING in life as Orville is towards food. He literally smacks his lips CONSTANTLY. It's a Chinese water torture sometimes. And when there's no food afoot, he improvises on paper or whatever else is handy, as though he needs to keep his chops up (pun intended) or something. And when there's no paper, he literally, chews the air. Like, just in case some food happens by his mouth, he doesn't want to take any chances about missing it.

We have a mild-mannered cat in the house, Jack Sprat. I'm happy to say that those two have been able to tolerate each other just fine, and in fact, are now beginning to engage in some traditional "cat and pig" style rough house. Still, Jack-o will assert his position as the incumbent once in a while. Like, the other day, he very brazenly decided to use Orville's litter box, right smack in front of him. As if to say, "Yeah, I see you looking at me. So what? What'chu gonna do about it? Lest you forget who is the H.C.I.C. around here, beeyatch!" What's also funny is the two clear factions in my house now. Jack is just like his dad. Laid back in the cut, quiet, low maintenance. Orville, is just like his momma. Strong-willed, determined, feisty, and both want what they want, when they want it.

Lastly for now, one plus to having the Big O around is that he's indirectly contributed to my losing around 10 lbs. since I've been out here. See, he spends his time going back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. And if there is ANY kitchen activity brewing, he makes sure he's present so he can get a piece of the action. As such, I have to think twice now before I venture to the fridge. "Do I REALLY want to make a grilled cheese samich, at the expense of having my toes nibbled on for the next 10 minutes?" Plus, I have to say, my pork consumption is down considerably, so I guess he's really paying dividends to my health. Now, if he could just stop tempting me by standing by that fire...

Not too Shabby

Most people review movies, I apparently review movie THEATERS. Didn't set out to, but being in Tinseltown, where they do movies right, I can't help but comment because the theaters have been no joke so far.

On Saturday, Bubba and I were fixin' to go to the movies. The pickin's themselves were fairly slim (I can't justify plopping down $30 on "Road Hogs" or whatever it's called), but we were able to come up with "Pan's Labyrinth" since we'd heard great things about it (the great things were wrong, by the way). It was playing at the Arclight at 8 o'clock, which to me simply meant, "it's playing at 8 at some movie theater about 10 minutes from here on Sunset, that happens to be called Arclight." Our biggest concern was, "I hope the 'pops' are better than that last place we went to."

Well, we roll up on the Arclight Theater, and even as we're parking the car, I still don't know what we're getting into. I see a multi-level parking lot, much like you'd see at any mall. We park the car, and go into the middle of this complex. Wow. Just gargantuan. This mall size area, was like, 90% movie theater, with a smattering of other shops. It being Saturday night and all, it was an absolute madhouse. I see in the distance these automated ticket kiosks, and the lines are like 8 deep on the 6 machines. (You know you live in California when the theater can so confidently put the kiosks outside, completely uncovered, with complete confidence). We wait on line, and it's finally our turn. I go through the rigamarole, and then, out of nowhere, a seating chart comes on the screen, and I've got to now CHOOSE our seats. What the?!? On the one hand, pretty neat. On the other hand, we were 35 minutes early, but because everyone knows they can do their seats early, all of the good seats are taken, even though most of the crowd isn't strolling in until 7:59. Fortunately for us, we (read: Bubba) love to sit real close, so we snag a close pair of seats on the aisle. It should be noted however, that these seats also cost $14 per. So I'm already in for $30, plus parking, and I haven't even had a kernel of popcorn yet. My boy Z told me it's cheaper during the week though.

Tickets secured, we make our way into the theater lobby. It looks like a reception at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. For real. Huge open space, fresh art works on the walls, an upscale little boutique gift shop, selling all kinds of things (body creme for instance) that have nothing to do with movies. Furthermore, it sounds like a cocktail party, with all of the chit chat. Very social scene. I actually saw human ticket sellers inside, though they probably call them something more exotic, like "brokers," or something. There is also a cafe/bar, where people convene, probably often independent of even seeing movies. Check out this menu. http://www.arclightcinemas.com/(dzca3e45s0l0gnractstgwfr)/arclight/cafe_bar_menu.html
I don't recall anything like this back at Essex Green Tri-Plex in West Orange, NJ.

So, we make our way to the concession stand upstairs. This too, was like 8 deep. In addition to the usual movie fare, I see a few bizarre, exotic options on the "menu." My memory is annoyingly failing me right now, but it was something akin to like, "a lobster salad panini." Something really involved. Not my speed, but what IS my speed is, the popcorn offered the option of REAL butter. Simply put, best popcorn I've had at the movies, maybe ever.

We find "our" seats, pops in hand, and again, all of the people with the dope seats came RIGHT before the movie started, because they could. So basically, if you were observing from above, you'd have seen this ring of people slowly enveloping the prime middle seats, like a virus. The previews are about to start, and this usher comes out like he's one part steward, one part curator, to tell us what we're about to "experience." He offers that he and his "colleagues" will be popping in and out, making sure everything is hunky dory. A far cry from my days as a ticket monkey, where we ushers shared a disdain with the patrons that they felt right back at us. We offered to ignore the patrons if they'd ignore us.

Much like the Chinese theater, this one was equipped with great seats, completely unobstructed views, a booming sound system, and a huge screen. Apparently, they have an additional theater, known simply as, "The Dome" that defies cinematic description. Like, this is where you go to be blown away by a great sci-film or something. http://www.arclightcinemas.com/Arclight/dome.html?path=about

I have to say, it's pretty neat living in the movie capital of the world. Rare was the opportunity back east to see a movie as it was intended to be seen. More often than not, it was like watching our big screen t.v. at home, except with strangers. Here, great theaters are the norm. Now, the studios need to pay as much attention to the filmmaking as the theaters seem to be paying to the film halls. The prices were not so hot, but at least I can see what the money is going towards. Overall though, the Arclight represents a pretty unique movie-going experience.

Fine and Dandy

So, I've been working in Redondo Beach for like 6 weeks now. I have to say, I'm fascinated and down right flummoxed as to what to make of the child culture around here. When it's all said and done, I'll probably sound like a jerk for some of my possible grievances, but hey, I'm a California free spirit now. Don't fence me in!

One the one hand, I would describe the enviornment as idyllic for a child. Truly. The sun shines every day. There are wonderful athletic facilities (baseball diamonds, baskeball courts, soccer fields). No milk crate basketball hoops out here. The little leagues (to me, little league baseball is THE best, most wholesome thing a child can do) have well manicured fields, lights, the whole magilla. (I pass this one "stadium" that is for little league, but rivals a minor league ball park, complete with like, a proper concession stand I think). Most importantly, one gets the sense that the parents really care. Every day, I see SO many parents just on the streets, interacting with the kids. The soccer moms in full force, the dads playing catch, etc. And equally as important, you get the sense that it's safe here.

All of that is fantastic. Truly wonderful stuff. This is what 99% of the world WISHES for. And make no mistake, any gripes I have do not stem from what you would call sour grapes. I have no complaints about my childhood at all. My childhood was very similar to what I've described. "Cosbyesque" if you will. But there is one HUGE difference: Our Pro-Keds and Toughskins managed to touch the ground and get scuffed up once in a while.

Mind you, no one is ever going to get me confused with Mike Tyson. I'm far from the biggest, baddest, mf'er on the block ('lessin' you're referring to my old band in New York, Miller's Farm www.millersfarm.net). I'm a diplomatic pacifist if you will. That said, a little conflict, a little dirt under the fingernails, a little scraped up skin is not the worst thing in the world from time to time. I bring this up because it has become apparent to me that these west coast beach dandies are absolutely coddled out here. Just babied beyond belief. And I think the end result will be that these kids will grow up to be SOFT.

Just a few examples of what I'm talking about. When I was a kid, I never owned a bike helmet. Never owned elbow or knee pads. In fact, not only did I/we ride au naturale, I also got bullied and harrassed on my bike often, AND lived with the spectre of the "Newark Kids" coming to steal our bikes, as the urban legend went. And it was O.K. I got threw it just fine, thanks. Here, I see every kid (and parent) riding with a helmet and pads. But this goes beyond just when you're riding like Quicksilver through the "mean streets" of Redondo (I, unscientifically have counted an average of say, 1 car/10 minutes to be "dodged"). I saw a kid with the requisite safety gear......in his driveway.....with freakin' training wheels on. I almost pushed the kid off his bike just on spiteful principle. May as well pack him in bubble wrap at that point. And please, no one comment, "well it's now the law." I don't care.

Exhibit B - In South Orange (again, this is not Camden, NJ, this is lil' South Orange, NJ), we had a big ol' park right across the street from my house. But sometimes, we just felt like playing street football. Just because. We'd all assemble on Irving avenue, and set up shop in between the parked cars and such. And every third or fifth play, someone would yell, "car!" Everyone moves out of the way, life goes on. Here, I was driving home the other day, and I come up on some kids playing street hockey. "Hey, great! Nice game to put some hair on their chests." Then as I get closer, I see this store bought, cautionary like, traffic sign, that made me sick. It was like a bigger "Baby On Board" kind of thing, but placed in the street, so as to protect the cherubs from the likes of big, bad, me. "Caution: Children at Play" or something. Again, I almost ran the sign over out of spiteful principle.

Exhibit C - Really, this sums it all up better than anything. Back east, it was quite common to see a pair of kicks dangling from the phone lines, laces tied together. Some kid would get caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time, and get beaten up for his sneakers, and there they'd be, dangling for all to see. Last week, honest to God, I saw a similar sight out here. Difference was, it wasn't a fresh pair of Jordan's hanging. No, it was two pine cones. PINE CONES. Like, I can picture three third graders after school. "All right Bobby. Drop the paste, and give up the cones!" I swear, I'm looking at South Orange now like it was Fort Apache - The Bronx relative to this.

Is it me? Am I nuts here? I mean, I learned valuable life lessons as a kid through the periodic childhood "tragedy" that these kids are being shielded from. 'Don't dive on the concrete (Dave W.)'. 'Don't believe it when the kids threaten to blackmail you to the cops for something you didn't do (true story)'. 'I canNOT bunnyhop a Mongoose bike over two of my friends laying side by side.' 'If "Moonhead" Rhoulac asks you to "borrow" a quarter, he actually has no intention of paying you back, lest you make the mistake of asking him for it.' Etc. Practical life lessons that have replayed themselves in the adult world.

Maybe this is how life truly can be? Maybe, if everyone adopted this stance, the world would be a better place, and kids everywhere COULD live in such edens, in childhood and beyond? Hey, I'm not yet a parent (unless you count my pig and cat). I'm just going from instinct. I think you have to get knocked down early a few times, to know you can get back up. Life doesn't come with elbow pads and a helmet.

Hard to ReL.A.X.

My daily commute takes me by right by LAX on the 405. Not by the terminal, which features an interesting light display, as well as a 70's relic restaurant from the "not too distant future," that looks like it may even spin, but by the runways. Over the past month or so, I've been developing an uncomfortable fixation on it, particularly on the evening commute home. See, the planes that are arriving fly RIGHT over the highway. I could be wrong, but I'm guessing that the runway is no more than a half-mile from the road. What I find particularly odd is, the geniuses at city planning decided to line up the runway perpendicularly to the freeway so as to create this awkward cohabitation between commuter planes and commuter cars. I almost get the impression that back in the day, some eccentric billionaire like Mr. Burns was in charge of the whole thing, and, playing pin the tail on the donkey with a local map, decided, "I want the airport to be right THERE!" "But sir, don't you think that's perilously close to the roads?" "No. Right there. Just make it happen."

So the net result is, you get these planes coming in, flying literally maybe 80 feet above the road (I used some modest office buildings in the vicinity for scale). Worse yet, there are TWO runways parallel to each other. Sometimes the planes are staggered, but sometimes they come in in tandem, like they're drag racing. Unlike any other city I've experienced, L.A. offers HUGE panoramic vistas. On days when the smog is in remission, I swear you can see like 80 miles east, mountains lining the entire backdrop. There are no skyscrapers obstructing the view like I'm accustomed to. You can trail these planes from about the time the pilot instructs you to put your tray up and return your seat to the upright position, if one is so inclined.

Again, I'm increasingly fascinated/disturbed by this routine that's developing for me. As I make my way hoe amongst the other Joe Lunch Pails, I find myself watching the planes in, probably to the point of being dangerous to my driving. I was in Manhattan on 9/11. I miraculously lost no one I know, and at no time was I ever directly in harms way. That said, I WAS in the city (actually in transit on the subway at the time the first plane hit), and obviously I've been affected. Ever since, I've had a borderline unhealthy preoccupation with some of the footage (I watch it on the internet more often than I care to admit), simply because it represented the starkest, most dramatic event of my life, and it happened in my backyard. It's STILL surreal to me. One of my personal legacies from that day is that ever since, before I moved, every time I was walking the streets, and a plane was low enough for me to see or hear, I'd always think, JUST for a second, that it was happening again. So now, as I pass these low-riding flying behemoths every day, they keep looking like kamikaze missles to me, and it bothers me just enough to keep me uncomfortable. Independent of my 9/11 baggage, I think my own common sense would tell me, "These planes have no business flying so close to the road. They have no margin for error."

I don't know what all this means. I certainly don't expect the city planners to happen upon the blog and be like, "He's RIGHT! We need to change the whole thing!" I just think the whole thing is odd, and it happens to strike a particular nerve with me. So I guess the lesson here is, "Keep your distance from my car during my evening commute, lest my eyes stray towards an oncomming plane and I vere out of my lane."

No shirt, no shoes...DICE!!!!

So, having been back at work or a month or so, I've now been immersed in the Redondo/Hermosa/Manhattan Beach communities long enough to make a few observations, at least as they pertain to the lunch and rush hours.

I've taken a shine to a little Mexican greasy spoon just off of the beach. It's cheap, with good sized portions, and frankly, delicious. (Ironically, it's one of the few places I've seen WITHOUT Mexican kitchen help.) Anyway, I go there about once a week, and it continues to crack me up. Clearly, I've stumbled upon a little surfers mess hall, as the walls are lined with signed photos of surfers, as opposed to the usual head shot photos of mediocre celebrities (the kind that would actually think to carry head shots with them for just such an occasion) you'd see in a comparable diner. And apparently, within the surfer world, any semblence of understanding of the social contract is non-existant.

A week or two ago, on the first really hot day out here (like 85 degrees), I happened to go to this place for lunch. I get inside, and these dudes are chillin', eating their burritos, sporting nothing more than their Jams or wet suits. That's it. Not EVEN flip-flops. Jeff Spicoli in real-time, 3D. At first I was thinking, "Right on! Who needs the artificial constraints of society?! Be free!" Then I kept on thinking, "Wait a minute, I don't like to eat food in my own HOME in just a pair of shorts and no shirt! Not even my bagel with cream cheese on the laziest, sloppiest Sunday in the world. That's not even comfortable! And hot Mexican food?? That's just plain loco!"

I've also discovered that there is a revolution in physics taking place. They are literally, completely re-working our understanding of the workings of time out here. See, back in New York, I'd dash out to the deli or something at lunch, for a quick bite. This place would be like 8 deep on the line, and they'd still get me a HOT sandwich within 5 minutes. In the mornings, these 3 cooks would take these MASSIVE construction site orders, (one guy ordering for like 20 guys), each order more particular than the one before. "Gimme 3 eggs and bacon on wheat toast, with the top piece buttered, JUST on the outside, and the bottom piece with jelly, JUST on the inside. Make one egg poached, one egg scrambled, and one egg with the yolk leaking, eeeever so slightly." 20 of these orders at once, knives flying, fingers in constant peril, and they whisk us all in and out. Here, I go in, and there's like 5 people in the restaurant. 3 of them are already eating. So one guy has his order in already. "Cool. I'll be out of here in no time," I think. I order my quesedilla to go. 5 minutes pass. At 10 minutes, I see the first guy's come out. At 15 minutes mine comes out.

I started thinking, "How can this be? It defies everything I've ever learned. 20 people served in 5 minutes, vs. 2 people served in 20 minutes. What kind of f'd up inverse relationship is going on here? Did I used to live in a worm hole or something? Is someone, somewhere travelling at the speed of light, thus slowing down all sense of time?" I figured it out though. THEY DON'T MULTI-TASK here. Cook gets an order, and he doesn't move from it until it's DONE. Start to finish. No interruptions. Can't be disturbed, lest anything happen to the huevos rancheros.

But it's not just this one place. It's everywhere. I keep getting in trouble no matter where I go. On the busier days, I'm like, "Holly, I'll be right back. Gonna grab some lunch." I keep taking the bait, and keep getting burned. I just don't see how these places can afford to exist. They process like 10 orders/hour. For real. What kind of profit margins do they have where they can get away with this? I swear I'm gonna start my own restaurant. I can't cook worth squat, but hell if I wouldn't get the food out quickly.