My Kingdom for a Bagel

So, my boy Z already chronicled our latest escapade on his monthly newsletter, but for those of you who do not receive the monthly, Verbal Warrior Society Breakdown/Beatdown, I'm gonna double up.
Z is a fellow New Yorker/Jersier, my former roommate of 4 years on 2nd Ave., among other things. He came out here maybe 7 years ago. He and I both have been on an unfulfilled quest to find a good bagel. Back east, we had a Sunday ritual where'd we'd rock the Ess-a-Bagels, at a mere fitty-cent per. I'd kick my everything bagel, dry, while Z would usually get a sesame or poppy, topped with a schmear of cream cheese and a slice of tomahto. Fat, thick, and absurdly topped, the grinchy old Jewish folk at Ess-a-Bagel set the gold standard for bageldom.
So, Z had gotten wind of the deli at Barney's having H&H bagels flown in. Personally, I never loved H&H. These would be the type you would have at your local street vendor back in NYC. Still, if they were home grown, they stood to be better than the local fare, so we were more than game. The Jints were taking on the Cowboys, so we figured we'd rekindle tradition with some sunday bagel/football action.
We hopped in my car, and made our way to Beverly Hills and right side of the tracks. We parked on the street, eschewing the valet, though I couldn't help but notice the collection of Maserati's, Mercedes, and such on the way inside. Sure, it was a public shopping mall, but I felt like I was inside a country club, filled with the stench of elitism as we made our way through cosmetics. We went up the elevator to the deli, and right away I sensed trouble. Where was the line outside the door? Where were the crotchety old Jewish folk? Where was that smell? That bagel smell. We pressed on, and came upon this reMARKably slow putz behind the counter. I say remarkably because I can't believe they get away with this guy catering to their high powered clientele. "I'd like 2 everything bagels please!" No everything. Z said, "I'd like 2 cinnamon raisin please!" No cinnamon raisin. I settle on an onion and a poppy, z, a poppy and a sesame. "That'll be $10 please." "I'm sorry, did you say TEN?" "Yes, ten." Ten dollars for 4 dry bagels. We're not on First Avenue anymore Dorothy.
Already there, we succumbed to the gouging and took our bagel booty home. We stopped at the Whole Foods to buy some toppings, refusing to submit to a further financial bloodletting at the deli. We got to Z's already anticipating that we'd been essentially had. Popped 'em in the toaster, topped 'em, prettied 'em up as best we could. Now for the moment of truth. Chomp. The verdict? Quintisentially sub-mediocre. We choked down round one, disgustedly. Watched the ball game. I said, "Z, you gonna eat you're second one?" "I suppose." "I'm gonna eat mine out of spite," which I did.
New York, New York it's a helluva town. The Bronx is up, and Ess-a-Bagel is down. Can't nobody dooz it like the good folks on First Ave. Belie' dat.

Pandora's Box

So Bubs and I have been here just over a year. Somehow, I've managed to NOT get to Amoeba records in all of this time. My boy Z had hipped me to it a while back, as THE wrecka stow (see "Under the Cherry Moon" for the geneis of "wrecka stow") in Los Angeles. What with the advent of the I-Pod, the greatest invention of my lifetime, I've spent the last few years slowly getting my cd collection uploaded onto it, and downloading the periodic single on line, such that I haven't had the need to frequent a record store. Amoeba is up on Sunset, right next door to my favorite theater, the Arclight, thus, I've passed it plenty of times. In search of a James Brown DVD, we figured we'd break the ice and check it out.

We park the car, and walk up a block to the entrance. There's a strange mix of folks, congregating at side. Tatted up, slacker looking punks, and oddly, a LOT of hip looking young Asian kids. Enough to where I wondered if we were coming up on an in-store appearance of the Wu-Tang Clan or something (the Wu are oddly, HUGE in Japan). Turns out, it's just business as usual. We venture inside, and instantly, the formerly deceptive vastness of this place hits us. Just gargantuan. Or dare I say, ginormous (I recently saw that somehow, that word that sounds like Phoebe from "Friends" talking has somehow made its way into accepted, dictionary veracular)?

Almost instantly, I'm practically short of breath at the overwhelming potential of this store. Where to start? I'd already decided that I deserved to treat myself to a cd or two. Now, faced with this seeminigly infinite selection, I realized my error in planning. Clearly, one needs a pointed agenda before setting foot into such an aural paradise. I compose myself enough to at least narrow down my options to the jazz section. But now what? The Duke? Miles? Trane? Do I go guitar? If so, who? Wes? Grant? Joe Pass? Do I go vocal? Someone I've heard of but never taken the plunge with? Problem is, if I go new, which album of say, Sun Ra, do I begin with? The stakes are too high to screw this up.

No. Clearly, going forward I need to do my homework BEFORE I get there. I need a game plan. I can't do this willy nilly. So, resigned to my fatal miscalculation, but still determined to leave with some type of musical booty, I opted for "Impressions" by John Coltrane, because I love him and it's a classic I didn't have, and a Wayne Shorter joint because I love Wayne, and my man Herbie Hancock is part of the ensemble.

The point is not to name drop my hipster musical sensibilities. The point is, this place is the bomb. The point is, ironically, in the same way I stubbornly (STUPIDLY) put off getting an I-Pod until my father got it for me, I similarly have denied myself this unbelievable resource. So much music, not enough time.

Bright Stars and Bright Teeth

Well folks, the last 3 months have been a bit topsey-turvey to say the least. Thanksgiving travel, the passing of my grandmother, more travel, the ending of my job/job hunting, Christmas travel, sore hands, etc., has made blogging a bit sporadic to say the least. But with some time on my hands, at least for right now, and my hands healing a bit, I'm going to get back in the swing of things. Hopefully I can win my readership back.
Anyway, so I go to the dentist yesterday for a little annual cleaning. The guy tries to tell me I need to replace EVERY filling in my mouth with porcelain or something. Apparently, the mercury is slowly poisoning me. I just didn't know it. I say, "I've had these since about 1982, so I think I'm poisoned by now." Then, his asst. tries to sell me on his credentials by telling me about his French upbringing. As if I'm now supposed to say, "Oh, well that changes EVERYTHING. Replace every tooth in my mouth if you'd like. He's French, so it must be true."
I said, "My last dentist never said a word about this. Why not?" "Because 'ee iz, eh, how you say, 'stoo-peed. Zat ees vai." (I'm adding the Inspector Clouseau accent. He didn't have one. But he DID say 'stupid,' as in, 'stupid American'). I told ol' Marcel Marceau that I'd sleep on it and get back to him.
What was interesting to me was outside the office. His office is up on Hollywood Blvd. Apparently it's on the wrong side of the tracks of Hollywood Blvd., at least as far as the walk of fame goes. I mean no disrespect to the folks I'm going to mention, but while there were a few A-Listers, the 7000 block is populated predominantly by the C-Listers. 'Lessen of course, you consider Terry Bradshaw, Isabel Sanford, Mac Davis, The Osmonds and Don Cornelius as A-List. Plus, the physical location of the block leaves something to be desired. It's like on a dangerous corner at an awkward intersection. It's not near any tourist haunts. Really, it's just near, well, pompous French dentists. Like, the only one who'd know about where Weezie's star is located would be Sherman Hemsley.
Anyway, this is the kind of mundane minutiae you can now look forward to on the regular again folks. Happy New Year.