Mais Oui! Cooking classes at Sur La Table!

TVs are set up so you can watch others at close range

Sur La Table, French for "on the table," has always been the Los Angeles go-to place for truffle oil, crab leg snappers and other sundry dining items. Conveniently located at the Original Farmers Market on 3rd and Fairfax, the prices are a little less shameless than Williams Sonoma, they sell tons of fun trinkets for gift bags and, as I had recently found out, they teach cooking classes.

Yep, I did this.

Time Warner treated us to a night of French epicurean lessons, and the fabulous sit-down meal, where we could enjoy the fruit our labors. Of course we washed the whole thing down with bottles (and bottles!) of wine, then were sent on our merry way with culinary gift bags. 

This was also me.

I recommend taking a class, even if a seasoned cook, just to brush up on some new tips and ideas. While it may be considered pretentious to "over-pronounce French words with a French accent" (the hilarious complaint in Friends with Kids) it's honorable to be able to pronounce the dishes you learned how to cook yourself. It's even better to cook with all that butter.

Do I even need to say it?

Time to sample the goods

the three amigos

Neon Tour of Los Angeles

Most locals scoff at tour buses driving by, but I feel a sense of pride when seeing one near my home. It's a sign I'm in a enviable zip code. Or adjacent to one anyway. Plus, how nice would it be to cruise atop a city bus in the open air?

That's one of the things that excited me about the neon bus tour of Los Angeles. People meet up at the Neon Museum downtown and pile onto a bus top to cruise the streets of Los Angeles in the cool night air.

If one is scanning their mind to think of a memorable neon sign to check out but is drawing a blank, you aren't the only one. Vegas we're not. L.A. is not a town known to preserve any architectural integrity or history. Most neon signs are gone. The most concentrated area is on Wilshire, between Koreatown and downtown, where Gaylord and other vintage signs lend a little class a la old New York.

Otherwise, we'd be on the 101 looking at a big exterminator sign. The tour guide said it used to be great, with neon rats blinking across it, but they had to dismantle that part because it distracted drivers and caused car accidents. Why were we there then? We sit next to that exterminator sign in traffic every day. And driving by Amoeba Music to listen to the tour guide talk about how their sign is a "Neon Don't" doesn't count, since they think it sucks. No one pays for a tour to see things that suck.

Yes, the tour is a bit gimmicky given the lack of signs. But you can't blame the museum for trying, since they do have an affinity for history. Besides, their little neon museum can't be bringing in that much. It was romantic cruising around atop a bus in the cool night air, a belly full of red wine from the pre-ride reception at the museum. As long as you don't expect to be blown away, it's pretty nice.

As if ugly people in L.A. don't have it hard enough...

There's an urban legend that says sorority girls take newbies going through rush and make them undress. No, this is not some stupid boy fantasy that involves nighties and pillow fights. No giggling, no flying feathers. Rumor has it that the sorority girls take a magic marker and highlight all the incoming girls' flaws. This isn't true, (I'm an Alpha Gam. Shut up.) but it's still scary. Unattractive people have a tough lot.

It's common knowledge that good-looking students are subconsciously favored by teachers and as adults, fare much better with job interviews. Here is Los Angeles, even good-looking people are bland, and don't get the good compliments until they go back to their hometowns. Things are different now. Back in the 80's, it was encouraging to see what passed for pretty in the movies. Look at Leah Thompson, to the right. Would she or Phil Collins be able to carve out a career for themselves these days? Eighties "hot chicks" girls had messed up teeth and even (gasp!) a tiny bit of body fat. Demi Moore, Julia Roberts and others were heavier before starving themselves down to keep themselves in the game.

Adding insult to injury, we now have job sites that CATER to pretty people. At Beautiful Job Seekers only the pretty may apply so they can go pretty up another office. The site even has a smutty rating system for visitors, feeding our desire to judge and rip people to shreds. Not that the job seekers (and those insecure freaks craving validation) aren't asking for it. Offices willing to lower themselves to this gimmick apparently do not put emphasis on experience or intelligence. "Resumes are so 2010, I need cup size!" Even if they use Beautiful Job Seekers for the classic front desk receptionist position, it still reeks of 50's sexism.

Even weirder is Spirited Sales, who hires ex cheerleaders for sales jobs because, you know, they have spirit. Pep. Can I get an L? Can I get an A? Can I get an M? Can I get an E? What's that spell? Caution, those recruited by these companies needn't know the answer. That's not their job.

Financial Plan B - Game Shows!

Blame it on the fanatics cluttered around the gates of CBS Studios, but I realized that living in Los Angeles is like sitting on a goldmine of potential funds - game shows!

Americans come in droves from all over the country on a cash pilgrimage that could change their lives, yet to most of us Angelenos, it never even crosses our minds. The Price is Right has a kitschy cult following, and if one demonstrates an unhinged enthusiasm, they have a better chance of getting in. Cameramen even slide by the awaiting lines, giving people their one chance to shine on tape. Desperate fans camp out overnight on the dicey sidewalks outside of CBS Studios. I see them every time I drive by. Families from Wisconsin don giant plastic hats made to look like cheese, Masons arrive in red hats with black silk tassels, and Jersey moms show up with perms and day-glo acrylic tips to match their fanny packs.

I tried getting in to The Price is Right, but my inability to rise at 4 am combined with a general lack of excitement bordering psychosis ruined my chances. If I came with an entourage of manics in matching ensembles, you bet I would have made it.

I'm pretty good at Trivial Pursuit, so I went after Trivial Pursuit America Plays, the television equivalent. Except that it's not. I've played every manner of Trivial Pursuit; the 20th Century Edition, the Genus Edition, I've played drunk, sober, and angry. But what's played on T.V. is not the same.

Every potential contestant goes through a screening process in which they're handed a questionnaire. Instead of asking questions about, say, American history, sports and film, more than half of the questions covered pseudo-celeb reality stars such as Kim Kardashian, and really bad T.V. shows such as Veronica's Closet and The Apprentice. It turns out that if you're not glued to the tube, and pre-dawn hours of the tube at that, you don't stand a chance. When our contestant "quizzes" were graded by the show's employees, they said to remain seated even if we hear our name called. They rattled off a long list. My name was called. When they finished, they said, "If your name was called, you are not qualified to play. Please leave the premises and have a nice day." Slowly, we rose. All of us who knew of botany and international food, music composers and geography did the walk of shame off the studio lot.

If sitting in front of the television all night while the world is happening all around me is the only way to score a few grand, then count me out. At least the show was honest about the type of content it covers: trivial. Now I wonder if Wheel of Fortune tapes in L.A....

Hotel del Hype

Where I grew up, everyone was surrounded by battlefields, colonial homes and historic landmarks. My old friend found a Civil War coin in her creek. Another used to camp out beside the Revolutionary War trench in her backyard. We were surrounded by the romance of history and the possibility of hauntings. I lived just outside of D.C. in Virginia, and every school made the pilgrimage to the reportedly haunted Ford Theatre. Alcohol also feeds the curiosity, and when away at college down South, we crept around abandoned plantations and old corn fields, just to see if we could feel something.

Here in Los Angeles, there isn't much left standing that could spark the spirit of adventure. Mexican battlefronts are now paved strip malls, gone are the crumbling, moss-covered graveyards and nearly all Victorian homes have been razed, eliminating even the appearance of a haunted house. But we do have the Hotel Del Coronado just off the coast of San Diego.

Legend has it, the ghost of Kate Morgan haunts the hotel, and her visage has been seen by staff and guest alike. Kate was a young woman who checked in over Thanksgiving weekend in 1892 under the alias Lottie Bernard. She stayed a few days, and the staff became increasingly concerned about how upset she seemed. After taking a street car into San Diego to buy a gun and ammunition, she killed herself on the steps of the hotel leading to the ocean. Other guests at the time reported that Kate seemed to be watching and waiting constantly, as if expecting someone to meet her at the hotel. No one ever came.

It's not that I'm insensitive to the plight of Abraham Lincoln, slaves and suicidal Victorian brides. My love of history mixed with the fact that I like being scared force me to seek these things out. I can't help myself.

My husband and I flew down the freeway to Coronado Island, just off the coast of San Diego. As we approached the infamous hotel, I was reminded of the repeated images I had seen in many a dragged-out History Channel documentary. You know the kind, with the creepy music and the promise to unfold the mystery right after the 18th commercial break. I wanted it to feel cavernous and lonely inside, like the hotel in The Shining.

It was beautiful. The dark, wood-paneled interiors had vaulted ceilings. The elevator was an iron cage. The darkness was contrasted by the white beaches outside. But I felt nothing. I ignored the signs and trespassed down the hallways, especially by room #3327, where most of the activity is said to take place. Nothing. I stalked the gift shop, where things were reported to have flown off the shelves. I lounged in different lobby enclaves, sinking into overstuffed antique furniture. Still nothing.

But all is not lost. Any East Coast transplant dying to escape the yawn-worthy architecture of Los Angeles should take in the place. Hollywood hails Frank Gehry's Walt Disney Concert Hall as a masterpiece, but after seeing the Hotel Del Coronado, they'll be astonished to discover they've been brainwashed. Upon returning from the "Hotel Del" as locals call it, Angelenos will realize that Mr. Gehry's creation is but a giant replica of crumpled tin foil.

Besides, what would I get out of seeing a reportedly depressed ghost? Terror and sadness? Why do I seek out such things? I can get terror and sadness locally. Trolling the streets of Watts, I can blast country music, heckle idiot gangsters and they can make a ghost of me.

Hometown Spirit

You don't need to be from Chicago to see how hardcore they are about their hometown. Abusive relationships with their sports teams abound. Residents never leave The Windy City, and in the rare occasion they do, they wail about it the entire time. Before a warm Malibu sunset, you'll hear Chicagoans reminisce about shoveling out their driveways in sub-zero temperatures.

Where is the love in Los Angeles? Half the people here are transplants, and the only brotherhood we're known for are the Menendez brothers. Angelenos from the East Coast and San Francisco claim intellectual superiority based on geography. Half the time they can't back it up and the locals are sick of it.

In my inbox, I received a Chicago Friends vs. Regular Friends email. Like all things hyping Chi-town, it was prideful of their wholesome, "America's-Heartland-meets-the-big-city"quality.

It was time to take a stand.

This is Los Angeles, for goodness' sake. We have kickin' Mexican food, Topanga Canyon, open bar red carpet events and beach sunsets every night. Are we all really that miserable that we can't pull together? I made a Chicago Friends vs. Los Angeles Friends version, using all the same answers from the Windy City.

Enjoy!

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Always bring the food.
L.A. FRIENDS: Don't eat, so more for you!

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Cry with you.
L.A. FRIENDS: Always have Valium.

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Will give you a big hug and a kiss.
L.A. FRIENDS: Never get slobber on your make-up - air kisses!

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Could write a book with direct quotes from you.
L.A. FRIENDS: Can recommend a great book agent.

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Will spend the night in jail with you.
L.A. FRIENDS: Would call your publicist, pronto.

CHICAGO FRIENDS: Have your number memorized.
L.A. FRIENDS: Prefer Blackberries over rotary phones.

...just sayin'

The Moth

Note to performance artists: Spreading mayonnaise on your face to protest your history of child abuse is a selfish way to obtain attention. Therapy is much more direct. In fact, you'll need a few extra sessions to get over the fact that you spread mayonnaise on your face. In public. And don't even get me started on spoken word.

Angelenos and New Yorkers, if you want to have a beer while being intellectually stimulated, you needn't endure people slathering themselves in fatty condiments. There will be no more of that screaming over your Sam Adams pretending to have a real conversation. It's high time you discovered The Moth. What started as a simple storytelling phenomenon in New York City is now booming in LaLa Land.

It started small on the West Coast, with a group of about 15 insiders gathering at Tangiers in Los Feliz to share stories. But just last month, hundreds of people crammed into El Cid to take in the Love Hurts-themed stories. Was it the subject matter that drove in the crowds? Everyone has a story to tell when it comes to broken hearts. "Except the ones who are dead inside," noted M.C. Brian Finkelestein. He then rethought the statement to the standing room-only crowd. "No, even if you are dead inside, you've got a story."

People from all walks of life grab cocktails, throw their names in a bag, and hope to be one of the ten people picked to share their personal story. There's a five minute limit on stage, and stories must follow the evening's theme. The encouraging audience sits rapt and judges rate your story from one to ten. Any preconceived notions of pretentiousness are quickly dissolved. Since none of the storytellers are allowed to do stand-up or character pieces, every story, whether good or bad, is real. The nervous speakers endear themselves to you. The laughter is often, the tears are occasional.

The sudden boom in popularity is not surprising. Los Angeles is a town doling out broken dreams on a daily basis. Everyone from disgruntled actors to unemployed philosphy professors have taken the stage. But this is no soap box for the downtrodden, most stories are a celebration of the everyday absurd. Even celebrities have caught the bug. Molly Ringwald has been a judge. Margaret Cho, Ethan Hawke and Moby have been storytellers. Prairie Home Companion legend Harrison Keillor and actor John Turturro recently hosted the annual Moth event.

If you're looking for more substantial, dare I say reflective, entertainment that goes above and beyond watching drunk blondes riding mechanical bulls on Sunset, it's high time you experienced The Moth.

Palm Reading

Blame it on the blustery East Coast winters of my childhood, but the image of a palm tree has always been a sign of the good life. Corona commercials and movies about L.A. even use palm trees to express when someone’s finally “arrived.” In Los Angeles, even the most formidable South Central ghettos are prettier than the mean streets of D.C. because of the foliage. Since I’m not a native Angeleno, I don’t take the tropical wonders for granted. Even if they aren’t native to California and were imported from Mexico. Even when palms shoot up between doughnut shops and jail bond shacks with empty bags of Hot Cheetohs scattered around the base.

Luckily, my backyard offers the dramatic view of a palm stark against the wide open sky. I like to lean back in my lawn chair and take it in with a nice cocktail. I sigh and pretend to believe this view is symbolic of the good life I am now living. Because of its immense height, the palm is the last thing to catch the sun as it sets in the west, and it glows bright yellow against a pink and purple sky. In the moonlight, the fronds shimmer in blue, free from the shadowy clutter on the ground. When there’s a breeze, it rustles like a faraway forest. It bends toward the sun. When windy, it performs yoga.

Once, when I thought my stress was going to break me, my friend Chrystina offered sage advice. “Think of a palm tree,” she said, “during the most violent storms, it doesn’t fight the wind and snap. It adapts and bends with it.” This is when I admit that while I live among the palms now, I still have yet to “arrive.” But much like the palm, I’ve learned to bend. Even if the trees don’t grant a life of decadence, it’s still the good life.

It Ain't Easy Being a Soap Star Villain

The term soap opera has it's origins in the 1930's, when dramatic daytime radio shows were geared towards women as they cleaned their homes. Palmolive and Brillo paid for the programs to they could advertise to their core audience.

The term soap opera sounds so clean and wholesome. That is, until my grandmother found out I met a villain from The Young and The Restless. "What?!" she screeched into the phone. "You're going to hang out with that motherf***er?" I was taken aback, "Well, yes. I thought you'd be excited. You've been watching the show since I was a kid."

"Why should I be excited that you're hanging out with a God*** a**hole who doesn't even care about his family?"

"He's in the tabloids?"

"No, his God**** family on TV! He has a guard sitting outside his f***ing office and he won't even let his kids in to see his sorry a**."

"But you know that's not real."

"I know, I know. Just do your grandmother a favor. When you see him, slap him across his God**** snotty face."

Eric Braeden plays villain Victor Newman on The Young and the Restless. I don't watch soaps, but was thrilled to go to his party for the sake of my family. They would want to know everything, down to whether or not he puts in his toilet paper backwards. Mr. Braeden hails from Germany and had catered a gourmet spread of sausages, kraut and potato salad. As everyone mingled in his sprawling backyard, I noticed that his Pacific Palisades home overlooked the ocean. A stunning wall of mist flowed inland and thought of how lucky Mr. Braeden was. Barefoot and casual in his own backyard, surrounded by friends and admirers, he seemed to have it all. What with valets parking my car, the Pacific roaring behind me, top notch catering, gorgeous home and an adoring wife, it seemed perfect.

Then I remembered that delusional old bats like my grandmother would make sure he never ate a peaceful meal in a restaurant or be allowed to relax on the beach. Lurking in grocery stores and at malls everywhere, hordes of geriatrics are ready to assault him with oversized bags and scream obscenities until their dentures pop out. Knowing my grandmother, I realized that not only does Eric deserve what he has, but also a home in Germany, Long Island, an entire island in the Caribbean, and a fleet of yachts to get him there.

Recessionista

Silverlake is the Brooklyn of Los Angeles. Hipsters in skinny jeans took over apartments and opened boutiques, determined to make the place their own. Like Brooklyn, the new residents ignored the neighborhood's checkered past and redefined it as a subculture mecca, for good or for Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I sometimes felt like an outsider shopping at these boutiques, as if wearing a fanny pack only they could see. The aloof shop girls and boys were pin thin, had perfectly mussed hair and were always listening to an indie band that was 3 months ahead of my own natural discovery. I on the other hand eat gluten, have shiny hair and still like The Shins.

Well, the economy has rocked even this stalwart Indier-Than-Thou scene. Boutiques are struggling, and instead of peering at one another like nosy neighbors to see who falls first, they have decided to band together. Los Feliz and Silverlake shops set up booths and threw a Recessionista party! There was an open bar, a DJ and heart-stoppingly low prices. As I perused aisle after aisle of reinvented vintage and owl pins made of felt, I felt the love between the once-competitive designers. As the free liquor flowed, there was much, "I've always admired your knitwear," and "I have been jealous of your window displays for years!"

It was nice. Or maybe it was my armful of $4 tees from Blood is the New Black. Regardless, they are learning to love thy neighbor, and their community rushed out to love thy sale. These hipsters are hell-bent on making their neighborhood thrive so they can once again peer at us civilians with the fanny packs only they can see.

Thank You, Los Angeles!

In light of Thanksgiving, I'd like to thank the City of Angels for the following:

- This week's romantic downpours and thunderstorms

- Sharon Wysong, the hottest masseuse in L.A.: http://www.studiocitymassagetherapy.com/

- The L.A. Public Library - We can drop off books at any branch & rent stacks of free movies!

- Frog Island's unapologetic, un-P.C. hilarity: http://www.frogislandcomedy.com/

- The leash-free dog beach in Long Beach

- Bryan Kest's Power Yoga: http://www.poweryoga.com/

- The glorious Mexican food

Things I WISH I was thankful for:

- The overturning of Prop 8

- Heidi and Spencer getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle

- All press who still consider them "news" following them into the Bermuda Triangle

Happy Thanksgiving!