PART II : AIDED BY JOHNNY & ANGELINA
August 1, 2011 § Leave a comment
On Day 1 of a juice cleanse (or any cleanse for that matter), watch The Tourist.
The benefits far outweigh the cost.
Any growing appetite you may have will quickly evaporate upon watching this stupefying piece of celluloid offal. In fact, the urge to send whatever is left in your stomach in an upward direction may be overwhelming.
I write this at twilight on Day 2. We just finished playing a game popular with World War 2 soldiers adrift on rafts with no supplies, that of discussing one’s favourite meals. Those guys had it easy; they had no choice but to starve. We, on the other hand, live agonizingly close to:
7-Eleven : The word slurpee has never sounded so appealing. Even the blue one, whipped up by old, monocle-adorned, secretive Austrian men in a lab in New Jersey.
Wok To Go : Our local Chinese eatery. Their Kung Pao chicken now having the same effect on my psyche as Miss Kenway’s sheer, translucent skirt in fifth period History, circa 1987. Everything from ancient Greece through to the Russian Revolution is a blur.
Western Bagels : I didn’t realize there were so many other Jews in LA. I only wish, for the sake of my own advancement, that there were more in the entertainment industry with any influence. But the rye bagels here are so good I almost forget my feelings of religious isolation.
Sushi joint (can’t remember the name) : The woman at the host stand (could be the owner) is kind of snarly. What is her problem? All I said was that between her restaurant, the aforementioned Chinese place next door and the Kung fu Dojo on the other side, all we needed was a dry cleaners and “it’ll be yellow fever around here”. But meant as a compliment, because as I then told her, “you little buggers are so industrious.” My spicy tuna roll has never tasted quite the same since.
Albertsons : Yesterday I railed against these corporate behemoths. Sorry, guys. I was out of line. Now ring up my goddamned steroid-laced, factory-tortured roast chicken and shut your mouths.
Dell Taco : There’s a young lady who works at this fine purveyor of authentic Mexican cuisine who knows me. It’s always a lovely feeling to be able to have a place where everyone knows your name, where I can march in and announce “the usual”. This lovely young slave labourer is my Sam Malone, my free psychiatrist. I pour my heart out to her as she gathers my large french fries and regular coke. We share knowing glances at the foolishness of the drive-by customers – “yes sir, of course our beef is made up entirely of cowmeat and meets FDA regulations.”
Alas, none of those houses of ill repute will garner a dime from me this evening. Why would they, when we have, in our trusty refridgerator, all the fricken kale and beets we can drink?