S n a r k A t t a c k

Bring on the Dancing Horses

Hollywood Park has seen better days. 

The GF and I paid the aging racetrack a visit a few weeks ago for a friend of a friend's birthday, excuse enough for us to venture beyond the confines of West Hollywood. Being relatively new to LA, we were happy to explore new areas.  What we got was a strangely long drive down La Cienega, which turns into a mini-freeway in Texas, or at least that's what it seemed like as it suddenly grew dusty and rural, the tableau completed by a working oil well to the east.   Eventually we arrived in a rough area (which we now know to be Inglewood), and there it was:  Hollywood Park.  The parking, acres and acres of it, was laughably expansive, a reminder of the track's former glory perhaps, which now served as an asphalt moat, creating distance between the track and its poorer neighbors.

When we got to the clubhouse - we'd paid a $20 premium each for this privilege - we witnessed attire that technically satisfied the dress code but which in practice created the effect of a men's fashion show consisting half of Abe Vigoda's wardrobe, circa 1977, and the other half, Nick Tortelli, circa 1986.  It was fascinating. 

But while the clubhouse couldn't shake the seaminess inherent in playing the ponies, the casino next door had clearly succumbed to its fate as a low-rent Harrah's.  It was beyond seedy: it was thuggish, so much so that when the GF and I were standing near some poker tables, trying to figure out what they were playing, a security guard wandered over. At first, being the Catholics that we are, we'd assumed we were in trouble. But no: he merely wanted to tell us how to get into a game if we wanted, and then, if we did play, that we should not hesitate to call security if someone starts 'bawling us out.'  What I heard was: A) Get into a game, B) prepare to be harassed.  He continued, 'We'll remove that person immediately so you ladies won't have to worry,' smiling kindly.  It occurred to me that removing someone from the premises appeared to be a fairly regular phenomenon at the Hollywood Park Casino.  We asked him if he ever played at the casino.  'No way.  I saw a man outside crying his eyes out because he just lost his house.  I had to tell him that he couldn't cry on the lawn.' 

With this and our likelihood of getting randomly 'bawled out' fresh in our thoughts, we headed back to the other side of casino where the tables were higher.  I'm not saying the stakes were higher, but that the tables were actually higher, so that we were all perched on stools.  That, and the tables all had big signs overhead advertising the various games available at each table:  Three Card Poker, Pai Gow Poker and 21.  (Pai Gow Poker is a mystery to me, but I would like to believe that if I ever learned how to play that when I put down a winning hand, I would surely go:  PAI GOW, motherfuckers!)

We watched our friend play some card game called Caribbean Poker which she swears gives you better odds of winning but it was hard to relax when the dealer kept moving the cards and chips around to ensure that 'they' had a look too, as he pointed at the camera directly overhead.   

Frankly, I've never had a thing for gambling.  I know people love it, but I just don't see the appeal.  The house always wins so you pay for a little entertainment.  I'd rather play a video game - it's more fun, costs less and generally lasts longer.  (This place?  Had Ms. Pac-Man.  Hello, Inky.  Do not believe you can escape my awesome clutches for I shall destroy you.) Besides, casinos make me anxious generally, even the nice ones.  It's the lights or the constant bing-bing-bing or Wheel! Of! Fortune! in the background, mixed with the maddening carpet designs so you never can remember how to get back to the exit or find the bathroom. 

Have you ever tried to find someone in a casino?  This is how it goes: "What?  No, I said I'm near the I Dream of Jeannie slots and the crap tables?  You are? Well, then where are you? What?  Get away from the damn Wheel of Fortune machine! I can't hear you - " And while they probably spend millions on making the casino nice and inviting by pumping in oxygen and giving you free drinks, watching these wretched old ladies perched on their stools, pushing the button on the slot machines and chain-smoking Marlboro lights - it just makes me sad.  They don't even look like they're having fun.

I bet they never get bawled out though.

My Favorite Things

It's asparagus season!  It's asparagus season!

As I run naked through the apartment, screaming this at the top of my lungs, I wonder - is this the day that I roast the asparagus and then make it into a savory soup?  Do I venture into the realm of asparagus-themed salads?  Or is this the day that I rely on my favorite preparation and douse them in olive oil and sautee the spears until they're slightly charred and perfectly wilty and then liberally crank salt all over them so you get that nice, sodiumARVELOUS crunch?  Oh, gentle readers, if you picked the latter, you were so very, very right.

And so it was that I was getting splatted by hot specks of olive oil - nothing fatal as I'd had the good sense to put a top on.  Nothing like pantsless veggie sauteeing, am I right, ladies?  Then as I stood there, using that most unloved but most usable of all kitchen utensils, the tongs, to gently turn my little green friends, I wondered, why was it that I was turning the veggies with my right hand, while my left hand was stuck straight out at my side?  I only look like a tight-rope walker but really, I'm just cooking.  (Check your own form, for I am certain that I am not alone in this.)

For the record, the asparagus was lovely but there was too much of it, so I gave some to the pups.  Not so much out of affection for them as much as it was an affection for that lady I like to call Science.  To wit:  will the dogs' pee smell of asparagus too?  Will I get close enough to notice?  These answers and more can be found - oh, never mind.

In other news, as I was salting the asparagus and getting ready to sit down to watch the ALMA Awards - now, with 20% more Longoria! - I thought to myself how much I love salt.  It makes everything so much better, even sweet things, which made me think of sea salt caramels.  Oh, delicious.  I love them so much that I can never have them in the house because even though I am blessed not to be at the mercy of a sweet tooth, I am powerless before these salty-sweet morsels of bliss.  They are, in fact, one of my favorite things. 

This of course got me thinking about how bummed I'd be if my 'favorite things' was confined to 'brown paper packages all tied up with string' or 'whiskers on kittens.'  You know what's creepy? Cats without whiskers, or as I call them: ferrets.  Really, the list needs some updating or at least some serious editing.  'Raindrops on roses.'  How about just roses?  Does 'a dozen long-stemmed roses' not trip off the tongue?  Does it not just beg to be hummed by the cloister-full?  Then there's 'silver white winters that melt into springs.'  Jeez, lady, how about just 'springtime'?  Springtime is awesome, no?  'Cream-colored ponies, doorbells and sleighbells' - my god, it's like Sylvia Plath's shopping list.    'Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes' - I don't get it.  For a chick all into spring, she seems unable to stop stalking winter.   'Bright, copper kettles.'  Pathetic.   'Crisp apple strudels.' Okay, this I get but 'girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes'?  Did I ever tell you that most lesbians have had a crush on Julie Andrews?  Something about a gal who can make clothes out of drapes.  Plus, so easy to date:

Here, honey, I got you a little present.

(shrieking) You got me a kettle!  You're the best!  And what's this?  (more shrieking)  A FERRET?! 

Followed by much defrocking and the sounds of, well, not music, per se... 

Speaking of cloisters, you shall find the GF, myself and a few thousand of our closest friends at the Abbey this weekend as we herald the start of Pride season.   (Asparagus season, we hardly knew ye.)