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Today, we received a humorous email from our Human Resources lady:

“Please don’t eat your co-worker’s food/leftovers/condiments. I am dismayed that I continue to get random complaints about food gone missing from the refrigerators here. STOP IT!”

Emails like that just tickle me pink.

Especially that last part. “STOP IT!” Like a spanking on the tushy for throwing our binky on the floor.

To picture those poor starving souls sneaking into the kitchen for a mid afternoon snack, unaware of the two cameras (no joke) watching them take my rancid leftovers (that had sat too long in my hot car before I was like “Oh, shit!” and ran back to the garage to retrieve them), makes me smile.

I wasn’t even going to eat them (just waiting for them to grow old enough to toss) and now this thieving individual will be bound to the restroom for the good part of the afternoon, because he dared snatch my petrie dish!

The shocking fact is that these warnings from our HR rep come out all too often. Mustard jars ravaged, milk supplies dwindling, yogurts kidnapped.

That ancient, frosty burrito finally seized from it’s arctic bed, inciting yet another Amber Alert from HR.

It’s an epidemic of boundaries being crossed. What’s yours is mine.

Someone thinks the refrigerator contains community foodstuffs.

Yes, that withered Caesar salad and expired vegan cheese was purchased by the company for your enjoyment.

I once experimented and made an Italian sausage and peanut sauce dish for lunch, which turned out HORRIFICALLY.

By 11 a.m. that morning, I had discovered it and the glass pyrex dish which lovingly contained this culinary abomination, had vanished.

I just wanted to see if any of my friends would be dumb enough to taste it.

Apparently, someone was.

CHABUYA:

Really delicious soup, supposed to be a bit spicy. Wasn’t remotely. But tasty nonetheless! Upscale setting, friendly staff, no complaints!

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  • August 11, 2011 8:24 am

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The Final Destination film series is really just a warning of the pitfalls of faulty maintenance.

If a screw comes loose (and it certainly does at the start of every scene) anywhere in a 5 block vicinity, you’re probably going to die after a domino affect of implausible events occurs.

Maintenance men across the country are shaking in their boots. Jobs will be lost, people.

Is this really the message we want to be sending in this economy??

We chat with Jebbediah and Gertie as we’re about to leave the after party. There is a crowd of about 30 people hovering outside, kept at bay by almost as many security folks.

These people are waiting to spot and then photograph a celebrity.

They’re not waiting for us.

It’s a special kind of mass rejection when 30 people look at you simultaneously, first with a glimmer of hope.

And then severe disappointment.

Especially when you’re sneaking desserts out of a restaurant like a loser.

Dead giveaway for a non-celebrity.

Angelina Jolie has handlers to carry her stolen desserts.

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  • August 10, 2011 6:00 am

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Jar's Signature Pot Roast

Jar is in my top FIVE favorite restaurants in Los Angeles.

This is a bold statement, I realize.

And I owe it all to the pot roast pictured above. It’s HEAVEN ON A STICK.

We gathered tonight for a dual birthday celebration. Thankfully, Thelma and Louise chose a restaurant I adore otherwise I’d have to think long and hard about showing my pretty face there.

Jar hits all the right spots. One day I should order something other than the pot roast.

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Before our lovely evening at Jar, some of us enjoyed a day on Lake Piru on our friend’s boat.

I need more friends with boats.

It should become more of a prerequisite for potential friendship.

Lake Piru is only 45 minutes north of LA and pretty damn…well, pretty!

We wake boarded and tubed (this is when you’re pulled on inner tubes at break neck speeds while the driver tries his darndest to cause permanent paralyzation) and had a picnic, while taking many dips in the water.

Which I was still somehow convinced was chock a block with dangerous sea snakes.

It was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time.

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Happy Birthday Thelma and Louise!

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  • August 9, 2011 8:31 am

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Coated in Powdered Lava imported from West Hell....

I’m gonna be graphic for a moment.

This delicious dish gave me some…issues.

Before I go into all of that, currywurst is German fast food consisting of chopped up sausages in a curry tomato sauce with bread to sop it all up with.

Sounds a little weird, right?

Perhaps. But SO good.

The issue was in the level of spiciness I chose.

Berlin Currywurst offers four levels, the top two boast a minimum age requirement of 16. (Clever marketing)

I chose level 3.

I’m a big (bun) boy, I knew I could handle it.

The problem wasn’t in how spicy it tasted….each bite contained the perfect amount of subtly painful heat.

The problem was, for the first time in my life, I experienced what spicy does AFTER digestion, and I don’t mean heartburn…

ON FIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Even after several humiliating sessions.

All that being said, I’ll be back for spice level 4!…When I have a week long staycation planned.

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  • August 7, 2011 5:27 pm

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Spring rolls with Tofu

It’s awesome having a good Thai joint a few blocks from your house!!

Shortest review in history?

Indeed. It’s Sunday and I’m exhausted.

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  • August 4, 2011 7:00 am

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Le Saigon is my go-to Vietnamese. Restaurant, not person.

Lightening fast service, super fresh and tasty food, great prices.

The best part is that we’ve been coming there for so long, they know our orders by heart and even remember I like an extra side of basil!

Zzzzzzzz…

Now that you’ve all fallen asleep, let’s get to the real meat of this blog posting.

It’s five in the morning and God knows why I’m up writing this when the time would be much better spent restlesslly tossing and turning.

I was thinking recently about all the gross things that we encounter in our daily lives which we freak out about.

And all equally nasty situations which we placidly ignore.

Let’s take the public restroom.

If we see something horrid left behind in the toilet or on the seat (or creatively smeared on the wall) we crunch up our face in disgust, utter a profanity under our breath and take action.

However men, every time you use the urinal, pee droplets splash back onto the front of your pants.

By the end of the day, your pants are practically soaked in your (and strangers’) urine and it’s not like we’re tossing those puppies in the wash as soon as we get home.

(Everyone knows that most men do not wash their pants until a visible stain/mark appears)

This is the reason our pets love to play in the laundry basket!

Touching door handles is another act I’m a freak about. Growing up, Grandma would have severed my hand slowly with a hot poker (or Hot Pocket) had I touched a handle and then dare go anywhere near her!

So, it’s always amusing to see people touching them, ad nauseam. Especially after washing their hands…Um…washing negated, folks. Go, try that again, dummies.

I’ll admit, you’re in a tough situation when you’re up against a paperless restroom or are NOT wearing a long sleeved shirt.

In those cases, you must realize that your hands have now been sufficiently soiled, necessitating immediate Purell useage.

If you’re not an avid hand washer, just think of the grotesque buildup on those grubby apendages as you forage for hidden treasures in your facial orafices.

Don’t even get me started on the bottoms of shoes….

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  • August 2, 2011 8:38 pm

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Outtake from a pizza autopsy...

Ok. Here’s an honest to God restaurant review.

Like the old saying goes, Even bad pizza is good pizza.

Sotto is good bad pizza.

The crust managed to be both burned and doughy, simultaneously.

Quite the feat.

I could have done with 50% more crispidity. Yes, that’s now a word. Bun Boy terminology.

Much like Scientologists, Bun Boyethists have their own esoteric language.

Learn it, love it.

The flavor of the pizza, however, was incredible! We chose the Guanciale. House cured pork cheek (which tasted like bacon and sausage HAVING SEX) with ricotta and fennel pollen.

The servers were SUPER efficient and friendly and I really dug the dark, simple decor. Rustic wooden tables, super trendy bare bulbs encased in faux antique metal cages.

I always feel bad when I leave my Bun Boy business card and then give a crappy review. I always wonder if the restaurant’s high powered legal team will sue me for slander.

Because I’m THAT powerful in this town.

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  • July 30, 2011 9:34 am

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My childhood home. That top bedroom was mine! (all 4 X 4 of it)

Hi folks I’m in Washington state visiting the family for my father’s birthday. I flew up as a surprise to dad, which he appreciated.

I was also thanked by some beautiful weather this weekend.

My parents have a lovely home and a very nice bathroom. The shower, on the other hand, is a different matter.

The walls are coated in medicinal blue plastic; I feel like I’m in a hospital shower, prepping before surgery.

The little plastic shelves are chock full of hundreds of random gels and body washes. Many of them 100% empty, caps missing, bottles smothered in dried remnants of what they were once filled with.

And somehow several of the bottles are permanently smashed, like someone let Frankenstein take a shower before a hot date!

I look around for anything masculine to clean up with.

One lone, widdled bar of Ivory soap…the texture of an elephant’s heel.

I have a feeling my poor father has to resort to washing with cucumber, cocoa butter and oatmeal jojoba when he just wishes there was as bottle marked “CLEAN”.

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We make our way to Wal Mart for my routine visit. For when you want to feel like a supermodel.

I peruse the men’s clothing section, overwhelmed by the selections of formless, colorless, oversized options. Many with elastic wastebands. Their “Small” size best fits a small horse.

On the way home from purchasing some $12 dollar shoes, my mother tells me the conversation she had with my 6 year old niece.

“I want some cheetos”, Ava insists.

“I’m not going to buy those anymore because they make grandma fat”.

“But you already ARE fat” Ava pleads.

Then while tailgating someone in front of her, I tell her “Rear ending him won’t prove your point, Mom”.

“I’ll do what I want!”

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We hang out a bit at home, I do a little writing, my father tinkers with the 17 computers that surround his recliner and my mother begins to prepare her famous Bacon Pineapple Baked Beans. BPBB, for short.

I see, out of the dozen or so cans of baked beans (she cheats a bit) she had purchased, two are left.

“Why didn’t you use these beans? Too much?”

“You can never have too much beans!”

“Why didn’t you use THESE beans?”

“Because I had too much!”

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Ava and Liam's little house....spoiled brats.

While everything is cooking, Mom and I head out to do a little shopping and as we park at the shop, she says “Where’s my wallet?”

After a panicked 5 minute strip search of the vehicle and calls to father and the grocery store we were just at, we drive back home for the much anticipated full body cavity search of the residence.

She finds it in another purse, oddly enough. While the phone is propped in her ear to the bank, cancelling her credit cards.

We drive back to the shop, we park , then, “Where’s my cell phone?!”

I get out of the car immediately “I’m not doing this again mom, let’s go!” “But..” “Forget it, it’s fine, let’s go!”

When we arrive home, I hear “Who’s BBQ’ing the meat?”

“Dad can do it!” I respond.

“It’s his birthday, you do it!” mom retorts.

Then I hear her mutter in the kitchen “I have a houseguest that does nothing but sit on his butt on his blackberry”.

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My grandparents and rest of the family arrive for the BBQ. We finish eating in what it appears to be 38 seconds and then adjourn to the lawn to watch the kids play in the pool and on the expansive swing estate/play compound.

I must admit pangs of jealousy strike on occasion as my rusted old swing set from childhood pales in comparison to the behemoth fun factory for my niece and nephew.

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As my father inadvertently gives 2 year old Liam a glass of wine, I overhear my grandfather coming from the house telling my mother the asparagus I grilled “was a disaster”.

To be honest, he didn’t know who cooked it but was ready to give his 3 cents on the proper method to ensure a baby food like texture.

My British grandmother mentions she had purchased a smashing hat I might like and I ask suspiciously where she bought it from.

She thinks for a moment, realizing my accusatory tone, and says the name of the first non-thrift store she can think of.

My facial expression is incredulous.

“No, Bryan. I haven’t been to one of those places in weeks! I’m over it. Done with ’em.”

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As I play on the swings with the kiddos, I hear my grandmother enquire loudly “Does anyone know how much Bryan weighs?”

“Grandma!” I yelp.

“I just wanted to make sure the swingset can hold the lot of you”.

We enjoy the rest of the afternoon, have a brief rest and then head out to take dad to see Harry Potter for his birthday.

Dad hates driving too fast (or too slow), hates crowds (actually, just people) noise, uncomfortable seats and any sort of waiting.

So, we gave dad quite the birthday gift with all of the above!

As my trip comes to an end, I must admit that I love coming home. I’m utterly relaxed, love spending time with my family and their beautiful home…

…and let’s face it, these blogs write themselves!

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  • July 29, 2011 8:12 am

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Masala Fish (or slightly jaundiced tongues)

Everyone should go see a Bollywood movie once in their lives.

If you’ve got an entire day to kill.

Artesia, the home of Los Angeles’s Little India, is about an hour south, in traffic.

Unfortunately, Artesia is just your typical, bland township. Except the strip malls are filled with Indian businesses rather than TGIF’s. Oh sorry, there are those too.

And the air literally smells like Indian spices, it’s a trip! (just not a trip to India)

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I’m kind of disappointed that travelling to these concentrated ethnic pockets aren’t more like walking around the streets of New Delhi or Bangkok. I don’t know why they can’t just make these neighborhoods more like cheesy movie sets. Much more fun for us tourists.

They should take a note from America’s Chinatowns. THEY have it right, no stereotype missed.

The lobby of the Bollywood theater is just like your typical cineplex. The temperature of which, just slightyl cooler than the surface of the sun .

(Wait, they DID bring a part of New Delhi to LA!)

And the concession stand served Indian snacks, like Samosas. Very cool.

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We didn’t really know anything about the film selections available to us, so we just pointed and clicked and ended up seeing a buddy road trip comedy…..

…which was 3 hours long!

It was so long, they stopped the film halfway through, displaying the words “INTERMISSION” on the screen.

A much needed bathroom break had been granted. This is when I realized I was the only non-Indian in the theater.

I was disappointed when there weren’t any random, obligatory song and dance numbers but, then again, they were not at ALL necessary to the plot.

Then, 2 hours into the movie, my wish was granted when one of the characters broke out into song at a very opportune time. In the back seat of a car, on a road trip through the Spanish desert.

I knew something was up as his face lit up and the music grew more intense.

He’s either going to sing…or crap his pants.

Then, came the over the top musical number where these three masculine men are bouncing around with some flamenco dancers and I was like, “This is what I came for. This is Bollywood”.

Except I didn’t just think it, I serenaded the audience as I shimmied and bobbed out of the theater, to the non-existant beat.

Dinner at Tava was exceptional. Really creative and delicious Indian dishes in a slightly upscale setting.

I loved everything I devoured, especially the fish featured at the top and the decadent, deadly chocolate samosas below!

My Bollywood day was complete!

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  • July 26, 2011 7:38 pm

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Waffle Grilled Cheese

All my life I’ve been a bargain hunter. I get this frugality from my grandma, who took me around to garage sales and thrift stores as a child.

Everything we purchased had to be sanitized.

Nothing we purchased was from this or the last decade.

Every store we went into carried an overwhelming stench. Urine pools on the ground, left by incontinent, elderly shoppers were sadly, common.

Purchasing name brand products were not part of my upbringing.

In fact, I’ve not had to pay a dime for a single piece of furniture in my bedroom. I guess I’m Hand-me-down Harry!

All my life, the same has rung true for clothes shopping.

I spend as little as possible on every article of clothing and now I realize the downfall of this behavior (besides looking like shit).

I needed some dress shoes for two weddings this year and ended up purchasing the cheapest pair that still looked somewhat decent.

Made by a company I’ve never heard of.

One month later, the thinest “leather” known to man began to peel pretty dramatically. A stiff breeze must have blown, destroying my bargain.

If I would have just spent a little more money, I would have owned a pair of shoes I could have kept for years.

I now know TWO THINGS to be true that I’ve always heard others spout my whole life.

You get what you pay for.

You spend $4 for a 10 pack of underwear from Wal Mart, you’ll soon be punished as you discover the pair you’re wearing dangling out of your pant leg!

A man needs a good watch (or a good cell phone), a good suit and a good pair of shoes.

I have no problems purchasing disposable shirts and pants (if you dare wash H&M clothing, you render it unwearable) because I have a short attention span and tire easily of wearing the same thing.

But you gotta have a few pieces of high quality shit.

Just like Mama always says.

What does all this have to do with The Waffle?

Nothing.

I’ve already blogged about The Waffle and I felt my musings today were more important to share with all of you.

Bun Boy has spoken.