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America's Secret Gem: Louisville, Kentucky

What I find endlessly fascinating about our country, that I feel sets us apart from much of the world, is the vast array of climates, terrain, small towns, big cities, and consequently, the people who inhabit these sections of America. I love to travel. I think I’m addicted. I came back from a three-year dream, hopping from country to country, conversing with people in any number of languages, eating amazing, weird foods, absorbing lifestyles and history, and just going nonstop. Coming back to the States I was eager to return to efficiency, options, and ease. Almost immediately I missed what I had. I knew I would, but it was tremendously difficult, the culture shock returning was a billion times worse than leaving in the first place. Poor me. Not complaining, just explaining. Since returning, I lived in NYC for Yoga school, explored Michigan and their “great lakes”, visited many cities in my home state of Florida, and recently made my way back to New York, New York; up to Rock Island, Wisconsin; Minneapolis, Minnesota; back down to Florida, over to Baltimore/DC area and just recently went to a personal favorite in this gigantically strange bizarro world we live in, Louisville, Kentucky.

I miss real travel big time but I’ve also recognized that exploring our own country is important and can be just as educational as international adventures. There’s an endless stretch of land and even some random additions that I’ve yet to stand in that I know are the most heavenly, breath-taking states this planet has to offer. I’ll make it to Hawaii and Alaska soon enough, but for now I’m grateful to take some road trips and quick flights to places many would assume to skip. Louisville, most widely known for housing the Kentucky Derby, is a quirky, artsy town, with all the nuances of a big city packed into a very charming, beautiful package. If you’re unaware of Louisville’s magic, you’d probably be very surprised given we are talking about a city in Kentucky, a state encompassing both the midwest and the south, rolling hills, babbling brooks, trees painted like an exquisite, autumn rainbow, and stereotypically some pretty rural, regressive people.

Similar to New Orleans or even Birmingham, Alabama (a place I’m looking forward to visiting, home to some of the most remarkably interesting people I’ve ever had the fortune to connect), Louisville and Mammoth Caves are the reason to visit Kentucky. My drive through Indiana (in my top 5 worst states in this oversized country) was dull and redundant, but once I crossed the bridge into Kentucky, just miles from Louisville, I saw the cavalcade of color and dimension, and soon the distinctive Louisville skyline emerged and I felt excitement and ease. I’ve been visiting since childhood, frequenting the likes of the Louisville Slugger museum, Churchill Downs, and the beautiful suburbs where my honorary father and his brothers grew into men. It’s where I experienced my first snow, a white Christmas at 9 years old, an important experience every child should have. What you feel immediately, whether you have familial ties to this city or not, is soul. This place has character, oddities, artists and athletes, small town humility and big city happenings. Sharing the flour de lis symbol with New Orleans, Louisville can be proud to hold a piece of America’s highest appeal, and a large chunk of my modest but growing heart.

Exploring downtown, you’ll feast your eyes on a wide spectrum of architecture, old brick, northern style homes, a handful of unique skyscrapers and a slew of truly badass bridges. You’ll notice distinctly painted horses on random street corners throughout the city, along with shops run by local artists, family run restaurants, and enough bars to entertain you to the point of memory loss. Beyond a great university with one of the most consistently successful NCAA basketball teams, a historical event like the derby, and this very special southern/midwestern appeal, Louisville is best known for some of the most incredible human beings this world to offer, both known and unknown. Muhammad Ali is from Louisville. Enough said on the known. And I may be biased, but the unknown are the brilliant men taking up one-quarter of my family. The Bressoud men are highly intelligent, achieving and interesting. The one who challenged my typical school of thought, broadened my mind and heart, and inspired me to be an artist is still giving his gift to this small but wonderful city. His name is Ted Bressoud. He’s a masterful, creative architect, a truly innovative thinker and artist, and someone I’m proud to call family and my friend. Any human being would be lucky to know him. He could light any city on fire, but his loyalty and appreciation of his home town kept him there to improve upon the architectural landscape and to keep Louisville weird. The city is fortunate to have him and vice versa.

One of my closest and dearest friends is gracing U of L with her presence. Someone with a full lifetime of experiences, good and bad, Hope retains her optimism, her lust for life, her tremendous integrity and her essential goodness and is giving and getting from her city and her school with the utmost of her ability. Having the same appreciation as I for the city and the university’s vintage style structures, the respect for artists and for food, I was eager to see two of Louisville’s many fantastic people. Summer of 2010, the four of us went to the Forecastle Music and Arts festival, and suffice it to say we had such a memorable time and I’d go back in a heartbeat. I’m not fan of outdoor concerts, Woodstock sounds like a dirty, rapey nightmare, but this was unlike any other, situated downtown right on the river, the same location as the greatest fireworks show in the world, Thunder over Louisville. Needless to say, this city is replete with everyday fun and a years worth of events to satisfy any enthusiast. Give this place the gift of your presence, you’ll both benefit and thank me for it.

To name and describe each of Louisville’s worthy establishments would fill a long, detailed book. For now, I’ll just quickly recommend a few gems based on my recent experiences. Just know there are hundreds more worth exploring, all to be written in a mastic8onthis: Louisville someday in the near future.

Homemade Ice-cream and Pie Kitchen, need I say more? Almost any restaurant and/or bar on Bardstown road is worth stepping into, for now I’ll recommend Ramsi’s for a mind-blowing menu, Cafe 360 for a quirky hookah bar, and something else. For breakfast either hit up one of two Wild Eggs locations or Toast on Market street for some of the best breakfast you’ll ever taste. While you’re waiting for your table at Toast, walk across the street to the Red Tree and 4-5 other local shops. I bought this awesome hand-painted flour de lis clock that now hangs proudly in my Chicago apartment. I hate shopping, especially clothes shopping, these are shops with fun shit to look at, discuss, people watch and support. Whether you buy something or not you’ll have a good time looking around. Skip William Sonoma and peruse something interesting, made lovingly by passionate artists.

One of the greatest attributes to Louisville is the existence of almost every genre of food. I had a crazy delicious Ethiopian dinner (and you may recall my grandmother grew up there so I have fairly high standards) at Queen of Sheeba on Taylorsville Road. If you’re craving southern bbq and seafood, hit up Doc Crows on Main Street for some succulent pulled pork, crispy, light catfish, and a pretty top-notch Po-boy. And for bars, I’ll only recommend one, Starbase Q. Q resides in a bustling part of downtown and was designed by my very talented, amazing uncle, Ted Bressoud. Being a modern woman turned off by the typical club or bar scene, I enjoy gay bars more than any other and this is the best of the best, and I’ve been to many throughout America and Europe. Just step in to see Ted’s remarkable work if nothing else. There are plenty of bars downtown and on Bardstown if Q isn’t your cup of tea, but if you’re moderately interesting and intelligent you’ll enjoy a couple of reasonably priced drinks in an excellent atmosphere, and you're sure to be entertained 7 nights a week.
What is to be revered and appreciated in this world you cannot take with you. You hug it. You digest it. You absorb it. It lives in your bones, in your soul, forever, but it will not bring you wealth or diamonds. I implore you to spend your money on memories, on experiences that will enrich you as a human being, leaving an imprint on you, painting on your ever-evolving canvas. I have very little money in my bank account, few diamonds or expensive pieces of jewelry, no designer clothes, no car, no home, but I feel so full, so whole, so grateful. I have memories that feed me through my tough days. I have conversations every single day with people who inspire me, make me better, and I have some serious mileage racked up on planes, trains and automobiles. I wish the same for you and the rest of the world. Louisville will stimulate and motivate you, something intangible in it will linger and you’ll have to go back. I’m so proud to have a history there and grateful to share it with others.

Pack your car. Drive somewhere. Try something new. Eat and laugh. Enjoy.

For the love of Yoga

I used to feel that life was very black and white, and to be strong in your convictions was important; therefore, you must choose one or the other. Through life experiences, exposure and absorption of provocative art, cerebral and esoteric conversations and the down and dirty practice of Yoga, I’ve not only become more comfortable with gray, but I’m now embracing contradiction, the existence of hypocrisy and the potential for relating and understanding many angles to arguments and the endless spectrum in which people live their lives. There are some key issues that haven’t changed, they’ve probably deepened, but for the most part I’m becoming more comfortable in the unknown, in the ambiguity of life. And I’m grateful. It is deeply mystifying to explore the duality of life. Being a student and teacher of Yoga, a practice meant to be inclusive, gathering, welcoming, awareness driven but never preachy, enlightenment as intention with emphasis on lessons to be gleaned from darkness and suffering, has nailed down what is really important, and diminished the weight of what is not. It resonates and elevates beyond the confines of the mat. It has taught me to radiate Yoga out and in turn, harness it deeper within. This is all very granola, somewhat cliché hippy dippy talk. I’m fine with that. My delving into the practice led me toward explorations and relationships that now make me better and my form of expression is words. Words are meaningless, but they’re all I have. I cannot paint (my art teacher made fun of me, seriously). I do not sing (to others, you’re welcome for that). I love to dance but do not have the lifelong acquired skill to express my feelings and interpret for others to enjoy, except in the creation of my vinyasa sequences. I cannot operate a camera with more than 5 settings (I leave that to the very talented and skilled men in my life). For me, I feel strong when I share, in teaching and in scribing, speaking and corresponding. I’ve been crippled by excessive self-awareness, questioning my skills, whether anyone would want to listen or read, and similar to excessive confidence and the lack of self-awareness, each are driven by the ego, by fear. Yoga shines a light on the ego’s dark existence, bringing in an awareness that slowly dissolves fear and a presence in which the ego simply cannot survive. I’ve slowly gotten over myself, not thinking of myself as great, but also not thinking of myself as inadequate. I am perfectly adequate, and so are you. I care, deeply, for people and for my life to have meaning, to feel effectual and align the external with the internal. Again, duality.

Below started as a game of wordplay, of antonyms, of complexity, and of analyzing the meaning of Yoga, both literally and figuratively. Yoga’s root word is yolk, meaning union, the roots being the union of unconscious and conscious, horizontal and vertical, mortality and divinity. What arrived after a long, run-on sentence, was somewhat of an interesting poem, and keeping in line with everything Yoga has extracted and taught, I thought instead of hoarding it, fearing its unworthiness and doubting its purpose, why not share in something many of us already love, a truth you already know, and share with some who may not have felt the magic of Yoga yet, but perhaps you can relate in your own way. We all can be yogic, being able to touch your toes or twist into a pretzel has very little to do with the intended results. Some of the most beautiful yogis in my life either cannot or do not practice what we’d all assume to be this ancient practice. It has proven benefits for your mind, body and soul, brings a deeper appreciation of this very second, eliminates psychological time, and fosters a very supportive and fun community.

I can only hope I’ve had a fraction of the impact on my students as they’ve had on me. My persistent goal is to keep learning. We’re never finished, treating the means as the end makes the end unpredictably sweeter and the journey exponentially more potent and alive. I’m no longer anxious for what tomorrow will bring or incessantly focused on having a plan. I’m embracing presence as a priority and allowing the path to unfold before my eyes. I’ve recognized I do not have all the answers and I do not need them, I’m open and willing to learn them as I’m exposed, being kinder to myself and reverberating that to my world, hoping it’s boundless. I wish for not only the people I love, but also the people so wrecked with pain, those I still do not understand, and those I’ll never meet, to find their own yogic truth. Who you are is beautiful, give fear and your ego a big middle finger. Give yourself the gift of yoga.

Shanti (peace) and Namaste (I see you, the light in me acknowledges, respects, the light in you.).

Union Symbiosis Mind and body Human and mat Ego and essence Time versus presence Self doubt and confidence Fear and passion Art and skill Strength and flexibility Inhaling and exhaling Rooting down and rising up Succeeding and failing Contentment and insatiability Stamina and Stillness Energy high and energy low Sun and snow Hatha and flow Knowing and unknown Yin and Yang Human and Being We’re all the same

Hometown Goodness: Picasso's in Jacksonville, Florida

Cooking is an art. Eating is an art. Comedy is art. Love is most definitely art. I’m beginning to sound like a broken record but food is meant to be shared over love and laughter. The quality of the ingredients and preparation should be of the highest quality, similar to the company you keep. If you regularly share in your version of soul food with people who elevate you, then you are participating in the world of art. I welcome you to an artistic experience, bring your comrades and an appetite because I’m taking you to a hometown favorite, Picasso’s Pizzeria, Where Food is Art. I remember the very first time I walked into Picasso’s, ordered my meal and enjoyed everything so immensely I couldn’t wait to return. I even remember the conversation that led to said meal and I could plant a fat one on the very special gentleman who suggested it. He said “you ever had St. Louis style pizza?” Being a food enthusiast bordering on snob I was appalled I hadn’t heard of this let alone experienced it. My foodie ego was bruised and just as quickly, my stomach started growling with a craving for the unknown. I wanted to be blown away in a manner I couldn’t predict. By food. Now. And so we set off, out of our comfortable suburban island, across the Buckman bridge, to San Jose Boulevard, where Picasso’s resides.

It should be noted here that Picasso’s has moved, slightly further down San Jose, passed Whole Foods, but still on the right-hand side, to an even nicer building with more space to feed the many hungry mouths. Regardless of the slightly fancier location, the down the earth staff and homey feeling when you walk in remains. Chris and Scott(co-owners and exquisite chefs) will remember your faces, your orders, your food issues (my advice? get over them, open your mouth and bite.) and even the details of your life, your kids, spouses, jobs, hobbies, etc. At Picasso’s, they love to eat, love to cook and love to share; therefore, they’re exponentially grateful for their ever-expanding clientele and the mutual love for their home-cooked grub. Obviously the food is the most important aspect to this operation, but knowing your supporting an individually run business that not only cares deeply about the quality of each ingredient in each dish, but also desires to connect with you on a human to human level rather than a role-playing, chef to patron exchange, gives me reason to spread the word and keep coming back.

What’s beautiful about this place is that you’re able to try truly excellent, unique foods from around our vast country. I hadn’t tried St. Louis style pizza or their toasted ravioli, but I did, and boy was I ecstatic. Their pizza is unique in that their cheese and sauce mixture resting on top of a delicious, home-made crust, is creamy and flavorful and just plain peculiar. Peculiar in a great way, don’t be thrown off non-adventurous eaters, be excited! This may be the best culinary thing to happen to you all year. It was for me that year. The crust is thin, the sauce mixture flavorful and a stand-out and the array of toppings to choose from is astounding. My most recent love affair between me and a pizza involved a basic St. Louis style with pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and artichokes on top. It was divine, heavenly, proof that the magic of life is right here on Earth and nowhere else. Rejoice in knowing that all of life’s wonders are right here for the taking. Open up and enjoy it!

Along the way in my now 4 year relationship with this blessed place, I’ve tried their New York style pizza, perfect; their hamburgers, juicy, delectable; their fried mac ‘n’ cheese, you haven’t lived, holy hell; their salads, fresh, bright, healthy and satisfying; their sandwiches, borderless, extraordinary; their entrees, try the shrimp ‘n’ grits, holy shit; almost every appetizer, special and entrée on their menu, all amazing, all worth it; and their desserts, holy effin ravioli batman, chocolate f*cking mousse that would taste so good your unborn baby will crave it. Just trust me. They are the epitome of quality, of home-made, of soul, and of art. They're food looks, smells, feels, sounds and tastes, like art. Do yourself a favor and masticate on this.

I live in one of the greatest food cities in the world and I still crave Picasso’s, constantly. During each trip back home, I’m given the greatest gift, the ability to share in this wonderful food with my amazing family. We laughed, we chewed, we loved. It’s what we’re meant to do. It’s what I grew up appreciating and what I’m most grateful for to this day. It spawned a passion that is driving me to keep pursuing this experience, like an addiction, I need more good food, with more good people. This very simple but very primal and pivotal experiences keep getting better and I’m inspired to share in hopes that you all can feed your souls as well. And I hope you do, in whichever way you can.

Breathe. Open your mind, your heart and your mouth, wider. Be an artist. Experience art, however you define or embody it. Share it. Elbows on the table, laugh with your mouth full. Enjoy.

Want to have a humorous, comedy/food rapport with me? Then write mastic8onthis@gmail.com Follow me @mastic8onthis

Actiony Pornish MovieFilms: the Saint!

I came across this film on a lucky, lazy Sunday when I felt relegated to my couch and too lethargic to pop in a DVD or search my Netflix instant queue. I was open to taking a visual stroll down memory lane, back to 1997, when I was a pre-teen, man-crazy, enraged with hormones but unaware of how to process it, and too scared to find out. So movies with hot men were my porn, sorry if it’s too much information. If you’re cringing now, stop reading. This gets worse. No, seriously, if you’ve changed my diaper or known me well pre-puberty, save yourself now and read my review of something more innocent and sweet, if that exists. This is a truthful facet to me as a woman and me as a developing girl. Some material may not be suitable for your stomach or brain. I understand. Don’t judge me. Just don’t read. I bet you will, though, because you too harbor these same thoughts and tendencies, and there is not a damn thing wrong with it. So I have a big, over two decade long crush on Val Kilmer. Most of you reading this are aware, because you know me and are kind enough to humor me by reading these articles, but for those who don’t know me well, yes, I know he has not aged super well and that he probably is involved in some pretty weird shit. I like it. I’m loyal. I’m game. Leave me alone. The heart (loins) wants what it wants. I share in this crush with a few trustworthy, respectable people so I stand by it.

Because of this ridiculous crush, and my dog-like loyalty, I’ve seen every single Val Kilmer flick, good or bad, large roles or small, before 2006 (not including, of course, the wonderful MacGruber of the year 2010). I’ve sat through movies about lions, American Indian Reservation crime, some really classic 80’s guilty pleasures and some really dark early 2000’s work. My favorite movie starring this masculine jawed man in his prime (beyond his prime, Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang, classic.), is and always will be, the Saint. Say what you will, laugh, cry, feel nothing, this movie is fun, start to finish.

It begins with Val as a hot young kid called John Rossi (yes, even the kid was attractive) in some sort of dark, creepy church where he and other attractive orphans lived (Do people really give up cute babies? I doubt it.). You see him being crafty, sneaking behind nuns’ backs, leading the other child followers astray, in mostly harmless and somewhat rebellious ways. Through some bizarre turn of events, Simon’s sweet and innocent girlfriend falls off a balcony and dies. Yep, dark. Then with a movie magic close-up into the kid’s eyes we’re transported to 25 years later with the delectable adult, now called Simon Templar, and we’re clued into how his mischievous behavior as a child manifested later in life.

Then the fun really begins. Simon is essentially involved in international hijinks, spy type missions that make him boat loads of money. He ends up involved with shady, powerful people, all leading to the biggest job and the meat of the movie, stealing the formula for cold fusion for Russia’s greedy, power-hungry billionaire, Ivan Tretiak(think of a crazier, oilier Dick Cheney). What ensues is a very entertaining spy-thriller, with our globe-trotting, high-class thief in a back and forth chase with the crooked politician and his goons.

What gives this movie its essence and makes it eternally watchable, is the emerging romance/sexual encounters between Simon and our cold fusion scientist with whom he must seduce (in one of many disguises) and then rob, Dr. Emma Russell, played adorably by Elizabeth Shue. The chemistry between the two actors drives the sexual tension and the eventual double entendres that predominate this delightful script. There’s an actual “while you’re down there” moment and it’s excellent. They have some very passionate, very “method” tonguey kisses. For a 12-13 year old, it’s all I needed.

The movie teeters on cheesy regarding the romance, but there’s enough time apart and they’re too busy surviving and restoring Moscow’s faith in their president while fucking over Tretiak financially and politically, even instilling some serious two-face like burns in Tretiak’s son’s face. It’s an hour and 40 minutes of Val Kilmer playing a variety of characters all named for Catholic saints, MacGyvering his way through London and Moscow, in and out of ladies pants, all to acquire 50 million dollars and then apparently retire to an island somewhere with a hoard of prostitutes. Or just Elizabeth Shue, I’m still not entirely aware of his post-career dream life.

I’m now going to provide the very funny moments and quotes that make my still adolescent mind giggle and blush.

-Tretiak’s son tells Val/Simon to “Suck me, sideways.” The reaction shot is pretty stellar.

-Val Kilmer’s character, in an attempt to seduce the very smart but very naive Elizabeth Shue, lays very suggestively on a bench while sketching a sculpture (of a naked man). He has long flowing hair and his voice sounds like sex. Maybe I’m grasping at straws but I doubt it.

-He seals the deal within hours, after purposely leaving his journal behind, in which he writes a very sweet but suggestive poem. Their conversation is full of adult humor and double entendres, like any good first date.

-Elizabeth Shue eats pills out of Val Kilmer’s hands, on her knees, then proceeds to swallow them in an all too pleasurable way.

-He then picks this moment to say “While you’re down there...” In context, like with anything, it makes sense.

-At one point he dives into a frozen river to save these previously downed pills, thus inspiring a naked, let’s lay on each other so you don’t freeze to death moment.

-There’s a scene that’s a metaphor for an orgasm, I’m sure of it. They’re in a tunnel, water is rushing in, Val Kilmer’s masculinely trying to open this sewer manhole cover thing, the suspense builds, and builds, and then they both miraculously emerge out of the hole in a rush of relief and excitement.

-After their big survival release, they’re conveniently stuck under a car, with view of the American embassy. Watching the boots of the enemy walk by just feet away, Val inspires Elizabeth to run for it, and she does, soon to be followed by Tretiak’s son, and the noises emitting from both of their mouths could be soundbites in any snuff film.

Whew. I need a cigarette. This movie is so hyper-PG13-sexual I can’t stand it. I never tire of this flick. Ever. It’s a fun, suspenseful, beautiful ride, with plenty of romps in the sack or allusions to the act to keep anyone with a pulse interested. Val is at his pinnacle of hotness and charisma. He carries the film and the role with great bravado and humor. He takes charge, makes clever decisions, witty remarks, and could charm the panties off a nun.

My enthusiasm for this film is laced pretty thick with irony. I see it for what it is and I laugh at it, and myself, as I watch it repeatedly. We all have those guilty pleasures. For many of you it’s the Jersey Shore, Keeping up with the Kardashians, Transformers or some other terrible Michael Bay movie, and for me, it’s movies like this; movies that never exceed that B- status but for some reason are really satisfying to watch. I equate it also to those fast food cravings or crappy delivery pizza. It’s still pizza, I’ll eat it. I hadn’t seen the Saint in years, but I was beyond stoked when I saw it on and I enjoyed every lusty minute of it.

The preview below is pure movie trailer awesomeness. Tells you all you need to know.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7NmLNNgK-sE

Don’t make it a habit, but feel free to be mentally and physically lazy every now again, especially if it somehow involves Val Kilmer. Yum. Enjoy.

Want to have a humorous, comedy/food rapport with me? Then write mastic8onthis@gmail.com Follow me @mastic8onthis

Travel with me to the Korea of the East and West at San Soo Gab San and Crisp!

I’d love to visit South Korea, far away from that dangerous border, only to experience the people living in fairly normal happiness and success, and mainly to eat their food. I love kimchee! Yum! Spicy, refreshing, crunchy health bowl. I down that shit by itself, but adding it to a noodle bowl or some Korean spiced meat dish ain’t too shabby either. My trek to the East won’t happen for about 18 months, so until then I take advantage of my abundantly populated city, and head north to Korea-town, for some kimchee and about a billion other delicious items. I had a memorable evening, barefoot, with some of the best people I know at San Soo Gab San. A few Sundays ago we gathered a collection of weirdo food enthusiasts and embarked north, out of our comfort zone and into a spiced heaven. There were 7 of us. We nailed down a table ahead of time and when we arrived, we simply removed our shoes and sat comfortably around a rectangular table similar to a Japanese steakhouse, take away the cook-top and add two holes for future grill space, where you and your cohorts can sizzle your seasoned meat and veggies to perfection, with the polite guidance of the very helpful employees.

The menu is overwhelming and difficult to understand. It helps to go with someone who’s been before. Keep it simple and order from the back of the menu, for groups of 5 or more. Each of you select your chosen meat, including familiar selections like beef and chicken, and more adventurous choices such as octopus and pork belly bacon. Being no bullshit eaters we opted for a few safe choices and a few risks. The risks always pay off, and this was no exception. The octopus and pork belly burst with flavor and provided us all with surprising satisfaction. Korean seasoned beef and chicken were crowd pleasers as well.

For $21 you receive an individual bowl of excellent miso soup, the kind that tastes and feels home-made, not boxed or mass-produced; and 37 other items to throw into a big leaf of fresh lettuce, dip into a variety of sauces and shove down your ever-widening throat. We rarely knew what we were eating and then as we chewed we slowly figured it out and ended up loving every single little bite, yearning for more, and getting it. The amount of food we racked up in the end was embarrassing, and very American, even for Korea. We left with burst pant buttons and I’d say a 16 week along food baby. Delicious, funky, worth it.

Sometimes I want to travel to Korea, and other times, I just prefer to find Korea-town, or find that modern twist of Korean-American cuisine; something a foodie like myself came up with to make Korean food accessible and exciting to people beyond just the open-minded and adventurous, but to those who simply love bowls of rice and flavored meat, sandwiches and soups, and at an affordable price. That is something no rational human can resist. And for this, I take you to Crisp!

At the junction of Southeast Lakeview and Northeast Lincoln Park, you’ll find Crisp in a narrow space on the west side of Broadway, a street lined with delicious food, particularly fare from East Asia. I could eat Italian and Mexican food every single day of my life. And I pretty much do. Sad but true, my digestive tract is consistently busy processing pizza and tacos. But Asian food, and I’m including falafel pita, curry, pad Thai, chow mein, brightly colored meat, chili pepper, sprouts, dumplings, sushi, and any dish with rice or noodles I CRAVE, with an angry, forceful capital C! 10 of us were collectively sharing in that special craving and we set the intention to satisfy it as quickly and as well as possible.

I walked in and felt immediate panic. Crisp is similar to many gourmet fast food favorites (I’m trademarking FFF and others. Watch out Rachel Rae!). You order up front and then pray to the omnipresent culinary gods for a seat to open up. Having this food delivered would be amazing, but mostly I prefer to eat something fresh, with chopsticks (and truthfully, I suck at chopsticks despite hoovering their food on a regular basis so I only use them in public to quell my American, white guilt.), right there where the magic happens. So 10 is a challenge. You’re immediately becoming a mathematician as you calculate the number of available seats with how many in your party and how many waiting. It’s a mind fuck of a problem, especially if you’re hungry. Being the slightly competitive friendly eater that I am, I utilized a trick my parents learned me long ago. Casually chill out next to a table of nice looking people and ask if you can take their seats when they’re finished, no rush of course!

And with a bit of patience and ingenuity, we’re in. We’d been smelling scallions and chili pepper and meat for minutes now, so we were so ready. I parked my ass in the spot I’d previously assigned in my head and then almost as quickly got back up to order my highly anticipated meal. I ordered 5 wings of the Crisp BBQ flavor, my hunk of man love deciding on 5 spicy hot, and we collaborated on a Seoul Steak Bowl (pronounced soul for those ignorant in Geography and English), a mixture of Korean flavored beef, over perfectly cooked, seasoned rice. I tried the Seoul Sassy wings along with the two of ours and every single one was worth dirtying my face and disgustingly licking every single one of my alienesque fingers. We all cannot wait to go back.

I have truly special friends. I’m including my family members with whom I also share a friendship. It’s the #1 thing I’m grateful for. A close second are food and comedy. My life is full of a sandwich with those ingredients and I could not be happier. My career hasn’t brought the success I hope for yet and I haven’t seen nearly what I want or experienced what I hope to, but I’m supremely grateful and content because of the sandwich I’ve made to fulfill my life. I hope I’ve been a supportive and fun ingredient for you, or that you have your own version of a life sandwich (this is getting bad, all my metaphors and mottos involve food).

Explore your relationships and your taste buds. Enjoy.

Want to have a humorous, comedy/food rapport with me? Then write mastic8onthis@gmail.com

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Comedy is art and Anthony Jeselnik is an artist.

Do you have a sick sense of humor? Can you laugh at almost anything? Actually, take away the almost, can you laugh at anything? Are you able to suspend reality and your near and dear beliefs for a few seconds to laugh at what a clear mother of year winner Casey Anthony is? Can you do that 50-60 more times for about an hour? How about allowing a young comedian to look you square in the face while he methodically delivers joke after joke about suicide, rape, racism, family, friends, sex, abortion, religion, and any other typically taboo topics? If you said yes to all these questions, we should hang out. And you should be studying the likes of Mr. Anthony Jeselnik. Now, I don’t have extensive knowledge on Anthony’s past, except that he’s from Pittsburg, he’s in his early 30’s, and when not bouncing from comedy club to festivals to colleges, he lives where many of the best comedians reside, New York City. Living up to my previously labeled “comedy nerd” status, I frequent the improv and open mic nights, I listen to mostly humor driven podcasts, and watch sitcoms, sketch shows and docu-comedies, and therefore I feel I’ve gleaned some insight into the minds and even hearts of my favorite humoredians (A Doug Benson word I love to rip off). While many geek out over Star Wars/Trek, comic books, indie films, indie music, fashion, and other bullshit, comedy is what gets me going, and stand-up requires the most amount of work and the largest set of balls. What I can tell about Anthony is he’s a surprisingly normal human being, with a twisted, brilliant sense of humor. And very big balls.

I came across his Comedy Central Presents initially, then found myself giggling with guilt over his performances on Jimmy Fallon (AJ worked for Late Night the first year and was the first stand-up to appear on his show), and other late night talk shows, but really fell in comedic love when I saw him roast Donald Trump in 2010. Donald’s balls are easy to bust. They’re rich, arrogant, with a ridiculous comb-over and high sensitivity to subjects pertaining their bank account. An interesting fact I learned while listening to Anthony on a recent podcast was Donald Trump’s only off-limits material, in which each comedian participating were forced to sign a contract and adhere to; no jokes about him having less money than he does. Really. Not his kids or his wives or godforbid some charity he’s involved in (there are none), but his fucking bank account. Don’t say I don’t have as much money as I do or I’ll cry and then take you to court for your measly stand-up earnings. Dick.

Anthony had the fortune of following a buffoon more embarrassing and more idiotic than Trump himself. Mike “the Situation” (what a god damn stupid nick name) Sorrentino. We all cringed with humiliation as this self-congratulating man, sure to have an IQ below 70, attempted to deliver jokes toward the roasters and the roasted, to the well-deserved reception of heckling and boos. Without taking the obvious route, Jeselnik followed with his usual cocky demeanor (utilized here ironically, there is a difference) to deliver the best performance of the night; taking measured, calculated jabs at the Situation, the panel and Trump himself, surprising many in the crowd and I bet even more at home, who were not yet privy to his genius, but who were now educated in the school of dark comedy.

During this same year Anthony’s stand-up album, Shakespeare, was named one of the best albums of the year by the Onion AV Club (I’ve been a loyal reader of the Onion for almost ten years, if you’re not aware of it, it’s similar to The Daily Show and the Colbert Report except the writers bust their balls for much less money to write incredibly smart, satirical articles on the current state of the world. Read it.) and Comedy Album of the Year by Punchline Magazine. If I had a child who was an aspiring comedian (and I hope I do someday, otherwise that kid’s being dropped off at a firehouse), I’d give him a short list of specials to study, and this would be one of them. If you have any comedic background, you’ll recognize the influences as he delivers these dry, acerbic, black as the night one-liners. I think of Stephen Wright (a legend as far as I’m concerned. Saw him open for Louie and he’s still got it), but darker, more sinister, and a bit more handsome; and Jack Handy, from Deep Thoughts on SNL. Deep Thoughts always left me laughing and then thinking about why I was laughing. Anthony’s stand-up is the same way; it inspires thought, makes you ask yourself why something’s funny, and then you congratulate yourself, feeling wicked clever having laughed at his jokes for the right reasons.

Below is an insightful take on Anthony's view as an artist. It's interesting to see when his jokes hit home and in particular when they do not. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKtBwyFq384

Just recently, he killed again roasting Charlie Sheen.

He also utilizes Twitter in the right way, cherry picking eye-catching, jaw-dropping one-liners to inspire reaction and affect your day. No bullshit "I love New York in the fall" tweets. Check em out. He goes after hard targets, feeding his irreverence with searing intelligence, delivering unpredictable jokes with impossibly perfect timing. He’s made me laugh embarrassingly loud at jokes about suicide and murder. That’s fricken impressive. In order to truly appreciate his genius you must check your ego and morality at the door. When watching any roasts, I observe the comics sheer appreciation of a well written joke, despite and in spite of the subject matter, if it’s clever and evokes a reaction, then it’s probably born out of some difficult truths; and those facts, the cruel darkness that surrounds our world, can be lightened, their power diminished, just in the ability to laugh at it. You’re laughing, sometimes cringing, sometimes explaining the joke to others, and almost always amazed at the creativity and skill used in writing and performing these jokes.

I’d like to digress for a moment, like I usually do, but this time it’s intentional. I casually mentioned above the attractiveness of Mr. Jeselnik, so I’ll come out and proclaim my crush on him. Most men I crush on are funny. They have to be, I lose my lady boner (sorry, Dad) if a man is dumb or lacking a sense of humor. You cannot possibly be even of average intelligence and have a quality sense of humor. One feeds the other. And because Anthony’s humor very much resonates with my own, and I like men with a bit of ironic bravado, I came in with a 5 out of 10 on the crush scale. When he performed on Conan, that scale was soon crushed, so to speak. It’s the cheeky smile. So yes, my loins are almost as involved as my head here, and I may have some gross puns inspired by his last name, but I stand by it and wholeheartedly would recommend this unique brand of comedy to anyone with very limited sensitivity and high brain activity. That could be you!

I know from my apparent addiction to podcasts and watching comedy centered documentaries that most comedians have trepidation and a lack of trust toward even semi-decent looking comics. They feel they must not have had the dark past or been quite jaded enough in their upbringing to foster the skills necessary in being a successful comedian. We’ve seen through many stories riddled with tragedy, comedy often stems from some seriously fucked up history. And often that history and a comic’s self-deprecating nature will be the fuel that perpetuates their comedic fire. For some; however, they simply see the world through the lens of comedy and yearn to bring a new voice to that small stage. It’s not an easy world to attempt, certainly when you’re attractive and white you’re set up quite easily for other things. But comedy is something in your blood and if you have the stomach and work-ethic, you’ll put in a good ten years before any real success comes your way. Anthony is approaching 9 years in. Knowing his fortune in being attractive, white and male already caused comedy audiences to prejudge him, assuming he was an asshole, he carved out a genius stage presence based on that very notion; a task not easily mastered and he’s executed it incomparably. He’s earned his current level of success and I believe, because of his very quick, very smart voice, he’ll continue to garner tremendous success in this weird business.

My hope is the world does not try to Dane Cook him. Granted, he’s about a billion times more brilliant (and provocative) than Dane’s material ever was (and I did used to enjoy him in high school, so please don’t waste your breath sticking up for that cocky sell-out); he’s in New York, with Louie and Chappelle, so he’s in good company; and he genuinely seems like a grounded comic, with his priorities straight. To build a following on the stand-up circuit and respect amongst the Roast community, you have to pay your dues, take your shit from other comedians (the most common insult involves his lack of notoriety, some roasters claiming he’ll be working in Radio Shack in a few years. I think not.), and you have to be exceedingly and uniquely funny.

I’m not sure of Anthony’s potential trajectory. I’m unsure if someone in the business would want to capitalize on his irreverent nature and inherent hotness by morphing him into some version of Daniel Tosh’s success, but something tells me that’s not for him. There's wind of a Comedy Central show in the works. We shall see. As a geek and a fan, I just hope to continue to see him succeed and for more like-minded people to break into his world. It takes some big ass balls to head down this dark road, far away from light-hearted, broad comedy targeted at those enjoying the Blue Collar variety or the laugh-track sitcom sense of humor. There’s a strange irony in keeping your integrity in tact by telling the jokes the most are offended by because they don’t understand them, instead of softening your material to make more gain or acquire quicker, bigger results. Whatever additional success he earns will be from his hard work and with material he fine-tunes and develops to get the highest quality laughs.

I really enjoy dissecting someone’s approach to comedy, their timing and delivery, their personality on stage. There are two archetypes that I feel are the most successful and the two that resonate the most with me. I love me some creative genius weirdos like Tim Minchin and Reggie Watts, but typically the stand-up I remember and quote come out of regular folk telling jokes. There are brilliant self-effacing comics (Louie and Conan are two big examples), utilizing their very real, seemingly sincere insecurity that allows them to endear themselves to an audience which, in turn, buy into their story and brand of comedy. And then, perhaps the rarer of the two, there are those enforcing a persona of great bravado and inflated confidence; their act being so steeped in belief that we believe it too. It’s a harder sell, and therefore the work and talent required for success is admirable and extraordinary. Anthony is the latter.

While I can attest to his very natural funniness and quick wit off the cuff, the respect I have for joke-writing and ultimately performing catapults him to a short list of those I admire most. Many of my favorite comedians like Patrice O’Neal, Dave Attell, Dave Chappelle, and west coaster Marc Maron, seemingly walk on stage and just talk to the audience, tell stories, emote with their faces and bodies and make you feel like they’re not writing and telling jokes. They’re just observant, extraordinarily funny men reacting to their environment, even using the audience as triggers and bate. And while Anthony’s delivery is exceptional and perfected, you feel the work he put into it, pondering the method and steps taken in arriving at the punchline, and in doing so, you respect him even more. He’s imprinted you, like a mythological creature in novels for teens.

Now for a bit of nerdy bragging. I met him. And I didn’t wait in a long line, say hello, snap a photo and leave. I approached him in a bar like a stalker and made my move. I suppose I should provide context. I’m currently in Minneapolis visiting a great friend, pitching my own brand of weirdo comedy and writing, and for months I’ve had tickets to see Anthony here at the Acme Comedy club, a stand-up joint widely revered by comics, many of whom electing to skip my humor heavy town, Chicago, to spend a few days in the land of lakes and low temperatures. While my semi-serious, mostly humorous crush had been developing, I’d been joking with my brother and friends about seeing Jeselnik perform live and what a badass I thought he was, so leading up to September 24th, there was some mounting anticipation and excitement. I’ve had a great summer, but really it’s a fog of fun that created a cloudy journey to this weekend. And I’m so glad it’s here and it went down the way it did.

All the ass-kissing and promoting I did in the many words above were happily justified last night. Seeing him perform live was akin to seeing the Black Keys live last year. I’d been an avid fan for years, getting to know every nuance to each track, and when I finally saw them it was front row, in a small venue, and I was excited for each of my old favorites and thoroughly enjoyed the lesser known new records performed. With Anthony, this was no exception. I’ve gotten to know Shakespeare and his other material pretty damn well, so as he sharply set up his jokes, I smile and laugh early because I know the surprise ending that’s coming in the form of his punchline. He reminds me of Mitch Hedberg, which makes me happy and sad. His delivery and timing is unmatched and to deconstruct his material would be as daunting as dissecting a brain. You must be able to read and absorb and retain information to understand his jokes and laugh for the right reasons. He fed off the crowd, showing off his ability to be funny on the fly, delivered refreshing new material as funny as his classics, inducing loud laughter and applause breaks, and simultaneously made you laugh at his arrogant stage persona while also finding that same character charming and lovable.

He joked that he’d been selling his CD for $20 bucks and since it was the last show after many days here, he’d sold out. So now he’d welcome you to take photos or get an autograph, for that same 20 dollar bill. Sarcasm being my first and only language, I saddled up to him at the bar, telling him I only had $10, but I wasn’t interested in a picture or an autograph. He said sure, just give me the 10 and we’ll talk. We were off to a lovely start. My memory of our conversation is a bit convoluted, stemming from a 3 hour visit to Beer Fest earlier that evening, and also because of my excitement in meeting someone I respected and enjoyed. It was wonderfully bizarre from my end, but pleasantly normal from his. We talked about comedy of course, him giving a major debt of gratitude to Jack Handy and his Deep Thoughts, single handedly influencing a very effectual comedian in its own right. Suffice it to say we had a really nice, normal people conversation. I felt like I was talking to my husband, who is also super handsome with a cheeky smile, very likable and delicious, talented and confident, but salt of the earth. I don’t delude myself into thinking I made a mark on him, but I found his appreciation for his fans and his respect for comedy refreshing, and enjoyed getting to share in that enthusiasm.

I left that club elevated, for sure. I told Anthony I’m a travel/food/comedy writer and that he’d be on my show someday. He said he wanted to be a travel writer but it was too frustrating and there were too few jobs (no shit, he could have made that up), so he opted for the long-term slow death that is often comedy instead. Weird. And awesome. When an artist puts their stamp on me, I’m loyal for life. Barring sexual molestation or murder, I’m in this for the long-haul and I can only hope to watch his impending rise as I foster my own. I’ll bet our paths cross again someday and our peculiar careers will meet in an intersection of food and comedy, where I prefer to hover.

Go out there and support someone deserving like Anthony. And when you find yourself offended by a joke, ask yourself why. There’s a difference between a broad brush stroke and fine-tipped application of irony. Remember, ooohhh-ing is just laughter for pussies. Laugh. Out loud. You deserve it. And so do the comedians working for it. Comedy is art. Art is courage. Support the courageous and inhabit it yourself. Enjoy.

Laughgasms- this is pleasurable on many levels

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_6cxDViAvDM&feature=related

He’s coming to the Chicago Improv November 17-20. His set is worth a lot more than the ticket price so take advantage!

Want to have a humorous, comedy/food rapport with me? Then write mastic8onthis@gmail.com Follow me @mastic8onthis

I celebrate and honor 22 the right way, at the Publican.

22. A special number in my life. A special date. A special age. A number that has brought luck, love and fortune to me through very little work of my own. Growing up I loved #23, for all the cliché reasons. In the 90’s all the best players donned that number, more than just the most famous, Michael Jordan. And so I begrudgingly left 23 behind and made room for one less, and it gave me so much more. On July 22nd, 2005 I embarked on my last first date with a gentleman working for the United States Navy, VS22 to be exact. On October 22nd that same fella with whom I shared in our last first date told me he loved me. On September 22nd, 2006, I married this man at the ripe young age of 22. We shared this age together, along with some amazing memories rounding out the day we exchanged vows. I graduated college. We celebrated in Vegas, with the fam. Spent our honeymoon in New York and shortly before turning 23 we decided to uproot everything and move to Italy. 22 kept showing up, winning us money in roulette, and the date happened to coincide with many life-changing travels throughout our stint in Europe.

On August 22nd, 2010, we moved to Chicago. No lie. It’s bizarre. I’m one to believe in coincidence rather than fate or miracle, but I’ve let the magic of numerology overtake my fully functioning brain and therefore, I’m banking on old 22. I find ways to celebrate this number, either big or small, and for our nickel anniversary I made no exception. We needed to eat our faces off, titillate our taste buds, send shock waves through our nerve-endings. And that's why we spent September 22nd, 2011 at the Publican.

The idea for the Publican came to me from a TV show I’d love to replicate in my own way someday. No Reservations, hosted by the acerbically funny, chef from New York, Tony Bourdain. Tony’s cactus sensibility resonates with my own, and although I’m somewhat sweeter and softer deep down (I think he is too), I’ve got a fairly razor-sharp tongue and very little tolerance for certain people or behaviors. This is why I respect his taste and his show tremendously. It’s not cheesy, phony, contrived, or dull. It’s genuine. It’s a window into worlds most don’t understand, or may not even be aware of, and it’s fricken food porn. When he’s ready to retire, I’m perfectly willing to attempt to fill his shoes. I’ll be sure to let him know because he’s clearly just waiting for me to say those words out loud. Ah, but one can dream.

So when Tony was in Chicago, as any smart person would be, he pointed out some excellent little gems that I’ve frequented and written about since; save for the Publican. Even hearing about it from friends, reading about it in the paper, and exploring their website, it still took almost a full year to make the trek to Fulton Market, for some pork, oysters and beer. Yeehaw. Warning, this place is three dollar signs ($$$), so it ain’t cheap. Special occasion arises, take your sweetheart or BFF and go. As with all others I deem worthy of writing about, this place is memorable and worth every penny.

This place comes with a major reputation and therefore some pretty significant popularity. They earned it and deserve it, but reservations are a must. We initially tried for a weekend, got shot down because of my last-minute attempt in making a reservation, and so we opted for the better choice anyway, Thursday, September 22nd. Taking a cab that drove dangerously quick, weaving in and out of traffic, attempting to arrive at our set time, we enjoyed the beautiful architecture Chicago has to offer, but arrived just beyond 15 minutes late. When this happens, you’re table is given up, but they do their damnedest to get you seated quickly. While you wait, you’re corralled like farm animals in the center of the restaurant, standing around small, circular, tall tables, where you peruse their impressive beer menu and get whiffs of the sizzling pork on other patrons’ forks. We ordered some microbrews and were quickly sat at the oyster chef’s table, getting a bird's eye view of all the action in the kitchen. The decor is simple, monochromatic, but very modern and sleek, with large paintings of pigs in cow print hung on the walls. Nothing makes you hungry like a pig/cow hybrid. Mmm.

The Publican is ran impeccably by executive chef, Paul Kahan, and chef de cuisine, Brian Huston. From the owners and creative minds behind Avec and Blackbird, this casual fare comes from the highest quality pigs, certified organic from Iowa, quality vegetables, top shelf oysters from trusted purveyors, and the staple ingredient giving this place its extra umph, beer. Designed by Thomas Schlesser, the Publican is simple farm fare with an old European bar decor. It's comfortable and impressive, casual but still a special occasion.

The menu is simple but also overwhelming, for the descriptions of each item are so enticing, the mixture of flavors so creative and unique, surely you cannot make a bad choice. We opted for half a dozen oysters, sweet n salty, a sampling of Serrano ham, and the Suckling Pig, from the entrée menu. The oysters are shucked fresh and are served on ice, with a tiny gravy boat of this buttery, garlic, vinegar concoction that you pour over each slurp with a sprinkling of lemon. I could drink that sauce every damn night. Oh my god. Jesus. Krishna. I’d imagine it’s what the buddha’s saliva tastes like. Weird? Oh well. The Serrano ham is Spanish, thinly sliced, and served with fresh slices of bread and butter. You make a tiny sandwich, or just eat that salty, bold deli meat by itself. We ate every single morsel. The suckling pig was the most jaw-dropping, life-changing, O-face inducing entrée I’ve had in days, ha, maybe weeks. I cannot fathom how good all the other entrees are and I cannot wait to find out.

What is abundantly clear when eating at the Publican, and watching the men at work, is how much passion and care is put into each plate, each bite. I love enthusiasm and talent put to use. My friends and people I admire deeply do this so well, and to share in the art created by chefs with people you respect and love makes for the most memorable evening, and I could not ask for a better experience. This is life for me. Laughing and eating. What more do we need?

Treat yourself. I’m sure you bust your ass and sacrifice to live your chosen life, so whether it be the Publican, or some other dining experience you’ve been eyeing, celebrate yourself and another with the joy and love that is food. Thank you and enjoy.

Anxiety with a side of Crystal Meth...the genius of Breaking Bad

Tonight I sit and stare at my DVR, reading through the info on episode 4-10 of the best show on television, Breaking Bad. I’m filled with a breadth of knowledge, a lifetime of memories, scar tissue and endless suspense, and a deep, psychological need to see this through, to satiate my built up anxiety, to whatever end I’m given. Never before has a channel been so bold, so unrelenting, and so innovative in the pursuit of story-telling. I could not be more engrossed or more dedicated to a show. I cannot get enough. To relinquish any detail would give away some of the show’s magic. Basic details: The show is on AMC. On Sunday nights. At 10 p.m. I already fear I’ve said too much. Oh well. The show centers around Walter White (played brilliantly by veteran actor Bryan Cranston), a middle-aged, married, high school chemistry teacher living in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Because of the travesty that is the education system in our country, coupled with the fact that politicians clearly under-appreciate teachers, Walter works a second job at a car wash, under a demoralizing asshole boss. Immediately we see Walter finding out he has terminal lung cancer, and his world begins to spin madly out of control.

Crippled with the daunting, patriarchal burden of providing for his pregnant wife and disabled son, Walter quickly recognizes the harsh reality of his situation, and swallows the big, ugly metaphorical pill when finding the only solution to his problem is cooking meth. For those living under rocks (crack or sedimentary) or other sheltered environments, meth is short for methamphetamine, commonly referred to as crystal, or ice, known for its generous helping of dopamine, on top of increased energy, libido, confidence and euphoria. Sounds fun, eh? Not too fast druggies, this shit is serious. If you want to lose your teeth, weight, attractiveness, friends and morality, then this is the drug for you. Otherwise, kindly seek something more natural, herbal even (yoga and living green have helped a few nameless humans I know). Suffice it to say Walter put his genius to work, to acquire a safety net for his family before this nasty disease takes his life.

Walter, wanting desperately to remain hidden and behind the scenes, knows he needs connections to a dealer, someone in a community he’s never known and only ever criticized. Through a series of events he finds Jesse (performed with genuine talent and devotion by breakout star Aaron Paul), a former student and trouble maker, currently engrossed in this very dangerous, dark world. After a few awkward, semi-negative conversations, they agree to partner up, each on differing sides of the business, with one goal: money.

Hilarity ensues, blah blah, people get killed, shit gets hectic, you know the drill. Nope. Not even. The only levity and break from the impending ulcer comes in the latter half of the 2nd season, with the entrance of a corrupt lawyer, Saul Goodman (could not have been cast better, the BB crew wisely choosing comedy great Bob Odenkirk). Better call Saul. Not to worry though, the sheer magnetic forces of the show’s writing, acting and directing will suck you in, mess with your head and heart and leave you for dead on the floor, battered and confused until next week. Better take some Xanax.

I’m not sure if I’m even able, through the limited availability of the English language, to adequately describe why this show is so great and why more people should be watching. The phrase God is in the details is befitting of this show. No stone is unturned, no piece of information left lingering. You’ll be sucked in by an initial image, ride the tumultuous roller-coaster for two full seasons to finally fit that piece in the weird puzzle you’ve built in your mind. The happenings in between are suspenseful, often times scary, and fueled by urgency.

Each episode, and season, builds, incrementally, on itself, and on your gut, until finally, you burst, into tears or into the hospital but either way, something’s bursting. This show evokes that kind of reaction. This is not your typical CBS, standard, one-note, predictable crime-drama. Breaking Bad has redefined hour-long programming, and even writing and acting in general. It appeals so deeply to your humanity, makes you believe, feel like you could be Walter, Jesse, or one of the very richly written characters yourself. I’m constantly amazed how the show has evolved, the development of each character and their dynamic within the plot, the attention to every minute detail which inevitably comes back into play at some point, boiling your brain and stopping your heart once again.

This show makes you feel, deeply, pondering the consequences of each action and reaction, each step, each word. It casts a mirror, allowing you to see moments in your life, significant occurrences like seeing your parents humanity for the first time. We all can no doubt recall these moments, with mom or dad, or a sibling, a close family member, even your spouse. Unfortunately and fortunately, we reveal ourselves eventually. You get to see all that unfold, and similar to other genres of art, it reminds you how to be human, and above all, triggers your compassion and empathy.

My stand-point on television is similar to that of any art you choose to absorb; selectivity, it’s food for your mind and quite possibly your soul. It’s nice to let the rapidly diminishing brain cells exit without effort, I know, but I strongly encourage those of you who think of yourselves as intelligent, thoughtful people, to require as much out of the television as you do from your furniture, clothes, handbags, and other meaningless “things.” Being impressive from the inside takes work, not just money, so exercise your freedoms and choose wisely. Breaking Bad will challenge you, and as always, you will not regret it.

As much as I love and need comedy, life is full of drama. I prefer to keep the drama inside that light-emitting screen and out of my very loving, cohesive household. Perhaps there is an inverse relationship between the quality of art and food you consume and the quality of drama in your life. Just a theory. In my life, it holds true, and I’d love that for others as well. Keep the drama focused on provocative pieces created by others to entertain, and not within the confines of your family. Evoke kindness from within, and explore the complexity of human existence without.

Save the drama for something other than your momma. And make it worth while. Spend some time with the great work on AMC, especially the likes of Breaking Bad. Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--z4YzxlT8o

Savory Sweet Pockets of Heaven: La Creperie

I enjoy food that comes hidden behind some gluten filled pleasure pocket. Man that sounds strange. Oh well, I’m leaving it in. Calzones, Stromboli, tacos, burritos, enchiladas, and any other Spanish word with delicious Mexican ingredients are a staple in my weekly diet. Beyond the above, along with various derivations of pizza, pasta and sandwiches, my ultimate ingredient stuffed pouch of carbohydrates lies with the French, in a crepe. Adding to the list of influences in my upbringing is my honorary father’s (I love that word over step-father, clearly it’s his honor to step in and be my father when I’m with my Mom. Being a step parent sounds fun for no one, but he did it well, and that’s why he’s my honorary father, my Daddy Don, Dad) French blood. At various times during my childhood, our Dad would spend hours in the kitchen preparing a very French, gourmet meal. Being a big breakfast person, he soon channeled his culinary discipline into making crepes, and boy were we happy for it. Our quarterly treat sparked a passion in me, and at times, I get tunnel vision and must have crepes.

When living overseas I’d grab a crepe, mostly sweet, wherever I could, and upon traveling to France and at another time to Greece, my love affair grew as I discovered crepes of the savory variety, and branched out on the sweet as well. Why am I rambling incessantly about one specific genre of food? Because when done well, there’s almost nothing better. Since returning home to the States, I’ve had excellent crepes in NYC, Florida and now Chicago, but none thus far have amounted to the greatness available at La Creperie.

I’d ridden and walked by La Creperie hundreds of times since our move to Lakeview. Each time I’d pass, I’d think, damn, I need that in my life. For whatever reason, through exploration of several other restaurants in every neighborhood in Chicago, I’d continually overlooked and bypassed what was sure to be a favorite. Last week, while contemplating and commemorating freedom, I thought of freedom fries, and how stupid that expression is, and so I set my sights on La Creperie, finally.

Two bikes and a skateboard road a little over a mile on a cool summer day. We walked into the very Parisian looking cafe, walked down the narrow hallway lit only by the sun, out to a beautiful patio to sit under an umbrella. I was immediately overwhelmed by the incredible descriptions and ingredients composing each crepe. The three of us were hungry so we each opted for our own savory crepe, leaving the potential to share a sweet one open. I ordered chicken with a creamy herb sauce and mushrooms. The men folk ordered ratatouille, and a tomato with onion and garlic, each also wrapped in the thin, buttery, salty envelope.

All I can say is you should see the faces we were making and the sounds emitting from our throats. I love how, similar to a piece of music, a flavor, an herb, a bite, can fill you with nostalgia, bring you back to a memory, a place, an emotion. Those crepes were unique, made with love, prepared with quality ingredients and expertise, and even though I hadn’t tasted the likes of them before, they felt familiar, they filled me up, in belly and heart. We were full, satisfied, high off of taste, ready for a nap. I wasn’t quite finished yet. It’s a sacrilege to eat crepes and deliberately ignore the dessert options. This isn’t about need or not being full, it’s about giving your taste buds a well-rounded meal, a rainbow of flavors, and making room in that second stomach to squeeze in just a little bit more.

And so we did, of course. We opted for the creme caramel, a crepe topped with flan (a dessert my grandmother makes expertly), home-made whipped cream, a clear, vanilla drizzle, and some fresh blueberries. Each component, individually, was top-notch and a satisfying treat in and of themselves. But like most successful entrees, the whole is better than the sum of their parts. Crepe, blueberries, flan and the corresponding sweet condiments was something resembling a religious experience. I cannot wait to go back.

For a slew of complicated and simple reasons, many Americans have misconceived notions about the French, France and probably French food, claiming they only eat frog legs and other bizarre ingredients. Let me say now that frog legs are delicious and so is almost every bite of food I was lucky enough to eat in that beautiful country. The people were friendly, sarcastic, artistic and interesting, nothing like the stereotypes perpetuated in the last 10 years. And before you über patriots get up in arms over this being a two-way street, I recognize the judgements and stereotypes involving Americans are not always right either. I respect their history, people, food and way of life, and I’m proud to have French influences adding to the fabric of who I am.

Explore your ancestry, and others. Food is love, knowledge, and community. Enjoy.

Much More Than Good Laughs, Louie and Wilfred on FX.

Wilfred and Louie just blew my mind and broke my heart. Those shows are soul shattering, skull f*cking and sensory overloads. On the surface, they’re funny, peculiar and at times, outrageous. But, when you pay attention, there’s so much depth to each character, so much meaning providing through-lines in each episode. I just teared up at the season finale of Louie. That may sound ridiculous and even sad to you, that I’d invest so much in a piece of fiction, but that’s what art does. It is evocative and provocative. It’s inspires pondering and conversation. Like food, good TV brings people together. This is why I find it difficult to be friends with people who claim not to watch TV or like going to the movies? What? Are you some neo-nazi war criminal? Or chronically depressed? Boring? Dull? Probably. Do yourself a favor, too cool for TV peeps (I’m excluding the homeless and my friends who are too cheap to pay for cable), Netflix or torrent these shows, now. They are sure to change your life. I know it seems a hyperbolic statement, but I stand confident in my claim. FX is slewing out some home fricken runs. I’m not mad at them. I’m not mad at AMC either. There will be a love/lust letter for Mad Men and Breaking Bad and all other alliterated titles on that brilliant channel, in due time. Patience, young ones. (No ones asking, or cares? Right.)

Louie and Wilfred are too complex to even dissect or recollect for you now. Plus, I’d be an asshole to suggest a show, and implore you to watch, and then tell you important details that are fun surprises as a new viewer. So I will not do that. I’ll provide you with details you should already know, if you’re a semi-modern human being. If not, you’re most certainly not reading my blog. And if you are, please write me and explain yourself.

Louie is written, produced, directed and acted by the capital B Brilliant Louis. C. MothafucKin K. He deserves the title. He is the quintessential, ultimate New York City comic. A regular, still, at the Comedy Cellar, Louis was born to be a stand-up. He never went to college, at 19 started with 90 second sets, bombed, and just kept going. He had the same hour-long act (discussed in the moving tribute to George Carlin below) for 15 years until he took the late, great George Carlin’s advice and kept his material fresh every single year thereafter; every single special, no matter what. I know Louie’s Comedy Central Presents from 2001 by heart, along with Shameless, Chewed Up, and Hilarious. We recently saw him in the Chicago Theatre and he was beyond brilliant, as always, some of the material taking residence in my nerve-endings, I’m still quoting it.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2011/09/louis-ck-honors-george-carlinand-chokes-up/

Back on track, the show. After an unsuccessful, and bizarre first sitcom on HBO, called Lucky Louie, Louis took a break, got back to his act, did a few movies and then landed the deal of the century with FX. What seems to happen on this network is artists are given cart-blanche to do whatever the hell they want, as long as it’s high quality and gets decent ratings. Louis came in with a cult comedy following and his previous notoriety (the infamous beef with Dane Cook, brilliantly covered on this season’s Louie), and with amazing guest-stars like one of my top five favorite human beings, Ricky Gervais, good ratings on a cable show were cake.

The show is an artistic interpretation of Louis’ life. He’s divorced, with two girls, a fairly famous comedian with famous comic friends, living in New York City. The beautiful stories told in each episode provide insight into Louis as a man, as a comedian, as a father, and a non-melodramatic, humorous take on how shitty life can be. It’s so relatable and yet so extraordinary and unusual. It’s unlike anything else on television. Dare I say it’s better than Seinfeld, Roseanne, Mad About You, Ellen, Home Improvement, Full House, or any other stand-up comic show starring a popular 80’s comic that didn’t make it to Eddie Murphy status. Those are great and have their place, I still love them, keep your panties on, I’m just saying Louie, pound for pound, is better.

Two of my favorite men, doing what they do best. Don't mind Louie's ass.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qOaZ4CQqKI

Wilfred is wacktastically different and incredible and beautiful and simple and complex and daring and heavy and light-hearted and deeply amazing. This show has impacted my life. It has inspired me to think outside of the box, as a person and as an aspiring artist. It’s such a far-cry from my current life situation and yet, somehow it resonates with me. The most commonly experienced human emotions are the focal points in each episode and through their strange and interesting struggle, you understand your own. You must buy into the implausibility of the premise, like most movies and TV shows (and I’m including reality shows, those people never really love/like each other). It’s worth buying in for the ride.

What is it really about? I shan’t provide too many details of course but essentially, Ryan, played impeccably by the adorably big-eyed Elijah Wood (one of the lone child-star survivors from the 90’s), is a deeply depressed man who swallows dozens of pills expecting to die and instead, he survives and now sees his neighbor crush’s dog as a human dressed in a dog suit named Wilfred. Make sense? It’s somewhat convoluted as it reveals itself but also tremendously poetic. Wilfred is played by an unknown (to Americans) Australian (the very talented Jason Gann), but man I want to see him outside that suit. He happens to be the writer, creator and star of the Aussie version. He’s so brilliantly funny and convincing that he's magnetic. I’m drawn to him.

Anyway, Wilfred is as insightful and wise as he is simple and primal. The mere placement of a hump-able animal (stuffed or live), or bubbles, is enough of a distraction from his otherwise mature, helpful advice. He also smokes a lot of pot, drinks alcohol, has a dirty mouth and mind, and is slinging out some of the most clever, well delivered comedy on any screen. This may sound too bizarre or complicated but give yourself the benefit of the doubt. You’re probably smart enough to follow it, and if not, you don’t know it so no harm no foul. Just give it a shot, okay? You will not regret it. I do think it helps to know or love dogs, so if you don't, not sure how you'll react. Also not sure if I trust you regardless, gotta love animals to enjoy this crazy world. For my time and energy, along with other critical minds I respect, it's the best new show on TV.

Please enjoy this quick compilation of Wilfred's moments from both versions of the show.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CE7abj2tJJg

What both of these shows generously give in buckets is a swift kick in the inner workings of your solar plexus, where your semblance of a soul resides. You feel so deeply for these people and somehow their scripted pain is more real than seemingly fake problems/complaints from people you know. They’re gut-wrenching, heart-pounding and soul-stirring, to provide some phrases. They’re fitness regimes for your head and heart. Give your entire body a once over by doing yoga poses during the commercials or something. Triple whammy. You’re welcome.

What have I said a million times? Either in my head or outwardly, it’s quality over quantity. Have some standards. You’re losing brain cells at a constant rate, some of you quicker than others, so don’t waste what you’re currently destroying on mindless, dull television. Watch what your brain and heart need, well written, directed, acted pieces of art. You deserve it. Enjoy.