French Fry Follies

In the days of yore, or at least in the ’50s…or at least in the ’50s as depicted by S.E. Hinton, people congregated in parking lots late at night to settle disputes. You remember — the Greasers and the Socs fought, rumbled and bopped their way to social superiority. Or at least some bruises and broken bones. (And…death? It’s been awhile since I read that book.)

Today, parking lots seem to be reserved for groups of people to collectively watch their waistlines expand. That’s right. We’re talking about the food truck rally. Begin salivating now.

Despite the fact that I’ve been living in Orange County for 5 1/2 years now, I had no idea there existed a weekly food truck rally just a scant 7 miles away from my house. And I have the temerity to call myself a foodie. Well, thanks to my girl Tiffany, I have seen the light. That is, the humming neon light that illuminates the counter of each mobile meal purveyor.

The Burnt Truck, Dos Chinos, Lime, Tapa Boy and a few other gourmet food trucks drew crowds consisting mostly of young Asians to the Boomers/bowling alley parking lot. Had I the patience to save my stomach for the event, I would have tried them all, but with a bowl of pasta and half a chocolate shake already safely put away, I had no appetite whatsoever. Only one thing could move me to reconsider my noshing embargo.

The Fresh Fries truck. I mean…how can I…sorry. Give me a second to regain my composure.

Fries. My downfall. As long as they’re on the plate, I don’t care what sandwich, burger or other entree stands opposite. In 10th grade, I gave up fries for Lent. Of course, that’s beside the point. How were the fries?

Well, I made the mistake of nostalgically ordering the “626 fries,” probably the worst thing that’s ever happened to the innocent, golden, salty sticks of goodness. The 626 fries were covered with mayonnaise, hoisin sauce, and crunchy “chow mein” noodles. What was I thinking? I don’t even like hoisin sauce. And thus, the basket was a very pungent disappointment. Not to be discouraged, I tried my friend’s sweet potato fries with curry dipping sauce, and they were perfectly lovely.

I’m not going to fault the Fresh Fries truck for the 626 fries. Let’s face it, they’ll probably cater my wedding. In fact, I know that if I ever got into heaven, this truck would take me there. Next time I’ll be sure to order with my taste buds — not the fondness for my hometown — in mind.

WTF

Maybe if you...squint a little.

What do you do when you feel like you’ve become a lightning rod for life’s first-world inconveniences (e.g. expensive car repairs, debit card fraud, and soul-crushing, insomnia-causing heartache)? Well, I don’t know how you deal, but one way I find solace is popping in the old ear buds and listening to my favorite podcasts.

Topping my list:
The Ricky Gervais Show
This American Life
RadioLab
And you guessed it:

WTF with Marc Maron.

To kick off spring break, my friend and I braved the traffic to watch a live WTF show at the cozy Steve Allen theatre awesomely located in the Center for Inquiry in Hollywood.

Because my friend isn’t struck by the same crippling timidity that I am, she kindly introduced us to the man in question, who was nervously snacking on bland popcorn and pacing the venue. Of course, afterwards, I thought of saying something cool like,”See? Asians do like listening to you!” Instead, I flashed the default smile and let out a shrill “Hi!” At least I think I did. I temporarily blacked out.

Nevertheless, the show was amazing, Marc was charmingly acerbic and neurotic, and his interactions with all the guests (Ari Shaffir, Pete Holmes, Craig Robsinson, and Eddie Pepitone) had me forget about all of life’s woes.

Although the audience was a random mix of bespectacled hipsters, buttoned-down seniors, comedy nerds, actual nerds and everything in between, I could tell by the way we slapped our knees and guffawed at Pete Holmes yelling “DADDY!” at an annoyed Mr. Maron, we were all in it together. These were my people.

Bring ’em back: Doc Martens

Please, ignore the pasty ankle swath.

I have no qualms about cleaning out my closet. Whenever I feel particularly productive, which inexplicably, often coincides with looming paper deadlines, I hunker down and sort through the novelty T-shirts, faded jeans and items whose elastic has transformed into some kind of crackly, limp mess.

My lack of remorse has a lot to do with the fact that my mom puts these clothes out to pasture. That is, she packs them up in Balikbayan boxes and sends them to her relatives in the Philippes. From there, the fate of my veteran wardrobe lies in their hands.

There are a few things I haven’t been able to part with, though. Jeans I swear I’ll be able to fit into again, pea coats that will never go out of style, and, you guessed it, my two pairs of Doc Martens that have been in my custody since middle school.

Let’s be honest, though. I probably wore each pair a total of five times.

Why?
1. They’re sort of uncomfortable.
2. I’m a lifelong flip-flop enthusiast. My feet want to be free!
3. The only circumstances that cause me to spend more than 5 seconds putting on footwear entail ice rinks and … well, that’s it.

So what convinced me to unearth them from the closet in my parents’ house after 15 years?

A combination of cold weather, the increasing popularity of what I call Depression-era shoes (the hyper-popular but slightly more refined leather boots I see all the cool kids on campus wear), the cold and wet weather of late, and most importantly, the fact that I’m an adult.

My fast-approaching 28th birthday has convinced me that flip-flops are no longer appropriate to top off a rather fetching outfit of dark jeans, nice sweater and leather jacket. Amiright?

In closing — Doc Martens. Retro yet timeless. Gettin’ older.

Let’s do this.

Here we go again!

So…hi.

My sister broke my camera (that she gave me, of course) during her three months abroad in Spain and I haven’t procured a new one since…but even those extenuating circumstances don’t excuse the ridiculously long hiatus (read: temporarily abandonment) of this blog.

Tail-between-my-legs apology over. It’s a new day, the adrenaline is pumping (which might be because of my manic Dancing with the Stars YouTube marathon that lasted long past my bed time that I’m 72% embarrassed about), and I’m ready to get this blog back on its feet.

Oh. Yeah.