San Gabriel Redux

Today was another glorious day of celebrating the slavery that is the San Gabriel Foot Massage. I picked A up in Silverlake and she showed me her favorite back street route to Ben and Kate's house, via Ben Lomond Place. On the way, we had a brief I'm-a-Porsche, You're-a-Porsche wing ding with the Dylan McKay Porsche.

We piled into the Prius and made a quick pit stop at Gelson's, where the civilized white people shop, so we wouldn't forget what they looked like after an afternoon of Asian immersion. A got stuck behind a white lady at the check stand who seemed to have never ever used a PIN pad.


We stopped in at SG Supermarket for a tiny dim summit. Ben and Kate picked up odds and ends, mainly jack fruit, oranges, potatoes. Must be making a pizza later. This is one of the menus.



And this is the line. The front of the line anyway. I couldn't get the whole line in frame. With as many people eager to get their dim sum rations, it's prison rules baby.

And this woman is the self assigned Judge Dredd and god bless her a million times plus infinity for her efforts. In her short tenure, she kept us all moving in the right direction. A middle aged woman and her older than redwoods mother walked up to the counter without any regard to the column of souls behind, and the Judge told her what time it was with a lot of back up from me. The lady and her mother did not want to comply with the Judge and I stepped up with a hitch hiker thumb to the rear - "Aaa aaa, the line starts back there, waayy back there." After that was cleared up, and our turns were up, the Judge shook her head at me, "who they think they are, I not kidding around, this the dim sum line."


And we got all of this delicious booty for 6 bucks American.

GPS guided Ben and Prius to Joyful Foot Spa on Las Tunas. It's a smaller operation than Lucky Foot Spa, and it could maybe benefit from a little sprucing up. As a matter of course, the big screen was on, tuned in to Power Rangers. To emphasize serenity, the sound was muted, in favor of Celine Dion and other Celine Dion like musak. The most wondrous elements were the handful of large Moving Waterfall Pictures on each wall. The steady, droning sound of the electric motors that drive the shimmering scrolls added much to my sense of inner peace. The stained white towels did not.

I immediately forget about all of these pesky details once the work commenced. I got an older man who, in a parallel universe is my track coach. The guy had hands like determined sausages. Go there and you'll know what I mean by this. This was an incredibly focused massage that easily relieved me of the bondage of self. As my feet soaked in the hot tea, he worked my back with his forearm, producing this crunching, squishing sound I'd never heard before. It was as if he was killing all the Jellyfish dwelling under my shirt. Thank you.

I think I might have gone into a hyper Alpha-Delta wave mode, or some kind of conscious coma. If an over boosted Power Ranger, say the green one, burst into the place through one of the walls, I would not have moved or cared. My companions felt similarly. At the end, I glanced over to A at my right enjoying a cup of water in a styrofoam cup as if she were sipping a lacquered bowl of Big Mama Takahashi's Life Giving Miso.

We oozed into the car and Ben drove us to Hawaii Super in search of cold food and hot food - something to satisfy each of our immediate and overwhelming food needs.

Here is the bulletin board outside with want ads. If I had to guess, I'd say that these are all for mandarin lessons or chinese cooking class. I took a few numbers that I'll call tomorrow.

This is the boba trailer parked directly in front of the main entrance.

And this is the Jade Van from which you can buy all things jade. Very handy.

Other than some fried cakes that Kate bought outside for 60 cents, the food we needed was not available. So back in the car, left on Valley Boulevard toward Monterey Park, Alhambra and boom - the strip mall mecca at the corner of New Avenue and Valley Boulevard. We agreed on Korean food - hot and cold food, meat and vegetarian options, in low lighting and quiet as a monastery. In this lowly lit space, with this incredible food, we allowed our comas to slowly fade.

Sylmar Electric

These are my race stats indicating that of the four drivers on the course, I came in last place.


And this is my membership card to MB2 Raceway in Sylmar, CA, where I and my car-nut co-workers unwind, after a long work week of begging and cajoling others to no real, satisfying end. It's all electric, break-neck acceleration go-karts that seems like cute little fun childrens toys at first glance, but will turn any mild tempered human into a panting, grunting, sweaty, adrenaline-drunk gorilla – My Aunt Belen at the swap meet.

I get schooled each time by my co-workers, never failing to be bottom of the heap. And each time the race is over, my limbs are too rubbery for me to get out of the Kart without the help of a track nurse. He's usually not pretty or hot, just some under earner teen who loves the smell of Pep Boys. My throat is usually parched and I'm ready to throw up from the adrenaline overload. Today was no different.

The place is nestled in a business park, amidst companies that make roller bearings and electronic components. You'd think by the sign that it was a performance parts distributor specializing in lift kits for your favorite jacked up 4 x 4 application. You wouldn't give this place a second look and there are no signs enticing you to spend the afternoon crouched knees to elbows, in a go-kart dragging your low hangers around the glossy concrete.

The inside smells of rubber and solvent and man grime, but the place is clean. Track is indoor, and your stats are beamed onto the wall for everyone to see. This operation has nothing to do with a bunch of Carney Folk who like to boogie down on the vomit comet or sell you styrofoam gliders and funnel cake. This is a hi-tech operation from top to bottom.

The Karts are a multi-stage electric deal, controlled by radio to regulate track speed. Each active kart constantly sends its stats back to a server that then displays each drivers performance as they jack around the smooth track. You are required to wear recycled head socks sprayed with febreeze and a regulation helmet with neck brace, AND, of course, you sign away all rights to sue. The hard cores, like Kuhner, my co-worker bring their own helmets and gloves.

These fuckers go fast. I actually popped my neck in turn three – the widowmaker. I end up driving sideways a lot, which I enjoy, but as all the vets point out, “You're scrubbing speed when you do that. You want your drive wheels to be behind you at all times.” Noted.

14 laps go by in less than 7 minutes, at a cost of only $12.00. The electric screeeem, the well planted stance, the ridiculous handling – this is the way driving should be done. It's nearly impossible for me to get back into my car without scoffing at my own ride, as in, “Really Yirko, you really think you can drive home in that box spring?”

I don't like being last all the time, so I might save my lunch money and practice in secret, watching closely, the skillful ways of this hot shot regular, some racer named Hot Cow.

They say that Angelenos are natural treasure hunters in a vast dirt heap – this is true. MB2 Raceway is a gleaming, screaming treasure awaiting you in the Los Angeles foothills.

Northridge

Why do we love LA? Because there's all kinds of people here waving the flags of all nations and we're not crammed together in God's cake hole. Case in point: Northridge. It's a little community in the North Valley, the last stop on the 118 west before you get to the heart of White Flight - Simi Valley.

Northridge is the Korean version of White Flight. It's where some Koreans go who are tired of Koreatown and just want a little more space and a lot less Bus.


Galleria Market on the corner of Reseda and Nordhoff provides the Korean in all of us a double wide selection of Kimchi and all things Korea.


Like all places, this one's got a few simple rules. Make absolutely sure that you leave your Ice Bar at home.


They say you should never do groceries on an empty stomach and I didn't want to go home with ten giant clams, so I sat my ass down at the Food Court for a plate of fried rice and chicken hoo-haah with what seemed like an endless array of sides for $6.99.


Got lost in the Noodle Aisle. Eventually I worked my way out of it and got back to the bidness at hand - Korean Barbecue. I piled the marinated, candied beef into the cart, along with korean potato salad, garlic bean sprouts, marinated kale, fish cakes, tiny anchovies, chili tofu steaks, a case of yakult, AND organic f'n milk. Who knew.

Don't worry, it's a chain, they also got one in the 213, in the heart of K-town for those who like the bus.

Tacos Sinaloa

This taco trailer - Tacos Sinaloa, I went here today. I was the only customer waiting, and I ordered three tacos and a side of rice and they gave me three tacos and a side of rice - 15 minutes later. There were three adults and one toddler inside the trailer and it's not clear to me how the kid contributed to the production line. This is an operation that is best described as HI-LO - High Involvement, Low Output. Ideally, you'd want your thing, whatever it is to be HI-HO or LI-HO. HI-LO means your searing your gonads with all kinds of body movement, but you're making only one shiny peanut.

I go here for two reasons - the other truck, El Gordo, the one that parks a few yards ahead of this trailer is not always around, and their food is good. Really good. The tortillas are hand made and the meat is worth punching an old man over. I'd never do it, but I'd understand if it happened to someone else. Also, the people are lovely. And let me just say this, they are not slow, they just have this miraculous way of making time vanish, but not your money. The cost of my plate today - $3.75.

San Gabriel

I picked up A today at her house and we had brunch at LA Mill Co on Silverlake Boulevard, in the part of town A refers to as Grown Up Silverlake - as opposed to dirty, beareded, skinny guys, girls with DIY bangs, under earner, biodiesel, Silverlake over on Sunset.


Their dish ware is gorgeous. I ordered the Onyx Black Coffee. A ordered Organic Brazil, which she called complex, I thought it was more like old sweat socks in coffee flavored lemonade.


We drove to San Gabriel to get 1 hour foot massages for $15.00 at Lucky Foot SPA. Next door (not pictured) we got $2 dollar blow jobs at Lucky Cock Hole.


The Wall of Rules clearly posted.


The waiting area. Looks as though someone's been paying close attention to HGTV.


You sit in a large hybrid barcalounger/massage table. They sat me next to A, positioned dead center in front of the big screen, displaying a DVD of insects hard at work, set to synthesizer versions of classical hits like Ravel's Bolero. You'd be a caucasian fool to expect a serene massage set to pan flute and rain stick sounds. My massage was delivered by a woman with pipe wrenches for hands. Lot's of torque and a penchant for giggling whenever I winced.

As my feet soaked in a bucket of hot tea, she began by pretending to rip off my ear lobes, followed by a massage of my ear canal. Then she scratched my scalp which immediately made me pur and think how grateful I was that I got up early this morning to get myself a new thing of Head and Shoulders - otherwise I would have given her a pillow coated in parmesan cheese. She knocked on my head a few times, treated my shoulders like a pile of dough she was pissed at - really pissed at. The foot massage almost shooed my soul out of my body. It was so intense in some spots that I had to watch the insects on screen to give me other things to focus on. She adjusted the barcalounger to its flattest setting, to reveal a face hole in the head rest. She had me turn over to work my back with what seemed like a rolling of Mag Lites and pummeling by frozen cornish game hens. She answered her phone a few times throughout - very chatty woman. Had a lot to say about a lot. And when it was over, I was a bit sad, but my ankles, which had been sore from running were magically healed, and similar to the lame man in the Jesus hype stories, I could walk unaided by small, unpaid asian children.


We did not have our brains checked next door.


Instead we spaced our way to this diner. We ordered silken tofu cold sweet ginger soup, crullers wrapped in onion cake, a mushroom and pork dumpling, chicken and scrambled egg congi. It was a decent recovery meal and it allowed my soul ample time to walk away from the light and re-enter my body.


We went to SG Super - a combination grocery store, fish market, indoor swap meet, hello kitty outlet, hardware store, chinese herb mart, deli, DVD store and gucci boutique. I watched A buy a lifetime supply of bulk pickled fruits. Typical asian mega mart - there was no way to avoid the smell of dried iguanas and salted sea horse. A also bought red bean mochi in a four pack, I got an avocado smoothie with some flan on the side. We didn't have any patience for the dim sum line that looked more like a swamped red cross relief station and for good reason, all the posted prices for dim sum were 99 cents.


Some careful digging brought us to a good place to buy tiny balls. It's about fucking time.

And now that we're a little bit smarter in the ways of San Gabriel, we are going back next week with a tighter game plan.

No Title

LA Radio – it’s a rusted out glory hole that I keep sticking my wang into, hoping each time will feel like the first. I’m stupid, I know.

Satellite radio saved me from needlessly mincing my member on the jagged old hole by providing me all the commercial free, formulaic, radio stations that cater to every mainstream niche I could possibly desire. The subscription came with my car, but recently it ran out, and I didn’t plan ahead and now I'm back cozying up to the old hole. 

Satellite service was cancelled in mid stream, which forced me to switch back over to terrestrial radio (not a good retronym, if you ask me), now even less appealing with the demise of INDIE 103.1. INDIE was a good station for a number of reasons, most of which I'm not interested in sharing, you'll have to look it up on wikipedia yourself. I was lucky that A told me about it in January, while cruising in her car, but my own disbelief had me tune her radio to El Gato 103.1. Huge bummer. Others were not so lucky.
 
My friend Annie recently left me an irate phone message when she made the startling discovery by herself. No one was there to comfort her amidst the Banda and the Norteno when she expected the Sex Pistols. So sad.

We lost FEDCO in 1999. FEDCO, for you chain loving assholes was a department store chain with a twist. It was a co-op, they were union, it was a one-stop shop in which you could buy Hanes T-Shirts, gourmet foods, cakes and pies, nice electronics and a new pair of glass eyes for cheaper than dead grass. $10 bought you a lifetime membership and keys to your wildest dreams, long before Oprah invented the notion. Pressure from Costco, Target and Wal Mart eventually brought it to its knees in chapter 11 bankruptcy . Target bought most of the FEDCO stores. Nothing can replace FEDCO, but I roll with the new mode anyway, groovin on the sexy Target ads, but inside I know I'm fooling myself.

LA Radio also has a new station you can groove to, in all the same fluffy style as shopping at Target for your Mossimo toilet paper. It's AMP 97.1. All hits all the time, 10,000 songs in a row without commercials. The catch - they only have 11 different songs and if you've been to Supercuts, you've already heard them.

I love it. Annie LOVES it – left me a very enthusiastic voice mail on Tuesday night.

It seems that someone went ahead and lined the old hole with crushed velvet for the time being. Thanks for that.

INDIE 103.1 is on the internet now. And they have an iPhone app you can download. And maybe, I might just take that cash-ola I've been saving in a drawer and get me an iPhone. Maybe satellite is so last week. As with anything else, I have to roll with the new mode, otherwise, I'm that dipshit who thinks the internet is a place.