Breaking the Fourth Wall

got this from wiki...

got this from wiki…

I can’t tell if this is supposed to be a serious heartfelt poem or one of those ‘Daily Affirmation’s with Stuart Smalley’ type things


I can’t wait for a man to buy me a home
I can rent an apartment and live on my own!

I can’t wait for a man to get on one knee
I can buy myself a two carat ring

I can’t wait for a man to decide to propose
’cause uncertain and doubts hold him back, I suppose

I can’t wait for a man to figure out that he’s sure
There’s more fish in the sea I can bring out to shore

I can’t wait for a man to make me a wife
I can live out my dreams and carry on with my life!

I can’t wait for a man to offer me marriage
and burden my life with his troublesome baggage

I can’t wait to be happy on a day of a wedding
I can be happy for often jet setting!

I can’t wait for a man to reach a life goal
Culture and society can’t brain wash my soul!

I can’t wait for a man to offer himself
I can do bad all by myself!

Be blessed, spread love,



Is it just me or does it sound like a collection of Stuart Smalley quotes:

I deserve good things, I am entitled to my share of happiness.

I refuse to beat myself up. I am an attractive person. I am fun to be with.

But today, I’ve decided to take a risk, and wear a new sweater. It was sent to me by a recovering sex addict, Melissa D.,

who knitted it herself; she said it gave her something to do with her hands.

I’m going to die homeless and penniless. I’m still twenty-five pounds overweight.

No one will ever love me. I could just kill myself.

But I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!



No disrespect to Kim, I just can’t tell the tone in the writing.   My bad.


Make a Fucking List and Check it Fucking Twice, Part 2

Now you see it.  Now you don't.

Now you see it. Now you don’t.



Dear Sleepless in Barcelona,



So after getting the wine, I tell Adam I’m tired, I’m not at all, and bee line for the ATM I saw on the walk over. It’s do or die at this point. I can feel sweat start to bead up behind my knees. When sweat rolls down your calf, things are not going well for you. If I wasn’t so constipated I’d be scared shitless. I come to the conclusion either 100% of the credit card readers in Spain are faulty and broken, or in the time it took me to get from the airport to my apartment, Union Bank had shut off my card.


Swipe. Type. Declined.


Good job, Union Bank. Heck, I’m not even mad. That’s amazing. They’re like a tiny miniature Buddha.


I slam the door to my loft and now feel a steady stream of perspiration running down my back like one of those baby-angel fountains is taking a piss down my spine. I scramble to figure things out. Before I was thinking, ‘What the fuck do I do?’ like in a macro sense. Now I’m thinking ‘What the fuck do I do?’ in the micro sense. My phone is useless. My credit card is shut off. I can’t call my bank because I have no phone. I can’t really do much online to figure this shit out because my laptop is dying and the genius I am left my charger in Los Angeles. (Probably still plugged in) And the cash I have, melting away faster than the ice sculpture Kanye West had at his wedding. (Probably of himself no less.)


Half a glass of wine matures into a half a bottle, and I slip on the banana peel known as exhaustion and into sleep for a decade. My headphones and the random playlist of songs on my iTunes dictate the extremely weird dreams I have. I’m in my grandma’s living room, who’s been dead for years, with my ex? What the fuck!? I don’t even want to begin to analyze that bullshit. (Some stones are better left unturned) From my decades long slumber, ‘Rip Van Winkle’ gently awakes with astonishment, disbelief, and questions sliding off my tongue. ‘Where am I?’ is the first question as I slowly open my eyes as the romantic musings of Wiz Khalifa play on my headphones. ‘What time is it?’ 3:15. Three-fifteen in the morning!? ‘What the fuck is jabbing me in the back?’ My knife kit and all my camera equipment. Aside from my words, these are the two things I think will make me a success. And at this present moment all three of these motherfuckers are keeping me from sleeping.


Now I’m wide awake.


Have I mentioned, fuck my life?


Anyway, I’m going to try and sleep.  Write back soon.




Rick Scott

Traveling With Baggage

This is Marrakesh, but it's in Morocco so it counts!

This is Marrakesh, but it’s in Morocco so it counts!


For all the Game of Throne NERDS!  (I’m talking to myself as well, because I am addicted to Game of Thrones…but not enough to actually read the books.)


Great post from Go See Write!


I just recently got back from Morocco a month or so ago, but didn’t make it to the cities on the list.  However, I’ve been to Dubrovnik and Split, and without a doubt Croatia is one of the most slept on cities in the world.  I went there a few years back, with plans of going to Spain, Croatia, and Greece, in that order.  Spain was amazing, but when boarding the plane to Dubrovnik, I found myself wanting to skip Croatia and just get to Greece already.  I could not have been more wrong.  It’s like the random bar your friend drags you to cuz he’s heard good things and you end up getting lucky and going home with someone at the end of the night.  The bar will always have a soft spot in your heart and you will always want to go back. That’s Dubrovnik.  It was amazing and still proves to be one of my favorite European cities.  In some ways it’s the girl who I did crazy things with one night and can’t wait to do those things again.


Also check out Land Lopers for Matt’s awesome pics from Dubrovnik.

And my unrelated post on the Knockout Game of Thrones.



Making Life More Palatable





Why do they do this? 


Why did Rachel Tepper write a good article, about a great place, making something signature to their establishment, detail the people behind the movement, and then at the end of the article give you a recipe on how to make it yourself?  I know the recipe is added so the people not living in or around the Los Angeles area can make their own.  But for the few million living near LA, you’re basically telling everyone the exact way to do it themselves and taking business away from the place you just highlighted.  I just think maybe she should link to the recipe and put more into the article itself.


All I can say is, I will guarantee whatever comes out of your kitchen won’t compare to the churro ice cream sandwiches served to you at Churro Borough, but if this article get’s you cooking, then job well done Rachel Tepper.

Breaking the Fourth Wall

Now with 80% more sawdust!

Now with 80% more sawdust!


I just had one of the greatest experiences of my life.


I was going to get a hair cut in Main Street Santa Monica, near Venice Beach, and came across a homeless man asking for spare change.  This is as common as seeing a hipster in Brooklyn, I know.  He asked me for change and I told I didn’t have any, which I didn’t, and went on my way.  I’m not one of those bleeding hearts who gives every homeless person money.  I would be broker than I already am if I did that on the regular.  But there are times when the moment strikes and I’ll give someone a $5 or $10 bill.  I’m not sure often it happens or even why it happens, but the moment struck me after my hair cut.  I was crossing the street with my brand new ‘do and trimmed beard, telling myself if my homie was still sitting on the street, then I would buy him a Foot Long combo meal at Subway.


I turn the corner and there he is, hanging out on his blanket.  Operation ‘Good Deed for the Day’ is on.  I swoop into the Subway I passed on the way to my ‘barber’ and all of sudden a tornado of questions begin to bounce around my well coiffed dome like lottery balls.   What the fuck do I get him?  Should I get him something crazy, like one of the new chicken breast deals, or stay classic with a meatball?  Do I get flat-bread or one of the premier breads with cheese on top?  I wonder if he likes avocado or bacon?  Oh, shit.  What about the chips and drink?  Focus and get your shit together, damn you!  He’s gonna like whatever you get him.


I end up going completely classic.  Turkey with American cheese on white with everything on it.  Large Coke and Lay’s Original chips.  Can’t go wrong with that.  I pay for my friend’s meal and a smile slowly creeps its way across my face like the Cheshire Cat.  I walk up to the guy and say ‘Excuse, me.  You hungry?’  I couldn’t tell how old he was before because of the dirt and long beard.  Actually his beard wasn’t much longer than mine, to tell you the truth.  But he looks up at me, with these piercing blue eyes a Tommy Hilfiger model wished they had, and I can tell he’s probably somewhere in his 40’s.

He says, ‘Yeah. Always.’

‘Here ya go, buddy.’ I say as I hand him the plastic bag and put the large drink and straw like chess pieces on the sidewalk near his blanket.

This is where it gets amazing.  He says, ‘What is this, Subway?’ I nod and tell him what’s in the bag.

‘I don’t usually eat Subway. Thanks though…’ I’m thinking it’s because he doesn’t eat often or something having to do with living on the streets.  But I see him put the sandwich behind the pillar he’s leaning against, almost saying, ‘Thanks but no thanks.’

I ask, ‘Are you going to eat that?’

I swear on my life this is what he mumbles, ‘Yeah, I guess.  Thanks.  I just don’t normally eat that type of shit.  Subway, ya know? Thanks though.’

I laughed and told him to have a good day and he told me the same.  I couldn’t believe I was worried what type of sandwich to get him, when I should’ve been worried about where to get his meal.  It’s probably because the bread is made from yoga mats or something.


I hope he knows it was one of the greatest moments of life.


Take It Off Again!

Fuck me?

Fuck me?

It’s me again, Master Plan.  Just wanted to catch you up since my last letter.



In the meantime I worked my usual 14-15 hour days. Working my ass off. Getting yelled at. Feeling utterly defeated. Going home and drinking. Waking up and do it all over again. Not a very good workout regimen, but that all changed when I got my first response from a restaurant in Spain.   I sent my translated response and started coming to peace with the inevitability I was going to have to quit my job and I was going to have to man up and tell each of my chefs face-to-face.



I had quit every other job I’d ever had and each time I was nervous. I don’t know why, but I wanted my previous bosses to like me, or respect me, or I felt like I was letting them down. For some reason I didn’t have those feelings when I walked into my chef’s office after Saturday service. I asked if I could talk with him and he said ‘Sure.’ This is a man who I respected and admired, and who for all intents and purposes scared the shit out of me since the day I first started Garde Manger. I didn’t take a deep breath, I just said ‘Fuck it.’



‘Chef, I’m putting in my notice. I’m giving one-month.’



Didn’t pull any punches. Just tore that son-of-a-bitch Band-Aid right off. The truth had set me free. I started babbling like a schoolgirl talking about her first make-out session under the bleachers. I told him I wasn’t leaving because I didn’t like the job or because I was burnt out. I was leaving because I had a chance to think of myself for once and from here on out, I wanted to take advantage of every opportunity put in front of me. I told him how I proposed to my girlfriend and how she said ‘No,’ and how this was my time to make moves. To change my life for the better. The man, who for almost a year and a half yelled and degraded me, in an instant turned into a mentor and friend. It was one of the best conversations I’ve ever had although for the next month he was harder on me than ever. It makes me chuckle now, but at the time I thought to myself, where did the guy from the office go? (Note to self: Inside the kitchen you are a chef. Outside the kitchen you are a human being.)



I am a goal-oriented person and I set the goal to work at this particular restaurant before I even graduated culinary school, thinking my life would be that much better just by ‘hanging out’ around greatness. After seeing how everything in life can change real quick and taking everything into perspective, I realized I couldn’t be more wrong. I actually remember the moment driving home from work after a epically shitty night at work. I was listening to one of my favorite songs ‘Birmingham’ by Shovels and Rope, and the lead singer bellows ‘It aint what you got, it’s what you make.’ Things don’t just happen. Food doesn’t just appear. Buildings don’t just pop-up. Men, women, you, and I, we all need to act on our hopes and dreams.


My actions are taking me to Barcelona.  What happens next is up to me.


Hope to you see you soon.







Rick Scott