Sausage and Pepperoni
Los Angeles, CA
I ordered a pizza last night out of sheer laziness.
We had been cooking most of our dinners. I head to the coffeeshop a few mornings a week, but aside from that, we've been using the kitchen frequently. This is the longest stretch the girlfriend and I have both been in LA together. Maybe ever. Domestic bliss.
Usually I'm constantly on the move for work and earlier in the year Nicky had writing assignments where she flew to South America on a couple of occasions for a week at a time. I reduced my travels in 2009 so I can finish the manuscript and used the alone time in LA wisely; eating generic Vicodin, staying up for days on end writing Lost Vegas, and traipsing around the apartment in my boxers listening to Bob Dylan and the New Mastersounds. That was my version of raging solo in February while my girlfriend was in the other hemisphere.
Over the past month, our kitchen is a total mess bordering on a FEMA disaster area because we've been using it constantly. I'm brewing up a fresh batch of iced Earl Grey every 20 hours. Nicky's body is still on an odd schedule because of an odder assignment she had last month and she can't get back to normal, plus I keep kicking her out of the bed. I can't ever sleep without either high quantities of hashish or a half-Xannie, so I pass out and she's unable to move me.
The kitchen is used at all hours. We're 24 hours. As much as Nicky is the house chef and I'm just a short-order fry cook, she had no clue how to concoct a perfect fried egg sandwich -- until I showed her. I can fry things. Well. Meats. Sausages. Cheese sandwiches. Eggs. My brain.
This is you brain. This is your brain on drugs. Any questions? Yes, where the fuck can I score some Modafinil!
My fried egg knowledge came from observing. My mother cooked them a certain way. I watched the old guys at the Greek diner whip 'em up fast for my favorite breakfast sandwich of all time --- bacon, egg, and cheese on a Kaiser Roll with salt, pepper, and ketchup. And I watch the guy who mans the egg station at the coffeeshop here in LA. He cooks eggs and a muy rapido pace.
So yesterday, we both got pretty shitfaced in the afternoon. I had a long week with deadlines and editing and took off the afternoon to blow off some steam so I can have my shit together for this upcoming week where we finally finish (or come close to finishing) the final round of edits from my German editor, which we now refer to as Karl the Butcher.
On Friday afternoon, after I finished all of my assignments for the week, I turned off everything. I unplugged, got sloshed, and cranked up the tunes. I rigged a mini-surround sound in the living room with some old computer speakers and to test it out I watched the director's cut of Almost Famous. Wow, Fever Dog never sounded so... incendiary.
Nicky took advantage and watched Glee in surround sound. She was in heaven singing along. I didn't care because I was pretty toasty and playing four tables of online poker at once. That's when I got hungry. Starving actually. Famished. I called up the pizza place on the fringe of Beverly Hills out of sheer laziness. If the store were one block North, we'd be paying twice as much. Luckily it's on our side of the demarcation line in the slums of Beverly Hills.