Rising from the waves atop a misshapen city of impossible angles and mind-snapping vistas, tentacles the size of ships writhing in ichor, great bellowing leathery wings blasting fetid gales, and an unspeakably alien head bulging with eyes, mouths, and unnameable gaping maws: some refrigerator pasta.
I know that “Tuscan” just means “you just paid too much for generic Italian-American glop,” parallel to “Southwestern” and “Provençal.” I also know that people want to feel that they are eating light even when eating hyper-processed poison from the freezer case.
But nobody wants to eat anything called a “veggie bake,” even if it’s artisanal, Szechwan, uncured, extra-virgin, and triple-distilled.
My friend Greg lives on Mount Washington, looking down on much of Los Angeles. He and his friends are all musicians, and we BBQd and played and listened and talked yesterday and last night. I’ve known him since 1985. He’s a great musician and a good friend.
This is looking down on Lincoln Heights and East Los Angeles with a couple of the musicians jamming in the garage behind me.