Leaving logic and reason
I'm gonna relax
In the arms of unconsciousness

Madonna, "Bedtime Stories"
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Triunfo and Lindero Canyon straddle Westlake like an escort from Monaco. I emerge from a decidedly French restaurant named Boccaccio's to discover the diabolical glee that I attain from approching my car in the dim streetlight. Say what you will about L.A. and its hideous autocentric culture, but I find it thoroughly pleasing to see Betty outclassing its ritzy neighbors in a parking lot. With her piano-like finish, even in the slightest of illumination, she shines on like a crazy diamond. Here I originally began discussing technical minutiae, but in the end, I'm reminded of what Dave Chappelle said about men and their toys. "Men like that women like them."

This restaurant is parked on a small manmade lake on the western edge of Los Angeles county, the last remaining outpost of glitz and trophy wives. You can dock right next to the restaurant and have the server take orders from your vessel. I found it to be quite amusing, but I will admit that I did enjoy the quietness of my lakeside table, along with the moderate ripple on the semi-glassy lake, throwing reflections of light like wisps on the water.

Boccaccio's has a long way to go to displace 2087 as my favorite restaurant in the Thousand Oaks area, but it does approximate Cafe Provencal in terms of romantic atmosphere. Of the dishes I ordered, only the beef carpaccio was of consequence, with shaved reggiano and baby arugula to serve as witness to the fragile appetizer. The seafood risotto was uninspiring, though the scallops were very good.

I should mention how I arrived there on the Watercourt, as the area in which this dining establishment existed is known. I originally intended to swing by a total hole of a restaurant near the pub called Egg Roll House. Total cheap-ass looking place. It being closed, I elected to partake of the opposite end of the price-range spectrum. If you know me well enough, there is no incongruity involved.

The Watercourt is a nice spot to people-watch, however, and I mentioned to an insomniactic North Carolinian that I would take her there and that she would fit in with the rest of the trophy girlfriends, wives and mistresses if only I were fifty. She accepts this as a moderately underhanded but sincerely affectionate complement.

Let me pause to interject that a stalwart band of warriors from San Diego known as the Chargers were successful in defeating the nefarious ruffians of Cleveland known as the Browns. Never mind that these same Browns allowed to a certain Raven named Jamal Lewis the single-largest rushing day ever compiled in history, and did likewise today allow for San Diego's own LaDainian Tomlinson to run like bowels after collard greens. A win is a win, and the fairweathered fans of a fair-weathered city did rejoice.

Speaking of which, let me interject again an incident in downtown San Diego. My mother, brother, and I were shopping in Horton Plaza, and me being a terrible son, brought my mother into Louis Vitton so that she may procure a purse as a gift. While she did appear to enjoy persuing their wares, my mother subsequently balked at the price tag to which this handbag was attached.

Upon leaving, I mention to my brother that there was a song that was suddenly stuck in my head.

Me: "Ray, do you know the name of a song with lyrics that go, 'San Diego girls they drive me crazy'?"

Ray: "Were you staring at that redhead in Louis Vitton also?"

(After conferring with Google, the song is entitled "Get Em Outta Here" by Sprung Monkey.)

On my way home from Boccaccio's, I pass by the Hyatt in Westlake, a venue known for its Friday night enterainment. Reggae Night at the Hyatt is a place where the male worker-drones flock to the female of the species, a set I like to call Queen C's. As in cup size. For bras. Of breasts. I mention this only because there is an opening in the kitchen of the restaurant there, and all at once I began fantasizing about a life working as a chef in a hotel restaurant. The idea of retiring to this lifestyle fills me with excitement and wonder and lust and reverie. I imagine all the incessant teasing I would receive at the pub, whereupon news of my imaginary hiring at the restaurant would lead to comments as, "Why don't you cook here instead?" Good-natured laughing would ensue.

The answer to that question is simple: I'd never be that good. I wouldn't expect bar patrons to be the pickiest of clientele when it comes to culinary endeavors, but I reserve my high praise for the food at Crown & Anchor. Ask any man, the perfect sandwich, like the perfect blowjob, is not so much science as it is art. I wouldn't be able to do it (the sandwich).

Eating out (again, referring to sandwiches and such) taps into such a primal part of the human experience, and I'm often filled with excitement upon the little smidgeons of discovery that this world affords me. Take New Mexico, for instance.

Everything in this state is spicy. Everything. "Red or green," I imagine is a more commonly asked question than, "You want fries with that," referring to the color of chile one desires. But the second-best pizza I've ever had (the first being at Crown & Anchor: I told you so) was outside of where Dale and Marie live in the village of Tijeras. Nothing fancy, but all it once you marvel at the greatness of this baked piece of dough on which cheese is melted and toppings are applied.

Upon my arrival back from New Mexico, I looked in the mirror and saw the red bite marks on my shoulder that surely must have originated from a very friendly pair of puppies. If your last name is Parkes, then fret not: I wore it like a badge proving that Murphy and Maggie enjoyed me tromping through their domain. Over the vacation I managed to finish reading a few books, and I just finished one from my new favorite author: Bill Bryson. I'm currently asking myself the question, "Who is John Galt?" and hoping Ayn Rand has the answers. So my life has basically involved dining well, reading books, and rolling in the grass with rambunctious dogs. I guess that lately I've been living my life with a great deal of awe and wonder at the cheese that I've melted and the toppings I've applied.