Cubed

I have two current obsessions.  One is embarrassing and one is completely legitimate.

Let’s get the awkward one out of the way:  I am really into a car. 

And if that’s not bad enough:  I’m really into a Nissan. 

And to make matters even more humiliating it’s some sort of “cute”, “modern”, “sleek” car that serves as Nissan’s answer to Toyota’s Scion.  It’s name?   The Cube.

AH!

Just writing its name takes me back to that fateful day when Enterprise Rent-a-car handed me the keys.  I scoffed at them.  I made sad, obvious jokes about how “funky” it was and who in their right mind would buy such a piece, and this is almost as bad as the PT Cruisers Avis hocks off on us at LAX, etc.  (I know, sometimes after my morning coffee I am that guy…I never said anything about not being an asshole). 

Let me tell you something:  I drove that bitch up the 101 and when I got to San Louis Obispo I was enjoying myself so much I took Highway 1...all the way to Monterey Bay!

This Box of Love, not to be confused with the one God gave me, makes the whole world appear more beautiful.  The seats are oddly upright so you feel closer to a pilot than a driver and the windshield is so vast you have absolutely nothing hindering your view of the world.  The whole thing is so panoramic it makes you wonder whether you’re driving a Nissan Cube or at the Arclight Cinemas watching a cinematic epic called YOUR LIFE.

As you might imagine, since my tryst with the Cube I’ve been bemoaning my old Volvo (Volvo Station Wagon 240 DL, 1989 – burgundy).  The poor Volv.  She seems creakier than ever; her seats sink with each passing day, her paint thins, and her stops and starts increase (along with my blood pressure).  I step on the gas and twenty minutes later I’m going the speed limit.  I’m the safest driver on the road because, unlike everyone else, I’m driving an actual ship.  Instead of the wildly efficient Cube, I am turning the Mayflower onto La Brea every morning and cursing like a pilgrim pre-Plymouth.

But, not unlike the Mayflower, the Volv gets the job done – and better yet?  It’s free! Also, she just turned 20 so I can’t very well leave her now.  I figure I’ll see her to the bar and then maybe leave her at the ripe age of veinte y uno (21, in case you didn’t take Spanish with Bob Anderson in high school).  In the meantime, I can be found nursing my humbling, automobile obsession with an honest and shared passion:  Cube Restaurant and Marketplace.

I finally went there last weekend after all of my clients told me to get involved with it.  Well, here I am, running after the pack with abandon.  I had the most delicious meal which included three different types of wine, two different types of pasta, octopus, seasonal side dishes that made me moan with delight, and a staff that made me believe they actually like their jobs.  They’d be insane not to…

Run don’t walk!  Get CUBED!

Cube Cafe, Cheese Bar, and Marketplace
615 N. La Brea Avenue
Los Angeles, California  90036
p:  323.939.1148
http://www.cubemarketplace.com
Monday - Saturday 11AM - 10:30PM

final word:  They do lunch AND dinner so - if you want to just dip your toe in the water - try lunch and then head back for dinner with someone you adore.  I also feel the need to mention that I still haven't even approached the "secondi" portion of the menu.  All of the small plates and pastas were so fantastic I didn't have room for the crispy black cod or veal saltimbocca I was eyeing.  Ah, well, all the more reason to return - DO IT!

New Attitude

It's official:  Autumn has arrived.
I know, I'm a little slow on the uptake here.  Some poor asshole has known it's fall for at least two months.  I, on the other hand, just got the memo AND the new scarf to match.
This is my favorite time of year in Los Angeles - hands down.  Autumn is beautiful all over the place - I'm awares - but in Los Angeles?  I'd like to argue that there's another layer of magica come November.  It's not just the angle of the light, the sudden drop in temperature post-sunset, or the absence (finally!) of visible tan lines - it's something less tangible and slightly less obvious.  There is a distinct Autumnal Attitude that makes Los Angeles the best, crazy village to inhabit come November.  And what drives this attitude?  The same giant ball of fire that inspires life all over this planet:  the sun.

I know, who cares?  So it's sunny all the time - big fuckin' deal.... Yes.  It is a big fucking deal.  It's a big fucking briliant deal.  It's a big deal when you moved here from some groovy city that insisted on pissing rain and shitting ice all over your life come ye olde Autumnal Equinox.  It is a big deal to wake up prepared to listen to Morrissey for the next five months only to realize you CAN'T because it's 75 degrees outside and beautiful all over.  It is a big deal to be questioning every inch of your life only to look out your window at pure splendor which, at the very least, affirms your decision to haul your ass 3000 miles west and stop performing in shows too absurd to share with your friends (never mind it's the first time you've been able to see those glorious San Gabriel mountains...yes, they were there all summer long they were just hiding behind a large cloud of...smoke?).

The Autumnal Attitude, I believe, stems from a deep seeded sensation that you made the right call.  Not only did you make the right call but you escaped something.  You got out alive.  You got out intact and so did that guy, and that girl!  And that awesome tranny!  And that lady at the dry cleaners!  And even that douche that always waits for you to pull out of your parking space so he can grab it before anyone else - we all did it!  And now, suspicions of being special and clever affirmed, we are here sharing in the light!  The healing, autumnal, Hockney-documented, light!  God is good!  And so are you!

This attitude seems to extend deep into the gyms and studios of Los Angeles.  Everywhere I teach old faces are reappearing prepared to shake it, new people are showing up thrilled to have found a gym that welcomes people with necks (picture it, please) and in general the population seems to have rediscovered the mind/body connection (I know, a disgusting phrase but one that applies here).  It's a wonderful site for a fitness lady.  I can't help but think it has a lot to do with this glorious time of year.  I know Ella Fitzgerald sings beautifully about Autumn in New York, but I think at this stage in my life I'd prefer to stay put, turn up Joni Mitchell's California, and bask in the healing light of this surprisingly sunny state of mind.  And if you're not feeling it - come to class!  I'll make sure you see la luz.

final word:  run don't walk!  come and visit me in class or visit a friend in Los Angeles - now is the time. I can be found at Equinox in Century City or Swerve Studio on Third Street making people sweat it out.

Polarized

In 1999, fresh out of college, I landed a job in the development department at the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater Company.  I worked in the heart of the dance community with Baryshnikov, one of my childhood crushes/heroes, stopping by the studios regularly and Judith Jameson reigning supreme as Artistic Director at Ailey.  The company that brought the world Revelations - one of the best known and most powerful dance pieces of the 20th century - would now be my home 45 hours a week.  This sounds cool - in theory.  In practice, this looked like me sitting under fluorescent lights, folding thank you letters to generous (or semi-generous, let's be honest) donors, while some of the most beautiful dancers in the world rehearsed overhead.  I'm not exaggerating for the sake of story telling (or blithering, to continue on the honesty tip), the dance studios were directly overhead.  As I sat atrophying in my adjustable desk chair, I would hear the sounds of hard working feet making contact with the floor as muscles contracted, pores sweat, and someone's body got even more beautiful.  My tits, meanwhile, were drifting towards my naval.

During this stage in my life I began taking my pulse at regular intervals, playing with my ears as some regressive act of comfort, and asking my long-suffering co-worker, Joanne Ruggeri, if I looked pale or if my ears were getting bigger from all the tugging.  I was, in no uncertain terms, a hypochondriac.  To throw another log on my neurotic bonfire, when I got off work I would see double.  My eyes had grown so accustomed to the monitor being 18 inches from my face that anything outside of that radius was a challenge - proof, as you might imagine, of the enormous tumor that was paying rent behind my cerebellum (or so I believed, in my bored and obsessive brain).
In short:  I was a wreck.

Lately, I've been taking my heart rate regularly and am reminded of that miserable time.  Although now I use this insanely fancy wrist watch/heart rate monitor/calorie counter/mini-wrist computer/might save my life if I program it successfully/contraption made by Polar.  I got it at an employee sale at Equinox.  I wear it while I workout and also while I teach.  I'm working ye olde target heart rate as much as possible.

Today, during a cardio sculpt class I was instructing, I looked down at my wrist and flashed back to that cubicle on West 61st Street; I remember how I would gingerly place two fingers on my pulse and feel it racing as the best asses in the world grand jete'ed above and beyond the fluorescent lights.  My resting heart rate those days was about twenty beats a minute faster than the one I clocked today.  A nerdy fact, for sure, but one that brought me such relief today.  Polar didn't just dictate a number this morning, it reminded me that I'm no longer decaying at a desk, that I don't have to see double at the end of my workday,  and I can kid myself that - if I work hard enough - I might have half as good a gluteus maximus as one of those Gods that once danced over my head.

Oh, go on...a girl can dream, can't she?

final word:  If you want a heart rate monitor Polar will not let you down.  To learn more about why on earth a person would track her heart rate, what sort of monitor might rock your world, and/or where to find one near you, go to http://www.polarusa.com/us-en/.  Track it!