Look man, when it comes to the king of the sea, I’m fluid, baby. Let’s dive deep, and see what pearls we can find, eh?
Look man, when it comes to the king of the sea, I’m fluid, baby. Let’s dive deep, and see what pearls we can find, eh?
BELCAMPO MEAT CO. 317 S Broadway, Los Angeles, CA 90013
It’s been a bit, and my burger rampages through the streets of Los Angeles are getting a little backlogged, as are my arteries. But, shit man, I can’t let a little by-the-book cardiac arrest stop me from eating freely every last burger in this fair city.
Therefore, here’s Year of the Burger stop number four: renowned as much for the quality of their burgers as they are for the quality of the cow they cut those burgers from, raised in futile luxury on a 25,000 acre farm at the base of Mt. Shasta.
The founders of Belcampo Meat Company control every aspect of the mouth-watering supply chain, because, in addition to owning a Northern California franchise, they have three hip counters, restaurants, and/or butcheries at three very hip locations right here in LA — one in Santa Monica, one on West 3rd, and one situated prominently near the middle of Grand Central Market — all provided by the meat that’s cleaved, treated, packed, and shipped from said Belcampo Farm.
Let’s fillet the sirloin on this beast, shall we?
My partner-in-burger, SM, and I visited the location downtown at GCM, so details herein will be germane to that location —
I recommend you hit the Market on a weekday evening, right before closing time. Parking will be easy, the crowds will be light. And, although you might encounter a tweaking blathering transient or two, this burger — or BER-GERZ, asitwere — is well worth it.
Belcampo’s stainless steel counter snugs comfortably against a far wall, flush against its accompanying glass display case of famed cuts. There’s a small short-order window for their burgers and Bone Marrow Shots, and a series of beer tap handle behind. Then, of course, there’s the menu.
As a side note, the counter is kitty-corner from the fully-stocked bar of Wexler’s Deli, so if an IPA and a Fastburger doesn’t satisfy the gluttonous demon that lives in your belly, you can always pop over for an aperitif.
In the spirit of eating a burger cut from the blade of a legit butchery, I’m gonna make this capsule review as neat and lean and clean as I possibly can so here it is WHATEVER YOU ORDER AT THIS COUNTER; WHATEVER THE NICE LADY BRINGS YOU; WHATEVER WORDS YOU SMASH TOGETHER TO ORDER WHATEVER MEATS FOR THEM TO SMASHED TOGETHER IT’S GONNA BE GOOOOOD AS HELLL.
Not a joke, this was the only stop on the list where we had to order A SECOND ITEM OFF THE BILL OF FARE BURGER BABIES.
First thing, honor the drive-thru culture of LA, and just get Belcampo’s composite of the sum of those parts — the Fastburger. It’s a thin, grass-fed beef patty, American cheese, butter lettuce, tomato, and special ‘sauce.’
SECOND, AND IN THE EVENT THAT YOU WANNA CHUBBY IT UP SOMEWHAT, I, FOR ONE, HIGHLY RECOMMEND A CLASSIC CHEESEBURGER AS WELL, WHICH IS A THIN BEEF PATTY, HEINZ YELLOW MUSTARD, KETCHUP, MINCED ONION, AND PICKLES AND BEFORE YOU START ACCUSING ME OF A BAD FATITUDE, please know that a “classic” style is my preferred style, M’OKAY? —
I’ll discuss it more philosophically when we notch Burgers Never Say Die into our EVER-EXPANDING burger belts.
We chased our burgers down with a side of fries, which were good, but, listen, it ain’t called Belcampo POTATO Company, now, is it?
Because these burgers so hit the spot, we scanned the menu to make sure there was nothing we were missing, and, EUREKA! we found it — The Belcampo Burger —
This prodigal son is a thick slab of pre-select chuck, sirloin, and brisket, served with white cheddar, cartelized onions, butter lettuce, and the house ‘sauce.’ It’s cooked to perfection, but the recommended dose of sear-age is a tightrope-walking RARE–MEDIUM-RARE.
Now, I am a dude who favor my meat straight WELL-DONE, so nibbling into some rare animal was definitely me stepping out of my comfort zone, but let me tell you IT WAS FUCKING WORTH IT I’D TAKE IT RARE ID TAKE IT BLOODY JUST PUT BESSIE’S FACE ON A BUN AND I WOULD EAT IT.
This burger, HERE, was the goddamn jam.
Next time I ask why my burger’s taking so long, and the cook tells me he just has to go out back and kill the cow, I’ll politely sit back, fold my hands across my lap, and say, “I’ll wait.”
For the second week in a row, I’m not putting up any new content, and I feel like an asshat about it so bear with me.
I mean, America is Russia. White Supremacists got James Gunn fired from Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. III. An active shooter took hostages and a Trader Joe’s employee was killed in Silverlake yesterday, right down the street from my home.
There’s worse things out there, such as the hilarious video at this link.
I’m not releasing any new content this week, and I apologize for it. Please refer to the hilarious video at this link, instead. 🙂
Ah, there’s nothing quite like this photo of Los Angeles as the gentle embrace of summer warmth wraps it’s loving arms around the city.
The first thing I want to say is I do not have a problem with the character, Superman, this book, and what’s more, I have a lot of respect for Geoff Johns as a comic writer, creator, producer, and just, like, dude.
But what I want to start by saying — and I’ve said, and will say, a number of things about Superman properties — is that it’s hard to clear the imprint of Richard Donner and Christopher Reeve’s iteration of the character from your mind, in order to form a clear opinion about him/it at any point.
That iteration is, like, the Coke of soda; the Kleenex of tissue; the iPod of MP3s– Sorry to date myself, there, but that’s why we’re here in the first place. Because I’m dating myself. Because my Superman — this Superman — is, in fact, the ‘Superman’ brand —
However, as a now just pre-40s, reluctantly post-Marvel, waning and embittered waxing-idealist adult, I still am finding this reacquaintance of mine with the DC Universe quite jarring, and so, that’s why this post, and my revisiting of the Superman comics in the form of this book club, is fucking cynical.
Or, well, just different, I guess.
I mean, the things is, they’re just so different, DC and Marvel. DC zigs where Marvel, just, like, well, I dunno, puts all its characters in leather pants, or some shit. I dunno. You say “tom-AY-toe,” I say “Red Tornado.” Whatevs. They’re just different. The two lines are as oppositional in tone and purpose from each other as any two things under the same banner of a thing could possibly be.
They’re like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid, but then Joe Piscopo as Kelly Stone inspired by Martin Kove as John Kreese in Karate Kid.
My argument, then, is that the Donner/Reeves’ Superman is folly, and shouldn’t be taken seriously, or especially as gospel.
Yeesh. I know, right? Heavy.
But, I’m sorry, it’s just dated feel-goodery, nonsensical, opine, heyday bullshit, and I have to dismiss it to give my reinterpretation of this character any kind of echo-able credo going forward into such a dark future. Now, I don’t count Superman Returns as an installment at all in this measure, because that piece of pure shit wasn’t nothing but a hiccup; a bland experiment in homage with very little leftover but charm going for it, [and also, I think its director — who I will not name — needs to see a day in court for some pretty serious #MeToo brand accusations against him]. Lastly, I assure you, here and now, that I’m not now, and never will, tout the most recent swole definish of The Brah of Steel, brah like it has any punch in this fight, even though we’re probably in a punch fight, when it comes down to it.
As far as I’m concerned, that’s DCMU is just anti-canon crap altogether. Trash fire!
Honestly, looking back on the Donner/Reeves Superman, and fast-forwarding to the Snyder/Cavill one, is like the plot of Daddy’s Home, in reverse — in this iteration ‘Step-Dad’ and his macho date-rape chatter get closer to conviction with every successive inch of sideburn, while ‘Dad’ is a cardigan-sporting mush-mouthed wuss who’s greatest hurdle in life is a pretty serious stigmatism.
I have to start from scratch every time we read a Superman comic.
Which brings us to this six issue limited series, Secret Origin, by DC eminence, Johns, released in an attempt to establish the character’s “definitive” origin story in the Universe following the events of the Infinite Crisis continuity.
The fact of the matter is, I suppose, you could do worse in a comic establishing an ‘origin,’ for a character as seminal as Supes. Johns is such an apt writer, and is able to give a fresh coat of taupe or mauve colored paint on some very woe-be-gone Golden/Silver Age-style content. It still occurs, however, with the same reverberations of anachronism as many of the other ‘new’ iterations. I admittedly am not yearning for reinterpretations of storylines that I would consider passé. And I certainly am not yearning for another origin tale, where I have to wait around for three-quarters of the run to be able to watch that character do the thing I’ve been waiting for three-quarters of the run to do. I don’t need an imaging of Clark’s exploration of his powers via the alter-ego we never asked for: Superboy. I don’t need another aw-shucks, hee-haw explanation for how he lands on choosing the colors for his dorky-ass outfit. And I certainly never asked for another characterization of Luthor, as Smallville’s misunderstood boy-genius as teen-angsty budding evildoer.
If I seek anything, it’s the interpolation of the characters as they are into the world, one that is theirs, maybe a little ours, or both. It’s a feat I’m reluctant to say that Zack Snyder, and co-screenwriter — chronic lukewarm temp in-human-form — David Goyer, almost nailed, if it weren’t for whatever Nolan-isms and HGH that got in their sad little ex-nerd-boy ways.
What I was left with when I tackled this title, then, in my opinion, was a lot of one thing or none of the other; or a lot of the other thing, and then, like, Krypto. Sorry, Geoff, but this didn’t do it for me so much. You’re as dough-eyed for the good ole days as the best that vile humanoid dips hit, Alan Moore, can be, but just too much of a company man to splice a dick pic into the end credits.
Superman, continually, doesn’t, so much, get a bad rap as much as he just doesn’t get a rap at all. He’s got the rep, he’s got the standards. But every time he’s out with a fresh EP, but there’s no one with any mainstream to really help him rep. If we’re not careful, he’s gonna end up back on the corner trying to sell his bootlegs.
I know, I know. I should write a real post. I should justify all the time and energy spent manipulating my blog format; make my existence mean something, in some way.
But, guess what — ?
I see futility in all the pursuits. The world is a trash fire, and we are apparently the spark.
So, I’m gonna change the play, here, instead; wave a white flag and say, “Gimme til next time.” It’s no wonder that the flag of surrender is white — white is the color of loss of will and spinelessness, as proven by the greedy and hateful bigots at the helm of our country’s plummet into the icy waters of another generation of dark history.
Therefore, a white flag it is. Here I am, prepared to follow this up by drinking a half-a-case of PBR, with a tupperware full of chicken salad in my lap, and Luke Cage Season 2 cued up on Netflix, retching out a 60 word cop-out disguised as a blog post.
Have a happy Friday, everybody. And a great weekend. And a week wherein we survive to have another happy Friday.
May you all achieve your dreams amid this rancid bacchanal we’re writhing in. #murica
I’m a geek. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it many times again.
It’s, like, what my whole social media and online presence is predicated on. And, I know what you’re thinking, but identifying as a geek has nothing to do with the strength of my allergy medication, or what level dungeon master I purport to be/not be, and it certainly is not related to how I relate, interact, or interpret social strata.
It’s simply how I pop-culturally self-identify.
I don’t want to speak for any of the other self-identifying geeks out there, but as myself, as a self-identified geek, and, well, the kind of actualized geek that I am, over the course of the evolution of geek culture I detect that there are some perceived collective habits that can be, perhaps, misinterpreted as being directly relative to geek, geekery, geekhood, geekdom, and/or all of pertaining geek culture.
These are habits that I, for one, forcefully reject. THESE ARE: 1.) Leadership. 2.) Assembly. & 3.) Justification.
Here is the thing that I’m saying: I don’t need some fucking geek mascot to tell me I’m OK, y’all. I don’t need to be legitimized by a publicly-digestible pop-figurehead. Nor do I need to find solace in some fucking parish within which to sit at the sides of other geeks, who, like myself, feel compelled to ceaselessly worship over our scriptures and lament at the foot of the alter of some shared niche interest.
Lastly, I certainly do not need a justification to like the shit I like.
Now, this all seems very passive-aggressive now, as I’m writing it. And, look, I know that by saying what I’m saying here, what might become obvious is that I’m not saying can be interpreted instantly as talking shit about “nerd culture.”
Now, I know the dissemination about differentiating between “geeks” and “nerds” might seem pedantic, but, I assure you, the counter-classifications are very real. So, I’ll just say that, yes, what I am doing is talking shit about nerd culture.
Because, frankly, I don’t trust nerd culture at all in its current incarnation.
Yes, I think it’s a subculture that has, at one point or another, endured unfair judgement and treatment, up to and including social exclusion, and persecution. But, it’s also evolved into a behemoth of its own pain, and has turned that behemoth back onto everyone that it feels deserves its reprisal.
Look, I’ll admit that in the history of teen anguish, geeks just have it easier, ultimately. I mean, I dunno, one odd step for a geek in any direction and we’re just another mild-mannered Coldplay fan in your Fantasy Football League. There’ll always be a pride to geekdom. Nerds, though, have embraced their identifier that is loaded with their own scorn and bitterness.
IMHO, the pejorative connotations that follow nerds, is valid. Abutted against nerd culture, I think the whole of our cultural tapestry just gets dosed with bad juju.
For example, like, I dunno, let’s say one — ahem — individual, whom identifies as a “nerd” felt that he/she had to, y’know, BUILD A NERD EMPIRE, both around and underneath him/herself, ON TOP OF WHICH HE/SHE FELT PRIVILEGED TO SIT AS A SUPPOSED GOD-KING/QUEEN OF NERDOM, as though he/she might be attempting to RECUSE ONESELF FROM PAST AND PRESENT JUDGEMENTS FOR SAID NERDERY by PORTRAYING HIM/HERSELF AS THE ONECE AND ALWAYS JUDGE OF ALL THAT EXISTS WITHIN HIS/HER RULE.
That HYPOTHETICAL scenario just, well, I think, creates a subtle precedent that, you know, the nature of the thing, will just blindly follow.
And then… then we get motherfuckers like INCEL. So… thanks nerds.
I didn’t post Friday, but here’s a little post-weekend, and posthumous, tribute to a legend.
Was’p, hivemind? I don’t like to swarm around Twitter feed-style buzz like this, and get caught with hands in the honeypot, y’know? It’s just none of my beeswax, and, after all, I don’t wanna get stung. But I gotta take a post here to give some nectar to comedian and talk show maven, Samantha Bee, for outright calling a Trump* a Trump*, and breaking off a stinger into Ivanka and Co.
The hum around the hive is that I think this Bee is a queen.
Therefore, forthwith and tallyho, I officially name today FAVORITE FIGHTING FEMINIST FRIDAY, a hashtag I just made up for y’all. #FFFF
*by Trump I mean ‘cunt,’ of course.