Yadidathizz: The Bay to LA (Like Amoeba, Player)

I am sitting at a Peet's Coffee in LA and am on the verge of pissing myself but am in a huge pickle because I can't leave my laptop and go to the bathroom because I am sitting next to a person of questionable gender with a heinous bowlcut and we all know those are the sorts that cannot be trusted around unattended electronics. So I'm just gonna sit here and blog until I piss my shorts and get kicked out.

As you can see, I have relocated my ass to LA because I like to surround myself with people more delusional than I am. Needless to say, I miss San Francisco and all of it's freakish glory. Before I left, I stuffed myself with some the Bay's finest nom's and said my farewells to my various lovers.


Of course I had to bid farewell to my Giants. A proper goodbye meant smuggling in Safeway fried chicken, Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, and lemonades into AT&T Park. Shout out to the people at the gate for overlooking the questionable liquids in my purse and platter of fried chicken in Tee Tee's sweatshirt.


The popcorn carts come equipped with the finest of flavored dusts. My favorites were obviously the RANCH and GARLIC PARMESAN. I brought my crab sandwich to the popcorn dust cart and dusted it with a delicate layer of ranch. The person at the stand really appreciated my aggressive use ranch powder.


This is where I like to sit and try to proposition Travis Ishikawa for sex with my bullhorn.


My homie, Joe brought me to this magical place on 16th and Valencia called Ti Couz. I was sexcited because their buckwheat crepes are on the 7x7 100 Things Eat Before You Die in SF list. This bowl of coffee did wonders for my digestive tract.


Sea creature salad popped off.


I am skeptical of anything that has the word "wheat" attached to it but these buckwheat crepes were off the hook! This one had sausage and a mushroom sauce, which completely cancelled out the wheatness going on. Yeah, fuck wheat but this shit banged.


GOOD LORD. I cannot remember what this is called but its got chocolate mousse, chantilly cream, and vanilla ice cream in it. Basically, I want to die and be reincarnated as this dessert and eat myself alive. I died a thousand times eating this bad boy.


We also hit up this crackin Ethiopian spot called Massawa on Haight Street. I have never really had Ethiopian food except for when I stole the Ethiopian foreign exchange students lunch in high school once and almost burst into flames. We started off with this veggie hot pocket-esque thing that was similar to a samusa.


I felt what the clouds of heaven must feel like when I touched this injera bread. It's so soft and luscious, its porous texture felt amazing against my sweaty palms. I molested it for what seemed like an eternity and as embarrassing as it was for my pal, I could not stop because it was just so inviting. I desperately want to lay atop a slate countertop naked and cover my body in injera for an entire week. Maybe for my birthday?


An enormous platter of beefs, chicken, lentils, and a yogurty substance that rivals Mexican crema. I officially love Ethiopian cuisine ten thousand times more than I love myself.


Gabby aka Little Brown put me onto this spot on Mission called Mi Lindo Peru, which is duh, Peruvian food. My absolute favorite part of this place is a little thing on the menu called "Salchipapa," which is french fries and cut up hot dog. BRILLIANT. I did not order it but the name and ingredients alone make it a winner in my book.


The halea, which is a fried platter of scrimps, calamari, fish, and yucca. GREAZY mothafucka.


I had the snapper with the garlic butter on it. I dare someone to eat this, make out with someone, and see if they survive because the garlic on this is fuckin BANGIN.


God, what I wouldn't do to walk up and down the streets of San Francisco with a tall boy and Mexican popsicle one last time.

This nerdy rap song pretty much encompasses my geographical situation:

Move Over Farmar: Ron Artest Loves Filipino Treats

There are times when I want to kick Ron Artest in the face and then there are times I want to cradle him in my arms and bottle-feed him Hennessy at halftime in the back of my Impala. I believe he blew me completely away with his Game 7 post-game interview when he thanked his hood, his psychiatrist, and proceeded to promote his rap single, "Champions" on live television. Precisely the move I would have made had I just won the NBA Finals.

I did a little Wikipedia research on him because I had a feeling it would be highly entertaining and as expected, I was right. Here is an excerpt from the section called "Controversy":

During his rookie season in Chicago, he was criticized for applying for a job at Circuit City in order to get an employee discount.[30][31] He once attended a practice with the Indiana Pacers in a bath robe.[32] He was suspended for two games in the early 2004–05 season by Pacers coach Rick Carlisle after he allegedly asked for a month off because he was tired from promoting an R&B album for the group Allure on his production label.

SIMPLY MAGNIFICENT. It rivals ODB's Wikipedia page for sure and that is no easy task my friends. I honestly didn't think Ron could impress me more until I found the following videos of Ron Artest enjoying a Filipino dessert called Halo-Halo.



Apparently he has a Filipino son, which means there is a 98% chance that I could be related to his son or anyone else in this video for that matter. Thus, RON ARTEST AND I ARE OFFICIALLY (PROBABLY) COUSINS!



This one is my absolute favorite. He is indiscriminately getting down on a cup of Halo-Halo, surrounded by teenagers, and is playing Monopoly. Mind you, Halo-Halo is not a normal dessert--it's shaved ice, beans, corn, jackfruit, assorted jelly crap, condensed milk and ice cream. To be honest, I can barely stomach all that shit (I am not proud of that) and I am Filipino. So, hats off to you Ron Artest for being such a strong advocate of Filipino treats.


Ron Ron shaking hands with our national treasure, Manny Pacquiao. I feel like supersonic shockwaves were exchanged during this handshake.

Looks like Jordan Farmar's got a lot of catching up to do to get back on my good side.

*Like my new layout?? The old one looked like shit. If you think the old layout looked better, check yourself cause it was not crackin.

Kinda Hot In These Rhinos!

This has absolutely nothing to do with SHIT except that I absolutely love Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls and nothing puts a smile on my face quite like the scene where Ace ejects himself from a mechanical rhinoceroses ass. That is all.




And off I go now, to look for a life...

Looks Like Anotha Love TKO: Bouchon Bakery

Today, my small-handed, pastry-molesting friend Gabby busted through my unlocked door and I almost slammed my baseball bat into her face because I thought she was a sex offender (which she is in her own special way.) I'm glad I didn't knock her ass out because she was holding a box of pastries from the BOUCHON BAKERY. In case you are retarded and don't know what that is, it's Thomas Keller's bakery in Yountville, CA. Thomas Keller is the culinary mastermind responsible for French Laundry, Per Se, Bouchon, Ad Hoc, and trillions of boners all around the world. Being that I am a brokeass hoodrat, touching food from his bakery is a big deal and putting it in my mouth has caused temporary blindness and I wish I wore a diaper today.

I tried the greatest chocolate anything I've ever had today. It is called the TKO cookie, which stands for the "Thomas Keller Oreo." I think. It's basically his interpretation of an oreo, made with a chocolate sable dough and white chocolate ganache filling. Whatever the hell chocolate sable dough is, it crumbles in my mouf ever so tenderly and I so desperately long for it.


We called the Las Vegas location to confirm with them that the Bouchon Bakery kiosk at the Venetian Hotel had these. THEY DO! (We're going to Vegas in August.) I have a fantasy of filling our hot tub with these, lighting candles, poppin' champagne, and having my way with a tub full of TKO's.




BEST macarons I've ever had. They were rather large and the chocolate tasted like a chocolate cake mixed with a brownie mixed with straight crack.


This croissant was a work of art. Light, buttery, flakey, and had a light crunch. Gabby and I always said that you know a croissant is good when you don't need to butter it. I ate it completely NUDE and loved every minute of it. We were both nude, the croissant and I.


We had to stop ourselves from eating the Nutter Butter that Gabs got for her boyfriend. It would be mean to eat someone elses gift from Bouchon. In fact, that's fucked up. But that did not stop us from placing our nostrils on it and attempting to snort it in hopes that crumbs flew into our mouths somehow.


Someone remind me to FedEx Thomas Keller a pair of my soiled panties with a post-it attached that says, "HURRY UP WITH THE BEVERLY HILLS BAKERY!!!!"

Salami Wars and Little Brother

*WARNING* This post involves heavy referencing to salami's and I know that it will provoke everyone's urge to scream, "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!" With that being said, you have one of two options: just don't or become the asshole that abuses the joke.

I have been obsessively researching salami's for the past three weeks and I believe the quality of my life has improved one thousand percent. My research involved Googling, "Best Salami in the World" about fifteen times, lurking around various Italian deli's and Whole Foods locations in the Bay Area, and eating roughly 95 lbs of salami. I even started using salami terminology like "dry" and "chub." I felt like a woman when I asked the nice, old man at the corner store, "Do you only carry sliced salami or do you carry the chubs as well?"

Being that I hail from San Francisco, a city best known for its abundance of salami's, I have found that being surrounded by quality salami's can be confusing. After conducting extensive research on Chowhound and Yelp, I found that no one can be trusted because nobody has a palate more sophisticated and robust than my own when it comes to cured deli meats.


The first that I tried is from Gallo Salame and it came pre-sliced and packaged. I was desperate for salami and this is the only kind that the corner store had. This hit the spot but was nowhere near the level of quality of the other salamis I sampled. Grocery store pre-sliced salamis are limp, flaccid pieces of depression compared salamis that come in chub form, so I guess you can say that size definitely matters.




Many swear by the Molinari's salame because it has reigned supreme in San Francisco for centuries. Their chubs of Italian dry aged salame deserve the praise because they are fat, girthy gems of beefy porky goodness. I actually almost died eating this salami because there were only plastic knives at work and these things are STIFF. Amazing flavor and gorgeous speckled fat marbling on this bad boy. I tried to cut it and my knife exploded into approximately one thousand pieces and shards of broken plastic flew everywhere. If you have a power saw handy, that would be the best way to slice this hard chub up.



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Lastly, we have the clear-cut WINNER of the salami war, Fra'Mani Handcrafted Salametto. I copped this piece from Whole Foods on the way to a BBQ and boy was I a hit. According to reviews, this is a superb chunk of meat and from what I gathered after tasting it, the reviews were beyond correct. I probably love it because it is 3/4 fat and 1/4 fresh pork. The ingredients are all natural and they don't use nitrites which means it is healthy. Thus, you can down as many of these logs as you like while maintaining your girlish figures. This sexy sausage is clearly for the LADIES.


I spotted this work of art on the ladies room wall of Dalva. It looks like a species of salami that may or may not be digestible.

IN HIP HOP NEWS....PHONTE SIGNED MY TOOF BRUSH!


Don't mind my girl, Steph drooling all over everything. What a goddamn animal.


LITTLE BROTHER! This night ended with a little projectiling on the sidewalk, crying for my mother, Steph spoon feeding me pupusas, and being laughed at by a whole Mariachi band for being a hotass mess.