Valley Girl

In which I go to battle with my inherited preconceptions, and lose

I am sitting in a very tiny, soundproofed cubicle; I’ve been here for seven hours. Also, yesterday for seven hours. But who’s counting?

Four feet away from me, in another soundproof cubicle, is my engineer for this audiobook-recording session, Paul. Okay, writing a true and honest memoir is like opening your veins; if it wasn’t, why would anyone read it?

But, notwithstanding the fact that A. I wrote it, knowing people would read it, and B. I am recording it, knowing people will listen to it, there is still something weirdly intimate about having a stranger right in my ear as I recount some of the most vulnerable, humiliating, and disturbing—and also: happy!—vignettes of my life, from first awareness to 1994.

The studio is in Burbank, and because of the their schedule, I have an entire weekend to kill in between the sessions. I have become so fearful of traffic in the massive, “greater” Los Angeles region that I’ve rented a tiny guesthouse in Valley Glen, aka Sherman Oaks, to be close to the studio. And I’m not even gonna consider driving over the Santa Monica mountains to the Westside of LA, where I might feel a bit more at home. This, in spite of the morass of glitz and naked narcissism that’s enveloped my home-town since I last lived here. But it’s taking every ounce of my strength not to be depressed by The Valley.

When I was little, my mother avoided The Valley as if it were a mask-free Fox News-watcher in April of 2020. I grew up just on the other side of the mountains that separate the Westside from The Valley, but only visited for dire reasons. Then came Frank and Moon Zappa’s song Valley Girl. (“Gag me with a spoon!”) I was officially out. (Listen above.)

Later, friends moved to the Valley for reasons of affordability and studio-adjacency, and I successfully bit my tongue. With time, good restaurants proliferated, shopping bloomed, and I accepted that my opinions should mature, too.

At the risk of whining, I’m going to whine anyway. My AirBnB, advertised as having a “fully-outfitted kitchen, with every possible item you might need to create memorable meals,” has no stove. Or oven. Or cutting board, salt, pepper, spatula, or an unused sponge. It does have some sort of Air-Fryer oven, and a dinged-up portable induction burner the size of a small pizza.

Ten minutes after my arrival, an adorable Doodle wormed his way under the fence that separates the guesthouse from the owners yard, and took two shits on “my” astroturf. When I phone the manager, his response:

Manager: “I have no control over what other people’s dogs do.”

Me: “I understand that, but aren’t you the manager of this property? This dog came from the owner’s home.”

Manager: I’m getting a very bad vibe from you. I don’t want six days of problems.”

Um, no matter. I’ve been periodically picking up dog shit most of my life. And Brody was CUTE, though he did worm back under the fence right after his double defecation.

But: What happened to the Rules of Civility? Is this a Valley thing, or just a 2024 thing?

I’d resolved not to venture out much, partly to stay Zen for the concentration-centric recording process, and also to rest my vocal cords. Thus: cook at “home.” But not quite as easily as expected.

I did venture out to one restaurant, and it was a lovely salve for my tacky strip-mall (there are thousands), overhead-electrical-wire, and conspicuous-consumption-induced state of mild shock.

A cuisine I miss most of all living in semi-rural Central California is authentic Asian. I’d had a great experience with izakaya in Las Vegas last summer, and was elated to find a well-reviewed izakaya joint just 10 minutes away from my pad: Izakaya M.

As I bellied up to the bar and exchanged “Irashaimasus!” with the counter-dude, I was in a sort of Brigit-heaven. There was sushi, sure, but also much, much more. Bulgogi, robata, various versions of carpaccio, gyoza, salads: Eureka! (Izakaya are known as drinking establishments with great food, much less formal and restrictive than sushi bars—like a Japanese gastropub.)

Here came a well-chilled little bottle of unfiltered Nigori sake, in an ice bucket. Good. Then an impeccable presentation of halibut sashimi with shiso, radish threads, and a smidgeon of sunny tobiko. Whenever I see beef tataki on a menu, I’m right on it. This one had a subtle smoky flavor, and sported no unnecessary garnishes. It was pure, tenderly beefy, and has now become the paradigm to which all other tatakis will be measured.

Meanwhile, back in my bungalow, I was able to master the Roku! I spent happy times switching back and forth between the new Fallout and the old Peaky (fucking) Blinders —IYKYK—season 6, after the dreaded departure of the brilliant Helen McCrory. A little farce balanced by a lot of trauma—perfect. As I head back into the studio for the final day of taping, my voice is strong, my Zen reasonably intact. And my resolve to not spend any more time in the Valley? Powerful.

(With deepest apologies to all those who celebrate.)

Four Tidbits For The Week of April 21

Brigit’s What I’m

CURRENTLY LOVING ➡️ Beef tataki!
THINKING ABOUT ➡️ Making beef tataki again soon.
LISTENING TO ➡️ Carly Simon: I Haven't Got Time for the Pain