The Story I Promised To Tell, Plus Blue Cake and Secret Bacon Ice Cream
So I was gone from here for nearly a week, not counting that little "I'll be right back" message. So today you'll get two posts most likely. I got things to update you on and links and shit like that.

But first the story of me and my doomed romance with Scientology.

The so-rad-she-will-hurt-you Lori stutefish posted that she had tickets to a thing. They were free tickets that a fresh-and-blank-and-glazy-faced person handed her one day as she was exiting House of Pies, which is a great name for a restaurant and their pies are nice but not mind-blowing and the food is simply okay but I like going there anyway because it's named House of Pies. So she got these tickets. I have one now. Here it is:


My favorite thing about this ticket is that it says "Ron" in big fancy letters. My least favorite thing about it is that it says "Admit One" but that part is what makes this ticket a lie. Or at least a highly-conditional truth.

So Lori goes, "I got these tickets. Who will go with me?" and I immediately shot my hand up because my fascination with Scientology is a long-standing one. I've held e-meter cans in my hand and watched my negative energy cause the needle to go into the red. If you don't know what I just said, then you, my friend, are not experiencing the happiness that distantly observing Scientologists and their ways can bring you. Anyway, moroccomole is always trying to convince me not to go too near them because he thinks I'll be kidnapped and turned into a Xenu-worshipping zombie. But I can't help it. They are the magnet and I am the steel.

It turns out, on the day, that we were not just attending any old Scientology pep rally. We were going to Scientology prom and Christmas all rolled up into one. It was L. Ron Hubbard's birthday and that meant that maybe the kooky famous such as Kirstie Alley and Jenna Elfman would be there, too. Lori emaied me and told me I had to dress up. I was resentful about this, but I did it. It's a good thing I bought that new jacket for the LAFCA dinner because it's my one and only jacket that fits. It's also a good thing I bought that new pink Burberry shirt because it's the only shirt with buttons I own that I can fasten comfortably around my neck. Pardon me, all you fans of thick-necked men out there, but I gotta lose some fuckin' weight if I ever want to wear a shirt and tie again without re-stocking my entire wardrobe.

I went to pick up Lori and we drove down to The Shrine auditorium. I had this idea that USC is super-far away instead of simply kind-of-far away, and because we were so busy blabbing on and on about whatever it was we were blabbing on and on about, mostly about how awesome the event was going to be and how maybe Chick Corea or Isaac Hayes or Beck would perform and how incredible so many of the restaurants seem to be as you driver farther and farther and farther south on Western (Top This! Bakery, the home of 7-Uppy Cake and Strawberry Shorty Cake and also Gwen's Double Dip Ice Cream and also the choice-befuddling number of fried catfish places there are) until suddenly we found ourselves at 108th St and we realized we were near Compton and we'd gone too far.

We ended up back at USC and The Shrine. There were thousands of people there and lots of official-looking people standing around. We approachd the mass of people. A woman with a clipboard walked up to us. "Are you here for the event?" she says, all smiley and delighted to see us. "We are!" I say, smiley and delighted back at her.

"What orgs are you slubtherishing for?" she says.

"What's that?" I ask, because I just assume that I'm deaf-ish, which I am.

"What orgs are you slubtherishing for?" she says again.

"I don't understand what you're asking. We're new to all this. This is our first time."

"Oh!" she says, "Well then come right this way!"

She led us to a cute Scientology 20-something guy who stood next to a machine that looked like a big computer. "Let me just enter your information here so we can have a record of your visit," he says. I was ready for this and I had the name and email address of a guy I don't like very much prepared to hand off. And no, if you're reading this it's not you. I've never mentioned this person on this journal before and he is most likely not even aware that I don't like him. In fact, I firmly believe he never thinks of me at all. But I think he's gross. And I know his email address. So I was going to use it, just as, you know, a little un-friendly prank. I also had a fake address all memorized and ready to go.

But Cute Scientology 20-something Guy wanted my driver's license.

The machine he stood near is designed to have a driver's license swiped through it, automatically pulling up all my for-real information for The Church of Scientology to use however they please. Which presented a problem. Lori and I had discussed in the car that we needed a point-of-no-return. We needed a deal-breaker, one moment of an our-lives-invading boundary breach that would indicate to us we would need to retreat and ditch the whole thing, no matter how enthusiastic we were for the weirdness of the event or what kind of incredible stories it would give us to tell our friends. We had decided that we would, under no circumstances, give them our actual information. And now they were demanding it for entry to the prom. To step into L. Ron Christmas we had to let them step into our lives and track us. In fact, Cute Scienology 20-something Guy even said that. "This way we can track you!" He was happy and smiling when he said it. It didn't seem so bad when he said it. And he was cute. And I wanted to. But instead I said, "What if, after tonight, I decide that I don't want to participate in anything else? What if I don't want any more information or contact with you?"

"That's fine!" he said. "But this will help us find you in case you do!" and he was still smiling a lot.

"Let me talk to my friend here," I said, turning away.

I turned to Lori and we both knew we would not be entering The Shrine and we had dressed up only to please each other and we had driven to the most famously dangerous part of Los Angeles by mistake just for the scenery and future catfish-restaurant referencing (and by the way, all those restaurants close at about 6pm--it's like the town that dreaded sundown, so if you're going and want them to be open make sure you do it in the daylight) and we had been pre-emptively busted by the people we craved to be near.

So we walked back to the car trying to dissect the sentence "What orgs are you slubtherishing for?" Lori thought she said "subbing" and I thought she said "slithering." But it'll remain a mystery. We were disappointed and decided to drown our sorrows in food.

Lori took me to a secret ice cream place she likes where the guy who runs it makes all the flavors by hand and I had the bacon-caramel ice cream, which confused my mouth in the best way ever. The place is a secret becasue he started getting written up in food blogs and websites and stuff and was suddenly overrun with obnoxious rich people from the Westside who were mean and awful and he actually contacted the sites that had written him up and asked them to remove his store name and information. I love that story and promise that if you're a friend of mine I will take you to this ice cream place if you ever come to Los Angeles but I won't be naming its name here.

I, in turn, took Lori to Milk on Beverly and I had white bean and chorizo soup and a great chicken sandwich and she had a salad and the Blue Velvet Cake. If you like red-velvet cake then think about a red-velvet cake that's blueberry cake instead, one with actual blueberries in it. And it's blue. And it turns your mouth blue. Seriously it's excellent cake and will make you forget your disappointments.

Now, if you missed me telling you this last week, you can go to Lori's page at stutefish and read her account of the same event. She even has a picture of us being good-looking.