A Spoonful of Shut Up: 2010

Hello, friends. It's day 21 in the city of LA-la land. I know you're probably excited for me. Maybe a bit jealous, too. You thought you saw me on this TV show or that crazy funny movie? No, no, no. Or maybe you thought I wrote the movie? Again, no, it's not me in any of those situations. I mean, I've been offered a few non-paying internships. And that's awesome. Nothing like getting "paid in experience," or so that's how they put it. Maybe my landlord will accept getting paid in experience when the rent comes due. NOT!

From my list of achievements recently: I went to Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles the other night. It was my first time. My excitement for the Roscoe's began some time ago. No reason, really. It's one of those crazy, kooky, touristy things people want to do because this big name actor or some musician said they loved it in some pretty-face magazine. I've been craving it for months, and finally got the chance to go - possibly the best day of my life, or so the stains on my pants led me to believe. I was until then ignorantly under the impression that black women have a certain affinity for yours truly. This might hold more credence in the recesses of Northern California, specifically in the small town from whence I came. And the standards I've set for this are low. For example, if you are a woman, regardless of race, and I smile at you and you smile back…I'm pretty sure you wanna bone me. And luckily for me, I love women of all colors, shapes, sizes and personalities. BINGO!

So I decided it was time to kick up the J-Man pimp juice. (Note: My girlfriend was with me and didn't believe I had the pizzazz to pull it off, mind you.) So we go inside at about 9 p.m. on a Saturday night. And we were the only white people there. Not usually a big deal, but this was a bit intimidating. We were unwelcome travelers in a forbidden land. Upon our entrance, the room quieted a bit, and the weight of the stares could be felt tugging noticeably at our shoulders – encouraging my genitals to tuck inside. Yet still I persevered. I'd made it this far, and my portliness prevented me from turning back now.

No turning back.

The decor inside is minimal. Nearly depressing, even. But the thing about Roscoe's is nobody goes inside for the ambiance. For God's sake, the place is centered in mixing greasy, deliciously seasoned dinner fare with a sweet, buttery breakfast classic. Oh, how I long for thee. The only decorations inside are photos lining the wall of all the celebrities who have frequented the establishment (I think there are five locations). People love fried chicken. I don't...usually. But I was assured by the waitress that the cooks "put a mean scald" on it, and I believed her. So I went with No. 13 - a succulent breast with a waffle.

Succulent, it said.

And I said, yup.

As might well be imagined, the succulent breast lived up to its expectation. It was a sizeable breast - fried crispy to deliciousness. The waitress, a powerful and confident woman, showed no give in my Round 1. A pleasant smile, she did not reciprocate. Flirtatious tone? Nope. But every time she came by, I kept at it. Next thing you know, she brings us our plates with a succulent breast (yes!), a waffle (woohoo!) AND an additional fried wing. Ladies and gentlemen, the fried wing was not part of the meal combo. Moreover, she delivered the plates with a slight smile on her face!

So, either she poisoned the wing, like many people have suggested (I've often been told it's easy to not like me) OR, and this is my opinion, she just couldn't resist the charm of yours truly. No matter which way you examine it, that chicken wing was yet another gift, bestowed upon me by the Los Angeles lifestyle. 21 days: Pay a man in experience, and he'll still be broke. Pay a man in chicken wings, and you've just made his day.