The End of Hannah Montana...

Well, it finally happened. I thought the whole summer might pass me by without it occurring. Something, at long last, and much to my surprise, was terrifyingly convenient. In my last entry, you heard me rant and rave about how impossibly sprawling Los Angeles is, a jungle of freeways and long-cuts. Much less a city than a whole universe-if it were the first city to have flying cars, it would also be the first to have mid-air traffic jams.

So just as I had set my jaw to the fact that this wasn’t going to be easy…it was easy. The Grill ‘Em All truck set up shop on a lovely afternoon, right around the corner. I passed it on my way home. I walked to it. AND not only that, but they were serving a rare but valued meal that I have always loved, but never named: “Linner.” Yep- Later than lunch, earlier than dinner, this meal straddles both, and at almost exactly 4 o’clock on a busy corner of Sunset Blvd., I eighty-sixed Hannah Montana.

If one were to brainstorm a list of adjectives that could describe me, and my nature, words such as “hardcore,” or “bad-ass,” would stay far far away from that page, and only be listed in an effort to be ironic. Much like when Steve Martin spins around in the salon chair after having his white hair dyed black in Father of the Bride, and proclaims himself “bitchin.’” By the cruel circumstance of uncoolness, in saying the word he eliminates any chance of actually being it. But I feel like I got a pretty strong dose of bad-assery today, and I’m feeling pretty hardcore now. “Bitchin’” Bring on the uncoolness.

The Grill ‘Em All truck is a heavy metal burger truck. It is dressed like a headbanger, plays loud music from its speakers like a high-schooler with their ipod cranked up, and shows its reverence for the dark exciting side of musical life by giving its burgers names like Molly Hatchet, and Waste ‘Em All. Which brings me back to Hannah Montana. I’m not sure if this burger is named that because it is an All-American 1950’s classic burger, full of youth and promise…or because it could sell a bazillion tickets. Either way, it rocked my world.

Served up between two slabs of bready delicious that is a sort of ciabatta/English muffin/bun hybrid, the Hannah Montana is an ode to how good simple things can be. Cheese, tomato, iceberg lettuce, and a juicy burger that laughs in the face of the wad of napkins you grabbed as an afterthought.

MAKING A PLAN...

EXECUTION...

I had approached the truck as though it was a surly goth kid shot through with multiple visible piercings. In my head I was a 5th grader again-plaid catholic school uniform, white peter pan collar and saddle shoes-completely intimidated by the quietly raging teenager drawing flames on their binder with a sharpie. Boy, was my bubble burst when the actual people inside the truck turned out to be the nicest guys around.

I felt the sort of unconditional love a dog must feel when I was treated to a special order of truffle fries. TRUFFLE FRIES. I watched him toss the fries in a stainless steel bowl with the truffle oil in slow motion. Then they passed through the window and into my life. I will love you forever. I will stand by the door and wait for you. I will dial 911 for you when you fall down.

In perfect form, the guys were closing up to head to a concert, some band with a really intimidating name, that is appropriately “bitchin’” They couldn’t have been nicer. And off I went, wrongly believing I could eat this burger while walking home. This is not an eat-and-walk burger, guys. It’s a sit/stand in one place, and pay attention, and use both hands burger.

And so, with only myself to blame, I began the awkward ballet back to my place.

STEP. STEP. BITE. DRIP. CHEW.
STEP. STEP. BITE. DRIP. CHEW.
STEP. STEP. BITE. DRIP. CHEW.

To anyone who wondered what that girl standing on a busy corner on a sunny afternoon licking her arm was doing, now you know. Tell your friends, so they don’t think I’m crazy. These days, I’m shooting for bitchin’.