Monthly Archives: March 2010

Hair a Druck’s Nest? Try Terax

I have baby fine hair. The kind that sometimes works itself into a frizzy little nest on the back of my head by the time I get up from a nap. Now, nest-head might work for babies. On adults, it’s just sad. So thank God my sister introduced me to Terax:

Sounds like a scary dinosaur. Works like a dream.

I get my fix from via Jade Beauty Supply. Sephora stopped carrying it and, like a junkie, I feverishly hunted down an alternate source. Turns out that Jade is cheaper than Sephora, they deliver it right to you (sometimes free of charge!) AND they are more generous with the samples. Win/win/win!

I find that I can use it not just on my ends but all over my damn fool head, without concern that my hair will have that waxy, un-rinsed conditioner film or roots so greasy you can’t even tell that I washed it at all. (And I demand credit for cleanliness. It’s one of the bigger accomplishments of my day.) And it smells good. According to the Beauty Blogging Junkie (whom I now ADORE — where have you been all my life, soul mate?), the fragrance is rice flower, shea, bergamot, and juniper.

Smelling EVEN BETTER, now that you’ve got me talking about the hair up there:

Bumbles bounce.

Bumble and bumble Creme de Coco Masque smells good enough to eat, and if I had a nickel for every guy that buried his face in my hair and said, “Yummmm” I’d have about 40 cents. (That’s eight times, right? Just checking.)

I can’t use it all the time because it is really rich and heavy. (Not to mention crazy expensive. Might as well rub caviar on my head and call it a day.) But as I stand there in the shower, letting it sink in and do its magic, I get bored and read the label. So I know without looking that it says, “Words can’t describe how soft, silky and glossy this trio of tropical butters leaves hair — you just have to feel for yourself.” So give it a try! But Terax first. And fight the bird’s nest that be.


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Big Sam’s Drucky Nation

Gotta love a man who can blow his own horn.

Heading out tonight to see Big Sam’s Funky Nation at the Mint LA with awesome pals Chi and Brooke. It’s gonna be GOOD, y’all! I’ve never heard Big Sam before, but the undisputed King of Funk (actually there probably IS some dispute, in fairness) hails from New Orleans like my beloved Trombone Shorty. They don’t take the stage til 11pm (these go to 11) and that’s almost past my bedtime so vodka/sugar-free Red Bull will definitely be part of my going-out prep session this evening.

I don’t have much else to say today, so rest that clicking finger and enjoy the fact that there’s no need to scroll further. May all your weekends be good and all your drinks be strong! See you Monday.

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Valentino Ristorante & A Dirty Little Drucker

Let’s start with a restaurant review, shall we? Before gets too weird. And believe me. Weird it will get. (Scroll down if you prefer weird as your main and restaurant review for dessert.)

Valentino is technically SMA (Santa Monica adjacent) but claims to be SM, which may be why they feel molto bene (very good) about charging $28 for a half-assed portion of chicken cacciatore, and $44 for a postage-stamp-sized piece of sea bass.

*Portions not shown actual size.

I know that American restaurants take heat from waif-like smokers (a.k.a. Europeans) and the advocacy group known as Center for Science in the Public Interest (a.k.a. Buzz Killing Food Nazis) for huge portion sizes, and that fine Italian dining involves two or three small courses — primi piatti, secondi piatti, and so on. But it’s a recession. Three a la carte courses are pricey. And a girl has to have a bottle of wine (or two) with dinner, am I right?

Maybe the prices are high because of the INSANELY stocked wine cellar. I’ve never seen a wine list like that. It was a BIBLE. Heavy enough to double as a weapon. Our sommelier was from Sicily and both he and Paolo, our lovely waiter, made up for the slightly sterile dining room and the crazy prices.

Use your noodle.

And the meat ragu on perfectly al dente waves of tagliatelle WAS delicious. My chicken cacciatore — underseasoned, fatty cubes of chicken — probably fell just under the halfway decent line. And SPEAKING of halfway decent, here’s where we get WEIRD.

I have GUILT about posting this — let me make that clear. You may want to avert your eyes and stop reading. But I cannot be the sole mental keeper of this image. I must get it out of my head and pollute yours with it. Thanks to funny blog What Would Tyler Durden Do, I was introduced to Brian Peppers:

Yet it is real. It’s REAL. (Snopes has the yearbook pics to prove it.) I know I should feel sorry for him because CLEARLY something in his DNA strand went HORRIBLY awry, and his appearance no doubt contributed to his need to force himself on people, because even a hooker might pause before hitting that.

BUT STILL. I feel dirty. And now, so do you. You’re welcome! Happy Thursday!

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Top 3 Things I Find Drucking Distracting (Today)

Here are three random items which fate has conspired for me to share. They could not be more unrelated. They run the gamut from wholesome to hardcore, sweetly innocent to simply druckin hysterical. Ready? Keep your hands and feet inside the blog at all times.

First, as usual, awesome pal Adra weighed in with this. WARNING: there are curse words. Written by a third-grader. Which only increases their hilarity:

I'm a snarky copy bitch. What kind are you?

That’s from a blog called And I Am Not Lying. The post engendered (what else) a helluva lot of bitching about the quality of American education and so on, and you can read Jeff Simmermon’s hysterical summation of all the comments here, under Bitches Lost Their Minds.

Then there’s The Hollywood Temp Diaries — biting, acerbic, making fun of Hollywood bigwigs with much smaller… bank accounts… than they would have you believe. Word on the street is that this brilliant gal is an NU grad — you make me proud, kiddo.

Disney recently requested in a Pirates of the Caribbean casting call that no implants were allowed. This was the Hollywood Temp’s interpretation of said request:

Pervy old white men (ages 45-54) who aren’t getting any from their wife, seek young, impressionable and desperate women to leer at. Will use the convenient excuse of casting a major motion picture so it doesn’t feel so lecherous. Please, please have nice titties. None of this Pam Anderson stuff. If I wanted that, I’d go Crazy Horse or Cheetah’s. Be prepared to take your top off for no particular reason. Did I mention that you need to have nice titties?

And now for the wholesome part of the program! Thank you, awesome pal Bri, for reminding me that This Is Why You’re Fat is still out there, waiting for me, like a comforting bacon mug filled with melted cheese:


I cannot leave you with that. Instead, this, which I think you should make for me ASAP and fork-feed it to me in my new big girl bed while we watch Diners, Drive-Ins & Dives. When can I expect you?

A buttermilk cake using 2 Bags of Reeses topped with a frosting made from 1/2 cup of peanut butter, dark chocolate and heavy cream garnished with Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.


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How to Say Druck You in Russian

I just discovered this list of Ten Things Never to Say or Do in Russia and I LOVE. (Note to self: if you tell a Russian you like his shirt, he’ll probably give it to you, so be prepared to see him shirtless — not always a good thing.) The reason I was investigating this topic was a particularly festive evening at Bar Lubitsch in WeHo with awesome pals Michele, Deutsch and Doug. And will you look what Deutsch did?! WHAT a flamer:

Photo by Caroline on Crack. (LA uber-blogger extraordinaire.)

There has been a lot written about Bar Lubitsch in all its retro Russian glory, for example here. It’s in an area where English is the second language not everybody speaks, and a lot of the business signs are in Russian only. Pretty bartender, great little front patio for balmy evenings, and the opportunity to order yummy foods from Jones Hollywood, who will deliver to Lubitsch for free.

Vee are zee KGB. Give us all your wodka.

But I want to talk about the MOST impressive Russian item you’ll find at Bar Lubitsch: VODKA. Generously supplied in distractingly delicious and unbelievably potent cocktails that will render you impotent for anything except drinking more vodka and telling your friends how much you love them. I had a vodka gimlet, expertly mixed so that every sweet sip was scented with cucumber, and Deutsch had the flaming peel one, and Michele had a filthy dirty, and Doug was just smooth.

Last night is still a bit foggy but I have a feeling that I may have overshared — and if so, I’m sorry, y’all! The wodka made me do it. And will make me do it again.


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If You’re a Fancy Drucker, Go to Mastro’s

Mastro’s reminds me of a slick, LA version of Chicago’s Gibson’s, but without the rich history. Same piano player. Same triumvirate of botox, Viagra and pretty young things hoping to hook up with a rich old coot. (They don’t call Rush and State the Viagra Triangle for nothing.) And sadly (sorry, Gibson’s) the same over-rated food.

My sister once said to me that if you put enough cheese and butter in a dish, it can’t help but taste good, but it takes a gifted chef to bring out the subtle nuances of a perfectly crisp-tender haricot vert. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think this might be TOO MUCH CHEESE AND BUTTER:

Gorgonzola? I hardly know her!

I know, I know, most people go for the steak and the “experience.” (Apparently Dennis Farina was in the house last night. If he wasn’t from Chicago, I’d make a B-List celebrity crack. But he is, so I won’t.) And I’m the dork who ordered the side dish as my main. And it is indeed a pretty, convivial place, with a little bar downstairs and a much bigger one (with the piano player) upstairs:

Min. salary requirement is $100k. Bring your pay stub or your Bentley. Thx, Mastro's.

Plus, every time I got up, an invisible waiter rolled my napkin into a little cigar and placed it, just so, at my right hand. So if you have a mortgage payment to spare, I guess I do recommend Mastro’s for the “experience,” and possibly if you’re really into steak, you’ll find the price tag worth it. (I had amazing steak right off the grill this weekend in Lake Arrowhead, and I can’t imagine anything better than big slabs of beef grilled over an open flame in that clean, crisp mountain air — but maybe that’s just me.)

Finally, there’s this nonsense. (Thanks, Adra.)

I would name this shoe "Cheekytoe."

I want them! And I will pay someone to watch Piperlime religiously and let me know if they go on sale. Bidding starts at a dollar. Ante UP.

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Who Let the Drucks Out, Woof, Woof

Sometimes I get to the party early. Grab a drink. Stare at the host’s bookshelf/CD/DVD collection. Silently judge.

Other times, I get there late and I’m already primed and ready for a good time. I am late to the Dogs in Slow Motion party. Are you? (Aroooo?)

I’m on day 5 of my vodka/caffeine/no carbs diet and let me tell you — I am FULL of crabby goodness. (See yesterday’s post for reference.) So I can use all the yuks I can get. You know you’re really hungry when you find yourself staring at a crouton with lust in your heart. This is Mother Drucker, calling the year 2001 — can I have my metabolism back? Once you work out all that silly Y2K nonsense, I expect you to be all OVER this.

I am, however, making a teensy diet exception for these uber-cute adora calcium supplements:

What a sweet way to get your calcium! Calci-YUM! Adora the Explorer! (Okay that last one was super lame.) I get these at Whole Mortgage Payment in the dark chocolate variety, and feel almost no guilt about the two tiny grams of sugar per dark ‘n delicious disk. Thanks awesome pal Kate for the recommendation! When my spine maintains its integrity at age 80 due to sufficient bone density, I’ll put my teeth back in and say an ode to you.

I’m off to Big Bear for the weekend, which should involve the three things I like best about skiing: hot tubs, hot guys and hot toddies. 60 degree temps mean I may not ski much, which means I probably won’t break anything, which is good, because the odds are I’ll still find a way to do something I’ll regret the next morning. HAPPY WEEKEND!

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