Despite my penchant for foreign and independent films, my piano training and love of listening to opera while cleaning, I have a special place in my heart for mediocrity. What I mean by that is when things are so bad that they spontaneously combust and switch sides to become INCREDIBLY AWESOME.

This is the reason that I recommend you go watch the masterpiece that is “Blame it On Rio.” I’m still mad at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for not giving credit where credit is due - Blame it On Rio is  cinematic gold. This is also the reason that I have spent many a Saturday night watching “Cheaters” with Joey Greco and his soul patch beckoning at me through the television screen. And also why I recognize the existent of Arsenium - Moldovan popstar and dreamboat.

These are the reasons that there’s something wrong with me.

My love of mediocre arts and entertainment is precisely one of the reasons why I indulge myself in the kitsch and camp world of Bollywood. If you thought the Western world was cheesy enough, you have absolutely nothing until you’ve seen an Indian film. Preferably with Abhishek Bachchan.

I am not a fan of people who don’t “get” mediocrity or cringe at the thought of watching “Real Housewives of Atlanta” (Who gonna check me boo?) or renting a too bad for its own good 80s flick. It’s nice to be low brow once in a while. It’s nice to indulge in guilty pleasures and watch the crappiest television show that’s on at the moment.

I have to mention though, that this special category that of awesomely bad or badly awesome pop culture does not apply to phenomenons like “The Hills” or “The Bachelor” or the Keenen Ivory Wayans movie franchise. The aforementioned are not awesomely bad, they are just plain bad, mostly because they either fail at being awesomely bad or they think they’re some kind of classy institution. Anything that shoots Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt straight to fame and into our houses is nothing but evil. And I didn’t even have to look up how to spell the names of that overexposed fame-whoring couple, that’s how bad they’ve permeated by brain.

So skip the really bad MTV shows and watch something like COPS. Oh COPS. I can’t get enough of it. Another personal favorite of mine? The Nanny.

I am probably one of five people on Earth that relishes in Fran Drescher’s excruciatingly annoying cackle. Mistahhhh Shefieeeeeeeeeeeeeeld. Love it.

The bottom line is, embrace the cheese. You can do it. Embrace it, love it, knit a sweater for it. You wont regret your choice, because really, life doesn’t need to be taken so seriously, mediocrity, while bad, is a good thing.

I was making my long and tedious drive to work this morning and between all the cars in front of me and the glorious view that the 10 freeway offers of industrial Los Angeles I spotted a digital billboard that I seem to pass all the time but only fully took notice of today, frankly because it had a huge photo of Dr. Oz, another one of Oprah’s prodigy, and flashing text telling me to watch the Dr. Oz show. That’s happening LIVE. RIGHT NOW.

Dude. I’m driving. You’re a billboard over a freeway, you should know this. What do you want me to do, make a break for the nearest exit, sit in more traffic until I arrive home, pour myself another cup of tea and wait for Dr. Oz to come on and tell me about erectile dysfunction and heart burn?

WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO, BILLBOARD.

No, as much as I’d like to turn around I can’t. As much as I want to take part in your graduation from Oprah’s stage to your own, I don’t have the time. You should know this, you’re a billboard.

And frankly, if I was going to turn around and go home, you better believe I’d be tuning into the  hot mess that is the Maury Povich show. I cannot afford to miss a “You are NOT the Father!” proclamation because Dr. Oz wants to teach  me about hypertension. No way. I have my priorities straightened out, as you can tell.

But, seriously billboard - I don’t take too kindly to your shenanigans and I’m sure the thousands of cars around me don’t either, what in between spewing out colorful language with their windows rolled up, mind you, to the motorcyclists that zoom by windows (they deserve it) and trying their hardest not to drive their vehicles off a cliff because they just. can’t. take. it. anymore.

And you know what else? Just WTF are you doing on a freeway anyway? I mean, am I not meant to be looking straight ahead so I don’t become a Los Angeles casualty instead of looking at you? Why do you tempt me with your smooth LCD display and blinding neon graphics. Why must you call out to me with a dapper looking Dr. Oz in a  sexy lab coat and elvine ears.  DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE?

Today was meant to be a relaxing, check-things-off-my-to-do-list type of day, but just like everything else in life, things don’t always go as you planned. Instead, I had a really shitty day, the kind of day that’s born out of the depths of hell, the kind that can alter your life and you just don’t know it yet.

In an effort to stay sane and not have an uncontrollable crying session, I’ve decided writing in here is the next best thing. Writing always saves me. Always. And because I had this draft sitting around for a while, I thought I’d get a move on it.

A few months ago I was enamored by the fabulous food porn I had found on TasteSpotting and FoodGawker. I must have clicked through dozens and dozens of pages before I looked up to breathe again. In the midst of amazing pasta dishes, fruit pies and concoctions that made me want to jump through my computer screen and start munching away, I found an interesting recipe I had never heard of before: Katharine Hepburn Brownies.

Apparently, gossip columnist Liz Smith got the recipe from Ms. Hepburn to publish in her column some 25 odd years ago, and thank God she did because it is a damn good recipe and probably the most moist and chewy brownies I’ve made - not that I’ve made many - this is probably about my third attempt that spans the whole of my baking, so I’m no brownie expert, but it doesn’t take one to see why this recipe is reveled around the foodosphere.

Even though I don’t have brownies at the moment or any plans to make them soon, just posting about their goodness is making me feel better already. This is one of the instances where I feel I need to turn to a private, hand-written space to discuss all that has upset me and essentially sort of damaged what was meant to be a fabulous 3-day weekend. Maybe I’ll have the guts to write it here one day, as soon as I organize my thoughts.

The recipe can be found on the blog that I drew inspiration from, Surviving Oz.  The recipe there is probably better than the others you will find. But just for fun, here are Ms. Hepburns original instructions:

Preheat the oven to 325 F.
Butter an 8-inch square baking pan.
In a heavy saucepan, melt the chocolate with the butter over low heat, stirring until completely melted.
Remove from the heat and stir in the sugar.
Add the eggs and vanilla and “beat it all like mad”.
Stir in the flour, salt and walnuts and mix well.
Spoon the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 40 minutes.
“Take it out; let it cool; cut into squares and go crazy.”

Internet, I’ve once again reached a strange plateau in the relationship I have with this blog.  I feel unfocused and that feeling worries me. I’ve been struggling about what to make of this space of mine - it’s a place where I feel I can and should write down whatever I like, but that’s begun to worry me a little. I feel at times that I’m all over the map. One minute I’m writing about a cake I made, the next minute, I’m providing updates on fires in Los Angeles.

My worry mostly is: is this ok?

I mean, why shouldn’t it be? It’s my space, my little corner of the interwebs. I pay each month for this damn it, I should be able to write whatever I please. Still, it worries me. There are times when I feel that I should just stick to one topic and write about it exclusively. Then there are moments when I feel like I can’t do that, because my interests are so varied. I want to talk about food and traveling, yet I feel a great sense of urgency and desire to talk about writing and music and Bollywood.

Then there are other times where I come here and start an entry about how horribly I have been aching to write more  - even more than I do now. I have dreams about working at the Los Angeles Times and as soon as they begin, they end and I’m thrown back into the turnpike in New Jersey known as reality.

Lately, I’ve had an obsession with wedding photography. I can spend hours upon hours scouring sites, ooing and awwing over photos. These are things that I feel are unworthy of even appearing on this space, as if I’ve built this strange “man behind the curtain” persona where I don’t feel comfortable exposing my inner most thoughts and desires.  I want to keep this place lively and funny and not full of my whiny wants and needs - but perhaps those are things which make for the most interesting reads.

I’ve been neglecting this place, only because I am trying to be so thoroughly focused on a few other projects I’m working on, mostly my ezine and the freelance writing I am doing for a few places, including a newspaper. Yes, that’s right - a real bona fide, print newspaper. It’s quite thrilling. It makes me happy and gets me back in the creative process and I really live off that, to be honest.

There is so much I want to do - on this here space of mine and in life and I’m trying to figure out if it behooves me to have a strict focus or go and do wherever my mind takes me. When I figure it out, you’ll know.

My heart aches for Los Angeles. It’s not enough that we have people bagging on us from all over the world, but in addition to a horrid budget crisis, water shortage, etc.,  in a matter of a few days, 148,258 acres of this city burned free. Two firefighters were lost, dozens and dozens of homes were destroyed and our lives were disrupted by more than just traffic.

After two sleepless nights where all I could manage to inhale was the pungent smell of smoke, and another two where I  was thisclose to being evacuated before a fire swallowed up my house whole, all I could think of was how much my heart aches for this city.

Growing up, I never felt a particular connection to where I lived, it was just, well, somewhere I happened to live.  But as I got older and started to explore more of L.A. including a 35-mile traffic romp across the city every day, I realized that I care about Los Angeles more than I ever knew. And I had this insane desire in me to defend it, and find the beauty in it and try to get transplants to understand that there was more to Los Angeles than the west side and palm trees.

Mt. Wilson for example, which was severely threatened by the Station Fire, is home to the  100-inch Hooker telescope on which Edwin Hubble made discoveries that lead to the Big Bang Theory. The Wildlife Way Station, a 160 acre non-profit animal sanctuary and rehabilitational facility is more or less five minutes from my house.  Then there’s the Adams Pack Station, also threatened by the fire and  believed to be the last pack station in the United States, which serves 80 cabins in the Chantry Flats area. Cabins in Los Angeles. Who would’ve thought?

When I drove through my neighborhood of La Crescenta and Tujunga, trying to get more information and photos about this fire that was really putting a damper on our summer, I took in how much nature I’m surrounded by. I mean, I see deer coming down the mountain behind my house. Altadena is home to a native parrot population. If you go as high as you can near Angeles Crest, you will see signs telling you to beware of mountain lions.  Tujunga was once a socialist Utopian colony. Its location also frees it from some air pollution that plagues the rest of Los Angeles.

Besides the wildlife and recreational benefits, the residents of these areas are not cut from the same cloth as the stereotypical Angeleno. Case in point: When I drove to work yesterday morning, I saw handmade signs thanking firefighters and calling them heroes hanging from the bridges above the freeway and at Stop signs on major streets. Even Century 21 changed its marquee to reflect gratitude. In addition to that, many residents decided to band together last weekend in an effort to save their houses.

“We started thinking smart and came up with a plan,” said Greg Lievense, 54, an engineer at nearby Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

The group broke up into teams of three with an agreement that no one would be alone for the duration of the emergency. One neighbor began stockpiling ladders and flashlights.

“We broke up into ‘ember shifts,’ ” Lievense said.

“We developed an emergency signal — three long car honks — which would mean that a home is on fire and we need help or we all have to leave,” he said.

Their mission in turn would be to peer into the eaves and backyards of neighbors’ homes with flashlights in search of glowing embers or flames and respond if possible.

How awesome are these people? So awesome.

Though it’s a given any Los Angeles resident is upset about this fire, especially since it is now being treated as arson, along with a homicide investigation because of the two brave firefighters who lost their lives, there’s something else that has been itching in my head. This isn’t really how I wanted my neighborhood to get on the map. Neither was the Michael Jackson funeral and memorial service. Every cloud has its silver lining though, I suppose and I’m hoping that those in L.A and beyond realize that this city has such a rich background and isn’t just a bunch of connecting freeways, cars and plastic surgery.

There are so many treasures here, the important thing is that you have to go looking for them.

I find it bittersweet and strange that I have lived in this area of Los Angeles practically my whole life and haven’t really had the chance to get to know my neighbors or talk to them - unless a disaster strikes. The past few days, I have taken every opportunity to document the relentless fire that’s practically burning down my humble neighborhood, and in my outings, I’ve developed a rapport with a few of people who I share this street with.

One man spoke to me about how difficult it was to get fire insurance on his house. Another told me he was visiting his sister who was all but terrified of the fires. As I stood there, with ash and smoke all around, he told me that tile roofing was the safest in this type of situation, having to reach unthinkable temperatures before being affected by fire. I wish interactions like this didn’t occur only in a time of emergency.

The Station Fire has currently reached more than 122,000 acres with what seems like no end in sight.  Helicopters are buzzing above, and we’ve woken up to more ash and smoke than ever before. I find it pretty unnerving that surrounding streets on both sides have been evacuated, yet we haven’t been told to move.  I’m not too frightened of the fire, it’s when I start to think about the items in my house that could go up in flames that I get panicky.

Last night, I took a trip around the neighborhood again, running into a dozen closed off streets and citizen journalists taking photos and setting up their video cameras of the fire all along Foothill Blvd. in La Crescenta. The Station Fire it seems, has its own set of paparazzi.

I made a stop and bought pet food to take to the Pasadena Humane Society, where animals whose homes were threatened by the Station Fire have been brought. As I pulled up into my driveway, there were fire trucks galore.  I soon heard the fire chief trying to explain to a couple why  the enormous amounts of water drops do not produce immediate results.

“When it rains, does your bedroom get wet? Is your living room soaked?” he said.

I asked if they needed water or food. They thanked me and said they were all taken care of, but something tells me they would have appreciated my mom’s Armenian cooking.

By the time I went to sleep,  it looked like the fire might have calmed down. By morning, it was a different story. Smoke yielding cloud bombs descended around my house, making me feel like I was either on Mordor or Mars. The yellow tint outside made it seem like I had stepped into a photograph from 1976.

It wasn’t long before it started to get bad enough that fire trucks showed up and the helicopters became more prominent, along with the firechasers who came up to my street to capture it all.

As helicopters swarm and make the houses underneath them shake, and the people in them shake with fear of an impending fire, the citizens of this small town are hoping for the best.