Fat Asian Baby

Fat Asian Baby was intrigued by this post on Craigslist looking for a Fashionista Hippie-Chick. Pardon me for my ignorance, but aren't the two, like, mutually exclusive? Somehow, I doubt that any so-called chick who is willing to essentialize her identity and characeterize herself as a Hippie would be caught dead also characterizing herself a fashionista and vice versa.

Two thoughts stemming from recent Gawker posts:
1.why does sofia coppola always look like she just ate a bag of Super Lemons?
2. I was slightly disappointed that the term "Gaysian" ( presumably pronounced gay-shun and not gay-zee-un as I had initially read it) didn't refer to some homsexual/armenian breed. Somehow Gay Asians aren't nearly as funny. Don't ask me why. They just aren't.

Dear Bloombie,
If New Yorkers could get together and agree to just pick up after ourselves, could we please do away with the blasted alternate side of the street parking rules? Please? I really would like the two and a half hours of my life back that I spent in my car yesterday looking for a suitable new parking spot. I could have spent those two and a half hours doing, I dunno, something, like, productive maybe? Also, I did not appreciate the $95 parking ticket I received for parking in a so-called "doctors only" parking spot. If it's really just for doctors, then why bother with the much larger tues/fri street cleaning sign? Why don't you just put up a sign that says in large letters "DOCTORS ONLY- and even they need to move their stupid cars on Tuesdays and Fridays between 11am and12:30pm." I think that would be much clearer. And while we're on the subject, can I please have my money back from the stupid ticket I got in July 2002. I mean, the sign said "No Parking 8am-4pm School Days" How was I supposed to know that "School Days" was meant to apply to the middle of July? I asked this question of the judge when i appealed the ticket, but he simply dismissed without explanation my argument that New York drivers cannot reasonably be expected to assume "School Days" includes July 15th since the New York Public Schools only run from September through June. Unpersuasive? I thought that was fairly persuasive reasoning. What are these damn schools that are in session through July anyway? I'm sorry if they have special needs that require year-round schooling, but don't you think you could've been a little more clear about that on the signage? I mean, if you really mean for people not to park in that spot from 8-4 during the regular school year and also through july and August for special needs kids, then why don't you just put up a new sign that simply says "No Parking Weekdays 8am-4pm"? Or are we including Saturdays and Sundays as school days now too?
Well?
Until the proper ajudication of my appeal, and until I receive my refund for the "School Days" ticket, I am withholding payment on the recent "Doctor's Only" ticket. I really think that's only fair. Just thought I'd let you know.
Respectfully Yours,
Fat Asian Baby

PS. I can't wait to see you on Law and Order tonight. I bet you'll do great.

I recently had an argument with ambiguator and several of his friends in which I apparently lost, but a recent parenthetical aside from midwestgrrl may suggest that perhaps there is support for my side of the argument yet. The situation was this:
Over several rounds of beers at the Holiday Cocktail Lounge it came to my attention that one of the friends had still had braces when he started college, poor soul. After we spent a good deal of time mulling over that horror, I mentioned that I had been lucky to get braces back in fifth grade when they were still considered cool. At this point, everybody looked upon me with utter condescension. Braces, I was informed, were NEVER cool. I attempted to support my thesis that back in late elementary school braces were actually very cool by characterizing braces as a rite of passage we generally associated with older (read: middle school) kids ergo braces made you seem older and therefore cooler. I then made the mistake of mentioning that at some point in fourth grade I may have even fashioned a paper clip into a make-shift retainer just to see what it was like. Well, let me just say, that admission led to much ridicule, and the subject was summarily closed.
Well, I was pleased to discover an ostensibly offhanded comment that may actually lend support to the pro-braceswereoncecool camp in Midwestgrrl's recent ruminations on the virtues of Junior Mints (an excellent candy, might I add).
At any rate, I tend to disregard the afforementioned peanut gallery's position on cool since they all seem to maintain that the rat tail was the pinnacle of cool back in the disputed era. Silly, silly boys.

In case anyone was wondering, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of milk at roughly the same time is NOT a good combination. Now please excuse me while I go wash my mouth out with soap.

Hmmm. Apparently this Dr. Perricone actually is a real celebrity, and a slutbucket at that. Courtesy of Page Six via Gawker:
Page Six said: "WHICH self-promoting dermatologist/author, whose last book dealt with zits, makes so much off his skin care products he can afford to keep a residence at a posh Midtown hotel? He loves to bring lovely young ladies there for late-night romps."
You said: "Nicholas Perricone -- but is he well known? (I googled intensively as a way of avoiding actual work)."
You also said: "This is so easy -- gotta be Nicholas Perricone."
I wonder just who these young lovelies are. Dr. Perricone didn't seemlike all that and a side of home fries to me, but then again, who am I to judge what's hot these days...

A breaking news story about Ms. Spears' recent appearance on HDTV may finally disprove the Fat Asian Baby's heretofore steadfast belief that Britney is a plastic alien from outer space. Turns out she's actually just an evil whore-child from Kentwood, Louisiana. What's more, she may even have (gasp!) cellulite. How disappointing.

Doggone it! Fat Asian Baby is quite perturbed. The drawstring in my most beloved pair of sweatpants has been favoring one side for quite some time now, inching father and farther out the right side with each wearing. Today, I finally had to admit that the damage has extended past the point of no return. I have been unable, despite earnest effort, to coax the drawstring back where it belongs. It will only be a matter of weeks before my poor sweatpants become entirely drawstringless.
Sigh.

Ok, so i'm finally back from my brief foray to the dirty south. Unfortunately, i didn't see either ludacris or a waffle house or ludacris in a waffle house, so i just can't shake the sinking feeling that my atlanta trip was an utter failure. on the flip side, the weather was awesome, and i spent a great deal of time sitting outside doing nothing. is it just me or does anyone else feel like their skin gets a particular smell after you've been out in the sun for a while? i wonder if that's the smell of human skin cooking. like, if i put myself in the oven on low for a few minutes, is that would it would smell like? speaking of which, does anyone else feel like your skin gets a weird plane smell after riding on the plane? maybe i just smell funny. who knows?

there was this ridiculously annoying girl returning from spring break waiting in the gate to board the same flight to laguardia. it was painfully fascinating to watch her clumsy flirtation with some other guy also, on our flight, whom she clearly had just met. painful i tell you. this girl better not be anywhere near me on the plane, i thought. maybe she's in first class. ha. my seat was in zone 8, and i experienced increasing levels of panic as the Delta Voice invited zones in numerical order to board the plane and neither Ms. Clumsy Flirt nor the unlucky object of her affections made a move to board. grrreat. they're both gonna be seated near me on the plane, i realized. to my absolute horror, guess who was seated right next to me for the blessedly short flight??!? and guess who was in the seat directly in front of me???
how do these sort of things happen?

Friendster Etiquette. I have some shit to say about it. Or questions rather. It's on my mind. seriously. maybe that's because i have no life, but it's on my mind nonetheless... to be blogged about as soon as i get back from atlanta and am no longer forced to get my internet fix from public terminals where people are impatiently looking over my shoulder wondering who the hell i'm writing this to.

My results...

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	Low
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	Low
Antisocial:	Low
Borderline:	Low
Histrionic:	Moderate
Narcissistic:	Low
Avoidant:	Moderate
Dependent:	Low
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Moderate
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

More than I ever wanted to know about myself. Though apparently I'm not as disordered as ViaGina. Actually, I'm surprised at my own apparent unfuckeduppedness. Who knew?

According to Quizilla: "You belong in Pride and Prejudice; a world of satire and true love. A world where everything is crystal clear to the reader, and yet where new things seem to be happening all the time. You belong in a world where your free-thought puts you above the silly masses, and where bright eyes and intelligence are enough to attract the arrogant millionaire/prejudiced young woman of your choice."
Verrry interesting...

So the Fat Asian Baby hates flying and is slightly superstitious. I decided that I need to wear my silver "Sh'ma" necklace on my flight to Atlanta this afternoon, but when I dug up the necklace, it was horribly tarnished. After rubbing it on my tshirt produced no appreciable results, I thought to myself, what could I use that might possibly polish silver? Toothpaste more or less "polishes" teeth, so I decided to give it a whirl. Low and behold, aforementioned silver necklace now sparkles like new. Added benefit: smells minty fresh.

Fascinating what some people will do with Photoshop and a (weird, weird) dream. We can only hope that this will be the next group to be fetishized now that midgets are so, like, last year and all. I mean, can't we all agree that once Fox has done it, it's pretty much been done to death?

Amazing how much music can affect your mood. Twenty minutes ago, everything was just hunky dory; I'd just won about 10 straight free cell games in a row. Then I decided to browse ambiguator's mp3s. Not sure what I was thinking but just listened to Eddie Vedder/Ben Harper's Throw Your Arms Around Me and then Pearl Jam's Last Kiss and then, for the trifecta of depression, went for Jeff Buckley Hallelujah- live acoustic version. Let's just say I'm pretty much ready to move to that new misguided high rise development in the LES and throw myself out the window.
I guess I'll smoke a cigarette or something.
Must get out more...

Don't get me wrong, I am quite touched that a parent even noticed that I did something different with my hair, but must she refer to the highlights as "stripes?"

The other night as I was leaving a bar, this guy tries to pick me up or something by telling me within the first 45 seconds that he works for Roc-A-Fella Records. While I suppose said guy met his objective by capturing my attention for 3 entire minutes, this whole incident makes the Fat Asian Baby wax philosophical about the bar pick-up strategies that guys apparently learn in guy-school. Congratulations, your opening lines worked; I'm paying attention. But why are you interested in a shameless star-fucker like the Fat Asian Baby who is so easily impressed by your name dropping and necessarily implied promises of eating waffles in Atlanta with Kanye West. A word to the wise, your supposedly impressive opener is only going to work on someone who's, well, impressed by that sort of thing and wouldn't otherwise talk to you. In any other case, she's likely to wonder why you're playing the Roc-A-Fella Records card so early in the conversation. Highly suspect, my friends.

Lately, glancing at the front page of the New York Times has served to convince the Fat Asian Baby that maybe Bush's idea about colonizing Mars or the Moon isn't such a wholeheartedly asinine idea, provided that colonization is restricted to yours truly and 150 hand selected recruits. I mean, shit, we seem to have fucked things up pretty good over here, why don't we try our hand at royally screwing shit up in outer space too.

On another note, I just ate an entire container of kimchi. An Entire Container. It's a good thing there's nobody else here but me.

Will entertainment news reporters please stop reporting on the supposed tiff between Avril and Hillary Duff. Nobody gives a shit. Not only does the entirety of the country* in earshot either loathe or harbor severe indifference (yes indifference) towards most teen queens other than Britney, worse we can all see through your transparent attempts at creating newsworthy drama where there clearly is none. Leave it the fuck alone. You're just hurting yourselves.

*that is, the entirety of the country not in the 11-16 year old suburban middle to upper middle class predominantly female demographic. and quite frankly, i think that's most of us.

Charlie Sheen better lay off those tofu crackers or whatever it is he's smoking. Also courtesy of Page Six, Proud Papa Sheen says of his newborn daughter: "Sam was born on 3/9 and I was born on 9/3. She was born at 10:57 p.m. and I was born at 10:58. We've definitely got a connection." Um, yeah I think you might be onto something there about the connection with your daughter, Daddy-O, but somehow I highly doubt it's whatever it is you seem to think it is.

I just read this terribly amusing and disturbing bit from Page Six:

March 16, 2004 -- THE high-stepping Hiltons are mourning the death of their beloved matriarch, Marilyn Hilton, who died last week at 76 after a long battle with multiple sclerosis.
Marilyn is survived by husband Barron Hilton, 76, co-chairman of the Hilton Hotels Corporation. Among the couple's eight children is Rick Hilton, father of celebutantes Paris and Nicky, and husband of socialite Kathy. The entire Hilton family is expected at this morning's funeral mass at the Church of the Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills.
Paris and mom Kathy are said to be seeking solace in their studies of the Kaballah, the ultra-trendy form of ancient Jewish mysticism that counts Madonna, Britney Spears, Demi Moore and Sandra Bernhard among its celebrity devotees.

Now, I'm sure we are all very sorry for the Hilton family's loss, and Paris knows I love her dearly, but for the love of bacon, now she's into Kabbalah???

Last night, the Fat Asian Baby went to Smoke, a jazz bar on the upper upper West Side (read: Morningside Heights ) to hear Chris Washburne and the SYOTOS Band perform Latin Jazz. My only regret is that this was my first trip to Smoke even though I lived a few blocks away for nearly three years. Smoke is far smaller than its reputation would suggest and would be a real treat for anyone who appreciates great music. It is not often that you have the opportunity to hear such talented musicians perform in such an intimate and unpretentious atmosphere. I am probably a romantic jerk, but I can't help sighing wistfully and thinking that last night was the quintessence of what a New York night should be.

Gaaaaaaaaaaak! Why am I such a cheeseball for stories like this?

Fat Asian Baby received this poem that appeared recently in the Washington Post in an email forward from mom (which would probably indicate that it's completely over), but since I enjoyed it, I thought I'd share it with you - and furthermore, I like to support emerging artists.

The poem is composed of actual quotes by GW Bush. Only for aesthetic purposes have the quotes been arranged to create the work.

MAKE THE PIE HIGHER

I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.

Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?

How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.

I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.

Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!

Ever since reading Gothamist's story on Beard Papa opening in New York, Fat Asian Baby has had cream puffs on the brain. When I walked by the store the other night, the line was still out the door, at least ten strong, and clearly issued a challenge. Although I don't have much of a sweet tooth, I can't wait till the hype dies down, so I can happily stuff my face with more creamy puffy goodness than I've ever dreamed of in a timely and efficient fashion.

would a hipster ever refer to himself as a hipster or is the first rule of hipsterism that there is no such thing as a hipster? would that sort of thing occur in some parallel universe?

Had this argument with ambiguator last night: are hipsters cool or are they just really big geeks? and tangentially, is geekiness, through the transitive power of irony, the new cool. C'mon. This is really important. I need to now how to treat the hipsters I pass on the street next time I venture downtown.
Please advise.
Unclear about how to recognize a hipster? Consult your handy copy of the Hipster Handbook.

This story is amazing on so many levels. God, how I love Texas.

Hmmm. So it turns out that an unsolicited finger up the butt is crude but not criminal. Will have to remember the fine legal nuances set forth in this article for future reference. Fat Asian Baby sure is glad they brought in that expert witness to testify that it was "'highly unlikely' that [the suspect] would have been able to penetrate his classmates through the thick shorts and underwear they had on."

Does anyone else think it's both funny/weird AND funny/haha that Mel Gibson is so into the Jesus?

I get the weird hissing and whistling but what's the deal with those crazy tapping and clanging noises that my radiator makes?

I really like crunchy things in conjunction with soft things like chips in a sandwich, burger, or hotdog, and most notably the double decker taco mmmmmmm. I sure do looooove the taco bell.

Are gay men this decade's court jesters?

So yesterday I had my first ever celebrity sighting at Barneys (naturally) and oh was it ever the crappiest of the crappy. Here's the scoop:
So as I'm attempting to complete my extravagant purchase of lipgloss and foundation, anxiously awaiting the return of my credit card, Girlfriend decides to sieze this opportunity to apply a shit ton of makeup to my face. This forced makeover in and of itself was questionable since my meager purchases had already been rung up and I clearly wasn't about to invest in the entire line of cosmetics. Furthermore, I was less than enthusiastic about having layers of makeup applied to my face by somewhere who, if I am not mistaken, was wearing baby blue eyeliner. At any rate, Other Girlfriend who is supposed to be completing my transaction at this time is suddenly and inconveniently engaged in rapt conversation with two overly dressed and overly important feeling gentlemen standing next to me. All of the sudden, Blue Eyeliner Girlfriend becomes highly excited and starts confiding in me in rapid and largely inaudible tones. All I could parse from the jumble was something that sounded like "Dr. Perricone" and "Sephora." Fortunately, the mystery preferred customers soon completed whatever business they had and walked away, Other Girlfriend returned my credit card with an apology and some sort of gibberish about ohmygod can you believe that was Dr. Perricone. I managed to stuff my wallet back in my purse and scurry out of the cosmetics universe just in time to be stuck walking up the stairs behind none other than the illustrious Dr. P. and his handler. Immediately after leaving barneys, I called trusty ole Gina who enlightened me as to the celebrity status of the mysterious Dr. Perricone. apparently he is some sort of celebrity dermatologist. I guess that would be a dermatologist to the celebrities. I guess the celebrities, by being his patients, impart some sort of celebrity status fairy dust aura onto the good doctor, thereby making him himself a celebrity. Or maybe he's famous just because he's a really really super extra good dermatologist. I had no idea that dermatologists could even have handlers, that is, aside from nurses and all if you even wanna go there and call them that.

I wonder how I can become a celebrity graduate student. I sure could use someone to, like, match my socks for me and stuff.

this whole incident also begs the question as to why, after 23 years of life in the new york metropolitan area (the last 5.75 of which have been in manhattan proper), dr. perricone was my first celebrity sighting. perhaps the lack of adequate star fucking opportunities in my life is because i'm too busy staring at the ground trying to avoid irregularities in the sidewalk or street or just generally avoiding eyecontact with everyone around me as all new yorkers are trained to do at an early age. it seems that i must: a) work on proper and more graceful ambulation without the benefit of constant eye contact with the ground and b) start wearing my sunglasses more frequently.

Obviously Fat Asian Baby is just as big a sucker as the next person. After all the positive "press coverage" about the Prius, Toyota's gas electric hybrid - ok by press i mean the plethora of stories like one in last Sunday's New York Times reporting that tons of supposedly old money celebs are driving Priuses - not that I want to be just like Cameron Diaz, but I just thought the idea of the Prius was pretty damn sweet. After hearing me whine about the year waiting list for a Prius for us non-celebs, Gina pointedly asked me to explain why I wanted a Prius so badly, as opposed to the other hybrids on the market. Why the Smart Entry and Start System of course. I then expounded on the wonders of the System: signal sending gizmos would allow me to enter and start my car without the use of an actual key. Says Gina: "So what? You want this stupid car just cause you're too lazy to use a key?"
Feh.

A post by midwestgrrl a week or so ago had me thinking about buttons:

A Circular Tale, In Which Our Heroine Makes Grievous Sartorial Errors, However Innocently
One should not wear one's black coat with one's brown crocodile heels. Therefore, one should wear one's green coat, unless that coat is missing a button, in which case one should revert to the black coat, which is also missing a button. It is a shame that one's leopard coat is not appropriate for daywear (if only because one is not Zsa Zsa Gabor), because it doesn't have any God damned buttons.
# posted by midwestgrrl @ 11:21 AM

I wish somebody would establish button insurance or something like an international button registry. Or maybe clothes manufacturers could just do it as a courtesy to their customers. I own at least half a dozen items of clothing right now that are lacking at least one button. While yes I could have kept and organized those packages of one or two extra buttons that come with some shirts and jackets, but let's face it. I own a lot of items of clothing that have or had buttons. I can't possibly keep track of all the spare buttons. I've even tried calling or writing the company with button requests but usually they didn't know what I was talking about, the item had been discontinued (and therefore the buttons discontinued), or they just thought I was downright weird and ignored my request. Wouldn't it be nice if I could just call up the central button agency with the brand name, approximate year of purchase and description or picture of the item and receive some replacement buttons in the mail the following week?

I must confess that I think Drew Barrymore is a terrible actress and sorta wish movie people would stop casting her in stuff.

What is the deal with the Katie Couric Ben Affleck interview?? Why Why Why Why Why? Are there possibly two people that are more indepndently and very differently annoying and completely overexposed and god how I wish they'd just go away? So then why is it a good idea to put them on camera together for an extended period of time, hype it up in the press, and then inflict it upon the general public during prime time?
The scary thing is that people are probably going to watch it. I guess they really really like Katie Couric and her overtweaked oversparkling overperky eyes. And the networks will just never learn their lesson. As for Ben Affleck, I'm not even going to go there. Something in that press machine has gone horribly awry because a mere five years ago I must admit I found him attractive.

I just want to take a moment at this point to give a hearty congratulations to ketchup for being one of the more perfect American food items. It's a little bit salty. It's a little bit sweet. It's a little bit sour. And hell, it's got lycopene. What more could we possibly ask for in a food? Mmmmm....

This article on moon property ownership is just further evidence that Germans are kinda weird. C'mon guys. Get a life.

Since I have nothing better to do with my time and today was actually a pretty damn nice day, I decided to make good on my threats to enjoy New York now that I am freed of the dreaded cubicle and am facing voluntary deportation to the Dirty South. I decided to turn a pointless errand to Barney's (shut up) into a lovely thirty block stroll down Madison Avenue. Madison Avenue is surprisingly pleasant if you have absolutely no intention of actually entering any of the stores since it would be so wildly outside budget and reason as to be downright absurd in the droll comedy of the absurds kind of way and you are free to walk in peace mentally fucking the clothes in the window displays of every store, with the notable exception of Roberto Cavalli's dastardly creations which have no reason for existing on this earth except maybe to make me laugh, vomit, and cry all at the same time.

Isn't it weird how when you learn something new and then immediately thereafter it starts showing up with such frequency in your life that you wonder how you got through the previous 23 years having never known about it before? Just last week the Fat Asian Baby learned the meaning of the word hirsute which I had previously thought denoted something actually important. But now I know the truth, and I'm not really sure why we need such a pretentious sounding word simply to say that something is hairy. No matter, since last week I swear that I've seen or heard that word over a dozen times and thanked my lucky stars every time that I actually know what it really means. Speaking of which, when flipping through the recently purchased and aforementioned TONY mag, I discovered that the hirsute author Nathan Englander, whose book, For the Relief of Unbearable Urges, I just read yesterday and of whom I had previously never heard, is speaking this very night a few blocks from my abode at 92nd Street Y. I wonder if I will be able to pull myself away from the bottle and the boob tube long enough to go hear what he has to say for himself.

I've noticed that there are an awful lot of posts on craigslist of men looking for a japanese or korean language partner which made me think, gee, how lovely and multicultured of craigslisters- so many earnest guys in new york wanting to learn japanese or korean - i had no idea. Must be to get ahead in the business world or something.

Fat Asian Baby could not fall asleep last night because she kept thinking about Jack White, and no, not like that so shut up. Is he really dating Renee Zellweger? Or were they really dating? Is it just me or does that matching seem odd? I mean, I'm no fan of Ms. Z., but way to go my pasty friend in red. I wonder if he's dated Winona...

I have a special problem with mosquitos. If there is one in the vicinity, it unfailingly will find me and bite the crap out of my body until I have huge welts all over which are incidentally quite unpleasant in addition to being rather unsightly. While I wish I could just cut a deal with the world's population of mosquitos wherein they do not bite me on my face, particularly around my eyes, or the bottoms of my feet, I'm not sure what I could give them in return. Actually, if I were really in the business of cutting deals with mosquitos, I'd most definitely ask that they just leave me the hell alone. I might even be persuaded to leave a little dish of my blood on the floor next to my bed for them as a symbol of my good will. My roommate emailed me the other day about a mosquito repelling watch and alarm clock. I remain skeptical.

Incidentally, thinking about Mrs. Lachey has the Fat Asian Baby thinking about marriage. Yesterday, when I was getting my hair cut, a headline on the cover of one of those abominable junior versions of abominable girly magazines, Junior Elle perhaps?, caught my eye. The headline was something like: Why Are Girls Getting Married So Young? Good fucking question. Seriously. I didn't think I'd have to deal with all-my-friends-are-getting-engaged type stress till at least 29, but here I am, less than two years out of college, and shit - all my friends are getting engaged. It seems like every week I'm hearing about another friend or friendly acquaintance who's getting ready to jump the broom. I think something like six people from my floor freshman year in college are engaged or married. Is it just me or is that a lot? What gives? Isn't that whole single twentysomething like a viable and valuable life stage? I can't help feeling stressed out by all these impending marriages of my peers. By the way, don't even bother buying the magazine, the article provided less than no insight into this strange phenomenon.

Tonight, the Fat Asian Baby was supposed to go to the Whitney Biennial opening reception with a friend. I was really looking forward to mingling with um, art people, and pretending that I actually have any idea what constitutes socially acceptable yet still surprisingly praiseworthy contemporary art. I even purchased last week's Time Out New York simply because it said Whitney Biennial on the damn cover and I'm obviously a sucker for this sort of thing. Unfortunately, my friend, who works for a large investment bank, was unable to get off work in time to attend the ArtOrgy. Instead, I decided to go out with Gina. We made it out about half a block before we decided our time (and money) would be better spent on a gatorade vodka cocktail in front of the tv.
I'm at a complete and utter loss as to explain the mystic power that American Idol holds over me. It is honestly unbearable. Ryan Seacrest is absurdly intolerable. Actually, he reminds me of Billy Bush. But anyhow, for some reason, I can't help but watch.
Newlyweds is more mindless blather that I can't help but love. I really can't decide whether or not Jessica is really mentally retarded or way smarter than everyone else. We all love to hate her or hate to love her, but who's really getting the last laugh?

Well shit. After months, nay, after over a year of compulsively reading other people's blogs in order to survive the 9-5, the Fat Asian Baby and friends decided we could all start our own blogs. Last week, I finally quit my torturous job, freeing me from an unpleasant cunt of a boss. Now that I'm sitting in front of the blank screen, enjoying my retirement, and free to pursue my lifelong dreams of becoming an international debutante/shaker of tailfeather, I am blindsided by the less than shocking, yet terribly disillusioning nonetheless, realization that my life isn't really that exciting and maybe I don't actually have that much to say after all.