Fat Asian Baby

The Fat Asian Baby is being kidnapped and forcibly brought to Alsace for about a week by a pair of overbearing but well-meaning midgets more commonly known as The Parents. You can be most certain that I will not be happy during my absence, with the notable exception of a promised visit to Moet-Chandon to learn about Champagne making. Please don't cry.

How to Sell a Leacherous Frenchman on eBay courtesy of Maccers courtesy of Banterist.

So the latest antics of the students at the Fat Asian Baby's alma mater are less than funny and mostly disturbing, as opposed to the last newsworthy incident where much of the student body showed up completely shitfaced at the homecoming dance (which actually seems perfectly logical to the Fat Asian Baby since you'd have to be seriously impaired by either excessive alcohol consumption or mental retardation before wanting to show up at the homecoming dance).

So the French are currently experiencing a Nouveau Eighties style moment in which big colorful plastic earrings and pastel eyeshadow (I think I may have mentioned this before) are very fashionable. Well, unfortunately, the Fat Asian Baby decided to get her hair "trimmed the other day." The salon is actually the Paris branch of a British company so I thought I'd be safe, but noooooo. Suffice it to say the Fat Asian Baby is currently sporting what can only be described as a mullet. Yes a mullet.

The Fat Asian Baby was delighted to see an article in the Times with breaking news about cheese. I only wish that someone would use the words "rock star of...cheese makers" to describe me. And maybe it's just that the Fat Asian Baby has a soft spot for a man who knows how to properly wield a wheel of cheese, but Mateo looks like the kind of guy she'd like to meet.

Ahhh how the Fat Asian Baby takes such pleasure in these pictures that ViaGina so kindly brought to my attention. I wonder how long it will be before she checks herself into Whispers, Unicorns, Pinecones or whatever that serenity resort/detox center is called that celebrity addicts are forever frequenting. Rock on with your bad white trash self, Brit.
And call me insensitive, but the photog they ran over doesn't really look all that hurt to me. But no matter, what's a little broken ankle, sir? Look what you've given to the world: the pictures are priceless.

Yesterday was the Fete de Musique and so the Fat Asian Baby decided to head over to the Williamsburg of Paris to see the French National Air Guitar Championship. Words cannot adequately describe the experience. Suffice it to say that much enjoyment is to be found in watching French people rock out to good ole American Rock 'n' Roll, particularly when it is clear that they do not speak a speck of English. Also, it is interesting to note that the French seem to have a penchant for getting naked onstage. Some boobies were seen and one guy (strangely enough, a hipster cutie) dropped trou, and well, these things are infinitely amusing once you have three to eight drinks in you.

The Fat Asian Baby was pleased to see that yesterday's Times article about Manhattan Eye, Ear & Throat Hospital (FAB's former employer)and some recent deaths in plastic surgery (which occured during FAB's employment and only made the job slightly more interesting) made mention of favorite socialite Muffie Potter Aston, who was obviously crucial to the story.

So like MandyandAndy are totally over?!
But I so enjoyed saying MandyandAndy. I guess I'll have to find another passtime.
Burp.

Please Note:
1. The Fat Asian Baby is NOT Japanese and therefore does not appreciate being greeted with Konichiwa. A simple bonjour, bon soir, or bon dimanche, where appropriate, will suffice.
2. If the Fat Asian Baby, and I'd dare say any other female, has declined your kind invitation to join you for a beer and hurried off in another direction, it is safe to assume that even though you might consider it a great coincidence to run into her again in another part of town a week or so later, it is unneccessary for you to run after to her. Although some time has passed, she most likely would still prefer not to join you for a beer, and that being established, she also would not like to go to your home and "make sexy" with you, as you so delicately put it.
Thank you.

On any given commercial flight, there will invariably be at least one, if not more, individuals whom you would fuck, under the proper circumstances of course. However, no matter how frequent a flier you may be, you will never be seated next to said individual.
*Probably does not apply to the vast majority of heterosexual males as they have unusually broad standards for who they would fuck, thereby altering the probability of being seated next to a potential mate vastly in their favor.

Incidentally, this reminds me of D's subway game of who would you fuck in this subway car if you had to fuck someone...a question that can be more horrifying and difficult than it might seem if you've never ridden the NYC subway very late at night when the pickins are particularly slim.

Today I found out that one of the people I'm in Spain with is buds with the head of one of the Fat Asian Baby's most favoritist entities in the whole wide world: Taco Bell. I came to Europe with the quasi-intention of sorting out my life and hoping something more compelling (perhaps in the form of a sexy French Jewish guy falling madly in love with me and sweeping me away to his villa on the Riviera) would arise and keep from following through with half assed grad school plans. But now, I can't help but wonder if perhaps this discovery is the big break I've been waiting for; just imagine, the Fat Asian Baby living the dream as a product developer (assuming this is a euphemism for gordita taster, of course) at Taco Bell.

Ahh 50 Cent, ever the troublemaker. I dare say that any show featuring a lovers' spat between R. Kelly and 50 has got to be well worth the money. The Fat Asian Baby is only disappointed that it didn't erupt into full-out hair pulling and name calling. Sigh. Maybe next time.

Ok so the Fat Asian Baby is not at the top of her game (big surprise there), and some other blogger has already shared my simple-minded amusement of visiting the Paris Hilton and living to tell about it. Feh. Though do kindly note, I expressed this desire waaaaay back on June 2 - a whole 6 days earlier. Hmph.

On Friday, the Fat Asian Baby witnessed the following atrocity on a flight from Paris to Barcelona: a male British citizen two rows ahead took off his glasses and actually stuck the arm into his ear. I mean to say, he really started digging around in there and, much to my horror, began to examine said glasses arm with great interest before repeating the entire process two or three times. Now, the Fat Asian Baby also finds it quite repulsive when people embark on inner ear explorations with their pinkie fingers, particularly when I´m eating, but I have to say that the process is tenfold more horrifying with the thin plastic probe-like glasses arm. Have we no decency anymore? The Fat Asian Baby understands that sometimes there´s an insatiable ear itch or a bugger that just has to come out, but can´t we all just agree to find a private nook or bathroom before attending to certain acts of personal hygeine maintenance? And on that note, if you are the lady who decided to clip your fingernails on the Paris metro last week, I do appreciate that you weren´t trimming your toenails as well, but I really think it would be preferable if you wait until you get home next time before commencing any such project. Thanks.

Do not be fooled. That is not a Mexican Restaurant just because there is a man standing out front in a sombrero, the interior is festooned with Jose Cuervo decor, and you and your friend, tiring of baguettes, are hankering for some pico de gallo. If you try and go inside to order enchiladas, they will bring you steak hache in a tortilla roll up topped with a dollop of "mousse des avocats" and there will not be an iota of cheese detectable anywhere on your plate. And the whole affair will cost you a clean 12 euros. What were you thinking? This is Paris, silly.

Thank Goodness! Just when they were getting hopelessly boring and banal, the good ole folks at Page Six have trumped up a nice old fashioned catfight, and with all of my favorite characters too. Nothing brightens the Fat Asian Baby's day like a little hair pulling and name calling by bimbos, celebutantes, and spoiled daughters of aging rockers. I feel much better now. And is it just me, or does Casey Johnson look like she's like pushing 50 or something in that picture?

The Fat Asian Baby was sure relieved to read in today's Times that President Bush actually is a law abiding citizen of the world who didn't break any international or federal laws prohibiting torture because he is EXEMPT. Thank God for being above all law as Commander In Chief of the United States Army. (As a side note, I wonder if this is an implicit admission that Bush sanctions torture.) I can only hope this happy discovery allows dear Georgie to whip out the blow he's hiding in his desk drawer and safely snort in public if he deems it necessary.

Ok. It's hot. Really, really hot. I think the French collectively have very strange internal thermostats. I'm not exactly sure how warm it is today, but the Fat Asian Baby is sporting a small tank top and skirt for maximum breathability and comfort and still sweating her ass off. However, on my way to the internet cafe, I observed many Parisians sporting, not only jeans but jackets and some of the stifling leather variety. What need, pray you, has any reasonable person for a jacket on a day that is reasonably sweltering in the sun. In New York, I can understand the need to port a jacket around with oneself due to the refridgeratorlike qualities of the subway, large stores, offices, etc. But aside from wearing jackets in the summer, Parisians do not seem to have caught onto the whole air conditioning craze. Have we learned nothing from last year's deadly heat wave?
The upshot of this heat is that it has encouraged the Fat Asian Baby to visit more museums because they, unlike almost everywhere else, seem to be at least feebly air conditioned.

The other day the Fat Asian Baby decided to check out the exhibit on Art and Fashion at the Yves Saint Laurent Foundation (yes indeedy, folks, he has a foundation). Anyway, as I was entering the exhibition (which turned out to be only two rooms worth of dresses and sketches and videos...and I dare say, if you're going to charge admission, you'd better have more than two rooms or else feed me chocolate covered strawberries and champagne for my effort), a man of a certain age standing with the security guard weirdly and randomly informed me that he was the chef (director). Since I don't have the language skills to inquire further or engage in any sort of non-retarded conversation, I sorta just smiled crookedly at him and walked past. I spent the next ten minutes looking at Mondrian inspired frocks and whatnot and wondering who the fuck the Chef was and why he was telling me he was the Chef and hoping that I hadn't actually just smirked at and ignored Yves Saint Laurent himself (who, a security guard helpfully informed me, was in fact lurking around somewhere since he has nothing to better to do since he presented his last line in 2002)...which in turn reminded me of the incident at the Marc Jacobs Christmas party where I drunkenly harassed Marc Jacobs simply because he was dressed in a polar bear suit and, in my altered state, I found this hilarious and had to have a picture of me with a polar bear. Marc as polar bear asked me if I wanted the picture with the head on or off and the Fat Asian Baby simply and bruskly insisted head on...I mean, who wants a picture of some little white dude in a polar bear suit with no polar bear head? Really. Fortunately, as you can see, my roommate wisely insisted on a picture with the head off as well.

Ok. So as far as I can tell, the images did not post. Well, I tried...

Last night I went to see Girl with a Pearl Earring at the little theater near my apartment. I must say, the Fat Asian Baby finds Scarlett Johansson simply captivating, for reasons that aren't entirely clear and are perhaps slightly misguided. At any rate, I was disappointed to read in this morning's Page Six that rumors about a smooch between Tara Subkoff and Miss J. are in fact (surprise, surprise) untrue, or at the very least, are being denied. Well shit. How boring can we all be?

The Fat Asian Baby chuckled evily to herself yesterday when she read on Page Six that Courtney Love is trying to buy property on swanky, super uptight, snobarific but really beautiful Martha's Vineyard. I can't wait till the antics begin.

Well, I suppose it was inevitable, as I am American and all...
As you may well know by now, the Fat Asian Baby loves food and spends many hours of the day thinking about her next feeding time. After years of this sort of disposition, I have become a bit of a food snob. In this regard, Paris is one of the best places to be, particularly as my personal favorite food group, cheese, is both abundant and muy tasty. Although I was more than a little pleased to find an entire aisle devoted to cheese at my local supermarket, I have primarily been stocking up at the cheese stand at my local organic fresh air market. It was there that I first encountered a particular chevre frais that can only be described as a creamy orgasm. Which brings me to my current admission. Yesterday at the supermarket, amidst all those fresh cheesy options, I decided to purchase a round of La Vache Qui Rit Cheese (that's Laughing Cow Cheese for all you non French speaking ingrates) for reasons of nostalgia (I think I used to eat little cubes of it in nursery school or something) and simply because the name brings me great pleasure. Now, it is with great embarrassment that the Fat Asian Baby must admit that, with the notable exception of the aforementioned orgasmic goat cheese, La Vache Qui Rit is the fucking best cheese I've had in the month I've been here (and I assure you, I have tasted much cheese). How horrifying.

So the Fat Asian Baby just heard that Julio Iglesias' father (that would be the grandfather of Teen Beat hearthrob Enrique) who must be over 80 years old just had a son the other day. Way to go, buddy.

So apparently A. sent a picture of himself dressed as the Jesus for Halloween to me to accompany my reference to it the other day, but seeing as how I haven't yet mastered the art of advanced computering, you can see it at ViaGina.

Everybody get out your fitted straight leg (not tapered) black jeans that are ironically a few inches too short (but aren't capris), your ugly belt, your chuck taylors, and your superworn-in-seeming thin cotton t-shirt with the ostensibly provincial small town logo on the front (like billy's bakery, bumblefuck, iowa) that you bought in 1997 (when that sort of ironically identifying as proletarian thing became, like, hip or something, like those bowlings shirts or auto mechanic uniforms with a name like ray or ernie embroidered on the front that were supposedly from the late seventies or early eighties even though there most likely weren't that many bowling team members or garage attendants named ray or ernie and there is probably still a factory somewhere in indonesia manufacturing thousands of similar "vintage" shirts) at andee's cheapies (or andy's cheapies or, god forbid, andee's cheapeez) for 50 bucks and get thee down to La Boule. Angsty hipsters the Datsuns are coming to town. Paris, that is.

Paris Hilton: Riche, Sexy et Trash!