Fat Asian Baby

I guess maybe it wasn't the best idea to shut down my computer when the iPod was blinking Do Not Disconnect, but it had been blinking that message for hours. Hours, I tell you. Now iTunes doesn't seem to know that my iPod exists.
Feh.

This is quite possibly the most amazing analysis of the American political divide ever.

1. FAB does not enjoy being seated at a table with people she remembers from college (which mind you, was a mere two years ago), all of whom are now engaged or married and may already have a baby (albeit the baby was very cute and well behaved). 24 year olds should not be subjected to this sort of pressure. It will induce the consumption of a great many vodka drinks.
2. First class upgrades can be obtained from AirTran Airways for a mere $35. A worthy investment indeed. Unless you find yourself one of the duo in Things Learned number 3.
3. Airlines provide seat belt extensions for the morbidly obese, but this does not prevent the creep of excess flesh of said plus size individual into the personal space of claustrophobic neighbor.
4. FAB does rather enjoy herself a good sausage and beer party.

To the guy with the Jesus vanity plates, I may not know much about your new-fangled religion, but I am fairly certain that those hand gestures you made after I may or may not have cut you off were NOT in the true spirit of your Lord, Jesus Christ.

The Fat Asian Baby finally succumbed to peer pressure and latent guilt about antisocial tendencies and decided to attend the Braves game. Most offensive to my sensibilities were those ridiculous Braves fans and their asinine tomahawk chant. Maybe it's just the Fat Asian Baby, but something about the Braves fans and their whole tomahawk thing strikes me as vaguely remniscient of a Hitler rally. 

Here's an interesting follow-up article about art theft and the likelihood of recovery mentions several of the factors the Fat Asian Baby was talking about regarding the problems of stealing a piece of high profile art.

If you are a toilet paper manufacturer, please be advised that the tensile strength of your toilet paper should be sufficient so as to allow the rolling of a roll of toilet paper on a standard toilet paper dispenser spindle. Or conversely, the size of a roll of your toilet paper should not be so large and toilet paper tensile strength so weak as to prohibit the rolling of a roll of toilet paper. The public understands that there are cost benefit considerations and whatnot, but we generally do not enjoy being forced to pull off the toilet paper square by square while manually advancing the roll.
Thank you.

As I was washing my face with my new oatmeal milk cleanser this morning, I began to wonder about the proliferation of body cleansing products on the market these days that sound muy tasty. In the past 18 months I have encountered personal hygiene items flavored in avocado, peach, grapefruit, and an impressive variety of other yummy fruits, not to mention the sugar scrub and honey milk soak I was eyeing last winter. What does this indicate about the Fat Asian Baby, and presumably numerous other willing consumers, that I love to lather up in items normally reserved for consumption. And isn't it a little bit dangerous? Or am I the only idiot who is tempted to taste her shower gel?

Top headline at the ever-prescient New York Times: "A Trail of 'Major Failures'Leads to Defense Secretary's Office." So wait, this is like news or something?

(My apologies for deleting all of the comments. I've been doing a little housekeeping the last couple of days and am trying to make my blog a little more modern even though I'm still working with one of the ancient templates. Blah Blah Blah. I'm sure you all care. But anyway, we're starting fresh with the comments. Comment away. Seriously.)

Ok folks, I think this one takes the cake. Not too long ago somebody landed here after performing a yahoo search for "cheesy asian bushes." Lord knows, the Fat Asian Baby has an active and sick imagination, but what, pray tell, is a cheesy asian bush? Actually, I don't even want to know.

Reading DSloane's post about baseball reminded me that I need to make a final decision about the Atlanta Braves game this weekend. The student government has organized a trip and FAB has been informed by numerous classmates that I better get a ticket soon because "everybody" is going. To be perfectly honest, I cannot think of an experience that I would find more unpleasant than being stuck at Turner Field in a crowd of hatchet-miming, chant-droning Braves fans. The Atlanta Braves are easily the Fat Asian Baby's most hated Major League Baseball team (followed closely by the Cleveland Indians), but am I being unreasonable and antisocial in my principled refusal to attend?
The Fat Asian Baby is starting to feel antisocial guilt due to her decision not to participate in the picnic and games this afternoon at grad school orientation. While I'm sure picnics and games are fun, FAB is not a fan of forced mixers and would generally prefer to sit at home by herself eating cheese (or alternately go to Kiehl's and spend an exorbitant amount of money).

Whoever designed this city seems to have forgotten the sidewalks and crosswalks. Next time the FAB Mum starts to harp about my weight, I'm going to blame the urban planners. I mean seriously, I couldn't walk anywhere even if it weren't a bajillion degrees out and I were headily inclined towards exercise. And everything is drive thru (including my friendly neighborhood Taco Cabana. 24-hours and drive thru. That's what I like to hear...which in turn reminds me of my trip to America's Fattest City, Houston, where I parked and walked into a bank only to be informed that if I was visiting the bank out of some bizarre desire to withdraw money that I would have to kindly climb back into the SUV and, well, drive thru.)

FAB and Chicken Man in Paris. This actually has nothing to do with anything. I'm just trying to test out this new image posting thing. It's a man dressed as a chicken. I don't really have an explanation. I was drunk. I think he was drunk too. I hope. 

In the interest of being a poor-ass student, the Fat Asian Baby is seriously considering not getting a television for the new pad. Have I lost my mind? Please advise. (By the way, I absolutely will not become one of those annoying people at cocktail parties who can only talk about the fact that they don't even own a television and how special and unique and better that makes them. Besides, nobody invites me to cocktail parties anyway.)

Because the Fat Asian Baby is fascinated by many nerdy, nerdy things, apparently including high profile art theft, I was nearly falling out of my seat with excitement when I read about the latest great art caper. I am a big enough geek that I've actually spent time in the Met pondering how one would pull anything off with all those guards and security gates around. For the love of god, they won't even let you talk on your cell phone in the galleries, let alone, say, approach and remove one of the paintings from the wall. While armed robbery is a little less glamorous than Pierce Brosnan's hijinks in the Thomas Crown Affair, it's still exciting to imagine how much money changed hands for a theft of this magnitude to be realized and what kind of super-sized ego with a super-sized wallet is behind it. What kind of person steals something like this and why? You can pretty much never show it to anyone, and you sure as hell can never sell it. Just about all you can do with a high profile stolen masterpiece is hide it in your panic room and masturbate in the corner while you cackle at how tremendously clever you think you are.

Apparently Atlantans are incapable of getting inside a vehicle without having a cell phone attached to the ear. I'm fairly confident that every single person I've almost had an accident with in the last week (and there are many) has been busy yakking away on a portable telephone. Get off the phone, bitch, and learn how to drive. Yesterday, new roommate B. and I actually saw a guy driving an SUV and shaving at the same time. And the Atlanta Multitasks Like It's Its Job Prize goes to: the stupid girl who walked into me last night outside a bar because she was busy negotiating the concrete jungle in high heels and tube top, chattering to a bunch of boys and...check it...curling her fucking eyelashes!

DateJesus.com. Needs no explanation.

After an initial period of shocked adjustment, I have decided that Atlanta and I are going to get along just fine. In addition to living around the corner from an assortment of shops to meet all of your sex deprived needs, further exploration has also turned up a Waffle House (one of the Fat Asian Baby's absolute favorite eating establishments, after Taco Bell, of course), something called Fat Matt's Rib Shack and a combination dry cleaner and BBQ joint all right in my neighborhood. Yesterday I drove by a Chinese food restaurant that purported to also specialize in Hot Wings was guarded by a 20 foot chicken out front. Does it get any better?

Gasp! I'm still alive, but barely. It's amazing how confusing everything is in a strange city with no urban planning when one is denied access to the internet, television, or radio. Apparently the Olympics have begun? If anyone wants to come visit, my street is the one sandwiched between the Syphillus billboard and the gay men's dating hotline billboard entitled "MEN." You can't miss it.

After much talk and no action, the Fat Asian Baby is finally setting off for Atlanta. See you all in a few days.

Looks like the Fat Asian Baby's high-budget low-class doppelganger has again gotten herself into some trouble.

Yesterday at 10:39pm, an anonymous computer user performed the following google search and came up with FAB: "fat baby with mullet." Perhaps this is God's work bringing me closer to my soul mate. I can only hope. If you're out there sir, make yourself known. We may be meant for each other.

In just a few weeks the Fat Asian Baby will be attending her first real peer wedding. Now, there is much I could say on this matter of my age-mates getting married already, but I won't bore you all with that old diatribe. What I really want to know is where the hell am I supposed to find something "black tie" that is also Orthodox Jew appropriate - that is, a shmata that covers the parts of my body that black tie dresses generally pride themselves in not covering.
Please advise.

While sitting in the doctor's office, I flipped through a month-old US magazine to catch up on, well, you know. So apparently I am officially the last person to hear that JLo and Marc Anthony are a) a thing and b) um, married or something. I feel so hurt and confused.

Oh the lengths we go to to cover up our dirty, little secrets. The lies just keep multiplying. Tonight at dinner:
FAB Daddy: Have you heard the term "blog?"
FAB: yeah
FAB's Grandpa: What's a blog?
FAB Daddy: It's short for web log. Believe it or not, amateur writers are writing about stuff and publishing it on the internet. blah blah blah.
FAB: It's pretty common now.
FAB's Ma: to FAB Do you have a blog?
FAB: No.

All these lies, and just to cover up the simple little fact that I smoke. And make recreational use of illegal drugs. And have recreational sex.
Damn.

Lebowski Fest.

SCENE:
Setting: A lowbudget sushi restaurant, around lunchtime
Characters: FAB, FAB's Ma, Various Restaurant Employees (clearly Asian, but patently not Japanese), Waiter (clearly Asian, but patently not Japanese).

Waiter (clearly Asian, but patently not Japanese) refilling water glasses as FAB and FAB's Ma enjoy their sushi. Various Restaurant Employees (clearly Asian, but patently not Japanese) chattering loudly in the background in a language that sounds like Chinese, is clearly Asian, but patently not Japanese. Waiter finishes pouring water and begins to walk away from the table.
FAB's Ma: konichiwa!
Waiter does not hear or does not acknowledge.
FAB: He's not Japanese.
FAB's Ma: He's not?
FAB: um, no. None of the people who work here are. Can't you hear them talking?
FAB's Ma: Then what are they?
FAB: Dunno. Chinese maybe? Or some sort of South Asian.
Waiter returns to do something or other.
FAB's ma: Excuse me sir, where are you from?
Waiter: Murrasia.
FAB's Ma: What?
Waiter: Murrasia.
FAB's Ma: Ahhhh. Smiles vacantly.
Waiter walks away.
FAB's Ma: Whispering. Do you know where that is?
FAB: What? Where what is?
FAB's Ma: Murrasia.
FAB: Uhh...I think he meant Malaysia.

Today is just like all eight nights of Hannukah rolled into one for the Fat Asian Baby. I just got off the phone with Dell and can expect the arrival of a new computer sometime next week. And, I just sold my old car on CraigsList(thanks, Craig!). This afternoon I get to pick up my much anticipated, exciting, brand spanking new Toyota Prius. Next on my to do list: a new iPod. This must be what it feels like to be Steven Spielberg's kid on the first night of Hannukah. Well, except for the fact that I'm buying the computer and iPod myself.

It's amazing how quickly the pace of pop culture moves. The Fat Asian Baby has been out of the country for a mere three months and is already hopelessly lost. Not only have I missed almost an entire season of Six Feet Under and The Simple Life, but major changes have been happening in the "real" world. For starters, apparently Britney Spears is now engaged to that loser backup dancer whatshisname? She wants to spend the rest of her life with this specimen of a man? Ok. I accept this. However, what is most baffling and impossible to understand is the rise to power of Ashlee Simpson. Last time I tuned into MTV, Ashlee Simpson was the neglected kid sister of supergenius Jessica who occasionally made it in front of the camera on Jessica's show. Apparently, in my absence, Ashlee has become a B-List celebrity herself by releasing an album and talking MTV into giving her her own show. Note to self: in under three months, you too can go from being known to and loved by only your parents and a select deluded few to loved by throngs and throngs of what would appear to be, and if Ashlee and MTV are to be believed, actual fans. Amazing. This bodes very well for my budding career as a backup bootie dancer on BET. All I have to do is get me down to Atlanta and all the chips will fall into place.

While driving home from the doctor's office, I was almost hit by an aggressive driver trying to make a left turn. And what studly, testosterone pumping vehicle was this unnecessarily aggressive driver driving? A Short Bus, aka. The 'Tard Cart. Yes kids, the Fat Asian Baby's life was just nearly ended by what appeared to be a Short Bus-load of developmentally disabled daycampers.

Today, as the Fat Asian Baby attempted to cross Canal Street, a police officer yelled "Stop! The sign says 'Don't Walk'." Um, what the hell is going on here? Did somebody accidentally drop me off in the wrong city? And by the way, it doesn't say "Don't Walk," asshole, it's a red hand.