Fat Asian Baby

Late Monday night, the Fat Asian Baby made a rash online purchase - a fantastic handbag from a vendor in Hong Kong. Tuesday morning, I received an email informing me that the package would be sent later that day via a shipping company called something to the effect of Speedy Hong Kong Express Shipping. Thursday morning, 9am, the US postal service attempted to deliver said package. With all the complaints about the inefficiency of air travel and package delivery in mind, I am sitting here, mouth ajar, in utter disbelief that my inconsequential little purse made it all the way from a warehouse somewhere in Hong Kong to somewhere in New York suburbia in under 48 hours. I guess those Hongers really weren't fucking around when they said they were speedy.

A man arrested for sleeping on I-75 (sleeping on I-75?!?), a domestic dispute erupts over sex as a gentleman gets upset when his ladyfriend retreats to the bedroom alone to "take care of it herself" (mhmm), another girlfriend stabbed in the ass during routine kinky sexcapade with bowie knife, and more inside this week's police blotter at Creative Loafing.

The Fat Asian Baby has recently rediscovered the reading pleasure that is New York City's Craigslist*. This fantastic bulletin board is no small part of the reason I was able to survive the hours of boredom at my post-college employer. While I may be bored out of my gourd out in Westchester, I can take small comfort (and large amusement) in the fact that I am a fetishized commodity. Asian women continue to be the favorite subject of objectification and sexual fantasies among New York's eligible (and not so eligible) bachelors. And thanks to this guy, I could even indulge that ever-nagging whim to drop Atlanta and move back to New York City.
*Craigslist has proven to be a tremendously fecund source of insight into the male mind and its conception of females and our desires. Apparently guys think that women's tender hearts will be won over by topless pictures of them flexing their muscles. Either that or penis portraits. I have to imagine that when looking for a mate, even for a casual encounter, most women probably want to see more than just the goods (very nsfw)before making a selection. I mean, we're not buying handbags here.

Oh and my personal favorite craigslist post from the city of Atlanta (sfw).

At last, chocolate meets beer. "A marriage of Samuel Adams beer and Scharffen Berger Chocolate of Berkeley, Calif., this brew has won awards at several international beer festivals." FAB wants a pint.

Hello sugardaddy, can we please eat at Masa tonight?

We have lost our beloved Lennie. FAB tips her hat in honor of favorite actor ever from favorite tv show ever. Jerry Orbach has passed. More extensive Lennie coverage at Gothamist.

Now that FAB is on vacation in the 'burbs and under the charge of the FAB parents, we have hatched plans to see many movies on the parents' bill under the aegis of parent/child bonding. However, Defamer reminds us that there is one movie we most certainly will not be seeing. In fact, the reviews in the New York Times and in the New Yorker have been so outstandingly amusing that the FAB Daddy, who generally has no idea what is going on out there in "pop culture," has been walking around the house for days muttering his favorite quotables from both reviews and then dissolving into peals of giggles.

Susan Sontag succumbs to leukemia at 71.

In addition to devastating lives at both extremes of the socioeconomic spectrum and with no regard, this weekend's tsunami has left a public health nightmare in its wake that will primarily affect those at the bottom who will not be flying home. Do something. FAB recommends (not that you should listen to me) the International Rescue Committee (and I don't just say that cause I used to work there), Atlanta-based CARE, and Doctors Without Borders.

We can all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Despite a rather grueling training schedule for an upcoming role, Jean Claude Van Damme maintains that he is still "a superhero in bed."

Liza rushed to hospital after falling out of bed. That must have been some fall. If the prospect of seeing the MinnelliMonster in her delicates wasn't so horrifying, FAB would've paid an arm and a leg to have been on scene. Does Liza sleep in a bed lofted all the way up to the ceiling like Viagina or is she just trying to make some point about how she's still a fragile alcoholic* who could not possibly have physically abused her former assistant or her ex-husband and part-time muppet, David Gest?

*FAB wonders if the fall was really so severe as to render her unconscious or whether she was just passed out drunk to start with thus precipitating the accident in question.

Scared of Santa Photo Gallery(via Cityrag via Thighs)

Perhaps one day in the not too distant future, you shall be anal probed by a gently undulating mechanical worm. "Ultimately our idea is to turn the current ordeal of the colonic endoscopy procedure into something akin to a pleasurable experience!" says Professor Julian Vincent, University of Bath. We should only be so lucky.

As part of its ongoing reportage on hipster happenings, the hippest broadsheet of them all reports that the ironic literati have dared to venture back to Manhattan and (holy shit!) above 14th Street (but barely). Apparently all the cool kids are flocking to the exploding scene at the high falutin' National Arts Club's Accomplished Library where they can sip their PBR and think their big, intellectual thoughts in style.

To all my dear shiksas and shaygetzes, a very Merry Christmas. If you need me, I shall be over by the bar.

Posted on a Verizon truck in midtown.

Ever since leaving New York, the Fat Asian Baby has not been able to keep tabs on New York's favorite cat and FAB feline alter ego (perhaps our similar facial expressions betray a similar outlook on life?), Thompson, which is why I was particularly glad to see Thompson's Top 10 on Gothamist. Not sure if I will ever stop cracking up after seeing Number Six.

What's Korean for 'Real Man?' Ask a Japanese Woman. It seems Korea is the new sexy in Japan.

Man can't get it up, gets angry, and decides to address problem by drinking more; catfight gets saucy outside restaurant on Cheshire Bridge Road (Fat Matt's Ribs perhaps?); giving hummer in car not illegal, but getting one is; and beer theft (this exact same thing happened to us once except we had already consumed half the beer when it was stolen); and much much more via the Police Blotter at Creative Loafing.

From the files of maniacally weight-obsessed mothers comes this prizewinning email sent to a daughter who is probably hotter than you (which is in and of itself entirely beside the point). Only the names and email addresses have been redacted; everything else is exactly as sent.

>---------------------------- Original Message ----------------------------
>Subject: Unwanted advice
>From: [Mother]
>Date: Fri, December 17, 2004 10:22 am
>To: [Daughter]
>--------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
>[Daughter]: Dad told me that you had lost more weight. "A full size" I think
>he said. If so, before you buy clothes, consider using your break to
>complete an exercise plan that also gets that new size into shape. Sculpt
>that body!
>
>If you did 40-50 minutes of aerobic exercise (biking, running, etc) every
>day of the month you now have off, then you'd be feeling good and looking
>great at the end.
>
>And, finally, you'll be in shape just by the time that all the clothes
>really get deeply discounted in January!
>
>Love, Mother
>

Those busy little beavers at the New York Post have uncovered the mindblowing truth that Arafat was a secret investor in "the city's hottest upscale bowling alley." Three years ago he put $1.3 million into Bowlmor Lanes but never saw any money from the investment. Uhhh...ok.

I apologize for abandoning you all today, but I was busy wandering aimlessly through the streets of Manhattan. I went into the city last night to meet up with old college mates for some hearty Korean BBQ in K-town. Somehow, as things always seem to unfold in the most unexpected ways, the evening ended with me standing outside of Marquee at 3am as Derek Jeter walked by presumably having just left the same club. His Jeterness was wearing a suit, looking, uh, very Derek Jetery, and then got into the black SUV I was standing next to and drove away into the early morning. I tried to think of something clever (preferably about his relationship with Mariah Carey or something) to say while he was standing outside the SUV for a few moments, but as we all well know, I am not very clever. And a Mets fan to boot. And he was accompanied by several other serious lookings guys in suits so I decided not to press my luck/embarrass myself further than I already had by virtue of my attire. By the way, if anybody was at Marquee last night* and was wondering who that asshole was who had the audacity to wear schlumpy jeans, a tshirt, sneakers and carry an inappropriately enormous tote bag filled with junk into the club where La Lohan hangs out and proceeded to burp kimchee on everyone, that was me. Sorry.
*And believe you me, there were tons of you. Don't you people have jobs???

Harry Potter Six to be released July 16th, just in time for the Fat Asian Baby to be out of the country and have to wait until the fall to get it.

Florida tomato fascists preventing potentially tasty UglyRipe tomatoes from being shipped to market because they're just not pretty enough. FAB wants tomatoes!

The intersection of three of the Fat Asian Baby's favorite passtimes, the Mets, Little People, and catfights, all together in one Page Six scoop. It just doesn't get much better.
And Brad Pitt finally back on the market? Silly silly Jennifer. Why didn't you just have his babies already?

Happy Holidays from the Hiltons (via Defamer) And good lord, can't she even pose like a normal person for the family Christmas card?

Don't know where to add this but it has to be added: I just remembered the drunken conversation with the gay married scene-reviewing guy at Freeman's about how Freeman's is so totally over and deader than dead and Jesus, it was written up in the Times for God's sake and the Bridge and Tunnel have already come and gone and so maybe it's so dead that it's ok again. Funny how we were having this absurdly unselfconsciously ironic New York conversation AT the deader than dead venue in question. And I love that I'm worse than Bridge and Tunnel now. After the Dirty Jerseyites come the Atlantans.

Because I've been so busy getting all frolicky around New York City, I almost forgot to mention that weird, swirly, glass-blowing guy Dale Chihuly has an outdoor exhibition at the Atlanta Botanical Garden through New Year's Eve. We saw his stuff in DC a few years ago and must admit it makes us want to give up our primary career as a professional student, secondary career as a celebrity chef, and pursue a tertiary career as a blower of cool things in colored glass. FAB imagines that it would be particularly cool to see Chihuly's exotic flower-like creations in an actual garden.

Why oh why oh why are we not a young, musically-inclined piece of hot Mormon ass? Or at the very least, why do we not get MTV2 so we can ogle at will?

Another one of them warm-your-quirky-heart human interest stories from the New York Times. FAB can't help but roll her eyes, grin, giggle, and simultaneously wonder if happy Bark Mitzvah Boy Admiral Bloom is also circumsized or if they just cut off his nuts. Also, are these people drunk or something?

Ohhhh ok. Things are all starting to make a little more sense now. I never really understood who that guy was or why he wanted to hang out in the Lennster's apartment cause it just seemed so random but I was drunk and they kept buying me drinks so I just dont' really question these things but wow! Man does that suck.
Ha.

This weekend was a three-day long farewell to FAB bestest buddy Viagina who has decided to indefinitely abandon NYC life (and shitty post-college assistant bitch coffee getter Fed Ex sender jobs) for the wonderfulness of central Wisconsin life with the parents. It also marked a too brief and bittersweet reunion of Team Rockstar, the team that rocked its way through college and city like nobody's business. All in all, we went out with a bang. A brief wrap-up: Freeman's Alley, absurd intoxication with hair stylist (which is in and of itself absurd), Viagina gets it on with hair stylist in Lenny Kravitz's ridiculous SOHO loft bathroom, FAB stumbles her way back uptown intercepting two slices of pizza on the way, hangover, Euzkadi, Julia Stiles in the bathroom, more SOHO, Australians, bankers, Vento, chefs, chocolate, NoLIta and much much more unmentionable...


50 Things to Eat Before You Die. So far, FAB has covered everything except 11, 22, 32, 37, 40, and 48. Not too shabby, eh?

The first reports from the Office Holiday Party season are coming in and props to former roommate and perpetually slacking paralegal D. who got busy last night with a bitchy and intimidating attorney at the BigStuff, Uptight, and StickUpOurAss LLC firm holiday party last night. D. reports that she's pretty intimidating at work and totally on top of her shit, so "it was pretty cool to see her sucking my dick." Well done, D.

Last night the Fat Asian Baby arrived safely back in the New York Metropolitan area for some quality time doing nothing. After being whisked directly from the airport to Lincoln Center, we walked by the filming of the Live Apprentice Finale, but the FAB mothership HATES the Apprentice and anything remotely related to the Donald so we weren't allowed to stop and stare.
Musical Chairs:
Fat Asian Baby's favorite perpetual losers are still pumping in more money and refusing to go down without a fight. NY Mets acquire Martinez. If they still suck by next spring, well, I probably won't actually be that shocked. But as Lloyd Dobler says, it's better to depressed because then everything else is a pleasant surprise.
Meanwhile, the Yankees trying to recover from Bullpen losses and claw their way back to the top (as if they'd ever really left) by acquiring tallest, ugliest, seemingly trailer inhabiting, bestest Diamondback Randy Johnson. So they'll still win a shit ton of games. Snore.

And in Atlanta news, the Braves acquire shinier, newer pitcher Tim Hudson. Bah!

On sale now, tickets for New York's favorite Canadians*, the Arcade Fire, playing late January at the Variety Playhouse in Little Five.
*according to ToTC, the second by demand Arcade Fire show at Irving Plaza sold out in half an hour today. Good thing we live in Atlanta where we will probably be able to buy tickets day of.

And we'd been wondering why we hadn't heard any news lately of the ever-thrilling Lohan-Duff catfight. Silly FAB assumed it was due to the fact that Duff was off pouting in a corner somewhere while Lindsay's star (inexplicably) continues to rise. But rest assured, the two cats were back at it last week at Z100's infamously cheesy Jingle Ball. It has all the makings of quality teen melodrama - moms, little 8-year old brothers, "musician" boyfriends, backstage dressing rooms, and the like - all we need is some good olde fashioned hair pulling. Please girls, break down already.

Thursday night hear yellowblackjacket 10pm at the 169 Bar on the Lower East Side.

I'm not sure why I never knew about Engrish.com before, but now I do. And so do you.

At long last and just in time for the last day of the Jewish Frying Holiday, an ode to fried food in today's Food Section.

"It does everything you want cooking to do. It makes food crisp, tender, gorgeous and golden. The combination of moistness and crunchiness when you bathe fish in hot oil is incomparable, and vegetables are never more appealing than when they're fried with a light batter.

Grilling is fun, and appeals to our primitive side; it's the essence of summer. Frying, on the other hand, is civilized, delicate and more like a winter sport."

Now that's what I'm talking about.

Hot off the presses of Page Six: high-profile restauranter gets into catfight with low-budget model but claims

"I never met this girl and I didn't want to meet her," he continued. "I have a girlfriend. This girl is not even on the level of girls that I associate with. Honestly, she looked too fat to be a model . . ."

Meow!

Apparently Anna Kournikova has secretly wed Enrique Iglesias. Kinda like she secretly wed Sergei Federov. America's obsession with Anna has long confused the Fat Asian Baby. Apparently she is one of the top commercial endorsement money maker athletes of all time (I'm sure there's a better term for that, but I can't be bothered to think of what it is at the moment). But does anyone else notice that in the special niche of pro-tennis stars cum models that Anna inhabits, she's really not all that. And yes she is far hotter and a far better athlete than FAB, and so we're probably just bitter. But for someone who is such a high profile and money-making tennis star, Ann wasn't really all that good and never really made it to the top as a singles player. As a model or resident hottie, if you will, she's actually not that hot. Which is all just to say that if Anna Kournikova were not a pro-tennis star, I really find it hard to believe that she'd be famous just for being pretty. And if she weren't unusually pretty, she would never have been such a "successful" and famous tennis star. But enough of that, check out these NSFW pictures of her frolicking nude on the beach with her be-moled boyfriend cum hubby via The Superficial) They're apparently photoshopped by a photoshop genius, but we get the idea anyway.

So I just had this awesome conversation with the FAB mothership on the phone. All of our conversations are awesome, but this one was particularly enjoyable. It starts out with her asking me about what I’ve been doing (going to parties) now that I’ve finished exams and how did I do on these exams (gee, I dunno yet) and why don’t I know (because I haven’t gotten my grades back) but don’t they have a system on the computer to tell you your grades like at Columbia (yes they do, but I think I have to wait until they actually grade my exam or something). And have there been boys at these parties (no) and so do I have fun anyway even though it's just girls all the time (I guess). Then she moves on to tell me all about these exciting new stamps she just bought that have pictures of God knows what on them by Native American artists and how they peel right off the sheet like stickers and they're much easier and isn’t it amazing how everything just keeps getting easier (I suppose/hadn’t really thought about it much). Moving right along, she begins telling me how the stamps are for the annual hokey holiday card and how I'm probably not going to the like the picture because I don’t look as good as [my sister-in-law] in it (read: yes I am the fattest member of my family, thank you for bringing it up yet again. And my sister-in-law gave birth not too many months ago so apparently my mother finds this distinction particularly noteworthy). Then I ask her, in mock disbelief, what’s that you’re saying? Oh nothing, just that you don’t look as good as, uh, others. Then she asks me if I've been getting enough exercise (of course not), as though I can't follow her train of thought. So then I ask why we still have to send out a family picture with the holiday card every year since pretty much nobody gives a shit about how much lovelier I’ve grown and they probably just want to see the new baby and stuff and every year you tell me I look chunky so maybe we should just stop including me in the picture altogether. I think we’d all be much happier this way. She said maybe next year.
Awesome.

Posting may be light to nonexistent today due to computer and internet stubborness. I think my computer may still be traumatized from yesterday when I clicked on pictures of Brown Bunny photo stills of Chloe Sevigny going down on Vincent Gallo via Gawker or via Fleshbot. Chloe Sevigny and Vincent Gallo may be two of the foulest individuals ever (and each in his or her own unique way), but it's a little like a gory traffic accident that you just can't not look at anyway.

Apparently when School of Public Health kids finish their exams and get drunk, they like to play "I never." Tonight's winner: I've never been propositioned by a pirate who had a wife and kids.
And somebody drank.

Catherine's Pita reminds the Fat Asian Baby of one of the oh so many reasons why we heart NY. Check out the pictures from Santacon.

Ok. You probably all already saw it on A Socialite's Life on Friday, but I really wanted to show you all this picture of Brigitte Nielsen copping a feel on Anna Nicole while Flava Flav looks on. But for some reason, my hard drive just won't have it. It's just that disturbing.
Favorite quotes from the weekend:
1. "Your breasts are rhythmic."
2. "Semiotics are so 1981 anyway...They're totally out of style."
And meanwhile, I seem to bring new meaning to the idea of laziness. I actually ordered an extra entree to be delivered today and waited an hour for it to come because I was too lazy to, uh, cook or something and couldn't even get in my car and drive the 1 mile to the restaurant. Outstanding.
Also, I've been trying to figure out how many permutations of bready carbohydrate, cheese, and tomato-oriented product you can have and how many consecutive meals you can have it. So far I've got quesadillas with salsa, bacon egg and cheese sandwiches with ketchup, grilled cheese with ketchup, homemade pizza sandwiches, meatball parmesan subs, pasta with cheese and tomato sauce, and, well, more quesadillas. If I live out the week, I promise that when I return in January I will start buying actual produce and doing it exclusively at Whole Foods. Besides, word on the street is that the Whole Foods on Ponce is teeming with hot, ostensibly single, bran-consuming men. Even if they don't turn out to be hot, at least we know they're regular.

Maybe she's pregnant maybe she's not. Britney and Kevin the other night at the Billboard Music Awards (via the Superficial). Aside from being mortally frightened of any potential Federline Spears offspring, I think the real issues here are a)why exactly did she bring her dog to the BMAs, b)why is she clutching it like it's a purse c)is it actually one of those cute dog-shaped purses like the one Gina has, cause then maybe that'd be ok though it still doesn't really go with the ensemble, and d)what is on its neck and can I have it? It looks expensive And, oh yeah, nice sneaks, Kevin.

How to Survive Your Holiday Party: A Manhattan Transfer Classic. Now that I am a poor student living in Atlanta, I almost let the office holiday party season pass me by without comment. And the office holiday party topic is ripe for comment, let me assure you. (Since I am presently unemployed and this is my first holiday season in Atlanta, I am uncertain if there is a comparable Holiday Office Party phenomenon at play here). As a matter of fact, one of the primary reasons for my job dissatisfaction (aside my absolute cunt* of a boss, of course) was the office holiday party, or lack thereof.
While the Fat Asian Baby was employed in the spoiled central of the business universe, holiday parties were something to be looked forward to. Its amazing how the social lubricant that is liquor will smooth over professional inequities, if just for a night. It is the one opportunity during the year for you to bump and grind with the normally staid higher up in the corner office (provided he has a demonstrable drinking problem, which he likely does). And more importantly, it is an opportunity for you to get it on with really hot, Argentian investment bankers even though it's clearly inappropriate since you're the 19 year old intern and they're, like, directly superior. But no matter. This was all in college.
In my real job, there was no office party. Well, there was. But while every other place of business in New York, no matter its size, at the very least rents out a bar or restaurant for the night and employees worry about getting too shitfaced and making out with their coworkers, FAB's office has its own holiday hoedown in, are you ready for this, the Conference Room complete with, are you ready for this, cookies and lemonade. Cookies and fucking lemonade!!!! And we had to make the godforsaken cookies ourselves. And not only that, but they had a longstanding holiday party tradition of the White Elephant Grab Bag. What is the White Elephant Grab Bag, you ask? It is when people find something in their apartment that they really fucking hate and can't figure out why they have but simply haven't tossed in the trash yet, wrap it up, and pawn it off anonymously on an unwitting coworker. I know there is that old adage about how one man's trash is another's treasure or some shit like that, but really, I want something shiny and new, not your old piece-of-shit GodKnowsWhat. And they wonder why I quit.**

*I really hate this word and find it totally offensive which is precisely why I'm using it here: so you can really appreciate my feelings for my former boss.
**Actually, the holiday party wasn't the real reason for my departure, but I think the whole office holiday party ritual illustrates well the otherwise intangible total shittiness of my old job.

Well, folks. I've finished my first semester of graduate school. Now please buy me a drink.

I forgot to mention how impressed I was that the author of the AJC article managed to make it relevent to readers who don't actually give a shit about anything Hannukah other than presents and greasy food by referencing the OC and Chrismukkah. And while we're on the subject, you can get your Yarmuclaus and other Chrismukkah items here (via Thighs Wide Shut).

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution explains to Georgians what Jews do to escape when the oppression of Santa Claus and candy canes gets to be too much.

"Jews eat foods fried in oil, such as potato latkes or sufganiyot (a type of doughnut), to remind them of the miracle of the oil."

And this is precisely why I am Jewish. Mmm...the miracle of mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers. Though I did particularly enjoy the author's explanations of a variety of Hannukah traditions, both old and new, and how they are actually just derivative of things Christian...well that and the reference to them Maccabean "zealots."

I suspect that if it takes you longer than, say, three seconds to figure out what the problem is when you've put both contacts into one eye, then it's probably too early in the morning to be engaging in sophisticated statistical analyses of disease exposure relationships.
Fuck.

I realize that my last post didn't do much justice to the greatness that is Hannukah. Not only is it about sending your favorite Jew blogger tons of presents she wouldn't ordinarily buy for herself, but it is also the festival of lights, the festival of frying all sorts of foods you wouldn't ordinarily fry as well as some you would, and uhhhh the festival of maccabees and miracles.
So say a little prayer about how great miracles and fried food are, and get those presents in the mail.

So I sorta almost missed the first night of Hannukah this year. I've been up to my ears in biostatistics and epidemiology and similar fun activities. But I would like to take this time to remind you all to send me presents. Lots and lots of presents.
If you still don't know what to get me, here are some ideas:
1. Kick the ass of my stupid final tomorrow at 8am (who the hell schedules an exam at that hour)?
2. some candles to stick in my dinky menorah that I lugged all the down from New York.
3. A subscription to French Vogue
4. A subscription to the New Yorker so I can look smaht.
5. Books that are either thought-provoking or simply have colorful pictures in them
6. Shoes
7. Marc Jacobs* handbags
8. a jacuzzi
9. two carne asada soft tacos and an horchata
10. shirts to make me look pretty
11. the Columbia University engraved flask
12. vodka

*and if you happen to see Marc, tell him I'm so sorry about this little incident at the holiday party last year. I was simply drunk and happy to see a polar bear. I mean, c'mon. Look how drunk I am.

Hot Pockets and cans of Progresso Soup a balanced diet do not make. If you do not begin to incorporate real food into your routine and possibly open the notebook for the class in which you have a FINAL EXAM tomorrow, you will surely turn into a giant, unproductive salty tub of artificially colored and flavored lard and go straight to Hell.

Hmm...it appears as though we're trying really, really hard to one-up the reigning queen of pathetic, attention-hungry trash, Paris Hilton. And I say "we," because overnight, my high budget doppelganger (though please tell me I don't look even sorta a little bit like this) and I actually morphed into one person. Russell has promised to pay my credit card bill so it can stop winking at me from underneath my stapler. Photo courtesy A Socialite's Life.

Have I mentioned that I'm moving to Scotland where I can eat fried food and chain smoke in peace?
Oh and the New York Times has some BREAKING NEWS for us: turns out Eliot Spitzer just decided he wants to run for governor. Surprise!

I forgot to tell you all about the Magnetic Fields playing Monday night in Atlanta, but you still have time to catch awesome femme rockers Le Tigre either Wednesday at the Roxy in Atlanta or Thursday at the 40 Watt Club in Athens.

Can somebody please buy me these? I don't think there is any product out there that more perfectly sums up what we're all about over here at FAB Central than the official Columbia University Slacker Pants*. I mean, really. It's almost as though the clever folks over at the Bookstore thought these up just for me. (I used to have a similar pair that were part of the infamous head-to-toe blue jump suit that stepped out to one of Columbia's classier watering holes and proceded to order an entire bottle of champagne. Yeah, turns out they had Champagne on the menu at AmCafe. And God knows, entire bottles of Champagne are best had when dressed up in a gigantic navy hoody, matching sweats, and sneakers).
*Actually, there is, but I already received my commemorative university shot glass and beer stein, thank you very much.

And does anybody care to speculate what those little colored circles down in Paris's hooha are?

Our heroine dusts herself off and gets up off the ground.
But just when she was beginning to think she'd come out of this ok,
He punches her directly in the heart again.
Legs buckle,
she crumples into the corner,
where she will desperately wait for the sweet veil of sleep to cover over her.

snowskates: I'm thinking of calling this guy
snowskates: craigslist link
FAB: sounds like a winner
snowskates: who are these people
FAB: i like the ones who want to come to my apartment and wear an apron and nothing else and clean my apartment and be bossed around by me
FAB: i actually consider those
FAB: heh
snowskates: hahaha
snowskates: your inner bitch
FAB: hey
FAB: they want it
FAB: for some reasonm
FAB: and my apartment needs to be cleaned
FAB: and lord knows i'm not gonna do it
snowskates: freako could kill you
FAB: dan would've protected me
FAB: heh
FAB: hahahahaha
FAB: that's even funnier
snowskates: yeah I think you are actually more threatening then dan
snowskates: although I guess he could annoy the perp away

Oh my goodness! PLEASE let them save the complete meltdown for next season's Newlyweds. I promise I will buy cable just to watch. Gawker and the infamous email.

From the time I first moved to Atlanta, people have been urging the Fat Asian Baby to check out Alon's Bakery in Virgina Highlands. Knowing how much FAB loves tasty bits, they were certain she would be ecstatic about Alon's pretentious but tasty fair. However, these well-meaning Atlantans failed to mention two important facts. One, Alon's sandwiches, while tasty, are priced in a range only appropriate for the Upper East Side (and there, it's arguable whether it's even appropriate). And second, at any given visit to Alon's, there will be at least one and at most five extremely attractive men working there (usually behind the prepared foods or bakery counters, but never manning the cheese station where FAB could charm them with her extensive cheese knowledge and appreciation). While FAB does enjoy the yummy fare, I can't help but wonder whether or not it's really worth paying $8 for a sandwich just for the opportunity to ogle hot men in aprons?

Something fishy is going on in the New York PR machine. Not that this is news. But back in late September, FAB suggested that the reason for Jerry Orbach's departure from Law and Order was that he was undergoing treatment for cancer (I didn't specify the type at the time) in New York. While this turned out to be untrue since he's currently hard at work on another L&O spinoff, FAB had it from a reliable source that our beloved Lennie did, in fact, have prostate cancer. So why was this yesterday's breaking news story?

Taller, richer, attention-hungrier FAB doppelganger Kimora Lee Simmons back in the news for her (gasp!) catfighting with equally as high maintenance "Life & Style" cohost and former E! "Hot On" hottie Jules Asner.

Dear God,
I hate to bother you, especially in light of the fact that Hannukah begins next week, but the following grievous oversight in the present temperature department has been brought to my attention...
New York: 41 degrees
Atlanta: 29 degrees
I did not move here for this shit. Get it fucking together.
Respectfully yours,
Fat Asian Baby