Fat Asian Baby

Lara Flynn Boyle tries to fit anorexic, strung out ass into First Class bed with unwitting male passenger already occupying said bedvia Defamer and Goldenfiddle.

I've always thought that my laziness was really just hyper-efficiency, and sadly, most people just don't see it my way. However, according to this new fangled scientisteriffic study brought to my attention by the Big JC: "People with obesity are tremendously efficient," Dr. Levine said, "Any opportunity not to waste energy, they take. If you think about it that way, it all makes sense. As soon as they have an opportunity to sit down and not waste those calories, they do." Yes, Dr. Levine, it does all make sense. Thank you.

In case some of you didn't notice, right here in Atlanta we had some sort of meteorological burp on the radar over the weekend called an ice storm. My highly alarmist roommate urged me to go to the grocery store in preparation for the next coming of Jesus, and so I, along with 3/4 of the population of metro Atlanta, obediently headed over to Kroger to stock up on Hot Pockets and the like whilst pushing my cart to the lyrical stylings of one B. Spears. I must say, she adds a little extra zip to the normally rather mundane process of weeding out the cracked or otherwise subpar eggs from the more unspoiled few. Anyway, while at the grocery store I decided that if the impending hellfire or storm or whatever was going to confine me to my home with only Hot Pockets and eggs to sustain me was truly coming, I would also need several bottles of wine. Somehow the possible necessity of candles, flashlights, or batteries escaped me entirely.

Last night, after having been trapped in my little castle on the top of a steep and icy driveway completely frozen over like an impressively high grade Olympic luge, eating Hot Pockets and drinking wine for over 36 hours, I decided I wanted vodka. So in the interest of realizing this dream, I strapped on my moon boots, pulled on gloves, wrapped myself in a scarf, grabbed a plastic garbage bag and began the long, treacherous descent through the frozen ivy, clinging to shrubbery branches along the way, until I reached the no man's land just shy of my friend's car waiting in the safe flatness of the street at which point I sat on the garbage bag and sled the remaining yards to victory. And oh was that first sip victorious.

Somebody with far too much time on their hands thinks they have come up with the next great thing: the anti-panty.
Snowskates and I think it's some sort of maxipad for your pants or something horrifying like that, but we're taking other suggestions.

A 28 year-old actress was robbed and killed right outside of weird "1020 on crack and in the LES" bar, Max Fish.

*And by Comes to Manhattan, I mean comes to non-excessively northern parts of Manhattan inhabited by persons of other socioeconomic status or ethnicities.

Tonight hear Atlanta quasi-natives The Hiss at Lenny's or foreigners Keane at the (Coca-Cola) Roxy.

Also, tickets for the Kings of Leon show March 18th at the Roxy go on sale tomorrow. Tickets for And You Will Know Us By The Trail of Dead at the Variety April 1st are on sale now.

Get the weekend off right with Carson Daly pitching a tent on the green and Oh Good God at A Socialite's Life.

Liza goes home to the Westchester nuthouse.

Bowling for Tsunami Relief.

For those of you who are just dying to take a bite out of Janet's boobie, the Janet Jackson Breast Cupcake at theAmateur Gourmet via Lindsayism.

The New York Times' Jon Pareles hearts Conor Oberst. Sort of.
(By the way, I am STILL looking for Bright Eyes tickets for Tuesday. Somebody cough 'em up, please.)

Yes, I realize that these pictures suck ass. After the last encore, the band came down into the audience and then stopped and jammed right next to me. Literally. I mean to say that several drops of Win Butler's sweat made their way off of his face and onto my shoulder, but I don't have a picture to show for it because the stupid security guy shining standing behind Regine* was the same stupid security guy who had yelled at me for taking these horrendously blurry pictures. So enjoy them cause they're all I've got.

*who incidentally continues to exude an aura of one who is mainlining something really really strong. But in a good way. For her.

Pop.

I almost fell off my chair when I read this in the Health Section in Tuesday's Times:

"I decided to prescribe Wellbutrin, a different class of antidepressant that has shown some ability to counteract sexual dysfunction caused by S.S.R.I.'s.

Little did I know.

Two weeks later, Susan called from her cellphone to say that the antidote was working. While shopping, she said, she spontaneously had an orgasm that had lasted on and off for nearly two hours."

Now, my doctor prescribed me THAT VERY SAME DRUG to help me quit smoking last fall. I stopped taking it after a week or two cause it made me feel funny, and by funny I mean I SURE AS HELL DO NOT REMEMBER ANY TWO HOUR SPONTANEOUS ORGASMS!

Though I still have half a bottle in the bathroom...

Tonight is opening night of the Atlanta Jewish Film Festival featuring a reception and screening of Avi Nesher's Wondrous Oblivion at the Lefont Theater in Sandy Springs. For more information about screening times and locations, click here.

Monday at 5pm was the first meeting of a class I'm taking that's being taught by my very own advisor. Needless to say, being a somewhat shy and timid individual (stop laughing, assholes, I really am!), I was a bit apprehensive about the class. I arrived at school at 4:30 so I could loiter in the lobby shmoozing with friends until exactly five minutes before class. I am a generally punctual individual. This means that I arrive on time for appointments, on time or a couple of minutes late for dates, half an hour to an hour late for parties (depending upon what the particular party circumstance calls for), and ON TIME for classes. Not ten minutes early, not ten minutes late, but ON TIME. For this particular class the schedule was as follows: 4:30 to 4:55 - loiter and shmooze, 4:55 to 5:00 - walk down the hallway very slowly to the classroom where the class is to be held.

At exactly 4:59pm EST I found myself staring blankly at two signs on the door of an empty classroom, the very classroom my class with my advisor about which I was apprehensive was allegedly to be held. Sign one read: Class GH540 to be held upstairs in room 111. Sign two read: Class GH591S to be held in Tarbutton 105. Now there are a couple of things that bear mentioning at this point in the story. First, I have no idea what the call number or whatever you call it for my class is. I only know the class name and professor and alleged location. At this point I remain calm, log into a computer to find my registration information and discover that my class is in fact the one relocated to the mysterious Tarbutton 105. Second, the School of Public Health is not only populated by all women, but is not actually very populous at all. That is to say that all of our classes are held in the School of Public Health building proper. Occasionally larger classes are held next door in the Nursing School auditorium. I have heard of meetings taking place over on the undergraduate campus in buildings called Cox Hall or Anthropology, but I have NEVER, in my time at this fine institution, ever heard tell of or encountered first hand a building called Tarbutton.

After a fruitful but slightly panicked trip upstairs to Student Services, I learned that Tarbutton in fact was the name of a building that was located outside, to the left, past the biomedical building, past the library, over the bridge, past the DUC, past Cox Hall, across the street, over another bridge, and across the grassy knoll from Anthropology. Fan-fucking-tastic. Any responsible and normally punctual student would notice that it is now ten minutes into class, there is quite a distance to be covered to get to said class, and likely decide to set off at a pace that could at least be described as a light jog. Not I. I decide to stroll and ponder why it is that I am the only person who seems to be in the same predicament. Apparently everyone else got the memo about the classroom change.

I arrived at the class taught by my advisor about which I was rather apprehensive not five, not 15, but 25 minutes late.

And as a post script, it bears further mentioning that I was forced to approach the professor/advisor at the end of class to beg for a copy of the syllabus which I had failed to receive by arriving 25 minutes into class at which point professor/advisor says, "I'm simply delighted that you're taking this class, simply delighted. I'm really looking forward to hearing what you have to say. I think you're going to be a valuable contribution to the theoretical discussions I hope to have here." It seems that during my one requisite meeting with the advisor oh so many months ago I mistakenly gave her the impression that I was, like, a particularly gifted and insightful social scientist or something when really my point was that I'm miserable with Biostatistics. It is only a matter of time before I'm called to deliver some nugget of theoretical wisdom. Pray for me, friends. Pray.

Hey guys, remember Friendster? Neither did we. But like an old reliable but slightly boring first love who still holds a special place in our heart, Friendster is sparring with newer, flashier, and kinkier lover with better music taste, MySpace, for our internetworking affection. (Thanks A. for the tip).

Also in today's Times, William Safire writes not one but four boring pieces on the occasion of his official retirement as a columnist. But rest assured he will still be gracing us with his linguistic insights every Sunday.

You'll never guess who this is. Please don't have a coronary, but here she is last week, all growed up. Check out these childhood photos of your (least) favorite rock stars via The Day Jobs.

I am growing increasingly certain that I will be a dreadful parent. This is not to say that I'm expecting this most fantastic of life events to happen anytime soon, and judging from the looks of things in my life, I still have a while yet to go before parenthood actually befalls me. I know I have been making noises lately about wanting to parent a puppy or a kitten, but recent developments may suggest that it's best to hold out on even these more modest parental yens. You see, I have killed a house tree. I'm not certain if it's even proper to officially pronounce it dead while it still appears to have about a dozen die-hard leaves that stubbornly refuse to accept their fate and insist on maintaining some sort of semblance of the color green, but I think we're rapidly approaching the day of reckoning. I think it's best to be honest with ourselves about these sorts of things.

What's even more alarming is that the house tree's previous owner assured me that this particular specimen was the most hearty of house trees, a sure thing that I would most certainly live to see grow and mature. Well, my friends, this is not to be.

It turns out that the Fat Asian Baby is a far more neglectful parent and undeserving of the sort of parental satisfaction that comes from seeing our love and affection sprout robust and thriving life than the previous owner. Yes folks, it seems I have nearly killed a plant so hale that even a bachelor surgical resident, who was presumably, you know, like, busy and stuff, was able to make flourish and live happily for years.

I can only hope that when I'm a real parent, I won't forget to bring my child with me when I leave for a month-long vacations. It turns out even trees can't sustain that kind of neglect.

Johnny Carson died Sunday at 79. Since I grew up in the 1980s with television access seriously restricted and on the rare occasion it was granted, restricted to the major networks, I can't honestly say I ever saw Johnny in action or come up with some touchy or meaningful wrap-up of his achievements. You can read the New York Times obituary here.

Norwegians confuse Bush salute with hailing Satan.
And in other news, FAB confuses entire Bush presidency with diabolitcal tribute to
Jesus H. Christ.

Apparently FAB missed THE SPORTING EVENT OF THE YEAR, the Running of the Brides at Filene's Basement in Buckhead.

"A mob of about 900 people -- many of whom had camped out overnight to be among the first to snap up bargain-priced wedding gowns -- needed a mere 45 seconds to pick the store's stock of 1,500 dresses clean.

The gowns -- originally valued at $800 to $8,000 but marked down to the $249-$699 range -- weren't arranged by size. So brides-to-be and those there to assist them grabbed gowns by the armload, then began the rigorous process of sifting through them.

To facilitate the search, many hoisted homemade signs above their heads, detailing the sizes and styles they were frantically seeking. Once the initial rush for gowns was over, the shoppers' task turned to trying on what they'd grabbed and bartering with others for the gowns in their clutches."

Man are we disappointed. You can read the entire post-game wrap up at the AJC.

The official dirty dirty is out and about for Beck's new album, Guero (via Pitchfork).

Well kids, yesterday marked the first official day of the spring semester. I think what is most alarming here is not the ungodly number of credits I've decided to pursue, or the fact that now I'm going to have to start spending money on books and school supplies again, or the fact that there was an assignment due for today's first class that I, of course, have not done, but rather that yesterday also signalled the arrival of next month's Vogue and W magazines* while last month's still sit fornlornly on the floor beside my bed somwhere between the "to clean or rehang" pile of clothing and the "to do something with" pile of miscellaneous papers with the words "important" "tax" and "papers" printed somewhere on them in bold black letters that I've been collecting. The magazines remain unopened, unread. I can't shake this sense of impending doom. If I don't take the situation by it's ears this weekend, it's only going to be a matter of time before I find myself buried beneath 3.2 tons of unread magazines (mostly Vogue) and vaguely important tax papers with no hope of ever recovering.
*For some reason I've been able to keep apace with Newsweek. They are neatly piled behind my filing cabinet, thank you very much. Vogue is a menace of its own kind.

Sadly, it is too late for FAB to black out entirely because we ignorantly posted several times in the night while trying to feed our insomnia, but if you haven't already voiced your dissent, Cityrag has some excellent links to some small things you can do or not do today to voice your dissent against the administration on this inauguration day. FAB likes Not One Damn Dime.

And I sure hope this poster finds a taker. It is simply outstanding.

What the hell is going on here? As Jessica points out, we can't even see her hooha. I simply don't understand.

Does anybody know where I can get my paws on tickets for Bright Eyes at the Variety Playhouse? Pretty please?

Three German garbagemen are being forced to take an art appreciation course after mistaking this monstrous eyesore for actual crap and doing with it what they do with all the other crap. FAB on other works of public art.

Some juicy tidbits from across the pond via Popbitch:
There's more to Prince Harry than dressing as a Nazi, getting twatted and punching photographers. It's rumoured that the Ginger Goon's sharp exit from Argentina before Christmas was closely connected to an angry father's reaction to his young daughter's de-flowering and subsequent abortion and that the Prince's resourceful PR people (including Man Utd's ex-communications chief) managed to cover it up by taking a leaf out of the Beckhams' book, and blaming the whole thing on a spurious "kidnapping threat".

Be afraid - Mel B* is ready to release a new solo album which is, her people claim, "very Fleetwood Mac"**.
*Scary Spice???
**Dear, Fucking, God!

"The owners of Little Giant, Julie Taras, 31, and Tasha Garcia, 33, have exploited humankind's liberation from the mix tape and the advantages of Internet downloading to create a soundtrack that plays like the best FM station I have never actually encountered"

Gee Frank, Little Giant sure sounds hip. Maybe my angsty boyfriend in skinny jeans will whisk me away to an ironically whimsical meal digitally enhanced by the Scissor Sisters or Wilco. That sure would be cool.

Yesterday I hauled my hungover and shameful self attired in my sexiest velour outfit, sunglasses, rat's nest hair standing in the video store, Chuck Taylors seeming glued to the floor while I weighed the relative merits and demerits of the DVDs in each hand. I was literally paralyzed with indecision about whether to rent Wimbledon or Garden State. In case you're wondering what those two movies have in common or how such a decision could paralyze an otherwise somewhat functional individual, it boils down to this: who is less likely to make me want to repeatedly stab myself in the eyeball with a fork after being forced to watch their treacly perfect cuteness for 120 odd minutes, Kirsten Dunst or Natalie Portman?

The New York Times has a surprisingly comprehensive article on the brewing controversy at the FAB Alma Mater. I've tried to avoid this issue even as it has exploded over the past few months, not because I don't care, but rather because, as a former MEALAC student, I probably have more to say about the disputes at hand than any rational person would care to read. The other day FAB received an invitation to provide testimony before the convening committee. Sadly I am confined to the Southern parts, so I will just have to watch from the sidelines to see what the future holds.

The Fat Asian Baby was delighted to finally to discover Page Six's valiant attempt to revive the mother of all hair pulling girly spats, the infamous Hilton/Doherty catfight, though I can't help but wonder who's still inviting Shannon to these things anyway.

The latest burning question for E!Online's Answer B!tch:

Do celebrities have the same college application process as normal people? Did the Olsen twins, Natalie Portman and Kate Bosworth really get into their respective schools by merit or by their name?
Mira Shah, Edison, New Jersey

Well Mira, despite what the stupid Answer B!tch tells you, as one who has worked in a college admissions office and perused many an application, the Fat Asian Baby assures you that the answer is a resounding WHAT DO YOU THINK, SWEETHEART? And, uh, not to get bitchy about it, but the Answer B!tch herself reveals,

"As for Portman...She reportedly scored a 1320 on her PSATs and rewrote her Harvard application essay 20 times until she thought it reflected her brainpower.

The reported result: early admission into not only Harvard but Yale."

For anyone who has any familiarity with admissions statistics for either of these schools in the past decade or two, I think these scores* and her subsequent admission to both institutions speak for themselves.

*Unless of course, she scored remarkably better on the actual SAT and that 20th rewrite of her essay kicked some seriously pretentious ass. This is not to say that 1320 is not a respectable score, per se. But there's simply no way in hell you're walking into Harvard or Yale with that unless you've single handedly saved a small African nation from starvation or, say, made several major motion pictures of something like that.

Apparently Little People are in high demand these days. Wee folk are desperately needed to play little blue aliens on the London stage because all the good ones are too busy shelling out galleons at Gringotts Bank or fudging together Wonka Bars.

Belle & Sebastian named best Scottish band ever by Scottish people. Franz Ferdinand ranks 15th.

Nothing says welcome home like $600 in medical bills for which your insurance company has inexplicably chosen to deny payment, a credit card bill so large you're embarrassed to disclose the amount, and blowing out your speakers when you attempt to plug your laptop into the surge protector that alleges to protect from surges but we soon learn does not.

I seem to have an uncanny ability to pick the super awesomest days to fly. This looks awesome.
I particularly enjoy the part in small print where Continental Airlines gently reminds me that even though my flight presently appears to be leaving two or three hours late, I should

"please understand that a flight listed as 'Delayed' may, depending on the circumstances, depart 'On Time'. We suggest you always check-in for the original scheduled departure time of your flight."

Thanks guys.

On the bright side of things, an Atlanta Federal Judge has ruled that Darwin is an ok guy after all.

A few weeks ago, more Southerner friend A. told me that the majority of men she has encountered are more interested in her if she says she wants to be a housewife and mother rather than stay with her present career as a sexy environmental engineer. I said I thought it was just a Southern thing and that most New York guys find high-powered women hotter and I would be mortified to admit to any prospective partner that my career aspirations are actually comprised of a prize-winning tomato garden, canning my own marmalade, and fluffing down comforters. According to Maureen Dowd, A. may have been onto something.
Hey guys, not only am I Asian*, but I'm unemployed. How hot is that?

*Which can only mean that I have small feet, take small steps, and am enormously helpful at all times, naturally.

In addition to losing the Masquerade later this year, Atlanta music fans and alcoholics alike will be saying goodbye to East Atlanta's Echo Lounge thanks to bureaucratic bullshit. However, according to Creative Loafing, we may soon be gaining three new music venues.

There have been some comments about the removal of the comments feature, so I've brought them back as an experiment. If you want them to stay, then comment away.

A Quick Vignette, On the occasion of the last night at home with the FAB parents

ABC's 11 o'clock news is on the small tv screen in the family den. FAB and FAB Daddy watch the news while, a few feet away, FAB Mommy struggles with a fancy read and reply email maneuver which has been baffling her for about an hour and a half now. The news cuts to commercial break.
NYC anchor Roz Abrams: Up ahead, more on Brad and Jen, and later, Prince Harry has a lot of explaining to do.
FAB Daddy: Jeez, they're really scraping the barrel for news tonight.
FAB: I think Brad and Jen are still news though.
FAB Daddy: Who is Bradandjen?
FAB Mommy: Do you want to go to dinner and this concert at Carnegie Hall with Hank?
FAB: Who's Hank?
FAB Daddy: You need to give me more information than that. When? Who's playing?
FAB Mommy: Carnegie Hall.
FAB: Who's Hank?
FAB Daddy: Why don't you ask him what the concert is? Actually, just look it up online. Wait, no don't.
FAB: Who's Hank?
silence except for the news anchors on the television
FAB Mommy: How do you spell Carnegie? C-A-R-N-E-I-G-H-I?


Editor's note: Mother, you are a lovely woman. And as such, I overlooked the note you left in my book about the author growing up in Wisconcin (sic.), or the other note you left last Wednesday about little Jonny's Bar Mitzpha (sic.), but Carneighi? Good God, woman.

// posted by Fat Asian Baby @ 1:22 AM

First off I've been feeling a little guilty of late for the general suckiness of the blog. I really have no excuse except that apparently without any actual work to be procrastinating, the whole blogging thing loses its urgency. Rest assured my vacationing days are dwindling and the upcoming semester promises to be about as pleasant as getting kicked in the face by a horse that just walked through a steaming pile of mushy turds. Anyway, you get the idea.

However, here are two good things that happened to me today:
1. I finally visited the new MoMA and successfully convinced the ticket people that I am a Columbia student* who just returned from a semester abroad so didn't have the necessary Fall 04 sticker that would otherwise make my invalid student ID valid and therefore should be granted admission free of charge like any other card carrying Columbia student. A few years back I vowed to recoup the cost of my tuition in free museum admissions throughout the city. Thanks to the MoMA's new $20 admission fee ($12 for students) I can now say with confidence that I expect to break even in about 68 years provided I move back to Manhattan and aggressively pursue a more cultured outlook on life.



2. I convinced my parents to check out the new neighborhood sushi joint which I am pleased to report, served some of the best and most beautiful sushi I've ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth (and oh have I had sushi). So if you're ever in downtown White Plains visiting Bill Rancic, be sure to check out Nanase, 522 Mamaroneck Avenue.

*For those of you unfamiliar with the institution and its policies, in addition to receiving a piece of paper certifying your status as an Ivy League graduate in a language you likely cannot read and do not understand, the main perk of being a Columbia student is free admission to many of the museums in New York.

Serena Southerlyn: Is this because I'm a lesbian?

Mr. Blackwell's 45th Annual Worst Dressed List. I may not be the arbiter of good taste or anything like that, but in what kind of twisted aesthetic universe thinks that Courtney Love and Serena Williams are better dressed than Lindsay Lohan and Jessica Simpson. I mean, the Fat Asian Baby is not about to step inside either Lindsay or Jessica's wardrobe (as if I would fit), but surely we can at least consider them better attired than a crack whore and a frighteningly beastly tennis diva?

I'm not quite sure how I missed this story, must've been too busy recovering from the annual raucous Christmas festivities with my almost entirely Jewish extended family. But is there less of Miss Lohan these days or not? Somebody please get to the bottom of this. And in Lindsay's defense, the Fat Asian Baby wholeheartedly agrees that carrying around mammary baggage can get quite exhausting.

As I've been sitting here adorned in my sexiest head to toe fleece getup complete with a wool sweater on top of it all (yes, the same sexy getup that I've been wearing for the last five weeks straight) watching the snow casually cover the ground, I've been thinking smugly to myself how nice it's going to be to get back to the slightly sub 70 degree weather that Atlanta has been enjoying pretty much since the week after I left*. But if those damn weather goons at the AJC are to be believed, 20 degree weather should be hitting the Atlanta metropolitan area shortly after I hit the tarmac. What in tarnation is this all about?

*I was bitter enough about this obviously unfortuitous turn of meteorological fickleness that deemed it necessary to make it cold as balls in Atlanta for my last few weeks there, yes colder even than New York, and then immediately warming up the moment I fled northward.

"On East Brookhaven Drive, a woman returned home and saw two men rearranging her Christmas reindeer in the front yard. According to the report, the men tried to "arrange the deer to simulate them having sex."
The men fled before police arrived. The Christmas reindeer were not injured."

Read about many other heinous crimes committed this week in Creative Loafing's Crime Blotter.

Speaking of crime, for the record, I sure am glad the Mets are picking up other people's trash. What a fucking fantastic way to spend that extra $119M they had sitting around. I would say I want to see one home run for every million we're shelling out, but I know that'd be asking an awful lot.

From Daggerhearts to the Hippo.



And don't worry, I didn't actually patronize the Latin Palace. I just chuckled a little to myself as I drove by. The Gay Hippo, however...

Almost a year has passed since the Fat Asian Baby was last gainfully employed. As part of our foolish "It's a new year, let's pretend we're gonna be better people this time around" mentality, we have decided the time has arrived to rejoin productive society (though I must say that I have been pulling more than my share of the weight from the consumer end, thank you very much). I honestly think I'm a good match for this job. But first I'll need a designated driver. Please, somebody support me in this endeavor. You'll even get $10 for your time.

Another Vignette. This Time, Minimalist.
Setting: St. Paul and Eager Streets in Baltimore, 12:34am.
Characters: Our hero, Fat Asian Baby,
Trusty Sidekick, Snowskates,
and Random Baltimore Woman
-scene-
RBW crosses an intersection in the opposite direction as FAB and S. All three in varying states of intoxication.
RBW: Hey! Are you guys dressed like the Eighties?
FAB: Huh?
S: No.
FAB: The Eighties??!? What the fuck??
-curtain-

Sheesh! You go away for a few days and all hell breaks loose. First prediction for 2005 down.But anyway, for the record, Brad, I'm here for you. Really, I am.
And man what I would give to have been the fly on the wall of this telephone conversation. Gawww!

I'm off to our nation's capital and surrounding regions for a few days of quasi-official business. It is presently unclear whether or not the internet has yet breached the District. In event of the worst, please hold fast to your ideals, your hopes, and your dreams, and in the meantime, enjoy the links.

Reading Viagina's roundup of recent quasi-thing history inspired in me a strong desire to do my own quasi-thing report. Sadly, I am one of "those girls" who writes things down...and this only out of dire necessity. It just seems creepy to me that I wouldn't even remember the existence of someone after we've been alarmingly familiar with our intimate bits. Which brings me to my second problem, my brain resembles swiss cheese when it comes to memory, and The Master List is actually in Atlanta at the moment. Nonetheless, I am fairly certain that if I were actually to compile a complete annotated list for your reading pleasure, we'd have enough material for a medium length novel. I may try and put together an abridged version when I get back to Atlanta, but for now, please be content to read of best bud Gina's foibles and adventures and know that FAB is lurking mischeivously in the background of all of her stories.
And for the record, the Frenchie with his yerba mate was my favorite.

1. Find new professional sports teams to pin all your life's hopes on, particularly ones with names consisting of more than four letters the last three of which are
E-T-S. Your baseball team will probably still suck next year, but isn't the nephew cute?
2. Since you're not planning on giving up the all-cheese all the time diet, perhaps this year would be a good time to start exercising.
3. Contrary to what others might suggest, those horrific dreams about all or some of your teeth falling out are not about subconscious reproductive anxieties, the inability to assert yourself, fear of change, or fear of castration . Maybe they are about a not so subconscious fear of your teeth, like, falling out or something. Make a fucking dentist appointment already.

A year or two ago, the Donald decided to build huge luxury high-rise buildings geared towards young professionals in FAB's very own boring-as-nuts hometown while FAB snorted incredulously at the suggestion that young single professionals would choose to live in a boring-as-nuts suburban city rather than nearby New York. Well, I suppose it shouldn't come as an altogether tremendous shock that the Donald knows something about real estate markets that the Fat Asian Baby does not. It seems that half the apartments are already spoken for even though one of the buildings isn't even done yet. FAB wonders how much the Big D. had to bribe ole Bill to get him to live here instead of in one of the shinier buildings in Manhattan. Although it would be sweet living upstairs from Target and now we finally have our own movie theater, for the record, if I were a young, single professional with some degree of money to burn, I still wouldn't choose this over New York. For starters, White Plains is home to a whopping total of about six (read 'em six) bars. Maybe Bill isn't bothered by the paltry downtown nightlife since his chauffeur can shuttle him to and from the real party in New York, but the rest of us know that the MetroNorth railroad stops running by 1am.

Happy New Year, ya'll! It wasn't nearly as bad as I was expecting. New Year's Eve usually consists of the sum of life's disappointments and opportunities lost all wadded up and tossed into the corner of one long and ridiculous evening. This year, the Fat Asian Baby's least favorite night passed in her least favorite place*, but I do believe there may have actually been some fun thrown in somewhere. Go figure.
However, I decided to kick off the new year by watching Before Sunset and reading about yet another college acquaintance/friend becoming legally bound to her soul mate and riding off into the sunset. I shall now curl up into a ball, feel all emotionally vulnerable, and pretend to sleep for a number of hours while trying to figure out if it's just me or Ethan Hawke's teeth really are as alarmingly unWHITElooking for a celebrity as they appeared in the movie or it was just something funny with the color on my tv.

*Yeah I'm talking about you, Brooklyn Borough, place of no overwhelming numbered grid schematic, few recognizable landmarks with which to orient oneself, lack of hailable cabs, absurdly expensive car rides back to civilization at 5am, and desolate sidewalks that are cruelly unforgiving to those foolish enough to traverse them on 3 inch sticks 3 centimeters in diameter,