Ban On Fatsos

Last night I watched the late George Carlin take fat people to task for being obese. "I use the word "fat." I use that word because that's what people are: they're fat. They're not bulky; they're not large, chunky, hefty or plump. And they're not big-boned. Dinosaurs were big-boned. These people are not overweight: this term somehow implies there is some correct weight. There is no correct weight. Heavy is also a misleading term. An aircraft carrier is heavy; it's not fat. Only people are fat, and that's what fat people are! They're fat!" Fat people hate hearing this shit, but more to the point fat people are fat. Worse is that they make excuses for being fat, such as; I'll start my diet tomorrow, I have Bad Genes, I have slow metabolism, Everyone in my family is fat, I can't stand the taste of healthy food, Why should I lose weight, I'm married, At my age, it's hard to lose weight, I want to die happy, and hundreds of other lame excuses for weighing as much as five Chinamen. I'm overweight for a couple of reasons. I drink beer, wine, and alcohol, but no thing I don't drink is that oversized bullshit soda sold at 7/11, movie multiplex, or sports arena. This week my least favorite mayor of New York attempted to ban large containers of soda. Soft drink advocates screamed out bloody murder about this dictatorial mandate and ads hit the papers stating that America is not a socialist country and there is no proof that soft drinks cause obesity. People addicted to soft drinks whined that their freedom of choice was being eroded by Mayor Bloomberg's decision without taking a look in the mirror to see the truth. America is fat and fat people cost the rest of us billions of dollars, not to mention that their sweating is one of the major causes of global warming, but if this country was really serious about losing weight than we should open our borders to cocaine, for nothing takes off the weight faster than a coke binge and cocaine really is the Real Thing.

Tough Talking for Drunks

THINGS THAT ARE HARD TO PRONOUNCE WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK:

Indubitably; Innovative; Preliminary; Proliferation; Cinnamon

THINGS THAT ARE VERY DIFFICULT TO SAY WHEN YOU'RE DRUNK:

Specificity; British Constitution; Passive-aggressive disorder; Loquacious; Transubstantiate

Cooking UK ala Nothing

Obesity is spreading through the world from the USA, where over 35% of the adult population have been inflicted with Orson Wellesitis. The director of CITIZEN KANE weighed more than 350 pounds or 150 kilos at the time of his death. I once found a black cape with the label MADE FOR MSSR ORSON WELLES at a Nantucket antique shop. It was a circus tent and I blame obesity not only on fast food, but that people don't know how to cook for themselves.

A recent survey revealed that a majority of young Brits haven't a clue to boil an egg.

Directions: boiling water. 3 minutes. Salt and Pepper. Crack open shell. Drippy yoke.

Simple, n'est pas?

1 in 20 Brits thought it took 10 minutes and 15% answered with the standard,"I don't know."

Bangers, bacon, eggs, and fried toast with the fixings seems to be heading the way of the British Empire. At least Italian pasta has overtaken Indian curry as England's favorite dish. EEC rules. Remember Brits on this Jubilee Weekend, you are what you eat.

60 Years Under QEII

Less than a week after my birth Elizabeth Alexandra Mary ascended the throne at a time of transition of the British Empire into the Commonwealth and the UK celebrated her sixty year of ruling Britain, even though Her sovereign nation has shrunken across the globe to Great Britian and Occupied Ulster as well as the overseas territories of Gibraltar, the Channel Islands, The Falklands, British Antarctic Territory, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands, the Sovereign Base Areas of Akrotiri on Cyprus and Dhekelia, Pitcairn Islands, Bermuda, Turks and Caicos Islands, Anguilla, Saint Helena, Ascension, and Tristan da Cunha. No longer does her kingdom reflect the words written in 1821. "On her dominions the sun never sets; before his evening rays leave the spires of Quebec, his morning beams have shone three hours on Port Jackson, and while sinking from the waters of Lake Superior, his eye opens upon the Mouth of the Ganges." Queen Elizabeth II is fine with her present status. 60 years on the throne is quite a feat. Only Elizabeth I has held the position for a longer period of time. QEII is well-loved by her subjects and I wish her well. By the way in ancient times the jubilee was a moment for the forgiveness of all debts. What a queen she would be, if she was so royal.

THE MAGUS by John Fowles

I drank a lot on my 60th birthday; a glass of wine at the Oyster Bar, several beers and margharitas at Solas on East 9th Street, then more beer at Frank's Lounge in Fort Greene and finally even more beer at Mullane's across General Fowler Square. I made it back to my apartment at midnight and crashed onto my bed almost a dead man. I had certainly drank into double-digits. The next morning I woke from my slumber without too much pain, but rewarded my survival with a daylong laydown during which I read John Fowles' THE MAGUS. I completed the story of an selfish Oxford graduate escaping a relationship by accepting a teaching post on a remote Greek island, where he fights off suicide by entering into a series of metaphysical games with a rich tycoon mimicking the lives of the gods and heroic humans. I fast-flittered through the pages since I had read the novel in the 70s, but enjoyed it for the most part. After finishing The Magus I remembered that it had been made into a movie with Michael Caine, as the hero and Anthony Quinn as Maurice Conchis with Anna Karina and Candice Bergen as the love interests. The 1968 adaptation was a critical disaster and Michael Caine said that it was one of the worst film in which he had been involved. Woody Allen topped this critique by saying, "If I had to live my life again, I'd do everything the same, except that I wouldn't see The Magus." I watched a little on youtubes and it really did suck, but the book was a nice escape on a hang-over day, especially if you didn't have to read every word.

No Helicopters Over Brooklyn

Manhattan was a noisy borough. Sirens filled the canyons. Trucks and cars blow their horns, Helicopters fly overhead. There were even more noises from the alley behind my East 10th Street apartment. My windows were usually open. I didn't believe in AC. My alarm clock for several years was a young Jamaican girl, who woke me every weekday morning at 7:30 after her mother left the daycare's play yard in the alley, saying, "Please be a good girl." The well-dressed four year-old answered with a smile, "Yes, mother." As soon as her mother was out of sight, the neat little girl lifted her head to heaven and let loose a series of screams better suited to an exorcist movie. None of the daycare workers told her to be quiet. They believed in letting children express themselves. My neighbors and I were not so understanding. We preferred our sleep to her freedom.

One morning I shouted from my window for her to be quiet. More polite than angry.

"Fuck you, mistah." It was almost funny to hear the little girl speak with such conviction. "You ain't my father." "No, I'm not." It was too early in the day for almost funny and almost funny became very unfunny as the young girl repeats her high-pitched arias day after day after day. A ruthless fury seethed in my heart and I thought about physical revenge, except my mother had beaten her six children with a wooden spoon. Not often, but enough for me to remember and I never wanted to hit a child. Not mine. Not others. Kids deserved a wide berth, but this little girl had no cause to curse me out and I thought about revenge. After all I was tough in a neighborhood where tough meant something. This was 1986. I was 34. Still young enough to need my sleep after hard nights working at clubs and this cute little girl was stealing precious hours from my slumber. Finally I went down to the day care center and I complained to the principal. The older woman said that she would speak to the the girl.

Nothing happened at all.

The next morning the little girl gave me the finger.

It was 7:31.

I felt defeated. My good intentions were shot. My Hibernian sense of justice called for action. Firebombing the school was a little too extreme. My strategy required finesse and the next day at 5:30pm the little girl exited from the school to find me speaking with her mother. I was asking her for a date. The little girl stared at me in horror and understanding. Her mother was an attractive intelligent woman. She deserved someone more traditional than a nightclub person.

The following morning I slept in peace.

The girl respected my wishes and I hers.

In 2004 I moved from that apartment after the faceless landlords offered me a buy-out. I left the East Village for Brooklyn. Helicopters don't fly over Fort Greene. The only flight pattern is a southern approach for jets to La Guardia. I can't see Manhattan from my bedroom windows. Only the clock tower at the Atlantic Terminal. My windows are open today. I still have no AC, but a bird is singing in a nearby tree. Its song wakes me in the morning. Some things never change in New York.

Two More

Steven Sutton RIP

Julian C Chase RIP Today The New York Times added Julian C Chase of Maryland and Steven Sutton from Georgia to The Names Of The Dead bringing the total of soldiers killed in Afghanistan to 1976. There is no mention of either man in drudgereport.com, cnn.com, or Fox News. Marine Julian C Chase died in Helmand province, probably on a patrol against the opium growers. A teacher said in the Washington Post, “From very early on, his plan was to go on to the Marines. For him it was just one more step in learning and growing as a whole person.” Steven Sutton was also killed in Helmand province by an IED. Both men will be missed by friends and family. Bring the troops home.