Antigeist

Diet tips.

I had to renew my driver's license recently, which had expired. A fact I might never have known (since the MTA is my chauffeur round these parts, and I'm so hell-old I never get carded for anything anymore) had I not pulled it out of my wallet to one-up someone in a contest of horrible photo ID's. Which I won, of course.

In the photo I'm fifty pounds heavier than I am now, and sport a botched at-home attempt at that purposely messy, jaw-length Meg Ryan haircut au currant in '95 (replete with freshly cut PMS bangs). I have my head pulled back to augment and highlight the exquisite fold of my chins, and am either just about toor close my eyes, I can't tell. Either way the effect is that of someone who is stoned and not very happy about it. Picture a mug shot of the redheaded love-child of Henry Kissinger and Ruth Buzzy, hauled in for prostitution and hash trafficking. Trust me, it'd beat your cowlick or out-of-style glasses hands down.

Every time I show that picture to anyone, the second question after "Where you drunk when you decided on that haircut?" [answer: yes] is almost always "Wow...how did you lose so much weight?"

Now, I don't know how to express how absurd the idea of being fat is to me, let alone the notion of dieting. Before a metabolism shift in my late-twenties I had never dieted or exercised a damn day in my life. I was naturally what some --outside of New York City, in the lands where people have a layer of flesh on their bones, where sizes '1' and '3' only exist, as they should, on the racks in the children's department--might describe as painfully thin. The kind of thin where perfect strangers, either out of jealously or genuine concern, felt obliged to make unsolicited comments like, "Jesus Christ you're skinny! Do you even EAT?" or "Look at you! You're wasting away!"

In those days if I felt like ordering something healthy at a restaurant, or happened to include leafy greens or fish or yogurt in my grocery store purchases, it would inevitably cause the server or check-out girl to go into shock. "Don't tell me you're on a DIET!?" they'd snap, wide-eyed, followed by a quick glance at my ring finger and the suggestion that I grab a box of Twinkies if I ever planned to land a man. Sage advice, I guess, since the people hurling the hurtful comments were usually fat and married.

And despite what those of you who fight with their weight may think (a group I am now a member of, thanks), it is hurtful. Twenty some-odd years of having my extremities compared to matchsticks, listening to groans of disgust when disengaging from a hug ("You're just skin and bones!"), or the litany of jokes about how I may slip down the drain in the shower, could be hidden by a broomstick, how shapelier legs can be found on a table, how I might blow away in a strong wind, "Hey! Olive Oyl, Olive Oyl !" or ... anyway, it gets old fast.

Which leads me to how I got fat. I got older as I said, and then I got married. To a former fry-cook that loved to be in the kitchen as much as I did and felt every worthwhile dish had to include cheese, butter, creme, pasta or potatoes, all in some roux or gravy of course. Every night of the week we made humongous piles of calorie-rich food that would rival the combined daily intake of several small nation-states. We bought a house, and a car, in which I drove to a job where I sat in front of a computer for eight hours. The 'big three' fast food joints were my only choices for a quick lunch in my work neighborhood, and everything was beyond walking distance. So the formula went like: aging, sitting, driving, eating, sitting more, eating crap, aging, driving, sitting.

But even then I only gained about ten pounds. I liked ten pounds. My (now ex) husband liked ten pounds. And I stopped getting the knowing wink and nod from women with figures like Holocaust survivors when I spied them buying the family pack of Oreos and a whole ham at midnight.

It wasn't until I quit smoking that I made the transition to Rubenesque. My doctor said my metabolism would even out after being smoke-free for awhile, but a year later and forty pounds heavier, I doubted her 'science'. But since my motto had become You can lose weight, but you can't lose cancer, I figured the only way to slim was if I changed my lifestyle completely. No more chicken parmesan, at least a one mile power-walk each night with the dog, more water, healthy bag lunches, aerobics on the days it was too shitty to head outside. Within a year I was the healthiest I had ever been in life...and still 40 pounds overweight. No, really. Hadn't shed a single fucking pound. So, with the support of my husband --who had to support me really, since hadn't exactly kept up his boyish figure--I decided to resign myself to being a healthy fat lady. And I was, happily, for years.

But I did lose most of it, eventually. I got back to the ten pounds above gaunt where I started. However when people see the pictures of the big me, and inevitably ask "So how'd you lose the weight?" I'm always reticent to answer. It's not a diet regimen I'd recommend. To an enemy.

First, get a divorce. A nasty, heart-crushing, soul-killing divorce in which you lose the home you completely restored, the antiques you've collected, and are left with the responsibility for all of the marital debt. Be forced to move to the only apartment you can find, one without a kitchen, because it's a fix-er-uper you've agreed to rehab in exchange for rent (since you can't pay rent. see: marital debt). Help the landlord do hard labor nearly every night after work; work you must now walk to because the ex made off with both cars. Feel truly alone and hopeless, take your alcohol intake up a notch, and resume chain smoking after having quit for nearly two years. Lose all that excess water by weeping frequently, from supper-time till bed, which eventually makes it impossible to eat meals at all. Lose two, count em', two family members to the grave. Desperate for human contact, start having a meaningless affair with someone you are ashamed to be seen with in public. Get seen with them in public. Have one of your best friends ask you what the fuck is going on--if you've lost your mind. Don't talk to that person for a year. Actually, pack everything up and move to New York City.

Now it may not be Atkins approved, and I'm not saying I'd back this approach...but I dropped about forty pounds in like two months.

My talent? Finding something to complain about.

You know, the thing about NOT going home for the holidays, about NOT having to witness (and be forced participate in) the insanity that is your family--when you spend the holiday weekend with good friends instead, people with whom you do not argue, with whom you share nearly identical political, religious, and social beliefs, who are great cooks, conversationalists, and confidants collectively--well...to be frank? You are robbed of some very necessary familial confrontations and all that delicious post-holiday bitching. Things you've come to rely on, really. For comfort. For catharsis. For therapy, whatever.

So I had a great holiday, and because of which, nothing else to say on the matter.

OH shut up. It's like cute times fifty. Have you no soul? And what are you doing online on Thanksgiving anyway? Go kiss Grandma.

Why I'm about to explode, what with all the holiday spirit.

A few clarifications:

1. She's a girl dog, asshole neighbor, so she squats. She was not defecating on that precious square of broken glass and candy wrappers you feel ownership of (city property, I'll point out)--although I'm sure it appeared so from your spectacular vantage/screaming point three floors up and a half-block away. I assure you, when she does empty her bowels I always pick it up, no matter the risk to life and limb.

2. In the past week we've had people over three times, a house guest, and celebrated two birthdays. So the like twenty empty bottles of booze I just put to the curb for recycling? NOT my personal weekly intake. Nosy fucking garbage assessing eyebrow raising bitch.

3. The traffic light (outside my bedroom window) is not equipped with a car horn sensor designed to turn the light from red to green at the behest of your blares. Nor does your incessant honking make it any less dangerous, stupid, or illegal for the person ahead of you to run the red light at which they are stopped--what one must assume you are demanding they do, since there is no other logical or reasonable explanation for laying on your horn and screaming out the window at someone who is simply obeying the fucking traffic laws. How do I know that is their motive? Because ass-face, they--now listen carefully--they put their car into motion when the light turned green. See, they stopped at the red light, and continued on when it turned green, which, crazy as it seems, had fuck-all to do with you or your noise--it's the law around these parts. To recap: Your horn does not effect the changing of the traffic signal in any way. Nor does its clarion call suspend the space-time continuum, or the laws of both physics and man. Its only function in a non-emergency situation is to wake me from my first decent slumber in two weeks, and thereby force me--a natural, crackerjack markswoman--to reconsider my decision to never own a gun.

4. When you have a steady customer, someone who frequents your business at minimum four or five times a week, who is always pleasant and kind, who you know by name, whose partner you know by name, know where they live, know they will be back again tomorrow or even possibly later that day, who spend in the hundreds of dollars in your store each month-- and you ring up a purchase for $20.13, and that customer reaches into their wallet to find they only have a twenty and three cents... YOU DO NOT STAND THERE DOE EYED, SHRUG YOUR SHOULDERS AND INFORM THEM OF THE WHEREABOUTS OF A FUCKING ATM MACHINE. Spot them the dime, for Christsakes. They will be in again, and give it to you. I, however, will use the ATM machine you so kindly pointed out to get money to spend elsewhere.

renault logan authentique

5. Many elderly people in my neighborhood augment their income by fishing through garbage to find returnables. They are not homeless, they live here. They are clean, their clothes are in decent repair, they wear gloves to protect their hands, have their own carts and occasionally grandchildren in tow. People who have worked all their lives--pulling a coke can we mistakenly threw away out from under our coffee grounds and foam meat packaging and cigarette butts. It is heartbreaking. The saddest commentary of how we treat the aged, what our priorities are as a nation. A new culture of poverty just a notch above homelessness made up of those who did work, who did save, but who can't work anymore, and couldn't have possibly saved enough. If you catch their eye while they are digging in a pile of waste, they are ashamed. I'm ashamed. But you? You who live on my street, who come flying out of your homes enraged, screaming, demanding they go away, who threaten to call the police? You who have forgotten that these are your neighbors, that their children went to school with yours, that they attend the same church, that they are just as horrified to be in their position as you are to witness it? You who swear and belittle and complain and explode because your beloved garbage was disturbed? You?

I hope you choke on your fucking Turkey

Gonna party like it's your birthday.

Since Monk let the cat out of the bag, yeah, today is my birthday, and yeah, I'm hell old.

But I'm not feeling the effects of my age today as much as the after-effects of the fantastic party G threw for me last night. Oh sure, it started innocently enough, they always do. It'll be low-key, we said, we'll meet up with our friends at a bowling alley, do a little bowling, have a few cocktails, some cake, start in the late afternoon so everyone would be home at a reasonable hour, get a good night's sleep...we said.

But going out early tricks you. When you gather late in the evening, time has a way of providing a natural stopping point, it gets late, you gotta work tomorrow, you've closed the bar, go home, no more drinky for you. But when you've been partying for three hours and dammed if it isn't even eight yet? Well who the hell goes home at eight? The night's still young! Never-mind that you're already sauced, who cares that you haven't eaten; it's only freaking eight o' clock. And it's a party. And it's only eight. For christsakes.

Which is how you end up traipsing through Union Square with a fifteen foot tall bunch of stolen helium balloons tied to your hair and the firm belief they would support your weight in an attempt to fly. How you end up at another bar. And are lulled way past the point of no return by a pool table, endless drinks for the birthday girl, and The Very Best Of Queen on repeat...because the power of a nice buzz and "Bicycle" is strong, grasshopper.

How you end up with a life-or-death need for greasy, cheesy, goodness at the neighborhood all-night Spanish diner. Where--when the lump of huevos hits the booze in your belly with an audible splash--you are forced to consider the ramifications of drinking for the past seven hours.

So sorry friends. If you are suffering even a tenth as much as I am today, blame my foolish idea to go out early. And blame Queen.

Sorry Everybody.

[I just realized I didn't credit the link to ewer. Sorry.]

You're right G. It's uncanny.

Three cheers for the easily amused.

Thanks to a gift from a good friend who shall remain nameless lest she perish from the horror of association, we are now the proud owners of a Baa Humbug candy shitting sheep. It is the most wildly amusing thing ever. No, I'm not being sarcastic. The three of us had that thing crapping out the fun for like three hours last night.

As shown in the picture, it's a small plastic sheep you fill with the included jelly beans, then you press his back, and his tail raises, and one or two beans are dispensed from his behind, thus giving the appearance the sheep 'shat' them out. Sheer...delight. So much so, we ripped through those jelly beans in no time, and proceeded to refill his anal cavity with any and all matter of things--in order of what would fit, and what would be the most disturbing.

The jelly beans were good. They were brown and distinctly poop-like, if you could overlook the glossy sheen and uniform shape, which is very un-poop-like, and the fact that they were cola flavored, which is also very un-poop-like...I'm guessing. So we switched to pomegranate seeds, which dispensed quite nicely, but whose ruby-red color ultimately made us feel sad for the sheep. Instead of the wholesome fun of pretending to eat sheep poop, it was like we were witnessing the last moments of some poor beast dying of incurable colon cancer. Anyway, we ran out. Next nameless friend balled up little pieces of toilet paper for the sheep to crap, which was nice. Like puffy clouds of poo, that cleaned his bum upon exit. But sadly the toilet paper unraveled a bit in his belly, forcing nameless friend to have to perform an emergency colonoscopy with a pair of tweezers. The sheep pulled through fine. So we were on to chocolate chips. The chocolate chips were the shit, as the kids say nowadays. Perfect color, fitting barnyard 'cowpie' shape. And chocolate. Ummmm. Totally satisfying in every way, delighting all five senses. Much better than anything I've stuffed up his ass afterward. Like walnuts and wasabi peas.

*grinning, in that "please don't hit me" way*

A million apologies to all my Southern loved ones--to my main man G and his family, to Maud and Mister Maud, to Zeebah and Lauren, to Mr. X and Vidiot and, well, all y'all...

Fuck the South.

(link via Zeebah-belle)

Strike two figgy puddings.

We recently learned that first-year employees at G's new jobby-job do not receive any extended time off for the holidays. Never mind something like a vacation--dude won't even score a four-day weekend. He'll get 'the day' of the holiday off, and that's it. Which means, through no fault of our own, we are completely unable to go anywhere this year. It's logistically impossible. He'll barely have enough off-time to attend a celebration here; let alone time for trips out of town to visit relatives. It's not negotiable, we are powerless. We are forced to stay in New York and spend the holidays alone, or with friends.

I know. It's like...it's like winning the lottery and achieving inner peace all at once.

HI MOM!

Well, that's it for the rest of the week. We have an out of town guest, who happens to be a relative, someone who'd like to think I'm unaware she knows I have a blog, that she reads--even when she QUOTES it back to me on the phone FOR FUCK'S SAKE-- and whose sensitivity about her forgetful mind I protect by pretending I don't have a blog when she's around. Oh, and to whom I address passive-aggressive posts knowing she can't mention them. (sucka!)

So as always, visit the kids on your right. Play nice. And eat your greens.

xo,
Your Anti

Let the eagle soar

Ashcroft resigns. Just in time for Christmas, when Rudolph arrives.

February: The month lots of people's parents were "getting it on".

Today is G's birthday! I love when it's G's birthday. Because for the magical two weeks between G's birthday and mine, we are one year closer in age. The two weeks of the year I feel less like an old bag or a creepy cradle robber, the two weeks when I simply feel "more mature," or "seasoned." And then my birthday comes and it's back to waiters asking "...And for your son?" when we dine out.

Oh, I kid. He's only *mumble* years younger than I. Nothing, really. It only makes a difference every once in awhile. Like when we realize that while he was in Texas making the difficult transition to middle school, I was a homeless ex-pat living in Amsterdam, X-ing my brains out at the Melweg every night with Sigue Sigue Sputnik.

But no matter the age difference--if we were twenty years apart--I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, with anyone else, for the most important reason: I admire him. It's the most crucial part of a relationship, a lesson I was taught at nineteen, but unfortunately was unable or unwilling to apply to my life until I met G.

The lesson came from my boss at the time, Dr. Walker. I waltzed into work all high on the blush of new love (yet another singer/songwriter/guitar player), and proceeded to ooze about him, talk about how cute he was and how cool he was and how well we got along. Now Dr. Walker had heard this schtick from me before, had witnessed my heart get crushed by a string of egotistical, emotionally unavailable lotharios; so she raised one eyebrow and said, "So this young man...do you admire him?"

"Oh, yes!" I exclaimed, and gushed on again about how smart and cool and cute he was.

"I know you're attracted to him, I asked if you admire him. His entire person. His instincts, his politics, how he moves in the world, how he affects it, how it effects him. I know he's someone you want to be with, but is he someone you'd like to be?" And then she pointed to the pictures I had tacked to the bulletin board next to my desk: My Grandfather, Amelia Earhart, Nelson Mandela, Flannery O'Connor, Elvis Costello, Mark Morris, Bishop Desmund Tutu, Ghandi. Her hand rested on a post-card portrait of Georgia O'Keefe and Alfred Stieglitz.

That shut my ass up for the rest of the day. Until I got home, and got a call from mister groovy-pants, who said I should come to his gig that night because he was going to do a song he'd written about me. I was Nineteen, folks.

It took years before I understood Dr. Walkers point. It took until I met G. Not only do I love him, am attracted to him, love his company, his smarts, his heart; but I'm just so proud of him, I'm made better simply standing next to him. I've never dated anyone who I'd like to be before. I've loved, but I've never aspired. It's pretty amazing. He's amazing.

Happy Birthday G. Thank you.

Join the only real bi-partisian party. On second thought, you Righty assholes can stay home.

Today is my friend Monk's Birthday, and I can't help but feel sorry about the timing. Having a birthday three days after, like, THE MOST BLEAK DAY IN AMERICAN HISTORY has a way of putting a damper on things.

But I was thinking we all need a little festivity, an uplifting of spirits...so may I suggest you try to tap into all that yippie-hurray partying you planned to do last Tuesday, and do it now, in honor of the Monk-man. I mean, HE didn't fuck up the election. He didn't ask to be born for Christsakes! Let alone, you know, today.

SO HAPPY BIRTHDAY MONK!

(Look, I'm trying man.)

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

The map below compares statistics on free and slave states. It was issued during the presidential election campaign of 1856, and pictures John C. Fremont, the first presidential candidate of the Republican Party, and his running mate, William L. Dayton.

The map shows slave states in (go figure) black, free states in pink, and the territories arguing over and potentially effected by the Kansas-Nebraska Act in green.

The next map is the outcome of the Kerry/Bush election last Tuesday. Bush red, Kerry Blue.

Note the similarities between the two. Discuss.

Letting Denial kiss my ass and asking Anger to dinner.

"Before 1776 America was a British colony. The British Government had certain laws and rules that the colonized Americans rejected as not being in their best interests. In spite of the British conviction that Americans had no right to establish their own laws to promote the general welfare of the people living here in America, the colonized immigrant felt he had no choice but to raise the gun to defend his welfare. Simultaneously he made certain laws to ensure his protection from external and internal aggressions, from other governments, and his own agencies. One such form of protection was the Declaration of Independence, which states: ". . . whenever any government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundations on such principles and organizing its powers in such forms as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness."

Thomas Jefferson? No. John Dickinson? Nope. Huey P. *fucking* Newton. June 20, 1967.

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the 
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother.

There will be no pictures of you and Willie May
pushing that shopping cart down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that color television into a stolen ambulance.
NBC will not be able predict the winner at 8:32
or report from 29 districts.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down
brothers in the instant replay.
There will be no pictures of Whitney Young being
run out of Harlem on a rail with a brand new process.
There will be no slow motion or still life of Roy
Wilkens strolling through Watts in a Red, Black and
Green liberation jumpsuit that he had been saving
For just the proper occasion.

Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville
Junction will no longer be so damned relevant, and
women will not care if Dick finally gets down with
Jane on Search for Tomorrow because Black people
will be in the street looking for a brighter day.
The revolution will not be televised.

There will be no highlights on the eleven o'clock
news and no pictures of hairy armed women
liberationists and Jackie Onassis blowing her nose.
The theme song will not be written by Jim Webb,
Francis Scott Key, nor sung by Glen Campbell, Tom
Jones, Johnny Cash, Englebert Humperdink, or the Rare Earth.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be right back after a message
about a white tornado, white lightning, or white people.
You will not have to worry about a dove in your
bedroom, a tiger in your tank, or the giant in your toilet bowl.
The revolution will not go better with Coke.
The revolution will not fight the germs that may cause bad breath.
The revolution will put you in the driver's seat.

The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised,
will not be televised, will not be televised.
The revolution will be no re-run brothers;
The revolution will be live.

This just in:

While on the way to each and every American home (regardless of the inhabitants race, religion, annual income or sexual preference), Hope was brutally murdered early this morning. Police have released the following sketch of the suspected killer:

If you have any information as to the whereabouts of this murderer, please contact your local government officials... so they can shake his hand. That Hope bitch was really pissing them off.

Blame the messenger, too. But listen to the message.

If Cheney can run around saying that a vote for Kerry will bring a rain of terror down on your ass so fast you won't have time to kiss it goodbye--then I can say this: Osama Bin Laden has tacitly agreed to bugger off if we get Bush out of office. A vote for Bush is a vote for endless terror.

Seriously, if you haven't already, take three minutes and read his whole statement. Unlike our lying religious zealot war-monger, Osama lays it all out for you; the history, the impetus, his future plan... it's like the part in every Batman episode where the BAD GUY ties the GOOD GUY to a plank on a conveyer belt routed toward the big nasty mangle-to-death machine, and then--while our hero is enjoying his last moments--delivers a death-bed explanation of his master plan, you know, out of courtesy. That whole polite good-guy to bad-guy mutual admiration between opposing equals stuff only found in comic books and Sherlock Holmes novels; and the Bush family and their middle-eastern dopplegangers.

I've done what I can. Now I start with the Santeria.

First, this item, to be filed under "Couldn't have said it." I know that should be followed by "better myself," but I just couldn't have put the words and such together.

Next, listen to a super smart and totally sexy law librarian tell you about voting in general, your voting rights, and what to do in case of any mishap tomorrow. If imagining her sexy librarian self brings up any delicious sexy librarian fantasies...know that sexy librarians do not have hot sexy-sex encounters with Bush supporters. Sorry. *Pop*

And finally, if by chance there is a single undecided person left (no harsh words, no blame, no anger, I swear) I beg you, please, please, PLEASE read these 100 inarguable (and verifiable) facts against the Bush Administration. Then be still, and vote your conscience.

Unlike Bush's misuse of the term, there is a lot of hard work to do. Please, let's get to it--instead of wasting time pledging allegiance to one man's narrow agenda.

Let's wish (all of) us luck tomorrow.

The waiting is the hardest part.

Though not completely out of the "Oh fuck what if the bastard wins for real this time" funk I have been indulging in, I am feeling more hopeful today. Mostly, well entirely due to a few Sunday conversations held with Maud, where I received the updates of Mr. Maud's Floridian adventures in upholding Democracy.

I cannot express the extent to which I am proud of him, how I admire him. How his example is humbling. Oh, I talk a big game, which is pretty easy in New York City, or in most of New York State. However it's important to be reminded that there's a step beyond talking a big game... there's taking time off from work, putting your ass on a plane at your own expense, and canvassing the neighborhoods in a swing state that are most likely to be targets for voter fraud. Sorta makes my twenty bucks to the Kerry fund and an ongoing Bush rant on a website read by six people seem a little lackluster; and inspires more than a smidgeon of guilt.

However in an effort to put guilt to good use, I stopped in at the Swinging Sixties Senior Center (my sexy polling place) to see if I could be of use somehow: setting up the booths for tomorrow, help make signs or unfold folding tables, or, I don't know, make punch. They were delighted by my offer and promised to give me a call this afternoon when the booths arrive. I was warned, "But only Board of Elections people can touch them." I assume she meant the booths, I hope she meant the booths. If not she was intimating something about their swinging sixty clients I'm not altogether comfortable with.