BEING FAT WITH IMPUNITY

Some tips for you brave fat ones living in the harsh world of thin beauties: 

1. Stare back. Dare them to judge you. Remember that your fat is just as good as anyone else's. If you're at a restaurant, lean over and ask, "are you going to eat your fat?"

2. Come up with your own soundtrack. Walk through the hip shopping district playing something kick-ass like Heaven 90210 by Urge Overkill (my current favorite song) or virtually anything by The White Stripes. If you've got a good soundtrack, who gives a shit if you're fat? All people will see is that you've got it going on. Unfortunately, I don't have an Ipod, so I just sing. 

3. Dress to eat.  Think loose fitting and stylish. You say it can't be done? Check me out sometime then. I prefer baggy trousers of natural fibers. If you are lucky enough to find pants with a built-in belt, buy several pairs. 

IDIOTS FOR DUMMIES

You know those stupid books like Juggling for Idiots, or Windows for Dummies? There's about a million of them and, although they pretty much suck, I want in on the action. I figured that a nice 10k advance would help me buy that new Vespa Granturismo 200 and get most of the way to Vegas (the great Cross-America scooter adventure). 

But I want to write about stuff that people really need to know. Useful things. Like how to make a really good zabaglione. How fat is too fat? Or what to do when you're on a date and you've forgotten your wallet! Who cares about juggling and the internet, right? So here's my idea: Idiots for Dummies. A brief sample of the contents (feel free to write in any you can think of - I'll post the best ones later in the week): 

IDIOTS FOR DUMMIES

1. Fashion: Stretch pants, dickies, and mullets for the rest of us. 

2. Sex: Can you really catch something from yourself? All about Solitary Social Diseases     

     (SSDs). 

3.  Superstition: The new science. Even crazier than Scientology. 

4.  Reading: Not all it's cracked up to be. Are adult picture books the next big thing? 

5.  Scratch tickets, coffee, and nicotine. Oh my! A look at what really makes the world run. 

6.   Programming your VCR: You can master the technology in 2.6 hours. 

7.  Ecological street drugs: an abuser's guide to saving the environment. 

Urge Overkill

Check out Heaven 90210, by Urge Overkill. They rock. Plus they're very stylish.

"When she comes for me

     and takes my hand

     and pain is all I know.

  

     She gives me heavenly thrills

     90210" 

Where is P.K.D. when you need him?

Imaginary phone conversation with my hero, Philip K. Dick, science fiction luminary and crackpot philosopher: 

"Phil, what the fuck! You don't return my phone calls anymore? Too damn famous since Blade Runner."

"Franklin, your phone has been disconnected. Are you drunk?" 

"What? Oh yeah. I forgot to pay my bill. I am a little inebriated. How could you tell?"

"Never mind, Franklin. Listen, I've been thinking about your critique of my draft of Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said. You really think the two strangers at the gas station should embrace?"

"Yes! Why, you don't think it works? You don't trust me anymore, Phil?"

"I don't know, Franklin. They're strangers. Plus, Felix has just lost his sister. His career has crumbled. He's numb." 

"I know, Phil. But that's the whole point of it. He's a fucking wreck, and he has no one left. He sees this guy and they exchange small talk. It's such a nothing kind of connection, but so what? Maybe that's it, Phil - what you've been searching for: the enormity of the universe and none of it makes any sense, but there's this one guy, and he's all fucked up, but he's still trying. Right? He should just quit and cash out his chips, but he doesn't. He keeps trying, Phil." 

"Okay, Franklin. I'm with you. Keep going." 

"And so he reaches out. At a damn gas station. With a stranger. For no reason. 

"Other than he's profoundly alone." 

"That's right, Phil. And, in that instant, everything is restored." 

"What? You mean his job and his sister's life?"

"No, dammit. His hope."

"Ah. I like it, Franklin. Let me think about it. You want to go get some pizza and then bowl a few games?"

"Sure, Phil. But none of that Hawaiian shit with the pineapples and ham. I don't know how you can stand it." 

"Sausage and cheese?" 

"You're on."

QUORN

Last week, on my birthday, I got one of those annoying phone calls from my doctor. You know, the kind that says, "Frank, tests came back. Got to lose 50 pounds or you're a dead man. Cholesterol, high blood pressure, hypertension, gout, sleep apnea, etc., etc." Like I've never heard that before! So I started in on a hearty breakfast of double-yoked eggs, sausage links, and fried potatoes. I like to break the yokes, mix everything together, and then douse it with salt, ketchup, and hot sauce. It gives me strength for the day ahead. But before I could take a bite, my mother (yes, I live with my mother, but it's just temporary) threw my food away in a fit of rage. Probably some kind of intervention she saw on Dr. Phil. 

"Franklin," she shrieked, "I've put up with a lot of crap from you. You're thirty-six years old, Franklin. When are you going to throw away those damn comic books and get a job - after your heart attack?" 

There was a lot more but I'll share only that plenty of guys my age still play Dungeons and Dragons and have Star Wars wallpaper - or at least they would if their wives allowed it, which is a sadness of its own. But then I've always been able to place others' misfortunes ahead of mine. Now to be fair, my "comic books" are really graphic novels. On the literary scale of things, there's quite a difference. 

 
But you can't explain these things to a mother, especially one who's hopped up on Dr. Phil and is also playing the rent, job and food card. So I made a loose commitment to change and, upon my mother's directive, went to the supermarket to buy some healthy food. I must admit that the fruit and produce was lovely. However, since I don't eat fruits and vegetables, this was of little help. Neither was the extensive selection of ersatz not-meat food products, goat milk yogurt, and barley groats. It begs the question, "What is a groat?" The only item I recognized was corn, only it was spelled QUORN on a box in the frozen section and is technically called Fusarium Venenatum, a fungus native to Buckinghamshire, England. It made no sense. I began to feel out of place and a little paranoid. Perhaps my mother and Dr. Phil were right: I was a hopeless case, a walking heart-attack at the tender age of thirty-six. 
Indeed, when I asked a stock boy (name tag: Gene) where in the health food aisle I could find mortadella, Gene said, "Morta-what?" I told him it was a special type of bologna made from finely hashed/ground heat-cured pork sausage. He looked concerned. So I explained the whole thing: about high cholesterol, my mother's threats, and Star Wars. 
Gene proved to be an excellent listener and, in a wave of nostalgia that touched my heart, disclosed that his girlfriend had made him take down the Star Trek wallpaper in his own apartment. 

She also pressured him to give up his weekly Dungeon's and Dragons game despite his status as an especially revered Dungeon Master. He was obviously distraught. You can see where all of this is going, I'm sure. With my help, Gene called his girlfriend and confronted her. She immediately packed her bags and left - an unforeseen event that goes to show you really can't trust women. 

Because of his flagrant sobbing, I deduced that Gene was in no shape to work. And, like any responsible citizen, I took Gene across the parking lot to Chili's for nachos, ribs, and a couple molten lava chocolate cakes. Four beers and as many appetizer platters later, Gene regained some of his wits; he called three of his D&D friends to set up an emergency "after-hours" game. We all met at Gene's empty apartment (girlfriend took furniture) for an epic D&D game that lasted through the next day. Gene's friends were very cool and offered to split rent on account that Gene got fired. I agreed to move in as well, with my share of rent to be held in abeyance until suitable work should present itself. The situation was a positive one for us all, although Gene complained about losing his bedroom. He did understand that it was only because of my sleep apnea and other health risks that I needed a private space. 
As for my mother, I still love her dearly, but she'll have to find someone else to practice her interventions on. And when I'm ready to lose those 50 pounds I will do whatever it takes aside from diet and exercise. 
Why? Because I am my own man. And I, Frank Santos, have my very own 5th of an apartment and I am currently the most feared D&D Rogue in the greater Ithaca metropolitan region.

I feel there is no explanation needed for this post. It gets me choked up every time I hear the words: 

  "Warm beer and cold women, I just don't fit in. 

     Every joint I stumbled into tonight

     that's just how it's been.

     All these double knit strangers with gin and vermouth

     And recycled stories in the naugahyde booths." 

   - Tom Waits