SUPERSIZE HER!

If you weren't already convinced about the perils of overeating, here is something that just might push you over the edge:

The "little" Siberian girl on the left weighs 17.1 pounds (just after birth.) She is her mother's 12th child. The baby on the right is already developing a Napolean complex. Or maybe she's thinking, "at least I can fit into couture."

MY PAPARAZZI, MYSELF

Despite all the recent controversy about spying, wiretapping, and 24-7 video surveillance of the public, I had a recent experience that convinced me that, when it comes to being subjected to the watchful eyes of rogue cameras, maybe it's time to look within. Lately, my motorola razor cellular telephone has been inadvertantly switching to pix mode a lot. I don't know why. But still, imagine my surprise when, yesterday, about five minutes after getting out of bed in the morning, and wasting no time in scarfing down a banana--prior to any ablutions whatsoever--my phone accidentally took a picture of me, mid-chomp. (Not to mention, mid-bedhead.) I'm convinced there's some little voodoo paparazzo living in my phone, just trying to embarrass the living daylights out of me. It even caught me looking right at it! But I'm going to beat that little sucker to the punch, and prove to you, Dear Reader, that I have absolutely zero shame....

Because, here is the picture:



















I'm thinking if one of the actors on Cavemen doesn't work out, I might just be their gal...

LICENSE TO DRIVE... NAKED

G'day Readers--

So, I had a little idea. (You weren't expecting a big idea from ME, were you???) You can always count on the fact that I will be sick of the latest scandal almost before it happens. Therefore, you can count on the fact that I'm entirely fed up with the whole Vanessa Anne Hudgens scandal, if nothing else because she reminds me of a little relentless monkey. But it's not just HER and HER nude photo scandal, it's ___________ (fill in the blank with your favorite celebrity) and __________________ (do it again) nude photo scandal. I mean, who really cares??? I guess maybe if Stephen Hawking posed nude, I'd raise an eyebrow (well, both, I don't know how to do just one at a time although I admire that skill,) but barring that, I'm not so terribly shocked or interested.

But I'm not gonna just bellyache about our annoying, celebrity-driven times. Instead, I've come up with a solution to our unending preoccupation with nudity: Are you ready? Set? Here goes:

naked drivers license photos. Like this one:

only naked. and of the living.


I mean, why not? If everyone was naked on their drivers' license, we could just get it all out of the way and move on to loftier pursuits. It would also help cut to the chase on a first date. Anyway, just a thought. Please forward to your local DMV.

P.S. Where are all my AFRICA, LATIN AMERICA, and ASIA-based readers?? Based on my clustermap (see link at bottom of my blog) I don't seem to get no love from anyone but the colonialist enclaves of The U.S., Europe, and Australia (and yes, dear Canada, you too--I haven't forgotten about you, honeybuns. But you've never exactly been a tyranny--though you come from a long line of imperialists--and you're not exactly a developing nation either.)

They May Look Innocent...

Ahoy Readers!

So, you're probably wondering, what the hell is up with the pizza the livestock, and the fat man? Well, sit tight, 'cause I'm about to tell you. This post is about me being sick and tired of sheep. Not those adorable fuzzy ones above, but the human variety. But you know that saying about he who casts the first stone... I'm as guilty of it as the next guy, gal, or transvestite. Okay, well maybe not the next gal, but the gal three rows down on your right. Yeah, the one with the mismatched socks.

So, you're demanding, where exactly does the pizza come in??? Again, I pledge not to leave you in the dark. That pizza is a picture from Pizzeria Mozza, Mario Batali (see above,) and Nancy Silverton's hot new LA pizza restaurant. Well, since it opened almost a year ago, I'm not sure one could call it new, but... Anyhoo, I tried to make a reservation there for my husband's birthday--I did this two weeks in advance--and the EARLIEST they had was 10:15pm. I attempted calling back and seeing if there were any pizza-school drop outs, but was told, definitively, "Nein." Except they may have said it in English. But it didn't matter. "No" hurts in any language. And so does eating dinner at 10:15 if you're not Spanish or Italian or working the graveyard shift.

So, how am I tying this altogether? That question is just as much for me as it is for you... The point is, I'm MAD at myself. That's right, and DISAPPOINTED. Why do I need to go to a restaurant where you have to make a reservation months in advance to even eat during normal dining hours? WHY? Because we're all a bunch of sheep, that's why. Although, I don't know how apt a description that really is... I mean, those sheep may follow each other around, but I somehow doubt they're all concerned with where the best patch of grass is, and who will get to try it first, and how many calories it is. Matter of fact, I think they seem quite comfortable in their own wool. Which is something we could all aspire to...

P.S. If anyone has a reservation at Pizza Mozza for Friday night, between the hours of 7 and 9pm, let me know.

Weekend Warrior

Well, Dear Readers,
I wish I could tell you that the photograph above was of the nice clerk who rung me up at REI this weekend, but unfortunately, as we all know, it's not. (I bet if that guy worked at REI, they'd be at war with A16 by now, hitting each other over the head with Thermarests and violating the Geneva Conventions by forcing one another to wear zip-off camping pants.)

Okay, I hate to say it, but... My personal rule is that I must admit something shameful at least once every five years, and I think my time is up. So here goes:

In the above picture, that evil ignoramus (if you can be both at the same time,) that man of the wars, the torture, and the illegal spying; the to-hell-with-Kyoto and pretty-please-China- will-you-sit-by-me-at-lunch attitude, actually evokes sympathy from me--much more so than he did when he choked on a pretzel a few years back. I don't know what it is. Is it because I see so much of myself in him in that little piece of celluloid? That Camelbak brand hydration bladder (and matching pack), the iPod headphones, those polarized sunglasses, the sleek red bicycle helmet... Okay, so I won't comment on that inane headband, other than to defend it as mere sweat protection--but sincerely, I think this man has extracted a drop of compassion, nay, solidarity, from my ultra-liberal ticker. You are no doubt begging me why? Well, I'll tell you. I think it's that, in his weekend-warrior, pre-cycling state, that man has been reduced to a vulnerable human being, who needs water, shade, cranial protection (okay that one's up for debate), and itunes, just as much as the rest of us. Suddenly, the term "my fellow Americans" actually means something to me.

So am I switching political parties, or reversing my stance on impeachment? Not likely. But if I were to run into the guy at Yoga Works in the next few weeks, or say, PinkBerry**, or pouring over the New York Times vows section at Peet's some Sunday morning, that could just push me over the edge...



*For the uninitiated, REI and A16 are two sporting goods stores.
** I actually don't really like PinkBerry all that much--in fact, I could produce a tirade about that place worthy of its own blog post--but there is something very liberal and freethinking about it's existence, something which... I can't explain at all.