Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Every Time You Go Away, You Take a Piece of Meat with You

You know, I've always had a weight problem/eating disorder. See, there was a time when I thought I was enormously fat. Now that I am fat, I wish I was skinny like when I thought I was enormous. Can you see the dilemma?

Anyway, I don't want to do some fad diet. They seem a bit silly to me.

For Instance, Dr. Atkins was a proponent of his self-named Atkins Diet. On this diet, one is to avoid carbohydrates at all costs in favor of gargantuan quantities of meat. Well at least that is the gist of it, in my opinion. This is supposed promote weight loss.

Dr. Atkins is dead. How did he die? Well, I read somewhere that he lost his footing and sustained a fatal head injury. I suspect he slipped on some greasy meat drippings. The poor man was a victim of his own designs. Ah well.

Anyway, the problem with this diet is that I cannot live solely on animal carcass. Well, not unless it is thoroughly battered(that is, covered in carbs), deep fried and served with a healthy serving of buttery mashed potatoes and brown gravy.

Of course, if you think that is the end to which diets come. Fear you not! There are other diets lurking in the shadows waiting their chance to pounce upon an unsuspecting corpulent.

Jack Lalanne promoted his fashion of good healthy dieting and living. He ate nuts and twigs. The man has got to be nearly elevendy thousand years old. Anyway, now he has an infomercial peddling some kind of juicer that can juice anything; granite, paper towels, children's toys, car tires, just anything, you know.

Of course, he prefers the renderings of fruits and vegetables from his juicer. Healthy food stuffs...things to which I have no interest whatsoever.

I suppose he went to juicing after his so acclaimed nuts and twigs diet left him toothless. Anyway, that kind of diet is fine for mice and squirrels, but it is certainly not for me.

But wait, you may dial 1-800-99J-ENNY for Jenny Craig. Has anyone ever seen that woman? I am sure she is growing grossly wealthy from the cost of her weight loss programs. I would be prepared to wager that the real Jenny Craig is a big fat recluse.

I suspect, one of these years, we are going to see a Dateline or 20/20 report about how a team of rescuers had to cut Jenny's house off her just to get her out. There will be an aerial view of the gruesome scene with some up and coming reporter narrating his way to fame; tons of flesh flowing out of the gaping nave of her house like a can of pop-biscuits. The headline will read, "Jenny, Didn't You Know Your Own Number?"

Here is what I have to say about that diet: Who couldn't lose weight eating overly priced food that tastes just like the cardboard packaging from whence it came? Ugh!

Yes! That means I tried it. First of all, I could only afford one of the three daily meals. Second, the food was inedible at best. That said. I didn't lose any weight on that diet; just money.

"And what of the Celebrity diets?" you might ask. Let me see. There's the Oprah Diet where one bounces back and forth from behemoth to rail in the two turns of a television dial. Next, the Anna Nicole Smith Diet in which the fat simply flees from an irritatingly ingnorant voice assisted by a flatulence making dietary supliment. And last of mention, there's the Britney Spears Diet, which has the most miraculous results of all. However, it begs the following question:

How does Britney Spears go from the "I've eaten so much fried chicken, butter milk biscuits, sausage gravy, barbeque rib sandwiches and pork rinds that I've developed oatmeal colored cottage cheese thighs; however, I'm secure enough with my I'm from the south body to walk around on the beach in a two piece" Britney to the "I'm sleek, fit, and you could bounce a quarter off my bum" Britney in just a three consecutive daily issues of a tabloid newspaper? The diet secret is close to mind-boggling at best.

However, I shall try to explain this diet to you. It is my understanding that one may eat what one wants; yet, instead of burning off the fat by means of a tiresome exercise routine, a man in blue robes and a mask simply sucks the fat right out using a big tube. It's all the rage. Everybody's doing it.

Anyway, the other day I made a startling discovery. I read that one could eat less, exercise more, and one could most assuredly lose weight. That seemed a controversial method to my eyes. Further, the diet stipulated that one should eat a variety of healthy fresh foods. No processed, prepackaged or fast food could be consumed on this diet. The words were like an epiphany.

Needless to say, I tried this flavor subversive diet. I prepared a meal as directed. It consisted of 12 fresh steamed green beans and a 6 ounce salmon filet seasoned with salt and pepper then sautéed in a light olive oil. I ate. When I finished eating, I began the 20 minutes of brisk walking as directed by the program.

As you know, I am not one to take in a great deal of this so called "exercise" business. However, all was going particularly well. Yes, I was feeling good about the effort I was putting forth. About 11 minutes into my brisk walk (in that time I managed to get from the front door to the bottom of the porch stairs), I looked up and there it was beaconing for me, calling out to me sweetly like a long lost friend.

It was Wendy's! Immediately I started to have an excruciating craving. I became cold and clammy to the touch, my breathing became irregular and I was shaking.

Then in a flash my thoughts turned to terror. On this diet, I would d have to give up Wendy's hamburgers! My heart began to race. Oh the thought of it! Heaven forbid. I LOVE Wendy's hamburgers! I just love them.

And, well, that is where we are now. It's funny how all this diet talk has made me particularly hungry. I think I'll be off to Wendy's. Ciao!

Friday, April 21, 2006

A Tale of Woe: Chasing the Bimbo Dragon

I have this friend, you see. We'll call him Tom. He has a fixation on someone we will call…I don’t know…Bimbo. I know that's not a particularly flattering name, but I shall trust that you will understand later. Anyway, Tom is my friend. He is highly intelligent. Ok, he’s an over-thinker, if you will. Only, he loses his mind over, well, Bimbo.

The more I come to know of Bimbo, the less I have come to like Bimbo. It's not jealousy or anything. It's just that I can't see anyone spending all that time on someone like Bimbo! Sleepless nights, longing, talking about Bimbo all the time, the whole works. It is most Shakespearian in nature. You know, the whole unrequited love sort of business.

Well anyway, I told Tom, "Why do you keep beating yourself over the head when Bimbo treats you so badly?" Tom's response? It went something like this, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I know Bimbo has a good heart! Yadda, yadda yadda yadda yadda. I love Bimbo very much. This and that, this and that, this and that….."

That usually goes on as long as I can stand to play the sympathetic ear. Astoundingly enough, I do feel sympathy…empathy even. Most evenings I can last the whole marathon... about three, maybe four hours of Bimbo talk.

But something was different yesterday. I don’t know if it was Tom or me or maybe both of us, but I was in NO mood for Bimbo. I tried at first. However, five minutes into the spill, I broke.


“I’m sick of that selfish, infantile, insensitive, manipulative Bimbo!” It was strange that my staying power waned at such a considerable rate of speed. My response was, of course, much less welcome than my usual indulgent response. “What? I thought…uhm, well…” sputtered Tom.

After a considerably thick silence, he started again quite tentatively, “…well, it’s just that Bimbo this and Bimbo that.” Again, I snapped, “I can’t take this anymore. Either shock some sense into Bimbo or let Bimbo go! What has Bimbo ever done for you to make you so loyal to such a disloyal person! I’ll hear nothing else of that foolish user, Bimbo!”

After that outburst another longer thicker silence crept over Tom’s last words, “…lationship with Bim…” His voice trailed off into a kind of half-hearted whisper. I said nothing. Maybe I was testing to see if Tom would make another stab at revitalizing the Bimbo talk. Much to my suprise and repose, he did not.

The silence lingered for the goodly part of three minutes. I was glad. After that aural workout, silence was what I needed.

When Tom began to talk again he started in a skittish tone. “Are…are, you ok?” “Yes, I’m quite well,” I said quickly and coolly. “How are you?” I followed hastily. I didn’t really want to know for fear that his response would be infused with another dose of Bimbo.

“I’m fine, actually,” said Tom in a cheery sort of voice. I was somewhat taken aback by the tone of his response. I expected Tom to all broken up…all upset with me because I had been short with him. He was not. On the contrary, he said briskly, “You are right. Why do I spend so much of my life chasing the Bimbo Dragon? It’s like a drug I suppose. I’m glad you spoke strongly to me.”

We haven't discussed Bimbo for a couple of days, yet. I have the feeling, though, that underneath the surface of our conversations some Bimbo talk is bubbling and churning waiting to rear it's ugly head. I suppose, though, like drugs of any sort, Bimbo addiction is a habit not easily dispensed with.

Ah well, what can one do?

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Will Work for Fool

I'm going on a job interview tomorrow, but I'm wondering if it is the course of wisdom. I do have a Claritin habit to support, besides. Otherwise, I’ll have red eyes and look as like an addict. Who wants that?! But still I wonder. Anyway, It's not really an "interview" in the traditional sense.

I've already interviewed once with a Turkish woman whose name sounded like a big brass musical instrument. I suppose she's fortunate that her lythe frame doesn't match her name. Anyway, tomorrow I'm going to be paired with an Account Executive. I'll be able to evaluate the job itself by seeing the Account Executive in action.

The Account Executive is supposed to allow me interact with clients as well so that he can evaluate my aptitude for this kind of work against the company's ideal profile of an Account Executive. I must say that, although contrary to my nature, I can fain obsequious, sycophant behavior when necessary. I foresee there should be no trouble or doubt as to my ability to do this job.

The trouble is, I just don't know if I really want the job. I don't exactly have to work outside what I do now, but admittedly there is some allure in getting back in the "rat race". Only, I don't feel like a rat anymore. I feel more like the python that eats the rat. In other words, I don't want to start at the bottom. I've done my time on Peon Street and I refuse go back.

While driving this afternoon, I saw a man standing on the corner while holding a sign that said, Will Work for Food. It occurred to me that there are people in this world who were either ejected from the "rat race" or have eliminated themselves from it. I was the striken by a revelation. "He's got the right idea." Work for something you can use!

I imagined the man from the corner glaring at me as I stand in my large office. I'm wearing a fine pin-striped suit while holding a sign that states, Will Work for Fool. It would be true. I've worked for a number of fools in the past.

You know, truth be told, I don't want to stand on a street corner while holdig a sign that indicates my willingness to toil for a meals, but I sure don't want to break my back for fools anymore either.

Somehow, the sight of that man on the corner injected some much needed clarity into my life.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Do Not Feed the Animals Unless You're Old and Have Nothing Left to Live for

There's a picturesque lake near my apartment. An elderly lady, probably in her late 60s, early 70s was walking briskly around the lake in the opposite direction she should have. There are signs that direct the foot traffic.

Of course, she was elderly so why should she take notice of some silly sign. I figure she'd reasoned in her mind that she'd lived long enough to not have to be botherd with such novelties like law.

Don't ask my why I was walking a mile and a quarter around the lake. I try to walk as little as possible..about once a month when someone can fool me into doing it. There's usually some promise of cakes and pies at the end of the torturous trek. Those promises are usually lies.

Anyway, this elderly lady had that look of eccentricity. I won't describe her completely, but she had bright red henna hair and black eyebrows that looked as though they had been painted on with a 2 inch brush. She spoke. She was sweet.

I did, however, instantly fear for her hip. You know, a broken hip always seems a death sentence for an old person. As I write, I can hear my grandmother's disaproving tone even now saying something like, "Keep living. You are going to get old one day." To which I would most assuredly reply, "One day, eh? Thank God I won't have to do that twice!" Who would have the energy for that?!

From what I can tell, old people toil endlessly to make an appearance of wisdom and kindness...some kind of geriatric caricature. I think they are trying to disguise what they used to be. Mean, hateful young people just like we are now. Why? Well, that's easy.

Most old folks think that when they finally "buy the farm" they'll get a plot in heaven-provided they can be sweet in their last years. Let me open your eyes to a simple fact. That supposed sweet behavior can lull one into a false sense of security.

Surely you've heard this phrase, "Oh, but he's just a sweet old man." Let me tell you something, alot of sweet old men were once nasty young men. Does that ever change? Well, according to my sister who used to work at a nursing home; the packaging changes, but usually the contents remain the same.

Anyway, it would seem that the aged have a hard time following rules they would have otherwise submitted to in their youth. For instance, there is no end to signs around our complex that state do not feed the animals. But inevitably, there's some elderly person supporting himself on the do not feed the animals sign as he bends over to feed the squirrels or some other creature.

Perhaps they break laws because they've nothing left to live for...kind of like a "last hurrah." I can only imagine what these geriatric outlaws might be thinking. It's probably something like, "I'll be dead before you can finish dialing the police."

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most

Spring has finally burst forth. And as spring is a-bursting, so are my eyes. I don't suffer sinus allergies, but I suffer eye allergies. My eyes feel like negro slaves that have been whipped for trying to escape the plantation.

Besides that, it's kind of awful walking around all the time looking as though I'm half lit. I know how people think when they see a black guy walking around with bloodshot eyes. They aren’t thinking, "oh, he must be a successful doctor,” “that handsome red-eyed guy must be a stock broker or something."

No, they aren’t thinking that at all! I'm black. I know what I'd say if I saw a black guy with blood shot eyes walking about in the midst of clear eyed people. "Well, he's got to be half baked!" Or how about this one? "Oh God! He's going to cut me!" Or mabye this, "He must be a drug addict, dealer, murderer, gang member, unemployed, beggar, hoodlum, hood rat, nig..."

Well, you get the idea. Sometimes, when I'm feeling a bit bored, I switch up the order to add some spice!

Well, anyway, that was me. I was walking around all allergy stricken, but only in my eyes. I looked awful to say the very least. For one, there's a beautiful something-or-other tree in full bloom right outside my apartment. There are also whuchuhmuhdiddley bushes flowering everywhere, not to mention all the thingamabob flowers springing up all over the place.

I opened the windows to get some of this fresh springy air. My eyes nearly swelled out of my head. My lower left eyelid began to swell up one day. It was gross. I had a cocktail weenie for a lower eyelid. Well, after that, I knew I had to do something. And something I did, indeed. I got some Claritin.

Let me tell you something about Claritin. It works. However, it's like having a high dollar drug habit. I got 5 pills for 11 plus dollars. I was in shock...totally! I calculated it up. I'd have to spend over $66 a month on my drug of choice...Claritin!

Then I thought, "What if I should come to depend on it just to have clear eyes again and I don't have the money for it? Will I have to prostitute myself like a crack ho?"

The consequences of this proposed drug depenence were flooding through my brain. "I'll become a Claritin ho, selling myself for the next fix," I worried.

Oh well. I guess one does what one has to do.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Death to Hair-Band Polka

I love my apartment. It’s bright and airy and whatever. I just hate my fat-headed downstairs neighbor. He’s a boar…you know, like a pig with coarse black hair and tusks? I’m going to beat him to a bloody pulp next time he starts playing music at 2:30 in the morning.

Well, I won’t really assault him. I’ll just drop something heavy on him when he comes out of his door some morning.
Anyway, he wasn’t even playing music you could shake your bum to.

80's Hair Band meets...
He was playing something that sounded like fantastically bad polka with a sorry 80’s hair band base line sadly tacked onto it. It was DISGUSTING.
Even worse, the music was so loud that it shook my dishes in the kitchen cabinet with terrible violence.
After he finally turned it off at a 3:40 something a.m. I was able to get to sleep. However, I had horrible nightmares after that, though.
I keep dreaming of the Von Trapp family (the family from The Sound of Music) all wearing German Lederhosen with enormous super-teased hair and bad makeup like Twisted Sister or Kizz. Go figure.

Fortunately, I live in a secluded, secure, strict, gated community. There are rules, you see. One of those rules is no noise pollution. I’ll report him. One more incident and he’ll come home to an eviction notice and a referral to another less posh apartment complex.

Ah, to be rich and powerful! Just kidding…I’m not powerful. Ok! I’m not rich either, but I’m working on it dog-gonnit!
...Von Trapp Family