I've just had an hour-long jaccuzi and two Exedrin PM, so I'm too fileted to get into the whole story, but the abbreviated version is I met this playwright last year after a permormance of his one act FEEDER: A Love Story. He got my name from the mailing list sign-in sheet in the lobby, and phoned me to discuss the needs of the play. (The needs were many.) He asked for technical assistance with a yet-to-be-written second act, and I hooked him up with a peep or two possessing practical knowledge of the subject matter. The rest was written, and today I got an e-mail from Mr. Carter, quoting The Daily News thusly:

Tony Bennett's daughter Johanna will soon be treading - or trampling - the boards in a new play. At the We Are Family benefit, the actress told us she'll be co-starring in "Feeder," wearing a fat suit to play a masochist who is force-fed by a sadist. (Yes, it's a sexual thing.) Playwright James Carter is developing the production out of a one-man show he performed last year. Later at the benefit, Johanna's dad told us, unrelatedly but appropriately: "New York is the capital of the world - there's nowhere like it. Anything can happen here."

What? Weren't there any real live fat actresses with popses famous enough to draw the much needed attention (and backing)?

I'll never forget the first time I saw Equus live. Yikes! There's a naked stranger just four feet from me! So different from naked strangers in the movies. I'm thinking I may have the same reaction seeing a fat suit in the non-flesh.

Sure hope I can keep from blurting that out in the middle of the play.

Cheesecake, Fried and Otherwise

So last week I'm having fried cheesecake (wonton-y and crazy good, Okinawa Restaurant on LaGuardia Place) with my friend Janie (of broken speculum fame), and she tells me I was responsible for her getting a gig modeling her ample undiewears in the May issue of Details Magazine. I couldn't be a prouder cheesecake pimp. Girlfriend knows how to represent.

Cut to days later. I’m nosing around Penn Station trying to find the place that has the insane Buffalo chicken panini, and I spot it. The May Details. It’d be quite a feat to exude more femininity than cover girl Orlando Bloom, but I’m keen to see if my Janie pulled it off.

I grab a seat on the Amtrak to Philly (where I sampled the faboo new TastyKake TastyGrahams pudding pie in a Graham cracker crust) and I settle in with my mag. And therrrrre’s Janie, the downward pull on her plush corpulence mimicked by the flesh colored draping behind her. In other shots, she’s crawling through an Elmer Battersesque setting, and reposing across a covetable divan, lustfully eyeing an even more covetable side table of pastries and cakes.

Also in undiepants: a fella. With a sheet-wrinkled belly and a respectable rack.

The accompanying article (“Super-Size Me, These men and women are hot for partners with more than a little meat on their bones.”) is silly in parts, and wildly misinformed in others (I know 400-pound people who fuck like bunnies) but mostly fair, to have been penned by vanillafolk.

Excited as I am to see such a thing in a mainstream magazine, and pleased as I am to have hooked Janie up with both fried cheesecake, and the men’s mag sort, I am distracted by a pages-away article on grilling, my eyes landing on the fully pornographic images of grill-striped sea scallops post-coitally dripping creamy orange tarragon butter sauce, and a sublime looking pepper-flecked pork tenderloin rubbed with mustard and bourbon (my favorite act of foreplay, by the way). As I gaze hungrily at the glistening grill marks, I feel myself being stared at.

Across the aisle, Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Guy gives up a smile. When his mouth starts to move, I yank off my ear buds.

“…turn back to the naked lady?”

Hmmm… cute or creep? So hard to tell, especially with the long-haireds. Either way, an article on fat sex ain’t no community event, certainly not one I’m inviting stranger-on-a-train to. I pointed to the magazine meats and said apologetically, “Kinda groovin’ on the pork right now.” And in what may have been the cruelest act of dismissal I’ve ever done without meaning to, I put my buds back in and returned to the article, which I then had to pretend to actually read until dude got off at Princeton.

I’ve since wished I’d taken his number and had The Naked Lady phone him. Then he’d be writing about this in his blog.

The Bacon Scarf

‘Bout a month ago I came this close to dropping twenty-five crispies on a Towelie towel. I finally talked myself down, using the argument I’m a grown-ass woman, not a dreadheaded dorm-hound. I managed to get past it, but it took damn near as much restraint as it takes me to make an 8-oz. tub of scallion cream cheese last through a weekend’s worth of bagels.

Well, again I’m tempted by a silly swath of cloth. Temptation at the hands of Shopsin’s General Store. (Click the bacon above to see the latest coded announcement I’ve gotten in the mail from Mr. S.) I’ve seen other bacon scarves (!), not all of them intentional. But this one’s by far the porkiest. Even if it is unscented. (Sad face.)

A Testicular Taste Treat

Woke up in the middle of the night last night, and turned to the tube to put me back to sleep. Heard a phrase that made me understand the ex who once put a foot through his TV, then spent the next ten years without one. “Countdown to custody.” Jesus god. Remember when news wasn’t about Anna Nicole Smith and her sad satellite souls? I almost don’t.

Turned the TV off (but resisted the kicking thing), and rooted around on my nightstand for a Tootsie Pop I thought I’d seen there. Found something even better to stick in my face. A Cuban.

The beau and I had been to a party at a friend’s place, where one of the guests had just returned to the US with a box of Cuban cigars in their carry-on. (If the embargo police are reading this, I do not recall the name of said guest. Nor that of the party’s host. Or even what he looked like. In fact, I think he’s changed his name. And left the country. And died, maybe. Yeah.) The bold smuggler had managed not to get Homeland Securitied at the airport, and we were handed an aluminum cylinder on our way out. I’d forgotten about it. But last night, I discovered a comfort combo guaranteed to make me forget all about doomed methadone babies and Giuliani campaign coffers and Paris Hilton and Al Sharpton and Nancy Grace and all of ‘em.

<> One big-ass jumbo shrimp cocktail.
<> Frosty-cold bottle of Guinness Extra Stout.
<> A flamin’ Montecristo, and no one you have to share it with.

I’d read about the anointing of the “smooth, brown thighs of young Cuban girls” (Hiaasen, maybe? Elmore Leonard? Hunter S. Thompson?), but I’d never tasted their bounty. I lit up. Drag one: Wondrous. Drag two: I feel a little guilt. Drag three: I feel a little buzz. Drags four through seven: I make a somewhat frantic effort to find my copy of the stunning 1959ish propaganda film, I Am Cuba. Drags eight through god-knows: I swear I feel Fidel Castro patting me on the head. I give up on the movie and put on some Tito Puente. Yes, I know he’s not Cuban. But he was handy. And he chased away the Castrolucination.

It gets fuzzy after that. Deliciously fuzzy.

Shrimp, Guinness, Cuban. Triumvirate of two-fisted tasty. Try it. With the TV off. Or at least on mute. Or if you happen to have a copy of I Am Cuba…

Paging Mister Reusen...

Having a Smoke with Vonnegut

Borders Book Store. 57th and Park. Nearly a decade ago. Went to a reading of the newly released TimeQuake. Well before start time, it was already steamy and standing room only. I went back up to street level to smoke a cigarette and think about blowing it off. Standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the brick, I light up. Kurt Vonnegut exits the store alone, and does the same, a few feet away. We smoke in silence for a moment. A gaggle of screechy young fans who’d perhaps seen him exit, spill out of the store and are now determined to spoil his cigarette. He spots them before they spot him, and he ducks into a dark doorway a bit farther down. The screechies whimper, then scatter back in. I smoke in peace. As does the glowing cherry above the arch-framed raincoat to my left.

The bookstore door then spits out another Vonnegut seeker, this time a gentleman I’d seen with him earlier. Validation enough for me. I point to the smoke-spewing doorway and the man trots over to fetch The Man, assuring me I'd done the right thing by telling me he was the lawyer. On their way back past me, I’m thanked. By the lawyer. I decided to skip the reading, but went home with a signed copy of the book, and a smile I couldn’t explain to my boyfriend because he was under the curious impression I'd quit smoking weeks earlier.

I’d like to say I quit soon after because this smoking-precipitated encounter couldn’t be topped. Or that free will kicked in. But it was mostly that lung cancer thing. And the smelly hair. And the boyfriend.

RIP, Vonnegut.

Oofa, Veniero’s. 100+ years of life-affirming Italian pastries. The other night. Guy asked for my order with about ten people ahead of me. Gave me a pang of longing for the now-boarded-up Second Avenue Deli, where two babushka-ed women once clucked at me, “I guess you’ve gotta have the tits to get waited on in here.” (I had the tits, and I was waited on. I don’t see the problem.) I sneered at Veniero’s pignoli cookies behind the glass. They looked poofy and overbaked and short a few pignolis. Not like the perfectly pale, covered-in-‘em pignoli cookies at Rocco’s Bakery on Bleecker. Never had better. Including in Brooklyn.

Well. Veniero’s might be better. I’ll need a controlled comparison test. Perhaps several.

The odd height only added to the serious chewy, and the anisette flavor was every bit as intense as that of Rocco’s. Perhaps more so. I’d still prefer ‘em lighter in color, and covered-er in nuts, but sweet simulated Jesus, them things were good. I wanna hold hands and buy furniture with these cookies.

Sunk to the bottom of my bag were mini cannolis flecked with the trademark bright green granules of what I hope is rock sugar. Pasticceriffico! Fabulously oily tasting, the blistery tubes were perfect, and the filling was nicely spiced, if a bit tighter and sweeter than I like. And why do we need chocolate chips in a cannoli? Still. I’d give my left nut for one right now. Both nuts for a dozen.

Rififi + Veselka - Imusteria = Happy

American schlock media leads us around by the short and curlies. And we blindly follow them to the lemmings edge, rubbing our sore pubes and asking for more. They distract us from what’s important (war, corruption, the fact that not all Popeye’s carry a full menu and they don’t tell you that until you walk all the way over there and stand in that long-ass line) by juggling noisemakers and shiny objects like staged outrage and faux scandals. So Don Imus (whom I had no idea was still alive) called the Rutgers Women’s Basketball Team “nappy-headed hos.” Stupid? Perhaps. Not funny? Oh, yeah. Worthy of all the chest beating? Hardly.

‘Nappy-headed’ is not a condemnation. It’s a salon request. (Ask Stevie Wonder.) It’s no more a judgement than ‘fat.’ And have we forgotten that in this country, we pay young men good money to write and perform songs to and about the ho? And not just regular Springsteen money. Diamond-encrusted toilet paper on MTV Cribs money. So if ‘ho’ is offensive, how ‘bout we start with the biggest offenders and work our way down? Imus is surely near the bottom of that list. Well below where the hair gets really nappy. (Pickin’ up the theme?) Honestly, sometimes I think this is something Imus and Al Sharpton cooked up together to jack up ratings for both their shows. Like Rosie and The Donald did.

Kramerizing Don Imus is ridiculous, and waters down what we should really be pissed about.

So when I was invited out for some comedy Friday night, I was in more than dire need. And that’s exactly how it was proposed to me. “Some comedy.” Generic, no-name, store-brand, discount comedy. Five bucks. Almost guaranteed to be dripping with offensive stereotypes and off color thank-Jah-no-one’s-youtubing-this-stuff stuff. That, and the promise that Demetri Martin had once graced this Friday night stage were enough for me. Met my friends at Rififi in the East Village for The Greg Johnson Show.

The line-up was uneven and seemingly a smidge out of order, but I still recommend it. Highly. Laughed myself tired. And my decades-long record of the comedian always messing with me goes unbroken.

Can’t remember anyone’s name, nor could I recite a joke for you if my rent depended on it. (I truly suck at this blogging thing.) All I can tell you is the funniest comics were Somebody Mintz near the beginning of the show, and Lou Something at the end. And everyone in between gave me something to howl about. I can also tell you to grab a fresh drink from the bar before entering the theater, ‘cause there’s no service in there. One cannot reach the Flying Snot level of comedy show enjoyment without cocktails.

*intermission-y pause*

Just tracked down some names. See how much Mommy loves you? Mike Dobbins and Anthony Jeselnik were a bit challenging. Intentionally. Funny, though. Dan Mintz and Leo Allen, however. Let’s just say both of ‘em likely went home with some snot on their pant leg, ‘cause of me.

Wait. That’s not snot.

After the show, we got our dumpling on at Veselka (home of the most ass-kickety dill salad dressing in 50 states, several of them Baltic). Loaded up on stuffed cabbage and peirogies. Button-popping good. Literally.

Let’s hope the smiley memory of delightfully blue comedy and superlative Polish feedbag fare lingers at least as long as the metal pipe beating to Imus’ shins does.

American Idol for fat girls! (‘Cept it’s British.) Into the Beth Ditto -dominated world of plumpette national recording artists (the girls may be fat, but the pickins are slim), comes Plus, an all-girl English band being built, Monkees-style. From RealGirlBand.com:

To be eligible for a place in the band, you will need to meet the following criteria: you will need to be female, at least a size 16, have some musical talent and be ready for stardom.

Minimum size requirement! A smooshy-ish singer I once worked with told me the waiting room at the auditions for the role of Hairspray’s Tracy Turnblad on Broadway was filled with not-plump-enoughs comparing notes on how to quickly gain the mandated mounds. I have visions of across-the-pond girlies hittin’ the clotted cream and crisps to pack on the stones. Not an entirely unpleasant vision, mind you.

Note to Real Girl Band applicants (and the boys who stalk them): Closing date for applications is May 1, and auditions will be held in June, in Jolly Old. The epicenter will be the Marquee Club in Hertford, Hertfordshire. The town so nice they named it two and a half times.

Still Mad, Miriam

Once again, my friend Richard hips me to something wonderfully sick and cool. It’s a delicious sandwich of misogynistic missteps from too few decades ago, in the form of a Secret Romance issue from Charlton Comics. Social engineering disguised as a love story. Boy meets girl, boy manipulates girl, boy dies mysteriously in his sleep while his young widow gets fat again and finds a nice jiggle-lovin' man who knows some manners. (Not really. But if I were penning the sequel...)

If the office etiquette films from the Preminger Archive were comic books, this is what they’d look like. Thanks, Richard. Thanks, MisterKitty. And thanks… Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act.

Padding the Keister for Easter

You can keep your Peeps, and those chocolate eggs that ooze faux fowl embryonic fluid? Pass. My Easter basket (were I not a heathen) contains the following:

Jelly Bellies – I’m a mix-my-own girl, so I like to get ‘em at one of many dispenser walls in candy shops throughout the city, but prefer Economy Candy on the Lower East Side, or Dylan’s Candy Shop on the Upper East, where they have clear plastic lidded Jelly Belly boxes you can load up for what feels like less money than the regular per-pound price. But surely I’m wrong. The boxes are compartmentalized, for those of us who’re anal about our jellybeans. While you’re there, hit the lower floor and color coordinate some M&Ms for a friend whose apartment is all purple and red. Or something. (I’ve done this twice, and both times, the candy never made it to the friends.)

Godiva Coconut Eggs – Dark chocolate eggs filled with creamy coconut. NOT coconut cream. Important distinction. Wrapped in baby pink foil. Insanely good. Monday they’ll be half price, and therefore insanelier good.

TastyKake Hippity Hops – Sounds like what somebody’s grandma would call Rap, dunnit? Used to be TastyKake Coconut Kandy Kakes, and why you’d change a name with so many appetizing instances of the ‘k’ sound is beyond me. These coins of coconutty cake covered in dark chocolate are now only available at Easter and Halloween (as Ghostly Goodies), and only on the shelves of TastyKake towns in the Northeast, no matter what time of year it is. In fact, these were previously unavailable from their website, though industrious Ebayers would hook you up. But now (hurry! quick!) you can snag a dozen two-packs from TastyKake.com for twenty bucks. They come in a holiday tin so hideous, I had to affix a strip of masking tape across the faces of the smiling bunnies adorning the lid, to keep them from sucking the soul from my very being. But I gotta say, in all my years of chasing these damn things down, I’ve never had them as fresh as what the Postman delivered yesterday.

And yes, my TastyKakes again arrived with an embarrassing personal message on the outside of the package. But this time, it was meant to embarrass.

Favorite Image of the Year

…Every year. The two things that introduce Spring in my world are the annual lowering of the footbridge to Randall’s Island, and the Brooklyn Botanic Garden’s CherryWatch Blossom Status Map showing its first bud. The subhirtella or ‘Pendula Rosea’ trees are my faves, and not just because they have a dirty sounding name. (Also known as ‘Weeping Cherry’, which ain’t much better.) These explosions of bloom herald the smells of flower gardens and freshcut grass and lighter fluid and Coppertone. And by August, garbage juice sizzling on hot asphalt.

Like life, cherry blossoms are unpredictable and fleeting. And breathtakingly beautiful, even as they wither and fall. Enjoy while you can.

Pigs is Pigs

Over the weekend I went to a shindig crawling with young socialite scenesters. Personally, I was more excited the time I spotted the silver-haired Roy Blount, Jr. at a Paolo Conte concert. And even more excited to find this soiree was catered by Daisy May’s BBQ. Forget Stella Keitel, Adam Levine, and Olivia Palermo (not pictured above). Let’s talk pulled pork.

The sandwich was tender and tasty, but a bit too dry for this juicy girl. I’d like to give it another go when I’ve got more throwdown room and easier access to cole slaw and squirt bottles. Pleasantly surprised by the sesame roll they used, though. Had a buttery, pastry-like mouthfeel. I’m not sure I’ve ever known a barbecue place to pay much attention to their buns. On my way to ask Ivanka Trump if she’s got Andy Dick in her five, I caught myself cooing over the heavy hunk of cornbread on someone else’s plate, and though I faux-protested, the plateholder insisted I take it. After I devoured with relish the dense, peppery bar, I asked the cornbread lady why she hadn’t wanted it. “It’s not that I didn’t want it,” said the young woman whose name I didn’t catch. “It just looked like you wanted it more.”

Mmmkay, so I’m a food brat, even at fancy parties. I’m woefully unimpressed by celebrity spawn, and I go all Billy Jack when I can’t get at the buffet table. Or the bar. But odds are she, though generous of cornbread, is stingy with the calories, and has since thanked me for eating several hundred of hers.

Sunday was cold and rainy, and I woke up with a bed attitude. So I laid around in my socks and undiepants, eating pepitas and watching (the ganj-enhanced) Planet Earth on Discovery Channel. Did you know the dwells-in-the-dark vampire squid produces flashes of disorienting light to confuse its predators and prey into thinking it’s something it’s not? Just like celebrities!

I didn’t give a second thought to them calories. Would sure love to have another hunk of that cornbread, though.

My Sweet Lord

Attention, Easter shoppers! Screw the hollow bunnies, and look out, Cadbury’s! There’s an anatomically correct, 485,460 calorie Jesus at Lab Gallery on 47th and Lex. 200 pounds of milk chocolate. (Sounds like a Taj Mahal song, dunnit?) Never thought I’d say this about a religious icon, but… like to break me off a piece o' that.

(Pass, actually. I prefer dark.)

UPDATE: The gallery has grabbed ankles to papal pressure and decided chocolate Jesus might just spoil their dinner. Not sure what they’ll do with the masticable Messiah now. I say lock him in a room with a dozen pre-menstrual women and all evidence will be destroyed inside of twenty minutes. In other news, I ate a whole swag sized box of Godiva last night, whilst pondering the demise of the diet-y deity. I don’t care what Bill Moyers says, this brand of religion is part street gang, part Bink for the weak. (The rest of us use cocktails.) Praise the Lord and bon appetit!

PS: This is fun. Has anyone used ‘tasty totem’ yet? How ‘bout ‘yummy Yahweh’?

Butt. Fugly.

Coming to CBS this Fall. Fugly. Three siblings – two identical twins – pool their money to surgically “perfect” one of the twins, in order to live off the Hollywood earnings of the cosmetically altered one. Starring squeaky plumpette Hairspray alum Marissa Jaret Winokur, willowy gigglebox Nikki Cox (more fun to say than ‘former Bobcat Goldthwait squeeze’), and the oft-seen-around-Bleecker-and-Sixth-on-his-bike Michael Rapaport. Hmmm… wonder which two will be the fuglies.

I quite enjoy thoughtful national dialogue on the significance of physical beauty and what defines it. Or, it could suck. I’ll reserve judgement until I see it. Then I’ll judge its brains out.

Fat Girl Duds Alert

Beware, Bwear Be Gone

From their UK headquarters, Lady B Wear has been catering to trannies and genetic girls of girth for as long as I can remember. But sadly, this nana of the plus size lingerie and club wear world is closing its doors. But to soften the blow, shit’s on sale.

The Fit’s the Shit

Said I’d re-post when my new bigger size Substantia Jones T-shirt from CafePress.com arrived, and I’m pleased to report it’s completely b’jiggety. The feminine details – shorter sleeves, shaping (subtle, if at all), a more open neckline – are great for girl-shaped girls with girl-length arms. And the design area is much bigger than their other selections. This is not a unisex T, and I kinda miss the double-needled shoulder seams, but it maintains a classic look. And most importantly, it accommodates massive ass. I ain’t gonna give ya digits or nothin’ (pervs!), but I’ll assure you that CaféPress’ size chart is refreshingly on the nose, and my T-shirt arrived with a few inches of clearance, even. If you’re still not convinced, their return policy is as loose as a stoned stepdaughter. Downright foolish, in fact. Check out the new designs and take $5 off a $20 purchase (coupon code DUSKYPOINTS, expires 4/4/07). Then check out the new Fat Girl Fishnets T-shirt shop. (!)

Flea Bagged

The annual Fat Girl Flea Market - like the Barneys Warehouse Sale for fat girls - is looking for a new home. (The LGBT Center says no room at the inn until September, and the Flea is shooting for July.) They need a wheelchair accessible place, preferably Manhattan, at least 2000 sq. ft. for approximately $1700, and available either July 13-15 or July 21-23. A no-Sundays sitch might also be do-able.

I’m not sure it’s cool to publish the e-mail address I have for ‘em, so if you’ve some assistance or info to impart, hit me up and I’ll pass it along to the Flea Folk. Then hopefully come July, we’ll once again be sweating together, digging through the mountains of tapered jeans to find that elusive silk-lined velvet princess coat.

The Teeny Cipollini

With all the news of sewage tsunamis, collapsing buildings, the Sunjaya controversy (what’s a Sunjaya and why’s it getting panties in a bunch?), and of course, Britney Spears entering the customary post-rehab-painful-dental-emergency phase of her recovery, I was looking forward to spending the evening curled up with one of my five favorite redheaded sexpots. (Mario Bartoli on The Food Network’s Chefography.) And because I’ve been around this particular block a time or two, I know better than to watch an Italian cooking show or The Sopranos without a pile of corresponding cuisine at hand. (Remind me to tell you about the time, late one night and halfway through Goodfellas, I called FIVE places frantically trying to get a fookin’ meatball sub. And all the boyfriend could do was laugh at me.)

The muy molto Mario called for no less than rigatoni with pink sauce, sautéed cipollini onions, and embarrassingly copious mounds of grated Della Bona Grana Padano. Sweet San Gennaro, was it a tasty abundanza! I barely remember the Mario part of the evening.

I generally shy away from cutesy but labor laden diminutive vegetables, after once buying a buttload of baby Brussels sprouts, with no prep slave at home. They tasted no different from their more mature counterparts, and that’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back. But the cipollinis are plentiful and on sale right now, so I snagged some. And so impressed was I by what they did to my pink sauce, I later tried adapting an old James Beard recipe I thought I’d once seen (but cannot now find).

As Tony Soprano would say, y’gotta do dis ting.


Miss Pleasure Pie’s Roasted Cipollinis

pound or so of fresh whole cipollini onions
2 T. butter
1 c. red wine
½ c. beef broth
¼ c. red wine vinegar
1 T. balsamic vinegar
few dashes of Worcestershire sauce
2 T. sugar (these little mothers are bitter)
1 bay leaf
1 smidge each of salt and cracked pepper
splash of olive oil

Soak the onions in hot, hot tap water for 15 minutes, then peel. (This works for garlic, too.) Preheat to 350 and select a saucepan that’s both ovenproof and approved for stovetop use. Sauté the peeled, whole onions in the butter over medium heat until browned, about 15 minutes. Add the wine, broth, vinegars, Worcestershire, and sugar. Bring to a low simmer, then move the pan to the preheated oven for about 45 minutes, or until your cipollinis are smooshy. Remove onions from pan, toss with salt, pepper, and olive oil. Some fresh cut flat leaf Italian parsley would be nice here too, if you have it. Set aside. Move the pan back to the stovetop and reduce the remaining mixture over medium heat. Tip the cipollinis back into the liquid, and once they’re re-warmed, serve ‘em saucy. Great with a steak. It’s like the tenderloin of a bowl of French onion soup, but about seven times better.

Later that night or the next day: Write your Congressman and ask them to put wads of agriculture money toward developing a cipollini onion that comes out of the ground pre-peeled, and with a cheesy crouton at the center. I hear Alaska Senator Ted Stevens is receptive to this sort of thing.

An Open Letter to the Store Where I Bought My $60 Pants

Dear Avenue Stores, Inc.,

A couplefew weeks ago, I joined a half dozen of my co-workers in ringing the Opening Bell at the New York Stock Exchange. If you watch Sex and the City, then you know this is kind of an honor, one bestowed only upon titans of industry. Like Carrie Bradshaw. And okay, I don’t know who else. Mostly White Men in Dark Suits, I think. There’s a bit of ceremony involved. They feed you, give you a tour of the trading floor, take your picture, lead you in a short prayer to Satan, then send you off carrying heavy gifts with your name engraved on ‘em. It’s a whole fancy to-do. I figured my standard stretchy skirt / stretchy shirt wouldn’t fly. So I opted for a suit jacket and a pair of coordinating pants purchased recently at your store. Nice pants. Sixty buck pants. Second time wearing ‘em.

They ripped. Right up the ass.

There I am, standing on thuh marble balcony overlooking the Mecca of global economics. It’s the most widely viewed daily event in the world. I’m being internationally televised live. My moms is watching. And I’ve got butt breeze.

Yeah, I know these things happen. But these were supposed to be quality pants. Not a month old. Fit me perfectly, and not even broken in yet. A girl drops a dozen fins on a pair of pants she’ll never wear, can’t she expect to have ‘em perform their prime duty – to cover her ass – at least two, maybe three times, before they become a dust cloth? I mean, true, I didn’t pay full price. 40% off. On top of a markdown. Plus I think I had a coupon. And yes, it’s possible I’m up a couple pounds since purchase. Maybe even several. Okay, actually I know I am. So. Perhaps I’m between sizes now. Or even up one size. But, Jeez. I mean, yes, everything’s been fitting a bit snug lately, but… Okay. I’m packing on the pounds, arright? Is that what you want me to say? Gyah. What’re you looking at? Okay. Screw it. Never mind.

An Open Letter To Haagen Dazs…

I love me some TV, but Sweet Suave-ay Jesus, do it suck. About 98% of it, I’d say. And I’ve rarely felt that so acutely as this week. Tabloidtainment shows refuse to let Anna Nicole Smith die. Yes, still. There’s that doctor who goes on the ladies-who-stay-home shows wearing his scrubs to show he’s a real doctor. Sally Field jumps the ad shark, getting faux-incensed that her friend “has to set aside time every week to take her Osteoporosis medicine.” Casting begins for Fit For Love, looking for “couples who want to improve their love life through a radical fitness and life changing program.” Then Calvert DeForest (Larry “Bud” Melman) dies.

And don’t get me started on The Tony Snow Show broadcasting too infrequently from the White House press room. Worst sit-com ever. It’s enough to make me wanna read a book or something.

Then, like the leathery hero stepping over smoldering dead bodies to hand me a frosty lemonade, comes Thursdays. Earl, Office, the wonderfully dooty obsessed Sarah Silverman (to hopefully return soon, as will Reno 911 in April), 30 Rock, Andy Barker, PI. (Not as good as Andy Richter Rules the Universe, but I’m patient. And devoted.) And now Ira Glass brings This American Life to life. On TV. Thursdays. And so far the visuals don’t seem to ruin it nearly as bad as I’d feared. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But the creamy dollop atop this au gratin of couch potatoism is Penn & Teller: Bullshit, launching its fifth season on Showtime last night with an episode on obesity. These Errol Morrises of cable and stage delectably debunked commonly accepted diet myths, disproved some fitness fallacies (as simplistically as the opposition proved them), and re-won my heart. Made me laugh, too. Got Little Debbie Nutty Bar crumbs all over my bathrobe.

Watch them call bull BM on the BMI here. Schedule of airings here. Later in the season they take on tits, cars, Satan, and Wal-Mart.

And all crammed into Thursday nights. Must-see TV, indeed.

New Substantia Jones

Couple months ago, some fellow fat chicks and I were asked to help CafePress choose some bigger new T-shirt cuts and sizes. I wasn’t able to make the try-on party, but knowing bigger sizes were coming has had me checking the site nearly every day since.

They’re here. And they can accommodate up to 64 inches of backtastic.

To celebrate, SubstantiaJones.com has pruned some of the dustier old designs (though plenty of old school fat-poz remains) and has added something new. The above little (well, big) number is on its way to me now, and no more will I have to stretch my SubJo duds over my laughs-at-XL ass.

I’ll report back. In the meantime, go. Buy. Wallow in Substantia Jones’ dewy fields of stuff for fat girls and the fat admirers who hump them, the latter of whom are advised, “If you’re gonna play it, display it.”

Eat that, closet FAs.

Naomi Campbell sweeps up at NYC Sanitation garage. European reporter says because the stilettoed trashin’ista dates German millionaires, the story’s “as important to Germans as the death of Anna Nicole." Miss Pleasure Pie’s opinion of Germans nosedives to near Hasselhoff levels. Closely followed by her opinion of Naomi Campbell.

And millionaires.

Praise the Lard and Piss the Ammunition

I was invited to a rehearsed table read of LARD – The Musical, “an upcoming musical play about size acceptance, love, friendship, all wrapped up in music… and bacon.” (Not to mention a very promising spoof of Grease.) I HopStopped the best Sunday afternoon route to The Knitting Factory by bus. I love me some bus, and choose it over the subway whenever possible, especially on weekends when the trains are hinky and street traffic is light. But this day we got tangled up in a clusterfuck snarl of pedestrians, stopped cars, and detours.

The March to End the War.

I campaigned in three states, last Presidential election. I’ve designed T-shirt graphics for Dems. I distributed posters, buttons, and windshield cards in the days leading up the war. I’ve held hands, lit candles, and gathered at the park. I’ve spread the word on the air, on the page, and at the top of my lungs, and I was at the massive anti-war protest held here on First Avenue and in countries throughout the globe 4 years ago. I was fiery of spirit and trashed of throat then, yet today, I haven’t opened the e-mail alerts from Move-On or United for Peace and Justice in more than a year. After countless deaths thanks to a war based upon an international lie, I wasn’t even aware there was a protest march a few dozen blocks from my home.

My anger hasn’t subsided. I haven’t become disenchanted with the fight, nor do I doubt its value. But I have become weary. And I don’t think I’m alone. Lately, when I try to talk with friends about how policies are being mishandled, or my skepticism of the Khalid Shaikh Mohammed confessions, the reckless and arrogant disregard for the Geneva Convention, the Presidential pillaging of our country’s reputation, justice interrupted by politics, they don’t want to hear about it. People who believe as I do are choosing not to discuss, or even ponder it any more. Protest fatigue. The situation is too ridiculously wrong to even comprehend. We’ve allowed ourselves to become distracted by inconsequentials. We’ve stopped paying attention. I know I have.

You may ask what this has to do with pleasure. Why am I talking about it on what’s essentially a food blog, tucked into the lighthearted touts of sugar-laden, mass-produced munchie quenchers? I don’t know, except to say that this stuff should be peppered amongst the street level fare and integrated into the absent-minded, gum-chewing aspects of life. Our eyes shouldn’t roll when someone brings it up. Discussing the war doesn’t mean you can’t also laugh or wank or watch Family Guy. And it doesn’t mean I won’t be back here tomorrow, tee-heeing over Christopher Walken and Little Richard being separated at birth, or patting my tummy over an inappropriately lustful Cinnabon testimonial. I will be. But maybe I’ll be a little less apathetic than I was yesterday.

Then again.

I figured the LARDette who’d invited me to the reading would understand my absence, considering. I got off the bus. Did I join in the protest? I didn’t.

I did go home, though, and start reading my e-mail.

Ass at the Opera

Been meaning to write about the Jeanne Lorioz show at the Opera Gallery in SoHo, and now I wish I had, ‘cause it’s closing early. More than half the pieces have been sold, and sadly, removed upon sale. (Opera’s NYC branch is a clumsily run gallery with a retail focus.) What’s left is currently occupying the forward area of the storefront, but gallery personnel tell me they’ll begin taking it down Monday (3/19/07).

Whimsical, for sure, but with surprising bits of poignancy, Lorioz’s fat women are happy, bountiful of backside, and at peace. Whether gaily clucking or in fileted repose, the seasoned subjects exhibit a pleasing self-comfort and a delicious disregard for those who gaze upon them. Or maybe that’s just a device to better display their respective badunkadunk.

I appreciate the work being shown, but damn. Hit it today.

OPERA GALLERY NEW YORK
115 Spring Street at Mercer in SoHo
11am to 7

If you miss it, and even if you don’t, here are some of the too few Lorioz links I could land:

Stephanie Hoppen Fine Art Gallery
Galerie des Femmes Rondes

And the Opera Gallery show's site (I'm told they'll be pulling these images when the show closes, the bastids) is here:
http://www.operagallery.fr/artist/LORIOZ_264;0;0.aspx

NYC Gives Cheek to St. Patrick's Day

First we schedule our 2007 race riots to begin during St. Patrick’s Day week. Then we say we don’t want drunk firemen leading our St. Patrick’s Day Parade any more. What else will New York City do to put the kip on St. Patrick’s Day? Do away with the Shamrock Shake?

Yup. The greater NYC regional McDonalds outlets have voted against carrying the nearly 40-year-old mint milkshake this year. While the rest of the free world enjoys this seasonal touchstone, New York City Micky D’s have decided to maintain their current focus on coffee products and sticky tables.

I can't do anything about the race riots. And bolloxed Bravest are easy enough to find. But a better-than-you’re-used-to Shamrock Shake can pretty much be duplicated at home by dropping vanilla ice cream, milk, mint extract, and food coloring into a milkshake maker. (NOT a blender.) Just like McDonalds', except with actual dairy products.

In the meantime, you may lodge complaints of your ShamrockShakelessness by filling out this bitch form, or by hitting the grassroots (get it?) site Bring Back the Shamrock Shake. Displeasure at the looming race riots should be directed to Queens District Attorney Richard A. Brown. (Ask him to cool it with the last minute fake mystery witnesses, will ya?) And send your kiss-me-arse about the drunk firemen dis to Parade Chairman John Dunleavy. Or you can just boo him at the parade. Like the drunk firemen will be doing.

I will follow hiiimmmmm...

God help me if I’m violating a trust, but I’ve just gotten an e-mail from Kenny Shopsin, with the above maze attached, and the subject line “permits maze almost over.” The body of the e-mail contained no text. Of course.

“Shopsin’s will be open in early April” means the home of the thousandish item menu and the angry handfuls of flour -wielding owner closed its Carmine Street doors in December (Ho Cakes, we hardly knew ye) and will be reopening as a sandwich counter at the Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side. Essex Street Market, stall 16 120 Essex St., between Rivington and Delancey. In early April, apparently.

I imagine we’ll be lining up all Wii like, the night before.