Yesterday’s dinner. You know what smells really bad? My ass.
It’s a lovely day for an amputation here in Austin, so in about an hour I’ll begin infesting a large midtown hospital for just that purpose. In a couple of days I’ll be back with more grisly photos of flaccid hospital food and gross scars. Hold the fort yo.
By the way. I’ve written about some disgusting television, but that show “Bridezilla” takes the fucking cake.
Consumering is tedious enough without having to do it in some cavernous purgatory staffed by drooling imbeciles in polyester vests. Which is why one of my favorite things about the internet—I am old enough that I still can’t quite calm down about the internet—is that with a few flicks of the wrist I can entirely bypass the greasy subumbra of the soul-squashing mall and cause to appear on the stoop of my bungalow anything I can think of. Such as motorcycles, band-aids, and squirt guns.
Online shopping, of course, is not without its hazards. I dislike the hideous sadism of so many of the Flash-happy web designers, not to mention the probability that Homeland Security internet cops now know my straight-jacket size. But that’s a small price to pay for the indescribable luxury of remaining, as far as drooling imbeciles in polyester vests are concerned, an abstract figment.
Anyway, recently, because it’s 98 degrees up in this mug, I found myself in need of a couple of thin undershirts, the kind with spaghetti straps. The trick, if you’re me, is to find them without the popular nipple-concealing suspension engineering known as a ’shelf bra’ (in exactly one week I will be entirely gazonga-free, at which moment will evaporate forever my obligation to cinch my ribcage with shelf bras. And all other hot, suffocating spandex). So I was doing a little online window shopping. All this to explain how I happened across J. Crew’s new kiddie site, where you can buy $150 cheap-crap-from-China silk gowns for toddlers to wear to weddings.
Here’s the splash page from the “Shop For Boys” section, captioned “Our new cast of critters.”
And here’s the splash page from “Shop For Girls.” Caption? “Dresses, dresses, dresses.”
See, girls love clothes, not sailboats, dogs, or frogs.
Cauliflower with chick peas, spinach, apples, and Spice Islands Curry Powder
Recent commentarian speculation leads me to observe that I am widely perceived to be dead. Not true! It’s just a flesh wound.
Chump that I am, earlier this week I wrote, but neglected to actually post, a post. This post was to have announced that I would be frolicking in the woods, dressed like a Grecian urn, with a pan flute—Bacchanalian revels, etc— nowhere near any internet, for several days, and not to expect any posts. Tragically, that post exists now only as a glimmer of a half-recollected dream adrift in the sands of time, which is a shame, since it was extremely scintillating, and would likely have entered the literary canon as one of America’s greatest contributions to Western civilization.
Unless you strike the back button instantly, you are stuck instead with this post. It is more or less about the Hollywood Mexican art thriller ‘Frida’, which I watched yesterday while internalizing the above-pictured cauliflower curry.
Although it was very pretty and lurid, I could not enjoy this movie ‘Frida’ at all, and not just because I was fatally distracted by the exquisiteness of the cauliflower dish, or because there was too much Diego Rivera and not enough paint. What ruined it for me was mostly the curious absence of even the slightest hint of a mustache on A-list celebrity hottie Salma Hayek.
Unacceptable!
It is not often that I spend two hours repeating the phrase “what the fuck?” but that is precisely what I did last night, so mesmerized was I by the strange and unnecessary impertinence of portraying Frida Kahlo as a 21st century patriarchy-approved international supermodel. I would like to ask young Salma Hayek how, having depilated one of the world’s most celebrated and iconoclastic upper lips, she can sleep at night.
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