Tuesday, October 3, 2023
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Thoughts on Treme and NOLA
As my final paper will be focusing on the regional cuisine of New Orleans, I felt investing some time in three seasons of HBO’s hourlong drama, Treme, was necessary. The creator, David Simon, is heralded for his other critically acclaimed series, The Wire. I think it is interesting to note both series are embedded in a very regionally specific area. The Wire is set in the racially mixed, high-crime, corrupted city of Baltimore, and explores the seedy underbelly of Baltimore’s drug lords and rings, police officers, public school system, and the media’s portrayal of it all. Both Baltimore and New Orleans usually evoke visceral reactions from people--they range from “Baltimore is so dangerous” to “New Orleans is such a fun place to party in.” How do these stereotypes get born and enforced? Both cities have ethnically diverse populations in an urban setting with high crime rates (usually in the top ten for murder and crime rates) but each has radically different conventions about it.
It is said there are three US cities than are unlike any other: San Francisco, Charleston and New Orleans. I don’t disagree with this statement, but I am more interested in knowing how and why New Orleans came to be this “roux” of culture, class and languages. Treme first aired on HBO just five years after Hurricane Katrina, and it is set three months after the disaster. It follows the rebuilding of lives of musicians, chefs, Mardi Gras Indians, and small business owners. It is specifically centered in the historic neighborhood of Treme in New Orleans and was a much-needed boost to the city’s tourism industry. The series moves slower than most of today’s frenetically paced dramas, but it adds a level of arguable authenticity. It is obvious the creators paid painstaking attention to getting details right by hiring New Orleanian writers (including Times-Picayune reporter and founding SFA member Lolis Eric Elie).
Simon prefaced the airing of the first episode with a letter in The Times-Picayune promising not perfect historical accuracy but a treatment "respectful of the historical reality." Place and space are essential to understanding New Orleans--it is oftentimes more similar to Europe than America for its narrow streets, decaying architecture, pedestrian-friendly avenues, and distinctive neighborhoods. This is often attributed to its French and Spanish colonial roots and being a port city bringing in an influx of Caribbean, African, and European culture. While watching the series, I often thought of John Shelton Reed’s idea that “when regional populations can be regarded as groups, a rather different view of their subcultures emerges, and perhaps an even greater estimate of their hardiness. A group can be said to have had “collective experiences,” and some aspects of its culture may be responses to those experiences” (26). One can argue that though Katrina had devastating effects on the economy and personal lives of every New Orleanian, those that stayed and those that came back are bonded forever through the trauma of that “collective experience.” In my paper I plan to explore the idea that New Orleans is its own subregion, both possessing Southern characteristics yet maintaining an identity wholly unique to itself.
It is in describing this unique culture that I find difficulty. European, Caribbean, decadent, carefree, slow, hedonistic, racially mixed and divided, corrupt, culture-rich, welcoming--all traits central to New Orleans. I had to chuckle when reading Reed’s theory that “misfits and dissenters from the South’s smaller communities now tend to migrate to Southern cities” (178). Reed could also be describing my hometown of Austin, TX, or the Montrose neighborhood of Houston or the hipster-friendly enclave of Five Points in Atlanta. Reed goes on to say “it may mean that big Southern cities will become downright strange--nothing new for New Orleans but surprising to observe in Atlanta and Houston, Nashville and Memphis” (178). I think this phenomenon is nothing new--New York City and San Francisco have always been beacons for those not wishing to assimilate to the legitimate taste of the dominant class. But, I would argue it is a recent development for these alternative cultures to be blossoming in Southern cities as well--one I wholeheartedly support as I have no desire to move to the East or West Coast. The study of New Orlean’s unique region is a fascinating one to apply the various theories and methodologies encountered in this class and one I hope will prove to be an interesting paper as well.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
The Summer Before School Starts
There's something strange about summer--it always feels like time slows down, like we're lazily floating through a warm, humid river with sweat persistently running down our backs. I'm at a very strange limbo in my life right now. I'm working for myself-- bartending for events/weddings and doing some freelance public relations projects. I don't have a 9 to 5 schedule right now which is amazing but can make for some very unproductive days. I'll put off running simple errands for weeks...going to the bank, a haircut, putting real pants on...There is something to be said about the simple act of forcing yourself to wake up at 7am every day, putting on a semi-professional outfit, and sitting down at a hard cubicle desk for nine hours. Gives you some perspective on life.
So I'm going to graduate school this fall. I'm pursuing a Masters Degree in Southern Studies at the most Southern of all Schools: Ole Miss, located in Faulkner-Land. Oxford, MS: a progressive but classic college town with extreme "Kentucky Derby" tailgating and plenty of good ole' boys. Needless to say, I'm pretty excited. But I've got this down time this summer and it's driving me a bit batty. It's the age-old dilemma: plenty of time, but no money--whereas when you're working a lot, you've got the money but no time. All I want to do is hop on a plane and go to Tokyo and have a "Lost in Translation" moment. That's only...$3000 for a week? So here I sit in hot Austin, TX, staying with parents and working on my knitting skills. It feels exactly like the summer before I left for college...only not as fun, because when you're eighteen the world is your oyster and college is this mysterious adventureland set on a glimmering horizon, full of house parties and witty repartee. I'm hoping graduate school is more of a sophisticated dinner party.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
5 Things I've learned.
I'm stealing this from a University of Texas publication. It was inspiring.
Robert King, Ph.D. — Professor Emeritus, Department of Linguistics —46 years at UT
1. Students remember you, not what you taught them. Life always comes down to people.
2. Don’t do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Obvious.
3. Never, ever, whenever, talk more than 35 minutes. Lecture in class, lecture anywhere: 35 minutes max. People, especially students, tune out after that. People would rather hear themselves talk and ask questions, than hear some old phearte rattling on for an hour plus.
4. Quit relying on those goddamned “devices!” Start reading books again, at least one or two a month. If all you do is log on and read blogs, then you are doo doo.
5. You want a friend? You want a “mate?” You want a wife, a lover? Get a dog. Much better in the long run. I recommend a wirehaired fox terrier, but any dog will do.
link here: http://www.insideourcampus.com/2011/03/5-things-ive-learned/
Robert King, Ph.D. — Professor Emeritus, Department of Linguistics —46 years at UT
1. Students remember you, not what you taught them. Life always comes down to people.
2. Don’t do today what you can put off until tomorrow. Obvious.
3. Never, ever, whenever, talk more than 35 minutes. Lecture in class, lecture anywhere: 35 minutes max. People, especially students, tune out after that. People would rather hear themselves talk and ask questions, than hear some old phearte rattling on for an hour plus.
4. Quit relying on those goddamned “devices!” Start reading books again, at least one or two a month. If all you do is log on and read blogs, then you are doo doo.
5. You want a friend? You want a “mate?” You want a wife, a lover? Get a dog. Much better in the long run. I recommend a wirehaired fox terrier, but any dog will do.
link here: http://www.insideourcampus.com/2011/03/5-things-ive-learned/
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Tender Mercies.
I entered the Texas Monthly blogging contest, where the Alamo Drafthouse and TM magazine put on a rolling roadshow of Texan movies...I wanted it so bad. I didn't get it. So here is my failed entry.
There are some films that hit you in your gut. There are some that hit you in your heart. And, there’s the occasional one that comes out of nowhere to hit you right smack in the nose, making you fall to the floor weeping like a two-year-old child. Tender Mercies did such a thing to me. I was blissfully unaware of the cathartic emotional breakdown I would go through in the 100 minutes of watching the 1983 Texan drama starring Robert Duvall and Tess Harper. It had popped up on my “suggested movies” list on Netflix, and being the good Texan and classic country music fan that I am, I willingly obliged.
Now, as a 26-year-old, I realize I haven’t had time yet for any real heartbreak and troubled past and drinking problems. But that’s how I realized what an honest and unflinching and true performance Robert Duvall gave--because I felt like a middle-aged, recovering alcoholic country singer after watching him as the faded Mac Sledge.
This film couldn’t have been shot on a sound stage in Los Angeles or a generic small town with good tax incentives in New Mexico. No sir, this kind of tangible magic could only happen in Waxahachie, Texas. The little town you glance over on your way to Dallas or Fort Worth, it’s a testament to big blue skies and waves of dead grass shimmering in the summer heat.
What I’m most drawn to watching Tender Mercies again is the sound--or lack of it. The scuff of a boot scraping mud against a door frame, the wind ruffling Sonny’s hair, Duvall’s sun-weathered hands delicately stroking the strings of his guitar--each sound is so pure and piercing that it further contributes to the movie’s stark, simplistic feel.
Not one note is overdone or false or pretentious. The acting, the weathered Mariposa Motel, the Slater Mill Boys band...it takes me back to a place I hope still exists. And Wilford Brimley. MY GOD Wilford Brimley. Is there a better character actor out there? (My apologies to Karl Malden.)
Though I wasn’t alive when Tender Mercies came out, I hope to sit on the steps of the Waxahachie courthouse this June and feel its emotional honesty in my gut, my heart, and my nose once more.
I just hope I can keep the crying to a minimum.
There are some films that hit you in your gut. There are some that hit you in your heart. And, there’s the occasional one that comes out of nowhere to hit you right smack in the nose, making you fall to the floor weeping like a two-year-old child. Tender Mercies did such a thing to me. I was blissfully unaware of the cathartic emotional breakdown I would go through in the 100 minutes of watching the 1983 Texan drama starring Robert Duvall and Tess Harper. It had popped up on my “suggested movies” list on Netflix, and being the good Texan and classic country music fan that I am, I willingly obliged.
Now, as a 26-year-old, I realize I haven’t had time yet for any real heartbreak and troubled past and drinking problems. But that’s how I realized what an honest and unflinching and true performance Robert Duvall gave--because I felt like a middle-aged, recovering alcoholic country singer after watching him as the faded Mac Sledge.
This film couldn’t have been shot on a sound stage in Los Angeles or a generic small town with good tax incentives in New Mexico. No sir, this kind of tangible magic could only happen in Waxahachie, Texas. The little town you glance over on your way to Dallas or Fort Worth, it’s a testament to big blue skies and waves of dead grass shimmering in the summer heat.
What I’m most drawn to watching Tender Mercies again is the sound--or lack of it. The scuff of a boot scraping mud against a door frame, the wind ruffling Sonny’s hair, Duvall’s sun-weathered hands delicately stroking the strings of his guitar--each sound is so pure and piercing that it further contributes to the movie’s stark, simplistic feel.
Not one note is overdone or false or pretentious. The acting, the weathered Mariposa Motel, the Slater Mill Boys band...it takes me back to a place I hope still exists. And Wilford Brimley. MY GOD Wilford Brimley. Is there a better character actor out there? (My apologies to Karl Malden.)
Though I wasn’t alive when Tender Mercies came out, I hope to sit on the steps of the Waxahachie courthouse this June and feel its emotional honesty in my gut, my heart, and my nose once more.
I just hope I can keep the crying to a minimum.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
I wrote a poem in five minutes
I am in a writing workshop right now that I'm really enjoying. Writing workshops always make me think of the Todd Soldonz film Storytelling. Which is a really effed up film that I adore! There is something so cute and community college-y about sitting in a circle with a bunch of middle-aged women discussing Sandra Cisneros short stories. I love it! I was supposed to write a poem "inspired" by Jimmy Santiago Baca's poem "I Am Offering This Poem." I forgot to do it and wrote this frantically at my desk ten minutes before the meeting.
So here you go.
I have nothing else to give you,
But a tiny one-bedroom house
With a shaded yard
Where your dog can run free and we can sip coffee in the mornings.
The front porch gets the best light,
But the back is quieter.
I can cook you meals.
Nothing that would be featured in Saveur or Food + Wine,
But I’ll buy the best ingredients
I’ll splurge on organic vegetables for you
And I’ll plan the menu for each night while I work during the day.
We can play hooky once a month
And go to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon
And sit in the dark with the retirees and unemployed,
And talk about our future with buttery popcorn and stale boxes of candy.
I will write bad poems about you,
That I will only share after a couple glasses of wine
And even though you might cringe at its earnestness,
You will think of it later and blush.
It’s all I have to give
And I hope it’s enough
But if not
I’ll find more.
So here you go.
I have nothing else to give you,
But a tiny one-bedroom house
With a shaded yard
Where your dog can run free and we can sip coffee in the mornings.
The front porch gets the best light,
But the back is quieter.
I can cook you meals.
Nothing that would be featured in Saveur or Food + Wine,
But I’ll buy the best ingredients
I’ll splurge on organic vegetables for you
And I’ll plan the menu for each night while I work during the day.
We can play hooky once a month
And go to the movies on a Tuesday afternoon
And sit in the dark with the retirees and unemployed,
And talk about our future with buttery popcorn and stale boxes of candy.
I will write bad poems about you,
That I will only share after a couple glasses of wine
And even though you might cringe at its earnestness,
You will think of it later and blush.
It’s all I have to give
And I hope it’s enough
But if not
I’ll find more.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I just wanted to be Miss Cheerwine.
Backstory: There was a contest on Facebook to find the next "Miss Cheerwine." Cheerwine is a super Southern bottled beverage favored by NASCAR drivers and Carolina frat boys. So--me in a nutshell. I had to write an essay and submit some semi-sexy pictures. I wrote my essay in about thirty minutes, as it'd been sitting inside me for ten years or so. Done. Easy peasy. I had this shit down. Then I tried to submit it. Oops. Error. Pictures too sexy? No. No, it wasn't that. I was too fucking OLD. I was 26. The cut-off age was 25. I desperately tried to change my DOB. Nope, Facebook was too smart for that. Okay...panic set in. I had written a Paris Review-worthy Cheerwine essay and it deserved to be read. So...nothing to do now but lie. Make a fake Facebook page. (This was all done at my work, by the way. No shame here.) So I made the fake Facebook, where I lied about my age, and also about my current city, as you also had to live in the Carolinas or Tennessee to qualify. The whole thing was just becoming a giant failure of my life but I had to complete this sad task. Needless to say, I did not win Miss Cheerwine. But I now have this essay to remind me of what could have been...
I’m a Southern girl through and through. Born and raised in Austin, TX, I’ve always been amazed by the beauty and history of our southeastern states. From the sandy shores of North Carolina to the plains of West Texas, our history runs true and deep.
Cheerwine represents the South at its finest. A locally owned product with a history that goes almost as far back as North Carolina’s Blue Ridge Mountains, the bubbly beverage is the only kind in our country still produced by the same family.
To call it a crowd-pleaser is an understatement. The love of Cheerwine borders on fanaticism. This is a brand that benefited from crowd-sourcing and user-generated content and word-of-mouth before all those silly Internet buzzwords even existed. Cheerwine is successful after 90 years because of one simple reason: it’s delicious. And it invokes memories of long, hot, Southern summers: lazy afternoons in hammocks, front porch talks with your neighbors, pickup trucks and swimming holes.
I see myself as the ideal Miss Cheerwine. My experience in public relations, event planning, and customer-facing jobs are ideal for the role. A brand ambassador is essential in knowing what makes their brand unique, and communicating their love for the product and its history to the world. I would be honored to represent Cheerwine and its effervescent brand this summer. I see 2011 as the year Cheerwine becames not just the soft drink of the Carolinas, but the cherry-flavored beverage of our great country.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Friday Poetry
New thing I just decided two minutes ago. I'm going to post a couple poems I like each Friday. They can be super shitty/corny (by me), or they can actually be good (by someone else). My coworker is real sweet and sends me lots of fun little poems and stories every week. So today I have a poem by Sherman Alexie. After having worked in the airline industry for a couple years, I can definitely relate:
Sherman Alexie (born 1966)
"On Airplanes"
I am always amused.
By those couples—
Lovers and spouses—
Who perform and ask
Others to perform
Musical chairs
Wherever they, by
Random seat selection,
Are separated
From each other.
“Can you switch
Seats with me?”
A woman asked me.
“So I can sit
With my husband?”
She wanted me,
A big man, who
Always books early,
And will gratefully
Pay extra for the exit row,
To trade my aisle seat
For her middle seat.
By asking me to change
My location for hers,
The woman is actually
Saying to me:
“Dear stranger, dear
Sir, my comfort is
More important than yours.
Dear solitary traveler,
My love and fear—
As contained
Within my marriage—
Are larger than yours.”
O, the insult!
O, the condescension!
And this is not
An isolated incident.
I’ve been asked
To trade seats
Twenty or thirty times
Over the years.
How dare you!
How dare you
Ask me to change
My life for you!
How imperial!
How colonial!
But, ah, here is
The strange truth:
Whenever I’m asked
To trade seats
For somebody else’s love,
I do, I always do. (149-151)
from War Dances. New York: Grove, 2009. Copyright 2009 by Sherman Alexie.
And, being that I'm in an unusual, romantical mood (for reasons I'm not ready to go into) I will also post this:
Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)
The Shirt
The shirt touches his neck
and smooths over his back.
It slides down his sides.
It even goes down below his belt—
down into his pants.
Lucky shirt. [1978]
Sherman Alexie (born 1966)
"On Airplanes"
I am always amused.
By those couples—
Lovers and spouses—
Who perform and ask
Others to perform
Musical chairs
Wherever they, by
Random seat selection,
Are separated
From each other.
“Can you switch
Seats with me?”
A woman asked me.
“So I can sit
With my husband?”
She wanted me,
A big man, who
Always books early,
And will gratefully
Pay extra for the exit row,
To trade my aisle seat
For her middle seat.
By asking me to change
My location for hers,
The woman is actually
Saying to me:
“Dear stranger, dear
Sir, my comfort is
More important than yours.
Dear solitary traveler,
My love and fear—
As contained
Within my marriage—
Are larger than yours.”
O, the insult!
O, the condescension!
And this is not
An isolated incident.
I’ve been asked
To trade seats
Twenty or thirty times
Over the years.
How dare you!
How dare you
Ask me to change
My life for you!
How imperial!
How colonial!
But, ah, here is
The strange truth:
Whenever I’m asked
To trade seats
For somebody else’s love,
I do, I always do. (149-151)
from War Dances. New York: Grove, 2009. Copyright 2009 by Sherman Alexie.
And, being that I'm in an unusual, romantical mood (for reasons I'm not ready to go into) I will also post this:
Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)
The Shirt
The shirt touches his neck
and smooths over his back.
It slides down his sides.
It even goes down below his belt—
down into his pants.
Lucky shirt. [1978]
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Pavement on a rainy Thursday.
Do you think Stephen Malkmus is embarrassed by this video? It's absolutely precious how unself-conscious he is in this: waggling his eyebrows, striking some pin-up poses on a rock, wearing some baggy K-mart sweater, practically making love to the camera. I miss the early to mid 90s. People are too worried today about being ironic and jaded and cool to just let their hair down and kiss a rock.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
Beautiful old Southern photos
Felt like sharing some beautiful old Southern women photos, courtesy of my favorite magazine Garden & Gun. Happy Mother's Day!
Thursday, May 5, 2011
This makes me wanna dance!
I have one dream in life...and that is to be in a MGM musical sequence, a la Busby Berkeley. Just five minutes in a gold swimsuit wearing a feather headdress...that's all I ask. (I realize this is an Italian TV special spoofing American English, but it's one of the best songs I've ever heard.)
The most beautiful movie trailer.
Dear Mr. Malick, I would like to be friends. I think we could have some good chats drinking iced tea and sitting on the front porch, watching the fireflies come out at night.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
I'm moving
My NYC friend sent me this oh-so-enticing Craigslist ad today. So intriguing I had to save it. Yes, men like this really do exist. And they're probably making more money than I could ever dream of.
$1100 Looking for more wolves to join the wolfpack (East Village)
Trying to avoid the whole "having a roommate who sucks" situation so we're looking for a couple solid dudes that get along with us BEFORE moving in with random guys that put on a “bro” front but next thing you know they creep out all the friends you bring over or they look at you cock-eyed when you make a Hangover reference in the title of your Craigslist post…
A bit about us: Three straight males a year into our careers in market research and finance for three major companies. We have big commitments to our jobs but we still like to have a good time and experience NYC like it was meant to be experienced. Two of us have been friends for some time and the other joined our pack through this craigslist search. Genuinely we want to befriend our new roommates and share the benefits of prospective pools of hot chick friends, knowledge of hidden bars/restaurants in the city, and overall just having a fun place to live.
So if you’re interested in meeting us, send us an email and we’ll meet up. If all goes well, we can find a good 3-4 bedroom apartment in Manhattan (we’re thinking east side, anywhere Murray Hill and south) and live it up.
We are looking for a May 1, May 15 or June 1 move in.
IN EMAIL:
- Tell us about yourself, we don’t give a shit about your life story, just give us the basics.
- How old are you? If you’re too self conscious to tell us then you’re too old.
- Do you have a steady job? Can you make rent? We’re looking at places between $1000-1400/month
- Do you know what an Xbox is? We casually dabble in some competitive FIFA while drinking
- Do you have a girlfriend? Is she going to be at our place day in and day out? If so, can she cook?
- Can you deal with sarcastic and borderline inappropriate humor?
- Can you attempt to clean up after yourself?
- Do you have a sick ass Flatscreen TV and/or leather couch? Your chances are a lot better if you do…
Cheers…
$1100 Looking for more wolves to join the wolfpack (East Village)
Trying to avoid the whole "having a roommate who sucks" situation so we're looking for a couple solid dudes that get along with us BEFORE moving in with random guys that put on a “bro” front but next thing you know they creep out all the friends you bring over or they look at you cock-eyed when you make a Hangover reference in the title of your Craigslist post…
A bit about us: Three straight males a year into our careers in market research and finance for three major companies. We have big commitments to our jobs but we still like to have a good time and experience NYC like it was meant to be experienced. Two of us have been friends for some time and the other joined our pack through this craigslist search. Genuinely we want to befriend our new roommates and share the benefits of prospective pools of hot chick friends, knowledge of hidden bars/restaurants in the city, and overall just having a fun place to live.
So if you’re interested in meeting us, send us an email and we’ll meet up. If all goes well, we can find a good 3-4 bedroom apartment in Manhattan (we’re thinking east side, anywhere Murray Hill and south) and live it up.
We are looking for a May 1, May 15 or June 1 move in.
IN EMAIL:
- Tell us about yourself, we don’t give a shit about your life story, just give us the basics.
- How old are you? If you’re too self conscious to tell us then you’re too old.
- Do you have a steady job? Can you make rent? We’re looking at places between $1000-1400/month
- Do you know what an Xbox is? We casually dabble in some competitive FIFA while drinking
- Do you have a girlfriend? Is she going to be at our place day in and day out? If so, can she cook?
- Can you deal with sarcastic and borderline inappropriate humor?
- Can you attempt to clean up after yourself?
- Do you have a sick ass Flatscreen TV and/or leather couch? Your chances are a lot better if you do…
Cheers…
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Year of Fat Experiment
If I was brave and gutsy and crazy, I would do a year where I let myself get really, really fat. Just give up altogether. Maybe still wear makeup and try to look nice, but just be straight-up chubby. Although if I was fat, would I even bother to look nice? Or would it be a slow, unstoppable descent into sweatpants and greasy ponytails? What a fascinating documentary that would be. Watching a formerly vain girl's transformation into chubby hell. I guess I could get to about 200 pretty easy. That's fat enough. And to document how my friends and family would treat me differently. Would I tell them it was an experiment? Or would that ruin it? Would I just wait to see who would say something first? Of course it'd be my mom: "Honey...I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm worried about your weight. You've always had such a pretty face and I don't want you to hide it. Plus, your health!!!"
I think it'd be a pretty interesting take on how society treats attractive and unattractive women. (At least that's what my artist's statement would say at MOMA.) From job interviews to going out to bars to online dating...the possibilities for awful, awkward encounters are endless! Maybe I'm the only one who would want to watch this. But I think I have some friends out there who struggle with their weight and emotional eating that would take a schadenfreude delight in watching someone say "fuck it!" and eat a pint of B&J's Chubby Monkey every night. Maybe I can get an artist's grant for this. Of course, all the money would be used for lap band surgery and hypnosis after the year to slim up. And Adderall. And other legalized speed that would curb my appetite. Diet and exercise? Nope, never heard of 'em.
I think it'd be a pretty interesting take on how society treats attractive and unattractive women. (At least that's what my artist's statement would say at MOMA.) From job interviews to going out to bars to online dating...the possibilities for awful, awkward encounters are endless! Maybe I'm the only one who would want to watch this. But I think I have some friends out there who struggle with their weight and emotional eating that would take a schadenfreude delight in watching someone say "fuck it!" and eat a pint of B&J's Chubby Monkey every night. Maybe I can get an artist's grant for this. Of course, all the money would be used for lap band surgery and hypnosis after the year to slim up. And Adderall. And other legalized speed that would curb my appetite. Diet and exercise? Nope, never heard of 'em.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
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