OMG guys!

Do you have an opinion about “Arrested Development” and is your monthly cell phone bill in excess of $80?

Do you live in Southern California?

Then you know all about the fancy food truck craze that was all started by the Korean taco sensation, Kogi.

This morning as I was putting on my face and listening to the radio, I heard a commercial for the California SNAP (State Nutrition Action Plans) Program. Mild mannered everyman talking about eating right, getting his family healthy . . . blah, blah, blah.

Talk about a missed opportunity! There’s already a perfect song for their campaign. With a little rewriting, Snap’s “The Power” could be blasting over the airwaves again, this time with a different message.

After denying it for the past few years, I finally decided that I need to start dieting. When I was younger (all the way up until college, actually) I had the metabolism of a speeding train. I could eat ANYTHING I wanted and I never gained a pound. I was young, healthy, very skinny, and always active.  And then I discovered one of the crushing realities of adulthood: if you are like most people, you sit at a desk for 8 hours a day, only getting up to go to the vending machine or the bathroom, where you sit on the toilet, quietly crying at the direction your life has taken.

I’ll probably be eating gravel soaked in tears while you sit down to your turkeys and hams and guinea fowl or whatever it is you eat on Thanksgiving, but don’t pay any attention to my gravel-soaked-in-tears dinner, oh no, just you get on with your ELITIST holiday celebrating the eradication of the Greater Crested Buffalo – an animal consigned to the KFC bargain bucket of history the second some religious fanatics landed at Brighton Rock in Nebraska in 1523. And here’s a video showing you how to slice ham. HAM.

Like the splendid colors of the rainbow, there are many types of gays. Some convince themselves they like women, others own the entire contents of the Bluefly accessory wall. I am one of the many gays that was blessed (and cursed) with impeccable taste. Childhood was especially trying; during our annual summer holiday, we would head “up north” to a variety of – charming – cabins, bed & breakfasts, and resorts. I would wait as my father opened the door to our temporary residence, fearing whatever fresh hell awaited us on the other side. An orange macramé bedspread? Rustic pine paneling? The dreaded canoe-cum-bookshelf filled with old issues of Reader’s Digest?

I had a problem this morning when I put on my nice brown pants.  Rather, the pants had a problem.  At some point while hanging innocently in the closet, they shrank.  Oh, yes, okay, that’s an old one, a lame joke, but the fact remains, I had to suck in to zip those fuckers home.  Women’s slacks are complicated. This particular pair has a zipper, a button on the inside of the waistband, and two hooks on the outside.  Because I have whittled and simplified my life vis-à-vis anything resembling couture, I own only four pairs of pants, one of which is in the hamper and two of which are at the dry cleaner’s.  Unless I wanted to treat the office to Lady Lawyer a la Lohan, I had to wear the brown pants today.