Thursday, March 11, 2010

Al Fresco on the Plaza

New Mexico Fine Art Museum

For those of you who are friends, or have been reading this blog, you will know that one of my favorite things about working in downtown Santa Fe is being able to take my lunch break on the Plaza. I am happy to say that for the first time in what seems like days, it has been warm enough to take the leisurely walk from my office to the obelisk where I sit, eat my lunch and watch all the strangeness that we call people.

Teezy's famous apple lunch

You may also know from my previous Fatnip post that I generally have an apple for my lunch break which seems to prompt all sorts of whack fat-asses to waddle up to me and comment on my personal appearance.

Guitar Guy on the Plaza

I sat next to this guitar guy on the obelisk. He was very good and it is always nice to have some live music during lunch. Later in the season there will be all sorts of entertainment—from belly dancers to harpists, jugglers and, of course mariachi.

Santa Fe Plaza Christmas Tree

I am well aware that we are having budget cutbacks in New Mexico, but the fact that the Christmas decorations are still up on the Plaza in March is a little disheartening—although, as you can see in the photo above, there is still a little snow on the ground.

Since I have been waiting patiently for spring, seeing a giant Christmas tree on the Plaza, reminding me that it is still officially winter, was a little irritating.

But, all of a sudden, a cool breeze swept in from the north. The Christmas tree swayed slightly causing it's lights to twinkle and the dusty star to glisten once again in the late winter sun. Everyone on the Plaza stopped for a moment—even guitar guy paused mid-refrain. And there, in that hushed silence, an ever so faint sound of jingle bells could be heard.

Then, with all the stale and left-over Christmasy magicalness that was remaining in the season, something miraculous happened.

Crack Santa appeared!!!

Crack Santa and Mrs. Claus

I know we have all heard the rumors about Santa hittin the pipe after Christmas but I never thought that I would ever witness the results—much less sitting on a park bench directly in front of me. Even Mrs. C seemed a little tweaked—but she kept her eyes on the cop car the entire time.

Smart woman.

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Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Another Valentine's Day has Passed

I hope that everyone out there had a spectacular Valentine's Day and was able to do all the wonderful stuff that people do on such a loving and superficial made-up holiday.

Being truly sentimental at heart, every year I do the somewhat cliché but always appreciated romantic evening at home. I get dressed up in a jacket and tie and put on a little cologne. I prepare a nice intimate meal by the fireplace, always with a good bottle of wine. Of course I light candles to give just the right ambience and provide that warm glow of love. And yes, I play some soft romantic jazz on the stereo to set the mood.

After a leisurely dinner it is time to retire to the bedroom where I have previously pulled the drapes, dimmed the lights and covered the bed with hundreds of rose petals. I pop the cork on a chilled bottle of champagne, pour, and begin to get undressed slowly. I climb into bed, sip my champagne, and lie there alone, amid the rose petals, wondering why no one will ever love me.

But this year was different—I actually interacted with other people.

Reezy's Valentine's Day Buffet

My friend Reezy had decided to have a dinner party and was kind enough to invite me. There was a great turn out. I got to see many old friends and meet some new ones and, as you can see in the photo above, the food was incredible.

Surprisingly, I was only sightly humiliated by the fact that I was the only one there alone. Even the gay guys who aren't in relationships brought girl dates—what's up with that? I was going to call them on it but, after a few champagne cocktails, I decided to simply lie and tell everyone that my date was in the bathroom. As the evening progressed and I began to get questioned about the bathroom answer, I cleverly stated that my date had been suffering from diarrhea for what seemed like weeks—I think they bought it because everyone stopped asking me about it.

We all decided to go for a nightcap at Vanessie, a very nice restaurant with a piano bar. The entertainment was pleasant—sentimental love songs with a nice piano accompaniment—and there was a good sized crowd enjoying the show.

The evening ended with an art photographer sitting down next to me at our table and asking me to consider being photographed by her—NUDE! She even tried to get my friends to coax me into doing it. Of course, being the shy and modest person that I am, I said no, but she said that if I was uncomfortable we could start with shots from just the waist up. But that doesn't seem like much fun. I have to admit, seeing my tickle-bits dangling in an art gallery not only makes me chuckle but intrigues me a little bit.

Believe it or not, the photographer is legit—she has done fashion, portraits, and magazine work as well as art photography. Who knows, some day there may be nekid pictures of Teezy in galleries and museums everywhere! I'll keep you posted.

And mom, it is not porn if it is in a gallery—it's erotic ART!!

I will leave you with a little side-hug action to show all of you my love (in a "I gots to have abstinence" kind of way):

You had better beware if you see me coming at you "front hug bound with that look in my eye"!

Fortunately, someone had the good sense to shoot them all dead at the end of the show—you know how those fundamental Christians and their guns can be.

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Thursday, February 11, 2010

Dash Cam—Winter Edition

After the huge box office success of my last film titled "Commuting in Santa Fe" (it has had over fifty views so far!!), I have decided to release a Director's Cut sequel titled "Commuting in Santa Fe—Winter".

This new release contains never seen before footage revealing the intimate and often disturbing world of one man's winter commute within Santa Fe County. This critically acclaimed thrill-a-minute feature is both shockingly real and emotionally poignant and will leave audiences questioning their own drive-time and wanting more.

This film is not yet rated but is intended for mature audiences.

Snowy Commute in Santa Fe

Courtyard Snow, Santa Fe

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Friday, February 5, 2010

Super Whut?

Someone just told me that this is Super Bowl weekend. If you aren't familiar with the event, it's like this game that someone thought would be cool to put on television—all day. Some people even watch it just for the commercials—whtevs—I can't get to my remote fast enough to skip that commercial shit, but to each their own.

Something about the broadcast also compels people to eat all sorts of crazy-ass crap—basically anything that is fried, comes with a dipping sauce or is topped with melted Velveeta. The one really good thing to come from the Super Bowl is the freedom to drink beer all day without judgement. For that alone Super Bowl should become a national holiday.

Before you get all excited I have to tell you that even though it is called "Super Bowl", from my understanding, it has very little to do with bowling—I think that they are just trying to trick people into watching.

Since I am probably the only person left in the United States that does not have cable television, the Super Bowl really puts a kink in my weekend pleasurable pursuits. Since it is believed that everyone in the world will be watching the Super Bowl, the other television networks tend to broadcast really lame junk so it basically renders the television useless for the majority of the day.

Therefore, I have been forced to make other plans.

I have decided to begin the weekend by laying down some dope rhyme with my homies in the neighborhood. Word, we gonna be bringin' that next level shit y'all. Check out a recent vid:

Can I touch you friend?

And, no that's not me flinging my tickle-bits around in the Pink Floyd undies. I'm, of course, the guy with the 40. Remind me and I'll invite all of you to one of our block parties this summer—they're totally rad.

I have loaded a bunch of beer in the fridge and a bunch movies in the queue for Sunday. I don't have any Velveeta to melt on stuff, but I am certain that I can make my own out of food coloring and Crisco.

If you have forgotten that it is Super Bowl weekend and haven't had a chance to grab some movies yet, I will leave you with a little flick to watch about some srsly whack dolls that scare me.

Merry Super Bowl! or Happy Super Bowl! or whatever the hell you are supposed to say.

Alma from Rodrigo Blaas on Vimeo.

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Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Guns Don't Kill People...Babies Kill People

Guys selling Pinon firewood from their trucks In my neighborhood

You may have noticed that my posts lately have been primarily about me, me, me and very little about living in Santa Fe. There are good reasons for this.

First, I find the subject of me to be endlessly fascinating and, unlike some of my family and friends, I do not find the topic "tiresome" or "tedious" or "relentlessly uninteresting".

Second, as seen in the photo above of some guys selling Pinon firewood, it is still winter in Santa Fe and I have a tendency to hibernate. I am certain that there are a lot of interesting things going on here, but who cares? it's cold.

And third, I believe that I am developing a little touch of agoraphobia because of recent happenings both online and within my proximity.

Recently some 22 year old dilt in Albuquerque named Dante Aikins went to the theater to see "Avitar". Evidently it was a popular excursion because the theater was completely filled with movie-goers anxiously waiting to be entertained.

I know that we all sneak things into the movies. I simply wont leave for the theater without my pockets filled with Funyuns, a delisiciousy grilled cheese samich, some gummi worms and my flask of vodka. Evidently Dante Aikins also chooses to sneak things into the theater but, instead of the wholesome goodness of processed food products and liquor, Dante likes to fill his pockets with loaded weaponry.

I am certain that Dante's little gun friend makes him feel all powerful and important like—I am sure that Mr. Gun tells Dante that he is a big man. Unfortunately, while Dante was fondling Mr. Gun in the theater he accidentally dropped it on the floor causing it to discharge into the crowded room hitting one person in the foot.

What did Dante do?

He got up out of his seat, squealed "Who's shooting fireworks in here" and ran to the nearest Red Roof Inn where he was subsequently arrested.


The way I see it, Mr. Gun is like Mary Kate and Ashley. Yes, privately you are friends, they make you feel important and occasionally you might even be caught fondling them. But good Lord, you sure as hell don't want to take those trolls out in public. Stop embarrassing yourself Dante and leave Mr. Gun at home.

I know that Dante is probably a product of his environment and upbringing. One of my new besties that I found through Blogger's New and Improved Next Blog Link posted a little training video from their compound in Georgia that illustrates that it is never too early to teach children the laugh-out-loud humor and family fun associated with shooting guns and the kill.

I wont post their names or a link to their blog because, quite frankly, they terrify me. With daddy asking "Do you like it?" and the sister-wife in the background shouting "Again, Again!", the trajectory of this child's destiny is nearly certain—baby Dante.

And you know that sister-wife's directive to "shoot those waskely wabbits" is just code for "kill weft wing wiberals". Besides, shouldn't her ass be in the kitchen or laundry room or birthin' another baby. I think daddy needs to spend less time teaching junior to fire weapons and concentrate on keeping sister-wife's mouth shut.

And it doesn't stop there.

Just a couple of days ago another window-licker (probably Dante's cousin) stole a parvo and ringworm infected Rottweiler puppy from an Albuquerque animal shelter. What kind of stupid turd steals a dog from an animal shelter? The whole intent of the animal shelter is to GIVE animals away. A friend of mine that volunteers at the Santa Fe animal shelter told me that they will even work with individuals to help reduce or eliminate the nominal spay/neuter fee if necessary.


Meanwhile, the Albuquerque animal shelter is begging that the dog be returned for medical treatment because not only is the dog extremely contagious, but could quite possibly die from the infection.

So there you have it—important events in Santa Fe and beyond. Now I think that you can easily understand why during the winter months I choose to hibernate and tend to dwell on the ever pleasant subject that is me. It sure beats getting shot by children or getting infected with ringworm. Danger, danger, danger—it's everywhere!

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Friday, January 22, 2010

Statcounter Makes me Laugh...

Sunset From My Office Window

Mormons, Mormons, Mormons, Mormons, Mormons, Mormons

Typically my little blog only receives about 50 hits a day. Most are from family and friends, some are people who just stumble across it probably looking for something else, and there are a few who find Santa Fe Steeze by using the New and Improved Next Blog Link —and I'm OK with that. But it is nice to see that occasionally someone from some other part of the world actually arrived on my blog and took a little time to read all this crap that I write. It's even nicer to see a comment from someone—although I am very guilty of not leaving comments as often as I should (I'm trying to work on that).

Well, a few days ago I posted a little something about the Mormons. If you missed it, you can read it here. Within two days of publishing that post I had received literally hundreds of hits. Not to the Santa Fe Steeze home page but to that specific post. The hits were coming from all over the United States and, probably no surprise, the majority were from Utah. It's like the entire church is monitoring the interwebs. I expect to receive my excommunication notice via email—they're all techie like that.

So in an effort to drive a little more traffic to my site I have decided to occasionally throw the word "Mormon" into some of my posts. We'll see if it works.

I use a site called Statcounter to provide me information about who is visiting my blog. It doesn't give any real specifics, primarily just the ISP location and what pages are being looked at, the length of each visit and images or videos that are downloaded, etc. It's just one of the many web tracker gadgets available, I just happen to prefer it over Google Analytics. One of the best features of Statcounter is that it will show you the referring link so you can see what sites have linked to you and where your visitors are coming from.

By utilizing the referring link information from Statcounter, I have determined that a large portion of the people who are visiting my site are just plain and simple freaks (you know who you are).

I have had seventeen hits from people searching "Demon Cat Face". Who in the hell searches for "Demon Cat Face"? you might ask, well several from Kenya, one from India and the remainder from our own US of A—and every single one of them actually read that post.

It gets stranger.

I have had sixty-three visits from individuals searching for "Chubs"! Lord only knows what they are hoping to find. What is really surprising is that a few of the chub-searchers took the time to read the post. I feel kind of violated, but at least they didn't leave any chub-lovin comments that I would be obligated to reply to.

There is one individual in the UK that has visited my site fourteen times. Each time they have done a search for "5 foot 9, 135 pounds" and each time they go to the same post as the chub-searchers. I don't understand reading the same post fourteen times—friggin nut. And, if you are going to come back to the same post over and over again, just bookmark the damn page, don't keep doing the stupid search.

Seven people have found my site by searching "Mr. Pickles", which I think is a a west coast restaurant chain. Again, the strange thing is that most stayed on the site long enough to read the post—which is obviously not about deliciousy pickle-covered samiches.

I have had eleven people find my site by searching "SILF". It's just truly disturbing and I am not going to comment further on that.

And finally, perhaps the most unsettling of all are the two people who searched "Pale+Thin+Hairless" and ended up on my batboy post.


But all in all, it makes me laugh. Just as I got a kick out of all the Google ads for anorexia and bulimia clinics on my blogs sidebar when I posted my "fatnip" story.

But the truth be told, I am really glad that all this strangeness is visiting my blog—I believe we may be kindred spirits. So, no matter which way you're twisted, if you visit my blog I will Luvz U 4Evas!! 4reals!

I think that I have decided that my New Year's resolutions should be to occasionally throw the word "Mormon" into my posts, blog a little more about Mr. Pickles and Ticklebits, and add a random bit of sheep, chub and pale-skinny-hairless porn to my site.

We'll see...

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Tuesday, January 19, 2010

It's Still Winter in Santa Fe

View of my Front Courtyard

By the time January rolls around, I am pretty tired of winter and am anxiously waiting for spring. January and Santa Fe both know this and insist on reminding me that winter is still here. The first of three winter storms has hit Santa Fe. The storms are coming in from California where I hear that by the end of the week they may receive 20 inches of rain and up to 10 feet of snow in Mammoth Mountain.

This first wave dumped about 12 inches of snow at my house so far—it is supposed to be the weakest of the three storms so I will just have to wait and see what happens next.

Walls surrounding my back yard

We have an alley system in my neighborhood. My garage is located at the back of my house and my driveway connects to the alley. Snow had already drifted up the garage door this morning. Thank-you to the inventors of four wheel drive—I needed it just to get down my driveway.

My Neighborhood Church

One nice thing about Pueblo Style architecture is the organic tone of it's structure and the way it appears in the landscape—especially in the snow.

Snowy Commute into Town

Most of my commute was snow packed this morning as you can see in the photos above. I don't mind so much, it's really kind of nice—little traffic (although there never is much), a slow pace and spectacular scenery. It reminds me of why I moved to Santa Fe. Often I get in a rush or become preoccupied and fail to take a breath and simply look around.

Old Santa Fe Trail and Paseo de Peralta

By the time I reached downtown the streets were wet but clear. Legislature is in session and the state capitol building is behind the trees on the left side of the photo. I saw quite a few people having to walk down the slushy sidewalks today to the capitol and from what the forecast says, it is just going to get snowier.

I am still anxious for spring, but days like today remind me how beautiful winter can be.

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Thursday, January 14, 2010

Mormons and Catholics and Okies, Oh My!

Oklahoma panhandle looking towards New Mexico

I am going to begin this post by stating that I am proud of my Oklahoma heritage. My mother's family is Cherokee and have been in Oklahoma since the Trail of Tears. My father moved to Oklahoma for employment as a research scientist for a large petroleum conglomerate. My father was transferred a few times during my childhood, but we always returned to Oklahoma. My entire education through graduate school was based in Oklahoma and my Okie education has provided me with the opportunity to tour the United States as a musician, travel the world as an import buyer and eventually settle (for now) in Santa Fe as a designer. This is just to say that not everyone in Oklahoma walks around barefoot or circles the wagons at night.

As most people do when reminiscing about their hometown, I will say that without a doubt the people in Oklahoma are almost overly kind and polite. Manners are important there, from the obligatory "please" and "thank you" at the drive through window, to holding the door open for a stranger at the convenience store. Treating others with kindness is a badge of honor there.

Appearance is also important in Oklahoma. Perhaps not as forced and over-the-top as say Dallas, but the people in Oklahoma are generally attractive and try to present themselves well. Throughout all my travels I still miss the polite and pleasant looking people of Oklahoma.

So, as I wax nostalgic, I also must be honest about my home state. Perhaps because of the agrarian background, there still exists an undercurrent of the idea that men must be manly-men (see my last post on being the smallest guy in my class) and women are to birth the babies. Or, the politically correct term "Traditional Values". Or, as I like to say "Antiquated Bullshit".

I was raised Mormon. You can't get more "Traditional Values" than that. When I say raised, I mean that my family was active in the church, I was baptized as a Mormon at the age of eight, even our scout troop was affiliated with the Mormon church—it was intense.
Both my parents were well educated and saw the need to provide the best education they could for their children. That is where the problem began.

My parents believed that the educational system in Oklahoma placed an abnormal emphasis on sporting activities over academics. This still sparks a contentious debate.

So, while on a recent road trip through the Oklahoma panhandle, I ran across this piece of evidence on the side of a public school:

School Sign in Forgan Oklahoma

At least "Academic" is listed before golf for God's sake. Although, let's face it, golf isn't a real sport like football, basketball or track. Also, shouldn't "Academic" be "Academics"?

Understandably so, my parents placed me in a parochial school (the only private school available) so that the delightful Sisters of the Order of Saint Augustine could mold my brain.

It was an interesting experience. Needless to say, I was the only Mormon (aka heathen) in attendance. I did receive a good education and, in hindsight, the sisters were quite tolerant of me—probably because they simply did not know what to make of me—you know, worshiping Joseph Smith, growing up in bigamy, waiting for Jesus to come to earth on his spaceship, and all the other crazy myths surrounding the "Cult of Mormanism".

There is an interesting dynamic that happens when you are totally immersed and participating in a group without actually being a part of it. I was able to glean the best they had to offer, taught their values and outlook, learned their customs and rituals but I was never expected to accept their belief system. Strange. Meanwhile, on Sundays I was participating in the Sacrament, going to Primary and, as a boy, preparing for a Mormon Mission when I was eighteen. Stranger still.

I had to attend Mass but never took Communion. I remember I thought that just sitting there on the pew made me look as if I was either not in a "State of Grace" or had missed confession since my last mortal sin. I remember pitching fits (just to be a little shit) because all the other kids got "cookies" at communion and I got none. I also remember sneaking a pair of red plastic devil horns to school for Halloween even though the school diocese strictly forbade celebrating the holiday. I never got into too much trouble over wearing the devil horns, maybe because I was just seen as the little devil incarnate in the classroom, or, I truly believe, that many of the sisters thought that it was really kind of funny—the Mormon kid actually looking like Satan.

So, there you have it. Mormons, Catholics and Okies—a childhood of fond, strange, uptight and humorous memories that made me the weirdness that I am today. And, believe it or not, I was able to grow up in Oklahoma and never play a single game of football.

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Thursday, January 7, 2010

How I Became Fatnip and My Review of "Youth in Revolt"

What you catch with fatnip

A few weeks ago I blogged about the Santa Fe Film Festival and mentioned that I was going to see "Youth in Revolt" starring Michael Cera. You can read the original post here. The cast also includes Jean Smart, Steve Buscemi, Fred Willard, and Ray Liotta.

"Youth in Revolt" is scheduled to be released nationwide tomorrow,so, as promised, (and to maintain my reputation as the greatest theater critic in all of Santa Fe), here is my review:

First of all, "Youth in Revolt" has a pretty remarkable cast so I had really high expectations for the film. I went with Neezy who is a huge movie fan. I ran into Neezy a few days ago at a dinner party and he told me that he really enjoyed the film—but Neezy likes just about every movie as long as he sees it in a theater.

The movie is kind of funny. There are a few good chuckles here and there—no big laughs for me. Honestly, I was a little disappointed (although Neezy was laughing his ass off).

There was one joke that was repeated several times that actually bothered me.

When Nick (Michael Cera's character) gets into so much trouble that the police start to look for him they begin broadcasting his description on radio and television. Part of that description is the fact that he has brown hair and is 5 feet 9 inches tall and 135 pounds. This description is repeated several times during the film and each time it received a big laugh from the audience. Even Neezy was laughing—I just wasn't getting it.

Then it dawned on me. They were all laughing at his size. They were laughing because he is 5'9" and 135 pounds!
Now, a little funny facty about the Teezy. I am 5 feet 8 inches tall and weigh 130 pounds. I have been 5'8" and 130 since I was a teenager—granted that was like 100 years ago so, over time, I have become comfortable with my size.
When I was young I really wasn't into sports, but I was on the gymnastics team and, during the summer, I was in the pool every day. I may have been 5'8" and 130 pounds, but I was very fit and healthy—it wasn't like you could see my bones or I looked malnourished.

That didn't matter, I was still teased and tormented about my size. At a very early age I was called "bunny" (because of the fact that my father's nickname for me was "bunny"—I will blog about that childhood trauma later), but the kids who called me "bunny" were doing it out of malice, not affection like my dad. The name calling eventually turned a term of endearment between me and my dad into something I hated (although my father continued to call me "bunny" and still does to this day). The name calling progressed all through school to the point that I began to think that my name really was either "bunny", or the ever popular with the jocks "twinkie".

I don't know if you can even imagine being a teenage boy riding your skateboard around the school campus or just walking down the hall and having the other kids and especially the jocks greet you with "Hey bunny" or "What's up twinkie". Pretty awful.

I tried everything to gain weight including those vile protein weight gain powders to no avail. It wasn't until I was in college that I realized that there are whole groups of people who find us small guys attractive. Granted they are usually large, aggressive and dominant women and large, aggressive and dominant gay men, but hey, my philosophy has always been "take what you can get". Besides, the rope burns and scratch marks usually fade after a day or two and the nuns in prep school did a really good job of teaching me to shut up and do as I am told. (Thanks Sister Margaret for the sex tips!)

Now that I am older I am completely happy with who I am and what I look like and I am still 5'8" and 130 pounds. The only thing that bothers me now is that with the numbers of obese rising in the world and obesity becoming the primary health concern in the United States, there seems to have been a paradigm shift that makes little guys like me the enemy and a target for the fatties.

During the summer I take my lunch break on the Plaza here in Santa Fe and several times every month some fat-assed tourist will waddle up to me, Haagen Dazs dripping in one hand and a huge greasy fajita from a street vendor in the other, and say "You're so skinny." Like a random everyday comment.

Mind you these are strangers—I am usually just sitting on the Plaza reading a book—I haven't even made eye contact with them. I feel like responding with "That's funny, I was just thinking about how FAT you are, but I thought that it would be RUDE to say anything."
You know if I called some troll fat I would be considered mean if not cruel, but if some chub can manage to jiggle it's way in front of me they seem to have every right to comment about my personal appearance and I am supposed to be OK with it.

It actually got worse a few days ago.

I was sitting alone at the bar of a local semi-upscale restaurant having a beer. I had decided to get my beer on in the early afternoon (don't judge me) so there were very few people in the restaurant and only one other person sitting at the opposite end of the bar from me. Some rather large, but proportionate guy walks in, looks around, hangs up his jacket and sits down on the bar stool right next to me. I don't mind that he sat next to me, interacting with people is one of the nice things about sitting at the bar, especially if you're alone. What irritated me was the mostly one-sided conversation that followed.

He began with the typical pleasantries of "Hey, how are you?...My name is..." but then he started asking me things like "What gym do you go to? you know of any good trainers?...did I know that the average beer has 150 calories?...etc..." He still wasn't bothering me, I just though that his choice of topics was a little odd for a conversation with a stranger who was drinking in the middle of the afternoon.

I responded that I didn't belong to a gym, that I knew one person who taught yoga, but didn't consider him a personal trainer and that I wasn't counting calories but, if I were, I would certainly find something to cut from my diet other than beer.

He then started to drone on and on about how he is constantly struggling with his weight (mind you he's a big guy but doesn't look overweight to me), goes to the gym at least four days a week (probably why he doesn't look fat), has hired a personal trainer, blah, blah, blah.

OK, so I am still not irritated. Yes, my eyes were glazing over and I was starting to stare blankly into space away from him but, you know, whatevas, it's just some dude at a bar trying to make conversation in the middle of the afternoon.

He proceeded to tell me about his therapist (yes, like "I'm a psycho"), and how he thinks that his "issues" contribute to his weight and body image. Again, he really doesn't look fat, he is just a large person—so I'm thinking that he is just mental.

Believe it or not, I am still not freaked out by this guy. I think that it is perfectly fine to seek psychiatric care if you happen to be whack. I do find discussing your mental illness with a stranger at a bar in Santa Fe a little bizarre.

He must have noticed that I wasn't responding and had started to stare blankly at the back wall of the bar because, for a brief moment, he stopped talking.

What this guy did next still creeps me out.

He reached over and put his hand on the lower part of my stomach right over the button on my pants. He then started to move his hand back and forth up my torso briefly pausing here and there until he was up to the top of my chest.

This definitely jolted me out of my mellow afternoon beer buzz. I was shocked at first. For a split second I just looked at him—what was happening had to sink in.

He proceeded to move his hand back down to my stomach and, not looking at me but at his hand, he said "So, how much do you weigh?"

I'm sorry, but is that ever an appropriate question? Could you imagine what would happen if I said to some fat person "So, how much do you weigh?"

I was in total WTF land.
My response was simply "Um, dude, stop touching me."

He then looked up at my face, moved his hand and started rubbing my shoulder at the base of my neck like we were buddies and said "Oh, sorry man." "So, how much do you weigh?"

Of course by that time the reality of the moment had sunk in and, since he had just told me that he is all mental about his weight, I decided to be a jackass and lie and tell him that I had no idea how much I weighed, that weight simply had never been an issue with me and that I thought it was great that he was finally seeking professional help for his problem before it got even more out of hand.

I continued by bringing up and feigning concern about the health risks associated with severe obesity. I also suggested that he should start watching "The Biggest Loser" for inspiration.

I ended the conversation by telling him to stay determined and patient because loosing such a significant amount of excess weight would probably take quite some time. You know, just a little something for him to discuss with his therapist at his next session.

I paid my tab and got the hell out of there.

Fucking self-imagined fat-ass.

I don't know why all the plumpers are honing in on me like I am fatnip. But, obviously, I am getting tired of it.

Honestly, I don't care if someone is overweight—It is their life and their prerogative. There have even been several overweight people that I have found to be quite attractive. The ones that piss me off are those who seem to focus on my appearance, have no qualms about commenting about it, and treat thin people like we are some sort of abnormal freaks.

What those overweight individuals fail to realize is that there is a direct correlation between the amount of food they shovel into their mouths and the size of their asses, and the only real way to loose weight is to put the fork down and step away from the buffet.

There I said it.

So what gives? It's OK for the jocks to call a little guy like me "bunny" or "twinkie"? It's OK for a complete chubalito stranger to comment on how skinny I am? It's Ok for some self-imagined pudge-ball afternoon drunk to grope me at a bar in order to determine how much I weigh?

But, if I go around calling people fat or chunky or blubbery, people will think that I am an ass.

Such a double standard, but, unfortunately, in our trans-fat super-sized frappalatte society, I have become the minority.

Now nobody calls me "twinkie" anymore (at least not to my face). Just about all the jocks I went to high school with are fat and/or balding and are living in the glory days of their past.
Some old friends from prep and college still call me "bunny" although, like my dad, they say it out of familiarity and friendship, maybe even love.

I don't really exercise anymore—I walk a lot since I work downtown, and the occasional hike in the mountains. But you know what, I don't have to. I am a proud 5'8", 130 pound bundle of happy little guy.

Now if I can just get the chubs to stop poking me with sticks.

So, in conclusion, "Youth in Revolt" is kind of funny. Although I do find it disturbing that the description of a thin person is the punch line of a joke. I had a great time hanging with Neezy. And, to Michael Cera and all my thin brothas: Red New York has built an empire on male models who start at 5' 9" and 135 pounds and just get taller and thinner from there—let the fatties revolt!

She Smells Fatnip!

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