Health Food

Does the olive in a martini count?

A Good Laugh

If you, like me are in need of a laugh today, go here and download "Enormous Penis". (Thanks, Billy)

Life is Strange

Recent weirdness.

Some guy on the train with a bible open to Leviticus using a yellow highlighter. He's obviously looking for all the really juicy sins.

Talking with the manager of my gym about one of the creepier members.

"He never actually works out. He just hangs around naked in the locker room, making the other members uncomfortable. If he gets yelled at for bothering people in the steam room, it's because we're discriminating against him. If no one will pay attention to him when he's trying to hit on them in the steam room, or they won't let him play, he complains that people are having sex in the steam room and he's being discriminated against." My question is, does he think he's being discriminated against for being gay or just for being a pest.

At work my boss comes in.

"We're having a departmental meeting tomorrow. I want you to explain your new duties to everyone in a few words".

I float a few suggestions. "Yeah, that kind of thing, that sounds good."

I just wish someone would explain to me what my new duties are.

The news of Virginia Tech has, not surprisingly, turned from being news to being shameless rubbernecking on the part of the media. It's all angling for "human interest stories" and sensationalism.

I had a check up with my doctor. It seems that I am in obscenely good health. So as some sort of practical joke, I almost immediately come down with a cold upon leaving the doctors office.

One of our IT people demonstrated how to twiddle your thumbs while holding a can of Coke as an example of multitasking.

One of our faculty members who couldn't master it, then gave a juggling demo.

It almost makes me feel as though I spend my time here productively.

I was telling a friend that I made an impulse order on Amazon for a somewhat pricey and not necessary book. He told me he was saved from making a porn purchase because of web glitch. Sometimes we need technology not to work to save us from ourselves.

I don't have much to say for myself, but life seems to continue on around me.

On the Radio

I am a fan of streaming radio broadcasts. So when I read this I was pretty horrified. Follow the link in the article and send a message to your congressman. Help save access to internet broadcasts from around the country. Don't let the greedy vampires in the record industry take the music away from us.

The Gloves are OFF!

In the immortal words of Bugs Bunny, "I hope you realize, dis means war!"

I have asked the character on Manhunt to take down my photo. Guess what? It's still there!

I have tried to put myself in this mook's place, I've tried to figure out his motivation. Is he so self conscious that he feels as though anyone's picture is better than what he looks like? Is he fooling around on his boyfriend/wife and doesn't want to have his picture on his profile? Is he just a big closet case? Whatever the reason, the big fake is using the Ganome's photo! This must come to an end. (in the interest of full disclosure, you are not going to get a look at the Ganomes pink bits, so don't get your hopes up.)

So kids, if you are looking for a good time, log into Manhunt and look up letsfuckand69. (Yes Monkey, you were very clever to figure this one out) In the interest of making sure that this is fun for the whole family, I would like to point out that anyone can open a Manhunt account for FREE! Obviously, you don't have to use your own photo, and ladies they don't check your chromosomes so have at it. IN FACT, for the purposes of this little experiment, you should create unique, disposable accounts so you won't really have to put up with this ass clown when you're finished. And remember steal your photos! Porn stars, your pet, a vase of dahlia's, a picture of a komodo dragon, whatever.

The only ground rules are let him know, that you know, that this is not his picture. I would kind of prefer no one leaves a trail of bread crumbs back to this blog either, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

So kids, tell everyone you know. I mean it only will take you a few minutes. You can post your emails to Mr. LFA69 in the comments here if you come up with something really good. Just remember cut and paste.

For each and every one of you that bring a little joy in Mr. LFA69's life, I say thank you from the bottom of my little Evil Ganome heart.

Bait and Switch

I got a phone call from Mr. Date tonight.

"LET'S FUCK AND 69! LET'S FUCK AND 69" and then laughing hysterically he started babeling about 6-2.

My initial reaction was, "I didn't know he had a drug problem."

Once Mr. Date was able to make himself coherent, he proceeded to tell me that some schmoe in Portsmouth NH is using my picture on his Manhunt profile. Aside from claiming to be me, he also avers that he is 6 foot 2. I will say this, he is claiming to be 32, so either I look better than I think or he, more likely, needs a new prescription for his lenses. The only thing he got right was claiming to be French Canadian.

For those of you who have come to know the Ganome, you know that he stands proudly at 5'3" and he shall never see 50 again. 32 is but a dim memory.

What to do, what to do? If I had more than 10 people reading this thing, I would publish this guys screen name and then leave you to your own devices. I am quite sure that people could come up with some fairly interesting propositions for our friend.

At the same time, I am sort of horrified to think that someone is so desperate, that they are using my picture to try and lure people for hook-ups. I can speak from experience, that photo was not exactly causing a line to form at the front door of the Ganome lair.

I am still trying to decide whether I am more irritated or amused. I did send him a little message. Keeping it short and sweet I simply wrote, "My goodness, we must have been separated at birth. Asshat!" I think I showed a great deal of restraint.

I will check back in a couple of days and see if he takes my picture down. If not, the gloves come off and I will publish his screen name and his profile. After that I leave it to you, gentle readers.

The Pie of Doom

“Okay, you can have broccoli, green beans, cauliflower, cabbage and brussel sprouts.”

It’s my trainer and we are negotiating my diet.

“How do we feel about sweet potatoes?”, I ask.

“Okay, you can have one big one, but that’s your carbs for the day. Now, fish oil, olive oil or flaxseed oil… and oh, yeah, nuts. Walnuts, almonds or cashews.”

We are having this discussion because I had my flab measured. 18.2% body fat. I am aiming for 12%.

This has me thinking about my rather neurotic relationship with food. I realize coming from a man who is currently subsisting on protein shakes, boneless, skinless chicken breasts, brown rice and green vegetables this may seem a little odd. What one must bear in mind is that I came to this state due to my love of food.

I think back on wonderful meals as old friends, gone but not forgotten. One of the ultimate eating experiences of recent years was going out to dinner with C. at James's Gate, in J.P. and ordering fried oysters as an appetizer. Always a risky proposition. More often than not what you get when you order fried oysters is hot pencil erasers in greasy batter. What we got on this memorable occasion was a basket of light crunchy heaven in the form of fried batter with sweet juicy oysters hiding inside, waiting to surprise and delight anyone with tastebuds. I do remember that the rest of the meal was equally as well prepared and delicious, but C. and I have only to remind one another of the oysters to assume a far away look as though we are recalling some long ago love.

Several years ago, when the mommy state decided to ban unpasteurized cheese for our own good, Wahz and I headed out to the Star Market to buy the last of that bizarre concoction of Borden's, Liederkrantz. For any who do not remember, or never tried it, it was a cousin of Limbourg cheese on steroids. It, quite frankly, stank of cow barn and composting silage. It was heaven! We stood side by side at the dairy counter, looking sadly at our friend who was to be condemned and Wahz pulled out a box of it and said, "We have to eat it on saltines. That's really the only way."

I reached in and grabbed my own box. "I have no intention of sharing." I stated flatly. We stopped and picked up some beer on the way back to Chez Wahz, and then tucked in. We slowly ate an drank our way through a half pound each of incredibly lively cheese, and talked about smelly cheese we had known and loved. I have no doubt Wahz house smelled as though a herd of cows had been lifting their tales in there by the time we were done.

Catherine's Chocolates, is a tool of Satan. I do not share. On the rare occasions that I buy a pound of hand made chocolaty mortal sin, I dole it out in a way that allows me to savor the box in a way that is probably sexual to the point of perversity.

I have been trying to put behind me all that is good and fattening, but I am being sabotaged in my efforts by Italian women. They are a curse. I work with some lovely people and 2 of them are a mother and daughter team from the North End. Last week being Holy Week, Mom was cooking up a storm in preparation for the big family dinner on Easter. She likes me. She brought in some pizzagaina for me. For those not familiar with this holiday treat, to the uninitiated it is a brick of pure cholesterol. In fact it is a custard base with fromaggio fresca, provolone, parmesan and romano, and richotta cheeses, studded with mortadella capicola, prosciutto, pepperoni and sopressato. You gain 10 pounds if you stand in the same room as this stuff, and it is every bit as good as it sounds. Possibly better if you are lucky enough to have office Mom make it for you. I also found out from her daughter, the office Babe, that Mom has to really like you in order for you to rate a piece. I felt honored, I justified it by telling myself it was a holiday and no one keeps to a diet over holidays and I managed to make 3 meals out of the “little” piece she gave me. It was worth it. Okay. It was just worth every ounce I gained looking at it. Shut up.

A couple of days later, one of our grad students came in. She is a very nice young woman from a city just south and west of Rome on the Mediterranean. I had done her a favor so to say thank you she brought in a strawberry tart she had made. It was made with fresh strawberries. It involved pastry cream. It had a crisp, perfect crust that had more to do with a light toothy shortbread, than shortcrust. I am pretty certain it had enough butter in it to cause cardiac arrest in an elephant. It went down the hatch. When someone has baked for you, you have to say thank you and eat at least one small piece. I must have been unusually polite. I had 2 honking pieces.

The next day Mom strikes again, this time with ricotta pie. I won’t even start. Saying it was good would be damning it with faint praise. I did, in a combination of self interest and, I must admit, saintly generousity share the ricotta pie with my faithful student worker, the Montrealer.

And the end is not in sight. I was talking to the Office Babe about the fact that Italian women seem to have it in for my waistline. Her response was, “Hm! Well that’s too bad because I’m making goodies over the long weekend, so I’ll be bringing stuff in on Tuesday.”

I’m doomed. Got a napkin?

Morning walk to the gym

Play ball!

It was opening day at Fenway Park today, and over 2 hours after the game has ended "The Greatest Fans in the World" are still staggering around my neighborhood in a cloud of alcohol.

I have never been a fan of baseball, but after putting up with these yutzes for 14 years I have grown to loathe baseball in general and the Red Sox in particular. It is duller than watching paint dry, but I think drying paint would probably present too great an intellectual challenge to the average Sox fan.

I am hard pressed to put my finger on what gets under my skin the most. Watching fat suburbanites dressed up in oversized baseball shirts carrying baseball gloves is pretty annoying. Having happy intoxicated fans scream "FAGGOT" out of the windows of yellow school buses is not up there with snow flakes and kittens either.

Perhaps most bothersome is the smug satisfaction that radiates off of them. Somehow, lining the pockets of a group of drug addicted, serial sex offenders qualifies as a worth while activity up there with curing cancer.

They have no reason to doubt their noble cause either. The media, the Red Sox organization and the pudgy little jerk in the mayors office will all tell you if you are in any doubt that they are "The Greatest Fans in the World!" and that the Red Sox are "The Greatest Team in the World". Never mind that it seems they have only won the World Series twice in the course of a century.

Among the privileges of this club are permission to vomit and urinate where ever you choose, pick fights with residents of the city, terrorize elderly people and smash in car windows, and on occasion overturn or set fire to cars with plates from the state the team is playing against. I don't even want to go into the whole New York thing.

You would think that these happy souls would be satisfied with this, but you would be wrong. Like most bullys, they have an Achilles heel. They are all terrified of the city. Put them within sight of the stadium and they are as bombastic as can be. Suggest they use public transit and the blench and quail. So they squeeze their bloated alcoholic bodies into their oversized SUV's and drive into town, snarling traffic for hours. This is where they go wrong. Many are willing to pay the obscene prices charged for parking, but there are always a few who are slow to learn and the little dears park in resident only spaces. That is when my little black and evil ganomish heart sings. Because there is a fleet of tow trucks in the pay of the city just waiting to tow these jerks cars.

Of an evening I like to occasionally sit on my front steps and watch the ballet that is the dance of the tow trucks. Once in a while, the baseball oafs will decide to be clever and park in the alleys. These are all paid parking spaces. An old pal Bunny had one such spot that he rented so friends would be able to park if they drove in to visit. On game nights he sat by the window with the phone. If some halfwit pulled in and staggered off in the direction of the stadium, he would call the tow company. Then if he was home when the game ended he would resume his station at his window for a little quiet entertainment when the one of the greatest fans in the world came back looking for his car and wondering if he had gotten so shit hammered he couldn't remember where he'd parked the family car.

It's going to be a long six months, but it is one of the prices that must be paid for living in a relatively cheap apartment. It is making me wonder once again about moving. Not just out of this neighborhood but out of this city and leaving it to the ball fans.

Change of plans

Late last night the phone went off. The niece called to tell me, unfortunately, that my sister-in-law's father was taken to the hospital. Needless to say, Easter festivities have been called off. I do not know the gentleman very well, but the time I have spent around him, he has always struck me as a very nice guy. I feel bad for my sister-in-law.

As an atheist I don't say prayers, but I will be thinking about my brothers family today. As for me, I will try and do some of the chores that I put off yesterday.

Cranky Ganome

I am a bit betwixt and between today. I got going a little late this morning and so I am slightly behind schedule on things. I am having a very hard time caring. I think it is lag over from yesterday.

I really don't like to let work interfere with the rest of my life, but yesterday was a tough day. We had some rather unpleasant shake ups at work that have resulted in my moving into a better office space at the expense of having a very bad taste in my mouth about how all of this transpired. Having heard enough horror stories about people who have foolishly bad mouthed their work places on their blogs, I have no intentions of going into details. Suffice it say I am not a happy ganome.

To add to the creepafication, I got home and the prints I had purchased from our pal Matt over at Square Jawed Action Hero had arrived, it's just that someone had taken them out of their packaging and then shoved the prints in the side of my mailbox. I don't think any serious damage was done to the prints and I will be heading over to my former employer to do some evaluation, before they go into frames. It's just creepy to think that some one has been going through my mail. Be it one of the neighborhood hillbilly crack whores, looking for something to steal, or just one of my clueless neighbors. Either way, I don't like it.

The weekend is also looking like it will be a bit less than ideal. I really have to spend tomorrow doing serious cleaning in my pigsty and Sunday, while I will be enjoying the nieces company, it will however be with the caveat that I will also be enjoying the company of a lot of other relatives. On the other hand I am told that the parental units will not be in attendance, which is always a blessing. Also there will be ham. As in the big thing that goes into the oven and not the thin slices that go on sandwiches. Honestly, given the choice I could easily give Easter a pass. Not even the prospect of chocolate can get me too excited.

I am trying to write this all off to spring fever. Snow, sleet, rain and cold seem to be the prevailing conditions, and I always willfully forget that April is never as advertised. It really is silly to expect the weather to improve before May in this part of the world and you really can't count on warmth until June.

Well, I have cutting out from work early to look forward to. I have been putting in a lot of time this week, so I will be able to try and get a head start on all of my errands this afternoon. I am getting my flab measured with calipers and then a quick stop at the grocery store before I go home to at least take care of the dishes in the sink before Mr. D. comes over.

Someone's been sending me flowers

I feel just like Hermione Gingold!

Tree pollen

I have spent the morning wandering around the house looking for my brain. Hay fever season has arrived and my already tiny brain has shrunk down to the size of a BB. I am also fairly convinced that hay fever causes all of the wrinkles in your brain to smooth out and so my tiny brain instead of looking like a dried pea, more closely resembles said BB in that it is, I am fairly certain, smooth and shiny. A super slick surface that would be the envy of modern material science. Not even an idea can stick to it.

I have to go to work, but I fear that I will be a danger to myself and others. I have visions of myself lurking about the office like some tiny Frankenstein's monster, heading down to the village after having a bolt of lightning jolted through me. The faculty and staff will probably be showing up in my office before lunch with the torches and pitchforks, ready to perform their unpleasant but necessary duty of ridding the world of one more hideous menace.

I will let you know if Monkey winds up on top of our building, dressed in a lab coat, screaming,"They called me mad, MAD! But I'll show them, I'll show them all!" as flames pour out of the windows.

Garden shots

I went over to the garden yesterday with the camera. The most I got done was taking pictures and visiting with my neighbor. Still it was worth it, things are coming up.

Update: For the sake of clarity, I took pictures of sedum, oriental poppy and of course, crocus.

I was had

I had forgotten that it was April Fool's Day, so Dave, bless his little black heart actually got me going for a few seconds. I am such a dope. Good one, Dave!

Date 2

Date number 2 went off pretty well. Mr. D. met me at Forest Hills Station and whisked me off to the wilds of Roslindale. We sat around the kitchen and talked while he made dinner. Stuffed chicken breasts and grilled asparagus. The chicken he accurately described as coming from Chernobyl farms. Each breast was about the size of a roasting chicken. In the interest of full disclosure, he stuffed them with prosciutto and pepper jack cheese and they were very good.

I also got to meet his dog, who is a very sweet critter and very well behaved. I say this a something of a dog lover, so anyone who is willing to take the time to train their dog gains points.

I also met one of his housemates, though I can't give much of an impression there. We watched a movie after dinner, and then sort of collapsed, since it turned out we had both had pretty busy days before hand. Also I was not at my most sparkling, since my first bout with hay fever has kicked in. Regardless, it was a very nice time. Which leaves only one problem. Me.

I have not really dated anyone for quite a while. Consequently I am very set in my ways. I have my own schedule and am used to accommodating myself, not other people. My usual Sunday consists of waking at my usual obscene hour and luxuriating in the weekly novelty of taking my time. Lolling around the house with coffee, feeding the cat and deciding at my own pace how I will spend my day. In the warm months, weather permitting, I will fill up a thermos and after feeding the cat, I will go over to my garden and enjoy the rare quiet in urban life in my garden, as I plan out what, if anything, I will do that day in the garden and enjoy the fruits of my labor in quiet and watch the birds as they start their day. I remember one morning sitting there, when one of the red tailed hawks came and perched on the arbor in my garden. Me watching him as he pointedly ignored me, scouting for more interesting things like voles and squirrels and songbirds.

Is this something I will feel like I will have to give up, or is it something I will have to try and learn how to share? Who knows? It is early days and I really should just try and enjoy things as they come. But I think in order for that to happen, I am going to have to accept the fact that it will involve becoming less married to routine.

Buttermonkey does his part

My pal Buttermonkey has been a little bummed out. He has had a sore throat for a few days, and went to the doctor. He was told it was probably a viral infection. This was upsetting because he's been.... a little busy lately, and was feeling sort of guilty that he might have been spreading some sort of cold around.

Today, he realized that is was hay fever. He called in for a prescription and was going to pick it up on his way home.

After work, we were chatting on the way out of work and the topic of his parents came up. He was saying something about how the very mention of fellatio sent his mother over the edge.

"My poor dad, 27 years without a blow job! It's inhuman."

I thought about it for a minute, having heard some about his parents.

"I think you mean, 27 years without a blow job from your mother."

"You have no idea how happy that just made me." he said. Then he thought for a second. "I'm going to go pick up my Allegra, and then I'm going to go out and do my part to help end the worlds blow job shortage."

Have I ever mentioned how much I love working with this guy?

The Date

What can I tell you. The earth moved, continents sunk. There were rainbows and bluebirds. Shit, the earth sprouted magical singing daisies! Jeezus H. Key-Rist, what did you expect? It was a first date.

Actually, it went pretty well. He's making me dinner on Saturday.

The game is on.

I spent an interesting and instructive half hour on the phone last night with Mr. Date. We are on for dinner tomorrow night. The idea of Mexican food was nixed. We don't know each other that well yet. Maybe a few dates down the road, taking the optimistic view that there will be more dates. I have learned the hard way never to take anything for granted.

In other news, the weather is suppose to be warm and sunny this weekend, unless they change their mind at the last minute. (This is New England, folks) So I am hoping to log some gardening time, and maybe see if I can lure my pal Mike out into the garden and possibly indulge in some burritos since neither of us will have to worry about the after effects. It ain't that kind of a friendship. This may be a vain hope since my beloved, bitter, cynical, Mike has been replaced by some giant Hostess cake with a sickeningly sweet, schmoopy center. Really, it is terrible what love will reduce a man too. I may have to content myself with weeding.

I am also going to have to do something about flab control. I got a good view of the spare tire that I have developed this winter because we took some progress pictures at the gym. All I can say is ewwwww.... we are looking at some serious portion control or a summer at the beach wearing a mumu. If I start getting crabby it's the lack of food talking.

The Dating Game

I have a date. Remember I told you about the guy I'd (ahem) met before. With one thing and another we are suppose to get together this week for a date. I mean, we will actually incorporate some activity into this other than, but more than likely including sex. This is all good.

However, Mr. Date called me up this afternoon, which is just fine. I am happy to get calls from Mr. Date. The problem is that he called when I was busy acting in my unofficial role of dept. psychiatrist and I had to cut the call very short as I tried to smooth down a coworker who is having some work related problems that really aren't my responsibility, however, I was having to listen in the interest of continuing smooth relations with my colleagues.

I would much rather have talked to Mr. Date. I would probably have enjoyed talking dirty with Mr. Date, since we were speaking on my cell phone. Instead I had to give him the, "Can I call you later, when do you get out of work?" line, which always sounds like you are trying to put someone off.

This job is interfering with my sex life. I will have to make sure and call him back this evening. It might not be a bad idea to talk dirty.