Amoeblog


Diamanda Galás Hates The Food Fighters

Posted by Job O Brother, February 28, 2011 01:32pm | Post a Comment
blond girlbuttons
Call it a survival kit.


The boyfriend is out of town this week, enjoying* the chilly dewiness of Portland, Oregon. (I wish I was with him – I get hungry just thinking about Portland, with all its easily accessible, diet-vanquishing, culinary goodness. Plus there’s a lot of hella rad folks who live there, and while I normally loathe good food and great people, something about the air there makes me all for it.)

I love my boyfriend, and I never find myself wishing he was gone; all the same, I cherish these times when it’s just me and the cats. It’s not that the boyfriend keeps me from doing anything, per se, but self-respect  keeps me from behaving certain ways in his presence.

For example, alone, I do nothing with my hair other than washing it. The result is a blond afro which effectively doubles the size of my already-capacious noggin. I wear a wife-beater constantly – something that never fails to get me not laid in this house – and if it’s too cold, I simply toss a hoodie over the wife-beater. That’s fashion, kids.

afro
The cover for my new album, Save Auntie

Wine must be drunk straight from the bottle when I’m a bachelor. I swear it tastes better this way – perhaps because more oxygen is imparted into each swallow? It sounds debaucherous, I know, but I actually end up drinking less wine this way, because I drink just what I want instead of emptying a glass simply to keep from wasting anything. (It’s my Depression-era mentality. Why, when I was a kid in the 1930’s, we didn’t even have wine – only lime juice, which we’d make less sour by adding sugar, vanilla, rum, orgeat syrup and orange liqueur. And we had no glasses to drink it out of, so we had to use hollowed-out coconut shells. And it’s not like today where you can just swish wine in your mouth, oh no! We had to use little paper umbrellas to mix our beverages. I tells ya, times were hard.)

mai tai
The face of the Great Depression

When I’m alone, one pint of ice cream is a single serving size. Have you watched Louis C.K.’s new show Louie yet? It’s not out on DVD yet, but once it is you must do yourself a solid and rush to Amoeba Music to buy a copy. Anyway, I was watching it while eating a pint of Coconut Bliss Chocolate Mint Ice Cream (I know, I know – it’s not really ice cream, but bikini season’s just around the corner) and time and again Louis plunders pints of ice cream on the show and… I felt, for a moment, he was my soul-mate. (Incidentally, I’m also a big fan of his previous TV effort, Lucky Louie, which is available now, and reminds me of how much I used to treasure Norman Lear sitcoms in the 70’s.)

The boyfriend and I are always arguing about what to watch in the evening. I’ve addressed this issue before, and won’t go into it here, except to say that the closest I’ve ever come to breaking up with him was when he was forcing me to watch an episode of Must Love Cats, a program so sickeningly wholesome, even a devout Mormon would find it “too square to bear.” With the boyfriend out of the house, it’s nothing but British TV and movies starring people who are not only dead, but well-rotted and wormy.

For dinner, an assortment of snacks! A fine, fine hunk of bleu cheese served with water crackers, some salted almonds and prunes (non-sorbate, thank you very much). For someone who cooks as much as I do, luxury is a meal of simple but delicious items which require only one instruction: “OPEN HERE,” to make. Oh! And Diet Coke. Don’t forget that you get to drink Diet Coke as much as you want and never get reminded that you’re coaxing the cancer god with your behavior.

Music is to be played loud, and should cover as disparate a range of genres as possible. Picture me with my blond afro, dressed in a wife-beater, my breath smelling like almonds, coconut milk and Diet Coke, doing the dishes and dancing along to these sweet ditties:

(Just out of curiosity, does anyone else have a cat that gets excited when they do the dishes? Our older male, Fangs, rushes to my feet whenever I turn on the taps and mop up some Meyer’s on my sponge for a tub-full; you’d think I fed him after I do the dishes, but that’s never happened, so I wonder what Pavlovian pleasantries my puss ponders when I plunder my paws in Palmolive? And no, I will not watch Must Love Cats in case they cover this topic.)

Well, that’s my blog, kids. I wanna wrap this up so I can get back to being single, ASAP. The only thing more fun will be when my boyfriend finally gets back…

*By “enjoying” I mean he’s moaning and whining and claiming to be dying.

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