There's this guy who all too often sits on the step (or "stoop" for those of you who insist on using a word that makes me shiver, and not in a good way) just outside the double doors of my building. He's always hunched over, knees close to his chest, smoking a cigarette, squinting into the sun even when it's cloudy. Only once or twice have I seen him do anything else, and even then — when he's struggling to get his bike down the stairs — he still appears to be stuck in that same posture and still reeks of cigarettes he's already smoked and those he plans to.

He's one of these people whose age is difficult to determine, due to what appears to be a lifetime of what others refer to as "hard living" when they don't want to come right out and say, "The guy's a boozing junkie whore." I think he lives in my building or is "shacking up with" (nice-speak for "blowing in lieu of paying rent") the one tenant in this building (the oddly noisy one) I would sacrifice to spontaneous combustion if only I were offered the opportunity. If I had to guess (and oh, I have to!), I'd say he's anywhere from 55 to 65. He resembles Popeye. A decrepit, suspected semi-toothless, unshaven Popeye who developed an aversion to spinach, but Popeye nonetheless. When he looks up at me, squinting into the sunshine of my face, one eye always seems more shut than the other and his lower jaw juts out as if he is mid-cud-chew, thus rendering his appearance even more Popeyean.

He's always pleasant and always says hello. Yet I dread seeing him. And when I see him as I approach — either from the stairs inside the building, where I can see him through the two sets of glass double doors leading outside (or inside! it all depends on your perspective! P.S. THE GLASS IS HALF EMPTY AND ALSO HAS A CRACK AROUND THE RIM, SO BE CAREFUL!), or from down the block, when I'm coming home from the gym — I think, "Oh god no. Why is he always there? Why? I don't want to have to say hello. I don't want to have to say hello. I don't want to have to say hello."

Still, I walk the plank, brace myself, and take a deep breath, knowing I'll have to hold it when he opens his mouth to offer a croaky, cigarette-stink greeting. And then I exhale my own "hello", enter the building, and somehow still live to tell about it.

It is no secret that I take great pleasure out of disliking quite a few of the people at my gym. At least it's not a secret here, on my site, where they don't know my dislike has found a voice. It is, however, a secret at the gym, because I do not voice my dislike while there. I am not rude to those I find distasteful. I just silently wish them dramatic deaths, not unlike those telepathically imposed by Carrie on her prom-going classmates and high school authority figures.

Quite a few of the people who have earned my dislike are women. Not that the men haven't earned their fair share. One need only go through my archives to find evidence, including a lovely piece I wrote about a charming fellow named Joe. However, the women are often the objects of my scorn, just because I see oh so much more of them. And here you must envision a locker-room full of predominantly naked women in various states of bending-over-ness, tits swinging like grandfather clock pendulums, tangled bushes being blown dry to a fluffiness not unlike a Himalayan cat, ass-portals winking knowingly to let me know they know it's all just a big joke, really, don't you know.

So. The women. The "ladies". Not only do they not know how to go about being undressed at the gym post-workout, they also don't know how to dress while there during their workout. (I use the term "workout" loosely. I could tell you stories. And maybe one day I will.) I won't go into excruciating detail about gym attire (again, that's a story for another day), but suffice it to say that short shorts have no place anywhere, especially at the gym, where the possibility exists for "crotch foliage" (a term of my mother's creation) to find its way out like errant ivy. That alone leaves me with no choice but to despise these people.

However, some days I think, of the older women, who are frequently the worst offenders, Hey, she's someone's mom. I shouldn't be hating someone's mom. What if that was my mom? And then I realize those women could never be my mom. After all, my mom would never do what these women do. My mom is a modest mom. No prude, no, but one who would not be so overtly nude and for such a long period of time. And certainly not while bent over, pendulating or fluffing or winking.

This leads me to think, Where are these women's daughters? Are they not monitoring their moms the way they should? I mean, as cool and groovy and wonderful as my own mom is, and as much as she generally dresses herself quite well, even she needs a little help from time to time. Quite a few times, in fact, while shopping, I've had to dash across a store to save her from even daring to look at something so incredibly hideous that even her mother, my darling Bubby, a tiny quiet lady with a penchant for big loud prints, would reject with full-fledged Russian disgust.

"You need supervision!" I say in such instances. "You are not to be trusted!" And then my mom realizes I'm right, blames her own mother, and I run away to a clearance rack to sob inconsolably at the fate of genetics.

So, girls, take a tip from me, and monitor your moms before you set them free into the world. I don't want to hate your moms. I really don't. And if you love your moms, you won't want me hating them.

I just couldn't keep quiet about it any longer. So help me spread the word! (And tell your mom not to spread her legs like that. Thanks.)

A lot. That's what I know. Who was it who said something along the lines of, "The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing?" I don't know. That's one of the things I don't know. There are others, but really, why dwell on them when there are oh so many things I do know, things I can share with you so you too are in the know. Know what I'm saying?

So without further ado or todo, I present to you one thing I know and have known and want to let you in on:

It's not "chaise lounge". It's "chaise longue".

How do I know this? That I don't know either. It's sort of like questioning how a kitten knows to clean itself by doing that paw-licking thing. And how brats know how to do that fake-cry crap so they can get what they want at Target. And how I know how to pull together a stylish outfit for any occasion.

Some things you just know. You know?

At the suggestion of a friend who thinks that I could benefit from filling my days with something more than Pilates, shopping, and lunch, yesterday I dipped my dainty, well-shod toe into the deep end of craigslist: the section entitled "volunteers". I waited the requisite two hours after lunch, of course, to avoid abdominal cramping. But still, that doesn't mean I didn't suffer a fair bit of well-deserved nausea.

Now, I know that the idea of me volunteering makes you laugh until you get a "stitch" in your side (the kind that attacked Alice whenever she tried to keep up with the Bradys), but trust me: I'm laughing harder than you are and may require stitches from busting my sides wide open what with all the hilarity. Because, really, I don't do anything if I'm not promised something in return. You can keep your "payment" of a warmed heart or cockles. Please. And spiritual growth is no substitute for the growth of my bank account. So unless you're paying me in real live do-re-mi, I'm just not going to fa-so-la-ti-do.

However, every once in a while, in a moment of rare magnanimity, I decide I'd like to give a little something back. Sometimes I think I'll help out at a homeless shelter. Other times, I think I'd make a really snappy Big Sister. And still others, I think I'd like to deliver food to shut-ins. One constant, however, is my attempt to convince myself I'd like to help out around Thanksgiving. Not with my own family, but with the discarded families of other people. I think, "This year, I'm going to find one of those churches or community centers or warehouses or gorgeous old converted barns with stained glass windows and random-width plank floors in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, where they serve turkey to the homeless, and I'm going to ladle stuff onto unbreakable dishes, while serving up a heaping portion of smiles and good will." This idea usually springs forth around May or June, when Thanksgiving and ladles are still a safe distance away, in Fantasyland, U.S.A., population: ME, IN A PRETTY LINEN APRON WITH A BORDER OF EMBROIDERED CHERRIES.

By the time November rolls around, of course, I have completely changed my tune. All of a sudden I remember I am opposed to both the turkey and the downtrodden. I realize that I would ruin my manicure while helping to clean up after the serving portion of the day. And realize that I wouldn't even help clean up and would instead do what I do when at my mom's or anyone else's house: find a cluster of bloated deadbeats crowded around a TV with poor horizontal hold and watch reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger.

Still, despite my aversion to altruism, I paused when reading this plea for help:

Yes, it would be a good idea if you clicked on
and read this before continuing.

For the briefest of seconds — about as long as it took you to read those five words (unless, of course, you're a very slow reader ... and then I have to praise you for getting this far ... or just hate you for wasting your time reading this when you should be listening to it on audiotape [send a SASE for details!]) — I considered responding to this one. Then I remembered that I have my own Leaning Tower of Pisa of detritus that needs attention and sorting through and burning. And even though remuneration was offered in the form of a "healthy lunch" — a deal you'd think I could sink my teeth into given my love of the lunch (well documented on this site, and directly addressed here) — I still wasn't biting. There really is no such thing as a free lunch. No, this would come at a price.

The price would be my sanity, as this person filled me in on the details of her (yes, I assume it's a woman) "survival". And then, given her short attention span — the result, as she says, of the attempt on her life, because naturally one follows the other — she'd forget what she already told me, and I, ever so eager for my little sandwich (on non-wheat bread ... I've been wheat-intolerant ever since an attempt was made on my life), would have no choice but to listen and relisten to her recount the trauma. Ad nauseam.

And then I'd have yet another no choice but to succeed in my attempt on her life. But not before she provided the healthy lunch.

So, in the end, I decided it was better to just not contact her at all, and went to Pilates instead. As punishment for my selfishness, though, I ate an unremarkable lunch at home and did not set even one one-shod foot inside a store.

Yet I survived! I'm a survivor!

Somewhere there's someone who every morning sees you pass on his way to work. This guy thinks about you when he dresses after breakfast. He puts on a shirt he hopes you'll think he looks good in. He makes sure it's tucked in just so.

Before he even sees you, he anticipates approaching you. He wonders if you'll ever look his way. If he'll ever be as lucky as the sky you smile at most mornings. Or the sidewalk you frown at when it rains.

He doesn't see you on his way home, and he misses you. And all the while you have no idea that someone you don't know wants you to know he exists and that he picked out that shirt just for you.

Uhh, hello. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with your dad right now? Or with some guy who at least reminds you of your dad? Even if you hate your dad or he's long gone due to death or a golf tournament, shouldn't you be having brunch somewhere in (dis)honor of him? I don't care if he's abandoned you and your brothers and sisters for that "secret" family he's been maintaining during his all too frequent "business trips" to Ohio ... you should still sorta acknowledge him somehow, even if it means spitting when you say his name.

So get outta here. Go somewhere else. Go hug a dad. Or make one out of clay or sand or mud, and do something daddish with him.

I'm not your dad. As much as you want me to be, I'm just not. So go away. Come back later. I might have photos of random dads or something. One of them might even be yours!

Max writes:

OK, so following your post today (Low Bro), are we to understand that you're now eating chicken?

Just so there's no confusion leading to mass hysteria, let me make it clear that I am not eating chicken. Indeed, as I told Max in a reply email:

[N]o, no, no, no way am I eating chicken! The stuff is fake fake fake. In fact, I even linked to the Veat site, which is what the "herb roasted chicken" was. Veat is soy protein.

Indeed, when I first composed (you write, I compose) the entry, I did include (parenthetically) that the "chicken" was fake chicken. Then, in a fit of "Oh god please, that should be apparent"-ness, I decided to just let the word "chicken" fly on its own. Then Max had to come along and squawk about the poultry possibilities, and now I'm all, like, het up and worried that everyone thinks I'm eatin' chicken.

It's a good thing I actually like Max, because if I didn't, I'd have to hate him.

So, just for the record (because I know you're keeping one, like a pie-chart or bar graph or little card like from miniature golf [complete with brightly-colored miniature eraserless pencil]), the answer is NO. No chicken has passed through my beak since, oh, I'd say 1990. And in case your need for record-keeping is even more obsessive, please note that no meat has made its way inside me since 1979.

And yes, boys, this is where you nudge each other and wink at me for the "meat" reference.

And yes, I phrased it the way I did on purpose. Because I'm saucy.

So, in conclusion: No. No chicken. And also: I don't want your meat.

I love my brother like a brother. Often I refer to him as "The Boy Me" or my twin who was born two years before me. He's a groovy guy, a real swinger, a snappy dresser, and so many other things I'd rave about if only it didn't seem somehow wrong given that since we're so alike, it'd sound like I was raving about myself. I'm sure there are self-help books out there that say it's fine to sing your own praises, but I prefer the old-fashioned method of self-deprecation and whispering bad things about myself behind my own back.

So, anyway, my brother's opinion means a lot to me. I respect him despite his many (oh so many many many) faults. Faults, which, by the way, are his and his alone and which I, despite being The Girl Him, do not share. Ordinarily he exhibits fine taste. However, he recently told me something that has forced me to reassess my long-held belief that he is the grooviest brother since Greg Brady. And that is this: He removed my site from his Favorites because he absolutely detests my fun food fotos.

You may have noticed that I have not shared many of my lunches with you lately. You may have noticed that I have not been quick to show you what's been lucky enough to pass through my lips. You may blame my brother for this.

But you know what? Since he's boycotting (his word) this place, I don't have to "worry" about catering to his tastes. So toward that end, I present to you every lunch I took photos of that I did not show you because I wanted my brother to love me:

So there you have it. Munches of lunches that were in hiding because I feared my brother's bad juju. He wants to have lunch with me sometime soon. I just hope he's prepared for me to take photos of everything in sight, including the salt and pepper shakers, tablecloth stains (his), and the look of utter disgust on his face.

Bite me, brother. Oh, bitez-moi!

Simmer down, boys. Pipe down. I realize the title of this entry is making you squirm in or sit on the edge of your seats, in anticipation of a sassy little story to rival even the raunchiest of Playboy Forum emissions submissions, but really, please, save your squirming and edging for another time, 'cause I'm not going to satisfy you that way here. Sorry, but a girl's gotta have some rules or boundaries. Or at least pretend to.

Besides, if you've been here before, you would know that when I write about sucking, I am referring to vacuum cleaners. (You can catch up on all the excitement by going here, which contains links to the saga.) And this time is no different. Only this time I'm here to rave almost lustfully about the magnificent power of my latest machine, the Dyson DC07.

Although I haven't had it for quite a month yet, I feel confident enough to state that it is, without a shred of an iota of a smidgeon of a doubt, one of the best things to come into my life. Indeed, it knocked my socks off even the first time I used it, which is very high praise, given that very few things have ever knocked my socks off the first time around. In fact, this thing is so impressive that it not only knocks my socks off but puts them back on, adjusts the heels and toes so they fit snugly against my own, and then, just when I thought it couldn't get any better, knocks 'em right off again.

It's that good.

Apparently my friend Daniel (to whom I would link if only he hadn't become a crybaby and taken his absolutely brilliant website, "Giant Genius", off the internet due to big babydom) thinks that the drawing accompanying today's earlier entry looks like "swirly poo". This is only one of the many very adult phrases he used to describe it. Apparently Daniel has never had the good fortune of examining actual intestines, either his own or anyone else's, but has had more than ample time to gaze upon the end product.

Why do I tell you this, you wonder? Well, I tell you as a sort of preemptive strike. I'm taking a proactive stance. Just so you don't feel compelled to send me email saying, "Say, Jodi, 'sup with the crap?" I don't want none of that shit.

Thank you for your understanding.

P.S.  If you hover over the drawing, there is a little "alt" text stating that it is not "swirly poo". Just to make sure it's clear.

*   *   *

Previously:
#1: 100 - "Food For Thought"
#2: 100 - "Mammu"
#3: 100 - "In A Pickle"
#4: 100 - "Meet Me"
#5: 100 - "Use Your Noodle"
#6: 100 - "Dental Gross"
#7: 100 - "Cold Cut Heart"
#8: 100 - "Sour Grapes"
#9: 100 - "Knitwit"
#10: 100 - "Taking the Plunge"
#11: 100 - "Perish the Thought"

The last time I saw the Krishnas, my dog was alongside them, handing out pretty flowers. Remember? He has since left them behind, which is why I didn't take him to Washington Square Park today, where all this was going on:

And now, a special treat! Rockin' Rama:

Did you happen to catch the Tony Awards this past Sunday night? I did. I wanted to turn the show off after Phylicia Rashad did the same for me when she won for Best Actress in a Play and gave an acceptance speech so obviously over-rehearsed not only down to the last syllable but the last letter, and so fraught with fake humility and grace that it took all my will not to dash down to Radio City Music Hall and smother her with one of Cliff Huxtable's hideous old sweaters. But I pressed on.

There's so much I could say about the awards show. So much. I could say something about the show's ridiculously handsome host, Hugh Jackman, gyrating in gold lamé pants in one of the numbers from The Boy from Oz, but that's not why I'm here. I will not get into his pants. At least not right now.

I will, however, give huge, uh, props (are the kids these days still saying "props"?) to Carol Channing for her hip-hoppy bit with LL Cool J. Ms. Channing, 83 this January, looked like a reincarnation of Andy Warhol in Carrie Donovan's signature specs. Andy Warhol in a shimmery minidress and high heels, that is.

I am never one to say, "You go, girl!" but I must say that if anyone ever inspired me to utter those words, it would have to be Ms. Channing. She hipped 'n' hopped with genuine good humor ... and good God, the girl's got gams. I must confess, however, that at one point when she shimmied and shook, and her dress crept upward on those stellar, still lithe stems, I feared that we'd all be catching a glimpse of her Dolly. Hello!

Contrast this to Sarah Jessica Parker feigning embarrassment when coaxed onstage by Hugh Jackman as Peter Allen and fluttering her hands over the top of her ballet-inspired dress to keep it from revealing a tit too much. "Are you a dancer?" asked Hugh-as-Peter. "Nooo," she said.

Give me Dolly in her Carrie glasses over Carrie in her dolly dress any day.

Carol ... you go, girl! And Sarah Jessica and Phylicia ... just go. Away.

Way back at the very end of May, I showed you a photo of some schlub lying on the curb by a fire hydrant and asked you what you thought he said when a cop asked him what he was doing. Remember? (If not, I'll wait while you refresh your memory.)

I just realized that I never did tell you what he said. That was this:

I'm relaxing. I just took a yoga class. It really takes a lot out of you!

I suppose it was only fitting that someone so full of shit (apparently yoga classes don't take enough out of you) was relaxing in a spot where dogs habitually deposit it. How very cyclical and life-affirming! If only a particularly kibble-filled canine would have come by and left a spiritual contribution.

Om well.

All right, so I know you've been traumatized. Not necessarily by yesterday's ham heap as much as by the poster advertising the event. Believe me, I, too, have been cringing every time I've visited this site for the past 26 hours, and come face to face with ... that.

So, here. Look at today's lunch, from Vegetarian's Paradise 2, instead:

MISSISSIPPI SOY CHOPS
Grilled pepper soy cutlets served with a side of
garlic mashed potatoes and a collard green roll

I think even my naysaying brother — who brutally castigates me for my physiological compulsion to show the world my food — would appreciate the reprieve.

OK, so you can stop ... scrolling ... down .... now.

Really.

Well, you may have missed this:

"ABSOLUTE PRESSED HAM" IN NEW YORK
The summer silly season begins early this year, with Cosimo Cavallaro’s "Absolute Pressed Ham," a one-day art installation and performance event at the Lab Gallery on the ground floor of the Roger Smith Hotel at Lexington Avenue and 47th Street in Manhattan, June 3, 2004. Cavallaro, who we last ran into in 2002 when he covered an entire house with 10,000 pounds of cheese [see "Burning down the House," Mar. 26, 2002], now has turned his attention to ham -- 250 pounds of it, in fact, which he plans to slice and pile high on a bed in the gallery. "I have to do it, or else the idea is like a ball and chain, weighing me down," Cavallaro said of the performance. "I’m getting rid of the bologna!" Visitors are invited to come and take a look -- bring your own scrambled eggs. For more info, contact gallery director Matthew Semler at (212) 339-2092.

[Press release used with permission of Mr. Semler]

But I didn't. I saw it first ham! And there's more than enough to go around. First, a covert peek:

And now, more ham than you've ever seen piled on a bed before:

You can't quite appreciate the hulk of the ham unless you can see the height of the heap:

If you've never had your face pressed into ham, now's your chance to do it without getting all greasy:

Pretty, like rose petals. And more original than a mint on your pillow:

"As a vegan and a Jew," I said to the very accommodating Matthew Semler and a wire service photographer in attendance, "I suppose I should be offended. But I'm not. This is fabulous!"

I asked Mr. Semler if anyone who came in to see the ham during its two-day run (yesterday was its installation/performance and it remained intact through today) was offended by it. He said that no one was but that a few expressed concern over the waste of food. I told him that that would be my only concern too, but he assured me that the person responsible for the event only used ham that was past its expiration date. (You may recall my distaste for food waste when I witnessed an impromptu "performance" involving ketchup and a tarp.)

Then I left and pigged out on tofu, vegetables, and a small scoop of mashed potatoes (in honor of a very special friend!):

Many thanks to my dear friend Kelly for alerting me to this event via this link.

Yesterday afternoon, while enjoying a bit of sun and an iced coffee on a bench at City Hall Park, I turned to the bohemianesque girl on my right and asked her, "Where did you get that awesome-looking salad?" She told me (a little place on Murray Street ... oh, was it Murray Street? she asked her friend ... yeah, Murray Street, and their stuff is really good), I thanked her, and then I went on smiling into the sunshine with what could only be mistaken for bonhomie.

Outwardly, that is. Because inside I was cringing.

Had I really just described a stranger's salad as awesome-looking? When do I ever say "awesome-looking"? Never. What's next? Was I going to compliment her on her "rad" tattoo? Or, worse, her "rad tatt"? (For the record, the tattoo, on her left upper arm, was actually quite nifty: a bold black depiction of a fist clutching a flower. I think.)

I asked about her salad as if I actually planned to go get one for myself because it was just so awesome-looking. I asked knowing I wasn't going to dash to the really great place on Murray Street and get an awesome-looking salad just like hers (chickpeas! chopped red pepper! balsamic vinaigrette! the greenest of greens!). I knew this because I knew that as soon as I vacated the bench, one of the vulture-like bench-seeking lunchsters hovering with a white plastic bag containing a square, plastic take-out container full of something lunchy, would quickly fill my seat and I wouldn't be able to reclaim it when I returned with my own awesome-looking salad. Plus, I was wearing a fresh, crisp white shirt that doesn't lend itself to the risks of leaning over a plastic take-out container and forking food the distance between it and my mouth.

So I sat there and cringed at my choice of words. I squinted into the sun, hoping the crunch of my face would appear, to passersby, to be a result of the sun's brilliance and not the self-loathing brought on by my momentarily less than stellar vocabulary.

P.S.  For lunch I had falafel. At home. After changing into a non-fresh, non-crisp, non-white shirt. Not the most awesome-looking of shirts, but so what.

This afternoon I went to the "Sensacional! Mexican Street Graphics" exhibit at AIGA, the American Institute of Graphic Arts. Although I wanted to ask for a price list so I could compare the cost of a wall hanging to the cost of the sparkly new summer wardrobe hanging in my closet and thus be tempted to return all of it and run around town in a beige linen toga through the end of September, in the end I just settled for the free postcard:

I'm pretty sure photography was prohibited in the gallery, so I did not have time for careful composition. Here is one of the products of my stealth:

That's actually the back-side of the enormous freestanding cut-out graphic at the front of the gallery. The girl behind the desk would have been able to see me taking this photo had I taken it from the other side, and I did not want to risk being tossed out on my delicate, shell-like ear and tearing one of the fresh items from the aforesaid wardrobe. (After all, if I'm going to keep the clothes, I must take care to maintain them.) Had I been so tossed, I would not have been able to show you this:

Each colorful little view-finder contains a vibrant depiction of another street graphic. Sadly, not one of them provides a gaspy surprise of someone's mom and dad, circa 1973, doing anything graphic.

Still, the exhibit is definitely worth a look.

Practical Information:
American Institute of Graphic Arts
164 Fifth Avenue (between 21st and 22nd Streets), NY NY 10010
Gallery hours: Monday-Thursday, 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.; Friday, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.

I'm envious. Look at Luka:

Wow!

For complete coverage, go here. As for Luka's mom, complete coverage may be found at Baby Victoria's Secret. Check your local listings.

Every morning I wake up to a "Word of the Day" email in my in-box. I know there are more stimulating things a girl could find in her box first thing in the morning, but let's not get sassy so early in the day. I haven't even been to the gym yet, so my day hasn't officially started.

Today's word is "fuddy-duddy". (I won't reprint its definition. If you don't know what it means, you can look it up on this here internet.) In the Etymology section of the email, the author addresses English-speakers's love of rhyme, and includes as an example "jeepers-creepers", noting that it is a euphemism for "Jesus Christ". This is newsy-woozy to me.

This forces me to reiterate that I am not a fan of euphemism. As you may recall if you've been coming here for a while, I believe in just saying the word you really mean. However, insofar as "fuck" (the subject of my original piece) goes, I believe that one good, truly emphatic employment is much more satisfying than many diluted, mindless offerings.

The only exception is when you want to say the "V" word (you know which one I mean ... don't make me say it). All this progress in the world of feminism, and in this respect I must resort to euphemism.

Hell's bells!

I know what you're doing. All of you.

You're all at each other's desks this morning, talking about what you did this weekend. Talkin' 'bout burgers 'n' beer. And how you wish you had today off too, to recuperate from all the fun. And you're twinklin' your toes in white shoes. Wiggling those little piggies proudly, just like you waved your little flaggies at yesterday's parade down Main Street, U.S.A.

As for me, well, I still don't wear white shoes. Unless, of course, they're nurse's shoes, and I'm dressed in a tight white nurse's uniform complete with little white hat all sorta folded like a fancy napkin atop my head and I'm shaking an icy cold thermometer as you sit in a paper robe, rigid and hyper-alert, on the examining table ...

So, uh, yeah. Flags. Shoes. Where was I? Oh, yes. I was just about to say I didn't do anything holiday-specific. I went about my weekend the way I do many of my weekends: buyin' stuff and eatin' stuff. I won't show you the clothes, because, really, I don't want you copying my signature style. I will, however, show you the food.

Just to prove that I treated this weekend just like any other, on Saturday I enjoyed the famed macro platter with its broiled tempeh sidekick (recently memorialized) from Village Natural:

On Sunday, I branched out to the familiar Gobo, but went out on a limb and ordered something I've never had before:

Wild rice and tempeh wrapped in
collard greens with pomegranate sauce,
butternut squash

I know it looks pretty tame, but take a look at how wild it got when given even the slightest encouragement:

Like Zorro, I left my mark:

Unlike Zorro, however, I did not intentionally leave this reminder of my existence. This shred of lettuce actually arranged itself this way. Astonishing, isn't it, how crafty some garnish can be.

By yesterday, though, I was ready to break out, and took the wildest of all three weekend walks on the West Side. That led to this, at Vegetarian's Paradise 2:

Iron Steak (made from taro root), broccoli, brown rice
and *special guest star* spring roll!

Now I know what my brother's doing. He's rolling his eyes. He's cursing me and hating me for showing more food fotos, but that's a risk I'm going to continue to take. You see, I know that many of you come here to get a little taste of what I've eaten, and I don't want to disappoint you. I have the email to prove it — scads of notes telling me, "We don't have food like that where I live! Show me there's a life outside of Houlihan's!" And as I said, I don't want to disappoint. I don't believe in letting down people I don't know. Contrast this to my belief that it's more than OK to let down people I actually do know. Further contrast this willingness to share with the fact that in real life I do not like sharing my food, not even visually. What you don't see in these photos is the small folding screen I tote to every lunch, which I set up between my place setting and that of any companion fortunate enough to share a table with me.

Now, get back to work. (And stop thinking about me in a nurse's uniform! Stop it!)