fupafighter

A Lot Of Catching Up TK

It's been a busy few weeks and I would hate for the fupa crowd to be deprived of the ridiculous recounts (and photographic proof) of what has passed. Since I'm sitting and picking my butt in my office now, I can't upload photos of said events, but here is what all of you have to look forward to:

Pics and postings regarding:
Six Flags Great Adventure
CC's Surprise Party & Fusion Night
Dyke March & Cowgirl (I cringe at wording but have no choice)

and lastly...

Pride Extravaganza

In the meantime, I'll mention that for the first time two weeks ago, after much hype and cajoling, I tried Bikram Yoga with RB and CC. For those of the yoga malinformed, that's the "hot" one, and I think that's a misnomer b/c in my opinion it's the "excruciatingly disgusting inferno" one. Dante never even made it to this circle of hell my friends. So I've heard that it's great for flexibility, posture, arthritis, yadee yada yada, but it was also great for expunging all remnants of booze from my system and the virtual liquification of my soul. I would say my liver, but that's been liquified for several years. CC is now hooked and has made it her "thing" (b/c the gym "thing" has been taken a few times over by myself and CR), and maybe at some point I'll buy RB a pair of really short yoga shorts, so he can stop wearing his speedo to class.

Ninety-six hours of partying later, though, I doubt any amount of heat will induce my body to sweat out its constant stream of booze. Here's to the month of June...where did you go??

The Breast News Ever

After a semi-drunken (okay, who are we really kidding here) breastathon last night at Barrage, several of my boyfriends copped a feel and came to a fairly accepted conclusion--I have a nice pair of ta-ta's. And despite all of the parts of my body that I do despise, I have to admit that I am indeed a fan of my boobies. I'm even a bigger fan of making them bounce, either in unison or alternating, as I puff out my chest and pretend that I have pecs. I can only liken myself to a self-indulgent rooster, prancing around and pecking my head into various glasses of liquor. Either that, or I'm habitually guilty of the jock walk. Funnier even now, b/c I don't play a sport. Some things just never change.

If you too would like to goose my ladies, please don't hesitate to ask.

Reduced To Softee Cycle

Due to complaints regarding my posting negligence, I'm now compelled to truly write about nothing at all, because there are only so many "lapse apologies" I can offer, and these days my life hasn't exactly been laden with humor.

For this reason then I'm reduced to talking about what I regard as the most accurate source of weather information available in the City. Forget about the weather channel and it's cheezy elevator music, and inform Al Roker that stomach stapling does not in fact increase accuracy in predicting atmospheric trends. Rather, the presence (or lack thereof) of those 50's-esque white Mr. Softee trucks is the most revealing indicator of Mother Nature's menstrual cycle. Seasonally speaking, I know that winter has officially arrived the day that the Mr. Softee trucks vanish, retire south, who knows where they really go. And I know that summertime has come when on that joyous day the Mr. Softee trucks reappear. I know it's going to be a real thunder storm when I see the Softee Trucks driving towards the burroughs, and I know it's going to be a mere drizzle when the drivers simply roll up their windows but stay steadfastly on their street corner.

I know all of this b/c there is a Softee Truck that makes it's home at the end of my block. The driver knows my name (along with the deli delivery guy and the liquor store owner), and I'm also aware that one sweet helping of that soft serve will induce the dump of a lifetime. There really isn't a combo quite like a weather vane and a laxative all in one. Thanks, Mr. Softee.

Since They've Been Gone

I've been doing what I do best post my parents' departure last week--unwinding. This process usually entails elevated amounts of procrastination, gluttonous consumption, and lest we forget, drinking. On Friday night my friend RL and I ended up listening to some classic Cher and splitting a bottle of Jack. The words "split" and "Jack" should never be used in a sentence together, unless Jack is a tall swarthy man, in that case my friend may split him however he desires. Though it was almost midnight, we still somehow made it out to the bar. Though I'm no stranger to inebriation, I fell asleep fully decked in "street" clothes in my bed--that, for any of you who know me, should indicate the galactic proportions of the lack of my sobriety.

Sunday night dinner--restaurant recommendation: Cafe du Soeil. Located next to one of my fav haunts, Carne, this little French cafe at 105th and Amsterdam may be a little pricey, but it possesses just enough charm and a tasty menu to make it worthwhile to go back. Plus, they have hot waiters that ooze French pretentiousness rarely found these days in Manhattan. It's like authentic rudeness, you just can't beat that.

Though there really is nothing else of note (b/c polishing off JD and eating pate are oh-so-important in the scheme of everyone's lives), I leave this posting with a quote from a flame-tipped friend of mine. After telling her that I never realized how sensitive she truly was, she resonded, "Yeah man, I'm like discharge--soft and malleable and equally unexpected and foul." Just another moment reaffirming the reasons I love my friends.