Mission Accomplished! #62

Fagtoush

Japan or Morrocco? Middle Eastern. So I'm dialing the Casa Blanca Cafe and snackily dreaming of cous-cous and falafel and lamb schwarma when the line is answered by a young sounding man with a soft voice.
"Restaurant." And then genius hits me. I'll order me and my boyfriend's dinner with an outrageous Cockney accent!
"Good day kind sah! Uy'd lyke tah ahdah deenah puhleez." My boyfriend visibly cringed and turned his back to me while looking over his vast CD collection.
"Uh, what you want?" The take-out man obviously thought he was talking to a real Brit!
"Uy'd lyke tah stayt awf weeth ah lurvely sahlad. May ay hav the Fattoush." (Fattoush is a Lebanese salad, good for hot weather.)
"Uh. What?"
"Fattoush... Fattoush. Eets a deeelightful sahlad!"
"Where, I don't see it."
"Eet's awhn yuah deenah meenu, Fattoush. Eet's a sahlad."
"Salad? We got carrot salad and cucumber salad."
My patience with the take-out man and my impecible dialect had both worn thin. "No, you definately have Fattoush. It's a dinner salad, it's right here in your menu under salads. Fattoush, Fattoush. F, A, T, T--"
"Dude, I don't know what you're talking about. We got cucumber and carrot salad."
"Fattoush, it's right here...." I browsed the menu.
With bloodshot eyes, I was looking at the sushi menu.
"Did I call a sushi restaurant?"
"Yes. Sushi, what do you want dude?" I bid him a good day and redialed the Casa Blanca Cafe. Suffice to say I did not implement my flawless Cockney accent.

Dinner with Terri

I sat at the small bedside table, tastefully appointed with a chocoloate velvet tablecloth. A single setting of porceline china and a fine crystal wine glass were lit by the dimmed lights of the hospice room and a tall red candle on the table.

I suddenly realized my dinner guest had already arrived. Languidly lounging on the other side of the table was Terri. How gauche of me. I must work on my punctuality. Well, this is where she is stored. I guess my punctuality was a mute point. Ah, thank you.

Terri looked fantastic; she was all skin and bones. "Girlfriend, you've lost some weight!" I complimented as her head rolled to the right. I swirled a lovely burgundy on my tongue before accepting the bottle from Dolores, one of many of Terri's very expensive care staff.

"Terri. It's been too long. What have you been up to?" Terri's head rolled back to the left. "Oh, stop. I'm going to choke on my wine." Terri was always a cut-up. And indeed she was making a fashion statement tonight. Her simple flowered bed dress (at formal dinner nontheless) certainly upstaged my coture smoking jacket, leather pants and saffron shirt ensemble. Terri's knack for simplistic style was well known among our social circles.

I continued to chit-chat with her for several minutes. She'd gurgle or her eyes would roll. We discussed how hoochie Paris has gotten lately. How thin Mary Kate is. I assured Terri the (lack of) weight looks great on her, but not MK. I asked her if she's seen that new show where they swap wives. "Terri, you'd be such a hoot on that show! You should totally try out." Her head rolled to the right and she stared at me blankly.

Finally our dinner arrived. I had a medium-rare filet mignon with mustard, caper sauce; petite green beans sauteed in garlic butter; mashed sweet potatoes with a pecan-raisin chutney, and for dessert, chocolate mint mousse. And the bottle of wine was nearly gone by the third course. I savored every bite, practically singing with each gourmet morsel.

Terri was to have protein goo force-pumped down a tube, but she's not eating right now.

Terri is such a nut with her weirdo diets. Well finally the night came to an end. I was indeed more than a little tipsy and the flighty prattle of the early evening took a darker tone as the candle burned into nothing and the shadows in the corners of that tiny hospice room became deeper, more ominous.

It was then I could hear the zealous prayers from outside the building. I sensed the dark, ironic thoughts of those bearers of the "culture of life" promising death to those who dare oppose them.

And why are we so worked up over Terri's tragic situation? I saw visions of Hades, Nirvana, Heaven, Olympus and Limbo. I heard the murmurs of ancient mummification rituals; priests giving theirs lives to serve their kings for all eternity. Crowds cheered at public executions and the screams of young girls burned as witches filled my mind. Boyhood friends gasped at bootlegged snuff films, then rewound to watch the splatter over and over and over. We mourned, yet secretly relished, the visceral internet beheadings, and celebrity murders cover magazine racks as families buy their groceries; the chalk outline transcended to mundane, urban art. My eyes grew wide like the dilated eyes of a child watching that slow motion procession as the family car passes a highway tragedy. All the blood, broken glass and a child's shoe left among the twisted, still smoking wreckage. My eyes snapped shut and I heard a pleading woman's voice crying, "Humanity is a culture of death! Don't they see? Why don't they know?"

I inhaled sharply and opened my eyes. I had nodded off. Terri still lay there. Her head rolled to the left and she smiled blankly, peacefully, staring into the dark, sepulchral room. I wished Terri goodnight and folding my napkin across the table, quietly left to the muffled chorus of "God Bless America" from outside the window.

The Breakfast Club

I toiled the entire morning composing my guest list. How dare they be late?

Extra Crispy Bacon had indeed come late to my party! The greek doorman announced their arrival with a gusto as he left my side to assist other guests at the delightful Palace du Petit Dejeuner.

As host, I simply regarded the crunchy pig fat with scornful, withering disdain.

Having already mingled with always charming Rye Toast, elegantly dressed in a gown of royal purple, and having already danced with the delightful Over Easy Eggs, conjoined sisters who are such gossips, invariably spilling their golden secrets with each spin, I was simply disinterested in what the slender, Southern gentlemen had to offer. Even though they are my favorite guests. Hmph. They'd have to beg for my approval.

How dare they be tardy! Perhaps it wasn't their fault. They were held up in line, even though I clearly added them to the guest list. Regardless, my time was best spent smoking with Mexican Hashbrown, an acrid hombre with whom I soon grew hotly complacent. Across the crowded room Extra Crispy Bacon eyed me, almost pleadingly for my affections. I couldn't stay angry any further.

"Gentlemen, welcome to my party."

"What?" My boyfriend Bryce looked up from his newspaper and the clattering silverware and hustle of the Long Island City Cafe deflated my elegant breakfast ball. Outside the window, the 7 train rumbled overhead on a gray March morning.

"Oh. . . I was dancing with my breakfast." I smiled and delicately nibbled my bacon.

"May I have the next dance?" And I'm reminded why I like this guy so much.

Gaysissi Neilicus

I ran today, and I wasn’t even chased. I ran under my own accord. I ran several blocks before slowing, short of breath. I strolled into a stagger then into an amble. Wheezing, my amble became a saunter which slid to mosey until falling into a toddle followed by a hunched, gasping stop.

I was a diagram illustrating the devolution of Man.

I prayed a line of volunteers would encourage me to push onward. Just punch through the exhaustion. My exertion rewarded with an ice-cold martini from the trays of cocktails held by the cheering mob. No such luck.

I jogged to the park near my apartment. A neon orange jungle gym sang with dangling children. I don’t know which was louder: the children, the paint or my panting. Two very young, black sisters played claps. Kneeling, I lowered myself to the highest bar and attempted a chin-up. I failed. They stopped clapping and stared at me with stunned silence.

Mother appeared by her daughters. Still I hung there, my flabby arms exposed to the family. She handed me the door key I’d dropped.

“You lost this.” Her tone was “get away from my children, weirdo”. I climbed up from my knees and a little Indian boy proceeded to perform fifty chin ups. He counted each one with an Olympic zeal. “Show off”, I thought.

Like a decathlete, I dashed from the park at top speed before ducking behind the bushes out of general view. I panted laboriously while hiding behind the shrubbery. I removed my t-shirt and moved from the vicinity of Hamilton Park until the telltale rhythmic clapping grew louder and closer. As loud as my thumping heart the little girl’s clapping was again upon me.

Around the corner were the two little girls, once again. Motionless, silent, they stared at me with those cautious eyes. Not to frighten them, I reassuringly gestured towards them, out of breath. The mother found me, yet again, wheezing, topless, skulking behind a bush grabbing for her little girls, and promptly dialed three numbers on her cell phone.

I ran this time with a little more motivation. At home I plowed through a box of cold Popeye’s chicken, three tortillas and a quart of chocolate milk. Crumbled Nutter-Butters over raspberry sorbet finished the pig-out. I justified the chicken as ok with my Atkins. The tortillas I didn’t cover with cheese. The chocolate milk at least wasn’t Coca-Cola, and the cookies were crumbled over fat-free sorbet. Anyways, I “worked out” tonight.

How lucky the ancient Romans had it when eating disorders were cosmopolitan. Stuffed, I could have lounged in my luxurious vomitorium. Ticking my gizzard with an exotic peacock feather, I’d expunge my body of the ill-humoured ingestion. I’d retire to my gladiator pit where strapping warriors would massage one another in olive oil before flexing for my amusement.

Lucky Ancient Romans, those hunky men. I could have a body like that if only I pushed myself. Narcissism is a better motivator than even 911.

Drastic steps must be taken. I’ve decided to start playing rugby. Oh sure, I know nothing about the game. I’ve never really enjoyed contact sports, but I relate to the adrenaline fueled macho passion that only barreling into a mound of screaming brutes can satiate. Fear of cauliflower ears, torn ligaments, black eyes, broken fingers, shattered knees all feed my rugby/gladiator/fight club anticipation. I’m a man and I need the full body contact of a rough and tumble English blood sport where my only padding is a chewed up mouthguard.

Also the men on the gay rugby league are really, really, really hot. So macho fulfillment, really sexy blokes and with strenuous hard work and sacrifice I’ll get into shape, the choice seems simple, right?

Roman Philosopher Cicereo detailed in 41 BC, “Lost in fantasy, the eccentric Roman Senator Gaysissi Neilicus relaxed in his vomitorium. He imagined a road divided and saw images before him. In one an obese monstrosity cheerfully devoured oriental food, in the other a muscular Adonis flexed his muscles. The first path was delightful sloth. The second path represented beauty and health gained through hard work. Gaysissi Neilicus chose the first path and sent his messenger out for peacock feathers.”