“The Vietnam Diet” 1st Brooklyn Art Show Edition
“You have to document 7 days of what you ate, then come up with a art piece for it…”
Kat Popeil, Something I Ate
3 eggs, 2 slices of raisin bread lightly buttered with the non-heart attacky stuff. A banana, some apple juice, some mixed nuts to go along with my severed balls while I read my New York Post. What the fuck do I care about this gut anyway? So what? I’ll be the fat American on vacation. Being stared at by locals who know I’m from a country where we give eating and drinking utensils out as souvenirs. Commemorative plates used to adorn an already full mantle loaded with memories of our excess. My gut carries the rotting remains of one too many drinks and I’ll order whenever I wants. Vietnam and Cambodia? All I know is what I saw in movies and in the little green army men I used to play with when I was young and impressionable. Everyone looked poor and savagey in Full Metal Jacket. Here I am worried about how poor my stomach looks in a white V-neck. I forgot all about it as I crushed my 4th PBR later that Night.
I wake up feeling like shit but I promised my girlfriend I would work out today. I like telling her to tell me to do stuff and get mad at me if I don’t do them. Then, in true elegance, I argue with her for getting upset. That roller coaster of pressure has got to be giving us good abs. I still feel full from the all the beer I had last night. It becomes apparent I’m not full when doing all of the slow burn poses in yoga as I shake like an above ground train platform. I still can’t believe I do yoga, and I do enjoy dropping the Y bomb on twitter like I’m some put together snob. I pig out on a turkey & swiss hero with lettuce & tomatoes toasted from my corner deli. That’s not bad. Then I top my order off with a Phillies Blunt cigar. I later eat all the cashews and walnuts from my industrial size planter peanuts can from BJ’s Wholesale.
I stayed in on a Wednesday night. Wow. Lately I’ve turned into a fucking recluse, curating the 4 corners of my vision with whatever sitcom currently in season that I can DVR without Time Warner fucking me. So now it’s Thursday morning and I have nothing to watch. Good. I take the free time bang out my yoga and finally set up my “art” tumblr. I’m suspicious about the attention I’m receiving but refuse to blame the constant smoking of the pot. It has to be something else that everyone wants from me. Flattery, like I have that much to begin with. I have a can of Progresso vegetable soup with 2 slices of toast. That was healthy. The sugar in the 3 glasses of grape juice I washed it down with wasn’t. I take a handful of wheat thins on my way to catch the B60 bus to sell my 2nd photo print. This is my life at the moment.
Because I work late on Thursday nights, Friday is already off to a bad start. On my way home from Beauty Bar Brooklyn I get a chicken kebab from the Halal street meater in front of Woodhull hospital. Right after my last bite Flowgy answers my mass after hour’s text. The last time I showed up to his loft at this hour the space was flooded with conversation peices. When I arrive it’s only him, a neighbor and some brutal non-descript gin. Suddenly I’m too full to party and go home. I wake up later in the afternoon to a banana, a corner store croissant, and a bowl of my beloved lucky charms cereal drowned in 1 percent milk. I’m horrible to the things I love.
There’s no fucking way I’m working out today. I’m too old to be smoking dust in a Lower East Side house party complete with the flirty enabling mom but I didn’t let it get in my way at all. Recalling the rest of last night is like trying to drive with sunglasses on in the middle of a down pour at night. I promised Alison that I would check her out at Tandem bar for brunch. That was 3 Saturdays ago. My “responsibility” to my friends is awarded with 2 eggs over easy on a biscuit drowned in gravy with a side of sausage. It reminded me of the now closed Relish diner. I should remember to be more responsible. I smoked dust again later on in the evening.
Sunday is family brunch day also known as Dances with White Girls diet cheat day. Everything is friends, fashion, and cocktails and Frog it killing it. An alpha male doesn’t ask for the price on the special so I order the Steak & Eggs with the home fires as my fuck you, your salmon, and your fancy mixologist concoctions. I don’t know why I’m so bothered being that Frog has been like this since I’ve met him. Later I realize it’s me who’s changed. The days of wearing expensive sunglasses and women’s jewelry were behind me, I was content with my old Adidas shell toes and fuzz balled J. Crew sweater. I saw it as a sign of my maturity, but at that moment it felt uncomfortable. It was my fucking stubborn gut feeding my paranoia. Prosecco after Prosecco I felt like his flash as a statement of youth and it was calling me fat, old , and sluggish. I now secretly hate him. He’s officially like my family now.
I wake up to the mother of all hang over’s. All I want is Lasagna, greasy and obese just like my mother makes it. I settle for Chicken parmesan sandwich with an order of mozzarella sticks to complete the ten dollars needed to complete my order. The mozzarella sticks taste like shit. The purple I smoke does nothing for the situation, minus cure me from the post vomit nausea. I step on my scale and I’m the same weight as when I started this Vietnam diet if not more bloated. I miss my Girlfriend. She comes home with a matching hangover and a face riddled with social exhaustion. I show her the video of her stumbling all over the apartment drunk that I recorded on my Black Berry as we hide our shame under the Kellogs Diner menu. I stuff myself with a grill cheese sandwich and a banana milkshake. My gut is now on a steady pace of being the only New York souvenir I’ll carry overseas.
(Editors note: A special thank you goes to Martine Langatta, Igor Smith, Steven Klavier, Kara Mullins and my brothers Napolean Luna and Dances Bolton for paying $30 dollars to share this moment with me. I love you all…)