Hello all

** Let me begin by saying I don’t really know how to do this blog thing. The only blogs I read are ones that talk about Lindsay Lohan’s vagina and coke-fueled escapades. But, on the off chance that someone is bored enough to read my inane thoughts on all things unimportant—I am starting this blog. I hope you (lone reader) enjoy it.

Sandwiches

** Let me begin by saying I don’t really know how to do this blog thing. The only blogs I read are ones that talk about Lindsay Lohans vagina and coke-fueled escapades. But, on the off chance that someone is bored enough to read my inane thoughts on all things unimportant—I am starting this blog. I hope you (lone reader) enjoy it.

Sandwiches Are Depressing:

Let me be clear: I am not talking about French roll, imported mustard, Munster cheese (is that fancy? I am a lactard so dairy products are beyond my expertise) type sandwiches. I am talking sandwiches for what they really are—what they were meant to be: sliced white bread, cheddar cheese, mayo and grandpa’s leftover mystery meat.

Sure, as the year’s progress and the memories of being picked last for dodgeball start to slowly but surely fade, the mystery might evolve to sliced turkey and maybe the white bread turns to wheat. No matter.

First, you are probably making these changes not because you are growing up, but because you are fat. We’ll come back to that.

Sandwiches are depressing (especially after the age of 7—before that you are except and any and all problems can and should be blamed on your neurotic, overbearing mother). Picture a cafeteria, any cafeteria in America. Look for the kid sitting alone. The kid may be fat or smelly or short or ugly but you can be sure that kid is eating a sandwich. Made by the loving hands of his mother, or the insecure hands of himself, his head is bent over that sandwich and he is nibbling at a corner of that cheddar cheese like a friendless mouse. It should be noted that this sandwich will, without question be sliced into two triangles. That kid will be holding on to his sandwich with both hands, clutching tightly his only friend.

Now, about fat people. Let me make this very clear. Not all fat people eat sandwiches. Not all people who eat sandwiches are fat (this blog is not endorsed by Dr. Atkins). The Mary Kates of the world may eat sandwiches, but she will have her own issues. Fat people however, seemed to be drawn to a sandwich paradox. From a distance, their lunch will have the guise of being healthy. Have you ever noticed how obese sandwich eaters look both smug and guilty, as though they have a delicious secret and are terrified of being found out? Wheat bread will coat the outside, but inside will be the delectable truth. There will be mayonnaise and Oscar Myer. The eater will crane their neck forward hungrily. Then the devouring will begin.

. For the lonely, sandwiches provide company; for the timid a stable routine. Whatever the reason, if you see a good ‘ol sandwich on store bought white bread, there is a sad soul about to take a bite.

Barack and Pilates

I live in Marin County: white, affluent and liberal. In Marin, like so many other places in the world (black, white, rich, poor, young, old)—Obama mania is everywhere. I love the way it manifests itself in Marin—the white social liberal fiscal conservative hotbed of Northern California.

Obama bumper stickers are everywhere. They are on the back of land rovers parked at the Whole Food, pinned to Chanel scarves and somewhere, I am sure you could find a diaper bag with BARACK splayed across the front. Obama is the latest white liberal fad. A few years ago, it was Pilates. Pilates was everywhere—it could tone you, help you lose weight, center your chi, improve your heart. Classes in gyms and health centers filled. After all, this was much less shallow than simply working out. I mean, Pilates was like made from Indian people (or somewhere exotic and where the people were all centered and stuff). As a result, their ego has gotten a little boost, knowing that they couldn’t possibly be racist—because they totally used Indian techniques to help them loose weight. A woman might let it “slip” to her friend that she had taken up Pilates (translation: I am less racist, more centered and 1weigh 0 pounds less than you). This, in turn, would lead the friend to take up Pilates…and so the fad continues.

Elite Barack mania has the same affect. It should be noted here that this bears no reflection on Barack as a candidate. I like him. I’ll end up voting for him. But the majority of Barack paraphernalia has a much different effect.

In Marin, when a white, upper middle class man or woman walks into a room wearing an Obama pin, they are not supporting his health care policy. They are saying. “I’m not racist. No I mean I am really not racist. I am way more not racist than you. Okay, maybe I have a Mexican maid who I underpay and maybe sometimes I lock my car door when black people walk by, but look at my pin! I’m totally okay.”

Voting for Obama makes white people not racist. I am going to vote for Obama. I hear he can strengthen my core and help me lose 20 pounds.