"I found a liquid cure for my landlocked blues."

I'm having what is known as an ass crisis. An ass crisis, as defined by the Oxford English Dictionary, is when the posterior becomes disproportional to the size of the body but proportional the amount of alcohol and take out meals consumed. Basically I've been going out way too much and my jeans are getting tight.

Goddamnit.

I walk and climb stairs like a fiend, but uh-oh . . . I don't go to the gym. It's not because I don't want to -- I actually love going to the gym -- but rather that I can't afford it. The walking I suppose was a stopgap measure -- a bulwark against my burgeoning ass crisis, a bulwark that has now failed.

Extreme measures must now be taken. A coalition must be formed to stop the ever widening crisis before the contagion spreads to neighboring body parts. We can call it the Coalition of the Hungry. Based on past political instability, the abs are ripe for crisis.

I must strike first. I will be victorious. I will . . . mmmmmmmmm beer.

* * *

I went to the Spotted Pig in Greenwich Village last night with my friend Jess. Fully aware of the Ass Crisis (it really should be capitalized to underscore its severity), I enjoyed two pints of lovely pilsner, watched the sun fade on the Hudson, and consumed quite possibly one of the most lovely things to pass my taste buds since I made homemade alfredo sauce -- the ricotta gundi.

Oh my freaking god. Words to not describe how good it was. Gothamist gives it a try, but you really have to have it for yourself.

Now it is time to find a gym.