tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-220355012024-03-07T08:23:40.055+01:00Jovanka's International Cafe<center>American Comedienne living in Belgium and blogging about odds and bits</center>Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.comBlogger118125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-57364669576422895832014-03-16T10:42:00.003+01:002014-03-16T10:42:49.506+01:00Barfworthy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just for the record, I <strong><em>hate</em></strong> this:<br />
<br />
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Don't ever do it in my presence or I shall slap you. You have been warned.<br />
.<br />
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</div>
Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-37609100886002137082012-12-23T19:19:00.002+01:002012-12-23T19:19:45.743+01:00My New Year Resolutions<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=FlappersTalking.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/FlappersTalking.jpg" border="0" alt="Flappers Talking"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Truth be known, I had been holding off making resolutions for 2013 in anticipation of the planet (ours - this one) exploding in a fireball and/or the poles shifting and everyone being crushed/drowned by the resultant earthquakes/tsunamis. Of course it is now no secret that we were all disappointed. And thus, slightly later in the month than I would have liked but none the worse for it, I present My New Year Resolutions:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
1. I will update this blog more. It had seemed pointless what with the impending Doomsday and all, but now suddenly it's got potential "legs" again.<br />
<br />
2. I will drink more water, but not before extended car journeys.<br />
<br />
3. I will stop thinking of repeated trips to the kitchen as "exercise".<br />
<br />
4. I will stop being annoyed when people insist on speaking Dutch to me. It's important for me to remember that here in Belgium they've been speaking Dutch for many years and habits like that are hard to break. I shall give them time.<br />
<br />
5. I shall attempt to be more tolerant toward women who insist on wearing flowers in their hair. Even though this (along with my hatred of flying and hot weather) is the reason I have never visited Hawaii, I need to accept the fact that this practice does not necessarily inspire the same gag reflex in everyone as it does in me. These women mean no harm and are blithely unaware of how retarded they look. I shall strive to find it whimsical.<br />
<br />
6. When I meet new people, I will try to think of at least one nice thing about them, rather than just obsessing over their creepy qualities. <br />
<br />
7. I will try not to think of a lack of cats as a character flaw in people.<br />
<br />
8. I will try to remember that a "conversation" means letting the other person talk sometimes too (*sigh*).<br />
<br />
9. The next time I feel compelled to remember that old rule Coco Chanel had about removing one piece of jewellery before you leave the house, I shall remind myself that she also designed uniforms for the Nazis.<br />
<br />
10. I will not ask anyone's opinion about anything until I am 100% certain that they agree with me.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-86953805464108807222012-10-31T18:09:00.003+01:002012-10-31T18:09:56.013+01:00Halloween in Belgium<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
</div><br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=halloween2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/halloween2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Halloween is a quintessentially American holiday. Growing up in America, you are led to believe that it goes back to Ancient Times back in Deepest Darkest England when there were witches and wizards and hobbits everywhere and no one had anything better to do with their time than dress up in scary outfits and ring each other’s door bells. Not so, apparently.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=halloween11.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/halloween11.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Halloween started off, as many holidays did, by being a ruse for the Catholic Church to win the hearts and minds of Pagan people (through torture, coercion and force) by hijacking their existing holiday, <i>Samhain</i>. Samhain, (mysteriously pronounced <i>”Sew’en”</i>), was a traditional time at the end of the harvest where it was thought the veil between the worlds of the living and the dead were at their thinnest, and people would chuck bones into fires and dance about in funny outfits to scare away dead people who were determined to ruin their crops. Then the Catholic Church decided to ruin everyone’s fun by declaring the very next day to be, All Hallows Day (a.k.a. “All Saint’s Day”) so everyone could “celebrate” it by kneeling for hours in a cold church thinking about dead people who’d been turned into statues instead. Then somehow in America all of this got processed and repackaged into “Halloween”, a holiday where kids wear costumes and threaten their neighbors until they are given sugar products.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=halloween9-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/halloween9-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
When I was 10, I moved to the UK from America and was shocked to find that they had no concept of Halloween there. They had heard of it in American films and whatnot, but no one had, as yet, taken the leap and started participating in it. I bear the proud distinction of having been at the helm of one of the earliest Trick or Treating expeditions staged in London in the last century. Under my tutelage, my friends and I set about ringing doorbells and annoying people with our Dada-esque onslaught. Lots of bewildered people got “tricks” of a colored flour and water mixture smeared on their doors because they hadn’t come forward with the “treats”. Now 30 years later, the Brits act as if they’ve always had Halloween, but I know different. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=halloween13.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/halloween13.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Being Brits, they are less enthused with the doorbell ringing, and a lot more delighted with the violent aspects of the holiday, and of course the rest of it has been adopted as yet another reason to get stinking drunk whilst wearing something odd.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=halloween4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/halloween4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
But Belgium? They’re all confused about it. As far as I can tell, unless someone either has kids or is a kid here, they don’t really know or care about Halloween. And yet the odd group of erstwhile Trick or Treaters have been seen in our neighborhood. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=halloween14-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/halloween14-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
One group showed up on our street in 2006 and last year I thought I heard some of them on the other side of the park. They are very bizarre, even more so because of their scarcity. Should we be ready with “Fun Size” chocolates on the .003% chance that they show up here demanding something? I imagine most of their evening consists of conversations like this:<br />
<br />
THE DOORBELL RINGS. AN UNSUSPECTING NEIGHBOR OPENS THE DOOR TO SEE A SMALL GROUP OF CHILDREN AND PRE-TEENS WHO LOOK AS IF THEY’VE JUST COME FROM ART CLASS.<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: Yes, can I help you?<br />
<br />
KIDS: Trick or treat!!<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: What?<br />
<br />
KIDS: Trick or treat!<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: I don’t understand. Are you selling cookies?<br />
<br />
KID: No, you’re supposed to give us sweets!<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: Why am I supposed to give you sweets?<br />
<br />
KID: Because we rang your doorbell and we shouted “Trick or Treat” and we’re wearing costumes.<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: If you want sweets why don’t you go to a shop?<br />
<br />
KID: You’re supposed to give it to us!<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: Who told you this?<br />
<br />
PAUSE<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: I think you are very rude little children.<br />
<br />
KID: If you don’t give us sweets, we will play a trick on you.<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: What trick?<br />
<br />
THE KIDS LOOK AT EACH OTHER, REALIZING THEY’VE NEVER SEEN THAT PART PLAYED OUT IN FILMS.<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: I think you’ve already played a trick by ringing my doorbell and annoying me, eh?<br />
<br />
KIDS: We’re just trying to act like Americans.<br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: Well you’ve succeeded in that. If you have some political statement to make, please do it somewhere else. We are decent people here.<br />
<br />
KIDS: OK. Sorry. <br />
<br />
NEIGHBOR: That’s OK. Just don’t come back.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-42479094040016699762012-09-25T11:33:00.001+02:002012-09-25T12:13:53.165+02:00Excerpts from a Lesser Known Holocaust Diary<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Writing.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Writing.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Less noteworthy than accounts by your Anne Franks at al, are the stories of those people who were <i>successful</i> at going into hiding during WWII. Here, presented in anonymity and in its 100% unauthenticated version, are excerpts from one such publication:<br />
<br />
<br />
September 19th, 1941<br />
Today we went into hiding. We are in an attic above a<br />
bra shop on Kaiserstraat. Oh. Maybe I shouldn't be<br />
writing the location down. Oh, ha ha. I've just<br />
realized that anyone finding this diary and reading<br />
the location would have already deported us to Poland.<br />
So the joke's on them, really.<br />
<br />
<br />
October 4th, 1941<br />
Still in hiding.<br />
<br />
<br />
November 11th 1941<br />
Still here. I'm really bored. Surely this can't last<br />
too much longer.<br />
<br />
<br />
December 23rd, 1941<br />
Bit of excitement today. Thought we heard the Gestapo<br />
running up the stairs but it was only Uncle Moishe<br />
farting in his sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
February 2nd, 1942<br />
Still here. No one remembered to bring toenail<br />
clippers.<br />
<br />
<br />
June 12th, 1942<br />
Still here.<br />
<br />
<br />
August 8th, 1943<br />
Still here.<br />
<br />
<br />
December 1st, 1943<br />
Still here. I'm running out of paper. Must now write<br />
smaller if diary to be kept every day.<br />
<br />
<br />
May 17th, 1944<br />
Still here. still here. stillhererererere. Izaak says<br />
it could be worse, but you should see me. "Pale" does<br />
not even begin to describe.<br />
<br />
<br />
January 5th, 1945<br />
Still here. This morning I woke up in a panic: How<br />
will we know when the War is over? But Izaak reassured<br />
me that we'll put two and two together when the<br />
Reinhold family stops bringing us sandwiches.<br />
<br />
<br />
June 20th, 1945<br />
The War is over. Apparently it's been over for a few<br />
weeks, but Mrs. Reinhold had a lot of extra cheese slices<br />
she didn't want going to waste. Very curious to find out <br />
what's been going on outside since we've been here.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
<br />
Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-38876039165004139342012-07-12T17:43:00.000+02:002012-07-12T18:37:32.081+02:00List of words I Hate<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/crazy%20things/?action=view&current=FrancesFarmer.jpg" target="_blank"><img alt="Photobucket" border="0" src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/crazy%20things/FrancesFarmer.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
1. "Awesome" - I've hated this since its' introduction into the vernacular ca. 2002, and I am very proud to say that I have never and will never use it in a sentence. Enough is enough, people. It needs to go.<br />
<br />
2. "Trending" - What? I should like it because lots of other people are looking at it? What am I? A trained seal?<br />
<br />
3. "Cosplay" - can't you just wear a costume without making it sound so creepy?<br />
<br />
4. All the "trends" on Twitter. I realize this isn't a word per se, but I hate it and all who adhere to it, nonetheless. While we're at it, I also hate Twitter.<br />
<br />
5. "Lady Gaga" - I realize this isn't a word per se but instead a soulless pop singer who sounds like what happens when your CD skips and you're too drunk to get up and change it, but I hate her nonetheless.<br />
<br />
6. "Aubergine" a.k.a. "Eggplant". - I realize this is not only a word but also a squooshy malformed vegetable, but I hate it nonetheless. I wish people would stop feeling the need to feed it to me just because I'm a vegan.<br />
<br />
7. "RIP____________" - I realize this is not a word per se, but an abbreviation followed by the Dead Celebrity Du Jour on Facebook/Twitter, but I hate it nonetheless. Unless you were a gushing fan of "___________" before his/her demise, please stop acting as if your world has ended because of the "loss".<br />
<br />
8. "Curvy" when what you mean is "fat". Just say, "fat". Those aren't curves keeping me from fitting into my skinny jeans.<br />
<br />
9. The Dutch "sch" blend at the beginning of a word. I can't pronounce it, never will, and therefore I refuse to ever say any word that employs it. I realize this is not a word per se, but an annoying unnecessary sound that you can't say without spitting, but I hate it nonetheless.<br />
<br />
10. When people say "just can't" when they should say, "can't just". For instance, "You just can't barge in here like that"....No, no, no, it should be, "You CAN'T JUST barge in here like that". Why? Do I really need to explain this? And do I really need to explain it to JOURNALISTS who seem to do it all the time?.....I realize this is not a word per se, but an oft repeated mistake that makes me cringe, but I hate it nonetheless.<br />
<br />
11. "I could care less". No, no, no, it's, "I COULDN'T care less". If you COULD care less, then you wouldn't be caring the absolute least amount, hence rendering the expression impotent. I realize this isn't a word per say, but yet another mis-ordering of words that makes people think I'M the one with the problem when I point it out, but I hate it nonetheless.<br />
<br />
So there.<br />
<br />
HONORABLE MENTION:<br />
<br />
"Epic" (Thank you, Dean Bord). "Epic" is the fast-rising ugly twin of "Awesome", methinks.<br />
Also:<br />
"Vagina" - not as a word per se, but in the fact that you quite literally can't look at any comedy tape or sitcom coming out of America in the past few years without them saying this word AT LEAST once as if it's the funniest thing anyone ever said. In fact, I'm not sure which I hate the most: the certainty that the word will be used, or the self-satisfied smirk on the person who said it as if they've just said something incredibly edgy and original. Ugh.<br />
<br />
OK. My work here is done. <br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-85084197597511438022011-11-23T19:19:00.001+01:002011-11-23T19:25:51.158+01:00Cutting the Pizza<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=pizzacutter.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/pizzacutter.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Back where I come from in The Old Country (a.k.a. the US), when you order a pizza, it is delivered to you all nicely cut into individual slices for your convenience. It is all ready for you to eat as quickly as possible. You don't even need plates, you certainly don't need silverware, and as long as you've got a few extra T-shirts handy, the scant paper napkins that get delivered with it are good enough as well. You could actually live your entire life, if you were so inclined, without any dishes or cooking utensils at all, as long as you didn't mind pizza every day at every meal.<br />
<br />
Not so in Belgium. In Belgium, even the most dedicated delivery order enthusiast must have at least one item in their kitchen: A pizza cutter. Because pizza delivery places in Belgium don't cut the pizza into slices for you.<br />
<br />
"What? What?!" I can hear Americans screaming, "What kind of twisted Medieval fiends are these?"<br />
<br />
I know. <br />
<br />
It's totally insane, but it's true. If you live in Belgium and you don't have your own pizza cutter, you are forced to eat pizza either by tearing pieces of it off with your hands like a Neanderthal, or with a knife and a fork like a freak.<br />
<br />
"But why can't they -- wouldn't it be easier if -- why don't they just --?" - Again, I know, I know, I know.<br />
<br />
The best I can figure is that the Pizza Cutter industry has Europe by the throat. After all, how are they going to sell more of their sinister little circular knives? By selling them to pizza delivery places, or by selling them to the <i>customers</i> of pizza delivery places? ...Capiche? <br />
<br />
There's a Pizza Cutter Mafia, and no one's talking about it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Tony-Soprano-Rolex-President.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Tony-Soprano-Rolex-President.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
The few times that I've asked the guy on the phone if they could please cut the pizza into slices, I could have sworn I heard fear in his voice and someone in the background saying, "Don't let Luigi find out about this".<br />
<br />
But you didn't hear this here.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-7558063529679937292011-11-21T13:28:00.001+01:002011-11-21T13:35:01.369+01:00Being Creepy<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=images-11.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-11.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
I have noticed an increase in the number of creepy people lately. At first, I thought I might be imagining it - I have been known to let my imagination run away with me when I've been watching too many conspiracy videos on YouTube and imagine armies of Zombies/Space Aliens/Terrorists/The Ruling Elite around every corner - but now it's just been happening too often to blame on the paranoia of an obsessive insomniac.<br />
<br />
It's important to note that being a stand up comedian, I keep the same hours as Creepy People; and being a stand up comedian who often drives home late at night from gigs in nearby countries, I tend to end up at their hang-out spots: namely those open all night roadside gas station/convenience stores. <br />
<br />
These places, as best as I can tell, are social clubs for the shockingly weird and the potentially criminally insane. Sometimes when I pull into these places at 2:00 in the morning and see these freaks, I wonder where they hang out during daylight hours, or indeed if they even exist in daylight hours. I swear I never see such lumpy, perspiring just-crawled-out-of-the-grave looking weirdness in the middle of the afternoon.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=images-9.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-9.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
In the past they always seemed to keep to themselves, accepting (I assumed), that being Weird they shouldn't attempt to mingle with the Un-Weird. But lately I've noticed more of them. And I've noticed them focusing on me a lot. I've been followed into the ladies room by the female ones who loiter by the sinks as if in a quandary as to whether they should mug me or not - like the Zombies and Wraiths in horror films, they are dealt with easily enough by staring them down with Devil Eyes, or shocking them with a loud hiss (thank you, house cats)- but it is still disturbing that they are aware of me at all. I used to swear they lived in a misty parallel world where I could see them, but they couldn't see me.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=images-10.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-10.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
So, being me, this has lead me to some uneasy self-examination. Is there some vibe I'm giving off that makes them think they can mess with me? Are there just more of them and they're taking over the world and messing with everyone? Or - worse yet - do they think I'm one of them??!!<br />
<br />
Oh Dear God, could it be that?<br />
<br />
Lately I've dyed my hair jet black, and when I come into contact with them, I am several hours post-gig, usually dressed in dark colors and with eye-makeup that is ghoulishly heading south. I am - if I'm being honest - pretty scary looking myself. Could they think that I'm the sort of healthier <i>un</i> crack damaged version of them whom they must threaten in order to establish their territory? Perhaps they think I am their Queen?<br />
<br />
Or is it possible that I, too, am creepy? No, no, no. Surely I would know, wouldn't I? Surely if I were truly One Of Them I would skip the gigs altogether and follow an instinctual urge to stand in shadows in those places, looking at my feet with my hands in my pockets? <br />
<br />
I mean they know, right? They know they're creepy. At some point it must have occurred to them - even if just on a subconscious level - that they weren't quite like the rest of humanity and that they <i>belonged</i> (if anywhere) at these late night truck stops? And I would <i>know</i> (Right? Right?) if I were one of them?<br />
<br />
Oh for crying out loud. <br />
<br />
Just to establish boundaries, the next time I'm in one of those places I'm going to shout at the top of my lungs, "I'm only here because I have the bladder of a sparrow, so back off!"<br />
<br />
Oh, that'll show 'em.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-39647574140303021372011-11-03T11:36:00.002+01:002011-11-03T12:32:10.195+01:00Panic in Flanders<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt028.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt028.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
So I was awakened at the crack of dawn today with that same incomprehensible fervor I remember from camping trips as a child: "Hurry! It's almost daylight! We've got to GO!"; only this time I wasn't being jostled into the back of a car and being wedged between a cooler and a 4-man tent, this time I was being forced out of slumber by one of the most frightening phenomenons of nature: A Belgian on the quest for a rare Trappist beer.<br />
<br />
Because, as it was explained to me while we sped through traffic on our journey to one of the chosen outlets, this beer, Westvleteren XII, is extremely rare. It's brewed by monks only in this one particular abbey in West Flanders, where they make it according to centuries long tradition solely for their own use. The monks have a secret process by which they make it, which I'm guessing involves trampling it with their tiny monk feet in huge oaken vats decorated with Masonic symbols, while the elder monks alternately whip them and chant encouragement. <br />
<br />
The very small excess amount the monks make each year is sold only on a certain day and you have to know someone connected with the abbey, be able to perform a secret handshake, recite a magic password, and be able to hold your hand over an open flame without flinching to be allowed to purchase it. And of course, in addition to being near impossible to get, it has also been rated several times as THE BEST BEER IN THE WORLD.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt024.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt024.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
So now these monks need to do repairs on their abbey, and to raise the money needed they've brewed exactly the amount of beer they'll need to sell to complete the task, had it packaged (through donations) in 6-packs that look like abbey bricks (cute, huh?), and set up a one-day-only deal with a newspaper and a chain of shops. First you had to clip a special coupon from the paper, then you had to show up at one of these shops (Colruyt) today, with your coupon, and then you were only allowed to purchase one 6-pack per person...so you see why, of course, I had to be present as well. Had I been conjoined twins I would have been even more useful.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt021-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt021-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Our local Colruyt opened at 8:30, and when we got there at 8:34 it was already a mob scene. Parking was impossible to find, so I was sent running into the shop, clutching our coupons. I had to dodge under, over and around a sea of shopping carts and finally got to the first palette of beers just as the stack was depleted. There were already people standing in line waiting to pay for their beers. 8:34. 4 minutes after the store had opened. Incredible.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt016-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt016-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
By the time Mr. Jovanka was able to find parking and get inside, he was trapped behind the barricade of shopping carts, and I could see panic in his eyes. But as they brought out the second palette, I was on the case. Using my newly toned yoga arms I was able to get not just one, but both cases and carry them back to the safety of our shopping cart. It's possible some old people may have been trampled in the process, but I wasn't looking back. We'd won.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt018-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt018-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Within minutes, the precious beers were purchased and safely nestled in our car.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt022.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt022.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Each 6 pack was nicely arranged with <b>two</b> official Westvleteren XII glasses, because as everyone knows, Belgians can only drink beer out of a glass that says the name of that beer on it. Including 2 glasses was a kindness on the part of the monks. Had they been stingy and provided only 1 glass, it would have meant that Belgians would have had to take turns drinking their beer: one Belgian sipping while the other looked on in envy.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=Colruyt026.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Colruyt026.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
By the way, the "XII" stands for 12% alcohol. Because Belgian monks don't mess around, baby.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-5143596062466564532011-06-21T16:02:00.002+02:002011-06-22T12:56:20.669+02:00For Yuki Mizutani, With Love and Squalor<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=kabuki-warriors-screensaver.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/kabuki-warriors-screensaver.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
There is this really weird phenomenon of the computer age that I just found out about called, "Domain Squatting". And although it sounds sort of crude and scatological like regular squatting (which I'm sorry to say always conjures images of people in an empty building with their knees sticking up looking like they're about to poo), what it actually means is when someone pays the nominal fee (usually about 20 US dollars or thereabouts) to hold the rights to a web address in the hopes that they can extort money out of someone for it at a later date.<br />
<br />
Apparently this became a fad after a few internet pioneers ('coon skin cap, fringed leather jacket and musket; yes, I'm thinking it too) bought the rights to some domain names - most notably, "sex.com" - and ended up making literally millions extorting money out of people who wanted to use them as actual sites.<br />
<br />
Yes, I said, "Extorting" again. Although, we're not allowed to call it that when it's legal, because, oddly, this behaviour IS legal in some places. It's NOT legal in places like Belgium - www.jovankasteele.be is safe from internet speculators, for instance - but this sort of thing IS legal in the US, a country where "freedom" very often trumps common sense in the name of venture capitalism; and also, unfortunately, the place where any address ending in a ".com" originates.<br />
<br />
I found out about all of this when I tried to get the rights to,"jovankasteele.com". I <i>had</i> had jovankasteele.com a few years ago, but had let payment on it slip due to laziness and low self-esteem, then lo and behold when times were sunny and happy in Jovanka Land again and I went to reclaim my rightful plot of virtual real estate, someone else had taken it! I clicked on jovankasteele.com and got a bunch of Japanese writing - <i>WTF?!</i><br />
<br />
Mr. Jovanka, who's awfully good at internet thingies and knows what all the buttons on computers do, traced the new owner of jovankasteele.com and found that it was one Yuki Mizutani, of Osaka, Japan.<br />
<br />
My first reaction was rage (well, to be fair, my first reaction to just about everything is rage - I have a lot of issues). I ranted, "Who the <i>hell</i> is Yuki Mizutani and why is he determined to ruin my life?!" I was in full tantrum mode. I insisted that Mr. Jovanka find out what Mr. Mizutani's demands were. But Mr. Jovanka just shook his head and said, "These people always ask upwards of 1000 dollars. There's really no point in even talking to him."<br />
<br />
Bloody Japanese Mafia.<br />
<br />
I wanted to take matters into my own hands. I looked up Yuki Mizutani on Facebook, but there's like a million of them. Or pehaps, evil Japanese Mafia Computer Genius that he is, he's created a million of them so he can't be found; but either way I had no defense for it.<br />
<br />
I got very depressed and started obsessing about it far too much. Yuki Mizutani became my personal Nemesis. I started having fantasies about going to Japan and hunting him down, Samurai style.<br />
<br />
Then it dawned on me: Yuki Mizutani wouldn't have made the initial investment in jovankasteele.com unless he thought it was going to pay off big. Yuki Mizutani believes in me. Yuki Mizutani thinks I'm going to be famous. Yuki Mizutani thinks I'm the Bee's Knees.<br />
<br />
Yuki Mizutani is my Biggest Fan.<br />
<br />
And suddenly all my former vengeful Yuki Mizutani thoughts transformed. No longer is he the marauding antagonist, bent on my demise; now he's the hero in a scenario where some trout-headed comedy booker says, "I'm not so sure about having a <i>female</i> headliner on the show"; and I say, "Yeah? Why don't you tell that to Yuki Mizutani?!", and out he comes: a resplendent, muscular Karate God, smelling like saké and kick-arse.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=seven-samurai2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/seven-samurai2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
So keep squatting in my domain, Yuki Mizutani. Your virtual hijacking lets me know that there's one guy in Osaka who thinks I'm pretty damned special.<br />
<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
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.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-9487967626232846082011-06-14T16:21:00.002+02:002011-06-14T16:28:35.959+02:00My Dream Gig<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=p1080522.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/p1080522.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
I'm in a bed in a gorgeous hotel room and I simply turn my head to the side and a panel slides open in the wall and the audience is there on the other side of a protective sheet of glass. I begin my show. I don't have to move or even incline my head as there are microphones positioned near me and a camera to inform the audience of the nuance of my facial expression. <br />
<br />
At the end of the show there is thunderous applause. After 10 or 15 minutes as it begins to ebb, the wall panel slowly slides shut again but I can still hear individual comments from the audience as people leaving say, "She was incredible", "What an amazing talent", et cetera.<br />
<br />
As soon as the panel that separates me from the audience closes, several panels in the ceiling above me open up and paper money begins to fall delicately on top of me, sounding like the wings of so many doves. It continues to gently fall and fall and fall until I am buried under a mountain of it about 1 1/2 meters thick - not heavy enough to crush me, but very nearly - and that's when I reach my hand out to press a button on a telecom near me and say, "kindly send someone in to take the money off me please".<br />
<br />
Less than 30 seconds later, 2 Buddhist monks (they don't <i>have</i> to be Buddhist monks, but must certainly be trustworthy, service-oriented and non-materialistic) arrive and deftly remove the money from me, count it, and arrange it in neatly bound piles on a purpose-built set of shelves at the outer edge of my line of vision. During this procedure, one of the monks discreetly removes himself to order a gourmet pizza for me made with that fabulous <a href="http://www.vegusto.com/index-en.html">vegan cheese from Switzerland</a> on it. The pizza arrives just as they are finished shelving the money, and they cut it into manageable slices for me and arrange it on a silver platter next to my face. There is also a gorgeous Bordeaux which they serve to me in a baby bottle so I don't have to raise my head to drink it. <br />
<br />
They quietly slip away and leave me to wind down from an evenings' work.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
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.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-5697027499222175002010-12-07T13:50:00.003+01:002010-12-07T14:13:43.672+01:00Special Skills<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view&current=special-skills.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/special-skills.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
I worked briefly in a television and film casting office back in the day and I would have to look at thousands and thousands of actors' photo & resumes. Invariably at the bottom of the resume was a section called, <i>Special Skills</i> where they would list extra talents that they had. It would say anything from accents they could do (which they never actually could) to the fact that they could roller skate to even the fact that they could drive. This was because legions of acting teachers would tell them to write everything there because you never know what the casting people are looking for. I mean who knows? They might be totally unimpressed with your audition or what plays you've been in or what you look like but hey, you just might nail that job because you had the foresight to mention that you can operate a toaster. <i>Include that in your 'Special Skills'!</i><br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view&current=586px-MotherdurgaCrop_553x352.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/586px-MotherdurgaCrop_553x352.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
I've long since stopped using any form of a resume because, A) I'm a comic and I don't have to, and B) I'm too lazy; but if I am ever prevailed upon to put one together again I would like it to be <i>all</i> Special Skills. You can come watch me in a comedy club then I'll hand you this list and that had better be enough for you: <br />
<br />
<center><b><u></u><i>Jovanka's Special Skills</b></center></i><br />
<br />
<br />
*Is well liked by cats<br />
*Can do Russian accent when speaking Dutch<br />
*Is not afraid to pick up chickens<br />
*Can type lots of words per minute as long as I'm allowed to look at the keyboard<br />
*Can crochet anything as long as it's basically square in shape<br />
*Can drive a car, but won't.<br />
*Has double jointed elbows<br />
*Can do a near perfect London accent but only when very, very drunk<br />
*Has an extraordinarily good sense of smell<br />
*Can burp on command<br />
*Can make <i>vegan</i> Bailey's Irish Cream<br />
*Can usually guess what sign people are<br />
*Extremely gifted at folding laundry (but needs help with big sheets)<br />
*Good at photography as long as people/cats hold still<br />
*Can walk in high heels, but only about a minute at a time<br />
*Can pee while walking (field tested!)<br />
*Can tell if places are haunted, even just from a photo<br />
*Can laugh uncontrollably during awkward silences at family gatherings<br />
*Is so good at cards that other people hate her for it<br />
*Can sneeze on command<br />
*Can dance, but not in front of people<br />
*Is good at deflecting blame<br />
*Can eat hotter peppers than anyone<br />
*Can ride a bike, but not in traffic<br />
*Can walk so fast that it annoys people<br />
*Can walk so slowly that it annoys people<br />
*Very good at drawing cats<br />
*Can operate can opener - but not those weird German ones<br />
*Good at making rice<br />
*Can do some yoga poses<br />
*Can waste entire day on Facebook<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-67868641332856611762010-11-24T00:26:00.008+01:002010-11-24T00:42:56.872+01:00Alcorexia<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view&current=129055175896172.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/129055175896172.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
<br />
I've been on a diet recently - <i>(WHAT ELSE IS NEW??!!)</i> - and beginning about 2 weeks ago I started diligently counting calories again because that really is the only thing that ever works. So anyhoo, Friday evening, knowing I'd be meeting my friend Julie later, I thought I'd be ultra responsible and save calories for the drinks. So I ate 300 calories and figured I'd have 700 calories worth of beer.<br />
<br />
Clever, huh?<br />
<br />
So as I'm sitting there at the bar I thought, OK, 700 calories is really only about 3 1/2 beers to be fair, so if I want to get the most out of my drinking experience I should drink the highest alcohol content available. I was forgetting two very important facts:<br />
<br />
1) I have no tolerance for beer even when I'm not on an empty stomach.<br />
<br />
and...<br />
<br />
2) I live in Belgium where they mean what they say when they say, "strong beer". <br />
<br />
So basically what I drank was equivalent in alcohol content to about 8 beers in a country where sadistic monks <i>aren't</i> in charge of brewing everything. <br />
<br />
On an empty stomach.<br />
<br />
Crazy? Hmmm. Yes, perhaps a tad. Needless to say I got quite sick. And when I say I got sick I mean that I spent the next DAY AND A HALF throwing up so much that stuff I ate in previous lifetimes was coming up. ("Where did all this barley pottage come from?", quoth I.) And as I was laying there in agony all I could think was, "I purposely drank on an empty stomach! What the hell was I thinking of???!!!" ....But it turns out there's a name for this syndrome: <b>Alcorexia</b>. Yup. In America where they can turn anything into a syndrome (that eventually there will be a pill for), the act of a person substituting alcoholic calories for food is dubbed <i>Alcorexia</i>. <br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view&current=585681319a1013287156b411493523m-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/585681319a1013287156b411493523m-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
But here's the kicker: like the syndromes' more sensible sisters Anorexia and Bulimia, Alcorexia does in fact <i>work</i>. Scarily so as a matter of fact. First of all, I was violently ill so whatever calories I'd had before The Event are now somewhere in the Atlantic; and secondly, I couldn't eat at all for a day and a half. I was pretty much guaranteed to lose weight - and don't think I wasn't cognizant of that particular silver lining even while my head was in the toilet. Healthy? No. But beauty hurts. <br />
<br />
And here's the best part: Now that I've been purged I am starting from a totally clean slate. So starting yesterday (Monday) I've been eating the fresh-fruit-and-vegetable diet I've always been meaning to eat but could never quite bring myself to, and <i>I'm not even hungry!!!</i> That's right, I successfully kick-started my diet with an alcoholic binge! Woo hoo!<br />
<br />
So if my success continues - and I have no reason to doubt that it will - I shall pen my own self-help diet book, tentatively titled, <i>Drink yourself to a Size 4</i>, projected release Spring 2011 (when I shall look fabulous in all the "after" pictures). <br />
<br />
Tacky? Un-"PC"? Offensive? Hell yes. But can you name anything successful that isn't?<br />
.<br />
.<br />
.<br />
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.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-73122224726496542052010-09-15T17:36:00.002+02:002010-09-15T17:40:12.365+02:00I've Been Cat Surfed<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=surfing-cat-6407.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/surfing-cat-6407.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Cats have a natural aptitude for surfing. I know this through personal experience of having been a surfboard for several of them the past few nights. <br />
<br />
Just as I'm trying to get to sleep, one cat will stand on my butt, one on my legs, maybe another one on my upper back. And yes, I said, "stand" mind you. Because what they're doing is waiting for me to move so they can start surfing me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images-2-2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-2-2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
Perhaps the word "logrolling" would be a more apt description.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=af001549.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/af001549.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
<br />
The rule of the game, as far as I can tell, is to remain in the same place on top of me as I attempt to roll over. It doesn't matter how much I move, it only seems to make them more determined to stay on. If I attempt to kick them off, they only relish in it.<br />
<br />
It's very demeaning.<br />
<br />
And the Hawaiian shirts only add insult to injury.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-89944419890076376992010-09-08T16:25:00.003+02:002010-09-08T20:50:15.837+02:00Being socially inept is not for the faint of heart.<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=istockphoto_2578159-clown-juggler.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/istockphoto_2578159-clown-juggler.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br />I hardly ever know how to act ever in any situation. I just don't have all the normal boundaries that other people take for granted that tell them when they should smile, when they shouldn't smile, when it's appropriate to climb a tree, and other such things. I know this is not my fault - it's because I was raised by crazy people - but still it's hard to deal with when someone points out that you've just been doing something that everyone else thinks is weird. Like putting as much popcorn as you can possibly fit in your mouth rather than eating one piece at a time, or picking up pigeons who look depressed, or asking strangers if they have gum. But the worst imposed-on-me-by-the-crazy-parents habit I have is this thing where I feel I must do my best not appear sick when I go to the doctor. <br /><br />It's a weird, weird trait and there are probably all sorts of psychological reasons for it which I won't bore you with, but the upshot is that the more sick I'm feeling, the more fabulous and entertaining I look and act. Mr. Jovanka is the first one who pointed this out to me years ago, and now whenever I go to the doctor he gives me a mini-pep talk beforehand where he looks at me and says, "Don't act like a monkey".<br /><br />But I forgets......<br /><br />So today I was sick. Really sick. I've had this whole ongoing inner ear thing going on. I've actually been in bed for a few days feeling horrible. So I went to the doctor. Mr. Jovanka reminded me repeatedly on the drive there not to act like a monkey. I had a whole mantra in my head saying, "you're sick, <i>act</i> sick", and still what did I do? I acted like I was at a cocktail party. I didn't realize it at the <i>time</i> of course, but afterward Mr. Jovanka gave me a review and pointed out how nicely I'd been smiling and all the various jokes I'd cracked (some of which were quite good actually, but surely that isn't the point?). <br /><br />Luckily the doctor looked in my ear and apparently the symptoms spoke for themselves and he was able to overlook the fact that I was acting like Liza Minnelli. <br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images-4-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-4-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Once years ago in Los Angeles, I got hit by a car as I was walking across the street. I was thrown in the air and smashed the windscreen of the car and ended up laying on the sidewalk surrounded by people as we all waited for the ambulance to arrive. I had a concussion and a fractured leg and tailbone and I have never been funnier. You should have seen how I was working that crowd. I absolutely <i>killed</i>.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-59089818058951999782010-08-05T19:42:00.005+02:002010-12-01T16:23:12.094+01:00In Defense of the Salted Potato Chip<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images-8.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-8.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
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Mr. Jovanka and myself have friends who are a couple like we are and lots of times we go over to their house to hang out or play cards. We always go over to their house because our house has 10 cats in it and we are worried about possible smells that we might not be sensitive to. We are nothing if not considerate. So anyway, we've been going over to their place for about the past 4 years now and we are only <i>just now</i> breaking them into buying <i>salted</i> potato chips instead of the funky flavors. The last time we went over to their house all they had on offer were some sort of barbecued chips and spicy Thai prawn or something. I took matters into my own hands and did this very clever ruse where I asked loudly and obviously where the nearest potato chip shop was then I made a show of asking specific directions and telling people to just wait a while because I might get lost. I even stood up and started patting all my pockets and moving towards the door. Finally Nico offered to just take his bike to go get the salted chips himself which had been my intention all along (I'm very good at this stuff).<br />
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Is it too much to ask that people should have simple salted snacks on hand? We don't think so. Besides, we have a medical excuse since we are vegans and the funky flavored ones always have some sort of dairy product/beef extract/dung in them.<br />
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I have waged a lifetime war against the freaks of this world who want to desecrate the taste of potatoes with their nasty artificial flavorings. When I was a kid growing up in Los Angeles, it was fairly simple: There were salted or Barbecue flavor. When, also as a kid, I lived in London, it was slightly more complex with the addition of cheese & onion and salt & vinegar flavors, but still you knew where you stood. Their two extra flavors were based on established pub food. It was all very Olde Worlde. I mean they even called salted crisps, "Ready Salted" as they had only recently apparently taken on the technology of pre-salting the crisps. Before that crisps came unsalted with a salt packet inside. I always imagined British parents guilting their children with, "Oh you kids these days don't know how easy you've got it. Why when we were your age, we had to reach our hands into the packet, look for the salt and do the work ourselves. We didn't have time for fun and games. We were too busy doing our own food preparation. You kids live like royalty!"<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=Smiths-SNS.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/Smiths-SNS.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
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Fast forward to today and the Brits <i>love</i> the whole flavoured crisp thing. In fact they've taken the concept and run with it to the point where you're hard pressed to find plain crisps nowadays. Here are some of the flavours you'll find on offer if you innocently ask for a packet of crisps at any pub in England:<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=27-88-walkers-ready.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/27-88-walkers-ready.jpg" border="0" alt="Ready Salted"></a><br />
"Ready Salted" - of course the big selling point here being that they have been pre-salted for your convenience. Odd though how none of the other flavours will be listed as "Ready __________". I guess putting salt on things requires an extra effort.<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=get_file.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/get_file.jpg" border="0" alt="Salt &amp; Vinegar"></a><br />
"Salt & Vinegar" - the one flavour that I can at least understand. Chips (a.k.a. "fries") are often served with vinegar and salt in the UK and it is awfully good, so it would stand to reason that the flavoring would translate to a different form of potato. It doesn't. They're vile.<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=2806105587_3d0a387e32.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/2806105587_3d0a387e32.jpg" border="0" alt="Marmite"></a><br />
"Marmite" - OK. Marmite is an acquired taste, the enjoyment of which is already conditional: It's best served on toast (not bread, <i>toast</i>) for instance, and it tastes awful unless you combine it with margarine (at which point it tastes divine). And you have to know exactly how thickly to spread it or it all gets ruined. And now you want me to trust that it's going to taste alright when converted to powder form and splattered on crisps in a factory? Not bloody likely!<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CW18.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CW18.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
"Tomato Ketchup" - a title that is wrong on so many levels, first and foremost of which is the redundancy of calling it <i>tomato</i> ketchup. WHAT OTHER KIND OF KETCHUP IS THERE? That's what ketchup is! Ketchup is, by definition <i>tomato</i> ketchup. That would be like calling a wine, <i>grape chardonnay</i> or referring to a <i>tobacco cigarette</i> or <i>stupid conservative</i> (thank you people, I'll be here all week).....and furthermore WHY on earth would you want a quasi-ketchup flavoring embedded into your potato chip when surely the more elegant choice would be to dip your chip in your own ketchup? <br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=walkers_copy.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/walkers_copy.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
"Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding"......which begs the question, why not just eat roast beef and Yorkshire pudding? If they make roast beef and Yorkshire pudding that tastes of potato chips will you eat that? Freak.<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images-2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-2.jpg" border="0" alt="Builder's Breakfast 2"></a><br />
"Builder's Breakfast" - I'm going to go out on a limb here, British cuisine being as diverse as it is, and assume that a "Builder's Breakfast" isn't much different from the classic "Full British Breakfast" which consists of eggs, bacon, blood sausage, toast and runny baked beans in tomato sauce with two unexplained tomato slices on the edge of the plate. How you'd manage to get this cacophony of flavors orchestrated into one synthetic powder to smear on the crisps is beyond me.<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images.jpg" border="0" alt="Portuguese Breakfast"></a><br />
What do the Portuguese eat for breakfast? Does it really warrant a tribute?<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images-4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-4.jpg" border="0" alt="American Cheeseburger"></a><br />
Again: If you need to taste this then why not just go and eat the actual - oh, never mind.<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=images-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/images-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Cajun Squirell 2"></a><br />
Yes, it says, <b>Cajun Squirrel</b>. Yes, it's an actual flavor. No, I don't know if they have plans to flavor chips after the Eastern Grey or the Red European varieties, nor do I know whether there are people who would be able to taste the difference.<br />
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<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=30531429-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/30531429-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />
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I am sorry people, but frankly I would like all the nonsense to stop. Plain old salted potato chips/crisps are something that everyone can agree on. Serve them at a party or when you have your nice friends over to play cards and no one will complain. The fancy flavors just make you look ridiculous and like you have no morals. It's all clearly getting out of hand and if you are not part of the solution you are part of the problem. You know I'm right. <br />
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.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-59299427322089631602010-07-28T13:04:00.003+02:002010-07-28T15:12:51.169+02:00Something Horrible in the Air<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=BatmanWithBomb.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/BatmanWithBomb.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />Let me start off by saying that I am not the sort of comic who does fart jokes. In fact I would go so far as to say that I am offended and almost violently opposed to the forays into scatology and snickering locker room humor that sometimes pass for comedy. The odd spattering of poo, that's fine once in a great while as a sort of accent. But you will never find me on stage reciting a set list that revolves exclusively around things that take place in the vicinity of one's pants. Having said all that I must now discuss an event that involved a fart. Please consider what follows my lone odd spattering of poo.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=fart4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/fart4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />So the other night after my show I was standing around talking with a Dutchman, two Belgians and another American. I make mention of their nationalities as their different cultural reactions to the situation are what I am taking note of here. So as I say, we were all talking when suddenly we were engulfed in a fart so foul as to defy description. Now here's where the varying cultural reactions came in to play. The Dutchman and the two Belgians didn't react at all. Myself and the other American however had an immediate observable physical reaction. I stated the obvious, "I think someone just farted.......It wasn't me! (it wasn't)", then the other American who is, I think, arguably much more American than me and certainly of the more outgoing variety, quickly feigned an excuse and left. I thought, dammit, why didn't I think of that? But at that point if I had suddenly up and left as well it would have turned the whole thing into a Much Bigger Incident than it had to be. <br /><br />So what happened next is interesting. I verbally reconfirmed that yes, someone certainly had farted to which the Belgians sort of looked down at their hands and the Dutchman - who I psychically knew was the one who had done the fart - CHANGED THE SUBJECT and acted as if nothing had happened. I ask you: Could there <i>be</i> a more obvious admission of guilt? I mean if it had been me, (and again I assure you that it wasn't), I think I would have at least had the wherewithal at that point to act as if I was offended by it like everyone else in an attempt to deflect ownership. But actually I'll go further to say that if it had been me (and again, it wasn't), I would have had the forethought to physically remove myself from the group before the thing had detonated so to speak. I mean what sort of person thinks they're going to get away with something like that? <br /><br />The Belgian reaction was the oddest I think. Why did they look down? Were they that embarrassed by the fart? Were they that embarrassed by my mention of the fart? Were they praying that someone would light a match? <br /><br />Clearly this is one area in bad need of some sort of cross cultural etiquette. We should all Know What To Do in these situations; what our roles are. Most importantly I think it should be the duty of the perpetrator to either remove themselves (as I've said) or failing that to shout a warning so that innocent bystanders can run for cover. <br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-63411174660857346642010-07-26T14:07:00.006+02:002010-07-27T01:28:27.517+02:00Inside the Mind of a Neurotic Performer<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/Jovanka%20pics/?action=view¤t=DSC_0117-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/Jovanka%20pics/DSC_0117-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />So I debuted my new one woman show this past weekend. I would tell you how many years it's taken me to get my shit together to finally write this, my second O.W.S., but then you would surely shift all the numbers around and figure out that I am older than the trees and the very archetype of laziness. I much prefer for everyone reading my blog to imagine me about 22 and a plush comedy prodigy. It is so much more attractive to think of comedy as having been magically bestowed on me rather than to face the grotty reality of years and years of scribbled rantings on bar napkins, drunken brawls and dysfunctional relationships with road comics while I crawled night after night to the clubs to try out my fledgling little jokes on spiteful crowds before going home to pass out in a pool of my own tears.<br /><br />So here's something that I've rediscovered about myself: Sometimes I just don't hear the laughter. Take last night for instance. I came off stage thinking that I had done so badly that I would be pelted with stones and chased through the streets by angry villagers, only to be confronted with audience members coming up and telling me they thought I was funny. So strong was my psychotic self loathing though that I had to actively suppress the urge to scream, "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT?!!" at them before morphing into Charles Bukowski and drinking myself into the fetal position. But I did suppress it. Now here's the thing: there are two different extremes of comedy psychosis out there. There are those who, like me, sometimes don't hear the laughter; and then there are those who don't hear the <i>silence</i>. Of the two extremes, mine is definitely the more productive one, because at least when one doesn't hear the laughter one makes an effort to improve ones' act if for no other reason than to stop the voices. Those who don't hear the silence however have a completely opposite and one might even argue <i>better</i> experience. Because to them everything they do is <i>genius</i>. Rather than coming off stage in a cloud of doubt, they basque in the glow of an enthusiastic laugh track that only they can hear. I have known a few such comics. One in particular has done the same act for over 20 years, never had a genuine laugh and never seen a reason to write anything new. But this guy is not only happy, he is also touchingly proud of his work. If a team of psychiatrists were to evaluate the two of us, he would be awarded gold stars in every category. They would "ooh" and "aaah" over his supreme contentedness and his sense of self-actualization. Me they might have committed for further study so Freudian students could stare at me over their clipboards and say things like, "Did you <i>really</i> have all your work removed from YouTube because you thought you were too fat?"......Because honestly I'm willing to bet that can't-hear-the-silence guy never wakes up in the middle of the night hyperventilating because of how he messed up the delivery of his cat joke. And he is a happier man for it.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-88777186248875218302010-07-13T12:41:00.002+02:002010-07-13T13:17:01.664+02:00Nothing Larger Than Your Elbow<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=GiantBabyEarClean.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/GiantBabyEarClean.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />I am writing this blog entry with my head tilted sideways. Why? Because I have an ear infection. And how did you get your ear infection, you might ask? Was it from something exotic like swimming in a polluted sea? Something modern like listening to music with those annoying little "ear bud" thingies? Was it from radiation absorbtion whilst talking too much on your mobile phone? No, no and no. It was from my habit, nay, my pseudo-sexual obsession with cleaning my ears with those cotton swab ear stick thingies.<br /><br />Yes, I've heard the warnings like everyone else has against inserting foreign objects into your ear canal. But why was it I was never warned against the domestic ones? Like Q-tips (a.k.a. "Oorstokjes" in Dutch)? These things are an evil temptation and a LIE. They are marketed as ear cleaners and yet always with the caveat that you shouldn't stick them in your ear canal. Well WHERE ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO STICK THEM? Did you honestly expect me to just gently dab at the outside of my ear with them? Well I'd hardly need a STICK for that, would I? These things have given me numerous ear infections. And yes, I've heard all the folksy things about not sticking anything in your ear larger than your elbow (which is impossible, by the way. Yes I've tried), but once you've actually gone in there with a cotton covered stick you'll always go back for more because it's fabulous! You don't know how much you want to scratch that place until you do and then you can't get enough! And the thing is it's all the better if you give yourself a <i>slight</i> infection - just enough for a little itch - because the satisfaction of scratching it is unbelievable. So yes. I was playing with fire. I was walking that fine line. Frankly the danger was part of the appeal.<br /><br />After Mr. Jovanka had witnessed my second self-inflicted ear infection, he took to actually hiding the Q-tips from me. This only prompted me to go out and and acquire my own stash and keep them where he wouldn't know about them and find times to sneak away and use them unseen because I am that much of an addict, yes an addict people. But where is my 12 Step Group? What would anyone even call us? <br /><br />So anyway here I am, ordered to rest, administer ear drops and not poke at myself. And you have NO IDEA how much I want to right now. <br /><br />Stop judging me.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-53467820651817674592010-06-29T14:56:00.003+02:002010-06-29T16:11:20.967+02:00Life's Little Triumphs...<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=953722838_117e8e8399_o.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/953722838_117e8e8399_o.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br />My favorite dress shop in Gent is a place called <a href="http://www.paleis.net/">Paleis</a> - sort of my dream dress shop with funky bizarre looking dresses in off the wall patterns and colors. But going there was always a bittersweet experience for me. I'd delight in looking at all the clothes, but on the rare occasion that they would actually have an XL in something (the shop is very S, M, L with a definite emphasis on the "S") I'd fight the voices in my head screaming, "No! No!" at me, and try it on. More often than not the experience would end with me having an existential crisis in the fitting room as I realized I couldn't even squeeze my fat arse into the biggest size they had, then I'd quickly buy one of their funky handbags to cheer myself up (handbags are the fat girl's solace) and waddle home (then likely drown my sorrows in several toasted peanut butter sandwiches followed by a microwave pizza). <br /><br />Wellllll, today I went there, ostensibly "just to look", ended up trying on stuff and fitted into and bought a dress and a skirt that are size M/L!! And they fit nicely too with no lumpy bits! Apparently running 40 minutes a day for the past 6 weeks has paid off! I'm now back in normal sizes!!! Wooooo hoooo!!!!!<br /><br /><br />I'm on the road to thinness!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=french_postcard_risque_smoking_post.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/french_postcard_risque_smoking_post.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />P.S. Stay tuned for future Ultra Boast Blog when I get down to an "S". <br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-50546096829159490792010-06-22T11:04:00.001+02:002010-06-22T11:04:30.949+02:00My Manifesto<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=hitler-cat.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/hitler-cat.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I think it's a good idea that everyone have a manifesto just in case they should ever find themselves in the position of being the leader of a fascist dictatorship. It would certainly be embarrassing to be in that position and not have a manifesto. Success is when preparedness meets opportunity after all, isn't it?<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=hitler-cat1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/hitler-cat1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Anyway I have given this some thought because I think it's clear that the world would be a much better place if I were in charge of everything. Thus:<br /><br /><center><span style="font-weight:bold;"><u>My Manifesto</u></span></center><br /><br />The Terms:<br /><br />1. Everyone in the world must be a vegan.<br /><br />2. Everyone is entitled to a sandwich (or its' equivalent) on demand.<br /><br />3. No More Wars - Since I will be in charge of everything, there will be no international conflicts. Should smaller territorial disputes occur, they will be settled by the local leaders engaging in a wrestling match or spelling bee (to be determined democratically) <br /><br />4 Penal System Reforms - There will be no death penalty. People who do forgivable things (theft, armed holdups where no one got hurt, etc.) will serve their terms by doing the little jobs in society that no one else wants to do. This will include but not be limited to vacuuming, cleaning cat boxes, doing the dishes and reorganizing people's sock drawers. People who do really horrible things like violence towards other people or animals will have to serve their terms doing things that no nice person should ever have to do like cleaning toilets in Calcutta, cleaning up barf at music festivals and numeric filing. Society will become a happier place when ordinary law abiding citizens are no longer encumbered with these tasks.<br /><br />5. All art will be subsidized.<br /><br />6. All political campaigns will be publicly funded - private funding will be forbidden. This means that it will no longer be a prerequisite to be rich to run for office. Candidates will be chosen based on their performance in a series of public debates where their identities will be concealed in funny Disneyland costumes and their voices will be digitally obscured. No one will be allowed to reveal their age, race, gender or sexual preference until after the winner has been chosen. Half the fun will be trying to guess who's under the Donald Duck costume.<br /><br />7. Anyone can marry anyone else they want to providing that all parties want to marry each other.<br /><br />8. Anyone can practice whatever religion they want as along as they are able to shut up about it when they are on public transport. <br /><br />9. Automobiles will be swiftly phased out in favor of bicycles/horses in metropolitan areas. There will be stiff laws in place ensuring the proper treatment of the horses and many public stables in lots of convenient places. Automobiles will be available for certain situations on a temporary basis. Handicapped people will have special permission to operate electrically run cars that do not exceed 20MPH in metropolitan areas.<br /><br />10. Marijuana will be legal. Other drugs will be legal in specified spas and resorts where there will be staff on hand to make sure everything's cool.<br /><br />11. Hiring for jobs will be based on actual aptitude, not on what some moron thinks having majored in Theater does/does not qualify you for.<br /><br />12. No more airplanes except in mountain rescue situations. If you are traveling to a different continent you can take a ship. It's time everyone stopped being in such a hurry. Besides, ships are fun. All your onboard meals and entertainment are included. What could be wrong with that?<br /><br />13. There will be one day a year when everyone has the day off (except for the prisoners who will have to run all the public services on that day) and street parties are mandatory all over the world.<br /><br />14. Televisions will only operate for three hours a day (you get to choose the hours) and there will only be three channels, mostly showing news and cat documentaries. If you want anything else you can rent it on DVD.<br /><br />15. Local police forces will be replaced by Knights, complete with shining armor. They will all be very handsome but menacing when required.<br /><br />16. Guns will not exist. And only the police/Knights will be allowed to have broadswords.<br /><br />17. Individuality will be encouraged. If you are middle aged and want to wear a Prima Ballerina outfit everywhere it will be applauded. Even if you are female.<br /><br />18. There will be a ban on nasally angry elf sounding music like that produced by Britany Spears, Lady Gaga and similar. If you can't sing properly you don't get to record music. Period. Also no more dances that look like they were choreographed by air traffic controllers. <br /><br />That's all I've got for now.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-60966160746397163382010-02-19T16:43:00.002+01:002010-02-19T17:00:24.759+01:00The State of My Brain<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=john_fluevog_shoes.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/john_fluevog_shoes.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br />I haven't posted a blog in a month. I keep thinking about it and now I feel obsessively guilty about it but I really can't come up with anything. And the more time that goes by the more pressure there is to come up with something spectacular or at least interesting enough to warrant all the non-bloggage. But no. I've got nothing.<br /><br />Here's what I've been doing all the time: Running. I'm now running 6 days a week, 5k each time. I wish I had something even vaguely interesting to say about that but I don't. Maybe - and I'm not looking for an excuse here, but the thought did occur to me - just maybe all the exercise is dulling my thinking. Yeah, that's it. That sounds right. Perhaps as my butt gets smaller my IQ will also drop accordingly. Perhaps after months of this running malarky I shall be one of those mindlessly stupid women with a fabulous ass. Ah, what the hell. That actually doesn't sound too bad.<br /><br />Then my blog will be all about shoes.<br /><br />I'll call it, "What This Pretty Lady Thinks About Shoes".<br /><br />And I'll update it every hour.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=composite.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/composite.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-16527059961598264482010-01-18T16:43:00.005+01:002010-01-19T09:52:03.691+01:00My Menstrual Cycle Has a Body Count<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=3403-61-Neanderthal-Woman.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/3403-61-Neanderthal-Woman.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />One puzzling aspect, from an evolutionary standpoint, of the human reproductive cycle is P.M.S. or Pre-Menstrual Syndrome. On the day when this "syndrome" manifests, the lady in question - lets say me, for instance - tends to get overcome by misanthropic thoughts at the slightest provocation. <br /><br />The lady in question - again, let's use me as an example - might go for a run to try to dissipate the cloud of rage and psychosis that nature has inflicted on her and rather than any of the angst being relieved, it seems that nature, and indeed every annoying person within a 5 kilometer radius, conspires to try the lady's patience. Bicycles narrowly avoid hitting the lady, people don't take the hint and move out of the way on narrow walking paths even when the lady coughs loudly several times to let them know she is approaching, and big white vans back carelessly out of industrial driveways nearly hitting the lady and causing her to make a public spectacle of herself when she spontaneously shouts, "Holy fuck!" at the top of her lungs. The lady is then left to carry on running, inaudibly mumbling obscenities at people on the street who are staring at her. <br /><br />It's horrible and unfair and the lady fights back tears as she curses the fact that she has to go running in the first place and wonders why she couldn't have been born one of those people with a naturally skinny ass, and then just as she's thinking this, the lady is almost hit by a car as she's running across the crosswalk even though it's the car's duty to be watching out and pedestrians were on this planet first and why the hell do we have to have cars anyway? "Fuck cars", the lady thinks. She will be glad when they no longer exist. They were a bad idea to begin with. They never should have been mass-produced for the individual consumer. At most they should have been used as emergency vehicles. The car is the reason for the downfall of western civilization. It is the pus that oozed from the carbuncle of the Industrial Revolution. "Fuck the Industrial Revolution", she curses under teary breath, and not for the first time.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=cavemen-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/cavemen-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />.......So anyway, back to tying it in with evolution, what purpose was PMS supposed to serve? Was it to thin the herd? Were cavemen who pissed off the ladies at the Wrong Time removed from the gene pool with a club to the head by a lady who was just out trying to get a little exercise? <br /><br /><br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-27679513071168058442010-01-11T17:50:00.005+01:002010-01-12T02:16:09.976+01:00Who Killed Ceramic Jesus?<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ9.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ9.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />For half a year, since I bought Him at a rummage sale, there has been a Ceramic Jesus sitting in our window. The cats have been peacefully sitting in the window with Him while he guards the house or whatever it is Ceramic Jesuses are supposed to do. There was never any conflict, never any rivalry between Ceramic Jesus and The Cats; While they weren't exactly "buddies", there was certainly never any reason to suspect that things could ever go terribly awry, but today I came home and found this:<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ7.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ7.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Ceramic Jesus had been brutally murdered and I knew that the culprit was still somewhere in the room. But none of them were talking. I knew it had to be one of the cats as they are avid secularists, but they were all curled up in various places pretending to be asleep. Since cats are notoriously uncooperative under interrogation anyway, I thought the best way to ascertain guilt would be to photograph the suspects with what was left of Ceramic Jesus and look for guilty reactions.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />First I photographed the girls, Peanut and Vienna. They looked so deceptively sweet it immediately aroused my suspicions, but on examination of the photograph I can't detect any guilt. <br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />In fact when Peanut was photographed alone with Ceramic Jesus, she looked downright traumatized by His condition. Next I moved on to Bram and Angelo:<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ6.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ6.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />.....And here I noticed something interesting. If my eyes aren't deceiving me, it looks as though Ceramic Jesus is inching toward Bram (on the left) and casting a somewhat wary eye towards Angelo.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ6-1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ6-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Do I detect a glint of fear? Hmmmmm.......<br /><br />So just to mix things up, I photographed Ceramic Jesus with Angelo and Papa Steve.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />This time Angelo is seated on the left and is Ceramic Jesus - - ???......Why yes, I do believe Ceramic Jesus is pointing at Angelo!<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ5.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ5.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Yeah, that's right. You've been caught!<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=CJ8.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/CJ8.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />You can run, but you can't hide, my friend!!<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=wantedposter.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/wantedposter.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-80506736318883211482010-01-10T16:37:00.001+01:002010-01-10T19:00:44.070+01:00I Got Inspired!!<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=20955_247481986874_134083836874_369.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/20955_247481986874_134083836874_369.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />In the various places I have lived I have found things to love and hate about each respective culture: In America I can't stand the way they say "Awesome" every 5 seconds and take a pill every time they have an upsetting thought, but I love the customer service; In England I can't stand the customer service (or lack thereof) and the pathological evasiveness, but I love the way they solve everything with a drink; and in Belgium I can't stand the mandatory three kiss thing, and the fascist cyclists, but I love what freaks the people are. <br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=inspired2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/inspired2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Belgians are slightly kooky. Perhaps that's news to some but on closer examination you'll certainly be led to the conclusion that a people who gave the world Magritte, The Smurfs and The Singing Nun must have some sort of collective quirky gene. <br /><br />So it was hardly surprising when I read about this guy:<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=20955_241405786874_134083836874_367.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/20955_241405786874_134083836874_367.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />His name is Stefaan Engels and he has set out to run a marathon every day in 2010. When I first read about him on January 1st I thought, "What is this guy, Insane?"..... How can a human being run 365 Marathons in a row? That's 42k! (26 miles) I can't even walk on the treadmill twice a week!....(Well OK, to be fair it's because I can't be bothered to walk to my gym - It's a 15 minute walk followed by a climb up 6 flights of stairs - what are these people, sadists?!).....Then I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. From the side I look like I'm pregnant - with triplets. And while it's nice to be offered the occasional seat on the bus from young mothers who smile knowingly at my extended gut, it's not a look I'm terribly proud of. Then I had an epiphany.: if this Stefaan Engels guy can run 42k a day then surely I can run 5k a day?!<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/?action=view¤t=124748912495167.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/124748912495167.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />So the very next day, January 2nd, I went out to Watersportsbaan where he and his entourage are doing their thing and I joined in. The track is exactly 5k around which is convenient for me. So I've been getting out there and doing once around. I'm not nearly fast enough to run with the cool people clustered around Stefaan Engels, so I just plod along at the pace I can do right now. On the days when I run at the same time of day as them I will at one point hear what sounds like a stampede of Buffalo and my heart races a bit as I brace myself to get trampled by The Entourage.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=inspired1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/inspired1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /> They are moving so fast that they probably have no idea I'm even "running" - most likely they just get mildly annoyed with the chubby lady who appears to be standing on the running path. As they pass me by they seem so cheery , all chattering and laughing and ultra cool looking. It would almost hurt my feelings but I just tell myself that they probably wouldn't be able to run as fast as that if they were carrying two large bags of cat food (that's what I've used as my reference point) on their butts as I am. <br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=inspired3.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/inspired3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />So that's my new goal: to shed the bags of catfood and run fast enough to hang out with The Entourage. To look all effortlessly fit and happy while I fly around the track 3, 4, 5 times like they do. To hear what it is that they're talking about!<br /><br />.......With my luck the first conversation I hear will be: "Hey whatever happened to that chubby lady who used to stand still on the running path?"<br /><br /><br /><br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22035501.post-33925721402147079802009-12-21T11:07:00.006+01:002009-12-22T11:52:13.643+01:00The Perils of Winter<a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=peril1.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/peril1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Like anyone, I have a few fears in life. They are: <br /><br />1. Crowded places.<br />2. Flying.<br />3. Clowns.<br />4. Walking on icy streets.<br />5. Spain.<br />6. High bridges.<br />7. Most varieties of squash.<br />8. Drool.<br />9. Numeric filing.<br />10. Hot weather.<br />11. Telemarketing.<br /><br />I think this is pretty normal for anyone. I don't delude myself into thinking that I can live my life constantly avoiding all these things, and like most people I have developed coping skills to get me through brief moments of contact. Some of it is just common sense. I don't go to rock concerts. I don't fly. I avoid circuses. If a baby drools I look the other way until it's been dealt with or I make an excuse to leave the room, and I know not to walk in certain quadrants of the vegetable section at the local supermarket. The prospect of being confronted with two or more of my fears at once wouldn't be so easy to deal with of course. Running into a clown in the middle of August for instance would be difficult. If I ran into that clown in August on a high bridge in Spain next to a drooling baby while someone on the phone was trying to sell me a newspaper subscription, I might never recover.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=squash.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/squash.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=peril4.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/peril4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />Another problem is when circumstances dictate that you must, you simply must confront your fear. The last time I had to travel to the US for instance. I managed to go there by ship and then a series of cross country trains, but since that was expensive and time consuming, I was forced to fly on the way home. In a plane. Even thinking about it made me hyperventilate. Luckily though, I was in the US where everyone has a bathroom cabinet full of prescription drugs and I was able to get hold of some Valium just by asking around. Absolutely fabulous stuff. I dosed myself with enough of it that Godzilla could have grabbed the plane mid flight and I would have giggled lightly then passed out. <br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=peril5.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/peril5.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /><br />The time I was forced, through financial necessity, to telemarket years ago, I didn't fare as well. Valium, or even vodka for that matter would have come in very handy, but alas I had none. I would have to pace around the room doing breathing exercises just to get the courage to make a call, then it was sheer hell the whole way through. I would repeatedly walk into the head office and ask if there was anything else I could possibly do - cleaning the toilets, anything. And all they would say is, "It says here in your resumé you've done theater! Well think of this as acting! It should be fun for you!". Heathens. But even though I was having to run to the ladies room and throw up every hour or so with the anxiety of it all, I pushed myself through. After a few weeks of this hell, I finally realized that there were much more dignified ways of making a living - like being a crack whore - and walked out the door. (Thankfully my circumstances improved and I didn't have to turn to crack-whoring in that instance, but I'm perfectly willing to if I should ever sink so low as to consider telemarketing again). <br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=peril2.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/peril2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br />One fear that I get confronted with every year now is my fear of walking on icy streets. I simply loathe it. You have no idea. And every year, no matter how careful I am, I end up losing my footing and plummeting down on the hard ground. Just the thought of it makes me cringe.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=peril3.gif" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/peril3.gif" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br /><br /> So the past few days it has snowed. Profusely. And while it's absolutely beautiful <i>to look at</i>, as I've said, I simply cannot walk on it. It would be all very well if it was just the fluffy stuff, but a layer of ice has formed underneath, meaning that I'm forced to take careful measured steps while 85-year-olds are whizzing past me. Yes I realize that some people can walk on it. I can't. So even a simple outing turns into a drama with my agile Belgian husband yelling at me to hurry up while I shout obscenities about how this would never happen in <i>America</i> where people are so afraid of lawsuits that they make sure the sidewalks in front of their property are cleared and slip free. Here in Belgium if you slip and break your hip in front of someone's house the most sympathy you'll get is rolled eyes at your clumsiness. Oh, they are a hard people with all their common sense and non-coddling ways. <br /><br />So lately, it being the Season Of Good Cheer, I've been invited several places that I haven't shown up to. And why? Because I'm afraid I will fall over getting there. Along with that is a myriad of other reasons like the fact that my hair looks bad, I have nothing to wear and generally speaking I'm broke; but the foremost reason I haven't been going anywhere is that I'm afraid I will fall down and never be able to get up. So now I'm convinced that everyone hates me. And that just compounds my agoraphobia. I'm now caught in this vicious cycle of feeling that because I haven't turned up anywhere now if I <i>do</i> show up, I will be shunned...and then have to walk home on the ice anyway. And then I will surely slip and fall...and be rescued by a drooling circus clown.<br /><br /><a href="http://s22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/?action=view¤t=247683216_4fcb2ee6e0.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i22.photobucket.com/albums/b339/Gardyloo/blog%20photos/247683216_4fcb2ee6e0.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a><br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.<br />.Jovankahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14755848364041852854noreply@blogger.com9