Jovanka's International Cafe

Life's Little Extras

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 18:05:00 +0000

Wherever I go in the city where I live, I always seem to see the very same people. Now that's understandable of course in my neighborhood because obviously people who live near each other are bound to exit their homes at the same time on occasion. Consequently in my immediate neighborhood I have certain favorites: there's the old lady who walks Louie, a dog I know. I always say hello to Louie and nod at her. I can't honestly tell you why I know Louie's name, but I do - maybe I heard her calling him one day, or maybe he just looks like a Louie - but it seems rude not to call him by name when I know it so I do; there's the grumpy looking Romanian lady who always walks in the middle of the street even when there's traffic; there's "my" old man, who's my favorite old man in the neighborhood and I swear he knows it; and of course there are the people at my local grocery store who seem to take it personally every time I change my hair. To see these sorts of people on a day to day basis is normal. Then there are The Extras.

I call them The Extras because just like background extras in a film they seem to have been hired to hang out in the background of my life to give it a sense of reality. And just as you'll notice if you ever make a point of watching only the extras in an entire film (which I highly recommend), the same extras tend to show up in different scenes until pretty soon you see the same faces all the time.

Currently I have a few that seem to have been hired for the Fall/Winter 2009 season. There's the tall Polish-looking girl with the Delvaux handbag who I pass every day - she going one direction me the other - in the same exact spot. (That's an odd experience because she's started to acknowledge my presence in the same way I'm acknowledging hers and I wonder if she thinks that I'm an extra in her life or if she realizes that I'm really the lead and she's only a walk-on? Hopefully so.) There are several others who I see in various places appearing busy with mundane activities. I notice subtle things about them like when they get new shoes or a haircut, but they do their best to seem not to notice me.

The worst extra I ever had though was a celebrity. it was back in about 1997 when I was living in Los Angeles. One day I saw Shannen Doherty in a restaurant. No big deal really, Los Angeles is crawling with celebrities. I said to myself, "Oh, it's Shannen Doherty" then I didn't give it any more thought. Then the next day in was in a shop and there she was again. I thought well isn't that a coincidence and went on with my day. Then soon after that I saw her at a comedy club. Then a bar. Then a taco stand. Then a frozen yogurt place. By the time I saw her on the bicycle behind my treadmill at the gym she was slitting her eyes at me and giving me dirty looks. Then it occurred to me: Shannen Doherty thinks I'm stalking her. I had just accepted her as a rather fancy Background Extra, but in her mind she was the star and therefore I was the extra with the uncanny ability to be in all of her scenes. Oh Bloody Hell. I wanted to get off the treadmill walk up to her and say, "By the way, I'm not stalking you", but I thought better of that because of course that would sound all wrong. Instead I had to make a big show of noticing everyone and everything else in the room besides her just to make a point.

The next time I saw her she made a pointed effort at glaring directly at me for one second, two seconds, three seconds, then storming off. It really hurt my feelings. I began to feel as if maybe I was stalking her. And the thing is I'm not like that at all. I'm not a celebrity hound. Quite the opposite actually: celebrities annoy me. I don't like how everyone changes and acts afraid when they're around. And I don't like how grumpy they look and how if you accidentally make eye contact with them they make you feel like a Medieval peasant who just shat on their carpet. But this was so much worse on so many levels because now I was acting like a human exclamation mark when she was around because of the shock of seeing her so often. So every time I gasped slightly under my breath at running into her at the post office, she was interpreting it as some sort of obsessive fan sigh. I actually started getting slightly afraid of going places - I almost wanted to call ahead everywhere I went and make sure she wasn't there. And the strange thing was that she was always at the place first so I would look doubly bad when I strolled in a few minutes later. It got to the point where I could recognize her peripherally so sometimes I was able to neatly avoid going down the wrong aisle in a department store, but since she always seemed to be nearby that wasn't always possible.

I just wanted it to end. But it was just too awkward to resolve on my own. Short of walking up to her and screaming at her to stay the fuck away from me, there was nothing to be done but to wait for the phenomenon to pass.

Then one evening I was at a restaurant with some friends. We were a big loud table seated next to another big loud table. My back was to the back of people at the next table with not much room in between. I was in a good mood and about 3 Margarita's into the evening when someone entered the restaurant and was trying to squeeze past me for a place at the table behind me. I heard a voice say, "Excuse me" and I looked up and there she was: Shannen Doherty. Before I could even think I shouted, "Oh no! Not you again!?" to which she seemed to blush, and then I burst into nervous laughter and drunkenly turned back to my friends.

Later when my friends and I got up to leave, she gave me a sheepish half-grin and I realized that the tables had turned. I couldn't tell if she was now thinking that I thought she'd been stalking me, or if she just realized that no stalking had happened and that she had been caught out being rude to me several times, but either way the spell was broken. I never saw her again.
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Things My Cats Have Barfed On

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 21:31:00 +0000

Tiled floors

Carpeted floors

My shoes

My favorite handbag

My suitcase

The book I'm reading

My boots

The landing right outside the bedroom door

The coffee table

A plastic shopping bag

The cat bed

My comedy notebook

The Sopranos Series 4 DVD

The downstairs heater

The front doormat

The bathmat

The stairs

The railing on the stairs

My husband

My make-up drawer

The roof of the cat box

The inside of a kleenex box (with kleenex)

My chair

The inside of the under-the-couch storage box

Other cats
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Creepy Oversized Seafaring Puppets and the Germans Who Love Them

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 15:07:00 +0000

Right now is the 20th anniversary of the tearing down of the Berlin Wall. And they're commemorating that in Berlin. And what better way to commemorate such a landmark event than with two giant puppets parading through the streets of Berlin with a bunch of French performance artists hanging off them?

And apparently they've tied the whole presentation together with an equally unrelated story about the two giant puppets. Here's the story:

The Reunion show featured two massive marionettes, the Big Giant, a deep-sea diver, and his niece, the Little Giantess. The storyline of the performance has the two separated by a wall, thrown up by "land and sea monsters". The Big Giant has just returned from a long and difficult - but successful - expedition to destroy the wall, and now the two are walking the streets of Berlin, seeking each other after many years apart."

.......Because I don't know about you, but 20 years ago when they tore down the wall I was thinking, "Thank God that now Deep Sea Divers will be free to walk the streets of Berlin with their nieces again" ............through teary eyes.

.....It must have been so exciting for the audience in the streets to witness the puppets wandering around missing each other even though they were the only giant wooden figures in a sea of tiny Germans.

But you'll be glad to know that they finally found each other and later had a slightly inappropriate-looking reunion under the stars with the Deep Sea Diver finally taking his helmet off (after wearing it all day in the streets of Berlin - what is he, a masochist??) and the niece sitting on his gigantic lap. ..........Aaaaaaaaah.

.........And to think those bloody Commies wanted to try to stop this sort of thing from happening!!
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2012 - Two Thousand and Schmelve

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 15:16:00 +0000

Hey looky, I'm blogging again! You know why? The weather has finally cooled down! 'Nuff said!

So something that I do lately when I'm folding the laundry or doing the dishes (never at the same time - these two tasks are certainly mutually exclusive) is that I seek out strange things on YouTube and listen to them sometimes for entire hours before one of the cats walks across the computer keyboard and screws everything up. Lately my favorite topics are Alien Abductions (which my interest was peaked in rather recently and that's all I'm saying) and anything to do with 2012.

It seems that all the folks who got let down when the world didn't end with Y2K are now being comforted by the fact that the Mayans predicted it would all go pear shaped in 2012. And it's not just the Mayans either. Lots of other systems predict the same Doomsday date of 2012 (December 21st specifically): The I-Ching, Mother Shipton, St. Malachy and even a computerized thingy called the Web Bot all say we should not bother making dinner plans on that date. I can't help noticing that the one thing all end of the world predictions throughout the ages have in common is the fact that they were all wrong. But still it's very entertaining to be smack dab in the middle of all the commotion. In short 2012 is the new Y2K.

When Y2K was approaching my mother was shouting down the phone to me about how I should stockpile water and cans of corn. I ignored her of course. But there were apparently millions of people making runs on the shops, the nuttier ones walling themselves up inside compounds in Idaho with rifles in their hands. So what happened the next day? Huge egg on the face. No one made any public apologies though. It seemed that everyone collectively started whistling and going about their business hoping we wouldn't ask any questions.

But here's the thing: I think we can all agree that we feel like something big is about to happen. It's a strange thing and just about everyone I know feels it. Maybe it's the fact that there are just too many people on the planet and we are depleting the natural resources and damaging the environment (both of which would be cured if everyone would go Vegan, BTW), or that technology seems to be spiraling out of control.

So today on one of the myriad of tapes I was listening to (I would link to it if I could find which one it was), someone was saying that they thought 21 December 2012 was the date that mankind was going to figure out Time Travel and we'd all stop perceiving time as being this linear plane that we are bound by. I literally laughed so loud that pieces of carrot fell out of my mouth (I like to snack sometimes while I'm folding laundry). We're all going to time travel? Really? Give me a break!!

Don't get me wrong: I absolutely love the idea of Time Travel. The Time Traveler's Wife is one of my all time favorite books - so favorite in fact that I refuse to see the shitty film they made based on it because they made so many mistakes in the trailer alone. I like the idea of Time Travel so much that I've given it an awful lot of thought and that's why I find it so improbable. First of all on a personal level there are so many things that could go wrong that you could make one mistake and spend the rest of eternity trying to fix it. We would all be too tempted, I'm sure; to travel back and tell our child selves where we have ended up in life. Believe me, it's tempting to imagine the priceless look of disappointment on my 6-year-old face as I reveal to myself that I didn't grow up to be an Astronaut with webbed feet. But then what would happen after that? Would it send my six-year-old self into an existential crisis and I'd return to The Present only to find that I was now an Accountant with boring hair who voted Republican? You see where I'm going with this, I hope. This all goes way beyond The Grandfather Paradox that you hear everyone yammering on about. This is more of a The-Grandfather-Paradox-Triggers-A-Series-of-Vendettas-That-Trigger-Annihilation-Of-The -Species Paradox. Time Travel would be great if just I were allowed to do it, because I would be really careful not to mess with the Time/Space continuum, but if every moron were allowed to do it you know someone would find a way to hack into the past and make themselves Emperor of the World, then someone else would hack in and blow up the entire planet before we discover the wheel. It would all get a little messy is what I'm saying.

And I think none of us can ignore the fact that there has been no evidence in history to indicate that anyone ever time travelled, therefore it's safe to assume that because it hasn't happened that it won't. Because if people of the future (or scientists at the CERN Institute, apparently) really were going to discover Time Travel, what's to stop anyone eventually teaching everyone in history to do it? Then we'd all be popping in and out all over the place and everything would be complete mayhem. You think it's hard to find parking now?

My theory (and one shared by my significant other) is that if Time Travel is ever possible, it will only be in a sort of hologram form - we might be able to observe different times and events but only as unseen observers......A theory that would be perfect if it didn't constantly make me worry that people from the future are watching me while I take a shower.

....So anyway, these are the things I contemplate while I'm folding laundry.

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Define "Nice"

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 11:51:00 +0000

Something I've noticed is that around this time of year my blog is really sparse. The reason for this? My brain literally shuts down from the heat. I can't sleep, I can't think. It's bloody awful and there's no escape from it.

Today it's about 33°C where I am. That's 91°F in Yank Speak. It's about 6°C (20°F) over what I find tolerable. But the really sickening thing is that there are actually people who like this crap. I turn on CNN International this morning and the weather lady is gesturing over a map of Western Europe talking about what "nice" weather it is. Nice??!! According to who? Your pet iguana? Newsflash: There is nothing "nice" about weather that makes it obligatory to wear sleeveless tops and industrial strength sunscreen. But somehow an adjective as subjective as "nice" has come to be universally accepted as meaning, "hot weather". WHY? Who got to decide that?

I've been rebelling against this my whole life. When people ask me if it's nice out I generally give them my opinion sometimes leading to scenes where some retard whines at me, "B-b-but it's so cold! I thought you said it was nice!!", to which I fold my arms like the eternal belligerent teenager that I am and reply, "It is nice. Nice and cool."

Here's what I think: Hot weather brings out the worst in people. There's this whole obligation to wear tank tops and sandals and to get on crowded trains without bathing (apparently). You can't be interesting and wear layered clothes and have jackets with all sorts of pockets in the summertime. Instead you have to show the world your upper arms and walk around like you're on your way to a volleyball tournament. It's so undignified.

And I'm convinced that most people who say they like hot weather only say that because they think they're supposed to like it - perhaps because they've heard it erroneously referred to as "nice" all their lives. I think if they would meditate on the issue for a few minutes they'd find that they actually find hot weather as annoying as I do in the same way that people would find standing in a crowded room watching live music annoying if they ever gave it any educated thought. .....Which brings me to the worst combination ever: hot weather and live music. Right now there are thousands of people at music festivals all over the world standing in the sweltering heat watching people play musical instruments. God help them if they ever analyze their situations.

Here's hoping winter makes an early comeback.
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Attack of the Tupperwarewolves

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 15:17:00 +0000

So I'm innocently trying to make my way into my house yesterday when a group of chattering women partying next door beckon me over. It all seemed innocent enough - one of those impromptu Belgian street parties that I'm now accustomed to - until I noticed the centerpiece that all their chairs were arranged around: A table piled with useful looking plastic containers. It was a Tupperware party!

Tupperware used to be one of those things that I thought was stuck in the Dark Ages. Old people had Tupperware. And they were constantly tapping their Tupperware Jello-molds and saying, "This is an investment"". I silently vowed that I would never to be that old. Tupperware was for people who knit and played bridge and had long conversations about what everyone on Days of Our Lives was doing. It was 1950s Housewife Kitsch. I guess I had a latent fear that if I ever started buying the stuff I'd turn into some sort of freak called Ethel who spent all day making pies and crocheting little jackets for my poodle.

Yes the stuff is practical and it keeps your lettuce nice and crisp, but I've got an image to maintain! I'm an artist! I'm hip! I have interesting hair! I can't be seen around this sort of stuff. But apparently this stuff is all the rage again.

Who knew?

Groups of ladies are having Tupperware parties everywhere and getting drunk and buying things that future civilizations will find millions of years from now in our landfills. I took a closer look at the little gathering outside my neighbor's house. Instead of being all housewifey and boring, this Tupperware happening was cool and trendy. They lured me over with a glass of wine, and even as I sat there feigning adolescent belligerence they were handing me practical pieces of plastic to fondle. I was won over in a matter of minutes.

Wim and some of the other husbands were down the street at a normal quadrant of the street party shaking their heads and glancing over at us with frightened helpless eyes like they'd lost us to crystal meth. Meanwhile I was chillin' with my new friends. We were leafing through the Tupperware catalogue like it was porn, lusting over the stackable salad bowls or jealously eyeing whoever pointed to an item and said they had that at home. We were like a rabid pack of wolves, ready to contain the whole world in plastic and conserve it with an air-tight lid.

And now I'm grappling with what it all means. Is Tupperware really cool now? Or am I so old that I only think it's cool? Have I crossed the line into another perspective where I'm going to start buying sensible shoes and telling everyone to turn their music down? If I buy these pieces of Tupperware today is it just the first step in a descending spiral towards turning into my mother? Who am I??!!!!

Before I knew what was happening I had ordered a ravioli maker. Someone handed it to me and I couldn't stop turning it around in my hands and admiring it. It was just so fabulous looking. What the hell. I'm not made of stone.

And the minute I said I was buying it I got instant acceptance. Like I was one of them now. My new Tupperware gang were all smiling at me like I'd passed an initiation. I felt cool. So cool that I decided to take it to the next level and have agreed to host my own Tupperware party in a few months. You wouldn't believe how popular that made me with my new friends.

I'm a Tupperware Lady now. And that's a bad ass thing to be.
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Highlights of Gentse Feesten 2009

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 01:51:00 +0000

If you don't know what the Gentse Feesten is, it's a yearly 10 day festival in the city of Gent (a.k.a. "Ghent") where I live in Belgium. It just ended, so don't rush out here or anything, but a very nice time was had by all. I spent most of my time at our comedy room as I can't stand crowds (kind of a drawback at festival time, I know) but I took pictures of lots of stuff anyway. So here's some stuff:

OK - here's the first thing. This is a pee stand. They have these all over the place during the Feesten, and even though there were more of them this year than any other year, apparently there was a 200% increase in the number of incidents of wild plassen (peeing in random places). Although the mind boggles as to how they arrive at these statistics.

Here is what the area behind the comedy space looked like. Those white panels you see everywhere are really insipid poems mounted on sticks.

And here's the last day of the festival when they removed the poetry panels! Yaaay

Here's one of the non-crowded streets I favored on my walk home.

The best act at the Gentse Feesten.

An empty pee-stand on the last day. Cute graffiti, eh?

Wim as he appears all through the festival with a phone permanently embedded in his ear.

Big bad scary Antwerp Comedy Mafioso, Fokke!

This is my I-don't-like-crowds shaky photographic handywork.

You turn your back on those Russian bartenders for one second.....

The worst act at the Gentse Feesten. There is nothing less appealing than bitter out of work actors making uninspired balloon animals whilst wearing wanky costumes

Ghosts! See those orbs?! Those are ghosts! ....I took this photo over my shoulder in an attempt to clandestinely photograph one of the pee stands being used; I misaimed and got ghosts!
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Liza Minnelli, Coffee and Kitten Hickeys

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 03:09:00 +0000

As I write this blog it's 5:00 AM. I can't sleep because I thought it would be a good idea to drink coffee at 7:00 PM. Well really I would have had tea but then it turned out we didn't have any soy milk left. I'm OK just drinking coffee black so I had that instead. And it was instant coffee and near the end of the jar so I just dumped the whole contents in which to be truthful was probably about 4 cups worth. But in my defense I was holding a kitten so I really only had one hand to work with because with the other hand I was desperately trying to keep the kitten from sucking on my neck. Too late, by the way, because I later discovered that I've got 5 tiny-sized hickeys on my neck already. She was weaned too early apparently and now I look like I've been making out with an elf.

But I digress.

When I can't sleep (as right now - see above paragraph) I look up inspirational stuff on the internet. And who do I love the best? Yes that's right: Liza with a "Z". Go play the video above. Go ahead. I'll wait here. Can ANYONE sing "New York, New York" like that? No one else should even be allowed to sing that song ever.

So I was watching all these videos and I just came across something I'd never seen before and it turns out it's the best thing ever! Liza Minnelli singing Barry Manilow on The Muppet Show!!:

OK One more. Liza on Carson 1981:

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Shameless Self-Promotion

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 16:50:00 +0000

It's that time of year again, the Gentse Feesten! And this year the comedy room is in the Hof Van Ryhove which is a fabulous room - all medievally and groovy and located right in the center of Gent (a.k.a. "Ghent").

I will be on 6 of the shows, including the B.E.U. show - a comical look at the EU by an international assortment of comics; the All English Show - which as the title might suggest is performed all in English and features the hilarious Steve Day from the UK; and the Leading Ladies of Comedy show - which I am headlining and which features Belgium's funniest female comics!

For reservations or more information click HERE

There will also be a bar with drinks and lovely vegan snacks!

It's the best ticket in town!
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Oh, Whatever...

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 12:37:00 +0000

I give up.

I have been working out like a crazy person for the last three months - first by walking insane distances and the past few weeks by daily hour-long sessions on the elliptical trainers at my gym. And you want to know how much weight I've lost?

NOTHING!

And before you say, "Well maybe you're eating more.": No, I'm not. As a matter of fact I've been eating less. Much less. AND I'm a vegan now so I can't blame the cheese as I would have done in days of yore. I've been eating all vegetables and fruits and healthy healthy food, and guess what? Not only have I not lost weight, I've actually GAINED 5 KILOS!!!! That's 11 pounds for any Americans reading along. That's more than any of my cats weigh. That's nearly two cats. I've gained two cats.

And NO, it's not "muscle weight". Unless I have the world's squooshiest muscles, and then what is the point?

So I read all this stuff online and I determined that I must have a problem with my thyroid - it's the only thing that makes sense. So I went to the doctor a few days ago and I just got the results back today: Not only do I not have a thyroid problem; but I'm incredibly, astonishingly healthy. I have the body of a 20-year-old apparently. An active, albeit chubby, 20-year-old. Fuck off!.....When I got the news I couldn't stop crying. And it didn't help that my evil skinny husband was laughing at me for crying about being healthy. But here's why I was crying: If it had been a thyroid thing, I could have taken pills for it that would have made me thin! But since it's nothing I have to face the fact that I might be CURSED TO BE FAT UNTIL THE END OF TIME.

Meanwhile the closetful of clothes I've bought in the size I should be are slowly going out of fashion.

Apparently exercise does the same thing to me that it does to Sumo wrestlers.
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Freaky Goings-On At My Gym

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 17:16:00 +0000

Here’s what’s been happening: Every time I’m at my gym (which is never very crowded by the way), I’ll be on an elliptical trainer, and someone will come and get on a trainer RIGHT NEXT TO ME. Now bear in mind that there are 9 elliptical trainers, but it doesn’t matter if all the rest are empty, still someone will get on the machine right next to mine. I thought maybe this was because I tend to be in the middle of all of them and perhaps people just wanted to look at the TV screens, but NO, it happens even when I’m on the very end of the row at either side. WHY???.......Then the other day just to check my theory, I got on a treadmill instead (5 in a row, I got on one at the end) and even though they were all empty, sure enough the next person who came in got on the one right next to me. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON??? Is this a Belgian thing? Do Belgians have some sort of a reverse space thing to the (International I thought) RULE that you’re supposed to get no closer to another person than one empty machine between you, and even that’s a little creepy when they’re all empty? And what’s terrible is that it’s all set up so that I can’t say a thing. If I politely say, “Do you mind not standing so close to me, you freak?” (or words to that effect) then suddenly I’ll be the rude one.

I mean seriously, what do these people do in other social situations? Do they get in an elevator and stand right next to the only other person in there? When they go to an otherwise empty restaurant do they make sure to seat themselves right next to the only other people there?

The only option I have is to bring an extra towel to the gym and put it on the machine next to me so the freaks will think it’s being reserved and use one of the 7 OTHER ONES instead. I’ll let you know how it works out.

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Goodbye Michael

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 09:04:00 +0000

Michael Jackson's death was one of those monumental do-you-remember-where-you-were-when-you-heard-the-news things. And this being the modern world, it was a moment that was marked by me flipping open my laptop and logging onto Yahoo. Weird, huh? Kinda takes all the glamour out.

I've waited a few days to post about this because I kind of wanted to watch and see what the reaction "out there" was. And as the reaction was big as I think it should be, I've got to say I don't get those people who's first reaction was to join a big crowd standing outside the hospital where he was pronounced dead and hold a "vigil". I mean what the hell? Did they expect him to resurrect? Or (as I strongly suspect) did they want to be in the thick of things when the news cameras came?

Well I for one think MJ was pretty amazing. He was the first guy I ever had a crush on. In 1984 I got to work "T-Shirt Security" for 2 nights at Mile High Stadium during The Jackson's Victory Tour. I was stationed backstage just a few meters from where all the Jacksons arrived and got out of their limos for the show. As they all got out in their sequined jumpsuits I kept thinking, "Is that him? Is that? Is that?"...But when the Michael got out of the limo there was no mistaking him. He had the most amazing aura I've ever seen on a human being. And I'm not saying that because he's just died. I've told this story to friends many times, and that's what I always remark on: It was like this HUGE cloud of white light emanated from him. Later one of the roadies got me these plastic wrap around sunglasses that he had been wearing and I smelled them over and over again like a smitten teenager. And yes, those would be worth a pretty penny now if my dog hadn't eaten them a few years later. I never believed all those allegations of pedophilia. I think he was literally a little boy inside and incapable of intentionally hurting anyone. Inappropriate and weird? Yes. A predator? Not at all.

So anyway here are what I consider the best Michael Jackson Tribute videos. They are both done by 1500 inmates of the Cebu Provincial Detention & Rehabilitation Center on the east coast of Cebu Island in the Philippines. The first one was a tribute they seemingly choreographed in one day after MJ's death. I cried like a baby watching it (yeah, I'm a pushover for sweet sentiment being dramatized by the criminal element). The one below is their version of Thriller which they apparently did a while ago. It's got everything Thriller should have: spot-on choreography, prison-issue coffins, and an erstwhile Filipino LadyBoy playing the love interest. Enjoy.

P.S. Just had to add this one too:

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A Nice Place To Be Absent From

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 06:51:00 +0000

Right now yet another Glastonbury Festival is kicking off in Glastonbury, England. I'm aware of this fact because I saw a few moments of coverage on the BBC. They were interviewing people for comments on Michael Jackson's death (more on that from me tomorrow). And of course these people were standing in the pouring rain.

I had the displeasure of going to the Glastonbury Festival three different times because I was performing there. First of all, doing comedy shows to audiences of hungover people sitting on burlap sacks in the mud as they wait for the psychedelics to kick in is rather excruciatingly unrewarding, but the worst part for me was being stuck at the festival for three days.

If I hated it so much why did I go back for a second and a third time, you might ask. Well it was because I was overwhelmed with this feeling that I should like it and that I'd somehow just missed something. there were certain people I knew who acted as if it was the most magical thing that ever happened - a gateway to the garden of eden. At the very mention of it they'd get this knowing look in their eye and say, "Ah, Glastonbury". And if I didn't get it it was because, ya know, I just wasn't jiving with the Glastonbury vibe.

Every year that I was there, and apparently all the years that I wasn't, it rained. To me it defies all logic as to why anyone would plan an outdoor music festival in England during their rainiest season. But every year loyal Glastonbury-goers would arrive at the festival totally unprepared and react with shock that it was raining. "Un-fucking-believable", they'd mumble looking at the grey skies, "I absolutely cannot believe it's raining! At Glastonbury!". And then every year there would be the de rigueur people being all spontaneous playing in the mud...

...Every year, just as spontaneous, just like the original spontaneity of those people playing in the mud at Woodstock 40 years ago.

The whole rain thing was tragic on my hair of course. I would always spend the entire weekend looking like an angry blonde Don King.

One year I woke up entirely immersed in water.

I had to take all my clothes, my sleeping bag and everything, and put them on top of my tent hoping they'd dry in the """sun""". Then I had to go buy a bunch of tie-dyed festival clothes so I'd have something warm to wear. Did I bitch and complain? Oh, you betchya. Still the only response I would get from anyone was a glazed over look and a beatific smile as they said, "That's Glastonbury. You've just got to get into the vibe." So I tried. I did try. Apparently getting into the "vibe" means walking around and around and around through crowds of drunk English people in the mud all looking for God-knows-what, so I did that in ernest. Then the nighttime "vibe" consisted of hanging out with a bunch of comics who you always see getting drunk at comedy clubs. But here it was different because they were getting drunk outdoors. In the rain.

When some people I knew were going to watch The White Stripes I forced myself to join in even though I: A) Don't like crowds; B) Am not particularly fond of The White Stripes; and C) Have never understood the concept of standing and watching music in the first place. The upshot was that I ended up watching the "action" on a screen mounted above the stage while standing, literally, in a foot and a half of water. That's Glastonbury! You've just got to get into the vibe...

People would ask me "How's your Glastonbury going?" and I would answer, "I just want it to be over with. I'm cold and bored and all my shoes have got mud in them." Then they'd stare at me shivering in my newly purchased rainbow-colored kaftan and say, "This is Glastonbury. You've just got to get into the vibe."

One year that I was there a fellow comedienne who was a Glastonbury enthusiast found out that I still had an extra Glastonbury ticket as I hadn't used the extra free one I had been given. She went nuts and became obsessed with what I was going to do it. I had had loose plans to give it to a friend who was maybe planning on showing up, but other than that it didn't really matter to me. She was practically tearing her hair out saying, "Do you know how many people would love that ticket!??"...Every time I ran into her she would ask me what was happening with it. It ended up with her screaming at me in a drunken fury saying, "YOU HAVE TO GIVE IT TO SOMEONE!!". She then phoned a friend of hers and told them I would sell it to them for 100 pounds (??!!!). When I tried to explain that I didn't want to sell it, I just didn't know what I was doing with it yet she snapped a synapse and was practically in tears saying, "You have to give it to someone! IT'S GLASTONBURY! YOU'VE GOT TO GET INTO THE VIBE"

It all ended with me giving the ticket to a comic I know while he gave me wounded puppy dog eyes because apparently he'd been told I'd been "talked out of" charging him 100 pounds for it. So I had to stand there covered in mud handing over a ticket I didn't even care about to atone for something I hadn't even done. It was all very surreal. There was nothing to be done but spend the remaining time walking around in the mud getting drunk and acting as if I were having a good time.

And now there's nothing nicer during Glastonbury Festival time than realizing I'm not there! Woo hoo!
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51 or 54?

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 16:56:00 +0000

I get Area 51 and Studio 54 confused. I can be watching a documentary for a half an hour before I figure out which one they were talking about. Sometimes it's hard to tell whether someone is describing a Standard Grey or Andy Warhol.

Please feel free to take my new quiz, "Area 51 or Studio 54?": Answer "51" or "54" or "BOTH" to each question:

1. Alien abductions?

2. Spandex Jumpsuits?

3. Anal probes?

4. Government coverup?

5. Hallucinations?

6. Bianca Jagger?
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These Are the People in my Neighborhood

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 22:35:00 +0000

I haven't blogged in a l-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-n-g time. Here are my reasons:

1) Tony

Tony, (our very wild street cat who only loves me) has been ill. Something with his kidneys which meant I had to stay up with him several nights coaxing him to drink water and giving him sponge baths. He is doing much better now, thank you, and is well on the road to recovery. He's even regained the strength to hiss at Wim which made Wim and I almost cry with happiness. He has no doubt mortgaged 1 or more of his 9 lives in the whole debacle but all is well now.

2) I am fat.

I realize some people might not accept this as an excuse for not writing my blog, but believe me when I say that the effects of my fatness are all-encompassing. I simply cannot lose weight and it's turning me into an obsessive freak. Even though I'm a vegan and I've been keeping my calories down to Weight Watcher's levels, I haven't lost anything! So I started going on long walks. Still nothing! And now it's been three weeks solid that I've been walking 12-16km (about 6 1/2-10 miles) a day and I still haven't lost even a gram. Sure I'm feeling healthier, blah blah blah, but who cares when I look like Jabba the Hut? And it just doesn't make any logical sense. I'M DEFYING THE LAWS OF PHYSICS, PEOPLE! But what can I do but carry on. I'm at my wit's end, believe me.

So anyway I thought I'd share some pictures of things I see during my daily walks:

Ducklings! These guys are everywhere all along the canals. They are cute as hell.
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This pigeon always stands somewhere creative, and I admire him for it.

Here he is on a rainy morning sitting on a rope.

...And here he is on a day he decided to have a friend over.
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Here is a random seating area which I like because of it's sheer silliness. All the benches are aimed at the canal, so short of an inter-boat cannon fight, there really isn't anything to see.
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For a few weeks I would see this poster every day. It frightens me. Does it frighten you?
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Here is a turtle in the canal. Yes, a turtle. Apparently he got there after being flushed down the toilet if I'm to believe the rumors on the street.

Here he is with a friend.
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Here is a fabulous Goose couple who run things on the canals.

This is them in their apartment.

Every year, one Goose selects an unwed duck mother to support. He hangs out with her as she sits on her eggs and all the way until her kids are full grown. I like that the Geese do their bit for the community.
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This guy is amazing. He frightens me a bit because I suspect he might be prehistoric, but so far he hasn't given me a hassle.
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More duckings! Look how tiny they are!
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The ruins of a 1000 year old monastery. Ho-hum.
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Where did the duck get this balloon?
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And finally this street chicken. She is quite possibly the cutest chicken I've ever seen. She lives with some friends in some bushes along a street. I'm not saying where though because I'm sure she doesn't want the publicity. I hope she appreciates how considerate that chubby lady with the camera is.
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A Message To The Dear Reader(s)

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Tue, 26 May 2009 21:22:00 +0000

I'm going to do another blog entry soon. Really. I've been busy. Don't give up on me.

xoxo

Jovanka
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Just One of Those Freaky Things

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 14 May 2009 16:43:00 +0000

So two days ago I'm on my big 16k powerwalk. When I go on these long walks as I've been doing lately, I like to take a backpack with me so I can bring things like my phone, camera, notebook, asthma inhaler, water and collapsible critter rescue case. I bring the latter because being all about the critters as I am I tend to see a lot of them when they are in need (I present the 14 critters currently living in my house as Exhibit "A") and one should always be prepared.

Something else you should know about me is that I am NOT USED TO these walks yet, and by the time I get past the 10k mark I start losing my grip on reality. I know this will pass and I'll soon be jumping around everywhere full of energy, but right now I'm in that adjustment phase of my fitness program where it's more like a Bataan Death March every day and I am in a blistery delirium. I don't have much energy left to expend on lengthy explanations or needless chatter.

So, I was walking along, as I've said, and in a flash of a moment a cyclist came along and just at that moment a bird erroneously stepped into his path and bad things happened. And it all happened right next to me. I gasped loudly and immediately ran towards the bird. The cyclist heard my gasp and came cycling back to where I was. Here's the conversation that happened next:

CYCLIST: What happened?

ME: You hit this bird. I work with the local bird sanctuary and I'm taking her there immediately (as I was saying this I pulled the collapsible critter case out of my backpack).

The truth is that I don't currently work at the local bird sanctuary but I have volunteered there and I knew it was the right place to go. But that would have taken too much energy to explain.

CYCLIST: (Looking bewildered) The bird sanctuary? Where is it?

ME: Merelbeke (a suburb about 10 minutes drive away).

CYCLIST: (Looking slightly frightened) I'm really sorry.

ME: (In an official tone - I'm not sure why) It's not your fault. It was an accident. I must go now.

And with that I walked quickly away with the injured bird in the critter rescue case. It was only much later that it occurred to me just how bizarre the whole thing must have been for the cyclist. He accidentally hit a bird and then literally within seconds someone was there from the local bird sanctuary to collect it. He must still be marveling at the efficiency of Gent City Services.

Unfortunately the little bird died a few minutes later. Possibly in large part as a reaction to the sheer absurdity of the situation.
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A Fresh Look at Carrie

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Wed, 06 May 2009 19:45:00 +0000

So today I was having a rather difficult "lady time". (There. Now everyone on the internet can chart my menstrual cycle). In an attempt to cheer myself up a bit I went on the television ordering films thingy and found the perfect choice: Carrie (1976). It’s all about a girl who’s life starts going terribly wrong when she gets her period so I thought it would be apropos.

Now here’s what’s weird: I remember when I saw the film way way way back in the day that it was really scary. It gave me nightmares as I recall, and Carrie was really demonic. Now, seeing it this many years later and in my particular “state” I see that she wasn’t demonic at all – she was just misunderstood. She was just super sensitive and everyone was giving her a hard time. So she was a little socially inept? Did those high school bitches really need to expend all that energy terrorizing her? I mean for crying out loud, on top of all the usual teenage angst, she had a completely unsupportive mother.....

......who had to make creepy comments about her prom dress right as she was on her way out the door (”Dirty Pillows!!”), then she goes to the prom, actually starts to have a good time and is just being validated as Prom Queen...

...when some stupid high school chick has to dump a bucket of blood on her and ruin everything.

By the time the slow motion falling bucket had hit her date in the head, I was crying my eyes out. How could these people be so mean? And the thing is that really is how people in high school are. They pick on anyone who is different. If they had just been nice things could have been so wonderful. Maybe she would have brought her prom date home with her and he would have stopped her mother from stabbing her – who knows? But they had to go and ruin everything. By the time Carrie’s telekinesis kicked in and she started slamming all the doors shut I was screaming, “You go girl!” between sobs. Then she had to walk all the way home (Will no one stop to give a ride to a girl wearing a blood-soaked prom dress?) and deal with her bi-polar mother. It all ended very badly, and I was inconsolable, sobbing into my hands. By the time she did the thing where her bloody arm sprung out of the ground and grabbed Amy Irving, I saw it as a rightful posthumous expression of her overwhelming grief. Scary? Not a bit. I could have high-fived the girl.
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Sometimes tragedy is just funny

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Sun, 03 May 2009 08:02:00 +0000

So this photo was in De Standaard 2 days ago. And yeah, I can appreciate that things are getting really bad. Really, really bad. Everyone's got to be protected from this thing.

I just feel safer knowing that every precaution is being taken.
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Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder?

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 16:26:00 +0000

I hate to go on and on about my physical ailments like an annoying old woman, but, well, depending on your perspective I am an annoying old woman. And I've got a valid complaint. I have now been sitting with this abscessed tooth for a month. A month, people! First they gave me antibiotics and then they keep looking at it and poking it and giving me more antibiotics and now I've got an appointment for the beginning of May when they will apparently saw my head in half to see if they can figure out what is going on. Meanwhile I'm feeling all run down and I have to chew everything slowly and I am turning grumpiness into an art form. I feel like slapping everyone. Including you, whoever you are.

The pain isn't very intense but it is disorienting. I can't think properly and certain things will set me off in a rage. I have no tolerance for people speaking Dutch to me for instance. Kind of a problem since I live in Belgium. I have caught myself morphing into the quintessential Nightmare American insisting that everyone speak english because they know how to and I don't feel like playing along with their little Dutch Charade. The other day a telemarketer called and I quickly bowed out of the onslaught of Dutch, "No, really I just can't do this right now. This is too annoying. Sorry. Bye." Not my fault. I blame the tooth.

So anyway, I might be a little short on witty blog entries until a few weeks from now when they hopefully just yank out all of my teeth because frankly at this point I'm sick of all the little fuckers.

The one saving grace? I have lost my appetite. HUZZAH! It's absolutely fabulous and quite possibly worth all the pain and suffering and misanthropy. By the time they heal me I will be thin!! I might have absolutely no friends left, but who needs friends when you're gorgeous??
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My Personal Set of Racial Stereotypes

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 17:37:00 +0000

Everyone has racial and/or cultural stereotypes. I don’t care who you are or how PC you are, you’ve got them as well. That isn’t to say, of course, that these stereotypes have to be negative or that we should judge people by them or be mean to anyone. I’m all for everyone being nice. I’m just saying that we all have them and should be as upfront as possible about them. So I am now attempting to purge myself of some of my preconceptions by confessing them here.

The following are some of my personal racial and cultural stereotypes:
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ALL IRISH WOMEN ARE CLINICALLY INSANE.
I have not known that many Irish women. But the ones I have known over the years have thrown toasters at me (the girlfriend of a room mate of mine years ago); Stalked me and made threatening phone calls (one that I knew when I worked at a pub in London), and gone into an alcoholic rage and thrown me out in the middle of the night when I was a houseguest (the wife of an old family friend when I was staying with them in London last year). In the latter incident, I had offended that particular Irish Woman by saying I didn’t think her house was haunted. (true). How was I to know that was her particular Achilles heel? Would it have been better if I had said her house was haunted? Apparently that was the one thing I could have said that pushed her over the edge (after 4 vodkas and 3 glasses of wine).

I don’t know what it is innately about me that pisses Irish Women off, but I’ve accepted that there’s something that does. Something about me sparks the crazy and I’ve finally wizened up and decided to stay well away. Hey – Don’t get me wrong - Ireland is a beautiful country with rolling hills of green and all that fabulous Guinness and I’m a huge Oscar Wilde fan. Just don’t let any of those crazy Irish chicks near me.
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ALL ITALIAN WOMEN ARE “ENDEARINGLY” VIOLENT

Now this one I have true license to comment on as I come from Italian ancestry on my mother’s side. In fact that is where I happened to do my field research for this particular presupposition. One of my earliest memories of my great grandmother, Nona Ferrero, was of her pretending to be asleep until everyone else had left he room then removing her false teeth and pretending to attack me with them all the while cackling and saying weird things in Italian under her breath; My grandmother (Nona’s daughter) once got angry because her daughters were fighting in the kitchen so she threw a butcher’s knife at them which landed between them imbedding itself 2 inches into the countertop (and was repeated as a “funny” family story thereafter); and my own mother once tried to stab me with a ski pole when I was 9 and had fallen on a ski slope and couldn’t get up. Ah, fegiddabaddit.

Thankfully that particular strain has become diluted enough in me that the worst I do is throw the occasional plastic cup across the room when Wim has forgotten to record Rock of Love.
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ALL HAWAIIAN PEOPLE ARE UNNATURALLY OBSESSED WITH HAWAII.

I have never been to Hawaii, nor do I particularly want to go. Don’t get me wrong – it looks breathtakingly gorgeous and all that, but being the pale type who likes to sit in smoky cafés saying disparaging things about Capitalism, Hawaii isn’t really my cup of tea. All that sunshine, all those half-naked people dancing about in grass skirts and assaulting you at the airport with a volley of “Aloha”s? Yeeeeuuuch. But if you ever meet anyone from Hawaii they will talk about Hawaii as if it is a place where you have to look down to see heaven. And another thing about Hawaiian people: You’ll know they’re from Hawaii within 30 seconds of meeting them. If they aren’t wearing a flower behind their ear (which is rare) or doing that weird “hang 10” hand gesture thingy, they’re slipping the fact that they come from Hawaii unabashedly into the conversation. Asking them what time it is and that will be enough of a segue into their favorite topic. “It’s 5:30 here.......That means it’s 8:30 in the morning in Hah WAH Ee”......That’s yet the other thing: They can’t just say “Hawaii” like a normal person – they have to say it like they’re fluent on Samoan or something. The actual Samoans I let off the hook for this. But when I hear blue eyed blonds saying, ”Hah WAH Ee” I’m tempted to dump a bowl of poi over their heads.
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ALL RUSSIAN PEOPLE ARE GRUMPY
So true. And it seems even more extreme to me having been raised, as I was, in a culture where if you’re not perpetually grinning ear to ear you will be stopped in the street by people with big teeth saying, “It can’t be all that bad, can it?” or “A smile is just a frown turned upside down!”

Russians just don’t smile unless they absolutely must. I have only seen my Grumpy Russian Friend Anya smile once, and that was when she won at cards.

She has not smiled since.

You just have to know how to interpret the Russian Mood. You can tell she is happy when she stares at you coldly and asks if you want another drink. When she’s just feeling so-so she stares angrily into the distance and says, “I’m tired”.

We must look very odd when we’re anywhere together. Her with the built in Russian Grump and me with my painted on American cheer.

It’s a wonder we don’t cancel each other out.
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Belgians, Bicycles and Me

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 11:32:00 +0000

The first thing I ever noticed about Belgium was the bicycles. I was an American who had lived in the UK for a long while – but neither place was particularly overrun with bicycles, at least not in the city centers. But when I first woke up in a car that was entering Bruges (Don’t worry, I wasn’t the one driving), the first thing I saw was that we were surrounded by bicycles. It was kind of freaky.

Now that I live in Belgium of course, I’ve realized that bicycles aren’t just quaint things that the Belgians dangle to impress tourists; they are a national obsession. When Belgians aren’t riding bicycles they are watching them. Watching bike races. I just don’t get it. Surely cycling is just a means of transport? To me it’s like watching someone walk to the corner store or looking at them sitting on the bus –But no. My Belgian Husband will sit entranced for hours staring at other people burning up carbs. If there is a bike race happening he will actually rearrange his schedule to he can sit and watch it. Whole weekends have been sacrificed to it. You would think that would be a rather peaceful way to spend the afternoon – me playing with the cats or cooking tofu scramble while Wim watches several hundred sweaty men bicycling through the countryside, but the presumed peace is constantly punctuated with sudden high-decibel shouts of, ”Allez!!!!” or ”Godverdomme!! to which cats go flying in a panic and I splatter tofu on the wall.

But I tolerate these afternoons now, because by comparison being dragged along to see the action “live” is much worse. It involves being forced out of bed at some ungodly hour, shoved in a car, searching for parking, then trekking to some crowded roadside with hundreds of other fanatical men and their angry and bewildered wives and vying for a place close enough to the curb to see the cyclists when they speed by for all of 10 seconds ........then heading back to the car and talking about what fun it was.

So of course now that I’ve been living among the Belgians I am becoming indoctrinated into their ways. I have been forced to become more cognizant of cyclists and have even considered becoming one myself. The thing about Belgian cyclists though is that they look really cute and innocent from the vantage point of a car, but when you cross into their territory you see their vicious side. Make the mistake of not looking before you step into a bike lane and you will see them for the near-homicidal maniacs that they are. The minute they mount their bikes they see you as the enemy – some un-evolved creature that insists on placing its’ grotty little feet on the ground rather than ascending to the civility of using pedals. “Out of my way, Neanderthal!” their angry grimaces seem to say as they all but plow you down on the Hoogstraat.

Wim has been trying to get me to become One Of Them. But I have been resisting for a number of reasons: First, I am afraid of riding my bike in traffic amidst cars. I don’t like driving a car amidst cars, so take away the doors and the heater and the CD player and the fear factor goes up even further; Secondly, I am afraid of other bikers. They are insane and cruel and I’m sure they will single me out as a novice and devour me; And Finally, I am just too picky when it comes to bicycles.

I don’t like those sporty ones where you have to lean forward – they are awfully uncomfortable, and there never seems to be room to mount a basket, so that’s out. I don’t like regular bicycle seats, I like “banana seats” - like I had on my first bike in the 70’s - and where are you going to find those nowadays?

And most importantly, I like my bicycle seat to be nice and low. The way Belgians ride their bikes is super freaky because they like their bikes so high up that they quite literally cannot touch their feet to the ground.

It seems that when the first “Penny Farthing” bikes were invented they got the idea that you need to be uncomfortably high off the ground and they’ve thought that way ever since. Well that’s not for me. I like for my feet to be able to touch the ground. I don’t want to have to flounder about in a balancing act like some bloody circus unicyclist every time I stop at a traffic light. I don’t care whether it’s proper bicycle etiquette or not: I use my feet as breaks. If it was good enough for Fred Flintstone it’s good enough for me.

A little over a year ago, I bought a rather well-built pink bicycle in a small village for 10 Euros. Obviously for that price it required a bit of tweaking, but when it came to the seat everyone kept putting the thing too high. I kept insisting it be lowered, but Wim’s father kept saying, “Just try it”. And I would try it, wobble when I tried to turn a corner, fall off and go sailing headlong into a wall, but still no-one was convinced. I kept insisting the seat was too high and they kept insisting I just didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. So now, because I’ve bought a bicycle I am in a sort of a cold war with it. In theory I have a bicycle so it doesn’t make sense to get another one. So the pink bicycle sits in front of the house taunting me to ride it and I steadfastly refuse to ride a bicycle that requires scaffolding to mount it. Meanwhile the whole town goes whizzing past like demonical acrobats and I must resign myself to being stared by a bunch of high-riding Belgians who think I’m a freak..

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Rasputin's Penis

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 14:47:00 +0000

It’s really easy if you’re alive right now (and chances are if you’re reading this that you are) to think that people who lived in Olden Days were just quiet and weird and almost imaginary. They stare back at us from daguerreutypes like dorks with no sense of stage presence after all, and they seem never to have known what to do with their hair. They look like they must have had the most boring lives just dragging plows back and forth, beating rugs with a stick and building the occasional railroad.

But scratch the surface a little bit and you find out that people back in The Day were outrageous freaks.

Take this guy for instance:

This is Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, better known just by his last name, Rasputin

Raz was a psychic and a mystic. Apparently his father, Efim was as well but the only report I can find anywhere about Efim was that he once “mysteriously” identified the man who had stolen one of his horses (could it be because the man was standing in front of the horse? We’ll never know).

Supposedly a photo of Rasputin’s family when he was growing up. They look like a fun bunch, don’t they?

But what Raz could do was a little more impressive. He was a mystic and a psychic and quite a wild party guy. He was busy exploring mysticism and having orgies with his friends building quite the reputation for himself. He became known as a healer and when Tsarista Aleksandra Romanova needed some assistance with her son Alexei’s hemophilia (one of the perks of years of inbreeding), she rang Rasputin immediately. Or however people contacted each other pre-phone.

Tsarista.....Not to be confused with "Barista"

Apparently Rasputin worked magical wonders on little Alexei and Rasputin soon became a Romanov favorite.

Alexei - Cured by a man with mystic abilities and aspirin.

Unfortunately, some people didn’t like Rasputin because they thought he was giving the Romanovs a bad name, other people didn’t like the Romanovs at all and everyone freaked out for various reasons and things got messy and Rasputin was murdered.

Apparently these people used to get together with Rasputin and have orgies.

The story goes that he was poisoned, then beaten then drowned in a river (apparently it takes a lot of work to kill a Russian Mystic) and somewhere during all this someone cut off his penis and chucked it across the room, which is understandable I guess given all the commotion.

So here’s where it gets weird: Rasputin’s housemaid (who was also apparently his lover) happened upon the aftermath of the murder, found The Penis, took it away and hid it. As you do.

A few years later some Russian ex-pats living in Paris acquired The Penis and started a cult around it. This is the sort of activity people got up to in the days before television.

Then in the 1920's somehow Rasputin’s daughter Maria Rasputin found out about the cult and demanded they give her father’s penis to her as it was rightfully hers.

Maria Rasputin: Guardian of her father’s penis until she died.

Up until that point, the penis had been kept in a wooden casket, but now it was deposited into a pickle jar and presumably kept in Maria’s house.

Rasputin’s penis, kept by his daughter until her death in 1977. Hello? Dr. Freud?

Meanwhile Maria moved to America where she had all sorts of jobs, including a stint as a circus acrobat, and during all this time apparently no one thought to ask what That Thing on the bookshelf was. In her later years Maria became a writer and made it her life's mission to prove to the world that her father wasn't weird.......As it sat there.......

Maria, must we all look at that THING?

Iz all I have to remember father by!

But should it really be on the table? While we're eating dinner?

Shut up. Iz conversation piece.

Maria was in possession of her father’s penis until her death in 1977. Some time after that a man called Michael Augustine bought it at a flea market in Santa Cruz (imagine his wife’s surprise when he returns from the flea market not with picture frames or old books, but an old Russian guy’s pickled penis). It’s at his point that the story gets convoluted and people start claiming that the thing in the jar isn’t a penis at all but actually a sea cucumber (??!).

Not a sea cucumber, but a land cucumber. Frankly real sea cucumbers look too much like Rasputin’s penis to be politely pictured here.

Then in 2004 a guy called Igor Knyazkin got ahold of The Penis (figuratively) and put it on display in his newly opened museum of erotica in St. Petersburg, Russia. Igor claims that men who look at it are cured of impotency. But there are thousands of detractors who still claim it's just a sea cucumber.

Which begs the question: Why would Maria have kept an old sea cucumber all those years? And better yet: What was a sea cucumber doing at the scene of Rasputin’s murder?
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More Inventions

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 09:00:00 +0000

In these troubling times as we head into what some economists are predicting will be a catastrophic worldwide collapse, you've got to keep your chin up. Things are going to be bad for a while and until WWIII comes along to lift us out of this mess we're going to have to fend for ourselves. We need to find innovative ways to make money. We need to be entrepreneurs. If capitalism has taught us anything it's that whoever makes the most money wins, no matter what they have to do to achieve it. With that in mind I've sought holes in the market and come up with some inventions that are sure to keep my family in designer clothes and blood diamonds for the remainder of this crisis.

BTW I am referring to this as "More Inventions" because I long ago posted another list of inventions on my blog. These things are automatically patented just by me publishing them on my blog, so don't try stealing anything! Especially the butt whistle! (I'll know!)

So here are my new inventions:

Vegan Clown Shoes

I was searching for clown shoes online the other day (don't ask) and while I noticed that happily there is a large selection of clown shoes available for purchase and delivery via the internet, they are sadly all made of leather. What are vegan clowns supposed to do? Now if you've kept up with my blog you'll know that I hate clowns. Yes I am "clownist" and proud of that fact. I would gladly have all clowns rounded up into camps and I don't care what that sounds like. But I happen to love their shoes. It is my personal feeling that clown shoes are fabulous and are simply wasted on clowns. If I could find decent vegan clown shoes I would wear them constantly because I would work the irony and do them justice. And that is why I'm inventing them. By the way it doesn't surprise me at all that there are no vegan clowns. Clowns are heartless bastards.
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A Home Exorcism Kit

These could be sold at roadside kiosks near housing developments that have been built on Indian burial grounds and such. The kit would contain rosary beads, holy water, ear-plugs and a list of Hollywood production companies to contact with the story later.

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Cool Myspace Generators

A guide to how to do the greeting kiss thing in Belgium.

I will publish this in a pocket size so it can be whipped out at the appropriate moment. Sure it will add even more awkwardness as the reader flips through the pages while leaning over a table to kiss 18 people at a party, but I feel that in itself will be making an important statement.
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Grigori Rasputin Bed-in For Peace Bed Sheets

Grab Yoko Ono and a couple of Romanovs, wall yourself up in the Pokrovskoye Hilton, and have yourself a party!

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Where Were You When You Heard the News?

crittergoddess@yahoo.com (Jovanka) — Mon, 23 Mar 2009 19:40:00 +0000

Today the Belgian pop group K3 (pronounced Kah Dree) announced that one of their members is leaving. K3 originally got their name because all three of their names started with the letter "K".......(and KKK was already taken).

Their fan base, whose ages averages between 5 and 8 are sure to take the news especially hard as they are not even old enough to find solace in drink.

And to think they once sang a song called Je hebt een vriend (You have a friend).

Ha! What lies! Apparently I have a friend until one of them decides they want to branch out into film! I've been through this before with The Spice Girls you know. Geri left and the rest kept right on dancing promising me that "friendship never ends" and it was all bullshit!

Now K3 are pulling the same crap and I just don't know what to believe in anymore.

And then there is the problem of what the remaining two K3 members should do. Hire a replacement? Call themselves K2 and resign themselves to singing to audiences of confused mountain climbers?

...Or just resign to calling themselves KK (Kah Kah)?
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