Jovanka's International Cafe

Cutting the Pizza

2011-11-23T19:19:00.001+01:00

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.

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.

"What? What?!" I can hear Americans screaming, "What kind of twisted Medieval fiends are these?"

I know.

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.

"But why can't they -- wouldn't it be easier if -- why don't they just --?" - Again, I know, I know, I know.

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 customers of pizza delivery places? ...Capiche?

There's a Pizza Cutter Mafia, and no one's talking about it.

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".

But you didn't hear this here.
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Being Creepy

2011-11-21T13:28:00.001+01:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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??!!

Oh Dear God, could it be that?

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 un crack damaged version of them whom they must threaten in order to establish their territory? Perhaps they think I am their Queen?

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?

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 belonged (if anywhere) at these late night truck stops? And I would know (Right? Right?) if I were one of them?

Oh for crying out loud.

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!"

Oh, that'll show 'em.
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Panic in Flanders

2011-11-03T11:36:00.002+01:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Within minutes, the precious beers were purchased and safely nestled in our car.

Each 6 pack was nicely arranged with two 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.

By the way, the "XII" stands for 12% alcohol. Because Belgian monks don't mess around, baby.
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For Yuki Mizutani, With Love and Squalor

2011-06-21T16:02:00.002+02:00

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.

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.

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.

I found out about all of this when I tried to get the rights to,"jovankasteele.com". I had 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 - WTF?!

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.

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 hell 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."

Bloody Japanese Mafia.

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.

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.

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.

Yuki Mizutani is my Biggest Fan.

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 female 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.

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.

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My Dream Gig

2011-06-14T16:21:00.002+02:00

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.

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.

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".

Less than 30 seconds later, 2 Buddhist monks (they don't have 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 vegan cheese from Switzerland 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.

They quietly slip away and leave me to wind down from an evenings' work.
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Special Skills

2010-12-07T13:50:00.003+01:00

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, Special Skills 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. Include that in your 'Special Skills'!

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 all 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:

Jovanka's Special Skills

*Is well liked by cats
*Can do Russian accent when speaking Dutch
*Is not afraid to pick up chickens
*Can type lots of words per minute as long as I'm allowed to look at the keyboard
*Can crochet anything as long as it's basically square in shape
*Can drive a car, but won't.
*Has double jointed elbows
*Can do a near perfect London accent but only when very, very drunk
*Has an extraordinarily good sense of smell
*Can burp on command
*Can make vegan Bailey's Irish Cream
*Can usually guess what sign people are
*Extremely gifted at folding laundry (but needs help with big sheets)
*Good at photography as long as people/cats hold still
*Can walk in high heels, but only about a minute at a time
*Can pee while walking (field tested!)
*Can tell if places are haunted, even just from a photo
*Can laugh uncontrollably during awkward silences at family gatherings
*Is so good at cards that other people hate her for it
*Can sneeze on command
*Can dance, but not in front of people
*Is good at deflecting blame
*Can eat hotter peppers than anyone
*Can ride a bike, but not in traffic
*Can walk so fast that it annoys people
*Can walk so slowly that it annoys people
*Very good at drawing cats
*Can operate can opener - but not those weird German ones
*Good at making rice
*Can do some yoga poses
*Can waste entire day on Facebook
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All dressed up and nowhere to gorilla...

2010-12-01T18:33:00.002+01:00

It seems that two things I like have collided to a bad result this evening: Snow and gorilla suits. Snow I like because I abhor hot weather, I'm glad the cold is finally here and I welcome anything that demands one wear layers; and gorilla suits - well who doesn't like a good gorilla suit?

Mr. Jovanka and I had planned to hit the streets tonight dressed in a banana suit and gorilla suit (respectively) to hand out flyers for (Winter) Comedy Festival Ghent which starts Saturday and which Mr. Jovanka is producing. Ironically enough, it was a bit of guerrilla (ha ha) street advertising that I dreamed up to add a bit of fun to the whole flyer handing out thingy.

But alas, now it is snowing. Heavily. The crowds will not be out, so we would look decidedly silly. As only a snowed-upon gorilla and banana truly can.

So now I'm sitting in a warm house wishing I was outside in a gorilla suit. I don't even have a name for this particular brand of depression.
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Alcorexia

2010-11-24T00:26:00.008+01:00

I've been on a diet recently - (WHAT ELSE IS NEW??!!) - 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.

Clever, huh?

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:

1) I have no tolerance for beer even when I'm not on an empty stomach.

and...

2) I live in Belgium where they mean what they say when they say, "strong beer".

So basically what I drank was equivalent in alcohol content to about 8 beers in a country where sadistic monks aren't in charge of brewing everything.

On an empty stomach.

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: Alcorexia. 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 Alcorexia.

But here's the kicker: like the syndromes' more sensible sisters Anorexia and Bulimia, Alcorexia does in fact work. 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.

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'm not even hungry!!! That's right, I successfully kick-started my diet with an alcoholic binge! Woo hoo!

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, Drink yourself to a Size 4, projected release Spring 2011 (when I shall look fabulous in all the "after" pictures).

Tacky? Un-"PC"? Offensive? Hell yes. But can you name anything successful that isn't?
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I've Been Cat Surfed

2010-09-15T17:36:00.002+02:00

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.

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.

Perhaps the word "logrolling" would be a more apt description.

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.

It's very demeaning.

And the Hawaiian shirts only add insult to injury.

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Being socially inept is not for the faint of heart.

2010-09-08T16:25:00.003+02:00

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.

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".

But I forgets......

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, act sick", and still what did I do? I acted like I was at a cocktail party. I didn't realize it at the time 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?).

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.

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 killed.
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In Defense of the Salted Potato Chip

2010-08-05T19:42:00.005+02:00

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 just now breaking them into buying salted 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).

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.

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!"

Fast forward to today and the Brits love 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:

"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.

"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.

"Marmite" - OK. Marmite is an acquired taste, the enjoyment of which is already conditional: It's best served on toast (not bread, toast) 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!

"Tomato Ketchup" - a title that is wrong on so many levels, first and foremost of which is the redundancy of calling it tomato ketchup. WHAT OTHER KIND OF KETCHUP IS THERE? That's what ketchup is! Ketchup is, by definition tomato ketchup. That would be like calling a wine, grape chardonnay or referring to a tobacco cigarette or stupid conservative (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?

"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.

"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.

What do the Portuguese eat for breakfast? Does it really warrant a tribute?

Again: If you need to taste this then why not just go and eat the actual - oh, never mind.

Yes, it says, Cajun Squirrel. 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.

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.
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Something Horrible in the Air

2010-07-28T13:04:00.003+02:00

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.

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.

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 be 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?

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?

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.
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Inside the Mind of a Neurotic Performer

2010-07-26T14:07:00.006+02:00

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.

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 silence. 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 better experience. Because to them everything they do is genius. 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 really 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.
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Nothing Larger Than Your Elbow

2010-07-13T12:41:00.002+02:00

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.

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 slight 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.

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?

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.

Stop judging me.
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Life's Little Triumphs...

2010-06-29T14:56:00.003+02:00

My favorite dress shop in Gent is a place called Paleis - 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).

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!!!!!

I'm on the road to thinness!

P.S. Stay tuned for future Ultra Boast Blog when I get down to an "S".
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My Manifesto

2010-06-22T11:04:00.001+02:00

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?

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:

My Manifesto

The Terms:

1. Everyone in the world must be a vegan.

2. Everyone is entitled to a sandwich (or its' equivalent) on demand.

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)

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.

5. All art will be subsidized.

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.

7. Anyone can marry anyone else they want to providing that all parties want to marry each other.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

15. Local police forces will be replaced by Knights, complete with shining armor. They will all be very handsome but menacing when required.

16. Guns will not exist. And only the police/Knights will be allowed to have broadswords.

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.

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.

That's all I've got for now.
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The State of My Brain

2010-02-19T16:43:00.002+01:00

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.

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.

Then my blog will be all about shoes.

I'll call it, "What This Pretty Lady Thinks About Shoes".

And I'll update it every hour.

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My Menstrual Cycle Has a Body Count

2010-01-18T16:43:00.005+01:00

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.

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.

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.

.......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?

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Who Killed Ceramic Jesus?

2010-01-11T17:50:00.005+01:00

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:

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.

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.

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:

.....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.

Do I detect a glint of fear? Hmmmmm.......

So just to mix things up, I photographed Ceramic Jesus with Angelo and Papa Steve.

This time Angelo is seated on the left and is Ceramic Jesus - - ???......Why yes, I do believe Ceramic Jesus is pointing at Angelo!

Yeah, that's right. You've been caught!

You can run, but you can't hide, my friend!!

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I Got Inspired!!

2010-01-10T16:37:00.001+01:00

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.

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.

So it was hardly surprising when I read about this guy:

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?!

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.

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.

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!

.......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?"

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The Perils of Winter

2009-12-21T11:07:00.006+01:00

Like anyone, I have a few fears in life. They are:

1. Crowded places.
2. Flying.
3. Clowns.
4. Walking on icy streets.
5. Spain.
6. High bridges.
7. Most varieties of squash.
8. Drool.
9. Numeric filing.
10. Hot weather.
11. Telemarketing.

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.

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.

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).

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.

So the past few days it has snowed. Profusely. And while it's absolutely beautiful to look at, 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 America 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.

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 do 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.

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Life's Little Extras

2009-11-28T19:05:00.005+01:00

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

2009-10-26T22:31:00.003+01:00

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

2009-10-09T17:07:00.007+02:00

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

2009-09-07T17:16:00.005+02:00

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"

2009-08-20T13:51:00.002+02:00

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

2009-08-01T17:17:00.008+02:00

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

2009-07-30T03:51:00.003+02:00

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

2009-07-23T05:09:00.008+02:00

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

2009-07-15T18:50:00.004+02:00

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...

2009-07-13T14:37:00.002+02:00

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

2009-07-07T19:16:00.002+02:00

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

2009-06-26T11:04:00.006+02:00

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

2009-06-26T08:51:00.006+02:00

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?

2009-06-19T18:56:00.007+02:00

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

2009-06-18T00:35:00.003+02:00

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)

2009-05-26T23:22:00.003+02:00

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

2009-05-14T18:43:00.004+02:00

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

2009-05-06T21:45:00.001+02:00

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

2009-05-03T10:02:00.002+02:00

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?

2009-04-16T18:26:00.004+02:00

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

2009-04-14T19:37:00.004+02:00

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

2009-04-09T13:32:00.000+02:00

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

2009-03-28T15:47:00.007+01:00

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

2009-03-26T10:00:00.010+01:00

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?

2009-03-23T20:40:00.005+01:00

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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If Not for the Modern World...

2009-03-19T15:58:00.002+01:00

Today I have a toothache. Because it is currently 2009 and not 1009, this means that it is a mild inconvenience I will have to endure until Monday when (by total coincidence) I already have an appointment set with the dentist. Meanwhile there are all sorts of aspirins and things I can take, and if none of that works there is a bar on my street corner. By contrast if this were 1009 my only choices would be to endure excruciating pain and a possible disfiguring facial infection or pop down to my local blacksmith (or Inquisitional torturer - whichever was handy) and have some greasy unwashed peasant pry my tooth out equipped only with a rudiment lead based tool and his unwashed hands. After the procedure I would not be coddled and given ice cream, but instead would be expected to immediately resume toiling in the potato fields or giving birth or possibly both at once.

All of this has got me pondering just what I would look like now if not for the modern world. I've been taking an inventory of all my past ailments; broken bones, teeth straightening, etc. and if not for the modern world I would be quite a different creature right now. My Medieval Self would certainly not have hair straighteners, or even hair conditioner for that matter, so my hair would be a tangled unwashed mess resembling and possibly functioning as a rat's nest. My eyebrows would be an unruly pre-historic looking nightmare and my eyes would be framed in wrinkles from all the squinting I would have had to do without contact lenses. And I most certainly would not smell like Chanel #5.

Can you imagine just how horrible everyone looked back in Medieval times? The only saving grace back then was that everyone was awful looking and bad smelling so you wouldn't feel like the odd one out. But here's the thing: If you did decide you'd had it with all that medieval muck and you started bathing regularly and washing your clothes and smelling nicely they would think you were up to something and burn you as a witch.

So with that in mind you wouldn't even bother and instead you'd just resign yourself to working in the fields covered in mud with an abscessed tooth.

And the moral of this blog entry is: When you put all the Global Warming, Worldwide Financial Collapse and Murderous Illuminati Oligarchs aside, the modern world isn't all that bad, is it?
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Tony

2009-03-17T18:34:00.002+01:00

Tony is the most recent addition to our household. He's been with us for about three months but I haven't mentioned him yet because he was a wild street cat and has been taking a while to adjust. We've seen Tony around in our neighborhood for several years now. Occasionally we would bring him some food or offer a kind word which was always met with a hiss and a general bad attitude from Tony. But one particularly cold winter day Tony decided to come and visit us, we opened our window, he walked in, we slammed the window shut, and voila! Tony was our captive!

I'm sure there are all sorts of arguments that people might make in regard to us violating Tony's civil rights or even being in breach of the Geneva Convention in holding Tony against his will without even access to legal council, but it was very cold outside and he was very scruffy and hungry and we do truly believe that it was all For His Own Good.

The good news is that Tony has been acclimating very nicely and has calmed down quite a bit.

He enjoys sitting in the window like he owns the place.

And the other cats are starting to accept him.

He still won't let Wim anywhere near him and hisses whenever Wim so much as looks at him. But the best most wonderful thing is that he lets me pet him!!

Yes, that's MY hand, patting Tony on the head! Ha ha HA, Wim! HA HA!!!!

There is NOTHING more validating than the feeling that you are the only person a grumpy cat will allow near him!....And yes I know it means that I'm horribly codependent but I don't care. I still feel super cool.
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Leave Modern Art to the Professionals!

2009-03-11T10:39:00.004+01:00

I am not usually a fan of Modern Art. In fact I can’t stand it. Too many times I’ve been dragged out to see a modern art exhibition and ended up throwing a tantrum in front of a paper cup in a frame that the artist has given some fancy name to and is charging $12,000 for. “This isn’t art you assholes!" I scream, "Learn how to draw!” at which point I am dragged out of the building by Security and jailed for 3 months. .....OK, it hasn’t happened yet, but I’m quite certain that it’s just a matter of time. All you have to do to become a “Modern Artist” it seems is think up ways to be increasingly more annoying.

(The worst piece of "Modern Art" I have ever seen: A bathroom shelf with a glass of water on it called Oak Tree......FUCK OFF!!)

So this past week, I’ve had two Modern Art experiences and I have Good News and Bad News to report. First the Bad News: Modern art in it’s most banal form is alive and well at the S.M.A.K. Museum in Gent. We went there and saw canvas “paintings” in one solid color in red, blue and yellow; a slide projector which randomly projected different words such as “typewriter” or “alive” on the wall opposite it; and running films of plastic bags being blown about in the wind. PUH-LEEZE!! It’s this kind of Emperor’s New Clothes crap that keeps the so-called “Art Form” going, because it is SO daft that people think they’re just not “getting it” so they pretend that they are and these so-called “Artists” get lots of grants to create even worse stuff next season. Newsflash: There’s nothing to “get”! It’s a plastic bag! It’s impossible to feel an emotion over it! That emotion that you are feeling is homicidal rage that someone is actually being paid to produce this crap! The “Artist” would have made much better use of himself if he’d actually picked up the plastic bag and placed it over his head.

I’m not kidding you. If I had had a baseball bat and some lighter fluid with me it would have been a whole different afternoon.

OK. Now the Good News - There is one group of artists who know how to do Modern Art right: The Finns. As far as I’m concerned, Finnish people are the only ones who should be allowed to do Modern Art, and I don’t even care how fascist that sounds. Incase you aren’t aware, Finns are very odd people. I mean this in a good way. Perhaps it comes from living in a country encased in an iceberg with 14 minutes of sunshine per day (I’ve never been there, but this is what I assume): They have to find bizarre ways to entertain themselves and they do. Take as Exhibit A Finland’s entry in the 2006 song contest:

They are a band called Lordi and they won, thereby putting Finland (and half-decayed zombies) firmly in the forefront of European culture. See what I mean? And these were Establishment Finns!

So when I got an invitation from my lovely Finnish friend Mira to her Art Piece, I suppressed my natural aversion to Modern Art for the evening and I was not disappointed. My friend Anya and I walked through the streets of Gent until we found the flashy sign out front:

The show was called “Plan B” which I liked because it made me think that they had collectively scrapped their first idea for a show. Plan B is the fallback plan and therefore what is always planned all along.......am I reading too much meaning in?

We were greeted at the entrance by Mira dressed in some sort of futuristic outfit.

She shuffled through some papers and told us that we needed to fill out some forms before being interrogated. We went to the bar area and proceeded to fill out the forms. The questions made no sense at all, much to the chagrin of my grumpy Russian friend.

Luckily there was wine in plastic cups on hand to make it all worthwhile.

After filling out the forms we were assigned to different “lockets” to be asked questions.

I was ushered to a table where I was given a series of Rorschach inkblot test, the results of which were recorded into a notebook.

This one is clearly a picture of my parents fighting.

Next I was asked a series of questions by a Finnish guy who kept slipping and reading the questions in Finnish.

I answered them anyway and the answers were duly noted.

We were given drawings to write our own captions under:

And captions to do drawings under:

And all amidst a sort of 1984 theme:

With a fabulous funky bar behind it:

THAT my friends, is how you do Modern Art. Sure it made no sense, but it was good fun. And there were drinks. And laughs. Try getting that out of a plastic bag blowing in the wind!!
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Pigeon Rescue!

2009-03-03T16:47:00.004+01:00

So I was out for my run today and from about 100 meters away saw what I thought to be either a kitten or a black plastic bag in distress. I got closer and it turned out it was a pigeon (see above - ha! I love my new pink camera). I don't know exactly what was wrong with her but she seemed to not be doing well. She was standing in one place and sort of staring at a wall and wobbling a bit. When she let me pick her up and wrap her in my sweaty horrible running scarf, I knew she was feeling poorly.

I bundled her up and carried her home passing by neighbors who had seen me carry a legion of cats in the past and even once witnessed me running to the vet holding an ailing rat. So no one even raised an eyebrow at the pigeon. I'm sure by now the neighbors are thinking, "We need to see you holding a baby elephant whilst riding a Great White Shark before you'll get any attention from us, lady".

As luck would have it, our local Vogelasiel (bird sanctuary) is only a 5 minute drive away so we rushed her there where she was fed (they put a tube down her throat, but I wasn't quick enough to get a photo), and given a private suite as she waits to see the doctor later.

So I'm glad she's being looked after. She's in a nice room with other wounded birds...

...And eventually when she gets better she'll be in a lovely transitional cage outside...

...And then be slowly integrated back into society.

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Lesson Learned: Don't get on the wrong bus in the Belgian countryside.

2009-02-26T23:24:00.004+01:00

So I got on the wrong bus today. I'm dyslexic, everything's in Dutch, and I was operating on 4 hour's sleep. And besides I asked the bus driver like 8 times if he was sure this was the right bus. How was I supposed to know that I was telling him the wrong town name? All I know is that he kept reassuring me with a soothing string of, "Ja, ja, ja, ja"s.

So it ended up in tears an hour later with me being let out at the beginning of a road with an arrow on it pointing me in the vague direction of a rural area I recognized. All I knew was that I was on the same road where a country veterinarian I had once visited had his practice, and as I had to pee something terrible I had no choice but to disturb him in the middle of the afternoon, convince him he knew me and barge into into his foyer and pee (in the toilet. I'm not an animal). When I emerged from the "washroom", he gave me vague walking directions to my destination then ushered me to the door hurriedly with a frightened look in his eye.

Then I proceeded to walk for what seemed like days. There were no pavements. I could have been hit by a tractor or brutally murdered by a medieval peasant at any moment. And it simply went on...

...and on...

...and on...

....and all the while there was nothing but a vast expanse of nothingness next to me...

...and still it went on...

...and...Oh look!!! There's a stop for the bus I should have got on!!

...and on...

...I even tried to beg The Gods for help at a country roadside grotto and it was locked...

...and on...

....Hey!! What does that sign say?

....Yeah. Damstraat. My sentiments exactly.
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Hallelujah!

2009-02-25T11:18:00.003+01:00

The big news I have is that Wim and I have decided to buy a clothes dryer. Yes I know that it's an odd concept for most Americans (including me) that people would have a washer but not a dryer, but that is how most Europeans operate. They hang most of their clothes to dry (yes, even indoors) or occasionally take them to the local launderette to dry as we do. It's a HUGE pain in the ass, especially when you've got cats who barf on things. I've been bitching about it to Wim for the last 5 years. And finally, yesterday when he had to sit for an hour at the launderette with Eastern European immigrants yelling at each other and evil cleaning women shoving him, he saw the light. Praise the lord.

Seriously though, this is a significant problem - especially in the UK. Pretty much any time you visit someone's home in the UK you will see their underpants hanging on the radiator at the very least. Even in relatively well-off homes. There's sort of this sense of "this is how we've always done things". And when you suggest that life might be a bit more manageable with a dryer they cock their head to one side and say, "a tumble dryah??" - then they parrot out a bunch of myths they've heard about dryers mangling buttons and shredding socks. Then you just have to walk away and put up with your roomate's friends stealing your panties off the drying rack in the hallway. It's insane.

Here's why else dryers are good: Lint. European washers don't seem to have the lint traps that American washers have, so when you couple that with 11 cats and no dryer, all your clothes start looking like mohair cable knitwear.

Wim was opposed to the idea of a dryer for a long time on environmental grounds. But I did point out (repeatedly and loudly) that A) It's no less damaging to the environment to use the dryers at the launderette; and B) at home there will be no one standing next to us smoking a cigar and yelling at their kids in Romanian while we fold our fresh laundry. I can't help but think that my nagging must have sunk in a bit.

I am thrilled. I'm going to use our new dryer constantly. And when the polar ice caps melt and sea levels rise engulfing us all in a global panic I won't be bothered at all. Because at least I'll have fluffy towels.

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Busy, Busy, Busy!!

2009-02-09T10:06:00.003+01:00

I'm just making this blog post to say that I'm posting a new blog very soon. I've been busy. I mean it. And if you could see this house right now you'd be saying, "For the love of God, Jovanka, don't worry about a blog post - do something about the piles of clothes everywhere!!".
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I Can Breathe! I Can Breathe! I Can Breathe!

2009-01-28T18:45:00.005+01:00

I have had horrible allergies all my life. Sometimes I would literally sneeze repeatedly all day long until my nose was bright red. People would constantly ask me if I had a cold. My handbag was perpetually full of used kleenexes and I kept getting fired from waitressing jobs.

I've had my allergies tested in the past and it's been determined that I'm allergic to cats (I have 11) and dust mites (EVERYONE has pet dust mites). I had for a while given up cheese (but was still drinking milk) and found that things had improved a bit but then I went right back to the cheese because I was addicted. But now that I've officially been a Vegan for a month which means giving up all dairy products forever, I can officially report that I can breathe again!!!

I have never in my life gone this long without dairy products and the results are amazing! I had quite literally forgotten what it was like to be able to breathe properly! There is oxygen getting to my brain now! I can leave the house without having to carry my own body weight in tissues just in case.

Yaaaaay!! Why didn't I become a vegan years ago? Why? Why? Why? Think of all the money I could have saved on tissues! Think of all the jobs I could have kept!

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Lighten Up, Bulgaria!

2009-01-14T19:43:00.006+01:00

There is an art exhibition going on right now in Brussels at the European Parliament. the piece above was done by a Czech artist, David Cerny. It was meant to be a humorous send up of European stereotypes. And now there's a big kerfuffle over it!!

"The Czech Republic, which took over the rotating presidency of the European Union in January, has landed itself in a cultural debacle. Not only has its flagship artwork - designed to demolish national stereotypes by mocking them - caused diplomatic outrage, it turns out to have been the work of a single Czech artist when it was billed as a collaborative effort from all 27 EU member states." (financialtimes.com)

Apparently Bulgaria isn't too happy with their one which makes fun of their weird toilets:

There was a Bulgarian lady on the news saying, "Look at it! It's ugly! And it's not funny!" and she was hanging out at the exhibition trying to get someone to take it down. Gee, she must be fun at parties!

I'm sorry Bulgaria, but you have funny toilets. I mean you do know about the kind where you can sit, don't you? Look, I'm sorry Bulgaria, but it's funny. All we can think when we look at your toilets is Gee, these people must either have very strong thigh muscles.....or they don't wear underpants. I'm sorry, Bulgaria, I'm just saying what everyone else (including this Czech artist, apparently) are thinking. get over it! Germany has!

They got depicted as a bunch of roads in the vague form of a swastika. Do you hear them complaining? Or how about your neighbors, Romania??

Surely there's more to them than just Vlad the Impaler. But did they kick up a fuss? And what about Luxembourg?

See, Bulgaria? Luxembourg got depicted as a tiny piece of gold that's for sale. Ha ha ha ha ha. Are they threatening a lawsuit? Or Italy:

They got depicted as a one huge football pitch. And in this case the artist didn't even get it right, or he would have shown them all on the floor pretending they had a knee injury. Are they upset? Even Poland seem cool about theirs:

....Showing them as priests hoisting the Gay Pride Flag on a field of potatoes.

And Bulgaria - do we really want to be so judgmental with stuff like this available to see on the internet?

People in glass houses. I'm just sayin'........
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That's Not a Fucking Hamster!!!

2009-01-14T19:05:00.004+01:00

Lately they've been running an ad for a mobile phone ringtone song noise thingy called Zingende Hamster (Singing Hamster). They play the bloody ad every 5 minutes. Look at it! IS THAT A HAMSTER????!!!!

Apparently when some guy thought this up, no one at his Advertising Firm thought to question him about it. Or perhaps they did?

"Um......Excuse me Jan? You keep calling that a singing hamster, but it looks like a bear."

"Well it isn't a bear, it's a hamster."

"Are you sure Jan? Because in all our focus groups they've said --"

"Yes I'm sure!! When I was a boy my family was on a camping trip and my father was killed by a giant hamster, so I think I know what a fucking hamster looks like, thank you!"

"Um, OK, Jan.....Well if your father was killed by a.....hamster, then wouldn't you like to choose some other animal for the ad? Something that doesn't bring up so many issues? A bunny rabbit maybe?"

"A bunny rabbit!!?? What are you kidding me??! One of those stabbed my brother!"
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My List of Grievances

2009-01-05T15:43:00.002+01:00

So I’m walking along the very narrow path by the canal yesterday and bicyclists (who aren’t even supposed to be on the path – it’s for pedestrians!) keep speeding up making only a cursory jiggling noise with their bike to get me to move aside at the last minute. Everyone knows pedestrians have the right of way there, but it seems that without a neon sign posted every few meters that some people “forget” and choose to terrorize pedestrians. All us pedestrians would have to do is jut out an elbow at the right moment and those two-wheeled bastards would go flying over the guardrail into the canal. I only wish they would appreciate the enormous restraint we are exercising in not doing so.

Unfortunately, many people engage in annoying behavior simply because no one has bothered to post guidelines telling them not to. So, in the hope that some people prone to annoying behavior might read my blog, I am posting some items which should be obvious, but since they apparently aren’t, definitely need mentioning. When I can get around to painting huge signs and posting them in the appropriate places, I will. Until then, this list will have to suffice.

Item #1: People who wait in a long line at a cashier who don’t bother getting their cash ready to pay until the very end of the transaction at which point they embark on an expedition through their hand bag (yes, it’s usually people of the feminine persuasion) looking for their wallet. Everyone in the line behind them sighs and rolls their eyes and makes angry little noises, but most likely some of those angry people have no idea where their wallets are, either. Get it together, people!

Item #2: People who make you take your shoes off when visiting their homes.

This is one of the most invasive things someone can do when you’ve just been good enough to come and visit them. People who make you remove your shoes at their door rarely provide you with a dignified way to do so. Instead you’re meant to sit on the floor or awkwardly balance on one leg or otherwise fend for yourself. It is my contention that people who demand that you remove your shoes should also offer to wash your feet like they did for visitors in Biblical times. It seems only fair.

The only time that people even somewhat have an excuse for demanding this of you is if they’ve got small children who they feel the need to let crawl all over the floor, but even then my inclination would be to prefer not to have baby spit all over my bare feet, thank you very much.

People who always demand that you take your shoes off when coming over are either A) Far gone hippies; B) Too lazy to use their vacuum cleaner; or C) Sadistic Control Freaks. People are demeaned and vulnerable when they are made to be seen in public in their socks and that’s why these people do this. My advice if you know lots of people who do this is to invest in several sizes of clown shoes, keep them by the door and insist your shoe-removal-in-their-house friends change into them when entering your home. They will either take the hint or stop inviting you over. Either option is acceptable.

Item #3: People who talk during movies.

These offenders can be divided into several sub-categories:

A) The Actor-Spotter: These people are constantly engaged in some sort of Hollywood trivia game no matter how dramatic the action is on the screen. You’ll be watching a moving scene, hanging on every word of dialogue and this will happen:

OFFENDER: ” Hey isn’t that....um....now I can’t think of her name. She was in that movie with Woody Allen years ago but I think she’s changed her hair. She was so funny in that movie. And that other guy he was in something else too. He looks a lot different now, though.”

....During which the more polite people in the room are serially clearing their throats and I’m boiling with rage until I press the pause button and suggest we have a discussion group about the cast.

B) The Advice-Giver: These donuts will make suggestions to the characters on the screen as if their suggestions might be heard and considered. “Don’t go in there!” they’ll say, or “Watch out! He’s behind you!” or “You shouldn’t have opened that door!” – I think back in medieval times these people were probably burned at the stake for entertainment after plays.

C) The Random Conversation Maker: These people will just start conversations as if the movie you’re watching is background music. They’ll ask you where good restaurants are in the neighborhood, or if you’ve heard that they’re building a new shopping mall in town or any other number of things that HAVE NOTHING WHATSOVEVER TO DO WITH THE FILM THAT YOU’RE WATCHING. And inevitably these same people later criticize the film for having not made any sense.

D) The “Shecky”: These people think that they are funnier than everything in the film and they set out to prove it by making sarcastic remarks every 2 minutes. And worse than that, they never seem to have the ability to time their remarks between the dialogue in the film. Instead you miss what’s going on in the film entirely and might as well turn off the sound altogether and just let them run their mouth.

Item #4: Couples Who Share Email Addresses.

The first time I saw this happening I thought that perhaps just that one particular couple were freaks, but then I saw it happening a lot and realized that apparently a lot of people think this is acceptable behavior. If email addresses were expensive then I would understand, but they are free, people! I’ve got 5 of them myself!

There’s a certain innate belligerence in a shared email address – as if the couple is saying, ”Anything you can say to me, you can say to him as well!”. Also I think couples who do this are highly suspicious of each other and probably the kind of people who would insist on reading each other’s emails daily anyway if they didn’t share an address. And now everyone else knows how possessive they are because of their shared email. Creepy, creepy, creepy.

Item #5: People who don’t smile in photos. You can be laughing and having a good time with these people, but the minute you get your camera out they stare back at you with a practiced model-esque pout. It’s SO annoying and it inevitably makes them and you look ridiculous (you by proxy for being seen with them). There is nothing less sexy than trying to look sexy, so just stop doing it!
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A Farewell to Cheese

2009-01-01T11:30:00.005+01:00

Ah, my first blog entry of the new year. And one big New Years Resolution to report: I am now a vegan. I have been a vegetarian for years, but now I am taking that final step into veganhood.

For those of you unclear about the distinctions between all the different “isms” out there: Vegetarianism is eating no meat of any kind, or “nothing with a face” or “nothing that had a mother"; so no meat or fish of any kind. Vegetarians still eat milk, cheese, eggs and honey because they aren’t actual animals (of course if you believe that life begins at conception then you might take issue with the eggs). Veganism is not eating or in any other way consuming anything that had anything to do with animals. So not only no meat or fish, but also no dairy, eggs or honey. You will meet, of course, many people who claim to be vegetarians because they eat “hardly any” meat. I once knew one such “vegetarian” who regularly ordered pork pot stickers at her favorite Chinese restaurant ”because they taste so much better than the vegetable ones”. And yet she insisted to referring to herself as a vegetarian. A pork eating vegetarian. Also she was Jewish (!!). Just as an FYI, eating meat occasionally and yet considering yourself a vegetarian is the same as once in a while gnawing on human flesh and then claiming not to be a cannibal.

For years I would rationalize (as I think many vegetarians do) that the dairy industry is like a day job for a cow. I suppose I had a very cartoonish image of a cow waking up to an alarm clock, having a few slices of toast and some coffee then punching the time clock at the local dairy and going home again after a nice day being milked by handsome farm hands. I had completely airbrushed from this picture the fact that this “day job” also includes being made to produce up to 5 times their normal milk production, having their children forcibly removed from them (then kept immobile in a box and killed before they reach adulthood), and being killed and eaten once the contract on this particular “day job” expired. Consuming dairy products is still buying into a system that exploits, tortures and murders animals and I can no longer remain in denial about it.

I’ve “gone vegan” in the past, but it was always without making a proper transition to other foods and also when I was in weird vegan-hostile places; like the time I was working for a few weeks in Oklahoma and Texas. There, the word “Vegan” or even “Vegetarian” would inevitably illicit a sideways cock to the head and the word “Huh?” if not downright aggresssion.

Once at a restaurant in Texas I pleaded with the waitress for something anything without meat in it. She finally agreed to bring me a bowl of rice. When it arrived it was chock full of chunks of sausage. The waitress’s comeback? "That's not meat, that's pork." (????!!!!). Once I'd explained the intellectual hiccup in her reasoning she came back with, ”There’s just a little meat in it” - as if some poor pig had accidentally cut himself shaving while standing next to the rice vat at Big Tex’s Colon Cloggery. I ended up living the rest of that tour on a diet of beer and fruit juice while I gaped in awe at the overly large bovine appearance of all the heavy meat eaters around me. Women with wrist bones the size of Rugby players, I tell you. And all from all that good old American hormone-packed meat they were consuming in huge quantities three times a day. Yeuuuch.

But even after the Texas Trauma, I fell back into vegetarianism (as opposed to veganism) because of my love of cheese. That’s been the hardest thing to give up. But now with it being New Year’s and all I’m making a clean break. For the fist time I’m grateful to be in a country that has no concept of cheddar.

On that note, I will leave you with the recipe for a no-cheese “Cheeze Ball” (which I got off a fabulous vegan web site, as sourced below) which I served up to (non-vegan!) guests last night who absolutely loved it!

Ingredients:

1/2 Cup Blanched, Slivered Almonds
1/2 Cup Dry Roasted Cashews
1/3 14oz Block Firm Tofu, Well Pressed
3 Tablespoons Nutritional Yeast Flakes
1/2 Teaspoon Seasoned Salt
1 Teaspoon Sugar
1 Teaspoon Lemon Juice
1/2 Teaspoon Liquid Smoke
1 Teaspoon Paprika
1 Teaspoon Light Vegan Butter
1 Teaspoon Extra Virgin Olive Oil
1 Teaspoon Table Mustard
1 Teaspoon Garlic Powder
1 Tablespoon Grated Onion, Well Drained
1/4 Cup Sliced Almonds
Paprika to coat

Place almonds and cashews into a food processor until it’s ground up for about 2 minutes or until clumps start to form.

Place 1/3 of a block of tofu from a 14oz block. It’s important to use firm tofu. Silken or extra firm will not work. An average block of tofu is about 4.5 inches long, so measure 1.5 inches off. Drain tofu in a strainer by smashing and pressing firmly. Using a clean dish towel to soak up some of the water helps too. It’s important to get as much water as you can out.

Now add the tofu to the almond and cashew nut paste that’s already in the food processor along with the nutritional yeast flakes, seasoned salt, sugar, lemon juice, liquid smoke, paprika, vegan butter, olive oil, mustard, garlic powder, onion and blend about 2 minutes.

Spray a bowl and a square of plastic wrap with no stick spray. Pile mixture into the bowl and cover with plastic wrap. Place in fridge and Let this chill for at least 5 hours or overnight. It will get firm and can now be shaped into a ball and rolled in sliced almonds and paprika. If you lightly oil your hands it will keep it from sticking to your hands while you roll. Now it’s ready to be served with your favorite crackers.

source: MyVeganCookbook.com
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Fun for Insomniacs

2008-12-09T10:52:00.006+01:00

I've had a bout of insomnia recently. This time it's because I spent a rather exhausting day running up and down hills with chickens and goats and hay and apparently a lot of dust and then the whole allergy thing went nuts. I'm OK now (thank you for asking) because I went to the doctor and he gave me all sorts of pills and inhalers and a mini-lecture about not taking that silly over-the-counter American stuff that Belgians haven't used since the 1950s. But during the whole process I spent a few sleepless nights sneezing and coughing and sputtering for air and consequently not sleeping. Here is what I have learned about insomnia: Don't fight it. You'll only end up miserable. Instead, just accept that you're awake and do something fun. The internet is a good place to start. Usually I spend hours googling odd combinations of things and seeing what I can find. This can be a very frightening experience when you see how many hits you get for things like "dinosaur+sighting"; "tattoo+face" or "midget+porn". But last night I found something even more fun: A Russian News Site!!!

I spent the better part of the Wee Hours "surfing" http://english.pravda.ru/ the English language version of Pravda online. What absolute gold! All these pictures pop up with titles for articles for you to read. Here were some of my favorites:

This one I could relate to, of course. I thought I had been through something when I once "lacked sleep" for 8 days and hallucinated a Yellow Cab driving into my hotel room (long story), but apparently some guy in Ukraine has got that well beat. I can't even begin to imagine how much internet surfing he must do. Surely he'll even read this at some point. Hello Vladimir!

What was intriguing about this "article" is that they pull you in with the headline then they never tell you what the message was. Hey, I'm not saying I don't believe them, I just don't like being left out of the loop...

These girls apparently latched onto a Dyslexic Sugardaddy.

My question is: Why do Russian bus drivers carry so much cash? Surely that's like begging some baby to come along and steal it!

And apparently didn't do nearly as well as the baby.

We know this because her next door neighbor was up all night and heard her screams.

Which is why we keep ours in cages.

"But wait! I was just riding it! D'oh! That doesn't sound right either!!!"

Especially when they're being exposed like this in public.

And bears too, apparently.

These road signs have been very effective at getting people to comply with reduced speed zones.

Also known as the Ukranian Black Male Ice Fishing Olympics.

I'll bet he's wishing Turkmenistan hadn't invested so much in DNA testing!

And you thought it was just an Urban Myth!

How is it even possible that they could become more popular???

Wait a minute! I think I dated that guy once!!

Because apparently the whole "vow of chastity" thing never said anything about ostriches.

Think about that the next time you yell at someone in traffic!!

When will the drivers learn not to leave those wagons unattended??

Why are Mexicans always interfering with the Space Program?

And Finally:

And then acts all coy about it later.......
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Me No Speakee Americanee

2008-12-01T15:58:00.004+01:00

When I was a kid and lived both in the US and the UK I used to marvel at the fact that even though English was spoken in both places there were completely different words and meanings for words used in each place. In the US if you say you’re “pissed” it means you’re angry, whereas in the UK it means you're drunk; what is called a “cookie” in the US is called a “biscuit” in the UK; in the US the word “cunt” is the worst possible thing you can ever call someone, and in the UK it’s practically a term of endearment. I used to wonder how all these differences occurred in the first place. It seemed to me that these sort of differences would stop happening once worldwide communication became more homogenous. Not So. When I hear Americans speak now I’m aware of differences that seem to have popped up in the American vernacular since my departure and it’s really odd to me. I’m sort of Amish for the year 1999 so these new words sound really foreign and out of place to me. Here are some of the most glaring examples:

”DUDE”

When I was taking a train trip across the US in late 2005 (because I'm also Amish in that respect), I struck up a conversation with what seemed like a friendly person in the lounge car. We were looking at bizarre things out the window when suddenly she said, “Dude! Check that out!”........Dude??!!.......Then she said it a few more times: ”Dude! Check out that traffic jam! We’re flying past that, huh?” Being me I started to get a little paranoid and glanced down to make sure I hadn’t accidentally spontaneously reincarnated into a man or something. No, everything was still intact and it was all encased in a pink sweater. Hmmm. I decided to investigate.

“Um – did you just call me “dude”?”

“Yeah, dude!”

“OK. You do realize that I’m not a dude, though, don’t you?”

And here’s the explanation that I got: “Yeah, totally dude! I was just saying like dude, you know, dude?”

So now you know what I know.

”AWESOME”

This “Awesome” thing is huge. I don’t know where it originated – my guess is with some form of surf teenagers or something – but now it’s completely spun out of control. I knew it was an epidemic when I heard my 65 year old mother using the word. There’s just something so wrong about that. “Awesome” has become such an American thing that I’ve invented a little drinking game where you take a drink every time you hear the word “Awesome” come from the group of American tourists at the next table. And if they are truly Americans and not just unusually loud Canadians, then you will definitely get your drinks in – that is just how endemic it’s become. This “Awesome” thing irks the hell out of me because I really hate hyperbole. I want to walk up to Americans who are saying “Awesome” every three words and shout, “Oh really? Is it awesome? Does it really fill you with awe???!!” then pass out drunk at their feet. So far no one’s signed up to play this drinking game with me, but trust me, it will be Awesome.

SCHTREET? SCHTRING? SCHTRONG?

Oooooh this one is annoying. There is this affected “cool” lisp that everyone seems to be doing. Any word that has an “str” in it suddenly gets all Teutonic. I first noticed it a few years ago particularly when gangster guys talked about the “schtreets”. I figured they were perhaps part of a Berlin biker gang and I dismissed it at that. Then I began to notice it creeping in everywhere. Here’s another drinking game for you: Watch America’s Next Top Model and take a sip every time you hear Tyra Banks doing the lischp when she talks to the models during the elimination. It usually goes something like this:

TYRA: You need to be fierce, you need to be schtrong.

MODEL: I don’t know. I just don’t think I’ve got the schtrength.

TYRA: Sure you do. Just take schtronger schtrides when you’re walking down the schtreet.

MODEL: Won’t that look schtrange?

TYRA: It’s all in how you conschtruct it.

MODEL: Oooh! Fancy!

Using the spread of the “Awesome” thing as a gauge, I’m predicting this one will get out of hand to the point where everyone in the US sounds like Humphry Bogart by 2012.

”HATERS”

Ugh! This is another one! Suddenly it’s all the rage to speak like a 5 year old. People actually whine at each other with the accusation of being a ”Hater”, never feeling the need to qualify it any further. If it actually came from a 5 year old you’d giggle endearingly at it’s childish grasp of the English language, but this is now being used by just about everyone in the US. I don’t even know where to begin with this one. I didn’t realize how widespread it had become until I was watching an American detective show and one detective accused the other detective of being a “hater”. Unbelievable. I nearly had a schtroke.
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Ernesto

2008-11-25T10:47:00.004+01:00

So every now and then when we go to the critter supply shop for kitty litter or hay or various other things, we ask if they have any wounded critters in the back. Because here's something you should know about pet shops: when critters are wounded they send them back to the breeders as "damaged goods" and more often then not the critters are killed. And usually this is for nothing more than a cosmetic shortcoming.

So a few nights ago we got one such critter - a dwarf hamster called Ernesto. He had gone home with a family but when he developed a strange growth on his face they brought him back. The photo above is not of the actual Ernesto because we don't currently have a working camera - this is just what Ernesto would look like without something that looks like a piece of bubblegum on his face. But here's the thing: Ernesto is perfectly healthy in every other way! So he's not going to make the cover of GQ Magazine? What the hell? I hear they don't use many dwarf hamsters on their covers anyway.

Ernesto has only been with us a few days but already he's settling in and having a great time climbing around in his cage and the growth on his face actually seems to be reducing. It's amazing what a little love can do.
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Mega Mindy?

2008-11-08T12:23:00.005+01:00

I watch more than my fair share of children’s programs. And not, as one might assume because I’ve got kids who are always watching them – alas I don’t even have that excuse. I’ve got 10 cats but they don’t care what’s on the television just as long as it’s on so they can sleep on top of it. The reason I watch children’s programs is because in a country littered with strange dialects and bizarre accents, the children’s programs speak Standard Dutch and they speak it really slowly. Also there are songs and lots of bright colors.

Mega Mindy is a big star on Belgian children’s programming. She is a superhero who works as a mild mannered police agent but does her real crime fighting in pink spandex and a much fuller hairdo.

None of this, of course, speaks well of the Belgian police force which apparently can't cope without superhero assistance.

And of course no one ever recognizes her when she’s back in her policewoman’s outfit. She explains the whole thing here:

Ah. Which brings us to her biggest dilemna. Like all superheros, Meg Mindy has a love interest who loves her back but they can’t quite get it together.

His name is Toby and he’s a fellow police officer.

Now here’s the thing: She’s in love with Toby, but Toby is in love with Mega Mindy, not knowing that his police lady friend is Mega Mindy. Try as she might, he’s only really into her when she’s wearing pink spandex.

Here is her hit song about Toby called, Toby Toby where you can see the unrequited lust just pouring off the screen. And yes, she’s driving a Volkswagon Thing:

It’s all very Superman/Clark Kent/Lois Lane Love Triangle that isn’t actually a triangle of course. But as a fan, I must say that I’m finding the whole thing rather emotionally frustrating. I mean how long am I supposed to stay hooked on the story as it is? I mean come on Toby! How daft can you be? I know men are clueless about fashion but are you really that swayed by a wardrobe change? I want to yell at Toby, “Hey Toby, WAKE UP! The mild-mannered police lady IS Mega Mindy!”....And the thing is, I think I’ll actually get the chance.

Mega Mindy not only has a hit TV show and music videos, she also does musical shows where she and Toby sing songs about their romantic frustration (How does he not get it when they’re doing a live show? Is he not even listening to the lyrics when he’s back stage?). So I can actually conceivably go and see them live where I can stand up taller than anyone else in the 3rd row (which won’t be hard as everyone else will be 7) and hold up a huge banner that says, Pas op, Toby! Die Politievrouw is Mega Mindy!!

All I will have to do is conceal the banner all through the opening act which is more often than not a group called K3:

A group of three suspiciously post-adolescent singers who call themselves “K3” because all their names begin with the letter “K”. ......And “KKK” was taken.

As long as none of the K3 people spot me or my banner, I’ll be fine. I’ll just lay low so they don’t wonder what someone their age is doing in the audience. Perhaps I’ll bring a kid with me for cover and pretend I’m its’ mother.

Then at the appropriate moment in the show, when Toby and Mega Mindy are standing on the stage, I will fly my banner and shout as loudly as I can and I don’t even care if I get arrested because I’m doing it in the name of love and they’ll thank me later.

And I’m sure, Toby, that if you ask nicely she’ll wear the pink spandex outfit when you two are alone.
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Here's What I Did on Election Night

2008-11-05T23:27:00.004+01:00

1. At 6:30 PM, I went to my Belgian Orientation class which is a pain in my backside, but it's required by law.

2. During class I noticed that there was a huge cluster of cat boogers on the sleeve of my black coat. Yes I said "cat boogers". My cat Peanut has a cold and we find that the cats like to sneeze on things we own to sort of "share" it with us. And apparently she had had a big sneezing session on my coat without my knowledge and I'd been walking around with it. So anyhoo, I had to find a way to conceal it until the break.

3. I spent the duration of the break in the W.C. scrubbing an alarmingly large cluster of dried-on cat boogers off the sleeve of my coat. I ended up having to soak most of the sleeve in the sink and work everything out with bits of paper towel and soap. When people came in I pretended like it was all perfectly normal and I avoided eye contact.

4. Wim picked me up from the class and we drove straight for my gig in Antwerp. The sleeve of my coat was still wet, but at least it wasn't covered with cat boogers.

5. Arrived at the gig were they were having a whole event dedicated to the American election. There were screens up everywhere with CNN coverage and red, white, and blue balloons (which could easily have been leftover from events celebrating France, Holland or Britain, but one never knows). There was even an "American Hot Dog Stand" where I ordered a vegan hot dog (which was, as it happened, a hot dog bun with sauerkraut but no meat).

6. I watched the show (such as it was) where they clearly hadn't decided wether to talk or show videos or watch TV or all of the above all at once. I had another sauerkraut "dog" which was rather fabulous, I must say.

7. Just when the crowd was at its' loudest and most inattentive, they brought me on stage. I spent the next 20 minutes yelling at the top of my lungs in my Obama '08 T-shirt.

8. My set thankfully over, I gladly accepted a beer from an audience member even though I'm on a diet because I was slightly traumatized (and that was as good an excuse as any).

9. I spent the next hour assuring Obama-supporting Belgians that I was certain he would win. Because I just knew.

10. We drove home listening to lots of election stuff on the radio. Also more than the usual amount of Motown hits.

11. We set up the fold-out couch preparing to stay up until 6:00 AM and see the results. Wim was worried that McCain might win, but I assured him that Obama was going to win. Because, like I said, I just knew. Then we fell asleep.

12. About 6:00-something in the morning, Wim woke me up saying something about Obama winning, but as I think I've pointed out, I knew already. But Wim was awake and saw the actual moment when it happened so he's forever cooler than me now. Either way it was decided (by him) that it was time for me to wake up and we watched lots of stuff about the election he recorded on TV.

13. Having had no sleep, I went for a long walk/run for about an hour and it rained on me and now I've got a cold which I'm certain I caught from Peanut and then was aggravated by the weather.

14. So now I'm sniffling and sneezing but I'm pretty happy about the Obama win, even though it was no surprise to me.
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The American Elections - What Does The World Think?

2008-11-04T15:54:00.003+01:00

This is really interesting click on it!!:

If The World Could Vote

Halloween in Belgium?

2008-10-28T14:41:00.003+01:00

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.

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, Samhain. Samhain, (mysteriously pronounced ”Sew’en”), 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.

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 1970s. 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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

NEIGHBOR: Yes, can I help you?

KIDS: Trick or treat!!

NEIGHBOR: What?

KIDS: Trick or treat!

NEIGHBOR: I don’t understand. Are you selling cookies?

KID: No, you’re supposed to give us sweets!

NEIGHBOR: Why am I supposed to give you sweets?

KID: Because we rang your doorbell and we shouted “Trick or Treat” and we’re wearing costumes.

NEIGHBOR: If you want sweets why don’t you go to a shop?

KID: You’re supposed to give it to us!

NEIGHBOR: Who told you this?

PAUSE

NEIGHBOR: I think you are very rude little children.

KID: If you don’t give us sweets, we will play a trick on you.

NEIGHBOR: What trick?

THE KIDS LOOK AT EACH OTHER, REALIZING THEY’VE NEVER SEEN THAT PART PLAYED OUT IN FILMS.

NEIGHBOR: I think you’ve already played a trick by ringing my doorbell and annoying me, eh?

KIDS: We’re just trying to act like Americans.

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.

KIDS: OK. Sorry.

NEIGHBOR: That’s OK. Just don’t come back.
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Not That This Has Anything To Do With Anything, But Here Are Some Ghost Pictures I Once Took

2008-10-10T01:25:00.005+02:00

OK I PROMISE I'm going to write a blog tomorrow. I promise I promise I promise. I've been busy and blah blah blah.

Meanwhile, please enjoy these genuine ghost photos I took several years ago.

These were taken by me at Hampton Court Palace in the kitchen area. All the photos were taken with one of those disposable camera thingies. Here's the first one:

OK. Don't freak out - the person you can see part of who's wearing Tudor gear is just one of the actors they have there for atmosphere. Here's another one:

Now don't say, "Oh my GOD! I can see a child in that one!!", because that is, in fact, a child. What you should be noticing is the rather pronounced white obstruction that keeps appearing in all the photos:

See? I mean please. How could you possibly miss that? And don't start trying to rationalize everything by saying it was maybe the strap to the camera, because A) there was no strap; and B) any strap would have come out black. It's a ghost. Just admit it. Here's the final one with even more ghosty stuff:

What's that thing on the left? Doesn't it look like part of a person standing there? And still the same white obstruction which by the way didn't appear on any of the other photos from that roll of film.

Cool, huh?

Nice to see a "white obstruction" that isn't a Republican politician, eh?

.....More tomorrow, like I said.
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What I Am Here To Teach The Belgians

2008-09-24T14:57:00.001+02:00

Sometimes all of us, I suppose, question how we got where we are I life. Sometimes we then wax philosophical and ask ourselves Why. Because everything has a purpose, doesn’t it? So why was this particular complaint-filled American born comedienne and vegetarian cat enthusiast sent to Waffleland? To sort these people out, that’s why.

Following are some areas where I would like to bestow some of my wisdom:

The popcorn thing

The first time I went to a Belgian Cinema, I was, at first, duly impressed. So much cleaner and fancier than the movie houses run by resentful British teenagers that I had grown accustomed to in the UK! There were cushioned couches in the lobby! The theaters themselves were clean and the seats were neatly numbered and comfortable to sit in! Then I went to order my popcorn…………There was no salted popcorn! Only sugared! I acquiesced and bought some, but it really ruined the whole cinematic experience for me. I don’t even remember what movie it was I saw that time, such was my rage. I made a point of complaining loudly several times on that and subsequent visits, until lo and behold they finally got some salted popcorn in. So now there was a choice. And I didn’t even care if the reason was that the confrontation-shy Belgians just wanted to shut up the loud American lady. I got results and that’s all that matters. Mission Accomplished.

The kiss thing

Belgians kiss whenever they greet each other. It is such a nightmare. It’s not that I’m unfriendly, it’s just that I don’t see why I should have to endure having traces of someone else’s spittle on my cheek in the name of friendship. And they are downright obsessive with this too. Very often at a party, everyone arriving will go around the room kissing everyone and then do the same when they leave.

BTW did you know that according to the Urban Dictionary a “Belgian Kiss” means a kiss where you accidentally pass along a bit of phlegm? (Perhaps so named because of being Flemmish?) Now I’m even more grossed out!

I have tried on many occasions to assert my non-kissing stance and simply nod, smile, and wave, but it just gets me labeled as a social pariah.
This whole ritual is a major reason why I prefer to spend my spare time shut up in the house with the curtains drawn hanging out with the cats. And more often than not, when I do join in, I get tripped up by the whole number thing; One kiss for someone you know well, three kisses for a casual acquaintance) that I am constantly committing social faux pas. Why just last weekend at a funeral I stood awkwardly next to a table of particularly judgmental mourners who were waiting for me t put out as I said to Wim, “How many do I do? One?! Three?”…It went on for far too long and they could hear everything I was saying, so it was all the more embarrassing when on Wim’s advice I opted to shake everyone’s hands. The mood at their table suddenly went very icy, even for a funeral, and once again I had to endure 3 hours of shame as The Girl Who Wouldn’t Put Out (which would be very ironic for anyone who knew me in college). Yeeeuch. I hate the whole business and I just want people to stop it. But what can I do to change the habits of an entire nation? I’m working on it…..

The cheddar cheese thing

In this nation so fond of food and so close to the Mecca of cheese, France, you’d think that you’d be able to get anything and everything you wanted in the cheese department. Not so, my friend. The one cheese that everyone else in the Western World takes for granted is completely overlooked: Cheddar.

Cheddar cheese is bar none the best cheese in the world, one of the few things that the English excel in. Don’t get me wrong: I love me some Brie and I’ll never say no to a good Gorgonzola, but when you’re making yourself a nice toasted sandwich, Edam just doesn’t do the trick. Cheddar cheese is one of those beautiful things in life that I have always taken for granted because it was simply always there. Until living in Belgium I never had any concept that such a land could exist where shopkeepers being asked where they’ve hidden the cheddar will cock their heads to one side and say, ”Wablieft??”

There is a big cheese shop around the corner from me where they’ve got lots of different cheeses and the audacity to claim that you can get anything you want there. Echt waar? Because they did actually have a big yellow chunk of something which they called “cheddar” once, and I bought some and that, I’m here to tell you, was NOT cheddar. It was bland and Gouda-esque and didn’t have anywhere near that wonderful cheddary taste. Hey I’ve been to THE Cheddar Gorge. Prayed there. I know what I’m talking about. But here’s something desperately sad: I was so cheddar starved that I actually kept buying the stuff just because it was called cheddar. I kept hoping they’d get an English (or Irish!) person in their cheese factory and get the recipe right for a change, but no such luck. Finally they discontinued the bogus cheddar altogether because “nobody liked it”. Of course not! It wasn’t real cheddar!

The lack of Mexican food

where are all the Mexicans? I’ve seen every other nationality of people here, but no Mexicans! ¿Donde estan los Mexicanos? I mean it! I am missing burritos and tacos and chimichangas ever since leaving California. The Mexican government needs to seriously look into invading Europe to bring these people some food with a little spice in it! And if not Mexico, then Taco Bell.

OK. I’ve said my piece. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.
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Pretty Is As Pretty Does

2008-09-19T15:20:00.003+02:00

A lot of people have been finding their way on to my blog lately by googling “best-looking world leaders” and then happening upon my blog entry on the subject. Apparently the upswing in interest on this subject has been because of the selection of Governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin to be running mate of John McCain. I actually got an email from an erstwhile American reader asking why I didn’t add her to the list? (!!!) I relayed this anecdote to a friend who said, “Add Sarah Palin to the list of Best Looking World Leaders?!! You might as well add Eva Braun!!”

And I disagree, for two reasons. First of all, because Eva Braun never even ran for any sort of public office; and secondly, the comparison of Sarah Palin to Eva Braun is awfully unfair to Eva Braun.

And then there’s the fact that I don’t find Sarah Palin attractive at all. She has the leathery visage of a heavy meat eater. Sorry folks, but vegetarians just plain age better. You don’t like me saying that? Then drop that hamburger and do something about it.

I also think that when you are a murderer who relishes in killing moose and the aerial hunting of wolves that your bad karma takes its’ toll on you. Wolves killed in this manner often die slow painful deaths. Their orphaned cubs are left to starve to death. Sarah Palin actually offered hunters a cash incentive to murder wolves: for every wolf leg that they turned in she would pay them $150. Not much “pretty” or even remotely feminine about that.

In contrast, the worst you can say about Eva Braun is that she had bad taste in men. If she were alive today, she’d be on Oprah as a Woman Who Loves Too Much. But the worst thing she was actually guilty of was not listening when her friends said, “Eva, I know you think he’s cute, but your boyfriend really is an asshole…”

The lady was naïve, no doubt. But she didn’t have anything to do with the evil wrought by her boyfriend, nor did she take delight in the gore of murdered animals. In fact, Eva loved critters!

In Googling pictures of Eva with animals, all I saw were these rather sweet (if you ignore WWII) pictures.

In Googling pictures of Sarah Palin with animals I found this:

I truly fail to see what anyone could possibly find attractive about this evil animal killer. So, uh, no. I won’t be adding this person to my list of World’s Best Looking Leaders. In fact the very thought makes me nauseous

Give me Eva Braun over that any day.
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A Word About the Duvet

2008-09-17T16:43:00.003+02:00

I haven’t blogged in a while. I’ve been living my para-blog life in a sea of activity having all sorts of adventures including a trip to the UK to do a few shows and being attacked by the insane drunk wife of a (now former) friend. Talk about it? Um, no thanks. But I’m sure the whole event will worm its’ way into some future writing when I’ve turned it all into comedy rather than something that gives me a rash and indigestion when I think about it. Suffice it to say that the afore-mentioned insane drunk resembles a lobster enough (narrow hips, wide shoulders, flailing arms and a ruddy alcoholic’s complexion) that I have been having all these horrible Captain Nemo-esque nightmares ever since. But enough about England.

Since being once again savagely diagnosed with a cat and dust mite allergy a few weeks ago, a lot of changes have taken place in our house. We replaced our velvet curtains (which were to be fair only about 20% velvet and 80% cat hair) with shower curtains, which may sound a little freaky, but actually looks really cool; and also we’ve reduced the cat visitation quota in our bedroom to only two a night, which might not sound like much of a sacrifice to most people, but having 10 cats it means having to go through a Sophie’s Choice style selection every night. There is a lot of crying gnashing of teeth. It isn’t pretty. The only person not allowed to vie for a coveted spot in our room is of course Walter who is still serving time for having shat on Wim.

And on top of all of this, I am having to change our bedding every two days. I wouldn’t mind this ritual at all; in fact I would quite like it, if not for the fact that I live smack dab in the heart of Duvet Country.

The whole concept behind a duvet is that you no longer need a top sheet! You just change the duvet cover and voila! It’s a sheet and a duvet cover!

Here is what Wikipedia says:

Duvets reduce the complexity of making a bed, as it is a single covering instead of the combination of sheets, blankets, and quilts or other bed covers, which is traditional in many parts of the world. The cover is called a "duvet cover" or a "quilt cover".

Something they don’t tell you is that if you are someone who, like me, tosses and turns a lot in the night, sometimes you will wake up and the whole thing will be a tangled mess. Many is the time that Wim has awakened in the middle of the night to me screaming under a quilt that had twisted itself into a giant ball, crushing my lungs while my arms and legs are freezing to death. It always turns into a big scene while I scream disparaging things about Europe while Wim sorts the contraption out. He’s used to it, being Belgian and all. I remember one time when I first moved to England and was working answering phones for this London hotel booker, this American tourist staying in one of the accommodations called me and said, “There are no sheets on the bed”. When I explained to her that the cover on the quilt thing was the sheet, she sounded like she was going to cry and said, “I can’t do this. I’m an American”. It was a hilarious thing to say, but I’ve got to say, I see her point. They are weird things and it’s rather jolting to be suddenly confronted with them out of nowhere.

But sleeping under the duvet is nothing next to trying to change the damned things. Getting the duvet in and out of the cover is like constructing a four-man camping tent when you’re drunk.

And the bigger the duvet, the harder it is to get it all properly situated inside the cover. When changing the duvet cover I have found myself trapped inside the thing, fallen backwards off the bed, and even once fallen down a flight of stairs all inside an innocuous looking cloth sack.

And the cats, some of whom like to sleep under the covers, are often traumatized by inadvertently slipping into the wrong fold and disappearing into a labyrinth of sheeting. After you rescue them out they stand for long hours staring at you from a corner of the room while you both think disparaging thoughts about Europe.

It’s all such an ordeal. I used to avoid changing the duvet covers for weeks and weeks because I absolutely hate it. That’s where I probably got attacked with all the dust mites in the first place! My health has been compromised! I should sue the European Union!
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The Worst Thing The Doctor Could Have Said To Me

2008-09-01T19:37:00.003+02:00

I’ve been sick a lot lately. I’ve had bronchitis and colds and sinusitis and every other kind of upper respiratory thing you can think of. So the other day Wim took me to the doctor and they did all these tests and took a bunch of blood and did head scans and everything – all of which it seemed needed to take place at THE CRACK OF DAWN, and today, as I braced myself, the doctor delivered the verdict: I’m allergic to cats. I had been preparing myself to hear him say the name of some sort of cancer or Bubonic Plague or organ failure, so I had no idea that it would be something Much Worse.

I can’t be allergic to cats! I have 10 of them! But according to the doctor, this apparently is why I’ve been breaking into fevers and lying immobile on the floor gasping for breath. Cats and dust mites. So basically anything in the house that I’m not married to, I’m allergic to.

As I sat there in his office I went through the whole gamut of human emotions. First there was Extreme Disappointment, because I had already planned out a One Woman Show for next year’s Edinburgh Festival called, “Cancer Lady!”: I imagined all the fun I’d have with costume changes and different wigs and how much gratuitous press I’d get. So in a strange way, that was all a bit of a let down. Then I went through Anger as I reacted to this evil doctor having the audacity to suggest that I should get rid of my cats. Get rid of them? The last evil Allergist who suggested that has been the subject of ridicule in my act for the last decade! And finally there was Guilt as I came to the awful realization that not only was I going to have to start using the vacuum cleaner every day, but also that because of my physical impairment both Wim and I were probably going to have to cut back on having 4 or 5 cats sleep the whole night through draped across our faces. I might not ever be able to sleep with a cat blocking my air passage again!! It’s really horrible.

So now we have a new plan. I’m off to work in England next week, and the day of my return, Wim is going to hire a team of professional cleaners to do a big sanitization of our house, and then I will have to dust, vacuum and mop twice a day with a face mask on and Wim will have to groom the cats. And if all of this fails, I shall have to call N.A.S.A. and have some sort of suit constructed for me to be able to live in my own house. If I have to become The Boy In The Plastic Bubble, so be it.

Meanwhile I’ve got a big box of drugs the doctor gave me to try out. We’ll see how that works out.
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Who's Who in Our House

2008-08-19T15:42:00.006+02:00

So last week I got the Cat Vibe again. I had a few dreams about a tabby cat and then actually saw her in the neighborhood and then suddenly she was right there standing on top of a car when I walked by, so I picked her up and brought her home. How did I know she didn’t belong to anyone? I don’t know how I know these things; I just know that I know. And apparently cats know that I know because they react to me like I’m a taxi with my light on. Turns out the Cat Vibe was confirmed once again when we took Anya to the doctor: he confirmed that she had been living on the streets for a while and had also been in some sort of an accident and had a head injury and missing teeth.

Anya

So now Anya is officially a member of our family! And yes, for anyone paying attention she is named after a certain grumpy-but-loveable Russian of the same name who has featured in this blog (and has a bit of a fan base!).

So now we have 10 cats! That’s 5 cats past the Crazy Cat Lady mark, in case you’re keeping track. There are 5 males and 5 females. As they are all rescue cats we certainly didn’t plan it, but it’s nice that it worked out like that anyway.

But I don’t want this blog to be all about just one cat, because the other cats are likely to feel left out. So here is a brief profile of all our cats, in order of when we met them:

Edna

Edna was a “hard to place” rescue cat that I heard about when I was volunteering at a swan sanctuary in England. One of the swan ladies also worked for a cat rescue place and said they had a cat who had had three different owners who always returned her. Right then and there I decided to go get her. She was being kept in the rather smelly house of a kindly cat-fosterer who told me that her name was “Jinx”, because she’d had such bad luck, and that I must keep that name. As I left with her, I mumbled under my breath, “The first thing I’m changing is that awful name!!” and called her Edna which she responded to right away. Eventually she moved with me to Belgium and now she spends her days happily on the loft bed cuddling with a stuffed ferret (not a real ferret) toy called Felipe. She’s never really been fond of the other cats, although she has been showing an uncharacteristic fondness for Anya – perhaps she finds her brain damage sort of endearing.

Walter

Walter is the official boss of all the cats. He runs everything downstairs. He would run things upstairs, too, but he’s no longer allowed upstairs after he rather vindictively pooped on Wim while he was sleeping. Not once, but twice. We know it was a territory thing and he was just trying to show everyone that he was the man of the house, but Wim wasn’t very receptive to the message as A) He likes to think of himself as the man of the house; and B) No one likes being pooped on. I first met Walter at a cat rescue place where he acted all cute and stood on my shoulder and put on quite a show. As soon as I brought him home he dropped the cute act and set up his dictatorship. It was too late. We’d been had.

Angelo

I met little Angelo at a cat rescue place when he was no bigger than a mouse and quite ill and covered in his own poop because he needed someone to look after him. I brought him home and Walter immediately took him in, gave him regular baths and taught him all the important cat stuff he needed to know. Now Angelo is a big strapping lad who enjoys playing with the other cats on the stairs. He also likes oatmeal with organic raw sugar.

Martha

Martha was being kept alone in a room at the cat rescue boat where I was working because everyone thought she was really old and too frail to be exposed to germs that other cats might have. She was blind and walked slowly like a very old lady, but without a cane. We adopted her and took her to the vet and found out that she wasn’t old, she just had a terrible infection. We got her fixed up and now she’s very healthy and happy. She is one of the most playful cats we have and she runs and plays with balls and has a great time. She is blind but has such good hearing that she can find a ball that all the cats are chasing before they can get anywhere near it. Her one fault is that because she’s blind she doesn’t realize that we aren’t also cats and she uses the full force of her claws when she plays with us. So we keep an oven mitt handy.

Papa Steve

It was ice cold I the middle of winter. I was in Leuven running towards the train station to catch the midnight train (the last train of the night) back to Gent. As I was crossing a square, I heard this strange howling and this creature made out of grey mangled fluff came running toward me. I picked it up. It seemed to be a cat, but inside the fluff it was skinny and weighed almost nothing. I made an instantaneous executive decision that if this cat belonged to someone they certainly weren’t taking very good care of him and I carried on running for the train with him in my arms. I was worried that I might get kicked off the train for having a cat, but I decided that if that happened I would just have to find a way to survive the night because I wasn’t leaving this particular bag of fluff for anything. A train conductor walked toward me and I was thinking, “this is it. I’m busted. I’m going to have to spend the night in the snow with a raggedy stray”, when the conductor asked, “Jongen of meisje?” (boy or girl?)………Whew!! Later we took Papa Steve to the vet and it turned out he had a severe throat infection and hadn't been able to eat for a while, so it was a good thing he found me! He’s all better now, and now he’s this chubby guy who sleeps all the time. Trivia note: When I first brought him home, Wim uttered the now legendary words, “We’re not going to have 5 cats!!!” Ha!

Bram

Down the street from us there was a messy construction site and I soon started seeing a grey kitten living in the bushes there. He was probably about 4-6 months old and very very skinny. I brought him food a few times, but he would always run away and come back and eat it after I was gone. Then every time I made eye contact with him I would send him a psychic picture of our house and “tell” him to come there. We always kept a dish of cat food out front for the strays and I was hoping he’d find it. One night I dreamt that the grey kitten was in front of our house on top of one of our chairs with some adult cats eating the food, and the next night it actually happened. Then he started hanging around in front of our house and I was feeding him but I still couldn’t get near him. Then one day he was playing with some of our cats and they had chased each other through the window and into our house, so I quickly closed the window and trapped him inside. He was so scared that he wouldn’t come out from under our couch for about three weeks, so we put a sandbox and food there for him. He made steady progress and now he is one of the cuddliest kitties in the house. When we had another little kitten, Elfke (who sadly died earlier this year) he became her surrogate father and took care of her. That’s her in the photo with him. Pretty cool for a wild street guy!!

Vienna

One day when I was working at the cat sanctuary, this guy came in with Vienna. She was an award-winning pedigree Persian and her owners had moved to Brazil and left her with him. He didn’t know what to do with her, but he wanted someone to give her a good home rather than using her as a pedigree breeding cat which she had always been. Sounds like a job for us! So now Vienna is very happy; she’s had her operation, and she’s one of the gang – just a regular cat instead of a pedigree celebrity. We still have her awards and pedigree papers in a closet somewhere, but they don’t matter so much. We love her for who she is.

Francis

On day Wim came to pick me up at the cat sanctuary and I was showing him a particular cage full of kittens (dangerous!) and this one rather scruffy little guy kept shyly coming up and leaning against Wim’s arm. He had some horrible fungus so he had lost fur in patches, but he had clearly chosen Wim to be his dad, so we took him home. The vet said he had to be quarantined for a few months while we were treating the fungus, so we had him in our room with us but he would cry and cry when we went away because he couldn’t stand being alone. So a few days later at the cat sanctuary we met another little kitten who had the same medical issues……

Peanut

We brought Peanut home because we figured we can’t keep Francis quarantined on his own, and we might as well rescue another kitty in the process. Francis and Peanut soon became the best of friends and still are to this day. Peanut is quite the princess and has all the male cats in the house do her bidding. But Francis is very possessive of her, so anyone else trying to give her a bath only gets a few licks in before he pounces on them. Peanut is quite self-possessed and the only cat who Walter allows to sleep in His Spot in the window. Peanut is also officially in charge of waking Wim up for work, which she does every morning.

I shall close this blog entry with some rather fabulous group photos. See if you can recognize who’s who!

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What Sort of 1930's Wife Am I?

2008-08-19T00:18:00.005+02:00

I am definitely, absolutely without a doubt adding a new blog entry tomorrow. Really I mean it. The worst of my Summer Ennui has passed and I am ready once again to take on the world, virtual and otherwise. Tomorrow there will be bloggage. Meanwhile, I encourage you to take this test to see what sort of 1930s Wife/Husband you would be. I did, and the results were surprisingly positive, considering that I regularly cook whilst wearing pajamas and I swear like a 17th Century Pirate:

As a 1930s wife, I am
Superior

Take the test!

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My Summer Ennui

2008-07-30T14:31:00.001+02:00

I haven’t written a blog entry in more than 3 weeks. I think about it – I do. And then I just say, “eh?” and lie down on the couch reading historical novels. And I realized that this happens every year to me around this time: My Summer Ennui.

It’s about this time of year that it hits me that it is, in fact, summer and that all this hot weather and tank tops aren’t going to be going away any time soon. I can’t write because I CANNOT THINK IN THIS HEAT.

I’ve lived in much hotter places, like Los Angeles, but this Belgian 80° F (26°C) stuff is still too hot for me. It will all be too much for me when I am an old woman and I imagine I will have to retire somewhere like Siberia to avoid it all.

Why does anyone like hot weather? It’s so inhumane! How does anyone sleep in the heat? I can’t! If I lived in some equatorial region I would quite literally never sleep. I would roam the streets at night looking for air-conditioned bars. Sleeping in the heat is unbearable. I can’t get comfortable by scrunching the duvet in some direction, and usually one mosquito who found a way to sneak in to our house will spend the entire night buzzing around my head. And if I’m lucky, if I’m lucky one of my cats will leap on my head in an attempt to get to the mosquito. If I’m even luckier my cat will eat said mosquito whilst perched casually across my face while another cat tries to tackle him to get the mosquito away from him. I will mumble, ”There’s a person under here!” feebly from under the cat heap but it will be to no avail.

Then during the day: What to wear? If I wear jeans I’m too hot. If I wear a skirt, my legs are too white. And a jacket is right out of the question. I love wearing jackets. They’re sort of my “thing”. I remember years ago when I was still living in Los Angeles, I had this wonderful oh-so-hip jacket that I liked to wear everywhere I went. Since I usually only emerge in the early evening it wasn’t too much of a problem, but I do remember there was this one occasion where it was unbearably hot and I was wearing my jacket walking down the street towards a gig. I was in a horrible mood because of the heat and I was eagerly anticipating the cool slap of air-conditioning that would hit me upon entering the club. So this lady stops me on the street and says, ”Aren’t you hot in that jacket???!!” and I shouted, ”Yes! It’s too fucking hot in this city! Why do people live here??!!” Then I let out a random scream of embarrassment and ran away. I looked back and she was just standing there looking at me like I was crazy. And maybe I was. But I never would have got that crazy if there had been a cool breeze.

Another time I had to go to this stupid job interview that was clear across Los Angeles and there was a heat wave and it was about 104° F (40°C) outside and I had to drive there and I didn’t have air conditioning in my car.

The directions I had to follow were ridiculous and I’d had to wear nylons because I needed to look “officey”, so I was basically encased in synthetic fabrics in the pounding heat, and there was hardly a breeze because traffic was at a standstill in so many places. I was miserable and sweating and then I started crying because I still had to work a day job because I didn’t have a trust fund like so many of the other comedians and my only other option would have been to work comedy clubs on the road and clearly I didn’t want to do that because that would have meant a whole life of driving to Godforsaken places in my non-air-conditioned car. I was sobbing like a baby and people in air-conditioned cars next to me were staring at me.

When I finally got to the job interview I was 45 minutes late because of the traffic and I was so covered in sweat that I looked like I’d just fallen in a pond, and to top it off, unbeknownst to me at the time, all that crying had made my eye makeup run down my face in a blurry blackness. Plus I had a pounding headache which was probably the beginning stages of Heat Stroke, so my mood wasn’t at its’ best.

When some colleague of the person I was supposed to interview with said that because I was late everyone I needed to talk to had just gone to lunch and I’d have to wait nearly 2 hours, I think something rather important in my brain just snapped. I didn’t say a word, I just walked outside, opened my water bottle, poured it over my head, and headed home. As I was walking toward my car, I glanced over my shoulder and the colleague person was staring at me through a window like a frightened prairie settler.

Later, the employment agency that had set me up with that interview left a message on my phone machine reprimanding me for my Very Strange Behavior. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.

Not my fault though. It was the heat.
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What Every American Expat Hears on the 4th of July

2008-07-05T19:52:00.004+02:00

I have been living outside the US for 9 years; first in the UK, and now in Belgium. That’s a pretty significant amount of time. Enough time that my accent has long since lost that nasally twang and now hovers rather indefinably somewhere over the mid-Atlantic, I’ve accepted that ice cubes aren’t always present in drinks and I’m totally OK with the concept of instant coffee. I’ve adjusted fine; it’s American friends I talk to on the phone occasionally who haven’t.

Every year around this time I have a conversation that goes something like this:

FRIEND/RELATIVE IN AMERICA: So what do Belgians do for the 4th of July?

ME: The same thing they do on the 3rd of July.

F/R.I.A: they celebrate it for two days??

ME: No, they don’t celebrate it at all. It isn’t a Belgian holiday.

(PAUSE)

F/R. I.A: So how are you going to be celebrating it?

…And it is at this point that I wonder if they honestly imagine me standing in the middle of a Belgian street dressed all in red, white and blue, a hotdog in one hand and a sparkler in the other as the Belgians go about their normal activities around me.

And that would be a vegetarian hotdog by the way.

I’ve been a vegetarian for 20 years! There isn’t anyone I know who doesn’t know this! And yet still I also get phone calls in November asking, “What are you doing for Turkey Day?”

*sigh*

Do these particular Americans not remember how I was with the 4th of July when I was there? It has never been my thing. Why would I participate in a holiday that revolves around 3 things that I’m against: Meat, Fireworks, and Blistering Sunshine? Fourth of July parties were always an ordeal for me of having to bring my own package of Vegetarian hotdogs and then spending half the party standing there supervising while they were on the grill to make sure no one let them touch the meat. Then I’d hunt around for a bit of shade to sit in and watch as everyone else ate the rest of my Veggie Dogs (because they taste much better than the meaty ones).

Then just as I’d be nicely settled into a lawn chair drinking a Piña Colada and perhaps having a nice conversation, the party host would invariably shout, “Come on everyone! Let’s head down to the beach to see the fireworks!!” …No, let’s stay here where the beer and chairs are, I would think, but I’d end up getting swept along with everyone else. At that point my mood would begin to plummet as I overanalyzed the banality of it all.

Yes, I am the Ebenezer Scrooge of Independence Day.

Fireworks are like The Emperor’s New Clothes and everyone reacts with “Ooohs” and “Aaaaaahs” as if reading from a script. I can think of very little less impressive than fireworks. They are so predictable: They go up as one little light and then they burst into a big flower shape. Yawn! Once you’ve seen one fireworks display, you’ve seen them all. The only skill involved is that the people setting them off manage to light the fuse without blowing their hands off. Whoop-de-do. And every year some kid somewhere does manage to blow a body part off. Who ever came up with the idea of marketing explosives as entertainment? …”Here, kids, here’s something with gunpowder in . Have fun!! Whoops! Don’t light it in your hands, you might – -“ KERPOW!! …..Ooooooh! Aaaaaaah!

This year some of our friends invited us over for a “4th of July party for Jovanka” which was really just an excuse to get together and drink some beer. No barbecue, no blistering sunshine, and no fireworks. Just the way I like it.

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Fame

2008-07-03T16:30:00.005+02:00

So I was out for a walk the other day and I saw this car. Luckily I still have the camera that I “borrowed” from The Russian a few weeks ago so I took a picture of it.

I couldn’t figure out what they were trying to say here. Was it a statement? Was it a request? Had they just got through seeing The Secret and they were “putting it out in the Universe”? Did whoever owned the car also have cars with the words, “Money” and “A Stable Relationship” emblazoned on them?

I spent enough years in Los Angeles to have personally witnessed the High Priest and Priestess of self-promotional vehicles owners; Dennis Woodruff and Angeleyne, respectively.

Angeleyne is the lesser of the two. She began her quest for Fame on a series of billboards in Los Angeles.

Her goal? To be famous. Period. She wasn’t an actress or a singer or even a model; she just wanted to be famous for nothing, making her perhaps the only truly honest person in Hollywood, also one of the few truly successful ones. She wanted to be famous for nothing; She is famous for nothing. Mission Accomplished! She’s so famous that people, including me, would squeal with delight whenever they’d spot her in her signature pink corvette.

I once made a wish in my mind while I was driving late one night, then I stopped at a red light and she stopped right next to me. And the next day the wish came true! Coincidence?! I hardly think so, my friend.

Dennis Woodruff’s story is a little more involved and far freakier. Legend has it that he came to Hollywood in the 1970s to be a star, it wasn’t working out, so he started decorating his car (which he was living in) with pictures of him in the windows and crazy colors and the plea, “Cast Me” lest you weren’t getting the message.

Every time he got a different car he would doll it up in the same fashion.

Meanwhile he started making his own independent films, which he would sell out of the back of his car. At first, people thought he was just crazy. But after several years of this he began to gain a little respect as a Hollywood fixture. Hollywood hipsters started paying big bucks for his cars and he started having cult appeal and getting cast in films – his little plan had worked! Oh don’t get me wrong, he was still crazy, but in Hollywood “crazy” sells as long as it’s packaged right.

What gets me is why this elusive thing called “Fame” is something that people think they want. It seems to me that fame would be a rather huge pain in the ass. Famous people are constantly scrutinized. They are followed and photographed and examined by a maniacal portion of the public who are waiting to see them at their worst so they can hold up pictures of them and scream, “See? Those famous people are all idiots!!” when all the time they themselves would like nothing better than to become one of Those Famous People.

Why? Can you imagine how annoying it must be to constantly be interrupted and be made to sign a piece of paper that is being shoved under your face? And by the way, what are autographs for, anyway? A sort of “I was there” proof that you actually “met” (accosted is more to the point) that particular celebrity? Surely something is wrong with the state of your relationships if your friends demand written proof? And then who’s to say that you didn’t just scribble the word “Madonna” on that napkin yourself? It doesn’t sound like your friends are trusting you much there buddy, so unless they’re expert handwriting analysts, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that. Can you get a DNA sample next time?

I’ve had teeny tiny tastes of fame, and that was enough. Not for me, thanks. It feels decidedly odd to have people grinning at you like you’re some sort of Circus Freak just because they saw you on Tee Vee the night before. If I ever did accidentally become actually famous, I would hire an actress to do all my interviews and public appearances. She’d be the one having to constantly worry about her weight and what her hair looked like, while I’d be in a back room somewhere eating pizza and speaking into a prompter she’d be wearing so she’d have clever things to say. This way if someone criticized “Jovanka”, I’d be able to disassociate myself from “her” and join in the gossip saying, “Yes, she has got really fat lately……Bitch”.

But whatever I say on the subject, people will continue to pull silly stunts in the quest for notoriety. Maybe Dennis Woodruff has developed an international following, with people from different corners of the globe aspiring to his greatness.

Still it’s interesting to note that when some Belgian guy saw this:

He decided to pare it down, remove all the bells and whistles and produce this:

No nonsense, straight and to the point. Because Belgians don’t go for all that crazy stuff.
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Me and Sports: Not a Good Mix

2008-06-29T22:56:00.005+02:00

Football season is upon us. Perhaps it has been for several months, I really wouldn’t know. I only just noticed it last week. And by the way, when I say “football” I don’t mean what Americans call football, I mean what Americans call soccer. Outside of the US it seems you don’t really use the word “soccer” unless you’re a teenage girl in a badly fitting gym skirt trying to get out of P.E.

Right now as I write this, the finals of the European Championship are being played. It’s Spain vs. Germany; two nations with a common bond of past fascism and a love for goofy music (I give you Los Del Rio and The Kelly Family, respectively). Wim is in a bar with some friends watching it, and I am sitting at home in stripy pajama bottoms and a comedy club T-shirt not watching it, like a civilized person. I tried (I did, I did) to get into it this year. Three days ago I went to the same bar to watch Russia and Spain compete in the semi finals. I ended up being put off the whole sports thing once again as I was reminded of that caring-so-much-about-the-outcome-of-a-ball-game thing which I have never been able to get my head around, try as I might. I made the mistake of watching a football game that Russia had no chance of winning (apparently) with actual Russians. They were so upset by the outcome of the game that three days on their lives are still in utter ruin.

This was my friend Anya before the game:

Looking relatively happy and enjoying an evening out.

And THIS is Anya after the crushing 3-0 defeat of Russia:

Devastated. Lost. Inconsolable. It’s sad, really.

At that point I tried all my lighthearted ”It’s only a game” ploys, but she was a lost cause.

Luckily there was lots of alcohol.

But it got me thinking: I will simply never understand this phenomenon. The only allegiance I ever feel toward a particular sports team is if they have a lot of good-looking players or if I like the colors of their uniforms. All that running about and ball kicking they do is completely inconsequential to me. Don’t get me wrong: I like football. In fact it’s the only sport I really do like because it's easy to follow. The ball either goes one way or the other and if they get it past the little man and into the net thingy it’s a goal. I’ve been known to watch entire games and even follow a World Cup tournament. But at the end of the game, whether the good looking guys in the pretty outfits won or lost has no effect on me.

I once was hosting a comedy show in Denver Colorado on a night that the Denver team (American football) had lost to someone else in the Superbowl thingy. Like the truly hacky comic I was at the time, I started my set out by saying, “How’s everyone doing tonight?” to which I was met with steely stares and faint groans. For a few seconds I stood there flabbergasted staring back at them. I mean you would think I’d just bounded on stage in a Nazi Death Camp and said, “Hey gang! Why all the long faces?!” – So momentarily suspending all comedy (which didn’t take much effort in those days) I said, “Why are you letting yourselves get so upset over this? You should be happy! After all they came in second!” And I meant it with love. I mean clearly the Denver Broncos should have been proud that they were better than all the other teams except one, right? They had proved their skill, but another team just had a bit more skill, that was all.....These were the things I was arguing under my breath as I was dragged off the stage by the club manager to the angry jeers of the crowd.

I just didn’t get it.

Another time I was in San Francisco when one of their American Football teams won a big thingy (maybe it was also the Super Bowl thing. That’s the biggest one, right?) and there were people screaming in the streets and sounding their horns and this guy ran out of his car right towards me (Why? Why?), picked me up and swung me around screaming, “We’re number one!! We’re number one!!!!!”……I turned to a friend and asked, “Do you think he’s on the team?” because I didn’t know. And the guy was practically humping my leg and screaming the same thing over and over. I kind of got caught up in the frenzy of it all, but I still can’t say I understood it.

And why is it acceptable to act like that over a ball game but not anything else? Why don’t you see rabid Chess enthusiasts spilling out of sports bars in euphoria screaming, “Vladimir Kramnik Won! Valdimir Kramnik Won!!!!” and then getting into brawls with Veselin Topalov fans?

……….Am I missing something?

And here’s what I don’t get: What is this big thing that’s supposed to happen when your team wins? People always say, “It would be so great if __________ won” but after all the “We’re number one!” screams have died down, what really changes? Unless you had money riding on the game: Nothing. Nothing ever happens as a result of these ball game wins and yet every day millions of people jump around acting as if it does.

OK – Just now I turned on the TV out of curiosity and apparently Spain have just won. (This is the first blog I’ve ever written in Real Time!) They’re still in the jumping around and throwing each other in the air afterglow, and the German guys are looking like they’ve collectively just realized that Bratwurst is high in saturated fat. They came in second and they can’t even enjoy it. And their misery is made all the more painful by the orgy of jubilation the Spaniards are displaying. I’m pretty sure I can see them mouthing the words, “Numero Uno!” over and over again. Will one of them suddenly stop in his cute red shorts, realize “Nothing has actually changed in the world” and plunge head long into an existential crisis? Only time will tell.

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The Best Looking World Leaders

2008-06-20T12:18:00.012+02:00

When I was about 7, there was a little boy in my class, also about 7 (or perhaps a rather well-preserved 8-year-old) who observed that if we wanted to avoid wars, what we should do is tell all the soldiers to go home and just have the leaders of the countries duke it out in a boxing match. I remember thinking he was very wise at the time. But now that I’m older and (I like to think) a little more political savvy, I laugh at that childish theory of foreign policy, and have instead developed one which I think is far superior: A Beauty Contest!!!

If you’re like me, (and for your sake I hope you’re not), then you have noticed that there are some pretty hot-looking leaders out there in the world. Now don’t get me wrong, there are some alarmingly nasty looking ones as well – more than once when I was doing the research for this blog entry I downloaded a photograph that made me avert my eyes and take a few gulps of wine until it all went away. There are an overwhelming amount of world leaders who look like Demon Spawn, and more often than not if you Google these freaks you find out they aren’t terribly nice people either. Interesting, and yet completely irrelevant when it comes to my list of The World’s Best Looking Leaders. This list is not about politics; it’s about Hotness. If you’re a good looking leader (male or female!) you make my list. If not, well, I’m sure you have a lot of other nice qualities, but in my own personal Utopia you wouldn’t be running things.

I am presenting my list in no particular order, but I invite you to pick your favorite and imagine what the world would be like if they were on all the coins. If you’d like to vote, you can do so by leaving your selection in my comments page and I will forward the information on to the necessary authorities if I ever figure out who they are (or if all those wishes of mine come true and I am made Queen of the World).

By the way, even though this list is equal opportunity and all that, you might notice a rather large proportion of South American leaders on the list. I’m sorry, but people in that region are rather astonishingly good-looking (if I can generalize an entire land mass) and the rest of us need to just deal with it.

So with out further ado, here for your consideration are the best looking leaders of the world IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER:

Editor's Note - 5 November 2008: A New Addition!!!

Barack Obama!!!

As of January 2009, Barack Obama will become one of the world's best looking leaders and definitely in the top three best looking American leaders ever (joining John F; Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln in that exclusive club). And arguably the cutest First Family ever!

Nicolas Sarkozy FRANCE

Quite the hottie. Nicolas certainly has that je ne sais quois, because in his case he actually knows what those words mean, being French and all. And just in case you didn’t realize how good-looking he was, he married Carla Bruni who is a beautiful supermodel and used to date Mick Jagger (but then again, who didn’t?).

Anders Fogh Rasmussen DENMARK

It’s fair say that Anders has a slightly creepy edge – the kind of guy you’d go for after a few drinks when your guard was down. But handsome? God yes. If you can ignore the fact that it looks like he can shoot lasers out of his eyes. Some people would find this irresistible though. He must do very well in bars with low lighting I think. Also he might have a certain Goth appeal.

Denzil Douglas ST. KITTS AND NEVIS

First of all don’t pretend you know where St. Kitts & Nevis is. I didn’t. I had to look it up. And I’ll bet when ladies who meet Denzil at parties find out he’s Prime Minister of St. Kitts & Nevis they probably act like they know all about it and say how lovely it is there this time of year and then run home later and Google it like I just did. Just so you know, this is St. Kitts & Nevis:

They have a population of just 42, 696. Two islands in the Caribbean with a good looking guy running everything. No wonder he looks so good. Can you imagine anything more relaxing than being Prime Minister of two Caribbean islands? Every now and then someone probably barges into his beachfront office saying, “Mr. Douglas! We’ve run out of factor 15 Sun Block!”, at which Denzil smiles in a bemused fashion and lazily points to a box in the corner, never removing his lips from the straw in his coconut drink.

Alois, Hereditary Prince LIECHTENSTEIN

Although sort of run-of-the-mill attractive as far as European royalty goes, it’s worth pointing out that he lives in this castle:

Now how cute is he?

Dean Oliver Barrow BELIZE

Definite "Kojak" appeal. Telly Savalas, eat your heart out!!

Michaëlle Jean and Stephen Harper CANADA

I am presenting Michaëlle and Stephen together because it’s interesting to note that apparently Canada has taken the Good Looking World Leader concept and run with it. With a gorgeous Governor General and Prime Minister, an excellent Health Care system and all that maple syrup, it’s no wonder Canada’s immigration levels are rising!

Lee Myung-bak SOUTH KOREA

With someone as adorable-looking as this running South Korea, you wonder why the funny-looking guy with the bad hair from the North gets all the press.

Hugo Chavez VENEZUELA

*sigh*

OK, I’ll admit I’ve got a bit of a crush. Who’s got more charisma than this guy? He’s got the good-looking-South-American thing combined with a fun spirit.

He looks like the guy who sort of makes everything happen once he arrives at the party. Men want to have a cerveza with him. Women want to have a cerveza with him whilst sitting on his lap. What’s not to like?

José Socrates PORTUGAL

Doesn’t this guy look like a very very very good-looking Dustin Hoffman? I think so. Extremely Dreamy.

Doris Leuthard SWITZERLAND

In Switzerland they’ve got like 6 people at the very top running everything. I can’t figure it out. But this is one of them. She helps run a place with wonderful cheese and great skiing whilst looking fabulous!

Evo Morales BOLIVIA

Evo is really more cuddly cute than handsome cute, but quite a looker nonetheless. But what is going on with that hair? It’s like he’s the polar opposite of bald if that’s possible. Seriously, his hairdresser must have quite a time with it. I wonder if sometimes this overworked hairdresser just lets out a sigh, lights up a cigarette and says, “No, Evo, I just can’t deal with you today.”

Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner ARGENTINA

OK – This lady is 55 years old. Can you imagine? But look at her! She’s gorgeous! And I’ll bet she doesn’t annoy people by standing on balconies and singing to crowds with her arms in the air like certain other Argentinian ladies of days gone by.

Yulia Volodymyrivna Tymoshenko UKRAINE

Yulia is certainly attractive and yet not just a little odd looking. It’s hard to find a photo of her without this crazy Heidi-esque braided hair piece, for instance. But hey, it’s a look. And you can’t argue with that.

Rafael Correa ECUADOR

The similarities between this guy and Ricky Martin are uncanny. In fact he might actually be Ricky Martin. Does he live La vida loca? Who knows? He’s certainly got the cheekbones for it. Incidentally, when I was searching for photos of him, one of them was just titled, ”Wow”. I must agree there.

Vladimir Putin RUSSIA

I wasn't going to include V-Put here, but I found this photo, and like they say, "A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words". (Or in this case about 8 but really loud).
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My Triumph Over the T-Rex

2008-06-16T16:54:00.005+02:00

Lately I’ve been having a run of dinosaur nightmares. I tend to get these whenever I watch any dinosaur based movie, namely Jurassic Park, or whenever dinosaurs are brought up in conversation or whenever I eat at a diner. I’m dinosaur sensitive, one might say. I just don’t like them.

And as if the fact that they used to exist weren’t bad enough, the mere suggestion that they could one day be cloned and live again is just too much for me to bear.

And I suppose also somewhere in the back of my mind is the notion that if “God” did indeed create us in His image, that this was only after his first project failed. After the Giant Flesh-Eating Lizard experiment didn’t work out we were, it seems, merely Plan B.

So along with my fear of clowns and flying, I live with a mind-numbing aversion to dinosaurs, and in particular T-rexes.

I am constantly on the lookout for cures for my phobias, and one method I believe wholeheartedly in is the immersion theory. I once was cured of my fear of heights by having a bunch of people hold on to my legs while I hung backwards over the edge of the cliff. Incidentally, this also cured me of my fear of Strange New Age People. So when I saw that Jurassic Park was going to be on television the other night, I thought it might be a good idea if I made myself watch it. It didn’t work. It only made things worse. It made me feel so creepy that I was actually checking for dinosaurs behind the couch cushions (stop looking for rationality in any of this or you’ll just hurt yourself), and that night I had a nightmare that a friend of mine had cloned a T-rex and needed me to babysit it while he was out of town.

The nightmare was so vivid that I actively resented my friend for several days afterwards and a part of me is still convinced that a baby T-Rex is sitting with him watching TV in LA right now.

So as TV stations tend to do these things in clusters, the same station that had shown Jurassic Park the other night then a few days later decided to show The Lost World (Jurassic Park II). I took this as a sign that I should continue my therapy and I watched it.

Read no more if you’re like me and don’t tend to see films until several decades after they’ve come out.

Well I hadn’t seen The Lost World before, but the basic premise was that a bunch of freaks return to the breeding island for the original J-Park and there are these hunters who cause all sorts of mayhem (I always approve when hunters of any sort are shown in the bad light they deserve). From what I can tell, The J-Park series operates on the same premise as all Ghost Movies. That is to say that people do what THEY WOULD NEVER DO IN REAL LIFE and spend the night in the house that everyone says is the gateway to hell even though everyone who stays there becomes possessed and goes on murderous rampages. Only in this case they return to an island with dinosaurs and an almost 100 per cent kill rate and decide to camp out for a while. “Everything will be fine,” They think as they pitch their tents, “because where the big flesh-eating monsters live is half a kilometer away and they never come here.” ..................Morons!!

Then of course the Big Game Hunters come, looking for the most ostentatious trophy imaginable to mount on their wall (What kind of furniture goes with a giant T-Rex head mounted on a mahogany panel?)

They take a baby T-Rex (and I struggle psychologically while that pulls on my heartstrings) to bait Mr. and Mrs. Rex, and after the now predictable tousles with velociraptors (who are thwarted by a child gymnast…I’m not making this up.) they all end up on the civilized mainland where the male T-Rex gets loose. At this point the film is not so much a monster movie as it is Kramer vs. Kramer as the daddy T-Rex runs all over town trying to get his son back. I ended up siding with the T-Rex, which while perhaps not boding well for Mr. Spielberg, did wonders for my Dinosaur Paranoia. By the end of the film I just wanted the T-Rex to eat the guy who started all the trouble and return home with his kid and that’s exactly what happened.

And that night I slept like a baby.

So, it seems that the cure for a fear of dinosaurs is not a Dinosaur movie so much as a really bad dinosaur movie. Waterworld might be just the ticket for Hydrophobia is what I’m saying.
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Naked People at my Gym

2008-06-09T22:03:00.002+02:00

There are many cultural differences between Americans and Belgians. Most of the differences I find rather charming; like the Belgian paranoia of eating more than one hot meal a day, or the way they have to drink beer only from a glass that says the name of that particular beer on it. That stuff is cute and it makes me want to throw them up in the air and catch them while they giggle. But two things which really “get on my wick” (as the English say – because they know about these sorts of things) are the space thing and the nudity thing.

The space thing has to do with the difference in what one considers one’s personal space bubble. For most Americans that space bubble at which we feel comfortable having strangers stand next to us is anywhere from about 2 – 4 feet. If I’m standing in a line in Los Angeles and someone is standing less than 2 feet behind me, I feel perfectly justified in turning around, fixing them with an icy stare and saying, “Can I help you with something?” until they realize they’re violating the space code and back off. The one caveat to this rule is if the line happens to be in a super crowded place. But generally speaking, the more space there is, the bigger your personal bubble should be. The difference in the European interpretation of this space bubble is apparent in restaurants. In an otherwise empty restaurant, if you are sitting at the only occupied table, the next people coming in should understand that they need to sit as far away from you as possible. The people arriving after them will endeavor to do the same, and so on and so on until the place starts filling up and contact simply cannot be avoided. Belgians do not seem to understand this law. If you are sitting at the only occupied table in a restaurant, they might very well sit at the table right next to you, which is just weird. I mean, sure, the restaurant does eventually fill up and then it’s all normal again, but I can never quite shake the fact that these people came in and sat right next to us purposely like they wanted to listen to our conversation and copy what we ordered.

So the other issue I have is the nudity thing. OK, OK, OK, yes, I’m glad that you all live in a free non-Puritanical society where you can have naked people in TV commercials. That’s fabulous. But I prefer not to be confronted with it in my every day life, thank you very much. At my gym for instance.

Yes, I accept the fact that in the changing room at the gym there will be occasional nudity. That’s an unavoidable fact as we all change in and out of our gym clothes or stand in the communal shower (which I disapprove of, by the way). But for crying out loud, ladies, let’s keep it brief. This should not be a free-for-all nudity fest where you “air everything” while I’m trying to put my eyebrow pencil on.

I don’t know what it is with these people at my gym, it’s like they simply cannot wait to get naked. In fact some of them I’m convinced don’t even use the gym equipment; they just walk around in the buff in the changing room terrorizing people.

As an example – when you return from the shower, hopefully with a towel wrapped around you (how hard is this?), the first order of the day at that point should be getting dressed, shouldn’t it? Yes, we understand you have to blow-dry your hair, yes, we understand you have to put on makeup, yes we understand you have to brush your teeth, do the crossword and talk to your other gym friends, but surely all these activities could take place after getting dressed? Because here’s the thing: I don’t want to have to stand right next to you when you’re nude. And no, this doesn’t mean I’ve got “hang ups”, it means I just don't want to feel like an extra on a porn set. Is that too much to ask? Apparently so. I am not hung up, you are hung up. You are the one with the aversion to clothes, after all. And I don’t see why you have to do every activity imaginable naked while I’m standing there fully clothed and with a parka on trying to give you a hint.

Remember the space bubble I mentioned earlier? How I don’t like people standing too close to me? That goes tenfold when those people are naked. And all the more reason, people, why in an otherwise empty communal shower room with 12 showerheads (I’ve counted), you DO NOT need to come and use the showerhead RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I don’t care how free and European you think you are; that is just creepy.

It’s amazing what I have to put up with.