The Devil Wears Prada...but only authentic Prada.

Okay, so I posted the other day about high-end urinal sales in the states, as found in the Most E-Mailed article list of the New York Times. I was still shaking my head over that one, when...

This morning at #1 on the Washington Post site: "Virginia Men Face U.S. Trial In Peddling of Phony Purses." It seems that a "purse party" goer got suspicious when those Hermes handbags selling for $19.99 seemed too good to be true.

[snip]

The trial in one of the nation's largest counterfeiting prosecutions will feature testimony from representatives of Gucci, Kate Spade and other leading designer labels, according to court documents. Exhibit A will be a sampling of hundreds of purses, hauled into the courtroom one box at a time.

The case is bringing scrutiny to a widespread problem that has been publicly visible for years: trafficking in handbags...

[/snip]

Trafficking.
In handbags.

When I think of all those well-heeled women perched on the witness stand or scattered throughout the audience, decrying the exploitation wrought against Fendi, Chanel, Coach and Louis Vuitton, I want to...I want to...

OH GOD THE HORROR!!!!

I mean, where else can a child worker from Latin America have her 8 cents per day work praised as it should be if not in the hands of a real appreciator of Haute Couture?

I mean, what has the world come to?

---

Are you also trapped in the Matrix? Today's bonus link: a different perspective on the world of fashion as brought to you by the National Labor Committee, www.nlcnet.org.

For the High-End Bathroom, Something Reeks

Although living in Germany has given me some reprieve from the aggressive onslaught of political news and advertising in Washington, D.C., I still make a point of reading the Washington Post and New York Times online almost daily. (Think "Tammi's LaLaLand," but with updates on the insanity of the world.)

The NYT has a feature tracking the articles that are most popular among the site's "hey, you gotta read this" set. This Top 10 list usually offers up a curious mix from science and technology innovation to lurid accounts of the entertainment business.

Today at No. 6: an article on luxury urinals.

That's right, URINALS.

According to the interviews and research conducted by freelance writer, Suzanne Gannon, urinals are going upscale. Bathroom fixture companies, like Germany's own Duravit (see photo), have found that home owners in the U.S. are now willing to shell out $1,000 for off-the-shelf models that are slightly improved over the baseball stadium variety.

Motion sensors! Infrared-triggered flush!

Some wealthier patrons, according to Ms. Gannon, are even willing to pay $10,000 for specially commissioned "one-of-a-kind" urinals (in attractive floral designs no less).

No offense to the (genius!) artist who came up with this (brilliant!) idea, but

W T F.

I can imagine plenty of things that we po' folk could do with $10,000. The retirement of school loan debt. Vacation travel with family and friends. Donations to victims of natural disasters.

Or, hey, how about even $10,000 for the the Fox News "soldier of the day" whose crusade to get basic sleeping mats for he and his fellow soldiers has been turned into a hate campaign against a Pakistani mattress store whose employee dared to suggest that, no, it would be better for you to leave Iraq.

The terrorist!

Want your guests WOWed and ASTOUNDED by the one spot where they can (at least symbolically) piss on you and your priorities? Yeah, available in the good old U.S. of fucking A.



And, um, p.s. to the Duravit employees in Hornberg, Germany, who go to a giant toilet each day for work. It's often like that for the rest of us, just not so obvious.

Bonus link of the day: The World Toilet Organization. Sign up now for World Toilet College!

The letter

Kim happened to write me THE SAME DAY, also asking for your address. I sent that along in a separate e-mail to you both. Do drop her a line. She is going through a bit of a rough spell (finishing graduate school, boy trouble). Although you've been out of touch for a while, I hope this is a good time to reconnect.

I am right now sitting at 100Wasser, a cafe named after a famous German architect (Hundertwasser). Do you know him? Google his name for examples of his work.

Hm. I just did. Friedensreich Hundertwasser. Turns out he's not even German, but Austrian. Lordy.

I had never heard of him before moving to Berlin although this is, admittedly, more a reflection of my cluelessness about architects in general rather than German (or Austrian) architects specifically.

Are you still doing those architectural tours of Chicago?

Right now, I am enjoying my "farmer's breakfast," an omelette of potatoes, bacon, vegetables and onions. It is snowing like a scene from a Christmas Carol, so it's also a pleasant time to write. I wouldn't mind more bacon though.

Things for me are well. Work is going well (although the pay is nothing I would have accepted in the U.S.) and my base of friends grows.

Last night, I was out with Jennifer, a fellow American feminist who escaped (as she says it) from the U.S. just one week before the Sept 11th attacks. We were joined by my politically-disinterested but quite-the-hottie coworker, Markus. He looks a bit like one of the elves from Lord of the Rings. Tall, blond and with strong features. The very Aryan of Hitler's warped dreams, I suppose.

We talked quite a bit about movies, mainly horror and sci-fi. I got to finally confess my desire to be a vampire (the clothes! living for ever! sexy neck bites!). Jennifer was disgusted. "Besides," she reminds us, "I'm a vegetarian."

I want to write movie scripts with moments like that.

Mind you, Jennifer loves horror movies, and the more gore, the better. She has read feminist analysis on it though. :)

You would like her.

On blood and such, glad to hear that you are recovering from the idiocy of our fellow humans. I met a runner here who was hit by a motorist who, like yours, wanted to sue him for the damage to his car. WTF. I can only wonder what planet people like that live on, where human casualty, dismemberment or disabling is deemed less important than some factory-manufactured part. (Um, it is THIS planet, and I am just frickin' naive.)

I can identify the click of a lighter now without even turning around. Smokers.

Of course, 100Wasser *has* created a new non-smoking section, but my laptop battery has been on the fritz and the sole plug in this Internet-ready place is in the smokers section. Still, this IS progress in Germany. I think I heard that it is the #1 smoking capital of Europe. (Heard it from the friend of a friend of a friend who...)

Anyway, sorry to hear that the parents made the final break. I suppose your mum is doing ok? How are things with your dad? Are the siblings well? Do say hello for me.

And what's this about a vandalized locker? The dissolution of a friendship? A year of hell?

I am WOEFULLY out of the loop here, and I am sorry. You're right that e-mail is substandard for maintaining the intimacy of friendship. It doesn't help that I don't enjoy talking on the phone that much. (Some people would laugh to hear me say that, but it's true.) In any case, your phone number disappeared into my dead Palm Pilot. Send it again. There is no reason that we cannot actually make time and gab like we're sitting on a couch together.

To which, Kim says that she might want to visit in August or September. What about you? Maybe we can do a Wild Women's Tour of Europe (yes, all in Title Case, as it deserves). Think cocktails, smart clubs and German landscapes made even more beautiful by Summer.

And, if we're lucky, the clothes! living forever! sexy neck bites!

Your silly friend,

Tammi

The new bra

So when we were together last week, I was wearing a new bra and panty set. Funnily enough, you made a comment about my previous purchase of a dress. Like "why would you buy something that makes your tits look great when I am not around to notice."

You didn't notice the bra. And, damn, I looked good.

Okay, okay, we were in the living room and it was dark. And, jaja, I didn't stop you to say "hey, clueless man, look!" (Although I did try to take my clothes off slowly...)

But, and in light of our "burlap bag" talk of some time ago, I have changed my mind on that strategy.

I bought two bra sets. One in black and one in a deep blue. Cute things with lace trim. I was excited when I bought them. I will leave you to interpret what I mean by that.

For our next date, choose the color you want me to wear. Again, your choices are black and blue. Then, please, take a moment to compliment (even if all you want to do is "get to the good bits.")

I hope this public notice helps.

Stumbling in RL

StumbleUpon is a nifty little program really, the double-click 'Net answer to channel surfing. Click click. Darwin. Click click. Cooking. Click click. Porn. A community of wanderers.

I'm bored.

Click click. "X number of ways to reduce stress." Leave the house early. Give more love than taking. Reduce caffeine. I open the StumbleUpon link to view comments left by other wanderers. I leave my own idea: 'Log off?' I need a little kick out the door. I shut down, wash up, and go.

The day is not as bright as the small bit of light that had filtered through the window. The day is warmer than I expect, sure, but the wind is fierce, and pulls at my coat like an insistent child.

But I want to walk, and need it after all these days cooped up with my cold. So I skip the brunch spots of Friedrichshain and walk to Kreuzberg. I cross the Oberbaumbrücke, pass a little cafe (mmm, sehr lecker) and drop into my favorite Italian restaurant.

Is French onion soup French? A silly question and it hardly matters. I rave about this restaurant's soup. It's always served piping hot in a deliciously-spiced broth, topped with a thick onion ring and smothered under a bubbling-brown crust of cheese. I wolf it down, but have room for more (no doubt the body's rebound from being sick). I order the steak and broccoli plate.

Yum. Broccoli seared in whole green peppercorns and olive oil. A nicely browned steak with a rosy-pink center, albeit drenched in a peppercorn sauce that I have to scrap away. The blood of the beef pools in the sauce. I pretend not to notice.

I make sure to eat all of my broccoli, but the steak is too much. I sigh a bit from the guilt, as if some fussy mother were sitting across from me at the table. (The waste! There's a child starving in Africa!) I stab it a bit with my knife. Give up.

It is not that I have anywhere to go. Martin lives nearby, but there's no answer to my buzz at the door. I amuse myself with visions of him drunk and weary from Petra's birthday party or, alternatively, waking on the other side of town to some woman he doesn't plan to see again.

I imagine his frown when I tell him this.

I am aimless and wandering in the wind.

It's just 15 minutes to Treptow, but everything is closed there and, worse, the rain and wind have picked up. I am pushed, pulled and pushed again.

Fuck it. I run for a passing bus, flash my pass and hop on for a short trip right back to where I've started.

Still, I don't go back to the restaurant but head for the little cafe. No smokers today. Nice. And the big windows let in all the available light, for what that's worth.

The train rolls by on its elevated track, bright yellow happiness like a determined perky blond. (It *will* be a beautiful day today!)

But it's gray gray gray. And on the walk back -- across the bridge, up the hill, past the station -- the wind whips into a frenzy. Little yelps as people clutch their coats and each other. An older woman wrestles with her torn and warped umbrella. I worry that the wind is strong enough to lift and throw me up and over the railing -- a useless flapping of green wings then down onto the tracks below.

Not so impossible. The new main train station lost an metal girder -- SMASH! -- in a crash of iron and glass. I am, in comparison, a feather.

The jewelry store, the video store, the next cafe.

Why am I not at home?

Click click.

SexyBack

Dirty babe
You see the shackles
Baby I’m your slave
I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave
It’s just that no one makes me feel this way

I am home sick today. I blame Niels, but he's healthy and it hardly matters. Sniffles, sneezing and coughs wrack my entire body. My back aches with the sheer effort of breathing. Damn asthma. Where is Martin and his sadistic massages when I need one?

So I spend the day indoors, reading Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, chatting online and listening to music. Recent tracks by Death Cab for Cutie from Vicki, Kaiser Chiefs and Billy Talent from Niels and, um, Justin Timberlake, Usher and Rhianna.

Take that and rewind it back
Lil' Jon got the beat to make ya booty go (smack)

For Saturday's games and dancing, I had built a new party playlist and loaded it with more "popular" tracks. I rationalized that it was an effort to tempt Irene onto the living room dance floor. We had gone out dancing in the previous week, a first in our year's friendship and a surprise of an invitation. Frankly, I thought Irene didn't dance.

It depends on the music, she says. She dances with her head back and her eyes closed. Swaying.

oohoohoo du hübsches ding
ich versteck meinen ehering
klingelingeling wir könntens bring
doch wir nuckeln nur am drink
oohoohoo du hübsches ding
du bist queen und ich bin king
wenn ich dich seh dann muss ich sing':
"tingalingaling you pretty thing"

My music didn't do it for Irene, so she spent most of the evening playing Uno rather than dancing. In any case, well, she was my convenient excuse for buying the pop tracks. Truth was, these songs had caught my attention each time I heard them on the radio. I listened to iTunes clips, bit my nail like an indecisive girl and bought them.

Well woman the way the time cold I wanna be keepin' you warm
I got the right temperature for shelter you from the storm
Oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!

There are moments when my relationship to music is like of a teen boy sneaking peeks at the porno mags. I am absolutely fascinated by what some music does to my body, but I nurse the same pathetic shame that my time is not spent in, er, higher-level pursuits.

I mean, come on, Justin Timberlake AND Thievery Corporation? Nelly Furtado AND Gotan Project?

Schizophrenic is not just the name of my favorite JC Chasez album...

look at you with my hands down your pants
check you out getting fucked while we dance
look at you check you out!

Fucking on the dance floor
fucking on the dance floor
everybody's fucking
fucking on the dance floor

Um, I have read some FANTASTIC books this year. Really.

Sigh.

What remains

Martin is right: I have neglected to talk of the parties, games nights, food fests and book group dinners that have normalized my life here in Berlin. So, in honor of Saturday's one year celebration of the anniversary of my arrival, I would like to offer this photo and a memorializing sample of what I had to wash up, recycle and sweep away.

15 red wine bottles (two of which managed to escape notice)

13 beer bottles (*who* brought the Budweiser???)

12 cigarette butts (Desmond…)

3 complaints from the neighbors (oops!)

2 feet that still ache from dancing (damn the neighbors)

and 1 much-loved deck of Uno cards (go Jörn!)

Even emptying the balcony ashtray was a joy.
Thank you all so much for coming.

Veal

or my exaggerated notes of a drunken speech to Eleni on the popular rules of dating, delivered after a horrible meal of chicken nachos washed down by two delicious margaritas.

You have been invited to a dinner party by a gracious hostess known for her meticulously planned events. The table is laid out for a perfect number of guests, some known to each other, but some not. They are of the right age, the right social class and the right male/female balance. It is an evening of so much promise.

By some means, you have discovered that the main dish of the evening will be veal.

Veal makes your mouth water.
Veal makes you weak in the knees.
Veal tickles your tummy with pleasure.

In short, you *love* veal.

Now, you *could* lean over to the hostess and tell the her that you enjoy veal so much that you would like it served first. Warum nicht?

The hostess will, no doubt, swallow her disapproval, maybe fingering the collar of her simple but chic dress or that flattering necklace that her husband gave her just last Christmas. She will politely explain, as if to a child, there is an order to these things...

No no, you argue. The body cares little for the order of things. The body knows nothing of butternut squash soup lightly blessed with ginger and a dash of lime, nor of arugula tossed with slices of fennel, shavings of Parmesan and the thrust of fresh cracked pepper.

Of this foreplay of the senses, the body cares not a whit. The body speaks a simple language of fat, carbohydrates and proteins.

Yes, you could argue that.

But as you insist upon it, your voice no longer tempered by soft inquiry but passionately-alive with what you know of your truth, you'll look madly around the table for your allies. You know they want the veal too.

But, mmmm, they murmur with their eyes avoiding yours, what a delicious soup!