From Vicki, this morning's humor: Barack Obama cast as Jesus by a student artist, generating calls to his art school (good and bad) and the candidate actually having to "distance" himself from the artist.
Jesus.
So George W. Bush can claim to be God's avenging angel, but a 24 year old can create derivative art and make the Democratic Party nervous?
I mean, the Obama campaign spokeswoman actually felt compelled to say
...we respect First Amendment rights and don't think the artist was trying to be offensive...
Good lord.
And just in time for the Easter Bunny, same article:
The piece [on Obama] comes amid Catholic outrage in New York that led to an art gallery canceling an exhibit featuring a nude 6-foot-tall, anatomically correct chocolate sculpture of Jesus Christ.
That's outrageous?
I am mounting a public campaign to ask that Holy Father Benedict XVI issue an edict demanding churches cancel their Easter Egg Hunts immediately. No more associating chocolate, bunnies, searches through the grass and good family times with the CRUCIFIXION.
Join my campaign! Please write your request IN LATIN to
His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI
Apostolic Palace
VATICAN CITY
or via e-mail benedictxvi@vatican.va
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Dating auf Deutsch
Thomas ducks into a hair salon to ask. I stand outside with our bikes, looking around to see if, by some chance, we've simply missed the sign. It doesn't take too long though before he is back out on the curb with a stylist. She's pointing, but her German is too fast for me to follow. I catch "across the street" and "first floor." And, really, that's enough.
As it turns out, there is no sign to miss. Just a simple buzzer among many. Very discreet.
Münzsalon.
We are buzzed into the ground floor. I am immediately impressed by the grandeur of the building. The carvings along the ceiling are ornate enough to be readily distinguished from the regulation style buildings typical of post-World War II Berlin. And the dark wood of the banister – smooth as silk under my stroking fingers – is, I think, rich enough to smell.
We climb to the first floor and our door. It is broad, thick and, like the buzzer downstairs, unmarked. Thomas fumbles a bit with the knob. Locked. But it’s the signal, I suppose, that the attendants are waiting for.
The door swings open to a crowded, narrow fork in the hall, spreading left and right like wide open arms.
One of the attendants ushers us in. The other shuffles a list at a softly lit hostess stand.
Name?
Thomas is taken aback. I take a guess that this is the first he's heard of the need for a reservation.
There's a guest list?
So much for the reading.
But whether it’s the clutch of people all pressing into the door with their ready names, the others who are busily shedding their jackets to get out of the way or my crestfallen look, the attendant decides to ignore our oversight and waves us on.
The interior of the Münzsalon is as impressive as the ground floor entry, with expansive floors and high ceilings throughout. But the rooms are studies in alternate periods of interior design.
One room has the feel of a 1950s library on a Hollywood set. It's all dark wood and leather furniture. Guests lounging in their easy, relaxed poses. Cigarettes between practiced fingers and lips.
The main room, in contrast, is chic in a modernistic style. Low black furniture, long and sleek without ornamentation. The ceiling lights neither draping chandeliers nor recessed sockets but bold, black fabric rings with radiating metal spokes.
Throughout is the clatter of plates, the tinkle of glass and the low voices of guests taking their seats.
Thomas and I, our beer and wine in hand, settle back against our comfortably soft, black booth at the front of the room. Three others – two young women and a man – squeeze in on our right. The reader takes her place in a booth just to our left. She has a small reading lamp, a glass of water and a large printout of her script.
In short order, the mistress of ceremonies comes forward to introduce the reader, the author and the night's events. It is all in German, so I strain to understand. The night's reading will be the German translation of "Apfel, Huhn und Puschkin"
by the Russian author, Julia Belomlinskaja. The reading will be augmented by a soundtrack as well as images played against the wall behind the reader. Afterwards, the author herself will sing some Russian folk songs to us.
I think that is what she said.
Our mistress is seated for no more than a brief moment before the author rises to address the crowd. She knows very little German, so speaks to us in a broken and heavily-accented English.
I, of course, understand every word she says. More so than I did the far more eloquently delivered German introduction. And I understand more than enough to convey to Thomas – with certainty but in, no doubt, my broken and heavily-accented German – that the woman is frankly zany.
Her "verrückt-ness" is an asset to the book. I lose myself in both the reader's evocative delivery and in the story itself, of a Saint Petersburg woman who has immigrated to good ol' New York, New York.
And we are a part of it.
Of the gossipy neighborhood girlfriends. Of the crowded skyline. Of the musicians playing their souls out on the streets.
The reader shuts off her light to let the music of the scene play. There is an abstract sax player on the screen and he is covering Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World.
The reader drops a coin into a theatre-prop cup. Clink! The author then leaps up and makes a grand show of putting in a dollar.
Thomas laces his fingers in mine.
As it turns out, there is no sign to miss. Just a simple buzzer among many. Very discreet.
Münzsalon.
We are buzzed into the ground floor. I am immediately impressed by the grandeur of the building. The carvings along the ceiling are ornate enough to be readily distinguished from the regulation style buildings typical of post-World War II Berlin. And the dark wood of the banister – smooth as silk under my stroking fingers – is, I think, rich enough to smell.
We climb to the first floor and our door. It is broad, thick and, like the buzzer downstairs, unmarked. Thomas fumbles a bit with the knob. Locked. But it’s the signal, I suppose, that the attendants are waiting for.
The door swings open to a crowded, narrow fork in the hall, spreading left and right like wide open arms.
One of the attendants ushers us in. The other shuffles a list at a softly lit hostess stand.
Name?
Thomas is taken aback. I take a guess that this is the first he's heard of the need for a reservation.
There's a guest list?
So much for the reading.
But whether it’s the clutch of people all pressing into the door with their ready names, the others who are busily shedding their jackets to get out of the way or my crestfallen look, the attendant decides to ignore our oversight and waves us on.
The interior of the Münzsalon is as impressive as the ground floor entry, with expansive floors and high ceilings throughout. But the rooms are studies in alternate periods of interior design.
One room has the feel of a 1950s library on a Hollywood set. It's all dark wood and leather furniture. Guests lounging in their easy, relaxed poses. Cigarettes between practiced fingers and lips.
The main room, in contrast, is chic in a modernistic style. Low black furniture, long and sleek without ornamentation. The ceiling lights neither draping chandeliers nor recessed sockets but bold, black fabric rings with radiating metal spokes.
Throughout is the clatter of plates, the tinkle of glass and the low voices of guests taking their seats.
Thomas and I, our beer and wine in hand, settle back against our comfortably soft, black booth at the front of the room. Three others – two young women and a man – squeeze in on our right. The reader takes her place in a booth just to our left. She has a small reading lamp, a glass of water and a large printout of her script.
In short order, the mistress of ceremonies comes forward to introduce the reader, the author and the night's events. It is all in German, so I strain to understand. The night's reading will be the German translation of "Apfel, Huhn und Puschkin"
by the Russian author, Julia Belomlinskaja. The reading will be augmented by a soundtrack as well as images played against the wall behind the reader. Afterwards, the author herself will sing some Russian folk songs to us.I think that is what she said.
Our mistress is seated for no more than a brief moment before the author rises to address the crowd. She knows very little German, so speaks to us in a broken and heavily-accented English.
I, of course, understand every word she says. More so than I did the far more eloquently delivered German introduction. And I understand more than enough to convey to Thomas – with certainty but in, no doubt, my broken and heavily-accented German – that the woman is frankly zany.
Her "verrückt-ness" is an asset to the book. I lose myself in both the reader's evocative delivery and in the story itself, of a Saint Petersburg woman who has immigrated to good ol' New York, New York.
And we are a part of it.
Of the gossipy neighborhood girlfriends. Of the crowded skyline. Of the musicians playing their souls out on the streets.
The reader shuts off her light to let the music of the scene play. There is an abstract sax player on the screen and he is covering Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World.
The reader drops a coin into a theatre-prop cup. Clink! The author then leaps up and makes a grand show of putting in a dollar.
Thomas laces his fingers in mine.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Red Sweater Days
March 3
Jessica swears that Julian and I were salivating, and she was disgusted. Less because of our drooling (we were not!) but because the object of our attention was wearing unattractive baggy rolled up jeans with that oh-so-flattering red sweater. I mean, how COULD we ignore the jeans?
I had never heard of Au Revoir Simone before, this girlband out of Brooklyn, New York with their three keyboards, flower-power long hair and what Julian describes as their "soft-focus" sound. But Jessica and I have been out to quite a few music events in just the past couple of months, and I've come to trust Julian's music taste (and those of his friends, by extension).
So off to Bastard we go.
Bastard is a tight little club space in Prenzlauer Berg, on the hip Kastanienallee and next to the equally well-known Prater Garten.
At least, it is well known to some. When Ingo suggests we meet there just the night before, I sound like a hick with my "where's THAT?" cluelessness.
It turns out that I had been there once before for a drum-n-bass dance night with my coworkers. Um, I will censor out the events of that evening to protect the not-so-innocent. Let me just leave it with "good times were had by all."
Bastard had a nice little club feel when I was there then. But tonight, it is packed wall-to-wall with people out to hear Au Revoir Simone. Maybe some were also there for the opening act: a too-cool-for-school Berlin group called I Might Be Wrong. Baggier jeans, Beatles-style hair cuts and a singer who refuses (simply REFUSES) to smile. (She read somewhere that smiling is NEVER cool.)
The babes of Simone must have skipped that lesson. Thank god. And Ms. Red Sweater doesn't just smile.
She beams.
Drooling or not, Julian and I enjoy every minute of the spring-day-and-bubble-gum sound of our winsome threesome. It is not that all the songs are light-hearted. The song they dedicate to their "best friend in Berlin" is about a breakup.
They apologize for that, which makes me laugh.
Jessica rolls her eyes.
---
March 14
Jessica is teaching an English class tonight, so it is just Julian and me at the Lido for Console. Neither of us had been to the Lido before, but it is just one block from my favorite Italian restaurant on Schlesisches Strasse and, after dinner, Martin walks us there.
I have walked past this place a hundred times and not seen it, I exclaim.
Well, they are not always open, Martin coolly replies.
The Lido is not Bastard, thank goodness. Although brimming with people, there is still room to breath. (And, later, I'll find, to twist and shout.) While not exactly cavernous, the room's high ceilings suggest an almost dreamy vastness.
When Console starts, that's what I do. I close my eyes. Dream. I imagine then that I will open my eyes to a room emptied of people. Ok, maybe a sole bartender remains. And the heat of all those bodies still radiate. But the flesh -- of guests, band, and even Julian -- is swept away like so many sand castles on the shore.
It is just me, the vastness and the gentle pull of the music.
It helps that Console leads with a couple of tracks that are heady like that. But they don't stay there. I am back in the filled hall, Julian is near, and the music is throb throb throbbing. A few people hold out-- stare at the stage, listen intently, drink their beers.
But the rest of us are caught in the flow. A turning, dipping, whirling mess of our sweat and cries.
What joy this!
And I know it. Just know it.
The walls are pulsing.
Jessica swears that Julian and I were salivating, and she was disgusted. Less because of our drooling (we were not!) but because the object of our attention was wearing unattractive baggy rolled up jeans with that oh-so-flattering red sweater. I mean, how COULD we ignore the jeans?
I had never heard of Au Revoir Simone before, this girlband out of Brooklyn, New York with their three keyboards, flower-power long hair and what Julian describes as their "soft-focus" sound. But Jessica and I have been out to quite a few music events in just the past couple of months, and I've come to trust Julian's music taste (and those of his friends, by extension).
So off to Bastard we go.
Bastard is a tight little club space in Prenzlauer Berg, on the hip Kastanienallee and next to the equally well-known Prater Garten.
At least, it is well known to some. When Ingo suggests we meet there just the night before, I sound like a hick with my "where's THAT?" cluelessness.
It turns out that I had been there once before for a drum-n-bass dance night with my coworkers. Um, I will censor out the events of that evening to protect the not-so-innocent. Let me just leave it with "good times were had by all."
Bastard had a nice little club feel when I was there then. But tonight, it is packed wall-to-wall with people out to hear Au Revoir Simone. Maybe some were also there for the opening act: a too-cool-for-school Berlin group called I Might Be Wrong. Baggier jeans, Beatles-style hair cuts and a singer who refuses (simply REFUSES) to smile. (She read somewhere that smiling is NEVER cool.)
The babes of Simone must have skipped that lesson. Thank god. And Ms. Red Sweater doesn't just smile.
She beams.
Drooling or not, Julian and I enjoy every minute of the spring-day-and-bubble-gum sound of our winsome threesome. It is not that all the songs are light-hearted. The song they dedicate to their "best friend in Berlin" is about a breakup.
They apologize for that, which makes me laugh.
Jessica rolls her eyes.
---
March 14
Jessica is teaching an English class tonight, so it is just Julian and me at the Lido for Console. Neither of us had been to the Lido before, but it is just one block from my favorite Italian restaurant on Schlesisches Strasse and, after dinner, Martin walks us there.
I have walked past this place a hundred times and not seen it, I exclaim.
Well, they are not always open, Martin coolly replies.
The Lido is not Bastard, thank goodness. Although brimming with people, there is still room to breath. (And, later, I'll find, to twist and shout.) While not exactly cavernous, the room's high ceilings suggest an almost dreamy vastness.
When Console starts, that's what I do. I close my eyes. Dream. I imagine then that I will open my eyes to a room emptied of people. Ok, maybe a sole bartender remains. And the heat of all those bodies still radiate. But the flesh -- of guests, band, and even Julian -- is swept away like so many sand castles on the shore.
It is just me, the vastness and the gentle pull of the music.
It helps that Console leads with a couple of tracks that are heady like that. But they don't stay there. I am back in the filled hall, Julian is near, and the music is throb throb throbbing. A few people hold out-- stare at the stage, listen intently, drink their beers.
But the rest of us are caught in the flow. A turning, dipping, whirling mess of our sweat and cries.
What joy this!
And I know it. Just know it.
The walls are pulsing.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
This is my prayer.
The Kit Kat Club is having their 13th anniversary celebration this coming Saturday. If it is at all like the Hustler Ball event that I attended during Richard's visit, it should be FANTASTIC.
(Oh Niels, will I ever say that word again without hearing YOU say it?)
Speaking of which, Rob P. says that he will come along on Saturday and sent this FANTASTIC poem by Ruth L. Schwartz with his reply. My pleasure to share it with you.
Oh God, Fuck me
by Ruth L. Schwartz
Fuck me, oh god, with ordinary things
the things you love best in the world -
like trees in spring, exposing themselves,
flashing leaf buds so firm and swollen
I want to take them in my mouth.
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds
say, an enormous raucous crow,
proud as a man with his hands down his pants,
and then a sparrow, intimately brown,
discreet and cautious as a concubine.
Fuck me with my kitchen faucet, dripping
like a nymphomaniac,
all night slowly filling and filling,
then overflowing the bowls in the sink
and with the downstairs neighbour's vacuum,
that great sucking noisy dragon
making the dirty come clean.
Fuck me with breakfast, with English muffins
the spirit of the dough aroused
by browning, thrilled by buttering
Fuck me with orange juice,
its concentrated sweetness,
which makes the mouth as happy as summer
leaves sweet flecks of foam like spit
along the inside of the glass.
Fuck me with coffee, strong and hot,
and then with cream poured into coffee
blossoming like mushroom clouds,
opening like parachutes.
Fuck me with the ticking
clock, which is the ticking
bomb, which is the ticking heart -
the heart we heard in the first months,
in the original nakedness,
before we were squalling and born.
Fuck me with the unwashed spoon
proud with its coffee stain -
the faint swirl of a useful life
pooled into its center, round as a world.
P.S. To a certain someone who is reading this blog: shhhhh... Your mouth is a tomb, remember? ;-)
(Oh Niels, will I ever say that word again without hearing YOU say it?)
Speaking of which, Rob P. says that he will come along on Saturday and sent this FANTASTIC poem by Ruth L. Schwartz with his reply. My pleasure to share it with you.
Oh God, Fuck me
by Ruth L. Schwartz
Fuck me, oh god, with ordinary things
the things you love best in the world -
like trees in spring, exposing themselves,
flashing leaf buds so firm and swollen
I want to take them in my mouth.
Speaking of trees, fuck me with birds
say, an enormous raucous crow,
proud as a man with his hands down his pants,
and then a sparrow, intimately brown,
discreet and cautious as a concubine.
Fuck me with my kitchen faucet, dripping
like a nymphomaniac,
all night slowly filling and filling,
then overflowing the bowls in the sink
and with the downstairs neighbour's vacuum,
that great sucking noisy dragon
making the dirty come clean.
Fuck me with breakfast, with English muffins
the spirit of the dough aroused
by browning, thrilled by buttering
Fuck me with orange juice,
its concentrated sweetness,
which makes the mouth as happy as summer
leaves sweet flecks of foam like spit
along the inside of the glass.
Fuck me with coffee, strong and hot,
and then with cream poured into coffee
blossoming like mushroom clouds,
opening like parachutes.
Fuck me with the ticking
clock, which is the ticking
bomb, which is the ticking heart -
the heart we heard in the first months,
in the original nakedness,
before we were squalling and born.
Fuck me with the unwashed spoon
proud with its coffee stain -
the faint swirl of a useful life
pooled into its center, round as a world.
P.S. To a certain someone who is reading this blog: shhhhh... Your mouth is a tomb, remember? ;-)
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Schreit wie am spieß
Welcome to the 2007 edition of getting to know your friends. What you are supposed to do is copy (not forward) this entire e-mail and paste it onto a new e-mail that you'll send. Change all the answers so they apply to you, and then send this to a whole bunch of people including the person who sent it to you. Put your name in the subject line. The theory is that you will learn a lot of little things about your friends, if you did not know them already.
1. What time is it: 12:13 AM CET
2. What time did you get up this morning? Can't remember, but there was a headache in there...
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Scott Walker: 30 Century Man. A documentary at the Berlinale. Um, seeing a percussionist pound meat for "the right sound" is just what I expect of art films.
4. What is your favorite TV show? Don't have one because I HAVE A LIFE. Wait, then why am I answering this...
5. What did you have for breakfast? Skipped it today, but had a nice lunch with Wendy. Did we really talk about sex clubs or was I fantasizing again?
6. What is your middle name? Rhymes with navel. Ok, not really...
7. What is your favorite cuisine? East Asian, whatever it is.
8. What foods do you dislike? Things that are still moving...and percussionist-pounded meat.
9. Your favorite chips? People have favorites?
10. What is your favorite CD? Of all time or now? Hm. Maybe ABBA? "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line... " Kidding!
11. What kind of car do you drive? It's called PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION. Leave the U.S., and you will love it too.
12. Favorite sandwich? Eggs and cheese on wheat.
13. What are characteristics you can't stand? Hypocrisy, lack of self-awareness and control of the White House.
14. What are your favorite clothes? Whatever it is, it is probably black...or no clothes at all.
15. If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would it be? Does "from my own thoughts" count?
49. What time did you finish this e-mail? 12:40, but that's because I got into a long conversation with Vicki who called to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day and catch me up on figure skating news. And because I skipped questions 15-48. Oh, and 50 ain't happening either.
Doug, for the love of god, just don't ever send one of these again.
1. What time is it: 12:13 AM CET
2. What time did you get up this morning? Can't remember, but there was a headache in there...
3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? Scott Walker: 30 Century Man. A documentary at the Berlinale. Um, seeing a percussionist pound meat for "the right sound" is just what I expect of art films.
4. What is your favorite TV show? Don't have one because I HAVE A LIFE. Wait, then why am I answering this...
5. What did you have for breakfast? Skipped it today, but had a nice lunch with Wendy. Did we really talk about sex clubs or was I fantasizing again?
6. What is your middle name? Rhymes with navel. Ok, not really...
7. What is your favorite cuisine? East Asian, whatever it is.
8. What foods do you dislike? Things that are still moving...and percussionist-pounded meat.
9. Your favorite chips? People have favorites?
10. What is your favorite CD? Of all time or now? Hm. Maybe ABBA? "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line... " Kidding!
11. What kind of car do you drive? It's called PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION. Leave the U.S., and you will love it too.
12. Favorite sandwich? Eggs and cheese on wheat.
13. What are characteristics you can't stand? Hypocrisy, lack of self-awareness and control of the White House.
14. What are your favorite clothes? Whatever it is, it is probably black...or no clothes at all.
15. If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would it be? Does "from my own thoughts" count?
49. What time did you finish this e-mail? 12:40, but that's because I got into a long conversation with Vicki who called to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day and catch me up on figure skating news. And because I skipped questions 15-48. Oh, and 50 ain't happening either.
Doug, for the love of god, just don't ever send one of these again.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Man, are you gonna fry...
And in my continuing coverage of the fall of the (former) pastor Ted Haggard, right-wing zealot and full-time hypocrite, this gem from the New York Times:
[clip]
Forced by a gay sex scandal to resign as president of the National Association of Evangelicals, the Rev. Ted Haggard now feels that after three weeks of intensive counseling, he is “completely heterosexual,”...
[/clip]
After a one-night intensive course in ass-fucking, I am sure everything will be fine again.
Let's all thank God for that, shall we?
I know I am.
[clip]
Forced by a gay sex scandal to resign as president of the National Association of Evangelicals, the Rev. Ted Haggard now feels that after three weeks of intensive counseling, he is “completely heterosexual,”...
[/clip]
After a one-night intensive course in ass-fucking, I am sure everything will be fine again.
Let's all thank God for that, shall we?
I know I am.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
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 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!
Friday, January 26, 2007
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
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
Monday, January 22, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, January 19, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, January 15, 2007
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
Even emptying the balcony ashtray was a joy.
Thank you all so much for coming.
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.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
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!
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!
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Rabbit.
Whoosh! and you're off.
A challenge between strangers,
with no word spoken.
You are not yet your mother,
your father in their practical shoes.
You wear your thin jacket
wide open
and it taunts like a red flag.
I am precariously balanced
on the slick track, freezing,
wheezing and careening behind
you.
I see my mother in the fat
of my chin, my father
in the moles that pepper
my skin.
I discover a new one each year.
So I dare to wear my jacket
wide open
and race you through the streets
of Berlin.
A challenge between strangers,
with no word spoken.
You are not yet your mother,
your father in their practical shoes.
You wear your thin jacket
wide open
and it taunts like a red flag.
I am precariously balanced
on the slick track, freezing,
wheezing and careening behind
you.
I see my mother in the fat
of my chin, my father
in the moles that pepper
my skin.
I discover a new one each year.
So I dare to wear my jacket
wide open
and race you through the streets
of Berlin.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Election Day dreaming...
The Democrats are poised to retake Congress and fix everything.
[Click here for audio link to original podcast]
It's the Onion Radio News. This is Doyle Redland reporting.
Democratic leaders say that as soon as they regain control of the U.S. Congress, the sun will shine again, soft soothing rains will fall upon our crops and flowers will bloom year round.
Senate Minority Leader Harry Reed:
"All Americans will be greeted each morning by the most beautiful rainbow they've ever seen."
Reed says that while taxes may increase slightly after the election, the effect will be mitigated by the gold coins and naked ladies that will begin drifting down from the sky above.
Doyle Redland for the Onion Radio News.
[This content provided by the Onion Radio News. Makes me laugh every day. Recommended!]
[Click here for audio link to original podcast]
It's the Onion Radio News. This is Doyle Redland reporting.
Democratic leaders say that as soon as they regain control of the U.S. Congress, the sun will shine again, soft soothing rains will fall upon our crops and flowers will bloom year round.
Senate Minority Leader Harry Reed:
"All Americans will be greeted each morning by the most beautiful rainbow they've ever seen."
Reed says that while taxes may increase slightly after the election, the effect will be mitigated by the gold coins and naked ladies that will begin drifting down from the sky above.
Doyle Redland for the Onion Radio News.
[This content provided by the Onion Radio News. Makes me laugh every day. Recommended!]
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Soul Cages
Adam turned to me in the office on Friday and asked, "did you hear..."
Yes, I heard. If it is possible for a black woman to turn multiple shades of purple, choking on her screaming, that was me, reading the news on my computer screen earlier that morning.
So the Pastor Ted Haggard was outed by his $200 per hour male escort of three years for being a big ol' hypocrite on the rights of same-sex couples to fuck, love and marry whoever they want. Until just a few days ago, Haggard could be counted on to be photographed with his wife, Gayle, and their five children as a shining example to the rest of us of what God's purpose is for us on this planet. Worse than the mere image of the Happy Heterosexual Home, Haggard lead his flock of 14,000 at the New Life Church and the 30,000 of the National Association of Evangelicals into campaigns against homosexuality and other "moral failings."
Here's an A/V clip from YouTube showing Pastor Ted speaking with his church on the absoluteness of Christian belief on same-sex relationships.
Transcribed:
"We've decided the Bible is the word of God. We don't have to have a general assembly about what we believe: it's written in the Bible. Alright, so we don't have to debate about what we should think about homosexual activity. It's written in the Bible. [He pauses and turns into the the camera, looking directly at the viewer.] I think I know what you did last night. [The audience explodes into laughter.] Haggard continues: If you send me a thousand dollars, I won't tell your wife. [More laughter and applause.]"
So Mike Jones just told your wife, Ted.
Before you joyfully bounce off to the polls on Tuesday, dear readers, smug in your satisfaction that this fallen angel may drag his conservative party backers down into Hell with him, let's take a moment here to beg for mercy.
What you talkin' bout, Willis?
Mr. Haggard (no longer "pastor" as he was stripped of that title by his church board yesterday) must have suffered greatly under the pressure of leading a life in which he could not be fully honest about his desires, whether he wanted to rid himself of them, fully embrace them or simply explore the gray area in between. Ted could not count on this place -- the church to which he devoted his life -- nor on these people -- the ones who claimed to "know" him -- to do anything more than rid themselves of him if his other desires came to light.
I have a lot of anger about Haggard, his religious ideology, and the influence that people like him have had over the political direction of the U.S. Still, if there is mercy, Mr. Haggard will NOT be the poster boy for the next NGLTF fundraiser, but rather the man whose experience leads his congregation to a place of open critical thought on sexual exploration, sexual identity and the complexity of human relationships.
We *do* have to have a general assembly on what we believe.
Have mercy on us all.
---
I dated a woman for 8 months who was not out of the closet about her sexuality. I vividly remember the small terror that flashed across her face when I leaned in to kiss her one morning as we were parting on the downtown bus. She loved me, though, so the relationship was worth what I considered to be small burdens.
Still, when the relationship ended, I swore that I would never do that again.
I didn't keep to that pledge, as you know. But I still strive for it, and so, last night on my way to a BDSM auction, thought of dumping the friend who came with me because she had the same terror on her face.
Don't tell anyone, she asked. Promise?
Yeah. I guess so. But I don't like it.
Yes, I heard. If it is possible for a black woman to turn multiple shades of purple, choking on her screaming, that was me, reading the news on my computer screen earlier that morning.
So the Pastor Ted Haggard was outed by his $200 per hour male escort of three years for being a big ol' hypocrite on the rights of same-sex couples to fuck, love and marry whoever they want. Until just a few days ago, Haggard could be counted on to be photographed with his wife, Gayle, and their five children as a shining example to the rest of us of what God's purpose is for us on this planet. Worse than the mere image of the Happy Heterosexual Home, Haggard lead his flock of 14,000 at the New Life Church and the 30,000 of the National Association of Evangelicals into campaigns against homosexuality and other "moral failings."
Here's an A/V clip from YouTube showing Pastor Ted speaking with his church on the absoluteness of Christian belief on same-sex relationships.
Transcribed:
"We've decided the Bible is the word of God. We don't have to have a general assembly about what we believe: it's written in the Bible. Alright, so we don't have to debate about what we should think about homosexual activity. It's written in the Bible. [He pauses and turns into the the camera, looking directly at the viewer.] I think I know what you did last night. [The audience explodes into laughter.] Haggard continues: If you send me a thousand dollars, I won't tell your wife. [More laughter and applause.]"
So Mike Jones just told your wife, Ted.
Before you joyfully bounce off to the polls on Tuesday, dear readers, smug in your satisfaction that this fallen angel may drag his conservative party backers down into Hell with him, let's take a moment here to beg for mercy.
What you talkin' bout, Willis?
Mr. Haggard (no longer "pastor" as he was stripped of that title by his church board yesterday) must have suffered greatly under the pressure of leading a life in which he could not be fully honest about his desires, whether he wanted to rid himself of them, fully embrace them or simply explore the gray area in between. Ted could not count on this place -- the church to which he devoted his life -- nor on these people -- the ones who claimed to "know" him -- to do anything more than rid themselves of him if his other desires came to light.
I have a lot of anger about Haggard, his religious ideology, and the influence that people like him have had over the political direction of the U.S. Still, if there is mercy, Mr. Haggard will NOT be the poster boy for the next NGLTF fundraiser, but rather the man whose experience leads his congregation to a place of open critical thought on sexual exploration, sexual identity and the complexity of human relationships.
We *do* have to have a general assembly on what we believe.
Have mercy on us all.
---
I dated a woman for 8 months who was not out of the closet about her sexuality. I vividly remember the small terror that flashed across her face when I leaned in to kiss her one morning as we were parting on the downtown bus. She loved me, though, so the relationship was worth what I considered to be small burdens.
Still, when the relationship ended, I swore that I would never do that again.
I didn't keep to that pledge, as you know. But I still strive for it, and so, last night on my way to a BDSM auction, thought of dumping the friend who came with me because she had the same terror on her face.
Don't tell anyone, she asked. Promise?
Yeah. I guess so. But I don't like it.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Arrivals and Departures
On Monday morning, Richard flew from Hamburg for the U.S. It was his first trip outside of the Americas and—because of one very late night of clubbing that is beyond all description—I caused him to sleep through much of the remaining time that we shared in Berlin.
(Yes, yes, darling: what happens in Berlin, stays in Berlin…)
Do come back.
---
I feel as if I have been saying that a lot lately, but it is not true. Just Richard. And Ramona. (Raaaaaamoaaaaannnna. God knows I miss you.)
Ramona deserved more space here than she received. Maybe because I knew she was reading and shyly edited her out. Maybe because I knew that if I kept my mouth shut, she still could run for president. LOL.
And what can you really say of a "best girlfriend ever"?
I will miss you at CSA.
I will miss you on the DFB.
I will miss you in the KKC…purr.
And all that is unsaid because girlfriends keep each other's secrets.
----
Of my own departure, now these many months later, I will say that it was never my intention to stay. You know why I am here. But I applied for and received my temporary stay permit. And last week, I signed on the dotted line with milengo. A contract! Full employment with vacation benefits and a name badge that says "Tammi."
Ok, ok, no name badge. But Adam, if you're reading this, I'd like a really cool milengo shirt. One that looks like I've joined a bowling league. Bitte. Danke.
---
If I click my heels three times,
I am home with you. We have never left
the bed. I am breathing in your skin:
you smell of chlorine, candy rings and our
salty sex. Nur ein Wort,
Liebling: remember. This is still
your land.
(Yes, yes, darling: what happens in Berlin, stays in Berlin…)
Do come back.
---
I feel as if I have been saying that a lot lately, but it is not true. Just Richard. And Ramona. (Raaaaaamoaaaaannnna. God knows I miss you.)
Ramona deserved more space here than she received. Maybe because I knew she was reading and shyly edited her out. Maybe because I knew that if I kept my mouth shut, she still could run for president. LOL.
And what can you really say of a "best girlfriend ever"?
I will miss you at CSA.
I will miss you on the DFB.
I will miss you in the KKC…purr.
And all that is unsaid because girlfriends keep each other's secrets.
----
Of my own departure, now these many months later, I will say that it was never my intention to stay. You know why I am here. But I applied for and received my temporary stay permit. And last week, I signed on the dotted line with milengo. A contract! Full employment with vacation benefits and a name badge that says "Tammi."
Ok, ok, no name badge. But Adam, if you're reading this, I'd like a really cool milengo shirt. One that looks like I've joined a bowling league. Bitte. Danke.
---
If I click my heels three times,
I am home with you. We have never left
the bed. I am breathing in your skin:
you smell of chlorine, candy rings and our
salty sex. Nur ein Wort,
Liebling: remember. This is still
your land.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Next time, I will pack Ms. Purple.
…whether a man be king or commoner, there is nothing more enjoyable than a good fuck… -- José Saramago, Baltasar and Blimunda, p. 304.
In deference to the ladies and gentleman who insist on reading my blog for some sign of my redemption from sluttery (e.g. one Steve Pickering of the Lake District, U.K.), I will decline to write here of all that I saw and experienced at the Kit Kat Club between 1:30 and 8:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 1, 2006.
But outside of the live sex show that I attended in Amsterdam, I have never seen (nor touched) as many cocks and cunts as I did on this one Saturday night here in Berlin.
Oops. Do pardon my French!
To my dear Aunt Marie, I believe this officially takes me out of the running for President of the United States of America. I thank you, however, for your steadfast support.
Most sincerely,
Tammi
P.S. Yes, the techno music was also very nice.
In deference to the ladies and gentleman who insist on reading my blog for some sign of my redemption from sluttery (e.g. one Steve Pickering of the Lake District, U.K.), I will decline to write here of all that I saw and experienced at the Kit Kat Club between 1:30 and 8:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 1, 2006.
But outside of the live sex show that I attended in Amsterdam, I have never seen (nor touched) as many cocks and cunts as I did on this one Saturday night here in Berlin.
Oops. Do pardon my French!
To my dear Aunt Marie, I believe this officially takes me out of the running for President of the United States of America. I thank you, however, for your steadfast support.
Most sincerely,
Tammi
P.S. Yes, the techno music was also very nice.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Blame it on the Arabians...
[To those of the birthday party regarding the events of September 17 at 2 a.m.]
So the six of us -- Ramona, Jeff, Susan, Andreas, Kris and me -- hustle the rest of you good folks out the door so we can get over to the Berghain. Caroline, who was rendezvousing with us at the club later, and I had already been there, so I wasn't creeped out by the back-of-the-yards industrial wasteland that surrounds the Berghain. Kris and I joked that it was like that opening scene of that movie Blade, where the party-boy at the wild dance club all of a sudden finds himself in a vampire blood bath.
Er, I digress...
Anyway, after a lengthy wait in line, I am at the front door with the gang behind me. I am waived in, my bag is searched, my body is given the gentle pat down (by a nicely tattooed babe, I might add). I am pointed over to the cashier, but I turn to wait for the others at the door.
Um, and this is where Jörn's curse on all places with bouncers comes into effect.
One of the guys at the door waves me back and says, "You can stay, but your friends aren't coming in."
At first, I thought it was a joke: a little prank played on the giggly birthday girl or some teasing just to explain the hold up. But he's just waiting for me to say something. I finally give it to him.
"Are you serious?"
He is, he gives no explanation and the gang is simply looking in through the door with their own shocked faces. Chime in here guys with what was said to you directly, because I missed whatever was said while I was getting the pat-down from the nicely tattooed babe.
Anyway, of course I don't stay, but go out instead with them to sort out the confusion.
Eventually, the head bouncer starts to talk with us. He is an African-American guy from New York and he's been working with "these guys" for a while. From his comments, I guess the bouncers at the door are gay, he's not, and we (with the exception of Tammi is-my-bi-showing? Coles), they assume, are not friendly enough to that atmosphere. Ramona drops to him that it's my birthday. It turns out that it is his son's too and he laments that he we didn't point that out to the guys at the door.
Because they would have made an exception to our "not friendly" group in that case???
"Oh, my, why didn't you SAY that!" says the pierced vampire bouncer. With maybe a little giggle thrown in for solidarity....
Anyway, our New York dude didn't have time to explain, as he was having to deal with some "Arabians."
Huh?
He said that a couple of times: that some "Arabians" had been causing trouble and he needed to handle the "Arabians."
(If they look gay enough, maybe they will just slip in... Those damn Arabians!!!)
Anyway, he *was* trying to be nice about the bouncers, even as he was saying that, as their boss, he didn't want to overrule them by taking our group back to the door. His final advice:
Get back in line and break up your group.
I later try to convince Jeff and Kris to go back with their hands in each other's back pockets but, alas, the straight boys decline. Ramona and I definitely could have pulled it off.
Definitely.
So the six of us -- Ramona, Jeff, Susan, Andreas, Kris and me -- hustle the rest of you good folks out the door so we can get over to the Berghain. Caroline, who was rendezvousing with us at the club later, and I had already been there, so I wasn't creeped out by the back-of-the-yards industrial wasteland that surrounds the Berghain. Kris and I joked that it was like that opening scene of that movie Blade, where the party-boy at the wild dance club all of a sudden finds himself in a vampire blood bath.
Er, I digress...
Anyway, after a lengthy wait in line, I am at the front door with the gang behind me. I am waived in, my bag is searched, my body is given the gentle pat down (by a nicely tattooed babe, I might add). I am pointed over to the cashier, but I turn to wait for the others at the door.
Um, and this is where Jörn's curse on all places with bouncers comes into effect.
One of the guys at the door waves me back and says, "You can stay, but your friends aren't coming in."
At first, I thought it was a joke: a little prank played on the giggly birthday girl or some teasing just to explain the hold up. But he's just waiting for me to say something. I finally give it to him.
"Are you serious?"
He is, he gives no explanation and the gang is simply looking in through the door with their own shocked faces. Chime in here guys with what was said to you directly, because I missed whatever was said while I was getting the pat-down from the nicely tattooed babe.
Anyway, of course I don't stay, but go out instead with them to sort out the confusion.
Eventually, the head bouncer starts to talk with us. He is an African-American guy from New York and he's been working with "these guys" for a while. From his comments, I guess the bouncers at the door are gay, he's not, and we (with the exception of Tammi is-my-bi-showing? Coles), they assume, are not friendly enough to that atmosphere. Ramona drops to him that it's my birthday. It turns out that it is his son's too and he laments that he we didn't point that out to the guys at the door.
Because they would have made an exception to our "not friendly" group in that case???
"Oh, my, why didn't you SAY that!" says the pierced vampire bouncer. With maybe a little giggle thrown in for solidarity....
Anyway, our New York dude didn't have time to explain, as he was having to deal with some "Arabians."
Huh?
He said that a couple of times: that some "Arabians" had been causing trouble and he needed to handle the "Arabians."
(If they look gay enough, maybe they will just slip in... Those damn Arabians!!!)
Anyway, he *was* trying to be nice about the bouncers, even as he was saying that, as their boss, he didn't want to overrule them by taking our group back to the door. His final advice:
Get back in line and break up your group.
I later try to convince Jeff and Kris to go back with their hands in each other's back pockets but, alas, the straight boys decline. Ramona and I definitely could have pulled it off.
Definitely.
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