I'm so sorry to hear the French people said 'non' to the European constitution. Here in the Netherlands we'll be voting on wednesday, and I'm not too sure yet what I'm going to vote, but with you people saying "no" the tension's sort of gone. So thanks for once again stealing our thunder!
Anyway, I'm sure you're wondering why the election went the wrong way, and I think I figured it out. The problem lies with the French people. Ok, I understand this may lead you to shout out "Duh" (or whatever may be the French version of that) to your computer screen, but hear me out. Most of the rest of the world sees the French as pouty people, people that can be pretty darn bitchy from time to time, people who say stuff like, ehm, oh I dunno, "get away from me you filthy Americain! I hope you get a dissease and die!". People, most of us wouldn't describe as extremely friendly most of the time. Put that together and the French seem more like a people that would say "no" to any question in general than "yes".
Conclusion? You should have changed the question! Instead of "Do you want this constitution" you should have asked "Do you not want this constitution?". I guarentee you that if you would have asked that question you would have won. But you didn't... (so you didn't).
Anyway, the reason I'm really writing is because I heard your prime-minister is probably going to resign after this. Which, as we all now, is politician for "I'm-firing-you-but-if-I-say-I-fire-you-it's-gonna-make-me-look-bad-and-I'm-not-going-anywhere-so-you-just-claim-you-resign-and-I-put-on-my-sad-face-and-say-I-can-only-except-that-resignation". And then you'll have to do some job interviews to get a new prime-minister. Which is where I come in.
See, I think I can give you some advice on how to select a good prime-minister. Now, don't bitch it! I've given John Bolton some excellent advice on taking cookies to the security council and shaving so I think I should be able to give you a few pointers.
First of all, I'd go for someone that makes the rest of the world think "Aha! Vin! Pain! Vive la France!" instead of "Oh f### it, it's the French". Someone who preferably wears a straw hat. Also someone who sings chansons. Basically, Charles Aznavour. He's old, he's cudly, he sings nice songs. The only way your good "friend" (*makes wild hand movements when typing "*) George Bush can beat that is by making Tom Jones his seceretary of state (and he's Welsh, so he won't).
Second, in the case that Charles doesn't want the job, test your possible candidates on general intelligence. The way to do that? The globe test. And, yes, I am talking about the famous inspector Clouseau scene. Just make the possible candidates play with a big globe for a moment. The test results should be pretty easy to understand. If they end up with their hand stuck in the thing and it's funny it's Peter Sellers in disguise. If they end up with their hand stuck in the thing and it's painful to watch and you wonder why you payed money to see the movie, it's Steve Martin doing Peter Sellers doing Inspector Clouseau. If they don't get their hand stuck, well, they had far too much practice with this crap and they shouldn't get the job anyway.
Third: speaking skills. Recently I was confronted with the fact that apparently if you want a job that involves speaking on the phone a lot you can't speak unclear (ridiculous, I know). My guess is that the French prime minister is expected to speak in public a lot, so just let them read out a few sentences. Something like "the grain in Spain" or, if you want to, sentences they will actually use. Sentences like "Whatever happened, it's not the fault of Le Presidente, it's all mine!".
Oh and finally, if the guy you're interviewing keeps on yapping on (and on, and on, and on) about photography... just shoot 'm. You're the frigging president, I'm sure you can get away with it!
Au revoir!
Boris
Monday, May 30, 2005
Friday, May 27, 2005
The animal instinct in me
Lately I've been wondering how I would survive in a fight. Not a "Who you callin' a bitch, ho?" sort of fight, but more of a fistfight sort of fight. Or a foot-in-your-face sort of fight. Or an elbow-in-your-crotch sort of fight. Or... well, you get the picture.
The reason is not so much a refound sense of masculinity (see below and insert own joke here) but more a general feeling of unsafety. Sure, I could be over reacting (and that is part of the drama queen job description) but the re-entry of bashing in general, and gay-bashing in particular, in the top 10 of "favourite crimes in Amsterdam in 2005" (right below threatening the mayor and wearing mint green coats), makes me feel a bit... oh I dunno, really scared?
The problem is I've never been in an actual physical fight with somebody. Being really bad at sports and all that crap, I generally was able to stay away from all physical confrontations by shutting up at the right time. However, rethinking that strategy now, it has left me with a serious lack in preperation for the outside world. Sure, I can bitch-slap extremely well (especially a certain hair-losing friend whose name we shall not mention), but how does that help you in the street? I don't think my homeys in the hood (with whom I'm down) would be very impressed with that sort of action. Part of the problem is simply that I'm just not that violent myself. The only time I can remember seriously considering punching someone in the face was last year. It was in an airport outside Milan at the end of my vacation.
I should explain that I never do vacations alone, since 2001 I have been spending my summer breaks traveling with a bunch of American, and one Finn, friends. Sometimes it's a really big group (think 6 or 7 people) sometimes it's just 2 or 3 people, it sort of depends on who has money and who wants to sweat around in Italy in july.
Anyhoo, last year we had a pretty big group and we spent two weeks crossing through the entire country in a crappy mini-van. As anyone who has ever been on a family vacation knows; driving for days in a row in the heat with a crappy airco... well, it sometimes get stressful and a bit tense. Which is why most of us were pretty happy when we finally could fly home. That is, I could fly home, the rest was to fly to Amsterdam wait another day and then fly home.
On that morning I was sitting in the waiting area reading the last pages of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Across from me were my friend Becky and her then-boyfriend (currently-just-really-good-friend-unless-I-missed-an-update-and-they're-back-together-again). The guy was obviously bored to death and, as we had already figured out during the weeks before, dealing with boredom was not his strongest thing, so he started playing with a rubber band.
Which was fine.
And then he started aiming the thing at me like he was about to shoot it.
Which was still fine, because I distinctly remember thinking "Neah, he won't do that".
And then he did.
The band flew across the room in slow-motion. I remember thinking I might want to move my head, but it was already too late. The thing hit me straight against my face. Since I personally am totally incapable of throwing anything in any direction I want, somewhere it was actually quite impressive that he pulled it off. Unfortunately I wasn't really feeling in a cheerleading mood: it was hot, I was sweaty, I was tired, clean clothes had left my suitcase a week earlier, I wanted to go home and, hell, it hurt! So I grabbed the rubber band, walked over to him and seriously considered punching him.
Only problem was that he's not only really heavy (and I mean a his-belly-could-be-a-childrens-attraction-heavy), he's also really strong and I'm pretty sure he would have broken my neck if we would have gotten in a fight. Plus we were at an airport and with the new terrorism laws we would probably have ended up in an Italian prison. Which I don't think would have done much good for my mood either.
So I went for the sad alternative and lectured him... And then ignored him for the rest of the trip (which was two days, so it's not that impressive either). Yeah, that taught him!
Which means I still don't have any fight experience. But watch out: next time someone cuts in front of me in the supermarket or someone bumps into me on the street maybe the animal instinct will take over.
Or maybe I'll just look really angry and hope karma kicks their asses.
The reason is not so much a refound sense of masculinity (see below and insert own joke here) but more a general feeling of unsafety. Sure, I could be over reacting (and that is part of the drama queen job description) but the re-entry of bashing in general, and gay-bashing in particular, in the top 10 of "favourite crimes in Amsterdam in 2005" (right below threatening the mayor and wearing mint green coats), makes me feel a bit... oh I dunno, really scared?
The problem is I've never been in an actual physical fight with somebody. Being really bad at sports and all that crap, I generally was able to stay away from all physical confrontations by shutting up at the right time. However, rethinking that strategy now, it has left me with a serious lack in preperation for the outside world. Sure, I can bitch-slap extremely well (especially a certain hair-losing friend whose name we shall not mention), but how does that help you in the street? I don't think my homeys in the hood (with whom I'm down) would be very impressed with that sort of action. Part of the problem is simply that I'm just not that violent myself. The only time I can remember seriously considering punching someone in the face was last year. It was in an airport outside Milan at the end of my vacation.
I should explain that I never do vacations alone, since 2001 I have been spending my summer breaks traveling with a bunch of American, and one Finn, friends. Sometimes it's a really big group (think 6 or 7 people) sometimes it's just 2 or 3 people, it sort of depends on who has money and who wants to sweat around in Italy in july.
Anyhoo, last year we had a pretty big group and we spent two weeks crossing through the entire country in a crappy mini-van. As anyone who has ever been on a family vacation knows; driving for days in a row in the heat with a crappy airco... well, it sometimes get stressful and a bit tense. Which is why most of us were pretty happy when we finally could fly home. That is, I could fly home, the rest was to fly to Amsterdam wait another day and then fly home.
On that morning I was sitting in the waiting area reading the last pages of Uncle Tom's Cabin. Across from me were my friend Becky and her then-boyfriend (currently-just-really-good-friend-unless-I-missed-an-update-and-they're-back-together-again). The guy was obviously bored to death and, as we had already figured out during the weeks before, dealing with boredom was not his strongest thing, so he started playing with a rubber band.
Which was fine.
And then he started aiming the thing at me like he was about to shoot it.
Which was still fine, because I distinctly remember thinking "Neah, he won't do that".
And then he did.
The band flew across the room in slow-motion. I remember thinking I might want to move my head, but it was already too late. The thing hit me straight against my face. Since I personally am totally incapable of throwing anything in any direction I want, somewhere it was actually quite impressive that he pulled it off. Unfortunately I wasn't really feeling in a cheerleading mood: it was hot, I was sweaty, I was tired, clean clothes had left my suitcase a week earlier, I wanted to go home and, hell, it hurt! So I grabbed the rubber band, walked over to him and seriously considered punching him.
Only problem was that he's not only really heavy (and I mean a his-belly-could-be-a-childrens-attraction-heavy), he's also really strong and I'm pretty sure he would have broken my neck if we would have gotten in a fight. Plus we were at an airport and with the new terrorism laws we would probably have ended up in an Italian prison. Which I don't think would have done much good for my mood either.
So I went for the sad alternative and lectured him... And then ignored him for the rest of the trip (which was two days, so it's not that impressive either). Yeah, that taught him!
Which means I still don't have any fight experience. But watch out: next time someone cuts in front of me in the supermarket or someone bumps into me on the street maybe the animal instinct will take over.
Or maybe I'll just look really angry and hope karma kicks their asses.
Monday, May 23, 2005
In dreams I walk with you
My dreams are driving me absolutely crazy.
I'm not talking about life-dreams or unrealistic carreer goals like wanting to be a famous rock singer... or an actor... or a writer... or a cleaning lady. I'm talking about actual lying-in-bed-and-having-weird-movies-played-in-your-brain-while-you're-officially-sleeping-dreams (which I should add is a term I have now copyrighted).
The problem is that for years I never had any dreams at all. I know that officially they were there and that I just didn't remember them. But let's face it, if you forget about stuff like that, it just wasn't there. So, consequently, night time was a time in which I could just sleep like a log. It may have been boring but it seemed like a concept everybody was happy with.
Sure, once in a while I would have a dream or two that I did remember the next day. Most of those dreams, however, were so boring that it really didn't matter whether I remembered them or not. The only downside of those dreams was that they would confuse me once I woke up. One time I had a dream about e-mailing someone. Yeah, I know, rock n roll. It wasn't even something kinky, like congratulating that years GayVNAward winners or something, just a normal reply to an actual existing friend. It confused me because after I had that dream I spent two days wondering if I emailed her in real life or if it was a dream (this was still when hotmail didn't show if you already replied, you know, way back when, right before colour tv got introduced).
And then suddenly something changed. Now all of a sudden my brain, soul, or god-knows-who-or-what-controls-dreams, has decided that my dreams are to be active and extremely exhausting. Maybe the little people that control my brain were tired of the same old sending-an-email movie and demanded more exciting features for movie-night, maybe I'm just slowly losing my mind, but since a couple of months I have the weirdest dreams.
Most of the time I can't quite remember every single detail but I just wake up in the morning more tired then when I went to sleep and feel extremely confused. Sometimes I remember the outlines of the story. A couple of weeks ago (as previously mentioned in "I'm a man", see below) I had a dream about bread (French baguettes to be precise) which also featured my mother. I don't really care for bread at all so why I had a dream about it, heaven may know. That same night I also had a dream (as also mentioned in "I'm a man") about some kind of wild water animal chasing me (shark, crocodile, goldfish, same difference). Which is also weird because I'm not much of a swimmer so the odds of me ending up in a fight with a shark is.... well.... a little low.
Last night I had a completely insane dream again. This time it had something to do with a non-existing museum in a non-existing Italian town. I don't know how I know it was Italy, because nobody spoke Italian, but I just did. I was there with one of my best friends (who for some reason had taken his shoes off) and we were seperated from two other people who we were trying to find. Then out of nowhere I ended up in a theatre where something completely insane was happening on stage and I felt like my ears were about to explode from huge pressure building up in them... and then I woke up, tired, confused, and with aching ears (but that's normal).
Sooo, if anyone can either (1) explain how I can turn the movies off or (2) change the dreams to something more entertaining for me (say.... oh, I don't know... male strippers singing Chamachameleon? or something involving earlier named GayVNawards winners?) I'll be forever grateful.
I'm not talking about life-dreams or unrealistic carreer goals like wanting to be a famous rock singer... or an actor... or a writer... or a cleaning lady. I'm talking about actual lying-in-bed-and-having-weird-movies-played-in-your-brain-while-you're-officially-sleeping-dreams (which I should add is a term I have now copyrighted).
The problem is that for years I never had any dreams at all. I know that officially they were there and that I just didn't remember them. But let's face it, if you forget about stuff like that, it just wasn't there. So, consequently, night time was a time in which I could just sleep like a log. It may have been boring but it seemed like a concept everybody was happy with.
Sure, once in a while I would have a dream or two that I did remember the next day. Most of those dreams, however, were so boring that it really didn't matter whether I remembered them or not. The only downside of those dreams was that they would confuse me once I woke up. One time I had a dream about e-mailing someone. Yeah, I know, rock n roll. It wasn't even something kinky, like congratulating that years GayVNAward winners or something, just a normal reply to an actual existing friend. It confused me because after I had that dream I spent two days wondering if I emailed her in real life or if it was a dream (this was still when hotmail didn't show if you already replied, you know, way back when, right before colour tv got introduced).
And then suddenly something changed. Now all of a sudden my brain, soul, or god-knows-who-or-what-controls-dreams, has decided that my dreams are to be active and extremely exhausting. Maybe the little people that control my brain were tired of the same old sending-an-email movie and demanded more exciting features for movie-night, maybe I'm just slowly losing my mind, but since a couple of months I have the weirdest dreams.
Most of the time I can't quite remember every single detail but I just wake up in the morning more tired then when I went to sleep and feel extremely confused. Sometimes I remember the outlines of the story. A couple of weeks ago (as previously mentioned in "I'm a man", see below) I had a dream about bread (French baguettes to be precise) which also featured my mother. I don't really care for bread at all so why I had a dream about it, heaven may know. That same night I also had a dream (as also mentioned in "I'm a man") about some kind of wild water animal chasing me (shark, crocodile, goldfish, same difference). Which is also weird because I'm not much of a swimmer so the odds of me ending up in a fight with a shark is.... well.... a little low.
Last night I had a completely insane dream again. This time it had something to do with a non-existing museum in a non-existing Italian town. I don't know how I know it was Italy, because nobody spoke Italian, but I just did. I was there with one of my best friends (who for some reason had taken his shoes off) and we were seperated from two other people who we were trying to find. Then out of nowhere I ended up in a theatre where something completely insane was happening on stage and I felt like my ears were about to explode from huge pressure building up in them... and then I woke up, tired, confused, and with aching ears (but that's normal).
Sooo, if anyone can either (1) explain how I can turn the movies off or (2) change the dreams to something more entertaining for me (say.... oh, I don't know... male strippers singing Chamachameleon? or something involving earlier named GayVNawards winners?) I'll be forever grateful.
Friday, May 20, 2005
Grumble
How are you supposed to reply to an e-mail telling you you're not getting the job you really wanted?
Lemme explain: last friday I had a job interview for a part-time job that I could keep myself busy with while studying. Although the job itself (selling theatre tickets over the phone) seemed more boring than having to watch a "Little House on the Prairie" marathon (... again), they payed pretty good and part of the deal was that you were allowed to buy tickets for yourself for about 200 bucks every three months for free (which is almost as erotic as an Ipod, see old post way back in March).
Although I thought the job interview went well I got an e-mail on wednesday saying that although they liked me as a person and they really enjoyed the conversation (oh bullocks) they decided not to give me the job because, and I quote, "I talked too fast and too unclear". Which apparently is a problem when you have to talk on the phone all day (yeah, the logic totally escapes me too).
This of course struck a chord. First of all; Idon'ttalkfastatall (and certnly nt nclr)! And second (and I know this is a very Seinfield-esque question) : isn't telling someone he didn't get the job he really really wanted a little like dumping him? And isn't it an unwritten rule you don't dump someone through e-mail? I mean, for crying out loud, at least have the guts to call. As a matter of fact the lady in charge of the interviewing proces (a lady I actually liked during the interview but am now allowed to feel is Satan's part-time whore) could have underlined her point by faking she couldn't understand me over the phone: "Who am I talking to? Are you in a tunnel or something?".
Anyhoo, all of this brings me to the question: how do I respond now? So far I've been able to come up with a few options, but I'm not quite sure which one to go with:
Option 1: ignore her e-mail completely. This will make her wonder if I ever had the e-mail and if I will not end up calling her or even worse just show up in her office saying "Hi, I'm ready to start, where's my work place?" (not that she'd understand a word I'd say of course, but my presence and mumbling would scare her to death). Yes, yes that would teach her!
Option 2: play the guilt card. Write her something like "sure pick on the guy with the hearing problem, does that make you feel powerful? hmmm? am I nothing but a toy to you?". Usually it works on women, but on Satan's bi-atch... I don't know (or as I would apparently say it "Idnno").
Option 3: the arrogance card. Simply mail her back "Ah well, your loss!". That, or I could stand outside her office building and sing Ben Folds Five's "Song for the dumped" or "One angry dwarf and 200 solemn faces". Which isn't really arrogance at all, just angry. And actuallyy I think I'll save that last song for my high school reunion.
And finally the last option: threaten to set her house on fire.... Rethinking that one, option 4 might not be that smart an idea after all because (1) I don't know where she lives and (2) she does know where I live, which would probably mean that even the Amsterdam police should be able to find me (... maybe).
Or I could just be the grown-up and, to quote the Jordanian royal family, "soldier on".... or as I would apparently pronounce that: Hmmmwhmmmhwmmw.
Lemme explain: last friday I had a job interview for a part-time job that I could keep myself busy with while studying. Although the job itself (selling theatre tickets over the phone) seemed more boring than having to watch a "Little House on the Prairie" marathon (... again), they payed pretty good and part of the deal was that you were allowed to buy tickets for yourself for about 200 bucks every three months for free (which is almost as erotic as an Ipod, see old post way back in March).
Although I thought the job interview went well I got an e-mail on wednesday saying that although they liked me as a person and they really enjoyed the conversation (oh bullocks) they decided not to give me the job because, and I quote, "I talked too fast and too unclear". Which apparently is a problem when you have to talk on the phone all day (yeah, the logic totally escapes me too).
This of course struck a chord. First of all; Idon'ttalkfastatall (and certnly nt nclr)! And second (and I know this is a very Seinfield-esque question) : isn't telling someone he didn't get the job he really really wanted a little like dumping him? And isn't it an unwritten rule you don't dump someone through e-mail? I mean, for crying out loud, at least have the guts to call. As a matter of fact the lady in charge of the interviewing proces (a lady I actually liked during the interview but am now allowed to feel is Satan's part-time whore) could have underlined her point by faking she couldn't understand me over the phone: "Who am I talking to? Are you in a tunnel or something?".
Anyhoo, all of this brings me to the question: how do I respond now? So far I've been able to come up with a few options, but I'm not quite sure which one to go with:
Option 1: ignore her e-mail completely. This will make her wonder if I ever had the e-mail and if I will not end up calling her or even worse just show up in her office saying "Hi, I'm ready to start, where's my work place?" (not that she'd understand a word I'd say of course, but my presence and mumbling would scare her to death). Yes, yes that would teach her!
Option 2: play the guilt card. Write her something like "sure pick on the guy with the hearing problem, does that make you feel powerful? hmmm? am I nothing but a toy to you?". Usually it works on women, but on Satan's bi-atch... I don't know (or as I would apparently say it "Idnno").
Option 3: the arrogance card. Simply mail her back "Ah well, your loss!". That, or I could stand outside her office building and sing Ben Folds Five's "Song for the dumped" or "One angry dwarf and 200 solemn faces". Which isn't really arrogance at all, just angry. And actuallyy I think I'll save that last song for my high school reunion.
And finally the last option: threaten to set her house on fire.... Rethinking that one, option 4 might not be that smart an idea after all because (1) I don't know where she lives and (2) she does know where I live, which would probably mean that even the Amsterdam police should be able to find me (... maybe).
Or I could just be the grown-up and, to quote the Jordanian royal family, "soldier on".... or as I would apparently pronounce that: Hmmmwhmmmhwmmw.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Dear ´Runaway Bride´,
I just wanted to write you a letter so I could tell you that you really scare me.
Now don’t take this the wrong way! I know it may sound a little rough, especially since we don’t know each other and all that, but it’s just the truth. You really, really scare me. Probably more than George W. Bush scares me, maybe even more than Michael Jackson scares me (not as much as Dr. Laura scares me though (silver lining!) ).
It’s not really the fact that you ran away from your own wedding. Personally I don’t think it’s a very nice thing to do, you know, with your parents paying for everything and hundreds of guests coming over and all that. But after seeing pictures of your fiancée… well, I get the emotion, he seems really boring. And since he now still wants to marry you, he’s stupid too. Of course, I do blame you for getting the nickname `Runaway Bride` (which now makes me relive that horrible Julia Roberts / Richard Gere movie), but I guess it’s the media that made that one up (damn you Fox News!).
The fact that you faked your own kidnapping isn’t the biggest problem either. Looking back on it, you may wonder what the hell you were thinking, but honestly: we’ve all been there! Seriously, if I would have gotten a quarter for every time I was cutting out newspaper headlines to glue together a letter demanding ransom for myself.. In fact I’m impressed that you knew when to call it quits. Some spoiled rich girls might take it too far and lose track, which is all nice and dandy until they cut their own fingers off and realise that it ´sorta, like hurts and stuff´.
It’s also not the fact that you obviously are completely insane. Which you are. No judgement, really. I mean, it’s not like I consider myself extremely stable in the mental department (for instance, I write fake open letters to people I don’t know). But so far I’ve never shoplifted, which you have done many times despite the fact that you are in no money problems whatsoever, or… ehm… or ran away from my own wedding. But I did read the other day that you checked yourself into a mental hospital to do some soul searching, which I guess is a good thing.
What scares me so much are those freaky eyes!
I don’t know what you did to them (maybe it was surgery, maybe it’s lenses, maybe it’s LSD) but you look horrible with them. The insanely happy smile (the kind that says I’m-about-to-drown-my-children-in-the-bathtub) you sport on every single picture I’ve seen of you so far isn’t helping much either (honestly, what are you using???), but it’s the eyes that scare me most. If you look long enough at them (and I swear to god this is true, readers give it a try!) you actually get a little dizzy. So, on behalf of the rest of the world, could you PLEASE start wearing sunglasses?
Thanks in advance, take care, swallow all the pills the nurses tell you to take and I can’t wait for your tell-all book!
Love,
Boris
Now don’t take this the wrong way! I know it may sound a little rough, especially since we don’t know each other and all that, but it’s just the truth. You really, really scare me. Probably more than George W. Bush scares me, maybe even more than Michael Jackson scares me (not as much as Dr. Laura scares me though (silver lining!) ).
It’s not really the fact that you ran away from your own wedding. Personally I don’t think it’s a very nice thing to do, you know, with your parents paying for everything and hundreds of guests coming over and all that. But after seeing pictures of your fiancée… well, I get the emotion, he seems really boring. And since he now still wants to marry you, he’s stupid too. Of course, I do blame you for getting the nickname `Runaway Bride` (which now makes me relive that horrible Julia Roberts / Richard Gere movie), but I guess it’s the media that made that one up (damn you Fox News!).
The fact that you faked your own kidnapping isn’t the biggest problem either. Looking back on it, you may wonder what the hell you were thinking, but honestly: we’ve all been there! Seriously, if I would have gotten a quarter for every time I was cutting out newspaper headlines to glue together a letter demanding ransom for myself.. In fact I’m impressed that you knew when to call it quits. Some spoiled rich girls might take it too far and lose track, which is all nice and dandy until they cut their own fingers off and realise that it ´sorta, like hurts and stuff´.
It’s also not the fact that you obviously are completely insane. Which you are. No judgement, really. I mean, it’s not like I consider myself extremely stable in the mental department (for instance, I write fake open letters to people I don’t know). But so far I’ve never shoplifted, which you have done many times despite the fact that you are in no money problems whatsoever, or… ehm… or ran away from my own wedding. But I did read the other day that you checked yourself into a mental hospital to do some soul searching, which I guess is a good thing.
What scares me so much are those freaky eyes!
I don’t know what you did to them (maybe it was surgery, maybe it’s lenses, maybe it’s LSD) but you look horrible with them. The insanely happy smile (the kind that says I’m-about-to-drown-my-children-in-the-bathtub) you sport on every single picture I’ve seen of you so far isn’t helping much either (honestly, what are you using???), but it’s the eyes that scare me most. If you look long enough at them (and I swear to god this is true, readers give it a try!) you actually get a little dizzy. So, on behalf of the rest of the world, could you PLEASE start wearing sunglasses?
Thanks in advance, take care, swallow all the pills the nurses tell you to take and I can’t wait for your tell-all book!
Love,
Boris
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Shower your love on me
I think my shower is out to kill me.
I know this sounds like one of my insane rants (and I agree it’ll probably end up being just that) but hear me out. You see, I have been living in my apartment for almost three years now and so far this apartment has been absolutely amazing. It’s in pretty good shape, right in the city centre and the rent is so low I can actually make people cry by revealing it. There’s only one bad part about the entire deal: the shower.
In Normal Showerland (a.k.a. your own bathroom) showers work in a very simple way: you turn on all the hot water and then start adding cold water until you get a temperature you like. And then you take a shower. And then you stop showering at a certain point. And then presumably you dry yourself off with a towel. But that’s really your own business. Anyway, it’s a simple procedure.
My shower, however, works a little different: for some reason the type of water that is last added to the mix (so either hot or cold) takes control of the entire mix. So, if you try to take a shower the normal way it’ll end up being cold as hell, because cold water was added last. A good temperature can be reached, but only if you start with enough cold water and then add enough hot. If you O.D. on either you have to start all over again. Unless of course you want to freeze or burn yourself. Actually, to be fair, although it may sound like a bitch, and in the beginning it was, I got used to it after a few weeks and it’s not really that big a deal now.
That is, until a couple of weeks ago. Out of nowhere hot water decided it deserved to have a bigger representation in my daily shower and now whenever I try the normal procedure the water ends up being so freakin’ hot I’d burn my skin away if I would jump under it (I say jump, I mean stumble, hey! It’s early in the morning). Seeing that I know nothing about plumbing (another guy thing lost on me I suppose, see below), in my imagination the entire problem is a political struggle between hot and cold, and hot just pulled a successful coup. But I’m willing to agree that in reality it probably has something to do with my pipes (enter own lewd joke here).
I tried to do what I always do with annoying stuff, which is complain to my mom, but she didn’t seem to get it. In general the concept of a shower that is too hot is completely foreign to her anyway. If some evil super villain (or in the same category a nurse in a retirement home) would dump her in a bath of boiling water she’d probably complain about the draught. So, I explained it again. She still looked at me like she was an American tourist and I was some inhabitant of the jungle talking to her in my own language: ´WHAT? Do you speak ENGLISH? E-N-G-L-I-S-H?´. In the end she did get it but rightfully pointed out how freaking low the rent was, which sort of killed the rant.
Sigh.
Anyway, just wanted to let you know that if I end up dead in my shower I want the shower brought to justice (or to the scrap yard, whichever will hurt the thing most).
I know this sounds like one of my insane rants (and I agree it’ll probably end up being just that) but hear me out. You see, I have been living in my apartment for almost three years now and so far this apartment has been absolutely amazing. It’s in pretty good shape, right in the city centre and the rent is so low I can actually make people cry by revealing it. There’s only one bad part about the entire deal: the shower.
In Normal Showerland (a.k.a. your own bathroom) showers work in a very simple way: you turn on all the hot water and then start adding cold water until you get a temperature you like. And then you take a shower. And then you stop showering at a certain point. And then presumably you dry yourself off with a towel. But that’s really your own business. Anyway, it’s a simple procedure.
My shower, however, works a little different: for some reason the type of water that is last added to the mix (so either hot or cold) takes control of the entire mix. So, if you try to take a shower the normal way it’ll end up being cold as hell, because cold water was added last. A good temperature can be reached, but only if you start with enough cold water and then add enough hot. If you O.D. on either you have to start all over again. Unless of course you want to freeze or burn yourself. Actually, to be fair, although it may sound like a bitch, and in the beginning it was, I got used to it after a few weeks and it’s not really that big a deal now.
That is, until a couple of weeks ago. Out of nowhere hot water decided it deserved to have a bigger representation in my daily shower and now whenever I try the normal procedure the water ends up being so freakin’ hot I’d burn my skin away if I would jump under it (I say jump, I mean stumble, hey! It’s early in the morning). Seeing that I know nothing about plumbing (another guy thing lost on me I suppose, see below), in my imagination the entire problem is a political struggle between hot and cold, and hot just pulled a successful coup. But I’m willing to agree that in reality it probably has something to do with my pipes (enter own lewd joke here).
I tried to do what I always do with annoying stuff, which is complain to my mom, but she didn’t seem to get it. In general the concept of a shower that is too hot is completely foreign to her anyway. If some evil super villain (or in the same category a nurse in a retirement home) would dump her in a bath of boiling water she’d probably complain about the draught. So, I explained it again. She still looked at me like she was an American tourist and I was some inhabitant of the jungle talking to her in my own language: ´WHAT? Do you speak ENGLISH? E-N-G-L-I-S-H?´. In the end she did get it but rightfully pointed out how freaking low the rent was, which sort of killed the rant.
Sigh.
Anyway, just wanted to let you know that if I end up dead in my shower I want the shower brought to justice (or to the scrap yard, whichever will hurt the thing most).
Monday, May 09, 2005
I'm a man
I noticed the other day how I do quite a lot of things ´like a (little school-) girl´. For instance I scream like one when I see a big spider or other insects I don’t like (which basically means every insect that ever has, and ever will, walk this earth). I also giggle like one when exciting things happen or are about to happen (which is quite embarrassing, especially in a full bus). And, as far as I haven’t already killed the brain cells that remember anything from my gym classes, I seem to recall I throw and catch basketballs like one too. Basically, you might as well give me a long blonde wig and call me Debbie. (Also I bitch like one, but that might be the gay thing).
On top of that I generally don’t care that much about typical `guy´ things either. For instance, although I do root for a team and once in a while watch a match, football is one of the things that I could very easily live without. As a matter of fact, most sports could disappear from the earth tomorrow and I don’t think I could care less (I could give it a shot, but I really do not think I could). Also drinking more than one glass of beer in one session generally makes me sick and cars bore me to death. So, overall, if we look at the score between Boris – Masculinity, it’s not looking too comfy for the home-team (though using a sports analogy here should get me some points!).
There is, however, one thing I recently discovered I like, I find very masculine: I like cutting stuff with knives. Not people or anything, although I should add I have never actually done that, so I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t like it if I did (it’s just that blood makes me scream like a girl too), just food. First I thought it was something most people like doing, but after discussing it with a bunch of female friends, who all said they thought my big cooking knives were, and I quote, `scary´ to work with, it turned out it’s a guy thing.
Rock on!
Out of all things that are fun to cut or chop, mushrooms are by far the funnest (which I have decided is a word no matter what my Word spellchecker says… yeah, well screw you too Bill Gates!). I remember reading in a book once (it wasn’t really that interesting a book so by not naming I’m trying to sound intelligent, is it working?) that the main character considered slicing mushrooms `erotic´, and, although I can’t quite agree with that, it is a whole lot of fun. Mushrooms generally don’t make a mess when you cut them (like those bastard tomatoes) so you can just start chopping in on them with a big knife, like you’re in some kind of horror movie…. Killing mushrooms. Cool! And as a nice side effect mushrooms are very nice in a good pasta sauce, you know, with some fresh tomatoes, some tuna and…
Oh wait, talking about pasta sauce is not really helping my masculinity rating, is it?
F###…
Ok, let’s give it another shot: last night I dreamt I was fighting off sharks (or crocodiles, I can’t remember), that’s pretty masculine right?
On the other hand, earlier that night I also had a dream about bread….
Sigh.
Hi, I’m Debbie, how are you?
On top of that I generally don’t care that much about typical `guy´ things either. For instance, although I do root for a team and once in a while watch a match, football is one of the things that I could very easily live without. As a matter of fact, most sports could disappear from the earth tomorrow and I don’t think I could care less (I could give it a shot, but I really do not think I could). Also drinking more than one glass of beer in one session generally makes me sick and cars bore me to death. So, overall, if we look at the score between Boris – Masculinity, it’s not looking too comfy for the home-team (though using a sports analogy here should get me some points!).
There is, however, one thing I recently discovered I like, I find very masculine: I like cutting stuff with knives. Not people or anything, although I should add I have never actually done that, so I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t like it if I did (it’s just that blood makes me scream like a girl too), just food. First I thought it was something most people like doing, but after discussing it with a bunch of female friends, who all said they thought my big cooking knives were, and I quote, `scary´ to work with, it turned out it’s a guy thing.
Rock on!
Out of all things that are fun to cut or chop, mushrooms are by far the funnest (which I have decided is a word no matter what my Word spellchecker says… yeah, well screw you too Bill Gates!). I remember reading in a book once (it wasn’t really that interesting a book so by not naming I’m trying to sound intelligent, is it working?) that the main character considered slicing mushrooms `erotic´, and, although I can’t quite agree with that, it is a whole lot of fun. Mushrooms generally don’t make a mess when you cut them (like those bastard tomatoes) so you can just start chopping in on them with a big knife, like you’re in some kind of horror movie…. Killing mushrooms. Cool! And as a nice side effect mushrooms are very nice in a good pasta sauce, you know, with some fresh tomatoes, some tuna and…
Oh wait, talking about pasta sauce is not really helping my masculinity rating, is it?
F###…
Ok, let’s give it another shot: last night I dreamt I was fighting off sharks (or crocodiles, I can’t remember), that’s pretty masculine right?
On the other hand, earlier that night I also had a dream about bread….
Sigh.
Hi, I’m Debbie, how are you?
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Dear Bruce Springsteen,
Before we start the entire semi-funny fake open letter routine I just wanted to say: big fan. Love most of your work, adore your live performances (Live in Barcelona, best live dvd ever!) and Human Touch to me is sort of a personal anthem (which says many sad things about my social life but let’s not go there). Just wanted to get that straight.
Anyway, I’m writing this letter on behalf of the prostitutes living, and working, in Amsterdam. As you might now, considering that you wrote, recorded, and released it, you have a new album out called “Devils and Dust”. It’s sort of an acoustic album based on a bunch of different life stories and, although that entire idea sounds cornier than the next Freddie-Prinze-jr.-still-playing-a-teenager-movie, it works pretty neat.
The title track for instance is a beautiful song about an American soldier in Afghanistan, Iraq, or wherever you people are these days, wondering what “if what you do to survive / kills the thing you love”. Other tracks are about a young boy losing his mother, Mexican immigrants trying to cross the American border, a boxer at the end of his career and Jesus (it’s an American thing, isn’t it?). God knows what All I'm thinking about is about but that one is my personal favourite on the album.
So far, no problem. However there is one song, and here the girls come in the picture, which is a little more problematic. In the song Reno you sing about a man having sex with a prostitute (presumably in Reno). Although it’s not quite Penthouse material you are pretty graphic in the song which has caused some controversy in the US, more specifically the lyric “ ´Two-hundred dollars straight in, two-fifty up the ass´ she smiled and said”. Although I do think it’s a bit of a cheap lyric the girls themselves don’t really have that much of a problem with that part of the song. But then again they are (what for it!) pretty cheap women (ba-da-dum-tsjing!).
The problem also isn’t in the part at the end of the song where the man and the woman have a drink afterwards and the guy thinks to himself “It wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, not even close”. The girls would like to point out that most of the people they get are stoned or drunk so they don’t really remember anything from the entire thing anyway. Most men will probably wake up the next morning with a hangover and an STD not really remembering anything from the night before. Which I suppose makes the STD a nice souvenir they can give on to their wives. Also, as one of them said, “It’s not like you’re so fucking great”.
Their problem is with this part of the song “She poured me another whisky”. As one of the prostitutes (a woman I totally made up and decided to call Betty-Sue for no reason whatsoever) said “I dunno what them fancy women in Reno do with whiskey an’ all but here in Amsterdam we ain’t doin’ none of that stuff. You’s lucky if ya get a glass of water baby!” (why she talks in a fake Southern accent I don’t really know…. it’s probably a female thing).
So to conclude: the girls would like to ask you if you could refrain from singing that whisky part during your European performances. They’re afraid that men get the wrong idea about visiting prostitutes and they would like to point out that it’s just as it has always been: it’s still about abusing illegal immigrant women who would get beaten up or even killed by their pimp if they don’t do what he tells them to do (without whisky).
Oh and on a personal note: do an E-street band tour next year!
Adios!
Boris
Ps. I guess you don’t know Michael Bolton either do you? You’d think someone would….
Anyway, I’m writing this letter on behalf of the prostitutes living, and working, in Amsterdam. As you might now, considering that you wrote, recorded, and released it, you have a new album out called “Devils and Dust”. It’s sort of an acoustic album based on a bunch of different life stories and, although that entire idea sounds cornier than the next Freddie-Prinze-jr.-still-playing-a-teenager-movie, it works pretty neat.
The title track for instance is a beautiful song about an American soldier in Afghanistan, Iraq, or wherever you people are these days, wondering what “if what you do to survive / kills the thing you love”. Other tracks are about a young boy losing his mother, Mexican immigrants trying to cross the American border, a boxer at the end of his career and Jesus (it’s an American thing, isn’t it?). God knows what All I'm thinking about is about but that one is my personal favourite on the album.
So far, no problem. However there is one song, and here the girls come in the picture, which is a little more problematic. In the song Reno you sing about a man having sex with a prostitute (presumably in Reno). Although it’s not quite Penthouse material you are pretty graphic in the song which has caused some controversy in the US, more specifically the lyric “ ´Two-hundred dollars straight in, two-fifty up the ass´ she smiled and said”. Although I do think it’s a bit of a cheap lyric the girls themselves don’t really have that much of a problem with that part of the song. But then again they are (what for it!) pretty cheap women (ba-da-dum-tsjing!).
The problem also isn’t in the part at the end of the song where the man and the woman have a drink afterwards and the guy thinks to himself “It wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, not even close”. The girls would like to point out that most of the people they get are stoned or drunk so they don’t really remember anything from the entire thing anyway. Most men will probably wake up the next morning with a hangover and an STD not really remembering anything from the night before. Which I suppose makes the STD a nice souvenir they can give on to their wives. Also, as one of them said, “It’s not like you’re so fucking great”.
Their problem is with this part of the song “She poured me another whisky”. As one of the prostitutes (a woman I totally made up and decided to call Betty-Sue for no reason whatsoever) said “I dunno what them fancy women in Reno do with whiskey an’ all but here in Amsterdam we ain’t doin’ none of that stuff. You’s lucky if ya get a glass of water baby!” (why she talks in a fake Southern accent I don’t really know…. it’s probably a female thing).
So to conclude: the girls would like to ask you if you could refrain from singing that whisky part during your European performances. They’re afraid that men get the wrong idea about visiting prostitutes and they would like to point out that it’s just as it has always been: it’s still about abusing illegal immigrant women who would get beaten up or even killed by their pimp if they don’t do what he tells them to do (without whisky).
Oh and on a personal note: do an E-street band tour next year!
Adios!
Boris
Ps. I guess you don’t know Michael Bolton either do you? You’d think someone would….
Monday, May 02, 2005
Satan by my side
I'm doing this course as an extra thing called Academic English. The idea behind the entire thing is basically to enhance my... well... my academic english. Not that I really need it because my English is like totally academic and stuff (chews gum while saying this).
Anyhoo, one of the fun parts of this course is that all the people who follow it do different majors and have to do presentations about those majors. I, for instance do (American) history so I talked about elections, but we also have a Jewish girl studying Arab language, a woman from Hungary who does research concerning Hungarian MEPs in the European Parliament and a bunch of other people doing interesting stuff in their own area of expertise.
One of the girls also doing the course has the coolest major of us all. She is a religious studies student and she mostly does research on sexual relations in different cults. Now that's rock 'n roll! Explain that to the parents of your new boyfriend! Appereantly she, through informal channels, is in touch with a bunch of different cults, partly for fun, partly for her research. For instance, she has been to meetings of the Raelians, a cult that believes in aliens and not too long ago claimed they had cloned the first baby (but then they hadn't).
Now meeting the Raelians sounds like fun but it's still a bit bland. So they believe E.T. started the earth and claim the cloned a child of a lesbian couple. Bo-ring! That's like Kahballah with some extra pepper or Scientology with extra fries. In fact how different is believing in aliens from believing in God? (religious debate mode: on).
However, she's also socially hanging out with another cult. Guess which one....
Thaaat's right: Satanists.
Being too curious then generally is good for me a lot of questions were raised in my head when she told us about meeting them. Questions like "What do they wear?". I mean, do they have T-shirts that say "Satan is my homeboy" or "I worship Satan and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" or do they also have these arm thingies that say "W.W.S.D?". Or do they just dress like our prime-minister (who I strongly suspect being a satanist) does?
Another question I had was "do they have Satanist evangelical preachers?". I don't know about you but I think that would make great TV! "Satan just told me he changed a god fearing woman in North Carolina into a drunk lesbian slut. Say, AMEN!". I imagine gospel choirs of women in slutty outfits singing "Sympathy for the Devil" and male strippers doing "Chama-chameleon" (but that's a personal thing). Also, donations can be called in on 1-800-SATAN. I'm seeing a hit!
But the main question is: why in fucksname would you become a satanist?? I'm not talking about voodoo or black magic or all that crap and I'm not even talking about the Marilyn Manson's of this world. I'm talking about actively supporting Satan. When does that start? Why does it start? How do you tell your parents (I actually think that would beat coming out to your parents as "The most painful conversation you'll ever have)? But most of all, how does that effect your daily life?
Example: I was walking down the street today, trying hard not to get hit by tourists on bikes (SATAN!) and this old woman asked if I could help her carry her bike across the road. What would a satanist do? Rape her, make her talk in tongues and burn her while chanting "Usama! Usama! Usama!"?
I just helped her carry the bike, smiled at her and walked on. Man, I'd suck as a satanist.
Anyhoo, one of the fun parts of this course is that all the people who follow it do different majors and have to do presentations about those majors. I, for instance do (American) history so I talked about elections, but we also have a Jewish girl studying Arab language, a woman from Hungary who does research concerning Hungarian MEPs in the European Parliament and a bunch of other people doing interesting stuff in their own area of expertise.
One of the girls also doing the course has the coolest major of us all. She is a religious studies student and she mostly does research on sexual relations in different cults. Now that's rock 'n roll! Explain that to the parents of your new boyfriend! Appereantly she, through informal channels, is in touch with a bunch of different cults, partly for fun, partly for her research. For instance, she has been to meetings of the Raelians, a cult that believes in aliens and not too long ago claimed they had cloned the first baby (but then they hadn't).
Now meeting the Raelians sounds like fun but it's still a bit bland. So they believe E.T. started the earth and claim the cloned a child of a lesbian couple. Bo-ring! That's like Kahballah with some extra pepper or Scientology with extra fries. In fact how different is believing in aliens from believing in God? (religious debate mode: on).
However, she's also socially hanging out with another cult. Guess which one....
Thaaat's right: Satanists.
Being too curious then generally is good for me a lot of questions were raised in my head when she told us about meeting them. Questions like "What do they wear?". I mean, do they have T-shirts that say "Satan is my homeboy" or "I worship Satan and all I got was this lousy t-shirt" or do they also have these arm thingies that say "W.W.S.D?". Or do they just dress like our prime-minister (who I strongly suspect being a satanist) does?
Another question I had was "do they have Satanist evangelical preachers?". I don't know about you but I think that would make great TV! "Satan just told me he changed a god fearing woman in North Carolina into a drunk lesbian slut. Say, AMEN!". I imagine gospel choirs of women in slutty outfits singing "Sympathy for the Devil" and male strippers doing "Chama-chameleon" (but that's a personal thing). Also, donations can be called in on 1-800-SATAN. I'm seeing a hit!
But the main question is: why in fucksname would you become a satanist?? I'm not talking about voodoo or black magic or all that crap and I'm not even talking about the Marilyn Manson's of this world. I'm talking about actively supporting Satan. When does that start? Why does it start? How do you tell your parents (I actually think that would beat coming out to your parents as "The most painful conversation you'll ever have)? But most of all, how does that effect your daily life?
Example: I was walking down the street today, trying hard not to get hit by tourists on bikes (SATAN!) and this old woman asked if I could help her carry her bike across the road. What would a satanist do? Rape her, make her talk in tongues and burn her while chanting "Usama! Usama! Usama!"?
I just helped her carry the bike, smiled at her and walked on. Man, I'd suck as a satanist.
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