When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds...pretty standard really

Quick addition -- I just found out that one of my coworkers was Zwarte Pete this past week. This kid is tall, skinny, with bright blond hair and blue eyes...check out the dude on the right. Crazy!

Has anyone seen the show Californication with David Duchovny? If you haven't, do it. It's better than the X-Files (don't snicker, I liked that show) and they make lots of inappropriate references to pubic hair. This is my new Entourage.

Photos still have to wait because I have now misplaced the chord that plugs into the computer. I get bonus points for organisation. Instead, I will tell you the magically xenophobic story of Sinterklaas!

Sinterklaas is the "cousin" of Santa Claus and visits all the little Dutch girls and boys on December 5 instead of on December 25 [note: Sinterklaas is actually the "father" of Santa -- Santa stories in England, Germany and Scandanavia are thought to have originated from the Sinterklaas legend]. And how does Sinterklaas deliver all the presents to all the homes? Firstly, Sinterklaas does not live in the North Pole, he lives in Spain, so it's not quite so long of a trip (he takes a steam boat over). And, the pragmatic people of the Netherlands gave him "helpers" (until recently called slaves) which run around and deliver all the presents for him. All his helpers are all named Zwarte Pete (Black Pete) -- at first I imagined something like the Oompa Loompa from the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory movie where they all look the same, but I was way off.

All the Petes are in fact supposed to be black (hence the recent PC trading of the term "slave" for "helper"). To portray Pete in the parades, the Dutch paint their faces black. It is a little bit uh, alarming, to see all these supposedly forward-thinking, tolerant, blue-eyed Dutch running around in black face. [Aside: Zwarte Pete supposedly wasn't invented to demean black people. In "real" history, he is thought to originally have been an Ethiopian slave who was freed by Saint Nicholas and then stayed with the saint out of gratitude.]

But back to the story. Unlike our Santa, Sinterklaus wears a bishop's outfit with a red hat and cloak, but he does have white hair and a white beard. For the week or so leading up to December 5, children put their shoes close to the fireplace before they go to bed and also set out water and sometimes a carrot. During the night, Sinterklaas/Pete places gifts such as chocolate coins, poems (wtf? who wants a poem for Christmas?) and papernoten (super tasty mini spice cookies which can also come covered in dark, milk and white chocolate) in the shoes of the good children. If you are bad, a Pete will put you in his burlap carrying sack and take you back to Spain!

Maaaiwidge. Maaiwidge is what brings us togefer today.

A very belated congratulations to Caroline on getting engaged. I've been meaning to recollect the shenanigas of their visit. But I want to do that in photos and the plug is at work so another time...why do today what you can put off till tomorrow.


So, I visited Italy for the first time, but it was with work so I didn't really leave the hotel and Milan looks like Madrid anyway...well, feels like it. The hotel was, however, wicked cool. I don't normally go in for all the bells and whistles on these trendy hotel concepts (though it is nice when your hotel suite doesn't look like Grandma Wasp's guest room), but this place did some pretty cool things. One side of the shower was translucent orange plastic and you could move the shade behind it to the side....see into the bedroom. I feel like this description is cheesy, but I think it could be hot.


Speaking of hot, check out what Milan was all about: http://www.camparitales.com/


(I like how I have time to talk about a hotel, but no time to talk about partying w/ the Pearsons. I really have my priorities in order)

I'm not the type of person who will disrupt things just so I can shit comfortably

There's been a lot of talk about poop and fibre over the past couple of days, exacerbated by the fact that ethnic food in Amsterdam = really tasty and that I still have a broken toilet seat. And I, being a ridiculously mature individual, feel the need to share this toilet humor. Summary of last night's SOBER conversation:

Me: I think he's in there trying to fix it.
E (male): What do you mean it's broken?
C: The seat can move unexpectedly.
Me: Am I going to fall in?
C: No, it's just a small shift.
E: I don't want to fall off.
Me: You won't fall off.
E: Do you touch rim?
Me: If you are so concerned about it, then don't shit in my house, shit in Kathleen's house.
E: I've already done plenty of that.

I have to sleep with the Duke, and the jealousy will drive you mad

I was a little sad when I came back from New York in August at the prospect of missing the fall shenanigans that inevitably occur on the East Coast. Last year included adventures such as discovering the best version of charades EVER, "blowing lines" at Whitey's house and skipping around Soho in men's underwear. Can Amsterdam hold a candle to this? (rumor has it they don't really do Halloween here, but I have an in with the goth crowd, so it's all good)

Perhaps. Though I'm not sleeping with any rich sugar daddies (yet...though I have had a few meals picked up which is always nice...baby steps), you should be envious of my next month which includes the best-version -of-charades-ever masters coming for an extended visit (added bonus: Snatch is joining us from Pareeeee), a Thanksgiving out of Alice and Wonderland, plus a work-sponsored trip to Milan where I get to hobnob with people who's waists are the size of my leg (or smaller). Thankfully for my body image, after that is a short trip to D.C., a city in which I actually feel relatively stylish due to the high number of people whose attire matches their politics (read: ridiculously conservative).

Tonight we kickoff with Strongbow and a birthday celebration for my buddy Kathleen who was actually friends with Alex P's brother first and was a roommate of a few rower friends from back in the day. Globalisation at work baby.

Marijuana on one. Reefer on two.

My fair city is crackin' down on hallucinogens. Come get 'em while you can.

We've got a full tank of gas, a half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark out and we're wearing sunglasses

I have learned to drive in Holland! This may seem like no major feat, but seeing as I had a lot of trouble with the whole bike-riding thing (I get my training wheels off next week), I am mighty proud of myself.

True, people here do drive on the right side of the road so its not exactly rocket science, but today was the first day that I maneuvered our office's little Renault without getting lost, stalling out or pissing off any bikers/drivers/pedestrians. High five! (I've reinstated the high five in my office -- don't call it a come back, 'cause we've been around for years).

There are a couple of things that suck about driving here.
1. Speed limits are actually enforced via radar in a Nazi-esque, huge-fine type of fashion. This cramps my style.
2. Traffic is a way of life. Highways are always clogged. It's like the New Jersey Turnpike near Elizabeth the night before Thanksgiving ALL THE TIME. (fun Dutch fact: The Netherlands is equivalent in area to New Jersey)
3. Kilometers are tricky little fuckers. I think I have all this time to merge and then I've already gone by the exit. I miss my "296 miles to New York" signs.
4. Street names are ridiculously long and hard to read when traveling over 5 kmph (e.g. the name of my street is Saenredamstraat -- sounds like some type of VD, but its actually the name of an artist)
5. Bikers. Bikers have right of way, which is sweet most of the time, except when you are driving (pedestrians:cambridge :: bikes:amsterdam)

Sweet thing about driving here: I get to drive. Period. My office has a car to borrow when we "need" it for business. Like this weekend I "need" it to go to Ikea (get me some Sweedish meatballs and a few lamps).

So, do you party?

What defines eurotrash? I'm having a lot of trouble in this country full of "pretty" men deciding where the lines are between eurotrash, eurostylish and eurogay. At this party on Friday I was surrounded by a bunch of relatively tall boys, but had a lot of trouble understanding how a guy can use at least a half pint of gel and be considered a) stylish and b) straight. (curious note: I have also run into this gel phenomena in Texas -- I have a couple of cousins who probably don't know what their hair actually feels like there is so much product in it.)

These guys were all G-Star-ed out in fancy sneakers and uber tight t-shirts (which, legitimately, looked good on some of them), serving red tomatoes and cucumbers as snacks (wtf? where are the chips biatch?). I decided to hit on the only guy who didn't have a head full of gel, but I think it was only because he was bald (therefore the only guy there who didn't look like a teenager).

We all left the party to go dancing and I'm like, well sweet, at least if guys are dressed like this, they must know how to rave out. But apparently, regardless of the percentage of spandex in their clothing, Dutch men cannot dance (maybe dancing is the way if you tell if someone is straight or not...). It confused me immensely -- though that might just have been because I was hammered. Apparently, one of the dudes commented that you could tell I wasn't Dutch because I was more "dancey." What the hell does that mean?

Got back to Amsterdam around 6:30am -- a personal record since my arrival. So, first Dutch house party = success. (Fun Dutch fact: "success" means "good luck" in Nederlands) Other really exciting things that happened over the weekend include me getting cable! Hey, only took seven months, not bad considering the lovely customer service culture here.