Archive for March, 2008

Dance Floor Moratorium

The title explains itself. Thanks to my lovely seniordom + thesis, I can only go to parties that I’m working at. Therefore, if I am spinning a party, (hell, if I am at a party) you may no longer request the following soul crushing hits. I can only hope that I can start a movement of song euthanasia:

Soulja Boy
Cotton Eyed Joe
Dancing Queen
Come on Ride the Train
Anything by Flo Rida or Miley Cyrus

Acceptable Substitutes are:
The Electric Slide
Jimmy by M.I.A.
Love in the Club (for now)
Anything but Flo Rida and Miley Cyrus

Oh, I’m just getting warmed up…Any “requests”?

This unmade my day

How did this sweet little Oxford math prodigy become a $260/hour prostitute?

No idea. I mean, yes, her father was the Joe Jackson of mathematics. He pushed those children way too hard in one area of life, and in the end, it wasn’t worth it. He was probably also sexually abusive, which ruins people in ways that we are only starting to understand.

According to the website she works through, Sufiah Yusof aka “Shilpa Lee” is “available for booking every day from 11am to 8pm.” That doesn’t leave time for anything else, except prime time television. Everything is gone. It’s absolutely terrifying to think that something led her to completely die inside like that.

Cruising for… An Assasination.

So Geert Wilders released Fitna today. As expected, it elides violence with Islam, it’s awful. I tried to watch it, but by the time I got to the severed head about 8 minutes in I realized that it’s way too close to my bedtime. My question: Does this guy want to get killed? He seems invested in completing a Pim Fortuyn/Theo van Gogh assassination triumvirate. I don’t think he’ll stop until he gets what he wants.

Van Gogh and Ali’s film Submission was rather one sided as well but it was at least more focused and attempted to be insightful. Wilders is just going out of control with unfortunate propaganda. It seems that his only goal is fueling hatred either of Islam or of…Geert Wilders. Such an attention whore. A stupid, loud attention whore.

As much as I wouldn’t be sad to see him go, I don’t think someone should give him the satisfaction of “martyrdom.”

That was waaaay too short–

That visit was way too short, but seriously productive. It’s strange to be back in New York, and Amherst will feel even weirder. I can’t help but have the strangest urge to move there.

At the baggage claim, I was standing next to little Dutch family of three looking for their bags on the trolley. They had a little girl, about the same age as my adorable little cousin who I met yesterday, and they were all speaking Dutch. This made me overwhelmingly homesick for the Netherlands. I think I need some recovery time, but I just don’t know when.

In the interim, I’ll just watch this video and wish I was there:

In de Boek

Writing a book during Book Week in Amsterdam. Nice! I just wish I knew why the week was ten days long.

I went to the Bijlmer and the Red Light District (tour), and a boat ride with Paap! I just wish I could be here on Queensday again (minus the ridiculous trance music.)

It’s been a productive week, but it’s been too cold in the city. The days start out sunny, but by 10 AM it’s overcast. The painful ice storms are back in town, of course. I only brought one really warm sweater, so I’ve been wearing the same thing everyday like a cartoon character. Whatever.

I’ve done what I’ve needed to get done. I’ve got about 80 pages so far, but it turns into 68 when I turn it from Helevetica to Times New Roman. It’s a little scary, but I’ll manage. At least I have wiggle room. It won’t last long, but I’ve got it.

Niewe Oogen

I’m back in Amsterdam. I took this picture on my cell of the Amsterdam theater by 42nd before I left. I guess I just liked the red.

My luggage got stranded in Prague, but they should be back later. I forgot that everything is closed because it’s Sunday, so I did some useless running around.

I can’t wait to just walk where the characters I’m writing about “walk” and see where they’re supposed to live. I’ve been so bad about filling in their lives properly.

Meer morgen.

Stay Tuned

Tomorrow, I’m back at home in Brooklyn for a day, and then I run away to Amsterdam for thesis research from Saturday through Monday the 24th. I’m very excited. If I can find my trusty old European adaptor plug for my computer, I can write from there.

If I find Amsterdam condoms similar in awesomeness to the NYC ones, I’ll let you know. If they’re free, I’ll even pick a few up for you provided you ask kindly. Note: this will be the only item that I’m “smuggling” back into the States. All other orders will be ignored.

So exciting!

As a New Yorker who’s writing about hookers, I can’t tell
you how exciting this is. (Granted, I’m writing about Dutch hookers in 1992.) I have nothing against Spitzer, and I don’t take any joy in his demise, but this is still a very satisfying time for this to happen.

So here’s a roughest of rough sketch of what I’m writing about: two prostitutes. A is female, in her thirties, works in a window. B is male, in his teens and works on the street. Both of them either live in or have family in the Bijlmermeer district, right around the 1992 crash. There’s lots of sex, a sprinkling of drugs, and somber lack of rock and roll. It’s very fun to write.

So pretentious I could cry–

I’ve been obsessed with Stuff White People Like lately. It’s very funny and describes a certain modern incarnation of that ever present class of people (not always white) who mean the earth well, try hard, and fail miserably. Much of this failure is caused by watery commitment to real causes and an addiction to hipness.

PS: If one more smug Luddite tells me: “I don’t have a TV. It rots your brain,” they will get hurt.

Tangentally: If I see anyone wearing a pair of “Blackspot Sneakers”, I will instantly lose respect for them.

These will never cut Nike’s market share. They are $90 self righteous trophies. Ugly ones, at that. It’s much smarter if you put the money towards a (thoroughly researched) cause instead of this over- priced, smug self congratulatory piece of crap. “I don’t have Nikes. They rot your soul.”

The epitome of the worst SWPL. May these never get popular.

March 2008
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