Bag of Dicks

So as if coming home to an 80 degree temperature difference didn't make me feel like a big enough bag of dicks....

8am, leave house, muling a laptop, a ginormo digital camera, a work bag, a NYC big girl purse, and 24 pound bag (not hyperbole)  of drop off laundry. I take one step outside and take the biggest digger of 2008. Land flat on my ass (and wrist) surrounded by roughly a dozen people. None of whom help me.  They merely point at me, muttering, "Americana, Americana".

I guess it takes a building or two to fall for New Yorkers (even illegal immigrant ones) to care.

NEWS ALERT:All 4 Members of Fuzzy Mimosa to relocate to DC for PreZ Day WE

While The Analyst is still reluctant to commit (must he always mitigate risk?), the polls are looking strong for a 100% win in DC this weekend. Your Queen, your Fatty, and your Twink Puppet will be present. Please virtually stampede/waterboard The Analyst until he caves. Upon caving, he will make his presence in DC this weekend official on Fuzzy Mimosa. 

While I know that there are ski trips and Miami jetsetting, just remember the shitshow that was Taintsgiving and MLK weekend and reconsider. 

Myself, I plan to consume lots of a) gin and b) Potbelly's. And maybe some museums (and by museums, I don't mean a hungover trip for five minutes to the Atrium). 

Looking forward to seeing my harem oh so soon...

Q.Vagine

analyst speaks

I'm at nyu with my boss who is giving a lecture. He just said hermetically seal.

soho ii

Live and direct from I, Twink Puppet:

Fatty and I made a pilgrimage to the untouchable retail temple of SoHo today. We walk down the stairs of Uniqlo, which has adopted the whole japanime trend a little late in the game. I attempt to make fun of the triple foiled poly blend 'manga'-wear while walking at the same time, an act which I am not coordinated enough to do. I nearly run into a (legitimate, kim-chee eatin' non-hipster) asian girl as I attempt to ask Fatty 'What do you think of tentacle porn?'.

Club Monaco features new looks for late twenty something homo advertising intern debutantes everywhere. Sadly, none are present when we arrive. Downstairs, a lone family of excessively eastern european tourists burble severe and raspy consonants, seemingly in regard to knit tops. I love this store, this mecca for Americans trying to look more Europeans, a store only to actually be visited by Europeans attempting to shop in America. The monochromancy begins to wear, and I suddenly long for to buy something made of a petroleum biproduct that comes in nothing but canary yellow.

So we end up in Daffy's, a retail porta-potty for SoHo's gentry, off-the-rack afterbirth. I am at home here. The staff neither looks at you nor speaks your language, and I can shop undisturbed. Fatty, clearly is search of more unaffordable pastures, immediately poo-poos it.

I miss Target. Can I say that here?

soho is for dummies

another unsuccessful shopping experiencing in the land of soho.

here's the problem. first, we're broke. so we're left with only a few options in terms of retail nirvana. ok, backup. 

twink puppet and i (fatty (bo batty)) were to meet the analyst somewhere in the neighborhood of the south houston region of manhattan. as the analyst made friendly with a boy called "san fran" (not to be confused with "san diego," which is how he had originally referred to him, confusing me ever so slightly). he ditched the puppet and me, so we meandered around, without any access to money, hungry, and beleaguered. and this is how our day went:

h&m - still the best gay underwear on the planet, and the worst fit for everything else on the body. thank you china for ruining my body image. and when did h&m become trendwear for non-gays? and by non-gays i mean black people. oversized skull and crossbone patterned timbaland-designed sweatshirts? honestly, i don't even have anything else to say about this place. 

club monaco - i'm so glad they don't bore the customer with colors. colors are for bob ross and his pbs "happy little bush" specials. this place has black and this place has white. ne'er a color 'tween, and i think it's perfect. this way you can buy the beauticious styles of chef-chic sweatshirts (in white) and the striped cardigo-hoodie blend (in black). 

daffy's - this store is fucking crap. TP tried to convince me that this store would change the way that i look at cheap clothes forever. and he wasn't kidding. entering with the maxim that this was "an upscale tj maxx," my face was quickly splashed with horrorshock. we're talking jc penny's on broadway. mortified. refusing to touch any of the disgusting garments on their filthy S/M/L consignment racks, i watched around, listening to the non-english speakers (and they were all non-english speakers) rummage through racks ode to "european designer" and clever signage expressing "UN-dressing room!" this gem of a salvation army dropoff must advertise solely in lonely planet new york, one of TPs guides-to-life during his (recent) tween years. i don't even believe in grades, and i'm going to grade this place anyway. F.

uniqlo - what the hell is thish words. seriously, how many ironic manga-inspired tshirts does one need? i actually tried shit on here. and i don't ever feel comfortable enough to do that. stripes are not meant for fat people, even when labeled "skinny" (especially when). oh uniqlo, go back to japan, and don't bother us no mo.

steve madden - nothing noteworthy, except that steve has decided to completely copy expensive designers who hand-laser their shoes with interesting lizard designs (blackstone) and replaced with carbon-copy images machine-lasered with lame non-lizard designs for a third the price. oh, and i called twink puppet "twink puppet" in front of a black person and he got red-faced. it was i think the day's highlight.

so we left, distraught at the days' lost, armored only with a cheap bottle of wine, some tj pierogies and two frown faces. moral of the story: soho on a saturday is for dummies.

Le Secret Beninois

I learned a secret today. A high-level top secret direct from the Beninese government. I learned it from my boss who met in person with the Minister of the Interior (the Beninese version of Condoleezza Rice which means he’s black(er), nicer and doesn’t want you dead) and he told this me in the strictest confidence. He whispered to me, in the lobby of the Sun Beach Hotel, confident that the French Satellite TV blaring in the background would drown out his voice. The kicker is that I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. Je te promets. Not a soul.

So I’m going to write all about it in my new shiny blog.

Here’s the deal: The POTUS is coming to Cotonou on February 15. This will most likely be Bush’s final whirlwind tour of the dark continent while still in office. His last hurrah. His African Bachelor party. His last at-bat. He’ll swoop in, take some photos with the locals, hold a swollen baby, drink some Baobab juice and call it a day.

Or not.

And here comes Kathryn’s Beninois bombshell: POTUS Bush isn’t even leaving the airport.

Ok, so this isn’t really a secret. It isn’t anything different. It’s standard protocol for the Bush Administration’s Secret Service. But I needed something with which to get your attention, and now that I have it, I’ll try to keep it.

Now the reason that 97% of you have never heard of Benin is because in our living history, it hasn’t been at war. We are talking about a peace-loving nation of 7,000,000 inhabitants who are working hard for economic and social development. These are people who gained independence in a conference room rather than on a battlefield. And for any Republicans out there (send me an email, I’d love to know who you are) trying to make up reasons why this place could be dangerous, there aren’t even many Muslims here mobilizing young vulnerable teens to join al-Qaeda cells. These people are animists. Let’s face it: any person who believes rocks have souls will not throw one at your head.

So why won’t Georgie leave the airport?

Cotonou poses a security threat. Direct quote from the Minister of the Interior. Of Benin. Not the US.

I have had an amazing day here. I have met with my NGO’s team who work tirelessly to ‘empower women and men to end their own hunger’. I have learned more today than I have in one year in the Global Office. I have eaten myself into frenzy in hopes that it’ll all go to my ass so that I can be as sexy as every single woman I have seen since I arrived here. I have sponged my way through Cotonou, soaking up every ounce of culture, beauty and kindness that I can, and this sponge is full for the day.

But why did so much of my time have to be taken up by the rage caused by my POTUS? Silly Kathryn, 7 years in and you’re still getting so upset? This stuff happens all the time. You sensitive little pansy.

Why did so much of my time go into figuring out what is dangerous about Cotonou?

Of course there is the cartoon cliché: death by falling coconut. Or death by motorbike (but even that isn’t probable. When I asked the country director how traffic worked in Cotonou-if you saw it you wouldn’t call me Brittany for asking such a dumb question- he said driving in Cotonou is all about diplomacy and negotiation. How is that for non-violent traffic?). You could also drown in the Atlantic. Most likely way to die in Cotonou: Explosive Diarrhea. Now I haven’t gotten it, although I am confident I will (anyone who has known me long enough since that Morocco trip knows my vulnerabilities AND why I am vegetarian) but I’m sure I won’t die from it.

But I guess for Bush, all of these factors, which together still make Benin less dangerous than Miami (haven’t yet seen a gun or a guido), are too much to risk. I won’t dwell on the fact that the reaction of the Beninese people is overwhelmingly positive (of course the truth that he isn’t leaving the airport won’t come out till he’s on a tarmac in Zimbabwe). They are proud and honored to have the President of the richest nation grace them with his presence. They are being told that he wants to bear witness to their success in becoming a (more) developed West African nation. To experience firsthand the warmth, the generosity. To be in “Africa”.

I can’t quite articulate why I am so enraged. But the image of Bush on a landing strip, surrounded by diplomats, heads of state and Beninois dancers only accelerates the impending assplossions.

Luckily I’ll be long gone by his arrival, en route to DC, far away from the Extravaganza of “Bush does Africa”. To all the Beninese: I am sorry for you and that you feel cheated. I am sorry your expectations were dashed and you feel deflated. But I can assure you this is no big loss; I hear he’s a bit of a cunt.

So judge me for not keeping secrets. Judge me for still being angry about a protocol 7 years later. But I just want to know one thing Bush, how was the Middle East last week?

Official Launch from the WEST SIIIIIIIIIDE

On Tuesday, January 29, 2008, a bilateral decision was made between myself, Queen Vagine, and Fatty to launch Fuzzy Mimosa from Benin. It was bilateral rather than quadrilateral; the latter sounding more geometric that diplomatic and since I hate math it seemed fitting.

Once we have The Hub (a 4 bedroom apartment-a work in progress), I assure that more quadrilateral decisions will be made. And if not, as Queen, I’ll just continue with the precedent of declaring martial law.

Until further notice and continuity is found for the blog, entries will most likely resemble a shitshow rather than a coherent and cohesive work of art. Whereas Tim (Fatty), a graduate student in creative non-fiction, will easily craft pieces with a common thread, it is more than likely that I will not. Too bad that my entries will not mirror my trip to Benin which has a clear beginning, middle and end.

Anyways, let us move on to the meat/seitan of the content…

Contrary to the popular belief of 97% of my college educated friends, Benin is in fact a real country.

And the tangible proof of this is that I am here. I will also confirm, as one of my friend’s astutely noted prior to my departure, this sovereign West African nation is shaped like an “untrimmed phallus”. This invisible boundary, as I anticipated, was notably girthy from the plane. Perhaps this is because a) I could afford to get me some phallus (although not necessarily of Beninois descent) and/or b) I hang out with an exponentially high number of gay men such that my quotidian landscape of peni penetrates my life daily in the most non-sexual of ways. The fact that I am geographically located in a phallically shaped Nation State will inevitably render my gay harem jealous and I trust that they will continue to read with baited breath. In recognition that this blog is as hot as the temperature of this country, I have activated the automatic scrolling mechanism found on all of your favorite porn sites to facilitate easy reading.

I should mention, however, that homosexuality is punishable by 3 years of hard, physical labor in many West African nations (January 2008 case in Cameroon being the most recent example). And to clarify, by hard physical labor I do not mean big boy sex.

I am here on the original “West Side” on business…if I can call working for my mom and pop primitive NGO ‘business’ when they have recently and unjustly fired my awesome friend/colleague. She ‘terminated her contract’ (got sacked) because, I quote, her “good morning’s were not enthusiastic enough”. I guess we hadn’t realized that we worked at Applebee’s. In honor of her, I am therefore proud to announce that The Analyst’s favorite not-so-fast-food chain, the aforementioned Applebee’s, is now the proud sponsor of Fuzzy Mimosa and will donate a lifetime supply of flare AND bloomin’ onions to the 100^th reader.

I am here, however, to co-lead a “Due Diligence” trip for Dutch Investors’ who have financed many of our projects in Benin. Follow-up on this aspect of trip will follow when the Dutchbags arrive.

Sometimes when I leave my niche and my habitual routine consisting of a commute between West Bushwick and Union Square, I forget that I find 96% of humans intolerable. For the most part, L-riders are civil. Even the surliest of hipsters clad in skinny jeans and ironic facial hair are relatively harmless and inoffensive. Sometimes I forget that I have a Master’s in human rights because there are just some members of the general public that don’t deserve internationally protected freedoms. Example: overnight flight from JFK-Charles de Gaulle. I was unfortunate enough to board a plane full of spray-tanned college students bound for their junior year abroad. Upper class exuded from their blackberries and their tangible sense of entitlement. These girls were parodies of themselves as the three seated directly in front of me were named Brittany, Lindsey and Tara. Some snippets of convo include:

Brittany: Don’t you love my sweater?

Lindsey: I love sweaters. (Honestly, think about the answer to this question. It’s brilliant)

Tara: Did you write down the address for the salon? Because I need a standard appointment twice a week for my hair. And like, mani/pedi too.

Brittany: Don’t worry, I brought tons of mousse.

Lindsey, clutching her stuffed elephant, cried during the turbulence and two flight attendants were required to calm her down.

We land after seven painful and sleepless hours of incessant ‘he said/she said’. Brittany starts to cry as her Verizon blackberry is not working in France and Tara confidently proclaims that “you can definitely sue for this shit. Seriously”.

Call me Judgey McJudgster, but exposure to such interactions frightens me. Brit, Linds and Tara were no more than 7 years younger then me, putting them into whatever our generation is called (Z?) If we blame the Baby Boomers for essentially fucking everything up, what have we got on our hands now? It seems that they will be, at best, a serious liability to a nation in which our sustainability is already questionable. At least the baby boomers got to blow off some steam with readily accessible illicit drugs and heaps of AIDS-less sex (of course if you go to my doc, Dr. Bruce Champagne, you can go on a Vicodate every night of the week…but clearly I’m not going to sleep with him to get the best of both worlds). Geriatrics are known for their ramblings beginning with “kids these days…” but what happens when the kids are proclaiming “kids these days”? I think we have reason to fear. The terrorists may have won.

But for now, I’ll just drown my sorrows in freshly squeezed pineapple juice, look out at the palm trees and the Beninois sun and take solace in knowing that you fuckers are freezing your skinny little asses off in NYC.

More concrete ramblings to follow…

Much love from Cotonou,

QV