Oh Great Pumkin, My Pumpkin...

Click here for a SPECIAL Happy Halloween message!

From,
The Management



And remember:

One of my favorite cartoonists

Visit John Callahan's website by clicking _HERE_

The things you come across in a pile of old CD-Roms

I have been doing a fair bit of writing these days; I need a break from prosey-posts:

This is one of the rare occasions when a person 'of the cloth' felt safe enough to come close to me - in this case it was a relative.
(Can you guess which one is me? Hint: I am an original...)



I continue to fool others with my coy innocence.

Rosa Parks, Mother of the Civil Rights Movement, died today at age 92

We have all had difficult days at work and when we finally make our weary way home the last thing we need is a hassle. Can you imagine being confronted at the end of a trying day because of the color of your skin? Many of us do not have the faintest clue of what that is really like - and given the choice, we would not want to know.

In 1955, Rosa Lee McCauley Parks made a simple gesture to defy this outrageous prejudice by refusing to give her seat to a white man on a bus in Montgomery, Alabama.

Listen to her story on National Public Radio.

Mo-Fo closeout

It took five days for Proximus, my mobile service provider, to respond to my email contesting the calls made by “Mo-Fo the Robber.”

I missed their first attempt to reach me on my mobile. The woman who left a message introduced herself as a Complaint Services Manager to discuss my contested calls and that she would call you back in a few hours. And then I missed the second one -it happens – and this time her message was that I needed to call her back on her mobile. Practical, but not very service-oriented as if two tries was the limit, although this is Belgium and service is something that when you receive it, you are shocked.

I called her mobile. When she answered she offered to call me back so I wouldn’t have to pay for the call. She called back immediately and when she said my name I knew she was going to be the bearer of bad news. I listened, well I tried to listen long enough to let her finish but as soon as I heard the words policy and not responsible I reacted, loudly.

“Did you see ANY OTHER calls in my 6 and 1/2 history of being a client to either of those regions? And did you get the report that I was robbed and had to find a police station and then a phone I could use to call Proximus protection service.”

Again she used the words policy and went on to add:
“But the calls were made an hour before you reported it stolen…”

Here’s where I lost it.

“How am I supposed to report my phone stolen when I DON’T HAVE A PHONE? Do Proximus customers have two phones, the one meant for being stolen on occasion and the one they keep in the butt?
And have you ever been to the police station in Brussels? I had to wait 20 minutes before an officer could speak with me and he wasn’t too keen on me telling him “First, I need to use the phone to report my mobile has been stolen.”

“I am aware of that but, and it’s not ME who makes these –“

“I know that, but you are investigating my claim and your technique is just to reiterate the company policy. So what, why do they need a person to do that? Obviously the human touch is a waste of money at Proximus.”

“But you have to admit it’s a normal policy with all phone companies.”

“Do you hear my accent? Regardless of how the world views my country, a major mobile phone carrier would not stick a 6 and 1/2 years, pays-on-time-every-month customer with 17 euros of calls that I didn’t make.”

“Well, it’s only 17 euros-“

“IT’S THE PRINCIPLE! Proximus is supposed to be compassionate to my plight, A. I got robbed and the story of how it happened is already despicable, B. I have never called Russia ever and C. when I reported it I gave the time that I was robbed. Proximus can afford the twenty bucks to keep me as a customer.”

“Alright, please don’t get aggressive.”

“I’m sorry but you know what, I knew this would happen. I just knew that you were going to say "No" when I answered the phone. It’s typical. Your company is fine to take our money but we’re not people, we’re margin and therefore marginalized. I mean first of all I sent the inquiry five days ago. There is not even a direct line to the claims department. And what I could have sent a letter? A fax? Don’t make me explain how well THAT worked when I had to submit a claim to my insurance company.

Furthermore, don’t use the word ‘service’ because it’s not the correct term. The term should be ‘too bad for you’. And Proximus should change their baseline to: 'Use our service, but if you do, that’s your problem.’ All this crap on the website about corporate responsibility and best practice, it’s all trendy business jargon. It means nothing. I could have switched service, there are major contenders now – most of my friends have – but no, I started with Proximus when I moved here and decided to stay with it, hoping, in vain, obviously, that I would build a relationship.”

“Okay, alright. I can hear that you are sincere.”

(Apparently yelling equals sincerity.)

“I will go ahead and remove the amount from your bill.”

“Listen, I apologize for raising my voice but it’s impossible to get a point across these days without raising all sorts of hell. And here in Belgium, it’s ridiculous. This is the land of anti-service.”

“Ms. ______, it’s all right, please don’t apologize. I understand. I love your accent by the way.”

“REALLY? I think I sound like a cowgirl.”

“No, I really love it.”

I could hear her typing.

“What is your accent? It sounds like a combination of American, British and Flemish.”

“It’s difficult to explain. I lived in Canada for some time, I went to university in the UK, then I lived in France for a few years but I am actually Flemish.”

“Hmph, I like it. Wait, you lived in Canada? And your name is Nathalie?”

"Yes."

“We’ve met.”

“We have?”

“Yes, a few years ago. We spoke on the phone about some services I wanted and we were talking about our accents. Then you said that you live in Brussels so I invited you to a DJ party I had organized.”

“Ah, that’s you?”

“Yep.”

“That was a great party. How late did it go until?”
“Jeez, like 6, it was a long one but indeed, it was gooood.”

“The music was fantastic, I danced for several hours. Who was the DJ?”

“A hairstylist that I know, I liked his mixes so we decided threw a party. He moved to Ibiza last year.”

“Oh, too bad. His collection of house was fantastic. Okay, your account has been adjusted.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Let me know if you organize another party.”

“I will, bye-bye.”

“Have a nice day.”

Adrenaline was coursing through my veins but the final 'chapter' of the Mo-Fo ordeal was accomplished.

The adage the ‘squeaky wheel gets the oil’ has been proven, I guess.

A memorable day...

Today is a personal anniversary, the type that is very personal for a woman.
And that was all I knew when I ventured into a blessedly gorgeous Sunday afternoon to meet some girl friends for a coffee. I am a walker (I walk everywhere that I can) and I like to read a book while doing so.
The day before, I entered my favorite second hand book store, Nijinski on rue du Page, because in the window The Vagina Monologues was being displayed in all its glory. I have yet to see a live performance of this revolutionary performance and have been curious about the tone and the content. I bought it with unabashed pride. Furthermore, I am in the thicke of a revolutionary documentary project, and believe this book will give me ideas about storytelling. And so that was the book I decided to take for my Sunday walk into the center of town.
Nearing the Gran'Place, I met with a markedly long prarade of protesters demonstrating against oppression violence against women. On the sidewalk to my right was a camera man and a correspondent from an Arabic television station - I did not recognize the station's logo. Curious what the news angle was, I approached the two men and inquired. The correspondent did not speak English and so the cameraman explained that this protest was occuring in every city across Europe simultaneously - a collective demonstration. A woman who marched past me pointed to the book tucked under my elbow and gave me a thumbs up as if I had planned to carry such this title on such a day.
Call me 'soft' but after watching the endless display of men and women of every age, race, and origin, the power of their passionate protest reduced me to private tears, hidden behind my sunglasses. I took a moment to realize how fortunate I am, and how horrible my life might be if I lived in a country where women are brutally dehumanized.
It was time to catch up with my girl friends so I continued toward our meeting behind two city workers, in their clownish green and red fluorescent uniforms that shone brightly in the afternoon sun. They had cheered the crowd at intervals while doing their duty of replacing the gargbage bags in the trashcans along their route. Watching them gave a balance to the what is sad in the world: that there are people everywhere who can be happy with the simplicity of their lives.

When I caught up with my girl friends, they were at Lady Paname near Place Fontainas buying 'neck massagers'. They had no idea what day it was and what it represented but for them this their day to celebrate themselves.

- This is dedicated to the Guerilla Girls.

Images:







(©2005 TR!SH)

Mo-fo update

7 calls showed up on my bill:

6 to this number in Georgie, Russia: +995 935 22 989
1 to Austrian mobile: +43 699 1007 2318

Feel free to ring the first number to ask "is your refrigerator is running...?" (it's the only crank call joke I can think of)
Oh, and you will need to speak Russian.

My mobile provider is still 'deciding' whether I have to pay for these calls. Arrrrrrrghhh.

Not that anyone is actually counting but....

....it has been a ‘while’ in the blog-0-sphere since my last post. I berate myself so you folks don’t have to do it.

This is dedicated to the people in my humble Brussels life.

Ryan, aka my brother, to my landlord just to keep the situation ‘clean’ because during my trips to NY and London he took advantage of staying in my ‘creative jungle’ aka my apartment which could easily double as a kindergarten decorated with books and gagdets rather than the usual fancy, grown-up furnishings. But it’s the way I like it.
Ryan leaves Brussels on 18 October to return to the States and I will miss him immensely. We were colleagues five years ago at a web agency and banded together immediately – as Americans do. He’s an über-talented photographer...

And I have some new people in my life: Meaghan, who I met through Dan and Tiaa, who went back to Canada in August (see previous post "My first farewell in Brussels") and I miss them TERRIBLY.

Meaghan, is a live wire, and her effervescence is infectious. We got to take our new friendship ‘on the road’ last week in the form of a wild night in London. She’s not planning to stay in Brussels forever so I plan to make the most of our time while it lasts.

Through Dan and Tiia I also met the zany and racy Bert Siebert - IT wizard by day and goodness knows what kind of net-based tawdriness he gets up outside of office. Bert has recently been transferred to the wiles of Florida where he says he suffers "anti-culture shock."

Tiffany, my 17 year-old email-pal who found my website and complimented it. Bless her heart. Her email arrived at the prophetic moment when I was hammering out a synopsis of a play (?) about a woman who returns to her home country after living abroad for a decade and befriends a young college co-ed living in her apartment complex.

Anyway, Tiffany and I email regularly. She generously shares the ongoing saga of high school life in America, dating, and contemplating and mapping out the future from the vantage point of having time on her side.

This is Tiffany with her boyfriend:


Last, but nevah-evah least, is Mr. Ced, my creative ‘crime’ partner. Our m.o. is cracking each other up while cooking up the most shit-hot ideas that will dazzle the world of advertising. (Oh, and they will!)
He is my friend and my confident of personal drama – and rolls with all of it like a poivrrrrron rrrrrrouuuuuge.

Battery dying, images and "one-liners"

My kindred spirit, Elliot Rodes. I popped in to the shop of the same name to ask if it was a chain. It was the first time I had come across a shop selling only belts. He explained his philosophy and passion for belts which was exactly mine: noone cares enough about them; it's difficult to find just the right one; and someone needs to educate people to make belts more a staple in our personal wardrobe. Furthermore we both agreed that they are important as shoes! I was enamored! His collection is fabulous - in the true definition of the word. If you are in London it's worth a visit to his shop.


79 Long Acre, London, WC2E 9NG / Tel: 020 7379 8544


Two lovely, young girls from the Czech Republic visiting London conduct a school assignment about tourists' knowledge of their country. Their names weren't very Czechy (I suppose): Barbara (L); Sophie (R)


What a marketing stunt. A brand new Jaguar clamped outside the Tate Modern. The sign was just a bit over the top to be believable.


The brochure is turned to the page of the Tate Modern; the inside of the car was impeccable (the tires were barely dusty from being driven.)


Kenneth Mann, the charming Scottish gentleman I met on Picadilly as he was searching for the bus #73. What is it with the Shkotttishhh accent that is so attractive - at any age.


The wall outside the skate shop behind Suburb and leading into the hip and happenin' Neal's Yard with vegen ice cream shop, homeopathic remedies, backrubs and world cuisine.


A good sandwich - it rivaled the NYC deli variety: roast chicken, avacado, and bacon. Hmmmm.

Bethnal Green, London E9, revisited

A hamlet, aka "beffnaal grayne" in the London Borough of Hackney, and the epicentre of the cockney accent. The 'th' consonant cluster is reduced to the 'f' sound; the long 'i' sound elongated to 'oy' and so on.

Today I decided to visit this neighborhood in the Extremely East End of London, where I lived for 4 months in 1991. After that I relocated to the Midlands, Sutton Coldfield (a posh suburb of Birmingham) to live with my then boyfriend, Ian Light who was working in that region for Virgin Records.

Anyway, I was certain I had stored every detail of my time in the East End. My first surprise was how long it took me to walk from the B.G. tube station to the street I lived on, which faced Victoria Park. Had I actually walked 20 minutes each day before enduring a 20+ minute tube ride to Covent Garden to do my "micro-chef" job? Apparently. Even more atonishing was the realization that each night I walked through Victoria Park! How so naive we are at 21. Anyway, Hackney Village is built up now which was nice to see - it was a total slum then. To my shear delight there is even a comedy club in the old mill along the wharf.

I ended up this 'hood, without knowing what it would be like because I rented an attic bedroom from a young couple (Martin, a British conceptual artist, and Lisa, an American writer and their two young children.) The American woman is the sister of my friend's friend. You know how these things go: "Yeah, my sister has a great loft for rent in her London mansion." Yeh. The house was nice but small for five and the kids were always in my room when I was at work. Not the ideal setup but a cheap (in all senses) place to live. And the added 'bonus' was the crack house next door (which was not the only one in the neighborhood.) Let me assure you that these places are as creepy and scary as portrayed in the movies - and even in broad daylight.

The only interesting detail was the 'rainbow' of colorful, crack vile caps strewn on the path from the door to the pavement. I was insatiably curious to know whether these colors had significance - used as a system of 'crack classification':
White: crack for beginners;
Green: eco-friendly crack;
Yellow: mild, smooth and flavorful;
Orange: great for the sporty crackhead on the go;
Blue: for those days you just can't accept your life as a crackhead;
Red: DO NOT smoke this unless you are carrying identification.

Something like that.

I don't know if Martin & Lisa still there anymore. Noone was home so I left a note.
[Parenthetically: it was the summer before Clinton-Gore were elected to office. I believed it was prophetic that they would win for the sole reason that 'EYE' lived on Gore Road. I know, I am a loser.]

My best memory was visiting the Bethnal Green Fire Brigade Station. I was watching a championship match in the local public house and jotting in my diary. I was quite interested in soccer or football or whatever and Man. United was playing. A fireguy asked what I was writing and I gave some silly or snide answer which made him laugh. We drank our pints together and during this time his fireguy colleagues entered the pub at random. Finally we closed the pub together and as we walked home I asked if I could have a quick look in the fire house. (Yes, of course I slid down the pole!) Three of these fireguys became my football watching mates for the remainder of my time in "Beffnaal Grayne" and they treated me like a mate not a girly-girl, which I appreciated.


I was shocked to see that the village was gentrified AND that you could buy bagels!


My old digs

This blog was written at Suburb in London:



Yummy, especially with the free wifi thrown in...




They also have teany tea, a company of free-trade teas. Moby is the co-owner. I had white tea melon, it was scrumptious.