What Would Angelina Do?

Life is happening over in these parts. Let's just say that a series of unfortunate events has resulted in a not so brief stint in solitary confinement at the Chinese equivalent of the Betty Ford Center. And who knew that Burberry had an exclusive line of clothing for female detainees?

Anyway, I am turning to you all out there in the ether for a little seriously needed advice.

It seems that my application for a position at the car wash is under consideration. I am being asked to drag my rump to the other side of the world to meet the manager and perform a wax job or two.

Though there are many potential problems with all of this, including the damage to my artistic soul as I face yet another reminder that a woman can not eat on her words alone, the biggest worry is what to do with my brand spanking new nine month old baby who is still nursing, esp. at night and loves him his mamma.

Do I take him and subject him to the 16 hour flight in (gasp!) coach? Live through the pain of killer jet lag and then a random baby sitter for a few hours (through a trustworthy service)and hope that I never have to tell the folks at the car wash that my son is holed up in the hotel waiting for me to come back so they shouldn't ask me do any additional buffing or help park the cars or see if I can work the computer in the front office?

If I leave him home he will be in the care of his father and much loved nanny. He will also be with his brother. But away from the boob. And he gets really, really cranky without me. And I am none to keen to wean him or be away from him either. We are talking 4 nights and 5 long days away from each other. Plus, I will also be with out my eldest child which is already causing me some major anxiety.

Angelina Jolie never has to think about these things, I know. But I cannot get the US embassy to give my nanny a short term visa. However, I did manage to use some miles that I didn't know I had to get myself a buisness class seat for the return flight. Of course, the flight to the soul crushing interview is fully booked and I am on a very long waiting list for an upgrade.

The mere thought of jetlag and long haul flights and blitz travel is making my head spin.

So I'm getting all woman on the street about this.

What would you do?


Writing On The Wall

It has been a long time since my last post. I would like to blame my absence on the late night parties, the after hours clubs, the exclusive backstage passes to Paris Fashion week, and the champagne brunches on the yacht of my new best friend. I would also like to blame my disappearance on account of my volunteering at the Hong Kong International Literary Festival, but I can’t even do that.

A few weeks ago, in my quest to make some friends, I responded to a call for volunteers. Now mind you, I was aware that Interpol (division of fugitive international volunteers) had put me on their most wanted watch list about ten years ago, but I thought that time served plus my obvious remorse might have expunged my record. It’s a new day people. I am older now, wiser, and perhaps even shorter than my last altercation as a volunteer. The chances are very, very small that I will ever again attack another volunteer in the middle of an African Rainforest. Nor will I run off with a hot director of an orphanage in Southern Italy, and even if I did, which I wouldn’t, this time I would be suspicious about his sources of income. I will not be fooled a second time. And like wise, I really doubt that I would ever again consider leaving my post as a witness for peace to take up with armed rebels in the jungles of South America. And really, this time, I promise, if there is a flyer to be handed out, I will not take the stack to the nearest recycling bin nor will I crank call the people on the phone list or have Bugs Bunny “sign” a petition.

Since my wayward days are over, I didn’t think twice when I offered body, heart, and soul to those “people” who run the festival. I mean I am not a volunteer to sneeze at because, A: I got loads of time on my hands. And B: I have experience. I know how to work a mic, seat people, chat up an author, pour a glass of water, stuff an envelope, discreetly pick my ass and look self important while doing it.

Anyway, I am over the rejection. Because after seeing the below clip, I am reminded of my life’s higher purpose.

And in other SWC news, my book sold. And before you vomit in your mouth, note that the book is not based on the blog.


A Love Connection

Dear SWC:

I am writing to apply for the position of Friend as listed on blogger

I have been wiping my own ass for over 35 years and have not
encountered any complaints about my work in that time. Nations have
formed and dissolved, wars have been waged, the environment has been
thrashed, the sea level has risen, the global economy has inhaled and
exhaled, and still my ass wiping has endured with steadfast tenacity
and unwavering dedication. But my missive runs amiss, I am not one
to ever discuss the color, texture or frequency of anyone's poop
(save for one funny story which happened about 38 years ago which I
may only share with you at the right time and place). This is the
extent of what I have to say on the subject, whether or not you find
my other qualifications acceptable.

Though I reside on a very different kind of island, perhaps the one
you'd like to reside on, I seem to have shed my close friends
somewhere along the way. They have either morphed into occasional
pals or slipped off somewhere; perhaps through my neglect or
otherwise. I do not have leprosy, though feel I have been
blacklisted. I have not been to Thailand. I do not wear workout
clothing as haute couture. I have no interest in 5-star hotels
(except occasionally from an architectural or design perspective) and
I do not have a maid, underpaid or otherwise.

I do like books, magazines, newspapers and the internet (a little too
much). Recently I have even embraced podcasts and blogs. I find the
Bible grossly overrated and very poorly edited. I share with you
three articles I have recently enjoyed, not for the quality of the
writing but for, well, call it a bit of titillation:

for the shock of it

for laughs

for the way I was drawn into wanting to believe some "scientific" study of questionable validity but learned about the history of racism in drug policy instead

I welcome the opportunity to meet with you at your convenience. My resume, references and writing samples are available on request. I am available for long lunches, binge drinking, word games, random acts of kindness, snide remarks, and any and every form of revelation, aha's and hhhmm's especially. Please note that without an appointment, I may be caught in my workout clothes, though I promise there will be nothing haute about them.

Many thanks for your consideration.



*photo by Porgunnur Porsdottir


The Impotence of Being Ernest

I have been living in a dry spell over here, a real desert oasis. It’s been at times painful, numbing, crazy making, lonely and down right tragic. Yeah, I am married. And I know what you are thinking. My husband, when he doesn’t have a headache or isn’t going blind from his Blackberry, is a dream, a lovely guy and all, but I have to admit that I am seeking a bit more variety.

I suffer from a condition far worse than leprosy, though that is exactly the disease that I feel that I have these days.

I need to be titillated.

I need some friends.

I have lived here for a while now and though I have tried, really, really tried, I cannot seem to make any friends. Sure I have met people. But I have not met anyone that I liked.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not a friend snob. I mean yes, I have standards but in addition to my “shit happens” philosophy, I also take to heart the nugget of truth that is the foundation of Scientology: We are all way fucked up but it is nothing that a new set of fake boobs and a set of false teeth can’t help you over come.

So yeah, I am tired of not having friends. But I am also tired of trying to make friends with women who wear workout clothes as haute couture and who do nothing but complain about their underpaid live-in maids, and talk about 5 star hotels and discount toy shopping in Shenzhen.

So I decided that I am going to place an ad. I am thinking that it will read something like this:


Married women seeks platonic friendship with similar or single female or male for irreverent drunken cackling at the absurdities of life. Please share my interest in anything other the your last trip to Thailand, unless you were arrested for smuggling drugs—because that makes for a really funny story. But please know that stories that are not funny include anything having to do with the color, size, smell or texture of your child’s bowel movements or any story that involves the phrase “I think my husband is cheating on me, what should I do?” more than 50 times in a fifteen minute conversation. Must like books and I don't mean the Bible. Also, please know how to wipe your own ass.


Recession Era Rags

Once upon a time, when I lived in New York, I thought of myself as something of a fashion maven. No, I did not follow the trends. With a closet like mine, I didn’t have to. You see, I am into fine fabrics, clean lines, exquisite details and neutral colors. My style was my own: man-eater meets librarian meets label whore meets punk rocker, or something like that. The over all affect was spectacular, as I am sure anyone who knows me can tell you.

But these days my closet is nothing to blog about. I mean let’s face it, is any garment truly timeless? Okay, perhaps crotchless panties. But never having owned a pair myself, I wouldn’t know.

Usually, when I ask myself these kinds of questions I turn to style guru Imogen Lamport over at Inside Out Style. As we say in the Rastafarian community, Big Up, Imogen! That lady is a super star. And she has got the best hair on the interwebs. Tell her I sent you.

Anyway, with all of the "Bankrupt. Everything Must Go" sales, I have been toying around with the idea of updating my wardrobe for the first time since the 1990’s. But something happened on my way to the shops. I saw a woman wearing a coat trimmed in fur. Though fur is not my thing, the coat was beautiful. Every detail screamed expensive and the woman herself looked filthy rich. Normally, I would have admired the coat and moved on. Instead I was disgusted. For some reason, I thought that her display of wealth, real or fake, was in bad taste. Further, I had to push back the urge to knock her over the head, take her handbag, and run like hell. Lucky for her, I am still on parole.

Anyway, this me thinking. What am I going to wear during the depression? If we are entering an age where class warfare will be de rigueur, what outfit would honor the times we are living in and reflect my personal style?

The cashmere robe as outerwear?
The bathing suit top as bra?
Hospital Gown as Inauguration couture?
Shopping bags from high end stores as purse?

The choices are overwhelming.

So let me ask you, what are you planning on wearing to the recession?


What Doesn't Kill You

Not long ago, wild monkeys in a Malaysian rainforest attacked me. That happened a few months before the wild rat attack that I survived while in Thailand. There was the harrowing escape from 50 angry bulls while hiking in Ecuador, the nearly fatal run-in with a pack of feral dogs in the mean valleys of Canyon Lake, California and the killer cockroaches in Morocco.

Of course there was my being held hostage by two different armed groups in the same week during a trip to Colombia. And while no guns were involved, I cannot forget the fistfights in Ghana, Holland, Italy and Coney Island. These were followed-- years later-- by some brutal verbal fisticuffs in, naturally, Finland, Norway and Denmark.

I have lived to tell about my unpleasant case of trichinosis that I caught while in Guatemala, the malaria that I caught while in Liberia, the strange three day “someone must of drugged my drink” illness that had me laid out flat for three days in a mysterious Parisian apartment. Oh, I must not my six month pregnant belly in a way too small bathing suit in Anguilla-- who knew that embarrassment could be a critical condition?

But what nearly did me in was the salmonella poisoning that I got this weekend. Never eat Indian food at an Irish restaurant cooked by a Chinese chef.

Photo by Andrew Carter


An Open Letter To The Hoes At The Club

Listen bitches, you all have been messin' with my Esther Williams flow for long enough. I know, I know, if I had started my New Year's resolution when I normally do in mid-April instead of January 2nd like the rest of you losers, I recognize that I would not have this problem. But this is not about my timing. This is about your bad behavior, your sick habits, and let's face it, your mental illness.

And since I have committed to this swimming thing by laying out cash for the club fees and the new bag to carry my towel, pool shoes, and new swimsuit-- we need to come to an arrangement right here, right now.

In addition to abiding by the rules posted at the club, such as, no spitting, coughing or entering the pool while knowingly suffering from Tuberculosis or Bird Flu. Me, myself personally expect you to abide by the following:

1. Do not under any, any circumstances talk to me. I find talking to people in bathing suits discomforting. I never wanted to picture you naked and now with very little imagination I can and it makes me gag.

2. Stop kicking water in my face dumb ass. I don't want to get my weave wet, okay bitch? And no, I will not put my head underwater so stop asking your aged husband because I can hear you.

3. Stay away from me. I am not swimming in a lane because I am doing something called "aqua aerobics". Yes jackass, I know that they don't have this in the Ukraine. You don't seem to mind your snail pace crawl across the pool and the extra 85 pounds. But me? I am trying to rid my body of some baby phat. Also, I am trying to become one with the water.

4. Do not swim so close to me or snort water out of your nose next to me. And if you can help it, don't cross inches in front of me as I am coming down the pool. It is just rude.

5. In the dressing room, don't smile at me, especially if I am naked. Likewise, don't try to catch my eye and for god's sake, can you not walk behind me just as I am bending over?

6. I'll admit that I am duly impressed by your new limited edition Yves Saint Laurent bag, the killer boots, and this season's best Gucci coat, but you are just going to the pool. And since you are just going to the pool, do you think you could leave your maid and nanny at home for a change? Ditto for your prepubescent son, who by the way, is getting too old to go into the women's changing room. I caught him trying to sneak a peek and frankly, I will not rest easy at night knowing that a sighting of my postpartum body will lead to years of psycho-therapy for him. And your maid was also checking me out. In truth, it sent shivers down my spine because getting naked in front of a complete fully clothed stranger reminded me of the Clinton era. And I am a new woman now.

My rules are simple and not in any way a request. If you choose to ignore my them, you will get my new kick board up your ass.

And finally, the pool is for everyone to enjoy, so let's have some fun. Besides, it is only a matter of time before one of us quits anyway.



All this uncertainty has me wanting to drink the snake oil. Like everyone, I hate not knowing if I am going to wake up to the 2009 Great Great Depression or the 2009 Descent into Global Anarchy or the 2009, WTF! How The Hell Did I End Up On This Iceberg?

To calm my nerves and to keep my pledge to lay off the prescription drugs, I decided to tap into the higher forces and get the dope with my free horoscope on line. But on my way to the computer, I passed the promotional bottle of bubbly that I received two years ago from my local Park n' Shop and after knocking it back, the world got real clear. A woozy feeling came up from my toes and suddenly, I could just make out what the future will bring. I have to warn you, alot of what was revealed to me looked like a very grainy low tech amateur porn but here are some of the highlights:

Prince Charles will be caught on tape trying to hire a hit man to finally off the Queen Mother so that he can be King before the family has to sell off their property due to bad investments.

In Italy, my 1996 “stolen” passport will be found in the personal effects of Berlusconi’s wife, sparking rumors that the Prime Minister is running an underground sex ring. This scandal will serve as a distraction against record unemployment rates and calls for the dissolution of the EU.

Meanwhile, in the United States, this week, George Bush will lose his wallet while out for a walk on White House grounds. It will be found by a secret service agent who will only take the compromising photos of Bush and Bin Laden enjoying a round of beers and a couple of hookers in pre-Katrina New Orleans. Sometime in mid-February the wallet and the rest of its contents will be sent to Bush’s ranch in Crawford, Texas. It is unclear what happens to the Bin Laden/Bush pics.

Donald Trump decides to save his recession era real estate empire by investing in homes that promote green living: recycled glass igloo houses for people residing in the Northern Hemisphere and cardboard tents for people who live in the Southern Hemisphere.

And to the shock of every American, China and the Middle East ask the US to payback loans made to Walmart, Cosco, Best Buy, Exxon, Visa and Mastercard.

Heroin returns as the party drug of choice for the under 60 set. The over 60's turn to the cheaper alternative, methadone.

And at the end of 2009, just in time to ring in another new year, Mao suits come back into fashion by government decree.