Image: The most well-designed, well-styled ’lost dog’ sign I have ever seen (photo by Paul Wertheimer)

Lest I be accused of being heartless, let me begin this blog post by saying that I grew up with a family dog, and we loved her. As the saying goes, “some of my best friends are…” Anyway, the above massive poster-sized sign has been distracting me since I first saw it plastered over two central parts of our canyon. I’d be talking to someone over coffee, deeply engrossed in conversation when suddenly behind their shoulder, there he was beckoning me: the lost dog in all his prestigious ascotted grandure–his signage representing all that is so utterly wrong with Los Angeles.

It is an unfortunate fact of life that people lose pets. It’s sad. The owners often go door-to-door in search of them, or they staple handmade signs up to telephone polls and on bulletin boards. They’re usually 8 1/2 by 11 pieces of paper often festooned with brightly colored crayon letters–some sad little kid or other lost their pet and is desperate to find him. But this behemoth sign–expensively–no doubt–and professionally printed with its perfect layout and photograph befitting of the cover of Dogue, just rubs me the wrong way.

I try and I try to focus on the LOVE that went into the act of bold desperation. Instead, I see a billboard, not unlike the barrage of intrusive billboards that accost me as I’m driving down the Sunset Strip. Only this one isn’t for Gucci or the latest George Clooney movie–however it’s equally intrusive as it rapes the otherwise unspoiled landscape with its subconsciously narcissistic, proprietary, ALL CAPS, red letters, exclamatory message: MY dog is the most important dog in this whole damned town!

I’m sure I’m exaggerating, considering I am currently reading the new Eckhart Tolle book, “A New Earth” (the latest self-help rage that literally EVERYONE is talking about). But something about this sign–though I’m sure it was well-intended–feels, to loosely quote Tolle, like a manifestation of “the collective egoic dysfunction of humanity.”

Now I hope of course that these folks, who I’m sure are perfectly nice, find their lost dog. And God bless the person who gets that juicy cash reward. But some of us Canyonites have been musing that perhaps a mutiny is afoot, and that the petite canine got tired of sporting that fashionable-yet-confining tie and went A.W.O.L. in search of his freedom…in search of a lost dog’s lost soul…something that, frankly, is starting to sound better and better to me.

Images: Tang and Ting (or Ting and Tang, as you prefer), the elusive Beverly Tang joins me at a celebration at Marcos Manor

I had to chronicle the above moments of my Saturday reunion with my elusive Mt. Washington friend, the amazing visionary and lighting designer Beverly Tang–who is so visionary that she rarely steps outside of her studio laboratory in the hills. Her and her loving partner in crime Thomas stepped out with me to celebrate the engagement of Marcos Lutyens, a hypnotist/architect/visionary in his own right (with architecture genes going back to Sir Edwin Lutyens) and fiancee Yi-Ping. We hadn’t been to Marcos’ Mexican casita out yonder on the East Side in perhaps two years since he bought it–and it was amazing, totally restored to ‘conquistador of style’ glory.

Anyway, had some heady conversations about everything from the Big Bang, energy and quantum physics, to psychoanalysis cognitive behavioral style. I was fascinated to hear Marcos’ friend Mike tell me about his marijuana dispenary’s unique approach to the ‘product.’ They are apparently very serious about scientifically studying the exact brain-chemical correlations with different strands (”one pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small”). These folks are psychedelic free-thinkers amidst the usual L.A. ’sheeple’ which can be a refreshing change. Thomas also gave me some cool audio books including Alan Watts and Arthur C. Clarke. A twist of brain-mutating epiphany with your Martini with a twist?

Image: “The In Group,” 18th of July, 1967 by Patrick Lichfield - Back Row (L to R), Susannah York, Peter S. Cook, Tom Courtenay, Twiggy - Center Row (L to R), Joe Orton, Michael Fish - Front Row (L to R) Miranda Chiu me mum, and Lucy Fleming

A big Sunday for my family, as an old friend from London notified us that my mother Miranda Chiu (her ’60s self) appears in the Sunday Times magazine as part of an article about British photographer Lord Patrick Lichfield. There is apparently a retrospective show of his images opening on the 14th at London gallery Chris Beetles. Unfortunately, the web version doesn’t show the above fabu shot, but the print one does. So if you’re in London, do me a favour (with a “u”) and pick up a copy.

I’m so very proud of this shot of my mum, looking very young and chic, in the company of none other than Twiggy and Joe Orton. As an aside, my mother is referenced as “a Chinese girl” in the famous Orton biography, “Prick Up Your Ears.”

 Images: Celery’s snobby cousin and the metrosexual beer

Yes, I know, the title and related pix of this blog entry smack of the recent Newsweek cover comparing Clinton and Obama to beer and arugula (below: “Obama’s Bubba Gap”), but I swear it wasn’t intentional. Shit happens, and so do zeitgeists…

Last night–on “Tuesday’s the new Wednesday”–I stepped out for two Bev. Hills environs events, both catering to decidedly gay and metro crowds, however different in tone and intention. But as the night would progress, the aforementioned vegetable and cocktail combo would ultimately be their great uniter.

The first was the one-year anniversary for Murano, a chic little unobtrusive restaurant on Melrose, near Robertson. I used to pass this place all the time when I went to openings at the nearby M&B Gallery and wonder if it was a private supper club or something because there was no signage. To be honest, I thought that was kind of a cool touch for usually showy L.A. but I guess it caused some confusion so they added a sign. It’s a swank little spot with Italian bistro eats that boasts a Tuesday night special, the three p’s, pizzas, pastas and panini for a mere 12 bucks.

Their anni party drew a decent-sized crowd of the aforementioned metropolitan demographic…music was nice, decor po-mo with classic touches…Alas, following what I have noted as a trend in L.A. restaurant parties–there were loads of booze but only scant offerings of food…which is unfortunate since L.A.A. is not really a drinking town (it’s a drinking and driving town).

So at said events I often find myself clawing for a tiny piece of meat on a tray (or in the case of the latest trend: an endive with topping) along with the other drunken vultures, praying that I can line my stomach before it’s too late and I end up swinging from the chandeliers topless. So it was the case last night (though to be fair there was the occasional thin-slice of pizza, and bread tray), as I gulped down strong Cosmpolitans-a-plenty and searched for the well-heeled and upwardly mobile version of rice–the anorexic and manorexic-sustaining endive.

Later, tanked-up like someone’s cheap date, I meandered outside to a nice slim patio–the usual smokers’ exile. My friend and I chatted with some Spirited Americans, or rather those smoking the trendy and healthy native treat. Hailing from Miami, our now-Downtown-based carcinogen-puffing cohort then casually lit up his joint on a lovely late- Spring eve. Funny how L.A. has (like Amsterdam) become everyone’s private Tijuana…hey folks, anything goes here…

Then it was off to Saks Fifth Avenue’s kick-off party for the 7th Annual Chrysalis Butterfly Ball–a charity shopping and boozing event. Droves of fashionistas and the gay and metro men who love them were clustered on the 2nd floor, looking bored and unaffected by the loud pounding 4-4 beats of house music that punctuated the event. No metrosexually leaning party would of course be complete without the appearance of The King of Metros (NOT to be confused with the King of Beers, puh-leese, who drinks beer around these parts?), Sex and the City’s o.g. blond “hunk” (so 80s) Jason Lewis…present.

Again, the cosmos–traditional and exotically-flavored–were a-flowing, but familiarly that evasive silver tray carried none other than the upscale Euro version of celery: endives (this time with a smear of crab salad). I could see the size zeros (size 4’s on television) teetering in their stilettos as they attempted remain just sober enough to properly apply lipstick for photo-ops but just tipsy enough so as to be charming in a pixy-like, but not obnoxious way.

Not that I’ve got anything against liquid diets. On occasion, let’s face it, we all have our “Leaving Las Vegas” moments. But freshly rehabiliated from my recent trip to Europe and in the pink of health, I’m kind of hungry for substance all-around–the kind of stuff that satisfies and nourishes without making you want to sneak into the bathroom for an 80’s inspired yak.

Image: Another drunk bloke with a flabby ass parades his not-fit-for-television wares in Amsterdam

Here I sit in a jet-lag-drunk haze, utterly confused, conflicted and betwixt cities…back in my beloved Laurel Canyon after a week or so in my second home of Amsterdam. I should be more precise, as one friend of mine and I had discussed, and just tell everyone I vacationed not in The Netherlands, but in the Jordaan, for I barely left the posh and charming central canal ring quarter. Such is my tendency when I fall in love…with a specifically charmed spot. 

I am after all what they might call a “grachtengordel [central canal ring] girl.” One Dutch friend has dubbed me “Shani Jordan,” after the famous Jordaan crooner Johnny Jordaan who even has a plein (or square) named after him (kind of like Johnny Grant Way in Hollywood for all you xenophobics and provincially inclined–Johnnys are popular guys, what can I say?).

Anyway, the above image, Exhibit A (or exhibit A-S-S is more appropriate) displays a moment of my trip that perfectly captured the ethos of the typical Amsterdam tourist. Amsterdam it would seem is everyone’s own private Tijuana, there to be pillaged and plundered, and offended. Yet the Dutch are in my opinion, far more subdued than their city implies. The one exception being Henry Pronker, a guy from Rotterdam who for over a decade has skated through the streets of Amsterdam year-round–tan as a tomater–in nothing but a g-string leotard. And, a hard-hitting interview with him by yours truly once revealed that when people make fun of him he gets depressed.

Image: My Head in the Clouds; I popped my head out of the ’sun roof’ on a canal boat tour in A’dam

Anyway, my trip back out to the Land of Nether has felt like some kind of completion process. For six years since I moved back to L.A. I have avoided returning because I hate the sad feeling of visiting a place in which I once lived, as a tourist (it took me six years exactly as well to visit New York after my departure). But this was a mistake because in so doing, I shut myself off in an L.A. vacuum and my psyche has suffered the consquences of a shallow, boob and butt obsessed, uncultured culture ever since. Clearly, I’ve been “sun damaged” by L.A. on a myriad of issues: sex, love, offspring, and work ethics versus quality of life.

One exception to my praise of Holland, however would be the weird breast feeding fetish that some locals seem to indulge in. My friend Malini was attempting to cover up while feeding her baby in a restaurant in town when the two women working there sprinted over the minute she put the infant’s mouth to her nipple. “Nothing to see,” one lamented. “She’s shy,” said the other. I know breastfeeding is healthy, normal and human but tripping over your own feet to catch a glimpse of it is, in my puritanical opinion, a bit much.

Other than that little glitch I relate very well to Euro culture. It’s weird because even though I grew up in L.A. surrounded by 80s sun, surf and punk, I was born in London, grew up with a Portuguese nanny, went to a French school and then lived and studied in Amsterdam for four years, so my cultural allegiances are mixed. Note: I will be exploring some of my observations from this trip on love and sex and these two divergent cultures when I read a piece I wrote at the first L.A. “In The Flesh” reading series in May. The New York “In the Flesh” series has included readers like porn star Nina Hartley and been written up in the New York Times and New York magazine. For this one, I’ll be in good company with writers like event organizer and erotic book author Carly Milne and William Belli (a.k.a. Matt’s transsexual friend on the FX show Nip/Tuck).

Back on topic, I’m in dire need of integration. I feel compelled to create a European-inspired world for myself in L.A. separate from the head-shots-of-horror show I experience on a regular basis…a world where I can feel free to be human and not have to apologize for forgetting to PhotoShop myself. And I’m manifesting working at least three months out of the year in A’dam.

As you might imagine, the trip was pretty much as close to perfect as one could intend. I reconnected with old friends I hadn’t seen between six and nine years and in all cases the ties were just as strong if not stronger and the conversations just as a profound and inspiring. Not in that “L.A. Deep” way of “unloading” on people because your shrink was unavailable, but real human connecting. 

I stayed in a fabulously ideal boutique hotel/workspace/canal house called the Miauw Suites, launched by a cool fashion designer named Analik who used to have her store there in the Negen Straatjes (a charming little shopping enclave of the Jordaan). Her boyfriend was one of the creatives behind Baby magazine.

Miauw is a concept hotel that features MACs and DSL connection in every room and/or suite or apartment. The old canal house has essentially been revamped to look sleek and contemporary. There’s a capuccino machine and wooden conference table by the entrance (which I used often to entertain guests when we wanted to take a load off between long walks).

I stayed in The Black Room initially, then with a friend over the weekend and then back at the hotel in the White Room–so the phrase “Once you go black, you never go back,” didn’t really apply. But the latter was a gorgeous little romantic white washed room with detailed sculptural ceilings, a chandelier, huge bouquet of white flowers and gorgeous canal view of the Keizersgracht. I would highly recommend this spot except that I am praying that it does not get over-run by Internet rif-raf (no offense to you Internet rif-raf).

Images: The conference room/”lobby” of the Miauw Suites (above) and the upstairs foyer overlooking the Keizersgracht

Anyway, before I start divulging little trip details I shouldn’t divulge out of sheer exhaustion…it’s past my jetlag bed time of 7PM. I got up with the birds today, bleary-eyed and still dreaming…of a world with canals, avocado trees, bicycle transportation, beautiful AND soulful and emotionally well-adjusted men, payment in Euros, gorgeous weather, surf-friendly beaches and universal healthcare.

It is hard sometimes not to feel barraged by all the negative news: China/Tibet/The Olympics, divisiveness in the Democratic Party; the sheer disconnectedness, violence and stupidity of Generation Apocalypse (the follow-up to the already young, dumb and full of cum Generation Y) embodied in teen girls beating eachother to a pulp on film, the continued violence in Iraq, growing nationalism in Europe, and so on…

If you flip to the History Channel (previously the “Hitler Channel,” currently the “Apocalypse Channel”) you’re confronted with ancient prophecies of end times, as if to scare us into believing it is all inevitable. And then of course, people like the Pope and certain religion-obsessed politicians seem to enjoy making incendiary comments about those of other faiths because they want to bring on their so-called Rapture.

This is all become increasingly anxiety inducing. I literally hear ‘water cooler’ stories of people plagued by panic attacks in the middle of the night…and it’s no wonder.

Instead of following the doomsayers, I prefer to cling to the belief that all of this is happening for a reason. We are in the midst of a revolution, and revolutions and grand-scale changes are often messy on arrival. Scientists speak of extreme weather shifts from the Earth’s long stable state (see my interview with pioneer environmental scientist James Lovelock currently on Kyoto Planet’s web site). Another handful talk of a potential polar shift.

And following the hermetic principle, all the changes that seem to be going on outside of us are also going on inside of us on an individual level (’as above, so below’). So, I say, take to the helm and be in charge of beautiful, positive revolutions…not by chasing an Olympic torch around the globe in hopes of snuffing it out…but by making the necessary changes….inside.

A passage from the i Ching (as interpreted by Brian Walker) comes to mind. It is for the hexagram known as Ko, or Revolution:

“The hexagram Ko announces the arrival of a time of revolution. A set of conditions, internal or external or both, is ready to pass away in favor of a more beneficial situation. What enables this transformation is your conscious and vigorous adherence to correct thought and behavior.

No revolution in outer things is possible without a prior revolution in one’s inner way of being. Whatever change you aspire to in your affairs must be preceded by a change in heart, an active deepening and strengthening of your resolve to meet every event with equanimity, detachment, and innocent goodwill. When this spiritual poise is achieved within, magnificent things are possible without.

The revolutions of others are enabled also when we refine the fire of goodness and truth inside ourselves. Sincere commitment to higher things travels outward in powerful waves from the superior person, and all those around are affected by this. Indisputably, to lead one’s inner self to truth and peace is to lead the outer world to truth and peace. A beneficial revolution is assured to one who takes this path now.”

I leave you with these perfect instructions for this juncture in the turbulent “00″ decade. I will be traveling in the next week or to so I will not be blogging. I will be taking some time to “unplug,” which in this era takes on a quite literal DSL-inspired meaning. I encourage you (even in stationary stance) to do the same, if just for a weekend.

I’m a bit of a late-comer and am only now getting around to reading Malcolm Gladwell’s “Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking.” It explores that instinctual decision we make in an instant without being bombarded by loads of information. To be fair, Gladwell explores the positive end of this when we make the right decision and the negative end, when for reasons he goes into, that moment’s choice is a faulty one.

The author looks at the notion of “thin slicing,” that is making a decision given limiting information, whether it be via a glance, body gestures, a facial expression or whatever. The idea is that this je ne sais quoi sensation allows as to pick up informational cues that perhaps don’t seem present when we’re making the split-second decision. However, were we to slow down our experience frame by frame, we might be able to capture evidence of why we made such a decion. In most cases, the less info a person is bogged down with, the more capable he/she is of making a decision with certainty.

All of this is fascinating food for my intellect. But ironically, it’s easy to get bogged down by over-analyzing the content of “Blink” and end up chasing one’s tale. It’s kind of like that Aranofsky movie, “Pi.” If you keep trying to analyze and discover a detailed “formula for what God is” you miss the point.

Therein lies the crux of the problem. There are simply so many distractions in today’s complex post modern (post human for that matter) life that it is becoming increasingly difficult for us to sort the genuine article from the spam, for lack of better terms. So, I believe, we’ve lost touch with the very instinctual force that connects us to this planet and to each other. I’m going to keep going with the spam analogy…Remember the early days of email in the mid-late 90s when you did bother to write someone back, at length even. There was a genuine connection there, frankly because our in boxes were not barraged with as much crap. Now, even with our spam filters, we often find ourselves on overload. And in the world of email, ‘no answer’ seems to have become an acceptable answer. This is digressing a bit from the topic of instinct but I still think related and worth noting.

Our brains, like computer hard drives, keep on taking in more data (since they have the capacity), while our nervous systems, our human version of RAM, start malfunctioning, unable to process too much. The result is NOT optimum performance (in our human cases, ”wrong” intuition) and sometimes a system crash (panic attacks followed by total burnout). And so, by complicating our lives with the “necessary” evils–the web, Tivo, text messaging, cell phones–we are overloading our spirits with non-stop chatter which becomes white noise. Through that white noise it is impossible to hear the sound of our inner voices guiding us in the right direction. It is also very difficult to connect with others because that connection is also being weakened by the white noise overload.

Which brings me to the next factor–most specifically in human-to-human relations–the hormonal connection. Gynocologists’ long term love affair with the birth control pill (their favorite panacea) has led a vast majority of American women and girls today to be on said synthetic hormonal regulator. It has been proven in scientific studies that such medicated women may have trouble connecting with their chemistry-appropriate partners because their hormonal “scent” is off, masked by the pill. So their would-be boyfriends and lovers are off-mark when they make the decision to pursue them based on the good old primitive hormone/scent method.

I don’t want to sound too much like a dystopian hippie (if that oxymoron is even possible) and leave blog readers feeling completely hopeless. We live in a modern world and not all of us can go live off the land like an old high school friend of mine, Andy, who God bless him is really living the off-grid dream here in Cali. Let’s not get too caught up in the negative branding of the so-called hippie earth mother/earth father movement. We’re so past that. 

In quite simple culture-neutral terms, I believe it’s important to perform a sort of cosmological “system restore.” Links between a female’s menstrual cycle and the moon (and a male’s sperm production cycle and the sun) have been scientifically proven. The moon, with its ability to affect ocean tides, has an influence on the emotional cycles of both genders (we’ve all heard of emergency rooms being full and bar fights a-plenty during full moons). 

Since much of the planet is currently out of balance due to weather shifts, smog, light pollution and such, it is important to return to the old standbyes for grounding–the sun and the moon. These are the cosmic regulators that can re-align our systems. Apart from finding scent-suitable mates, why is such an awareness and connection vital? Firstly, its a means of preventing the previously mentioned burn-outs and panic attack episodes that so many of us Americans have grown accustomed to accepting (because we’re told to simply pop a Xanax or Clonopin at the sign of any such episode…and then given a list of nasty side effects on a TV commercial sponsored by America’s favorite pharmaceutical giants). But mostly because–if you haven’t noticed it being discussed on TV, the blogs or at the Latte spot/water cooler–there is a sense that we are so off-kilter now that there may be nothing left for us. People are feeling anxious, depressed, hopeless, disconnected…and self-help books are flying off the shelves and seminars and conferences filling up.

If women can become aware (that just means “knowledge of..”) the lunar cycles and thus attempt to match their menses with said cycles, some sense of balance can begin to be restored. In instructional terms, that means ovulation at the full moon and menstruation in the waning moon leading up to the first or second day of the new moon. For men, it’s a simple awareness and willingness to (as closely as possible) align their awareness with sunrise and sundown and an understanding of the equinoxes and solstices. Few men are farmers these days so this connection has been lost. It needs to be re-implemented.

So, want to save the planet? Don’t just bring your own trendy re-usable Kate Spade “green” bag to the grocery store and smile smugly that you are making a difference. Make the change an internal one before it’s too late.

It recently occurred to me that the dating/mating scene in L.A. seems to be a constant pinball pivot between, to put it simply and pithily, ‘talkers and stalkers.’

The word on the street from outsiders–namely that French dude from last month and the Croatian guy from last week respectively–is that everyone in this town says they’ll call but never does. As a footnote, both aforementioned Euro babes uttered this and then failed to follow up with a phone call, pretty much corroborating their own monolithic statements. Indeed, this is a town of flakes, on one end, and the love-deprived and all-too-eager, on the other. Let’s face it, most of us have probably played both roles in our dating careers.

For every couple of flakey pretty boys I have dated or met who said they’d call and never did, there has been at least one frighteningly ardent suitor who has recalled the expression, “gum on your shoe.” And I’ve heard similar tales from my male friends. Why is this though? Where are all the “normal” single people who understand the delicate balance of follow-through, interest, pacing and personal space?

The answer is two-fold. Firstly, balanced people clearly don’t move to L.A. The promise of fame and fortune is the dream of the imbalanced and ungrounded. Despite the fact that native Angelenos can be pretty friendly and honest (if I do say so myself), let’s face it, this town was born to attract drama queens who bounce around from extremes when not on Paxil or between representation.

The second half of the answer is that there is a dynamic at play between love-hungry and blase. They feed off each other. Not all desperado, cling-ons (or “Captain Klingons” to quote my friend Bettina) were born that way. The Nature vs. Nurture argument once again rears its head. Many of these men were taught to be this way over years of Dating Boot Camp (a.k.a. L.A. or New York dating).

Let’s say a man starts out as laidback and mellow and hits the metropolitan dating scene. Chances are that even if he’s cute and gainfully employed, he’s going to get a little snubbed by some diva-in-training or other. Or perhaps she’s just non-commital. After some time, this man is going to become hungry for a down-to-earth, honest, interested female. Unfortunately, when one finally crosses his path–love-starved and hungry for a connection–he blows it by fastening himself to said female for dear life, believing that if he lets “this one get away” he’ll “never meet another ‘real’ girl again.” A stalker is born.

The reverse, as you might have guessed, is similarly true. After years of even harsher rebuffs as an over-zealous heavy-hitter, said man (and let’s be fair, woman as well) can become navigated by his own subconscious fear of failure and totally fake out. It gives him power to tell a beautiful woman that he will call her and then leave her hanging by the phone. That kind of power (in a power-hungry town) is, for some, better than sex. Personally, I’d rather have great sex.

So, what is the solution? Obvious. Go to Silicon Valley or Canada and export a partner. But wow, do we really need to resort to such extreme tactics? Perhaps. In a town of Extreme Dating, anything is possible…and nothing it set in stone (because really, who wants to make that kind of commitment?)

This is a follow-up to yesterday’s “Eurotic” blog post. In it, I had quoted from a rather shocking Reuters story that said that American tourists were being turned away from currency exchange shops not wanting to purchase U.S. dollars. My good buddy Remco from The Hague, Netherlands put one of his young colleagues at a Dutch newspaper on the trail of this story and found that it was, to quote him directly, “bullshit.” Apparently his colleague had no problem finding an abundance of exchange shops willing to buy dollars. She even spoke with Americans on vacation there (though I can’t imagine anyone but Hiltons and Gateses–and sil ol’ me–setting foot on Euro Union soil at the moment). They said they were fine and had no problems exchanging bucks for Euros. Apparently this is another case of overblown, inappropriately amped up coverage meant to get our knickers in a twist.

Image: Fiscal porn - the hot hot hot Euro

The latest talk around the (hormone-infused) water cooler, or in my case the local coffee spot, is the weakness of the Dollar vis-a-vis the Euro. As of today, according to Reuters, the Dollar has fallen to record lows against the Euro. The last I checked–and I’m checking every hour because I’m off to Amsterdam in the near future–the all-mighty Old Country currency was worth $1.7 U.S. Pesos (as I’m now calling our has-been currency). Yesterday, Reuters damn near killed me with the shocker:

“The U.S. dollar’s value is dropping so fast against the euro that small currency outlets in Amsterdam are turning away tourists seeking to sell their dollars for local money while on vacation in the Netherlands.”

Imagine, the notoriously hard-fisted Dutch saying, “you’re money’s no good here” and meaning it!

At my coffee corner, Lilly, our matron of Java, joked that she might decide to only accept Euros (or Euro, singular, as the Euros plural, call it).

There’s nothing more limp an desperate at the moment than the American Peso, and nothing sexier and more powerful than the all-mighty Euro, whose sheer mention now has an aphrodisiacal effect. One girl friend of mine was discussing a European guy we both know and touting his appeal, “He’s makin’ Euros!” Hey, don’t knock it, entreprenEuros are the latest “catches” of the global dating scene. And American women like myself will sadly soon be North American Melania’s and Ivana’s, hocking our whorish wares in the E.U. in hopes of catching sugar vaders, papas and peres.

“Hey, if the dollar keeps going down,” I told one Dutch friend of mine who I will soon see on my trip, “I will end up spending my trip to Amsterdam standing in a window.”

I suspect that the Euro will soon replace the Dollar as a cocaine utensil as well. It only makes sense. Can you imagine that final scene in Scarface with a wealthy, corrupt and over-the-top Al Pacino, snorting piles of coke with a rolled up Peso? Just doesn’t have the same opulent ring to it, now does it?

The same goes for strippers who will certainly scoff at some chubby desperate hand attempting to stuff dollars in their undies. The Euro is sure to go places…dark, wet places to be exact.

Similarly, I would imagine that briefcase companies like Samsonite and such will not want to endure the negative branding of having suitcases be filled with dollars for gambling and hostage exchanges. They will have to be packed with the sexy and virile Euro.

We Americans can laugh at their rainbow colored cash. We can snicker that its name, Euro, sounds like a guy who wears leather pants in the summer, smokes Gitanes and liberally uses the word “lover.” But, thanks to 8 years of Bush, they’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.

But the pot of gold at the other end of this rainbow-colored cash are the small business opportunities for the enterprising and resourceful. I envision a web-based charitable organization, Adopt-an-American, geared at philanthropic Europeans. For their payment (in Euros, of course), they will receive photos and letters (unless you have adopted an illiterate person) from their adopted American, a plump burger-slinging bastard who, rest assured, without them would be unable to over-feed himself on corn syrup, fried foods and pharmaceutical water. The plus is that now they can adopt Sally Struthers.