Their plaid shirts makes them hip.  And their sense of irony keeps them cool in the hot summer sun.

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This is the Red Light District in Amsterdam.  I stayed there for 4 days and this was actually off of the back patio of the bar at my hostel.  I was absolutely not supposed to be taking pictures (notice the sign in the first window), or even be out there past dark, but rules are meant to be broken and I tend to snap them in half.  Especially if it means getting a great shot of sketchy dudes oogling prostitutes.

There are many reasons that I love Amsterdam, but their take on sex is most definitely one of them.  Yes, prostitution seems dirty, but it’s done illegally everywhere that it’s not legal.  And what is dirtier?  Some pimp selling off women on a street corner or legal regulation within the government to keep it safer and cleaner?  I’d go with the latter.

I also love that it’s put out there for everyone to see.  Sex shops, live porn shows, sex museums, and brothels are abundant.  In America, the vast majority of us grow up thinking that sex is dirty and bad and secretive and meant for *marriage*.  I really don’t understand why that is so.  Everyone does it, save certain individuals who abstain because of religious vows - and I can understand that to an extent.  But for the rest of us, what’s the big deal?  Life is meant to be enjoyed, and that is certainly one of the most enjoyable acts to engage in.

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I spent this 4th of July weekend in the Hamptons at an 8 bedroom “house” that a friend rented for the month (apparently the owner of the place is President of Capitol Records — he was there the first night, but didn’t go out with us because he had to go sign Lenny Kravitz… ridiculous, no?).

Upon arriving 5 hours later than planned, three pasty-white city girls stumble into a house full of tall, thin, exotic beauties from Miami.  Inferiority complex?  Just a bit.  They were all very nice, it was just startling and unexpected.  Plus, I do much better in a room full of men than women.  Big groups of chicks are intimidating in themselves.  Which is one of the many reasons I’m glad that I wasn’t born with a penis; it’s better to be part of the flock of wolves that try to circumvent it.

So after securing a bedroom and lounging poolside for the rest of the afternoon, we got ourselves together and headed to Trata* where my friend’s boyfriend is a bartender.  The scene was as follows: blond, botoxed, middle-aged women dressed like 18 year olds clutching their designer bags and towering on $500 heels.  Labels were abundant.  It was a restaurant full of this.  It was terrifying.  And it was a reality check.

The next day we prowled around Sag Harbor where two girls gave us the card in the photograph above.  The name of the store they were promoting made me laugh.  The Hamptons really are about labels.  Even during the day in this little beach town there was enough Lacoste and J. Crew to make my closet full of Urban Outfitters and thrift duds throw up a little bit.

Best part of the trip?  A guy asked my friend for her number to show her a good time the next time she was in town.  This is the dialogue that ensued:

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Oh no?  Why is that?”

“It’s not really my scene.  These people are on another planet.”

“I used to not like it either, but you just have to ignore them… blah blah blah lots of talk about how great the Hamptons are… it gets better.”

“When does it get better?  After you become one of them?”

Basically I realized that yes, I do want to make a shitload of money (who doesn’t?), but there is no way I will ever become part of that crowd.  Though they make a statment - a very extravagant statement - designer labels aren’t something that I ever want to be commonplace in my life.  Fashion isn’t about having THE thousand dollar dress.  It’s about creativity: taking expensive things, cheap things, new things, and old things and making yourself look good.  At least that’s how I see it.

*I would like to note that the food and drinks at Trata are amazing.  If you go early (7 or so), you can miss the Hamptonite crowd and enjoy an amazing Greek dinner.

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Yesterday I was doing some photo research under the keyword ‘heart.’  After digging through several pages of pink, kitschy, Valentine’s Day themed photos, I came across one that abruptly stopped me in my tracks.  It was a photo of the neon Erotic Museum sign in Amsterdam.  I clicked on the thumbnail to get a better look, and upon further inspection, realized I had taken a better photo than some professional photographer out there was paid to do.

I dug up the one pictured above, scaled it to be the same size as the online version, sent it to a colleague and asked for a comparison without telling which was mine.  The response I received was as follows, “I would like to believe that yours is the one that is shot at an angle, has good lighting and an actual composition.”

You are correct.  So here is the other photograph (ID# 71497144 by Richard Nowitz on Getty - I assume I must give credit or else run the risk of being sued, but I’m really just trying to prove a point.):

The point I want to make here is either 1. Getty is accepting sub-par images and they need to up their game and be more selective or 2. that I take as good or better photos than some professional photographers (not to toot my own horn here, but I don’t think you need to be a photo critic to see the difference).  I don’t actually know what the selection criteria is for choosing photos to add to their stock library, but I really can’t see why this particular image got into the collection.

As for Mr. Nowitz, I did check out more of his stuff on Getty and his personal website (linked above) and it’s safe to say that his collection is quite good.  I’m going to assume this was a fluke.

While clicking through Shine from Yahoo!, I came across this article and what immediately caught my eye was the source link. I didn’t actually believe that Yahoo! would credit Perez Hilton, but oh was I wrong. It led straight to this article. I guess I should look on the bright side: if someone as insanely petty and crude as P. Hilton can get his 15 minutes of fame and respect from a powerhouse like Yahoo!, then I suppose there is hope for us all.

1. All caps. Is that really necessary?
2. Just because I live in little Puerto Rico and the sign out my bedroom window says ‘Boriquen Plaza’ does not mean I’m looking for some ‘Boricua Love.’
3. What the fuck is a MUUUAKSS?
4. Punctuation, please.
5. Grammar. There is a difference between ‘than’ and ‘then.’ And that’s just the beginning.
6. The only one that should be ‘holla back’-ing is Gwen Stefani.
7. Who in their right mind would respond to this? Gotta getta betta game, Papi!

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The day I went to Kaukenhof was definitely an interesting one. Just figuring out how to get tickets was an adventure in itself. After going to the tourist information office near the Central Station to buy a combo ticket for transportation and entrance to the gardens, taking a number, and realizing there were a couple of hundred people ahead of me, I decided I should just go into the train station to ask someone how to get there. I didn’t have time to wait in line for hours. I needed to go see some tulips!!

At the train station, a very nice man (love the Dutch!) handed me a slip of paper with directions. I took a look at it, looked at it pretty hard, and thought, “I don’t think this is how you are supposed to get there.” Trusting that the person who works there probably knows better than some stupid American traveler, I went to investigate the situation. I went to one of those handy ticket machines, put in all the info, and realized it was going to be more expensive to go this way than it had been to buy the combo ticket at the tourist office.

Back to the tourist office I go. Fortunately I had saved my number so I was about 50 people closer. 2 hours later I get to the counter and it takes about 3 and a half minutes to get my business done. This is where it got confusing. There are two ways to get there: 1. either take a bus from uptown Amsterdam to the airport and then transfer to another bus or 2. take the train to the airport and transfer to a bus. I had purchased only bus tickets and after looking at where I needed to get on bus numero uno, realized it was going to be another hour before I would even be on the road because I was on the wrong side of town. And I was directly across from the train station. What. The. Fuck.

Figuring it was probably the same bus that you transfer to, I decided to try my luck and jump on a train to the airport since they come every few minutes. Fortunately, luck was on my side and it worked out. This is when I realized the tourist office was just overcharging for having the convenience of buying the tickets together. Silly tourist office.

So I finally arrive. And it starts raining. And then it starts pouring. And I don’t have an umbrella. Why would I have an umbrella in a country where it rains every day? I decide to go get some french fries because I can smell the grease and it smells delicious and hopefully the rain will stop by the time I’m done stuffing my face. Well, everyone else had the same idea to get some fries to get out of the rain and there are people everywhere. I finally get to the front of the line and order my fries with ketchup since you have to order your condiment of choice with your fries and then they charge you for it. No stealing 800 packets of the stuff so you can avoid buying the organic stuff at the grocery store because why would you buy normal ketchup when there is ORGANIC ketchup?

The woman hands me my fries and what is on it? None of the red salty goodness to be found. They are covered in disgusting, discharge colored mayonnaise. I immediately hand them back to her and say that I had asked for ketchup. She gives me a scowl and instead of just fixing my fries since there are about 200 people behind me that would gladly take my untouched nasty mayo fries since apparently Europeans have different taste buds and think that mayonnaise on fries is delicious, has the cashier look up what she had just charged me for and then proceeds to tell me that I ordered mayo. Can I make an observation here? No, really, it’s a good one. WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE ORDER SOMETHING THAT DISGUSTS THEM????? I know that SHE doesn’t know that I hate that crap, but why would I say anything at all if that is in fact what I had wanted?

This, in turn, made me have a flashback to the Think Pink party where the customer service left something to be desired (read: bitch with a clipboard at the door). It’s been a cliché for years: the customer is always right. But it’s true! The customer IS always right. Even if they are wrong, think about the impact that a disgruntled client can have on your business. Word of mouth is the most powerful marketing tool there is whether it be good or bad.

I’m happy to say that within a half hour the rain pretty much stopped and within another hour the sun had come out. This created basically perfect conditions to photograph the flowers in: petals dripping with rainwater and sunlight making them sparkle. The rest of the afternoon was phenomenal. And I’ve come to the conclusion that there is something out there in the universe that likes to fuck with me from time to time.

I understand it’s annoying to have wet hands.  Especially when you are about to go sit down at a computer.  Believe me, I am borderline psychotic about any foreign substances (even the good ol’ H2O) coming anywhere near my precious aluminum MBP.

However, I also deem it completely unnecessary to stand waving your hand in front of the automatic censor for 5 minutes to get half the roll out of the paper towel dispenser to make sure EVERY LAST DROP is off of your hands before you even touch the bathroom door.  Not only are you inconveniencing everyone else waiting to dry their hands and waiting for you to finish your paper towel marathon, but you are killing massive amounts of trees.  Yes, YOU are contributing to what is now known as the Climate Crisis (and formerly known as Global Warming).

These handy censor dispensers are made to distribute the exact amount of paper towel that it should take to dry your hands.  If you have extremely large and/or clammy hands, then by all means, take two.  But please, before Al Gore finds you and gives you paper cuts in the age old eye for an eye fashion, just knock it off.

I’m sorry, but there is no reason to keep your sunglasses on when you enter a building for longer than, oh let’s say, 30 seconds.*  I understand you may need to get situated, get your keys out, shift your coffee to the other hand, but after that, sunglasses should be moved up onto the crown of the head. Kind of like a headband.

Obviously if you’ve just had laser surgery or, for that matter, any other eye-related medical thing, this need not apply to you. But I know the trendy girl in big Chanel sunglasses sitting on the 6 train and the guy that hides his eyes every day riding the elevator all the way up to the 6th floor did not just come from the optometrist.

There are, of course, exceptions to the rule such as, but not necessarily limited to, being hungover, being high, or some other drug induced state where the world is better off not seeing your face and spaced out eyes. But you can usually tell if this is the case by said person’s other actions and body language (i.e. slumped shoulders, slow movements, fits of laughter, lips pursed to contain nausea induced vomiting, etc.).

What I have to say to all of you indoor sunglass wearers is that you, my friend, are not a rockstar. It makes you look pretentious and silly. Take them off. It’s NOT that bright in here.

*This also applies to the any subway line/station that goes underground. Once it’s over the bridge or out of Harlem, take ‘em off!