Sweaty Spanish Soiree

At the invitation of my cultural attache buddy Curro, I went to the Spanish ambassador's residence last night for an "arts & culture preview." I'd never been to the ambassador residence-y part of DC before I guess, didn't know it existed over there. And my impression is that I might be the only guest who took the bus and then wound around on sidewalk-less roads in 90+ heat. I was a sweaty mess when I arrived, which contributed to the fact that I was too shy to photograph the plentiful empanadas, tortilla, linguica etc, but I have a headache today proving that I had too much cold Spanish white wine. I did take a lot of pictures in the bathroom. The bathroom was disappointing.

Actually, the whole experience was kind of disappointing in terms of access. I mean, I wanted to see the ambassador's bedroom, check out what's in his fridge, borrow some of his vicodin. I guess that's why they have the big sterile guest part of the residence with industrial-style bathrooms, so that folks like me can't put the honorable toothbrush in our armpits and steal exotic Spanish Q-tips. But I thought there should at least be a little decoration in there, some soft towels, a waste bin instead of a maxi-pad depository, god...

As is increasingly the case with these kinds of events, I refrained from heavy socializing, and I stuck like a tick to my beloved Tony Gittens, who regaled me with his upcoming sabbatical and travel plans. And, in true Mohr fashion, I mooched a ride home in the major thunder/lightning/hail storm with Jesse Cohen of artdc.org (who looks remarkably like Jonas Mekas in this foto) and his kind partner, Amy. That was nice. But ho hum. I need a Bank lunch pick-me-up to restore my diplomatic spirit.

Frivilous things that make us happy

Last week my back porch and everything stored there got real wet, including correspondence I've held onto since the beginning of me. As I laid stuff out to dry all over my apartment, I came across this letter from my Grandma Nelson, who passed away in November of 2006. I LOVED her sense of humor, and I like to think that she had an influence on mine (also in my excessive use of exclamation points and hearts).
Sept 22 [1998]

My dear Krisi <3

First- My condolences on Gracie’s death! She was a good “church-going” cat and was buried on church property which is more than you & I can expect!

Your dad tried everything to save her- but with a broken back- there wasn’t much the vet could do.

We will all miss her!

It looks like a gorgeous day out! I haven’t been out yet today!

Just got a letter from Jack in which he sent me some money and said to spend it in some frivolous way that would make me happy! Not knowing how an 85 year old spends money frivolously- I’ll probably buy some new tops or slacks- How is that? If anyone sees the Polish colored top I bought last time- they will say “she spends her money very frivolously!!”

Jack is working on a plan for me to come out there- possibly for Thanksgiving (as he thinks your parents will be gone to Greece then)! We shall see what develops!

It must be warm out as I am getting too warm with a sweat shirt on!

Dorothy Fehrman sold her house and moved into an apt! after 38 years in that house- it will be a change for her I’ll bet.

I just got a framed picture of Jack on “Bella” the horse, which your mom will inherit one of these days! It’s a nice picture!

It is now 3 o’clock and “us Swedes” have coffee and a cookie at 3 o’clock. Never let it be said that old German me broke the tradition! Even if I will eat watermelon instead of coffee and cookies. Hah!

I’m waiting for your mom to come over for a day- she rides with Ray Mueske who comes twice a week to take care of his Laundromat here! It makes it handy for her. And he appreciates someone to talk to on the way! I knew his mother very well and like to talk to him about her family (that I grew up with).

When Karen comes- she gets more done in that day than I do in a week! But she isn’t going to be 85 either, eh?

I miss you kids when I don’t see you for a while. Is Kurt back in school?

Enough rambling for this time. Write again soon and I promise to answer!

Love you <3!

Gram Nelson

X O X O X O

What they're eating for lunch at the U.N. Food Summit

This menu sounds disgusting, not to mention paltry, compared to a World Bank lunch. pshaw.

– Vol au vent (a puff pastry base) stuffed with corn and mozzarella
– Pasta with pumpkin and shrimps
– Veal meatballs and cherry tomatoes
– Fruit salad and vanilla ice-cream for dessert.
– Wine: Orvieto Classico Poggio Calvelli 2005

Does my Bank blogging bore you? I didn't think so.

(Originally posted on March 2, 2006 at "the Minister of Booty has spoken")

Another day, another World Bank luncheon feast. So many dishes with which to eradicate world poverty at The Bank… Gerold told me, “Your friends are going to get bored with another what-I-ate-for-lunch-at-the-World-Bank-today blog,” but I don’t believe it. I think Gerold underestimates you. Besides, all he cares about is the hottie Baroque-lovers group that found him on Friendster, and screwing all of their tweed-wearing, Vivaldi loving, Handel toasting, smart-talking butts.

Zara joined us today, which was lovely. And it was Water Week at The Bank. So much to look at. (When we sat down for coffee I was catching eyes with a fine fine man with gorgeous thick black hair which I wanted to grab onto.) So many delicious economists, as varied as the culinary offerings in the cafeteria. I must say, the women Bankers don’t score as well (with the exception of Zara, of course. She's absolutely gorgeous. Real classy too.)

I had a savory Thai beef dish with zucchini and perfectly steamed jasmine rice and some delicious fresh fruit.

But I was coveting Zara’s salad with beets and tofu and corn and eggs… She’s totally generous, and I could’ve had some of her salad if I really wanted it.

Gerold, who’s given up carbs for lent (that old Austrian custom) had some fish. Whatever.

Speaking of deliciously brilliant World Bankers, Mark R crashed our collage and breakfast for dinner party Monday night. He wasn’t very productive though…

On my way back to work this afternoon, I passed a protester-free White House for the first time.

Except, of course, for the guy perpetually camped out across the street, bless his soul.

I flicked off G-dub for Jason Kaiser. Anytime, buddy.

(PS- Please forgive my remedial web skills. I can't figure out how to format this shit for the life of me. Suffer.)

Flying with Barack

(Originally posted on December 22, 2005 at "the Minister of Booty has spoken")

Barack Obama was on my flight this morning!!! I was just sitting there at Reagan (gag) National Airport at 5:30 a.m. and Barack Obama sauntered over in jeans with a black Tumi bag and sat down next to me and opened up the Washington Post to read about Senate's latest doings and I just sat there and looked at him, looked down at his bag, his "Senator Obama" tag, me too tired to know what to do. I thought maybe I should just leave him alone and nobody else seemed to notice that our future president was just sitting there, eating his bagel and reading his Post. When he went to the trash can and opened his OJ, I figured I had to at least say "hi," so I stood up as he came back to his seat, and I said, "Senator Obama, my name is KJ Mohr and I voted for you and I'm real glad you're here. Thank you for all your work." and he had a really limp handshake and he kind of brushed me off, but I forgive him, cause it was 5:30 in the morning, after all. Then I couldn't look at him anymore, cause I have this issue with celebrity and all. He sat a row in front of me in coach and I watched him sleep and watched him read the "Arts" section of the New York Times and watched him chatting with an airport employee when we deplaned in Chicago, all like nothing special. I mean, I thought it was cool when Chris Rock was on my friend Shannon's flight to SF after Chris Farley's funeral and we were standing behind him in line. Or when Rita Ribeiro and I sat next to each other and chatted all the way from Sao Paulo to Rio. But this takes the cake.

Burgers at The Bank

(originally posted on December 16, 2005 at "the Minister of Booty has spoken")

I just had a burger with Gerold, did some Christmas shopping, and aired a grievance, all at the World Bank. As always, the food court was marvelous and exciting. I should have gotten something that actually exists in the world outside The World Bank world though- the "Mediterranean burger" does not. With authentic cuisine representing several European countries, Africa, most of South America and all parts of Asia, why would we opt for burgers anyway? Regardless, The Bank always pleases.

Which is why I was particularly upset to have to confront Gerold about a serious problem in our friendship. He failed to invite me to the World Bank holiday party on Wednesday night. I had to hear about it from an intern at our December birthdays breakfast this morning. Instead of drinking from the chocolate fountain, getting sweaty to INTERNATIONAL booty music, making out with hot foreign economists in Bank bathrooms, and eating delicious hors d'oeuvres upon scrumptious hors d'oeuvres ala Bank, I was sitting in a movie theater with the 3 other people who didn’t know about the party, watching DARWIN’S NIGHTMARE, contemplating the evil of The Bank. Mind you, Gerold knows that I am obsessed with The Bank and that the thing I want most in the WORLD is to attend social functions there, especially this soiree of soirees. I think our friendship will survive, but G-dawg won’t easily live this down.

To compensate for all I feel I’ve lost, I’ve posted a call on Craig’s List, looking for someone to take me to the IMF holiday party tomorrow. Gerold says it’s even MORE fabulous. I have a response already, so I’ll let you know how it goes…

International Travel Destination: South Jersey

(originally posted on November 22, 2005 at "the Minister of Booty has spoken")

I went to a new country this weekend (new for me): South Jersey, the land of Wawa, white pizza, white people, dirt bikes, Tastykakes and a very particular dialect. I went to see RAD who flew in from SF, so I could meet her motherland and her people, and to accompany her to the wedding reception of a childhood friend. I was met at the train station in Philadelphia by Rebecca and her parents, Mr and Mrs. New Jersey State Trooper, retired. Before we even got over the state line, I was introduced to The Wawa, the Jersey Devil and lots of fart stories.

The first thing we did on Saturday, en route to the boardwalk in Ocean City, was stop at “The Wa” cause I needed to pick up a NYT (Sara Varon had an illustration in the OpEd section- so cute!). Regarding The Wa, Mr Devlin had assured me no less than 3 times, “You’ll really like it.” At The Wa, a Wawa employee, upon overhearing that it was my first time at a Wawa, sang its praises and explained her employment choice and the superiority of The Wa over 7/11. FYI, they don’t sell the New York Times at Wawas, although they offer plentiful copies of the Atlantic City Press.

Back in the car, I bit into my first Tastycake, a butterscotch number, an indigenous delicacy. Really quite fresh and delicious, I must admit.

At the boardwalk I was excited upon seeing the first person of color of my trip. I didn’t see anyone else who wasn't very white. When we got pizza there, everyone watched me, amused, as I tried to comprehend what was being barked out about white pizza.

By the time we got to the wedding reception, I was ready for whiskey and getting down. It took about an hour before I was moved to shake it, thanks to 50 Cent. “In da Club” is a great wedding song, by the way.

We spent Sunday afternoon watching a bunch of men and boys on dirtbikes, doing backflips into huge pits of foam scraps. We also got rides on a 4-wheeler. Thrilling, really. Then, as I was chauffeuring RAD, mom and grandma home from the dirtbike extravaganza, Sergeant Devlin passed us on his way to the Home Depot and clocked me going over the speed limit. RAD was subsequently informed that I was no longer allowed to drive. Nothing like a personal wrist slap to make you appreciate parental wrath and understand the paranoia.

Yesterday, after a Christian yoga class taught by Rebecca’s mom (pan flute hymns, namaste), I took my second and final trip to The Wa, where, once again, a Wa employee enthusiastically regaled me with The Wa’s virtues and superiority over all other convenience stores. I never did get to the legendary Super Wa. But I do have enough Tastykakes to last me for a few months.

World Bank Fetish

(Originally posted on November 15, 2005 at "the Minister of Booty has spoken")

I had lunch at the World Bank food court today, and I totally love it. I cream my knickers every time I’m there. Lucas and I went a couple weeks ago, to meet up with Gerold, who is eradicating world poverty, one delicious bite of tandoori chicken at a time. I want to live there. There’s a dry cleaners and a library and a fancy restaurant with a fancy buffet and a world class art collection of exotic woods and their visitor badges are a million times cooler than our permanent ones (you get a different one with a new picture each time!) Plus, that’s where I’m going to find my international sugar daddy, posing as an apprentice economist. I trust Gerold will help me with this project. Before I came here, I thought the World Bank was evil and Gerold must be evil for working there, but now I know all the good that it is. They’re really doing their best over there. I met a bunch of them (those folks who work at The Bank) at Gerold’s housewarming, and they were all really nice and also international.

One highlight of going to lunch at the World Bank is passing the back side of the White House and seeing all the protesters and giving them thumbs up and smiles and bows. There were a bunch of LaRouche people who were singing really well, in a little gorgeous LaRouche chorus. The best part today was a bike messenger with his two middle fingers high in the air as he rode past.