Chinese Laundry Boots your cycle has ended

After months of receiving fruitless Google Alerts for "Chinese Laundry Boots" and still not knowing the origin of their name, I have dumped that obsession for a new love: high-tech hooker boots.

The concept is simple: platform shoes that contain an audible alarm system, LCD screen, internet connection and a GPS receiver. Basically that shoe-shaped phone from the 80s updated to modern convenience.

What could be more exciting than having your boots hooked up to satellites? The alternative seems cave-age.

The boot is clearly designed to improve the safety of sex trade workers. A great idea, not just for sex workers but for any women (or men) who fear for their safety while sporting heels.

I have a few questions about the technology: how do you trigger the alarm with your toes in a safe manner? I assume a blaring siren during sex (or at any other time, like sitting in a restaurant or pumping gas) might actually cause rage, even if there was none to begin with. Consider blinking lights and and sirens, not just from the shoes, but from approaching emergency response vehicles.

My response? Like the women in Prufrock: That is not what I meant at all; that is not what I meant at all.

Let me just say that if I owned a pair of boots like this - when I own a pair of these - I will make no secret of it. I will tell everyone, including the old man security guard at the library and the random people who come into my office area looking for other people. I will completely sabotage the purpose of the boots, because I simply won't be able to keep my mouth shut.

You see how one technology spurs another?

My commentary may prove gauche for someone owning a pair of boots who can attest to their usefulness and practicality. This is why I am not in industrial design. I would find no way around using toes to trigger alarms. Apparently the technology works like this: if the alarm goes off the and the owner does not shut it off within a certain span of time, it will alert a sex workers' rights group. But what if the attacker knows how to work the shoes? Why shoes and not bracelet or watch?

So many questions, none of which Google Alerts will be able to help me solve if experience is any sign.

Dear Spring Faerie Queen: I'd like a pair of high-tech hooker boots so that when I go for long noctural walks, or hitchhike to the bus stop, I can do toe calisthenics in preparation for your one false move...

Charlie Kaufman and the Amistad beach

Saturday we drove to Montauk. Below: me and a Clementine at the Montauk train station.



The lighthouse and the point where the Amistad came ashore. It was a very cold, windy day. Inside the lighthouse museum were photos and displays, like this one:


Why Hillary came out of the lighthouse with her arms out, perhaps you can answer.

After doing it myself, I still didn't understand why.

I know how dirty those tray tables are

A German airline recently announced the launching of a nude flight. As a well-seasoned plane traveler, I have a few qualms.

At first glance, it's a brilliant marketing idea. I'm sure they spent long hours contemplating what they should name it: "Frankflyer" and "Lufthansaoffamybum" were probably shortlisted.

Listening to an interview on CBC about the airline, I couldn't help but not be surprised. The Germans have this ability to take something absurd, like public nudity, and act as if it were the most normal thing in the world. I can hear the flight announcement now: "Meine Damen und Herrn, please prepare for landing by making sure your seat and table tray are in their full and upright positions, and by putting your underwear and socks back on."

I insist you listen to the interview, since reading this excerpt will not convey the delightfully baffled tone of interviewer.

“For people who don't fly... in the nude, how... do you do this?”

(commence German accent) “They can only take their clothes off when they are on board, not in the airport or something like that. The crew and the pilot are dressed. They don't strip off. They fly in uniforms. When they are on the airplane, they can take off their clothing, and they sit on towels.”

Wohh. Are the seats made of beachwood cedar? Finally, for those of us who get overheated on planes because of anxiety and claustrophobia, we now have the option of airing our pores. Does the pilot swerve to make us sweat? Sweat and scream like we were in a sweat lodge? I hope somebody brought a drum.

The flight costs 500 Euro or about $750 CAN. For such a short trip, that’s pretty stiff, in more ways than one.

I’m disappointed the crew and the pilot have to wear uniforms. I guess this isn't part of my airplane fantasy series. Unless by uniform they mean bad, bad boy uniform...

When asked if there is any "special behaviour" of a sexual nature allowed, the woman said there are no special rules, just that the passengers must sit on towels. She stresses that "it's really meant seriously, you know."

No, I'm afraid I don't know. I've been to nude spas in Germany, and I cannot imagine wanting to be naked on an airplane. If anything, I want more clothes when I'm sitting face to face with a tray table that hasn't been cleaned in three years. When I eat those dried-out astronaut cookies, the crumbs already land in my lap and in my bra. I don't want to add douching to my travel plans. Besides, the little blast of cold air dries out my eyes. I don't want the air to dry out anything else.

So why do some Germans want to be nude at 30,000 feet?

"Freedom." This is why Americans and Germans don't get along. Americans think freedom is changing the name of French Fries to Freedom Fries and invading Iraq. Germans get naked on airplanes.

It might be for practical reasons. Maybe it speeds up security. Certainly no one will be mad if you make them take anything off.

Apparently, the airline, Ossi Urlaub, thinks it's "funny." As a journalist, I know that's not always a valid reason to put something into action.

Passengers fly from Frankfurt to the Baltic Sea, which is convenient since the destination has many nude beaches. 10 people are signed up so far.

I think I'll meet them by train.

*

MY SKILLS

My mother, a preschool teacher, has to make progress reports for her students. These are called Personal Progress Programs. (*Note these are not Personal Progress Programs sanctioned by the Church of Latter Day Saints.)

I've often thought about what my PPP would look like. I'm not sure who would be assigned the task of completing my PPP. Likely God would just assign someone. Under SKILLS would be all the things I've learned this year at school: How to class strong and weak Anglo-Saxon verbs, how to pick out existential motifs in works by Sinclair Lewis, how to transcribe runic tablets, know the meaning of calumny etc. etc.

All practical skills in the right context, but I'm afraid I'm still not at my goals. The point with PPPs is to conveniently reach goals at the end of the year.

Under goals, it might say, Laura will learn to lay out her stuff for school the night before. Laura will not self-medicate. Laura will quit thinking she has a brain tumour.

All these things are useful for future employment, right? When I hand my PPP to my future employer, he or she will know exactly what kind of problems I had in the past.

As I approach convocation for my illustrious degree in Es (English & almost Economics - upgrading is part B of the PPP), I am beginning to doubt the sanity of a society that requires I have a working knowledge of Beowulf's original text in order to, say, work at the CAN-US border. I can see how it might come in handy if we needed to ensnare someone through words. I've read enough Iago and Richard III to know how to cause someone's demise by "pouring pestilence into their ear." But a short trek into reality, also known as 21st century Canada, might prove that pouring pestilence is not as easy when your enemies are driving by in cars.

Brennan Clarke in yesterday's Globe and Mail put it most aptly: You have no money, but you understand why you're broke.

No more uncertainty!

In sloppy ink next to my other goals will be written: rid life of uncertainty

Unfortunately, none of the skills I wished were natural will ever be. These are innnate flaws that won't change with my next essay or goal-setting session. I still won't be good at feeling genuine enthusiasm at things I'm supposed to. I still won't remember that really important thing I thought about last night in the middle of the night, or the question I was going to ask a friend that would have showed I was really caring and attentive. I'll still sacrifice my life to the PPP, and never learn how to install a doorknob or caulk a bathtub - there's no themes there. I don't know what to do!

Goal #47: Destroy PPP

Brennan Clarke and I are on the same page: "In retrospect, I should have paid attention many years ago to the writing on the wall, or rather in a bathroom stall at the University of Regina student union building. It was an arrow pointing to the toilet paper roll beside the words, 'Liberal arts diploma, tear along dotted line.' It's not quite that bad. But to be on the safe side, I think I'll encourage my son to learn a trade."

I've already looked into plumbing. I think it suits the fraud in me.

Me: "Isn't that odd..."
Customer: "What?"
Me: (long silence) "I see you've got some runic inscriptions on your sink pipes!"
Customer: "What do you mean?"
Me: "It probably means your wife's cheating on you. That's the theme I'm getting."

Goal # 387: Stop lying

When the swelling goes down will I lose the Sean Connery accent?

I'm aware that my blogger profile picture is uncannily true-to-life this week. I don't mean that my relatives have taken a sadistic interest in me (though, come to think of it, they have). I mean that my rapid eating habits do not mesh with my "cosmetic" surgery.

No, I didn't get botox to improve my broadcasting career, or get someone to punch me in the nose so when Owen Wilson and I kiss our noses will hook together like the opposites attracting we are (he'll understand some day). I had a serious talk with my oral surgeon about making it possible for me to acquire a dubious scottish accent spoken through my teeth. Like you might do at a hair dresser, I showed him a sample - a recording of James Bond in Goldfinger. He scrutinized the tape, tapped his earring-on-a-pole, and said, "Laura, your wisdom teeth will do the trick."

I'm now worried that when the swelling goes down, I'll lose my ability to charm and gain stares in the hallway. Already I feel sexier. What can be more sexy than attracting stares from men and women from all walks of life? Sure, it could be the bruising. But I like to believe they're staring at me because I took the intiative to make myself more attractive. They're impressed at my brassy attitude and sexy lilting voice that says, "Darling, if I weren't James Bond, this would be considered rape."

In a few days, it may all be gone. You see, the form I made the surgeon sign (or did I sign the form?), didn't include a clause that guarantees the surgery's results will endure.

Staring at my profile photo, I'm thinking, maybe this is okay. After all, when my chin is numb, and I'm hungry after luring young women to divulge their secrets to me while simultaneously bedding them, I don't like to make a fool out of myself when I realize none of the food actually got into my mouth. It's not practical for a double-agent.

In the meantime, while I continue to mash my food like a dog eating celery, I resolve to enjoy being doted on by my mother, who regardless of what I say will reply with, "Laura, you're too cute. You want some salad? Oh, wait you can't eat that yet."

It's Sean Connery, okay? And I happen to like Pablum. It's good for my pores.