|An Open Letter to the Danish PM Expressing My Anger at the Inavailability of Umbrellas
||[Sep. 6th, 2006|07:14 am]
|||||Sufjan Stevens - All the Trees of the Field Will Clap...||]|
Dear Anders F(j)ogh Rasmussen (or should I call you Andy?):
I love your country more than my flesh and blood. Especially more than my blood, about which I'm so indifferent I almost considered donating it (I didn't actually, but never mind). I love your architecture, your literary and artistic culture, your pickled herring, your peasant bread, your close proximity to Norway, and the beer that's so strong I can drink only one (on an empty stomach) and still feel it, like I'm feeling it right now. Hell, I even love your silly language. But I have a bone of contention to pick with you, so I hope you're in a picky kind of mood.
Today is the sixth of September; it's rainy season in Copenhagen. In fact, correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe rainy season in Copenhagen began last September sixth, and has yet to show any sign of remitting. I've noticed that your people have an appreciation for high couture, and hesitate to wear raincoats/macs/anoraks/regnfrakker or whatever you call them. You know, the butt-ugly rubbery garments that protect against the elements. This leaves them with umbrellas as their only option, unless they want to soak their 2000-kroner-cashmere-blend-peacoats. (They don't.)
I spent about an hour today on an epic quest for a simple umbrella at a rather exhaustive shopping centre. There are fashion outlets out the yizz-yazz, hawking the kind of get-up nobody wants to get wet. But did any sell umbrellas? No. Not a single one. And don't you dare try telling me they're sold out. A country like Denmark needs a constant flow of umbrellas to satisfy its people's exorbitant umbrella demands. I looked at H&M, an internationally-reputed clothing/accessory retailer, to no avail. I looked at a bunch of other stores that anywhere else in the world (i.e., Vancouver, the other rainy city) would have the presence of mind to sell umbrellas. Fuck, I even looked at a kiosk. They sell more candy than you can imagine, tabloids that nobody with any self-respect would even glance at, hookahs, plush spiders, and an impressive variety of other questionable baubles. But not an umbrella in sight.
Finally I found one, so perhaps this entire angry letter is moot, but I felt like it needed to be said anyway. Where did I find it, though? At a bloody iron workshop, betwixt wrought-iron light-fixtures, hardcore frying pans, rebar, and other assorted implements of torture and general unpleasantness. Needless to say, Anders Fogh Rasmussen, that after the end of my search, the iron was not the only thing that was wrought. Now, all because you inisit on stashing your umbrellas in all the most unthinkable places and sending me on a rat-race to go find one, my laundry's been sitting in the washer for about forty-five minutes. If I am to remain in my landlady's good graces, both loads of laundry must be completed before I leave for a dinner party tonight. Now I'll be late. And this didn't have to be.
I hope this letter served as a word for the wise, and I hope I can assume correctly that you're wise, Anders Fogh Rasmussen. From now on, I hope to see umbrellas sold at every street corner. Why don't you convert some of the innumerable hot-dog stands dowtown to umbrella stands? There's a suggestion. I don't care how you do it, as long as you do it. Otherwise I'm taking my business to the country with the world's only uglier language; the Netherlands.
Thank you for your consideration,
-IRATE on AMAGER