Ecco Walkathon Copenhagen - Only For People Who Are Truly Good

Pulling groin muscles for a worthy cause - that's how humanitarian I am.

I just participated in Ecco Walkathon Copenhagen.

Yes, it's true. I walked 6 kilometer through my windy capital for humanitarian reasons. Every step I took meant that 1001 humanitarian causes made money off my sore feet, so the more I walked the more humanitarian I became.

"I'm a good person," I thought as blisters exploded under my feet. "I'm doing this for Street Kids International, the Danish Hjertebarnsfonden, and for those cute Pandas that are dying off in China," I sighed while I pushed some kids into Copenhagen's harbor to get ahead.

"Relax," a hysterical mother shouted at me , "it's not a competition."

"Oh, yes it is," I shouted and overtook three 96 year olds who thought they could outdo me in an intermediary sprint, but I showed them who was boss. I bet those old timers are still gasping for air in some hospital while I'm writing this humanitarian blog.




By the way, that's the problem with the world. It just isn't as humanitarian as me. At the Walkathon, I saw thousands of egotistical people in the street who weren't participating in this great event.

"You selfish pigs," I shouted at a nice couple who was out walking their poodle, "how much humanitarian work have you done today? Scooping your dog's pooh off the street don't count, does it, you bastards?"

Yes, I was so humanitarian that I insulted drivers, too - those soulless people who ride around in their flashy cars, not caring whether the rest of us will die from their exhaust fumes.

"Why don't you do something charitable for once?" I shouted at a Jaguar. "I'm pulling groin muscles for street kids in Sao Paolo and you're going out to Sunday brunch with some brainless bimbo."

After 6 kilometers I passed out at the goal line finishing an impressive number 64.358 in the Copenhagen Walkathon.

It's hard being a humanitarian, but luckily the Ecco Walkathon is over, so I can now go back to being my old nasty self.


The Walkathon took place at the harbor of Copenhagen where even the windmills are humanitarian. Danes are truly good. Almost as good as me.

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Dagmar's Hot Pants (Oh, Those Were The Days of Softcore Scandinavians)

Life is too short for Danish sex comedies.

That's what I discovered the other night.

But why would I write a heartless thing like that? Don't I support the rich heritage of my proud country? After all, Denmark was the first nation on earth to liberalize porn. That happened in the late sixties and made Copenhagen the unofficial capital for horny business men and nuns looking for a gang bang.

With that in mind I got excited when my girlfriend told me that Comcast was showing a Danish sex comedy from 1971 for free.

"Let's see it," I shouted.

"It's called Dagmar's Hot Pants," she told me - a promising title that brought back my early teenage years of premature ejaculations.

God, what a disappointment the film was.

First of all it was in English, but the actors came from Denmark, Sweden, and the US, so everybody was talking with different accents.

For any one who is interested, Dagmar's Hot Pants does have a plot. Kind of.

Dagmar is a happy hooker in Copenhagen on her last day of work - she is closing up shop because she has finally saved enough money to put her boyfriend through medical school. On this working day she introduces a teenage boy to sex while his father is watching through the keyhole. Dagmar also does the dirty with Robert Strauss and a lot of other oddballs. Most of the men are great to look at - if you like men over eighty.

But unfortunately Dagmar's Hot Pants is a sex comedy without much sex or comedy. And it only shows American style nudity, breasts. At least, that was the case on Comcast, but I bet that those prudish bastards have edited this masterpiece.

Well, back to the movie.

Apart from Diana Kjær, the Swedish lead, the actors have a hard time saying their lines. If only they'd had something exciting in their mouths I would've understood, but this film is as boring to watch as curling.

The only thing that turned me on was the shots of Copenhagen from 1971. "Yeah, I remember those cute trams from my childhood," I screamed to my girlfriend during one scene. "My parents had a phone like that in their bedroom," I yelled during another.

My girlfriend was disappointed with the movie as well.

"I don't think I ever want to have sex again," she said.

Luckily, most sites online call the movie for Swedish.

I'm totally okay with that.


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How to Sleep With a Famous Writer in the Comfort of Your Own Head

1.
It's a difficult choice.

It's always a difficult choice: Who to sleep with. So many writers, so little time. But at Sylvia Beach Hotel you can choose between the cream of the American/British crop. You can shag up with Mark Twain. You can cuddle with Agatha Christie. You can share saliva with Scott Fitzgerald. Or how about enjoying your nightmares with the one and only Edgar Allen Poe?

That's what we did at this wonderful hotel in Newport Beach, Oregon. It's a theme hotel. All rooms are named after a famous writer. Sluts as we are, we slept with three, the first being Edgar.

If you don't know Edgar Allen Poe, I'll tell you this: That man was seriously messed up - like a latter day Lou Reed with a keen eye for the poodle droppings of life. Just looking at his portrait was enough to make your skin crawl. And his room was creepy as well. Dark red colors, pictures of ravens (not exactly the most cheerful bird around), an axe above the bed. It wasn't a healthy room to stay in. After a few hours I actually tried to murder my girlfriend.

2.
The next morning we moved out and took a walk on the beach. It was a gorgeous day. No dead bodies around, just your odd Christian fundamentalist gazing wistfully at the young girls.

We went back to the hotel and had a wonderful breakfast. Those are hard to come by in the US, unless you're infatuated with plastic spoons. But at Sylvia Beach they actually have a bit of class: Pancakes, sausages, soy milk, and only a few of those bagels that taste like cardboard.

At noon we moved into the Gertrud Stein room. It was a small place with a lesbian cabinet, a few of her letters on the wall, and some nice unattractive pictures of the writer. We felt much better in those surroundings, even though there wasn't much of a view. But you can't have all in life. That's what my grand mother used to say. She was run over by an ice cream truck.

By the way, there are a lot of cats at Sylvia Beach Hotel. For an extra twenty dollars you can have one sleep on your belly - they should call it Rent-A-Cat - it sure beats Avis. Maybe they should have a house penguin as well. I have a weakness for animals in suits.




3.
On the third floor, there's a library with beat up chairs and a fantastic view of the ocean. I tried to reserve all the chairs as the Germans do, but we Scandinavians just can't get away with that.

Sylvia Beach is an easy place to connect with book nerds. Even New Yorkers become mellow when they look at the view. Several times I strolled through the small library at the hotel. It has an impressive collection of all the books a writer ought to read - you know, the so-called classics. Those dreadful books that only have one purpose in life, to make you feel like shit because you haven't read them.


4.
The third night was a treat. A couple got the swine flue and didn't show up, so the kind people in the reception offered us the suite - the Agatha Christie room, with four windows facing the ocean, a fireplace, and an old typewriter.

God, I loved it. Everything had a twenties feel (or a thirties feel, what do I know?) I could just picture Miss Marple looking for murder clues in the ashtray, or Hercule Poirot driving everybody insane with his Belgian accent. The room was so wonderful I decided I'd never leave - I actually handcuffed myself to the bedpost instead of paying the bill.

In the afternoon we got fogged in, too. The coast disappeared, and the seagulls looked pleased when they defecated on our windows. That night I slept like an angel wrapped up with my pale girlfriend who kept on having nightmares about Edgar Allen Poe and ravens.




5.
So what can I say? I've stayed at hotels around the world. I've been smothered in Thailand, spoiled in France, and humiliated in Costa Rica, but the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon is something else.

And I'm definitely going back one day. I just have one small request. Please name a room after me. I know I'm not that important a writer, so the Peter H. Fogtdal broom closet will do. Or how about one of those bathrooms where the toilets won't flush - I would be happy with that, too.

That's how humble I am, seriously!

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Check out The Sylvia Beach Hotel here!