Levi’s Bloaaaahg

Obama won. College Humor gave us an insight on how the world would look if Obama’d won. And also if McCain’d won. Which one is the scariest? I don’t care anymore. I’ve had enough of it. Well, almost. Tomorrow, me and my friends are going to party U.S. style. There better be a keg.

So. In one day we will know who will be the 44th president of the United States. The entire world is counting on the American people, that they do not make the same mistake. Again. If the world could vote, the results would be very clear. America, we beg you: do not let us down. Again.

The guys gave me an Eddie Murphy DVD, “Delirious”, for my birthday. There’s this one point in which he explains that people try to re-enact his shows and jokes and they always fuck ‘em up while doing this. And he’s absolutely right. Ask yourself, dear reader, “have I done this?”. The answer is most likely yes. Hell, I’ve done it several times. And probably ruined brilliant pieces of cabaret for other peoples by trying to “get the voice right”.
I only nailed one thing, while re-enacting, and that is the German part from Hans Teeuwen’s last stand-up show. It seriously gave people chills down their spines. That’s a good thing. Probably.
But Eddie has the solution. He gave the audience one joke that people can tell their friends. One simple joke, everyone can tell, without messing up a good piece of comedy for the rest of the world. So, to humor you, here it goes:

A bear and a rabbit are taking a shit in the forest. Says the bear to the rabbit:
“Do you have problems with shit in your fur?”
“No.”, says the rabbit.
“Good.”, says the bear and he wipes his ass with the rabbit.

Hm. The joke is probably better when spoken. Shit. Did I just ruin a joke that can’t be ruined?

Last Saturday I had a party for my friends and family in honor of my 23rd birthday. That was nice, but the actual birthday feeling wasn’t there. Maybe because my real birthday was yesterday. But the problem is, that on my real birthday, the feeling was nowhere to be found either.
So, I’m aging, without the feeling of aging. Suppose there’s nothing wrong with that? Guess again. It’s the whole point of being the center of attention (I’m a total slut for attention) and everyone congratulating you on how good you look, even if you just added up a number. And there were only two people who could congratulate me in person yesterday; my roommate and my girlfriend. And they both got me really great gifts.
I had to work a night shift and none of my colleagues had the slightest idea that was my day. In fact, no one even probably knew. But before the clock stroked 9 a.m. I got 2 phone calls, 5 text messages and 5 messages on Hyves. Decent score.
Later that evening, I went for sushi with Lois. She told me that she was a bit jealous of me. That there are so many people that like me.
“One of your friends called all the way from the States, your roommate’s little brother called you from the Middle East. You got tons of text messages, phone calls and e-mails. People really like you.”
“I like it when people like me. I try to be like-able. In fact, some people don’t like me for that. I sometimes don’t like myself for that.”
But she’s right, I shouldn’t bitch about it. I got so many happy birthday wishes yesterday, I didn’t even get the chance to thank everyone. So. Everyone: thank you. I like you all very much.

Oh jolly, I just remembered a conversation I had a couple of weeks ago. This dude came up to me and told me my shoes didn’t match my trousers. I looked down at my light brownish pants and my blue shoes. Looked perfectly fine to me. I then stared at the dude and told him: “How am I the one to take fashion advice from a guy who’s wearing a fricking tweed jacket with leather fricking patches on the elbows?”
There. I said it. Well, without the fricking. But the message was clear.

We all started out together, three years ago already. From the beginning on there was a certain group of people that I liked hanging out with. We started doing things outside of school activities. Things friends do together. Cinema, diner, dancing. You know the drill. Some of them got more acquainted to one another. For some it took me a while to gain their respect and trust.
We’re now three years up ahead in our lives. Paths have started to form. Relationships were ended, or started. And some were taken to a higher level. In a way, you can say that we’ve, or at least most of us, have changed into “real” adults. And there are some people in our group that regret this.
I, myself, have been accused of “changing” too. And not in a good way, according to the accusatives. I’ve become more distant, I don’t have my priorities, friends-wise, worked out and I tend to please too much. Well, so be it. If three years of university and Amsterdam have turned me into the person I am today, I don’t care. In fact, I am pretty darn fricking happy with the person I am nowadays. I know I have some (major) flaws, but hey, no one’s perfect.
But still, sometimes, I too long back to my first year in Amsterdam. Henk Admiraal, de Deugniet on a random wednesday evening, my mattress on the floor. Too bad not everything is lasting. To quote Sufjan Stevens, all things go.

Forgetting. To be forgotten. I’m probably more afraid of being forgotten than of dying. I know, it’s egocentric, but cut me some slack. I actually kind of like myself. And so does he.

“Take me out tonight, because I want to see people and I want to see light.”

Last week, I’ve had a blackout. The power plant that is called my brain, decided to stop for a moment and it made me pass out on the bathroom floor. Normally, when one hears the words “pass out” and “bathroom floor” in one sentence, a reference to a student keg party is easily made. Not this time. Unfortunately.
Lisa woke me up. I got up and looked in the mirror. Wait a minute. Aren’t I in my bed? I thought I was in my bed. The blank expression of my eyes facing me in the mirror, didn’t really help me on my quest back towards reality. I stumbled to my room and sat down. Then it hit me. I passed out. I really passed out. And for no good reason.
The day after, I went to see a doctor. I avoid them, most of the time, with the precision of a spy on enemy ground in war time. The cold of the waiting room always chills me. Most of the time, there are really sick people in there. You know, the ones that cough their lungs out, breath heavily and sigh with every move they make. Really sick people. I got called in. Blood pressure; OK. Heart rate; pumping good. Lungs; just fine. My file told the dear doctor that I recently have had surgery. “So, how long did you rest after that?”, she asked. “Three weeks.”, I replied. “You should’ve taken more weeks off.” Yeah right. And who’s gonna earn my money, and do my school stuff?
The doctor continued. Questions about my sleeping routine, work, etc. The final notion was that I do too much and that the anesthetics and antibiotics from the surgery are still occupying my intestines. “You need rest.”

I took a week off from work.

That week flew by.

Hell. I need some rest.

They way people dress, says a lot about their personality. These days, one can buy shirts/pants that say the most awkward things. Some of those texts on t-shirts are really funny and actually suit the person that wears it. For instance, Robbert. He has a shirt that says “If found, please return to the pub”. For people who know him, this is a pretty obvious statement. Marco has a shirt with “I did Paris Hilton” on the chest. This also resembles him, because if he were to get laid, it probably be by a hussy Paris Hilton type. Earlier this week, I spotted two girls at Amsterdam Central Station. They were not a day over 14. One of them wore a shirt that said “2 hot 2 handle” and the other one had “juicy” spelled over her butt-cheeks. I seriously beg to differ.

Last week, Gemma and I went for a drink in the “Gay street” in Amsterdam. Mojitos for 5 Euro. The reason I like to go there, is that you always meet interesting people. At the beginning of the evening, nothing spectacular was going on. So we decided to switch bars. As soon as we ordered our first beers, a guy came sitting next to us. He was a 6′2″, drunk, black guy. A 6′2″, very drunk, very black, very gay guy. He started slurring to us about something. I did my best to try and understand him, but his dutch was awful. Apparently he needed someone to watch his Gucci bag, while he strolled around the bar trying to hook up. Well, if I need to choose between a bag or a big, black, gay guy sitting next to me, there aren’t hardly any second thoughts.
We finished our first four beers (happy hour. Didn’t know it still existed) and Gemma went up to the bar to order some more. She was gone a long time, and the bag owner, from now on known as BBGG (Big Black Gay Guy) came back. This time he started slurring in English, so the conversation went a little smoother. A little too smooth. At first he asked me if Gemma was my girlfriend. I answered that question with a very quick yes. But did that stop him from coming on to me? Of course not.
I don’t know what it is about gay men, but they seem a lot more full-on when hitting on someone else. His first question was how big my dick is. Before I could even answer it, he told me his was 30 centimeters. And while saying that he started to unzip his pants. No. NO. NOOOOO. I quickly got up and went to the bar to look for Gemma. She was talking to some guy. I held her from behind and mumbled “help” into her ear. She just laughed and handed me a beer. She introduced me to the guy she was talking to. A flight attendant from the States called Hilton. There’s your stereotype. He laughed at me, because he watched me and BBGG.
He: “Just tell him your straight.”
Me: “I did. But he is very persevere when it comes to hitting on chicken-armed, Caucasian boys.”
Wait.
Me: “You can tell I’m not gay?”
He: “Sure. You got this trying-to-be-even-more-masculine-in-a-gay-bar vibe all over you.”
Damn. I actually hate those guys, because I think it’s a sign of insecurity on your own sexuality.
BBGG came back and asked again if I could watch his 500 Dollar Gucci bag. Sure, you go and try to get laid, while I play the part where I act like I’m looking out for your ugly, stupid bag.
Gemma went home after an hour or so. I ended up with Hilton, who appeared to be a pretty good laugh. BBGG came back. “Where you gilfrien? She home not with you?” I completely forgot about my protective wall between me and the horny gay guys. Hilton stepped in and told him to get lost. As soon as BBGG turned around Hilton said: “Get your things, we’re going to Arc.” Sounded good enough to me.
After talking about cultural differences, religion, my real girlfriend and work, we decided to go for one last beer in the Exit bar. Now, let me tell you. There’s a reason they call it the Exit bar. When all the other bars close up for the night, the Exit bar opens. And all the horny, craving, sexually open-minded, gay guys enter this domain. Pure and only for their own sexual gratification. So. Guess who we run into there.
BBGG: “Wherdyougo?”
Me: “Away from you. But you, my friend, are more sticky than flies to a piece of crap.”
One beer. Just one. And then get the hell out of here. I didn’t care that it was raining cats and dogs. I really didn’t feel like getting BBGG’s tongue in my mouth. Or worse, 30 centimeters of “pure, black pleasure” up my bum.

Stewie: How you uh, how you comin’ on that novel you’re working on? Huh? Gotta a big, uh, big stack of papers there? Gotta, gotta nice litte story you’re working on there? Your big novel you’ve been working on for 3 years? Huh? Gotta, gotta compelling protaganist? Yeah? Gotta obstacle for him to overcome? Huh? Gotta story brewing there? Working on, working on that for quite some time? Huh? (voice getting higher pitched) Yea, talking about that 3 years ago. Been working on that the whole time? Nice little narrative? Beginning, middle, and end? Some friends become enemies, some enemies become friends? At the end your main character is richer from the experience? Yeah? Yeah? (voice returns to normal) No, no, you deserve some time off.

Stewie (his voice getting progressively higher): Oh I know it hurts now Brian, but look at the bright side: you have some new material for that novel you’ve been writing. You know…the novel you’ve been workin’ on? You know the the one, uh, you’ve been workin on for three years? You know the novel. Got somethin’ new to write about now. You know? Maybe a, maybe a main character gets into a relationship and suffers a little heartbreak? Somethin’ like what… what you’ve just been through? Draw from real life experience? Little, little heartbreak? You know? Work it into the story? Make the characters a little more three dimensional? Little, uh, richer experience for the reader? Make those second hundred pages really keep the reader guessing what’s going to happen? Some twists and turns? A little epilogue? Everybody learns that the hero’s journey isn’t always a happy one? (Voice returns to normal.) Oh, I look forward to reading it.

In the Netherlands, we’re not allowed to smoke inside bars from now on. Here’s a little impression.

The streets are fun.

Here’s Sunday 29 June for you. Very quickly. Train to Amsterdam. Tram to house. Meet up with Rob, Lisa and Lois. Go to Vondelpark. Drink Wine. Meet up with Hanneke and friends. Enjoy Hit Me TV. Drink more wine. Enjoy Voicst. Drink even more wine. And more. Enjoy sun. Drink beer. And wine. Go out for pizza. Wait for pizza. Arrange two tickets to Ben Folds. Get back and eat pizza. Go to Paradiso. Miss the support act. Drink beer. Help Rob score a chick. Doesn’t work. Drink more beer. Wait, is there still beer left? Drink that as well. Enjoy Ben Folds. Drink even more beer. Help Rob stand straight. One song encore. Sing “Ben Folds is gay, ole ole!” on the way out. See two Irish guys. Convince us to go for a beer with them. Drink beer. Drink a shot. Drink another beer. Go home. Talk in a hyperactive, hysterical tone to Lois about Ben Folds. Still rambling on. I need to go to sleep.

Fricking awesome day that was.

And that’s that. We lost. To Mother Russia.

For all those loyal Dutchies that read this English blog, I am going to make your life easier again. Today, I decided to also write in Dutch. However, this doesn’t mean that I will be writing the same shit in English and Dutch. No way, Jose. But I’m giving you the opportunity of choice. I guess that’s fair.

Levi in Dutch

What if you would take a picture, each day of your life? There is this guy who actually did this from 1979 up on till his death in 1997. Jamie Livingston gave the rest of the world the opportunity to witness 18 years of his life in polaroid. Do look up the picture of your birthdate (if you’re not born before 1979 or after 1997). And then look at the picture and let your mind drift away. Think of a story that fits.

These two people are tired after a night of partying. It seems like some sort of exposition. On the right there’s a picture of a piece of film. Nice coincidence.

Disclaimer: I shamelessly stole this great stuff from Dieuwer.

I was a fan of his writing. His last column, called deadline, was very straightforward. I didn’t even know he was ill.
A band called A Balladeer based their first single on his son, Sam. The basic inspiration for this was a novel called ‘Held van beroep‘ (Hero by occupation).

so if someone wants to know
and asks you where I am
you say you saw me go
for a swim with Sam

Rest in peace, Mr. ‘Jacky’.

Some people have a talent, a gift. And they know how to use it. One of these people is Conor Oberst, singer and frontman of Bright Eyes. Conor wrote his first song at age 12. At age 25, he already released 10 albums. That’s a number most bands can only dream of.
In January 2005 he released two completely different albums at the same time: I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning, which has an acoustic, folk style and Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, which has a predominantly indie vibe. After releasing Cassadaga in 2007, there are no more doubts left about the capabilities of Oberst: he is an absolute wonder-child. The press state him as the new Dylan. When confronted with this, Oberst turns red, looks down and then mumbles a quiet thank you. Although he sounds aggressive in his music, in real-life he is nowhere near that. He pretends to be just another shy, depressed emo kid.
I met him once. It was the summer of 2007. He looked happy and joyful in his white suit, making jokes along the way. Between pauses there was lots of room for smiles. He took them. I can still remember the words he spoke to me. Like I’ve recorded it on my brain’s hard disk.

When panic grips your body and your heart is a hummingbird
Raven thoughts blacken your mind until you’re breathing in reverse
All your friends and sedatives mean well but make it worse
Every reassurance just magnifies the doubt
Better find yourself a place to level out

In a way, we’ve all met Conor that night. Me and the 1,000 other people that witnessed his concert at the Melkweg.

Last week, Rob and I went to see Vampire Weekend at the Melkweg. Rob is the ska, punk type of guy. His favorite bands include Less Than Jake, Boysetsfire, Strike Anywhere, Undeclinable and the Ataris. I am a postpunk, indie type of guy. My favorite bands include Death Cab for Cutie, Belle and Sebastian, Joy Division, Arcade Fire and Editors. There are some parallels in our taste of music. I can appreciate Less Than Jake and vice versa goes for Rob with Death Cab.
That been said, after the VW concert, I became a wild enthusiast and Rob a mild enthusiast. This is completely in line with our views on music, which makes it even more obvious. People are too predictable.

But still. If you like something, you really want to convince other people around you to like it as well. Because little things like this give you an even bigger connection. So here’s the catch: A central theme in Vampire Weekend songs is Massachusetts and Boston in particular. But in the song ‘Walcott‘, a different state is mentioned: New Jersey, the Garden State.

Walcott
All the way to
New Jersey
All the way to
The Garden State
Out of Cape Cod tonight

And that leads us to the movie Garden State, which is a movie that I’m totally in love with. And Rob hinted this one to me.

See, if you just dig deep enough you’ll end up finding something that connects you.

Dialogue this morning:

French drunk tourist: “Salut mon ami. Ca va?”
Me: “Ca va bien.”
French drunk tourist: “Where is the train station?”
Me, making a turn around gesture: “La bas, mon ami.”

Fricking tourists.

Every two weeks on wednesday, there’s a drink-in at Cafe Zool in Amsterdam. All sorts of people that work in the media get together and share thoughts. But mostly it’s about networking (”Have you met her yet? You should really talk to her.”)
Anywho, at the end of the evening I wanted to go home. A friend of mine, Sem, was also there. And he parked his boat right outside the bar in the canal. So why take a taxi back home, if you can take a boat? The Amsterdam canals by night are beautiful, with all the lights and the peaceful quiet.

What more needs to be said about Ian Curtis? Yes, he was brilliant. Yes, he was a possesive bastard. And yes, he died too young.

From young adolescence on he mentioned to his friends that he wasn’t planning on growing older than twentyfive. Just as his role models, Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin. He also told them he would be the biggest name in rock and roll music. Funnily enough, he never took the discipline to learn to play an instrument. He sold him self to bands as a singer / songwriter.
Aged 16, he started a band with his youth friend, Tony Nuttal. This didn’t stand long, since both of them really couldn’t play instruments and his friend didn’t share Ian’s vision on the musical industry.
At age 18 he married Deborah. Also, at that age, he told Bernard Sumner, Peter Hook and Stephen Morriss that if they were looking for a singer for their band, he was interested. And so, Warsaw, was a fact.
After a couple of gigs they had to change the name, because there already was a London based band called Warsaw Pakt. Curtis always had an interest in European warfare, and especially World War II. So they took up the name Joy Division. Joy Division was a reference to the brothels used by German soldiers, where only Arien women were on display. Their first EP, ‘An Ideal For Living’, depicted a German like soldier with a drum on the sleeve. They immediatley were accused of having racists thoughts and being neo-nazi’s. But given the era, the late punk period, names such as Joy Division were more rule than exception.
After being shown on Granada TV, a local music television show which supported the likes of the Buzzcocks, the Clash, Iggy Pop and the Sex Pistols, the band was pretty satisfied. Well, everyone except for Curtis. He was pissed that Tony Wilson, the host, didn’t play their music, but instead just showed the EP. A couple of weeks later, the band was in a pub when Wilson entered. Curtis wrote something on a napkin and handed it over to Wilson.
“Your’e a twat. A bastard, you are!” he told Wilson, who later reveiled the napkin. It wrote:

Joy Division, you cunt!

After seeing them perform, Wilson was convinced. The guys could go and play their song ‘Shadowplay’ live on Granada TV in April 1978. He even tried to convince Rob Gretton, the manager, that Joy Division ought to sign to Factory Records: a Mancunian based record label which provided bands the ultimate freedom. He even told them he would write the contract with his own blood. And so he did.
Joy Division were getting a lot more exposure from then on. This had a serious effect on Curtis. On their way home after a gig in London, Curtis had his first fit. He was now suffering from epilepsy. In order to find out which medication would suit him, the MD prescribed him various ones. The drugs didn’t had the effect they wished they had. Curtis began having fits while performing. His tedious way of dancing might have had something to with that as well.
On a more personal note, his daughter Nathalie was born. Eventhough this family expansion, Curtis still had doubts about his marriage to Deborah. He was always very protective and possesive about her, but it didn’t stop him from having an affair with Belgian reporter Annik Honoré. He also didn’t dare to pick up his own daughter due to his condition.
In May 1980 the great breakthrough came: Joy Division was about to embark upon a tour in the U.S. Everyone was happy. Everyone but Curtis. His relation with Debbie was on the verge of a divorce. In a final attempt to save it, he went home to talk with her. They ended up having a big fight. He told her to go away. “Come back in the morning. I’ll be gone by then.”
He stayed up listening to Iggy Pop’s ‘The Idiot’ and drank a lot of alcohol. He ended up on the floor, after having another fit. In the morning he woke up, suppossedly crying an completeley oblivious. He wrote a note and left it next to the pick-up.

“At this very moment, I wish I were dead. I just can’t cope anymore.”

It was 18 May, 1980. Aged 23, he hung himself in the kitchen for his wife Debbie to find out.

To this day, many speculations have been going on, on why Curtis chose that exact place and timing. Many say, that from his lyrics it was obvious that he was going to kill himself, but that is just plain ridicule. I guess there are a lot of factors, but it’s nothing more than a guess. Four years of Joy Division apparently was enough to change the way rock music sounded in the late seventies. To this day, many bands such as the Killers, Franz Ferdinand, Editors, Bloc Party and Interpol are still influenced. The distinctive sound of Joy Division classics, such as ‘Transmission’, ‘She’s Lost Control’ and ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ nowadays still sound ageless. Thank you, Ian.

Again, we at Marcus & HeinZ got some nice exposure. Our work on the ‘Nunca Mais’ video from Zuco 103 was mentioned. Pretty nice, since we’ve only just begun. The sky is the limit.

When the routine bites hard and ambitions are low

Here’s one for ya: why am I feeling so fricking fricked up, while I shouldn’t?

(very, very deep sigh)

Watching this movie isn’t particularly helpful, but in its sadness lies such beauty. In three days it’s been 28 years again. I’ll promise a beautiful short essay for then. For now, I’m gonna go swallow in self pity.

Yesterday, I was walking back home from RAI station after an evening of working. A guy was strolling before me. I was busy talking to Lins on the phone when I past him, but still he called me.

“Hey man, I need some help. I’m completely lost”

So I told Lins I’d call her back and hear the man out. He looked a bit like Leo meets Catweazle. This ought to be interesting, I thought to myself.
I heard him out. Apparently, he was from Johannesburg, SA. He got mugged in a hostel here in Amsterdam, and lost all of his money and credit cards. The only things he still had were some clothes, two telephones and a diary. He went to the police with that story and they found out some places for him where he could crash for little money. His friends were coming to town this weekend, so he just needed a place for two nights.
At the first hostel, he got rejected for being too old. At the Jellinek, he got rejected for not being a (total) crackhead. At another hostel, he got rejected for not being a Catholic.
So he was pretty desperate. He walked alongside of me and we talked about linguistical differences in Afrikaans and Dutch and about computer hardware and software.
When I reached the point where I had to turn right, we said our goodbyes. I gave him some money for food and a smoke. He told me I was the first person, other than the police, to pay him any attention. He knew that it was probably because of the way he looked. But after a couple of years in Amsterdam, I’ve learned one thing: do not judge people on their appearence.