Levi’s Bloaaaagh

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 a 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh yes, there was a band.

This friday started out pretty nicely. After I went to Ignjat to work on the Marcus & HeinZ site, I took the train back to the centre. The sun was shining, I solved the Sudoku in the NRC*Next within the hour and Ben Folds playing my song.

September ‘75 I was 47 inches high
Mom said by Christmas I would have
A badass mother G.I. Joe
For your little minds to blow
I still got beat up after class
Yeah, now I’m big and important
One angry dwarf and 200 solemn faces are you
If you really want to see me check the papers and the TV
Look who’s telling who what to do
Kiss my ass goodbye

Anywho, I called Robbert. He was sitting outside of his work with a beer. Sounded good enough to me. After waving to tourists in canal cruisers, I went to Elian’s house for a little poker. Rob went to a party at his fraternity. After three hands of poker, I went all-in with two kings in my hand. I lost to three sevens. Fuck.
Lins called. She wanted to do one beer. One isn’t enough for me, so that didn’t go through. I then called Ignjat, but he was already home, to do some push-ups and shit. Luckily, Rob was still around, so I went to his frat party. Oh yes, there was a band. But they sucked. Five guys and not one of them could sing. They could play, but the singing was awful. We drank a whole lot of vodka and then, all of a sudden at half past one, Rob decided to go home. And I had to follow. So now I’m sitting here, writing my next blog entry (or bloooaaaaaaagh, as David Duchovny would have said in ‘Californication’). This is for your little minds to blow. But I still got beat up after class.

But fuck that. I am gonna be big and important.

They told us (Robbert and me) to come and join them at Paradiso.

Thei, Robbert and I went to the cinema this evening. After that, Rob and I decided to go and drink a beer in a pub nearby our house. There were two girls working, and one, who also works at the same bar, sitting there. They played good music. From Rolling Stones to Snow Patrol. From Stereophonics to Oasis. From Hooverphonic to Voicst. It was very pleasant. After the last round, we even got away with a last-last round, by giving them our ‘begging smile’. Then, Rob asked the question: “what to do now?”. The answer was simple: “Paradiso”. The idea was that we would go and they would join us later.

Rob is the responsible one, so he decided to go home and get some well earned rest. I, for one, doubted a little. I was on my my way home, but then I called Rob. He told me I shouldn’t be a pussy and get my ass over to Paradiso. And so I went.

When I entered, Claudia, a former colleague, was working. I drank some beer with her, while chatting about the good old times. After fifteen minutes, the girls from the bar came in. But did they stop and say hello? No, they didn’t. They did saw me, but they refused to see me. It was clear to me, they couldn’t care less about me. Well, I couldn’t care less about them too, so we have that in common.

Right after that, I spotted Seeltje. Another ex-colleague. We had a good time, danced a little and drank some tequila. But then I met her ex-boyfriend. He totally ignored me. Since I’m used to that I didn’t give a flying fuck. But then Seeltje told me that he was jealous of me. Why the fuck would a random guy, whom I’ve never met, be jealous of me? It appears Seeltje had told stories about me and therefore, this guy, hates me. Yes? Great!

Seel told me she “wanted to fuck him” that same night, and she didn’t want me to cause any trouble. At least, that’s what I think. So I went home.

And the girls? They didn’t pay any attention to me.

I love being impulsive.

Friday has always been the best day in the week. Well, at least according to me. I’m a big fan of the friday-afternoon-drink-at-the-office (I’m also okay with the friday-afternoon-drink-in-the-pub). But it’s been so long since I was at an office (any office) on a friday afternoon, that the whole friday feeling has vanished a bit. I just realized this, sitting at home behind my MacBook (why say laptop if you own a Mac?). My friends in Venlo mostly start their friday at 9.30 PM, while in Amsterdam, we start at 4.00 PM. You see the difference? The whole idea of the friday-afternoon-drink-at-the-office is gone. Just like that. It’s time I get a grip on my study and finish it already. Then we need to find an office for Marcus&HeinZ. And then we need to reinstall the friday-afternoon-drink-at-the-office. We’ll even make it official by implementing this into the companies values and beliefs.

Taking the night train puts all train traveling in perspective. Sure there are weird people traveling by day, but at night, the train is the kingdom of the outcasts, crackheads and the drunk and disorderly.

It was last Saturday night when me and a friend took the night train from Utrecht back to Amsterdam after a night of excessive dancing. Two girls joined me and my friend in the booth we were sitting in. Giggling, like little schoolgirls. I frowned. For a couple of minutes they couldn’t get a hold of themselves. So I asked, to break the ice: "Whatever crack you’ve smoked, have you got some left for me? It seems like good stuff." The giggling stopped and was replaced by an awkward silence. I’m used of people not getting my jokes, so I’m also used of people not laughing at what I think is hilarious. My buddy laughed. But then again, it’s mostly his line, the crack-thing. 

The girls started talking to us. Well, talking, it was mostly me trying to make fun of them and them by not responding to my inappropriate responses (are you still following this?). I didn’t like them. But then again, I usually don’t like crackheads. 

How come something that feels right at one moment, feels awkward the next? I’m currently on a mission of finding this out. This mission takes place inside my head. And believe me, it’s pretty crowded at the moment in there. But I need to go back to square one. What is it that I want? What is it that other people involved want? And when (or if) I figure this out, how do I accomplish this? I’m not the kind of person that enjoys confrontation, but this time I really have to. I’ve put myself in a vulnerable position, which makes everything even harder. We’ll let time figure it out. And if it doesn’t get figured out, we’ll let that same time heal the wounds.

I really need to stop messing with my head. To quote my good friend Robbert: "Don’t think. You should let cows think. They’ve got a much bigger head than you."

Lately, things are looking back up for me again. After the incident with me and my appendix a couple of weeks ago, I’m finding myself in this upwards spiral. That’s a good thing, right? Right. Except that with every good thing, comes a bad thing. The only problem is: what will that be? 

I am completely clueless on this one. These bad things always hit you in the face when you least expect it. I could have died from my appendicitis (if I was in the middle of nowhere), so what could be worse than that. Actually die and go to heaven? I, for one, am a non-believer, so in the eyes of the Almighty, He would have send me straight downstairs. Or I could die and find out that this whole shindig we call Religion doesn’t exist. That would actually make me feel good about myself, because it means that I was right. 

Anywho, if I really would have died, I wonder what it would have said on my tombstone. Probably something like: "Please God, have mercy on his soul. He didn’t know any better". Personally, I’m hoping more for something like: "It could have been a brilliant career". 

Ah, to hell with it. By the time I’m ready to meet my maker, just burn me up. But for now, I’m busy hitchhiking on an upwards spiral.