August 21st, 2005

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Drugs R Bad, M'kuh?

This is our last day in Amsterdam. It would depress me if we weren't going home to an equally debaucherous place tomorrow.

Yesterday: A walk down the Warmoestraat to the Het Ij to watch "SAIL!", an annual event where every boat within 100 miles of Amsterdam zigzags through the Ij (not quite sure what an "ij" is — a bay? Bayou? Harbor? Canal? Sea?) Yah, so anyway, it's like a thousand boats doing their little turn on the catwalk. Many, many pirate-y looking vessels.

Heh. Love that word: VESSEL!

After stopping for little delicious things (fries covered in a sweet curry sauce), we decided to see wazzup with the local sauna.

Oh my. Very bad, dirty, bad, bad, bad. I'm going to hell.

Met a friendly, and quite hot Scottish guy who vivaciously suggested going out for drinks when we left the sauna. We agreed, with equal vivacity, we turned our backs for a moment and he disappeared. How fickle is faggot!

More walking. More delicious little things to eat. A little downtime in the afternoon, then we went out to visit a coffeeshop. Or, I should say, a "coffeeshop", yah?

I don't smoke the pot. Used to take one hit every 6–8 months just to remind myself why I do not smoke of zee pot. This last hiatus has lasted over two years, since I literally passed out on a first date with someone (still have a scar on my chin from bashing it against the bar as I collapsed), and decided zee pot — eet ees not für mee!

But it's just so darned civilized to order a joint in a coffeeshop, that I couldn't say no.

Spent the rest of the evening walking the streets, grinning a lot, hallucinating that my footsteps were causing pond-ripples in the cobblestones, and seeing the ripples spread quaquaversally (try to use it in a sentence today).

We stood on a bridge over the Amstel and took many, many, very stoned, way-too-close-up pictures, which at the time made perfect sense!

Returned to the room and watched TV, and took more pictures, some of which (at the time) were PURE ART, MAAAAN! (Today, I am frightened to turn on the camera and see what happened last night.)

I also wrote the following poem. Which should be evidence enough to launch a new "Drugs R Bad, M'Kuh?" campaign.
Sonnet at the Amstelzicht

Push the piggies through the stew.
Are those fake boobies explodable?
French lentils spilling on a Dutch screen.
And here I thought I wasn't dope'able.

Ben stands vigil, jacking the remote,
Bowing to the monolith pompadour.
Link Wray said it best,
"I'll eat the mushroom, but who eats the spoor?"

Pretzeled dogshit on the dead girl's head,
My toes are piggies hiding in the shed.
Blind tapping to Dennis Quaid and Cher,
Ben's perfect crescent ass is sagging the bed.

Euros are very pretty.
I wish I had a baquadodecafrajillion of them.
"What are you doing, honey?"
"I'm writing a muthergoddamnpissingchristfucking poem!"
That was half a joint, mind you…
I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Exhausted & Replete

We begin the long travail home tomorrow morning. Ben lost his passport at Nicole's house, and has been worried about getting a new one in an hour when the embassy opens. (Then, I found it in his own pants pocket. Dork.)

The timing of the end of this trip is good. I have absorbed as much cultcha as I can possibly assimilate for the time being. The hour has come to ferry home, and sift through What We Have Learned. And pet the kitties.

Note to self: Try to go more places you haven't been. J'adore Londres, etc., but I lived there, fercryinoutloud, and there are more nooks and, yes, even crannies in the world the which of whereat I have yet to espy of to.

Take Italy. (Please!) I've never been. But I hear the police are very, very hot, and wear saucy little tailored outfits, like they're in a little show all their own! Ta-dahh! (Right, changingthesky?) That must be easy on the eyes. Perhaps I should take mine there?

Or take Amsterdam (but leave some for me). I have immensely enjoyed committing maps to memory, then walking the streets that I have learned from the maps and meeting them in person. Feeling out a new city with nothing but a map, a cocktail, and a joint to guide you is one of the greatest pleasures this life has to offer. It's intimate and personal, like sex, and burns even more calories!

Also: try to visit more places where you cannot communicate because you know not a word of the local lingo. Amsterdam is a bit easy as everyone speaks English at the slightest prompting, but my tongue tingles from attempting to sound out these oddly-spelled words.

"Duivendrecht," was the first obstreperous word I encountered, being the name of a train station we needed to change at. I fought with it for a good hour. When I conquered it, other words came easier.

Dutch seems to me a lovely blend of German, Swedish and English. I have, at various points in my life, been fluent in Spanish and French, but as years pass without using them, when I speak one, it comes out half as the other. Tu comprends lo que te digo? Therefore, I imagine that if I learned German and Swedishequally poorly, I would accidentally speak Dutch, since that seems to be where it lies.

Well, it's a theory, anyway.