Time Warp

Being the good Samaritan that I am? I traded my window seat to the mom who wanted to sit next to her cute little girl. In exchange, as usual, I got to sit next to the alcoholic and the neurotic. He came on to the plane smelling like beer, and he didn?t let a flight attendant walk by without asking for another. She was constantly taking off and putting on layers, and picking at the pathetic egg-sandwich thing that is supposed to pass for Portuguese-cuisine. I kept thinking of Jamie and his friend Brian, taking the Thalys to Paris, hoping to sit next to models or moviestars.

The only consolation was that I messed with their damaged minds? I arrived first, and began reading my French weekly newspaper. Soon after I switched to reading Bukowski (in English), and spoke to the passenger behind me in Dutch. The lush seemed really eager to classify me? possibly Dutch? or maybe Belgian because of the French language item. I really threw him for a drunken loop when I spoke to the flight crew in Portuguese, and then asked for the best Portuguese newspaper of all time. Oh he wanted to start a conversation? so he could put me a little box, like the neurotic lady to my left. But I wouldn’t say more than two words in any language to that sloppy bastard. And fuck? can they put economy class seats ANY closer together?

One final air travel note, my horn traveled first class to Lisbon. We?re all packed in like sardines, while there is practically NO ONE in first class, but that never matters does it? When I did my usual: ask female flight attendants in a na?ve manner where they can stow my horn? then bat eyelashes and be very polite; they seemed quite puzzled. So? they buckled my baby into first class. I was proud! We lemmings may not be allowed to sit up there, but my horn didn?t pay a dime, and got drunk on champaign and caviar. DAM THE MAN.

So here I sit on top of the world, in my apartment that has always been affectionately called ?the Nest?.. because it?s made of twigs, is almost destroyed by heavy winds, and sits above the Tagus river.. where I can watch the sun set. Lisbon is just as I left it? full of classic urban ironies. My neighbors barely recognize me, probably because they?re all pushing 90. The only person my age, cutey working-student girl downstairs, seemed shocked to see me? almost as if I had ruined her secret plan to marry me by moving to the ‘dam. That would have been nice, we?d then have a two floor apartment and a building full of geriatrics, on the verge of collapse.

One last thing, speaking of collapse, there’s no government here in Portugal. That’s right… the government resigned, claiming that it couldn’t go on after all the political infighting and governing mistakes they had made. I find this to be a beautiful thing, and an admirable tradition in many countries. Now, if only a certain spoiled rich-boy president, who bumbled his nation’s finances, education system, civil rights, foreign policy… you name it… why can’t American presidents ever throw in the towel anymore? Suddenly I miss Nixon!?

Today’s Sounds: The Roots – Tipping Point

Vacation in 5..4..3..

I tend to put my suitcase next to my closet two days before travel. The idea is somehow it will pack itself. While I sleep my room will get all Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Angela Landsbury will select my favorite shirts and boxer shorts… cause fuck it… thats all Im wearing this vacation. Oh wait.. it’s cold.

Yesterday was podcasting sunday, but due to special programming, I moved it to today… SEE! But no audiopost… I’m saving that for when I’m back on the Iberian peninsula drinking Portuguese Ice-teas, which -I might add- are my favorite in the world.

Well, I’m sorry to Dawn and Drew, my original favorites and still beloved, but I have a new favorite podcast. And this one doesn’t involve sex, barns, or animals (as theirs often does)… this one is all about Japan! Yes… Tokyo to be more precise.. TOKYO CALLING, which is entirely the work of Scott Lockman, an Northwestern American who has become my new favorite voice in MP3 format.

His podcasts are about many things… but overall.. life in Tokyo, where he has lived for the past 10 years or so. (i think) I totally enjoy the stories of his wife and three daughters, them going to the park, or what it takes to get into kindergarten in his area. (you wouldn’t believe the jumping through the hoops) This past weekend I was glued to my speakers as he takes the audience along on his ride to work. He describes all the bits and bobs of the transport system, and some of the people he sees. The best is when he pops into an electronics shop where the salesman explains how stuff works. I’m not sure what I like better about this podcast… the stories or the sounds. Maybe both. It’s great gratuitous Japan insight.. and even makes me curious to live there. (no such plan.. Im working on staying dutch for awhile and making some portuguese-dutch-american children… now taking applications for egg donors)

I bet my extremely under the weather friend in Philly, NoCoins, would love this podcast… he’s fascinated by Japan and occasionally shouts Japanese words.

Now I shall take my leave of you, practice horn for an hour and run to this play. As of tomorrow I’m a traveling blogger! – ain’t that exciting? Yes… I’ll be live from my apartment in Lisbon, Portugal.. stay tuned.

One final note… why are some people shocked at the news? Bush as Time magazine’s person of the year, is the equivalent of the Pope being the Catholic Church’s person of the year… no shocker. And yeah yeah.. I know the explanation about making news during the course of the year. I still think both the man and the magazine are corporate whores.

Today’s Sounds: Buddy Rich Big Band – Burning for Buddy

Intersecting Lives

(continued from yesterday)

All day and all night I listen to his new album. Waldemar’s voice, guitar, and message destroy me as always. I wanted to be ready when I saw him up on stage today, to sing along, and soak in all the energy his show radiates. I’m not one of those who sings loudly along with very singer you came to see, an obviously repulsive habit some might have. But I love mouthing the words while I dance in my place.. even if they do try and put me in a seat.

The Tropentheater is colonial as hell. It screams world empire, built in that spirit when the Dutch travelled the world stealing resources and trading slaves, like my Portuguese ancestors. That being said, it’s fucking beautiful. And Waldemar didn’t seemed phased by it, his interest lay with the audience, as always.

The band he brought with him was a familiar one at its core. Z?z?, Elias, and the quiet Mozambican whos name escapes me, but who once defended me from the fascist private security of the NJPAC in Newark, they were all as fantastic as ever, and when I appeared backstage, they greeted me with hugs, and remembered our meeting in NYC, over 5 years ago. But the band now consisted of a new guitarist, a Senegalese man who on stage became the crowd favorite, and backstage sat down to converse with me about how he’s about to go on a tour of OZ and NZ with Zap Mama. “Et ?a va avec Zap Mama? Le nouveux cd va bien?” He replied with a very confident, “Mais oui.. tr?s bien.” Together, these artists create an indescribable wall of sound. The kind of wall that is filled with heavenly guitars, make-you-dance cungas, and seductive bass lines, which can teleport you to Luanda for an evening by the sea, watching the fishing boats.

As I walked in the backstage door, ignoring whatever signs telling me not to enter, Waldemar was in mid handshake-hug-signautograph-takephotomode. He wasn’t surprised to see me. He gave me a big smile, bearhug, and demanded the room’s attention, “Vo?es lembrem-se deste jovem?…” (you guys remember this young man? From NJ to Lisbon, and now he lives here!) And a few people came over to greet me, including one of his sons, who I had only spoken on the phone with a few times. This younger version of Waldemar was not only kind, but an excellent story teller, I couldn’t stop listening to him, as he told a story of the family’s first return to Angola since civil war ended. I MUST GO THERE… I kept thinking.

And well.. the rest of this story stays with me… my memory of yet another meeting with both a man and a musician that I admire to no end. Oh, and I’m invited to his house when I arrive in Lisbon this Tuesday. He kept saying “Now I don’t invite just anyone to my house BM! Only those with good hearts, and you’re like family… so please come.”

I will.

Today’s Sounds: Waldemar Bastos – Live in Amsterdam (my mpegs)

Gift from Angola

I was riding home from bowling the other night, as usual my mind racing with all sorts of brilliant and unbrilliant thoughts. Over time, in Amsterdam, one develops this talent to just ride fast as hell, ignore red lights, and weave around traffic and kamikaze pedestrians. Sometimes a person or a car or some random thing catches your attention as you ride, and for those brief moments, you try to soak up the situation before you’ve ridden off.

On that night there were two dark skinned figures trying to cross in front of me. They hesitated, which told me they were from out of town. At that same moment, one of the men looked directly into my eyes. That happens sometimes,you’re riding and someone looks directly into your eyes for a split second. For me, it’s usually a beautiful girl riding in the opposite direction. But in this case the eyes staring at mine were those of a friend. They triggered a rush of mental images; memories. At first it was NYC 1999 and I had stayed late at the knitting factory, hanging in the green room discussing politics with the band. Then I was swept back to 2002, sitting in a tiny restaurant in Lisbon – “Agua do Bengo.”

The owner of this restaurant was the man behind those eyes, at least that’s what I felt in that eternal moment. I swore that I was seeing my friend Waldemar Bastos, beloved Angolan singer who had been exiled to Lisbon during the long civil war in his home country.

I kept riding, looking back the entire time. But I couldn’t see him anymore.. I stopped in hopes that he would be running in my direction, shouting my name. But no dice. I slowly rode in the direction of home, now completely buried in memories of our conversations, the nights where I’d come to the restaurant to help his wife serve dinner, and then after closing they’d cook a special meal for me while Waldemar pulled out the guitar and starting testing new songs on me. One night we sat there til the sun came up, singing together. He even handed me the guitar as said, “go ahead bm, I know you’re musician.” But I know better… I returned his custom acoustic right back to him with a smile.

Here’s where it gets better: This morning I went to do xmas shopping-browsing at a CD shop, and there in the featured artist section – Waldemar Bastos and his new release Renascence, on a DUTCH LABEL! He had told me last year, during our annual phonecall, that he had signed with a Dutch label. Shit with Warner Brothers and David Burn’s Luaka Bop project had gone bad, but now he was back…. in the NETHERLANDS! I just checked the show listings… tomorrow night at the Tropentheatre.. I’m going to see my friend. I sent him a text message with this story. I look forward to the euphoria when he sees me tomorrow, no one will understand the history behind the enormous hug we will share.

(….to be continued.. and in the meantime, go stare at the stars)

Today’s Sounds: Waldemar Bastos – Renascence

Chess and Mat?

Sylkk, another great blogger in black, gmailed me to ask about where I get my mat?, and why hers might be tasting bad. I felt like I was one of those familiar faces in her neighborhood, like the guy at the post office. Plus I was glad she asked; I love my Rosamonte Yerba Mat? and I know where she’s coming from, sometimes it don’t taste right. I can remember brewing a gourd full of Buen Dia, mixed with some ginger root and peppermint, and being in heaven. Old myths say that mat? has some psychotropic, neurowhatsis, halucinasomething effect. If you brew it just right, I think you do get a great feeling. But yeah, some days you put too much or too little love into it, and it tastes like an old shoe. I don’t worry much when that happens, I figure some days LIFE tastes like an old shoe, and you just gotta go with it.

But let’s move on to chess. To be upfront about it, I’m a chess player, though a bit rusty. Shirtsleaves and I used to spend hours on weekends sitting in Lisbon parks and pubs with our chess board. Here in Amsterdam, I slow down on my bike whenever I pass the chesscaf?, just to take a long look at all the matches. So I appreciate those who love the game – including Bobby Fischer, one of the biggest chess champions in history.

However nowadays Fischer finds himself imprisoned by American authorities, in Japan. He was trying to fly back to the states (he is German-American) but was spotted with a revoked passport. Why revoked? Because in 1992, Fischer played a chess match in Yugoslavia (Serbia), which qualified as doing business, and was considered illegal by the US state department. So now he faces trial… for playing world championship chess in a “bad” country.

Now I don’t care much for the political views of the man. Or for his mannerisms or many of his life choices. But as a chess player, I’ve got nothin but respect for him. And as far as these charges go, I think it’s bullshit. We’re talking about chess… remember all those stories of USSR vs. USA chess matches? I just can’t consider it a crime, no matter how much money they make. If anything, the game has historically brought nations together; making them sit at a table across from each other and push little wooden figures while sweating profusely. So on behalf on the communiqu?: FREE BOBBY FISCHER!

Oh and weekend recommendations, the Midnight Mailman continues to bring me fun AND education, and I’m also considering getting out to Kalipornia one day.

Today’s Sounds: Loft405 Podcast – Lemon Jelly

She’s a Smarty

It has been talked about on other blogs and it’s true to some extent: I am surrounded by wonderful women in my life, both online and offline in the ‘dam. Super intelligent, extremely independent, amazingly adventurous, and just plain silly… these are my ladies, my friends, my Amsterdam family.

And so today as I sat in the University of Amsterdam’s super-old-historical-slave-trade room, watching the Scholarly Masseuse graduate(with honors or as the latins say: Cum Loudly) I felt this great sense of pride and awe. My Austrian wonder, who gets credit for saving me from carpal-tunnel. I’ve watched her evolve as a human, as an academic, from when we first sat together in Communicating with European Elvis Impersonators class, to the handing in of her monster thesis on The Foot Fetishes of European Underwater Basketweavers, it’s been so fun to watch and occasionally help out. And so after dinner at the ranch tonight, I’ll be headed to some dark pub, to raise a glass and -who knows- maybe make a speech in her honor.

On my way into the fishtank this morn, the sassy swede and I spent some quality flirting time together. She informed me that there are words in Dutch that crack her up, as they mean something quite different in Swedish. Her favorite: the word for customer- Klant. In her language this means idiot. So everytime she goes into a shop, and sees the desk with the sign marked Klanten Service (Customer Assistance) she starts laughing. I stood there, as the rain poured down, soaking it in: Idiot Service. Ha! She also vaguely referred to the dutch word for kitchen – keuken as meaning something quite vulgar in Swedish. She wouldn’t tell me what, but I kept trying to think of it… “Hey buddy, keuken you!” Or.. “why don’t you go keuken yourself.” hmmm. Time to learn Swedish.

I’m enjoying how Mr. Helpy Chalk is choosing names for his recently fertilized fetus via his blog. I suggested Aristotle… since we haven’t heard of one since… well.. Mr. Onasis. I had no idea that he advocated slavery?! We could even call him Ari, for short. not to be mistaken with the washed up former white house press whore.

Today’s Sounds: Abdullah Ibrahim – No Fear No Die