Tag Archives: UK

Beyond Horror

When I left New Jersey in 2001, it was immediately following Sept. 11th. I mention this because being back, I do remember it often. Usually its as I begrudgingly drive down the highway and still spot the faded bumperstickers with supid-ass slogans like “these colors don’t run” or the images of the Twin Towers with a yellow sash that reads “Never Forget” just in case you were forgetting while searching your car-cupholder for change to pay the -now 70 cent- toll. I usually shout “shut the fuck up” as I pass them, mostly just to hear my own voice. The only thing I really get MORE pissed off at are those annoying yellow ribbon stickers on people’s cars, that read “I support our troops.” I always shout “I don’t support your goddam war asshole….”… the sound stays within my car, of course, it keeps me alert and relieves road rage as I struggle to see the road, blinded by the monstrous SUV’s headlights which align perfectly with normal cars’ rearview mirrors.

But this isn’t about roadrage. I wanted to say that the tragedy which has just taken place is beyond understanding. I’ve tried to imagine the horror… to picture all those dead in my head. 2,000 plus in Thailand… where a dear friend of mine has only recently returned to her family. 15,000 in Sri Lanka, which only recently began recovering from a terrible civil war. 25,000 plus in Indonesia, where they can’t even find dry enough ground to bury the dead. 7,000 dead in India, near Madras, an area where so many wonderful people who have influenced my life, come from. The list goes on and on… tiny islands facing flooding which threatens their very existence.

Where are the bumperstickers… the shock in the streets, in every corner of the world? I’m waiting for the outpouring of good will, and even better, the traditional declaration of war against the cause of this. Natural disaster you say? Fine. But I can only imagine if the entire planet, especially wealthy nations, focused the wasteful energy and resources that go into the so-called war on terrorism, to a campaign of natural-disaster global readiness, we wouldn’t have such an unbearable and unimaginable death toll. I don’t look at this and say “wow, natural is so cruel” … I say “wow, the society I was raised in has such a twisted value of human life when it comes to Africa, Asia, and anything OUT THERE.

Thank the golden calf for bringing us blogs that care… that feel… and that share.

In keeping with the usual “everything is fine” spirit, my dumbass went out and bought an MP3 player. It was made Asia, that way I can feel better about myself.

Special guest tomorrow, in my new segment “I SEE DEAD Historical Figures”

Today’s Sounds: Jamiroquai – Return of the Space Cowboy

Pile of Stuff

Like myself, I hope you all got something you wanted this festivus.

I was pretty much satisfied meeting my 7 month old nephew, A-Ren, for the first time since his birth. Those big blue eyes make all my troubles melt away. I just lean towards him and make sounds, he responds with his own blend of clicking and chanting. Then his little paws reach out for me, until he quickly turns and buries his head into my sis’s shoulder like a human ostrich baby.

But just when you think you don’t need anything else… someone gets you a palette of maple syrup from one of these insane wholesale supermarkets. I hope they’ve got room on that Air Portugal flying tylenol… I needs me my syrup. And my books by Mo Rocca, John Stewart, and a collection of other radical revolutionaries. Not to mention my new CD’s; The Stars, Talib Kweli, and the Slackers. Yeehaww.. time to update my wishful list.

If you’re looking for last minute day-after-festivus gifts, I recommend a one-two-three punch. First, get How To Blog. Then add a pinch of Jamie’s artwork. And round it off with Grouphug.us ‘s book of confessions. If you don’t read grouphug, go look. As Mr. Winter of Discontent will tell you, it’s fantastic! (happy festivus Michael)

Oh and sometimes I can predict the future before it happens. YES its true. Just like that. I hate to say it, but regardless of tomorrow’s election, the average Ukrainian is fucked. Especially if you work in a mine. Or if you simply don’t work at all. It is good to be part of a cause, and to demonstrate or live in a tent city in the center of the city. It is awesome do hold up the finger and the ruling party and the corrupt bastards. It is even awesomer to look election officials in the eye and say this is bullshit! But friends… you’re in the Ukraine… where the world demands that you stay in a state of cold, bitterness, and declining economics. Hooray for freemarkets… hold you hands out and maybe it will trickle down from the east or west. Let’s all do the election boogie.

Today’s Sounds: The Stars – Nightsongs

A Very Lisbon Day

Twas the eve before flying back to Jersey, and all through the nest, not a creature was stirring, ‘cept for that lizard that peeks his head in through the hole in the ceiling.

I tried to call audioblogger to do the deed, but no dice. Hence; no accented BM shouting “I HEART XTX” or “Tracy! Ttothe33! Word to ma Gramma!”, and no audio thank you to my favorite blogger of the Chicago area, for his product placement in his photo which appeared on Busblog. I guess I won’t be able to podcast until I’m states side. Which reminds me of my new desire for the world: broadband as a human right! YES! Right next to food, water, shelter, and expression. I’d like to be the first shallow blogger to put BROADBAND right there on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. You don’t agree? Try using broadband for 4 years, and then going back to dial-up, it’s a crime against humanity. And I demand liberation world-wide.

Managed to spend the after noon with that infamous wordsmith J.P. We had a Mozambican lunch, just outside the castle walls (yes Lisbon has a nice big one), which hit the spot. The conversation was as colorful as ever, with JP only mentioning assassinating or torturing world leaders a handful of times. Turns out, JP lives next door to the Vatican mission/consulate thingy. If I were him, and maybe he did this already, I would keep my naked bum pressed against the glass as often as possible. I would also dress as Satan, ring their doorbell, and propose holding peace talks.

I?ve taken piles of photos, mostly of the Lisbon Metro which, in my experience, is amongst the coolest in the world. Some telemarketing whorebag tried to stop me on the street and ask me to sell my soul on her clipboard . She starts by walking alongside me and asking if I?m a student or employed, I answered in proper Portuguese, that I?m a tourist. She gave me the ?you’?re an asshole? look and said ?You?re a tourist and you?re Portuguese?? I stopped walking, opened my eyes wide and nodded ? ?That?s right sister!?

So the Portuguese fisherman and ministry of agriculture are on TV all fussy about the EU fishing policies. Apparently the EU decided not to protect certain waters, including lots of Portuguese waters, from overfishing. They made some relatively symbolic reductions in quotas, but all-in-all, it?ll be excessive fishing as usual in Portugal.

What gets me is how unsustainable these guys are. All they care about in the short term. Fish fish fish? doesn?t matter if Cod or Swordfish are on the verge of extinction, they just want to keep pretending the well will never go dry. Once again.. I hate this bullshit narrow-minded economic outlook.

Meanwhile in Amsterdam, Ms_thingk is selling everything.. and returning to Holland…. Michigan. Tune in ma?ana for my jetlagged tribute to her.

Today’s Sounds: RPL – Radio Paris Lisboa (it’s in Portuguese and French!)

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

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

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