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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
by: Charlie
Age: (thirty-)seven
August 4, 2007
On my summer vacation, I went to Amsterdam, a city in the Netherlands. The site where Amsterdam is used to be underwater, but Dutch people like to live in difficult places, so they dammed a river and pushed the seawater out so they could live in Amsterdam. Which ended up under the water again basically every time it rained for the next six hundred years. Early Amsterdam people didn’t believe in weather forecasts, apparently.
The Dutch are a tall people, with mostly blond hair and high, pert butts. I’m told this is because of their Nordic heritage, where ‘Nordic’ apparently means ‘people who use NordicTracks a lot’. Dutch people eat raw herring a lot, which explains why they also drink a lot of beer, to wash the godawful things down. They also eat a lot of chocolate and pancakes, sometimes at the same time. Which explains why they need to use the NordicTracks so much.
“If Dutch people spent all their time in Amsterdam drinking, smoking pot and renting prostitutes, they’d all be dead by now. Or possibly Belgian.”
Dutch people also eat a lot of cheese, because they have so many cows. But they only milk the cows for the cheese; they don’t eat them very often. This is because the cows are used as early flood warnings. If a Dutch farmer looks out the window and sees his cows floating by, he knows that a flood might be on the way. It’s not exactly ‘StormTracker’, but it’s a start.
Most people in the Netherlands don’t live in downtown Amsterdam. If Dutch people spent all their time in Amsterdam drinking, smoking pot and renting prostitutes, they’d all be dead by now. Or possibly Belgian. Instead, Amsterdam is mostly for Americans who only want to eat McDonald’s, British tourists with loud stroppy children, and Europeans. Most of the Europeans don’t speak much English, which the Dutch speak very well, or much Dutch, which the Dutch speak even better. For this reason, all of the waiters and bellhops and hookers in Amsterdam can say, ‘Can I help you?‘, ‘Here’s your change‘, and ‘We don’t serve your kind here‘ in seventeen dialects, international sign language, Morse code, and with semaphore flags.
In Amsterdam, I took a tour of the Red Light District. That’s where the prostitutes stand in windows like mannequins, only with less clothes and more suggestive humping. The tour guide told us not to take pictures of the girls in the windows, because ‘they don’t like it, and after all, this is not a zoo‘. Having been to zoos before, I’d say he was right. At zoos, the animals are completely naked, and you don’t have to pay thirty euros to see the beavers. They still liked it when we fed them peanuts, though.
Everybody in Amsterdam rides bicycles, because they’re easier to fish out of a canal than a Peugeot. We walked, because it’s easier to do after six Amstels, three Duvels, a Westmalle, and a bessenjenever, which tastes like cranberry juice but can apparently also fuel an F1 racer. Not ‘easy‘, mind you. ‘Easi-er‘.
During my week in Amsterdam, I tried lots of different beers, ate things that I couldn’t pronounce, stuffed my gob full of chocolates and cheese, and didn’t do anything amoral or illegal, so far as you’re ever going to find out about. On the way home, the cabbie played a CD with remake medleys of old songs that I like to think he called: ‘Everything I Used to Try and Get Laid in 1987‘. At one point, ‘Lady in Red’ morphed into ‘I Just Called to Say I Love You’, and I nearly flung myself onto the Mass Turnpike to escape.
The end.
Permalink | 3 CommentsGoedemorgen, everybody!
</ Dr. Nick>
This evening, the missus and I are off like a Dutch prom dress for a week in Amsterdam. I thought I should stop by here to warn any interested parties that the posting schedule might be even a mite slower than usual for the next few days. It’s possible that I’ll have some sort of windmill-powered internet hookup in the land of clogs and tulips, but I can’t promise that I’ll be posting again soon. Or before I get back. Or that I will come back.
But I suspect my money will run out around the same time as our hotel reservations, so expect an update of some kind by next weekend at the latest. Meanwhile, I’ve got to finish packing, find my passport, and figure out what to say to Dutch customs officials when they ask, ‘Why are you entering our country at this time?‘
‘Uh… hookers and weed, duh. They didn’t give me the third degree when I flew to Vegas, dude.‘
“When in Rome, you wear bedsheets and feed Christians to the lions. When in Amsterdam… well, we haven’t really sorted it out yet.”
Honestly, though, I’m not sure how much time we’ll spend in the Red Light District. The missus has an itinerary full of museums, canals, and beer halls picked out, and that’s peachy with me. Mostly the last one, but hey, it’s Amsterdam — they probably let you drink in the museums, and I bet the canals are filled with Hefeweisen. At least, you’ll believe they are, if you eat a few of the brownies. Just watch out for the psychedelic sea monsters.
And one less-imaginary anecdote before I cram my laptop in a suitcase. With all of the people giving us the eyebrow about going to Amsterdam, my wife finally decided to bring the situation up directly. We’ve had so many people telling us to hit the ‘coffee shops’, or eat the cakes, or don’t eat the cakes, or try the brownies but only one brownie at a time, or ask for the good stuff, or for the love of god don’t try the good stuff!!, we’re a little dizzy. It’s like a pre-trip contact buzz — and like I said, we’re not really going to Amsterdam for that sort of thing.
Really. We’re not.
Stop looking at me that way.
But we’re not a couple of uptight fundy fraidy prudes, either, and we’re keeping our options open. When in Rome, you wear bedsheets and feed Christians to the lions. When in Amsterdam… well, we haven’t really sorted it out yet.
So last night in bed, my wife turned to me and asked: ‘While we’re in Amsterdam… do you think we’ll try anything?‘
I didn’t miss a beat.
‘Well, hon, Amsterdam’s known for its hookers and hash. Tell you what — you pick one to try, and I’ll try the other.‘
We’ll see where that gets me. Probably a ticket to sleeping on the floor in our hotel room, but I can’t be sure yet. I just hope she calls my bluff before one of us is standing in front of a red door somewhere in the District, with our plane fare cash in hand yelling, ‘Oh, I’ll do it! Just you watch me — I’m not scared!‘
That would suck. The last thing we want is to be stranded on the seedy side of Amsterdam with no way to get back, some prostitute laughing at us in Dutch (‘Unh-huh-huh-huh!‘), and no money for brownies. That’d sure stuff a clog up the old tulip.
And with that image, I’m off. Gauw tot ziens, everybody!
Permalink | 2 CommentsTime again for Braves baseball over at Bugs & Cranks:
I’ll Gladly Pay You Friday… — … but only if Barry Bonds is still chasing a record by the weekend.
Now on to the drivel du jour.
A funny thing happened to me today. Only I’m not sure exactly what happened, or when it occurred. I’ll explain.
As I was leaving for work this morning, I felt a rumble. A tummy rumble, and a fairly urgent one, at that. My stomach wasn’t saying, ‘Hey, how’s it going up there?‘
It was more like, ‘Yo. You like these pants the color they are now? Then giddyup, Sparky.‘
So giddyup I did, into our downstairs bathroom. The previous owners put the half-bath in, and called it ‘cozy’ in the ads.
(Apparently, ‘cozy’ is real estate weenie-speak for ‘we crammed a toilet into a closet, so you need a second mortgage to afford this place’. The more you know.)
“Trust me, if I thought that an intruder or ghost or some sort of ‘poopergeist’ had taken our TP, I wouldn’t be sitting here typing this.”
Upon reaching the ‘launching pad’, I was miffed to find that we were very nearly out of toilet paper. There were a couple of squares — but no squares to spare. And I didn’t have any reinforcement rolls handy, should spare squares be required.
So I did what any responsible, loving, conscientious husband would do. I shimmied my rumbly ass to the bathroom upstairs.
(What? You didn’t think I was going to restock the toilet paper, did you?
I said ‘husband’. Not ‘saint‘. At least I left the lid down. Let’s be realistic here.)
My bidness thus taken care of, I toddled off to work and thought nothing more about it. Until I got home this evening, an hour or so before my wife.
And found a completely empty toilet paper roll in the downstairs bathroom.
Dun. Dun. DUN!!
Now, before I over-spook you with this scenario, I should mention that there was someone in our house while I was gone.
(Trust me, if I thought that an intruder or ghost or some sort of ‘poopergeist’ had taken our TP, I wouldn’t be sitting here typing this. I’d have run screaming from the house, and right now I’d be hiding under the covers in a motel somewhere, working out a real estate ad myself for a house with a ‘cozy, only possibly haunted second bathroom’.)
The mystery guest I speak of is the dogwalker. Every Wednesday, this lady stops by to give our mutt a few minutes of butt-sniffing and territory-peeing. I assume she takes the dog outside for these things, but hey — as long as the dog’s happy and my couch doesn’t squish when I sit on it, I don’t care how she gets her furry freak on.
None of that explains where the toilet paper went, though. It’s possible that the dogwalker had an emergency of her own, or maybe a spill of some kind to wipe up. No problem there. But seeing as how her role is to take the dog to use the bathroom, and it was toilet paper that was missing, I have to wonder:
Is this woman wiping our dog, too?
I’d call that going above and beyond the call of duty. Or maybe behind and underneath the call. Either way, it’s sort of disturbing to think about. It’s one thing if the lady needed to use our toilet. But if she’s brandishing Charmin anywhere near our dog’s ass, we aren’t paying her nearly enough. That sort of job calls for hazard pay, yo.
Permalink | 2 CommentsBraves talk up first, over at Bugs & Cranks:
The Newest Oldest Brave — Atlanta just re-signed Julio Franco. Wait. Atlanta re-signed Julio Franco?!? Uh-whaaa?
Now back to our regularly scheduled nonsense.
The missus and I have in our possession a pair of free movie tickets. We can use redeem them at one of a number of theaters around the Boston area, but we have to use them within the next three weeks.
Sounds simple, right?
Well hold your horses there, Hollywood. It’s not so easy, after all. For one thing, we’ll be out of the country for a week soon, which cuts heavily into two weekends. The rest of our schedule is pretty tight, so getting to the theater will take some creative planning. And then there’s my wife’s contention that I hate going to movies.
“I’m not sure I’m interested in a movie where the hero is able to both lick his own crotch and talk about it afterward.”
No, really. She actually believes that I don’t like going out to see a movie. But what’s not to like? The popcorn, the sticky floors, the previews, the FWOOOOO-SHOOOOSH of the THX blurb, shouting ‘Oh no he din’t!!‘ during the tense climactic scene — I love it all. If I enjoyed the movies any fricking more, the floor would be even stickier when I left.
Still, my lovely and talented has a point. Often when we venture to the cinema, we return home feeling somewhat… unsatisfied. Many of the movies we shell out our hard-earned scratch for turn out to be duds. And I don’t have enough thumbs — or other appendages, for that matter — to turn down in response to any activity that sucks three hours out of my life without delivering the goods.
And I watch baseball. So I’m not exactly ‘discerning’.
With that in mind, we put our heads together to find a movie that would be worth the zero dollars we’d have to spend for tickets. And twelve fifty for popcorn. Nine dollars for a small soda. And thirty-eight bucks for parking. My wife scoured the paper for current and upcoming flicks; below are my reactions:
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix?
“You want me to spend two hours watching a bunch of young boys waving their wands around? Why don’t you just strap me down and show me Brokeback Mountain?”
Hairspray?
“Oh, a remake of a play based on a movie. Peachy. Well, at least John Waters is still in– what? He’s not? Meh.”
I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry?
“Adam Sandler pretending to be gay? This is different from The Wedding Singer and Little Nicky how?”
Transformers?
“I never had the toys, you weren’t even born yet, and we’re not in the market for a new car. Next.”
Ocean’s Thirteen?
“We saw that already. You slept through it. For the record, though, George Clooney dies at the end.”
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End?
“Sounds good — but I haven’t seen the first two. Give me a month or so on TBS to catch up, and I’ll get back to you.”
Evan Almighty?
“What would a 40-year-old virgin know about building an ark? I’m not buying it. Not even for the freaky animal sex scenes.”
I Know Who Killed Me?
“Somebody finally offs Lindsey Lohan and she comes back to life? Hell, no. I don’t sleep well enough as it is, without believing there’s a zombie Lohan out there somewhere.”
Who’s Your Caddy?
“Ooh, a movie featuring golf, rich assholes, and rap music stars? If only they’d included something about 18th century Flemish basketmaking, it’d have everything I don’t give a rocket-powered rat’s ass about.”
Underdog?
“I’m not sure I’m interested in a movie where the hero is able to both lick his own crotch and talk about it afterward. So really, anything with Jason Lee is out.”
Rush Hour 3?
“Oh, you mean the ‘Can you see the crap coming out of our studio?!?‘ movie? Um, no.”
Daddy Day Camp?
“Sorry, I saw Snow Dogs. I’m not legally allowed to watch Cuba Gooding, Jr. torture his own career without intervening somehow. And I don’t know where he lives.”
So basically what I’m saying is — anybody want a couple of free movie passes? Clearly, we’re never going to use the damned things.
Permalink | 2 CommentsFirst on tap, in the world of Braves’ news over at Bugs & Cranks:
Venezuela Claims Another Victim — What dastardly (or not-so-dastardly) disaster is keeping Wilfredo Ledezma trapped in his home country?
And now, on with the show.
Next Friday, the missus and I are heading off on vacation. This year, we’re trying something a bit more adventurous than usual. It involves a long flight, and staying for a week in a foreign, non-primarily-English-speaking country. And I’m not talking about Texas.
“That’s how I like my interactions with old people — short, bland, and early in the prune juice cycle.”
What I am talking about is raising a few eyebrows, frankly. Or it isn’t, depending on how I choose to describe the destination. I’m finding that the reaction I get is completely dependent on what I call the place we’re going. Here’s how I might tell a stodgy, cranky old person — like, oh, say, me — about our upcoming plans:
Me: So, we’ll be on vacation in a couple of weeks.
Persnickety Coot: Oh? Where you going?
Me: The Netherlands. And we might spend some time in Belgium, if we have time.
Persnickety Coot: Well, that sounds nice. You kids have a safe flight. And watch out for those crazy Dutch. All clogs and tulips and windmills, they are.
Me: Will do, sir.
Persnickety Coot: All right, then. Hand me my prune juice, won’t you, sonny?
Not the most interesting conversations, maybe, but that’s just peachy with me. That’s how I like my interactions with old people — short, bland, and early in the prune juice cycle. And when it comes to this vacation, that goes for conversations with the boss, the relatives, casual acquaintances, and anyone who looks like the kind of person who’d harsh a vibe. Especially the ones who wouldn’t know what ‘harsh a vibe’ means — and still harsh vibes, anyway.
So that covers those people. But in truth, we’re not just going to ‘the Netherlands’; our destination is a bit more specific than that. And when I tell people exactly where we’re going, the conversation goes something more like this:
Me: So, we’ll be on vacation in a couple of weeks.
Non-Cooty Person: Oh? Where you going?
Me: Amsterdam.
Non-Cooty Person: Amsterdam?
Me: Yep.
Non-Cooty Person: Really? No shitting?
Me: Nope, we’re going to Amsterdam.
Non-Cooty Person: So… what’s first? Hash or hookers?
Me: Dude. My wife is going with me.
Non-Cooty Person: Ah, I gotcha. So… hash, then, is what you’re saying?
I have yet to say the word ‘Amsterdam‘ in regard to our vacation plans without people shooting me a knowing look, grinning like a horny felon, and offering advice on matters ranging from Red Light District etiquette to sneaking a bong through customs. Unsolicited advice, I might add. And I shudder to think what the old coots might tell me, if I let them in on the secret. Yow.
For the record, we didn’t choose Amsterdam for its relaxed attitudes on various controversial social issues. Our idea of the area is mostly like the old farts’ — tulips and windmills and wooden shoes, with some canal-strolling and museum-gazing and booze-tippling thrown in. And what my younger friends are telling me about Amsterdam isn’t changing my mind much, or scaring me away from wanting to go.
It’s scaring me away from talking to them, in a few cases. I had no idea some of my friends were so freaky. And most haven’t been to Amsterdam — so now they want to vicariously freak through me. If that doesn’t give a guy the shivering willies, I don’t know what will.
But I guess I’ll find out soon. Because, did I mention? I’m goin’ to Amsterdam.
Permalink | 2 Comments
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