Flipping The Bony One
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
[A quick flashback - During '94 and '95 (the OJ years) I had abandoned my career as a television commercial acting whore, moved to Amsterdam, and pursued the bizarre dream of becoming a rickshaw driver on the North Sea. You know, when I put it in one sentence like that, it makes me sound like a nut. I suppose that's correct. But I was miserable as a corporate circus barker. So, I left. The following pages have been e-torn from a notebook dating back to that period.]
I am slow and thick
February forces me to question the logic of moving to the Netherlands. This is my first, full-face experience with the crippling nature of a Dutch winter, and I should have looked closer at those goddamn Jacob van Ruisdaels. How many hours did I spend staring at those paintings? How could I not notice that every person on the canvas is freezing his ass off? Why did I stuff my head with that stupefying dose of Moroccan hashish first thing in the morning and why are my pants inside out?
Sweet baby Jesus' powdery brown ass, I'm cold.
Everywhere on the globe there is a unique style of cold. New Hampshire has a cold best described as fat. The air itself is fat and when the temperature drops it becomes so fat that you feel squeezed by it, as though you are actually in the way merely by being in it. I remember everything being fat during my senior year. The sky was fat, the clouds were fat and that bus driver who would strap chains on the tires of his fat bus and trudge through 4 feet of that fat snow just to make sure we got to that fat school on time. Boy, was that guy fat. But his was a protective fat that enabled him to wear nothing but a wind breaker on even the most unforgiving of winter days. In retrospect, he may have been smarter than I gave him credit for, that fat fuck.
I didn't actually mean he wore "nothing but a wind breaker". He wore pants too. And puffy gloves. And a special hat. I don't mean a special bus driver's hat that the school board gave to him. I mean a hat that a special guy would wear. You know..special. One of those guys with the uh, specially-shaped heads. I've met a few special guys in my day and I can tell you they always have the worst taste in hats. I don't know what it is. Maybe their families take them to Target and let them pick out their own hats.
But they're always wearing bad hats. Y'know what I'm talking about? Well, that is the kind of hat that fat bus driver used to wear: the kind of hat that a special guy would pick out of a bin full of perfectly good hats. I don't know why I'm making such a big deal about the hat. I just didn't understand that fat fuck or why he wore that hat. I mean he was a grown man with a job and money and the freedom to buy any hat he wants. Why would he pick that one? What was wrong with him? I mean, what was deal with that guy?
Alaska offers up more of a heavy cold. It drops from the heavens with a thud and lays on you like a drunk, sopping wet, Sumo wrestler. And you are never free from him, for he lurks outside your house 10 months of the year, waiting for you to step out your front door, waiting to pounce on you. He taps on your window all winter saying, "Psst. Come outside. I want to sit on you. And bring a couple of beers with ya."
The gravitational pull in Alaska seems twice that of anywhere else on earth. This is why Alaskans are so
sturdy. Their balance and strength come from the simple act of walking around in a dense, sagging atmosphere. Ever try to push over an Alaskan? Can't do it, can ya? No, ya can't, wise guy. But it's still fun to try.
Amsterdam's winter is a wicked witch that flies in from the North Sea, whips over the frozen Ijslemeer and then screams her way down through the winding streets with obnoxious contempt, flipping you a bony middle finger, an icy fuck you to all your thoughts of warmth or comfort. She's nasty and sneering and greedily searches for exposed flesh that she can turn into raw hamburger. A vicious, horny intruder, she weaves her way between the seams of your clothing, chewing her way in like a starving rat, intent on violating anything pink and soft.
Joop says Amsterdam is cold as a witch's tit. He's full of clichés. And I don't know how you would confirm that anyway. First you would have to find a witch. Then you would have to verify that she's actually a witch, and not just a bitch, and I can assure you that's not an easy distinction to make. Then you'd have to touch her tit, a dangerous proposition because if she wanted you to touch her tit she could just make you do it. So, if you are touching her tit and she's not making you do it, she could easily get annoyed and put the wammy on ya, although I don't know if it would actually be a wammy. I don't know what witch's do. Spells? Yeah, that's it. I think they spell really well, but I hear their grammar is generally weak. And they spit when they talk, and make unnecessary hand gestures.
Boy, this is good beer.
Copyright 2006 john bizarre
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