Amsterdam: Bike or Death

May, 2009

Preface:  Seeing as my attempts at quitting my dearest, most friendly, lustful vice have epically failed, or more factually, reasonably failed, I am now documenting some thoughts on my recent trip to Amsterdam and Prague.  I do, however, plan on once again jumping into the very lethal and prickly thorns of smoking cessation in the (near) future, making this somehow relevant to my initial intentions.

Amsterdam.  It is lovely with its extensive canals and gingerbread facades.  It is lethal in its main means of transportation.  Near death experience 1:  A sudden thunderstorm broke.  We were (other persons present protected for various legal and personal repercussions) at the waterfront behind Central Station, a gorgeous building.  Rain, wind and other gusting elements from beyond racked the greying skies.  As we deftly made our way back towards our hotel, by Dam Square, I nearly met the sweet, hallowed cheeks of death in the form of an aggravated Dutch biker.  As I defensively looked right, then left, then right -as we are taught in driver’s ed and some other pedestrian traffic courses I am well versed in, he came from the left, yes, the other left that is neglected in this triangular defensive formation that clearly does not take into regard that two rights and one left clearly neglects the OTHER LEFT!!

Incident 2:  It seems that within the immediate throws of tequila and Coors Light, I cannot clearly recall the exact circumstance of the second incident.  This is probably for the better, as I needed to resort to such diversions in order to heal.  I think it involved a bike whizzing by millimeters from my body.  Seconds, my friend, seconds.

Transportation is extremely bike-oriented.  This is followed by the tram, then car.  You must be aware of the extreme slew of bikers, the tram lines, and the car lanes-I will argue, more dangerous than New York, because bikers there do not follow traffic signals, and as they outnumber other vehicles-it’s a free for all in terms of potential bike death.  I was much more aware as a pedestrian in Amsterdam-two near death incidents in under 48 hours.

Stay tuned to this riveting blog for more anecdotes, conspiracies and meandering observations regarding my travels.

The Defenestration of Girl Scouts

No, I am not documenting nor encouraging the dismissal of girl scouts by throwing them from windows.  I just found it highly inconvenient and surprisingly difficult to secure a box of Thin Mints.  In the suburbs, where girl scouts are bred, their abundance like sewer rats in the city, it’s quite easy to score some cookies.  In the city, on the other hand, I’ve found it takes some research, but ultimately begging and bitching lead to the sugary crack.  This is quite similar to methods used to secure other forms of addictive substances.  But, in this case, there are no business cards or deliveries.

Unfortunately, the existing National Girl Scout Policy prohibits the online sale of cookies.  If I want to obtain this decadence, I must participate in face-to-face time with a girl scout, unless I find a minion to do it for me.  I can also enter my zip code into the site and will be emailed a location where I can find these sellers of cookie crackdom.  Now, before I had to resort to such drastic measures, a savior so very kindly purchased the Thin Mints for me, as he happened upon one of the little greenies this weekend.  Thank you.  I now have Monday morning breakfast, and peace of mind for the duration of two sleeves.

http://www.girlscoutcookies.org/meet_the_cookies.asp

On the Search for Incidental Spring

Day 0

Clarity, however dust-ridden and obfuscated in its little niche behind my couch, sometimes finds its way out, usually on a weekday.  The pattern I discovered shows me footless and motionless Saturday and Sunday, exceptionally anxious and pissed off upon realization of consciousness at 6.55A Monday  morning, followed by extreme hyperactivity and productivity due to an extreme lack of activity for the preceding 48 hours.  This cycle has been apparent for at least a month now, yet any attempts at breaking it, generally feeble, have unsurprisingly failed.

Notes on this thus far productive Monday, March 2- (blizzard):

A wavering flirtation with spring throughout February intensifies one’s awareness of sudden loss at any moment, deepens appreciation of even small advances, but conversely desensitizes one against the cold, as if due to its unusual lateness, its reality is lessened to some degree.  Because it will probably not last long, because it may be the last cold of the season, it does not so deeply affect us.  This function of perception; potentially devastating, redeeming, or moot?

Of Bondage and Violins

Day 0

The two main topics on my mind this morning as I rode the train to work were as follows:

a)  I miss the bus.  Specifically, the pre-high school bus rides in which I was above ground for my commute.  You don’t realize how this can be taken for granted until your musical landscape is composed of other people’s undesirable parts, as well as a minimal, but unwavering  tension that almost always exists between strangers crammed into small spaces.

b) The place where I take violin lessons is quite possibly also a hotbed of S&M instruction.  We’re talking informative and educational courses covering an array of topics such as: golden showers, knifeplay, caning and my personal favorite, suturing!  Yes, we’re talking sewing flesh to flesh, baby.  Now, how I came across this information, and whether it is verified, you may wonder.  In doing some work-related research I happened upon an organization that offered these classes.  The address looked oddly familiar–google maps happened-and there it was.  Same building, same floor.  I find this very intriguing, but am not yet sure what the next step is beyond wondering if someone is pissing in someone else’s mouth while I’m practicing Jingle Bells.  (We played Jingle Bells in August, so it’s entirely possible, even in February.)   Fingers crossed.

Post-Holiday Synopses: Nightmares before and after Xmas

Day XXX

Having nearly recovered from two gloriously hedonistic and lackadaisical weeks off work, and having been back for two weeks of hard-travail, it is time to kick some old ghosts.  Unfortunately, without the rigorous daily routine provided by employment, I slept an inordinate amount, ate erratically, and most detrimentally and notably–became addicted to the tawdry clove!  Seeing that the inception of this very blog had nearly everything to do with nicotine deprivation and the resultant insanity brought forth by such-this should be a pretty monumental, devastating, perhaps monumentally devastating or devastatingly monumental happening.  Personally, I’ve distanced myself from these shocking developments, mostly with the aid of alcohol, repression (mostly with the aid of alcohol), and denial.

I’d like to take this moment to dispel some myths about my new lover.  No, cloves are NOT worse than cigarettes.  Assuming worse implies higher nicotine and tar levels, imported cloves are in fact  similar to the average cigarette.  This myth most likely comes from partial fact-cloves, or kretek, in Indonesia do in fact contain around three times the levels of nicotine and tar than the average American cigarette.  They are not imported at such levels.

So, yeah, I have relapsed.  Officially fucking fallen off the wagon.  My intentions have come around, once again, to bite me in the ass.  A side diversion intended to prevent me from relapse has become relapse.   A cloying, 7th grade habit that once nauseated me, now holds more allure than my dear ol’ friend of 10 years, the cigarette.  That’s fucked up.

That reminds me of a few other fucked up things…specifically, the holidays in New York City.  If you know where to go, i.e. the East Village, for example, on Christmas or Xmas Eve, you will most likely encounter some very odd behavior.  By odd, I don’t mean drunken, although that is a near certainty.  There is a somber starkness to the Village streets on Xmas Eve-unsettling and tense, amiss–one feels something is a bit off, but cannot describe it beyond the lack of people.  It is in this environment that one witnesses a man chasing another man, screaming racial obscenities, holding a smashed bottle of red wine as a weapon.  It is in this environment that one meets two brothers from North Carolina, one polite, intelligent and conversational, the other blatantly trashed, singing odes to passersby he manages to chase down.  The oddness to various bar districts in the city during this time isn’t due to mere holiday loneliness, stragglers out because they have nothing else to do.  The city itself emanates an estranged, twilight zone feel (perhaps this is helped by the actual xmas lighting overdone in too many bars), a strained and forced happiness that doesn’t coincide with the dankness.  This is the pinnacle of palpable contemporary urban alienation.

On a lighter, more relevant note, I’m going to go smoke a clove now.

Post-Holiday Party Hell: The Clause

Day 86

As I debated writing this, hesitation mostly due to the dizziness, fatigue and nausea that is impeding me from any type of productivity or functional activity, I deemed it a necessary part of the holiday party hangover experience.  Sometimes, they say there is nowhere else to go but up. This is one of those situations.  Go back to start, no real use in trying to collect those fragments of dignity scattered on the dance floor, or perhaps lodged somewhere down your colleague’s  throat and/or pants.  This isn’t necessarily the worst position to be in.  You can’t really get dirtier or more shameless so deep in the gutter, therefore, only improvement lies ahead.  Beyond the anachronistic disco-lighted dance floor and leering party crashers there is a tree-lined lane, dappled with sunlight.  You’ll (probably) reach that lane, one day, and it won’t matter how many people you made out with, how many vodkas you vomited, or how you really didn’t pull off those stripper moves even after ten minutes of relentless attempts.   It’s all okay because of the Holiday Party Clause.

So you fucked your assistant?  Did it happen the night of the holiday party?  In the cloak room?  Twice?  Exempt.

Did you make out with two too many colleagues?  Exempt and exempt.

Did you smoke a shit ton of cigarettes, even though you “quit”?  Exempt.

So he tripped, hit his head…you didn’t know it was Special K!  You thought it was just blow!  Fuck.  Exempt, exempt, exempt.

As so accurately put to me this afternoon, the annual company holiday party is the epicenter of a year’s worth of scandal.   That is why the holiday party exists.  It is inevitable drunken mayhem in order to provide fodder for office gossip and intrigue.  We all knew this going in.  And, we will continue to look forward to and participate in holiday parties.  It’s pretty sadistic as well as masochistic, but what the hell else would we talk about between emails?

Nicotine Gum, Save us All!

Day 82

There is a distinct difference between lapse and relapse, or so I’m told by my generically branded nicotine gum pamphlet.  According to this, I have not relapsed if I smoked a few drunken cigarettes, or in my case, chain smoked a pack or two of cloves last weekend.  That is merely a “lapse.”  I realize that when it comes to drinking, I’m utterly fucked.  There really is no way around it…nicotine gum doesn’t cut it at a bar, especially when trashed enough to attend cranberry wrestling at a goth club.  This is why during the week I have to either be a) sleeping or unconscious b) involved in extreme physical activity i.e. intense yoga or sex, or c) extreme cleaning projects such as scrubbing the bathtub, vigorously, naked, with bleach.  I’d like to say that I am exaggerating or over- simplifying, but in all honesty, that is really all I have to fall back on right now. Given my long smoking career, I don’t think I’m doing too shabby at all.  And I really don’t care what you think, unless you are a rehabilitated 10+ year smoker, with a hot body and charm.

I’d like to move along to a discussion of subway art.  That is perhaps a misleading term, as I’m talking about ad space in the trains, which seems to be highly occupied by podiatrists and dermatologists who employ graphic designers who specialize in the late 80’s aesthetic.  By the way, in order to smoothly tie this in to my previous topic, nicotine gum significantly increases my ability to cope with and dare I say, relax, during subway commutes.  So, this morning, cool and calmly detached on the L train, listening to  electrofunk because it’s Friday, and therefore celebratory, I noticed a change in ad space scenery.  Now, any of you who regularly use the subway know what I am about to describe; a space about 24 inches long and perhaps a foot tall, parallel with the bench, that usually features some MTA-hired artist (looking up his name now)…Ok, I now know all about the Arts for Transit program but could not find this specific artist, which is probably for the best.  I did however, find the image:

Personally, I really cannot stand this artist’s whimsical style.  In fact, I always found the rabbit disconcerting.  And really, come on…I’m riding the train during rush hour, trying to avoid being berated physically or verbally, also trying to avoid direct eye contact, and praying someone doesn’t urinate (which has occurred during my morning commute.)  It’s not a magical bunny floating through a cerulean sky.  It’s a dirty, washed out beige palette with fluorescent lighting, grime and rats.  And I’m fine with that, really.  So, this morning I realize there is new subway art on the L train!  And I like it!

This totally tops the rabbit.  The analogy to the subway is much more appropriate, and the background palette is more akin to actual subway lighting and colors.  It has a subterranean feel to it.  I look at this, I think NYC.  I look at the rabbit, I think…an Alice in Wonderland sans the acid. Unfortunately the MTA does not list the artist on their Arts for Transit site.  Boo, MTA.  I did, however, discover the artist of above rabbit; Dave Calver.  He also did the accursed Hand poster..which is even worse than the rabbit.  In fact, I would go so far as to say, I fucking loathe this poster:

It is a lame attempt at Surrealism.  There’s some Kandisky influence thrown in as well.  I think my disdain is culminated in the hands-that whimsical curve of the hand really pisses me off.  Please, explore that psychologically and get back to me, I am just as intrigued.

Luckily, I have nicotine gum to get me through bad art commutes.

Coming soon:  My first topic request! Little Goth Me: An Exploration of Black Lipstick, Fishnets and Catholic School Angst.  Hey, it’s not my idea-but you asked.

It’s Friday! On Vampires, Fellatio and Fun

Day 61

It is certainly notable when one vampire reference occurs on a given day.  When two occur and both are beyond what I would consider an ordinary vampiric reference, i.e. conversational or literary, the oddity not only deserves to be noted, but further considerations should be contemplated.  Am I alluding to the supernatural, metaphysical or superstitious?  Perhaps.  But more likely I am alluding to some sort of vampiric sex play that has escaped me until now.  Or maybe I’m saying, “Watch Dracula” or that episode of The L Word when Alice gets fucked by the Vampirologist.  Regardless of my meaning, the facts remain.

Scenario 1

Approximately 2PM Friday, November 14th

Preface:  I was wearing my faux -fur collared jacket that looks vaguely vintage.  I have recently noticed that when wearing this jacket there is a definite increase in verbal and visual public response.  My guess is the jacket has, in fact, vampire pheromones.  That has not yet been decided.   The following incident wouldn’t be terribly out of the ordinary on any given day, save the unique aesthetics and mannerisms of our hero-villain.

Action:  Enter middle-aged male.  His hair is white, his skin translucent, his eyes a green, gauzy hazel.  He is well dressed in a suit and carrying some sort of designer bag.  Heavily scented with cologne, or perhaps oil.  He approaches from the left after crossing 37th street.

“You have a very interesting style,” he says.  His voice is slinky, Eastern European, lilting.  I see his petal pale eyes for the first time, his cloying scent settles around us.

“Perhaps we can get to know one another better.”

At this point of the interaction, my heart rate is increased mainly due to the level of creepiness that is being exuded.  I very politely apologize that I will not be able to do whatever that statement entails, but have to return to work, c’est dommage.  I looked back twice as I walked up 37th st.  I could still smell him.

So, clearly this dude was a vampire.  That was incident 1.  Entertaining in and of itself.

The second vampiric reference of the day is purely humorous, although authentic.  It involves a letter authored by a very lovely old man who is quite articulate, it turns out.  This letter was addressed to none other than Hugh Heffner and sent to Playboy’s New York offices.  One very lucky man in Consumer Marketing was privileged enough to open this gem.

I can only hope I, too, one day will receive such caliber of mail.  As of now letters from prisoners top my list, and they are all far too polite and ordinary.

Anyway, time is of the essence my friends, so go suck some blood and roll some video.  I’m sure it will sell like sundaes at the county fair, on a hot summer day.  A very sticky, hot summer day.

On subway eroticism

Day 44

There is probably nothing quite like reading porn on an 8.30AM train ride accompanied by bleary-eyed,  self-loathing New Yorkers during the rush hour commute.  I say porn and not erotica because this is all cunt and dick, pussy- eating, cock- sucking verbiage.  I believe the interjection of the adjective is requisite for erotica status.  As I judiciously angle pages in order to obstruct the views of potential over-the-shoulder readers (admit it-you’ve done it, I’ve fucking done it, and considered taking up French again in order to diffuse these situations) I wonder to myself what the average commuter would think of such literature before noon.  It is bizarre to be in a semi-conscious state, sandwiched between a metal pole and a 240 lb., nebulously aged man sporting fatigue-themed fashion and silver sneakers, while reading about Bill greasily fingering the post-grad prostitute in some Key West alley.  The syncopated grinds and halts of the train tend to add to the overall surrealism of the situation.

This is day 2 of my latest experiment-one which I originally took up sometime last year but left at the wayside.  That initial termination was due to Marquis de Sade’s decline into pseudo-philosophical, derivative rhetoric on the nature of man and morality.  I wasn’t reading de Sade for his pre-Nietzschean ideas, but for his portrayals of group anal. Basically, I intend to continuously read erotic-themed material for an extended period of time in order to track its effects on my libido and sexual activity.  This all sounds quite objective and scientific, but it’s really a means to see how I can truly go that extra mile in bed.  Also, it begs the question of whether increased sexual stimulation will positively affect other aspects of my life.  More so, it seems like it will be rather fun, no?

-All reading suggestions heartily encouraged and welcomed

Where is my mind: steam from the gutter

Day 39

I think I am approaching some semblance of normalcy-in the sense of reverting to a comfortable level of neuroses versus constantly combating uncontrollable bloodlust and universal disdain for all.  That is not to say the normal dosage is pleasant, but it is habitual.  Without the context provided through repetition the mind would fragment beyond recognition into a soupy chaos.  And no one wants soupy chaos.  Maybe stewed, or skewered.  Definitely smoked.

Speaking of skewering,  I turned off all three of my musically varied alarms this morning in a dream-induced paralytic state.  I was on the operating table.  The anaesthetic caused a warm, dark fluidity that I embraced.  My grandmother was the surgeon.  A rhythmic gurgling lightly penetrated the back of my brain.  It was my new, automatic coffee maker!  Yes, a steamy cup awaited me post-operation, pre-morning commute, and this altogether changed a potentially crappy Thursday morning into a day that held at least a minute chance at something beyond mediocrity.  All because of coffee.  I cannot speak enough of my reforged relationship with this amazing beverage.  This week has been markedly less full of hate because of it, and I am sure someone or something has benefited from this aside from myself.  I can finally drink this dark ambrosia without the yearning for nicotine, and I finally feel almost human again.  Fuck, yes!

Another accomplishment this week, aside from nearly finishing season 4 of Weeds, is playing Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apar” on the violin.  I know, I know…teenage angst, cliche, bla bla, etc.  But it sounds damned good on strings, so fuckoff.

In other news-my obsessive nature has led to an alacrity in concocting herbal and homeopathic facial masks which I would go on about, but don’t want to sound like some new age, metaphysical type person.  (Reiterating atheism here.)  More interestingly, I have set a new goal: to have sex in a new or outmoded position each and every time.  This may result in some sort of injury eventually, but that will just provide excellent fodder for this blog.