No fun at all, being back in the ugly gray, buried in the dull and mild bleakness of an existence that doesn’t even know enough to care. Having been - no more than 36 hours ago - on a beach in Costa Rica, sipping rum out of a coconut and shielding the sun from my salt-battered eyes, the soft lap of whitewater cooling my feet and completely covered in sunscreen… it’s, aah… well, a bit… umm, kind of dreary then to, aah…
Shit. You finish it.
Usually a trip like this sparks the mad fervor that keeps me ticking; lights the fuse that leads to somewhere, and all without ruse or effort. But not this time.
No, upon my return to the place where the pillows smell like home, the first thing I wanted to do was stare blankly at a white wall and hope for a catatonic state. I’m a patient man but I didn’t think it would take very long.
Purpleshitchrist, I still have sand in my ears! I was sitting at a wet bar a few days ago, by which I mean that the bar was INSIDE the pool. Can you COMPREHEND such a thing? To make matters worse, I’m not traveling yet this week and have, therefore, more scattered time than I would if I were, you know, on the road. That’s sort of how it goes.
Putting my feet to the pavement, tires to the asphalt or just taking off into the clouds keeps my mind away from things like career ambitions and life prospects. It makes the next step the same one that is right in front of me. It gives me focus by blurring the edges, keeping things that are off the scope off the scope.
Late in the evening, almost 9, I put on a coat and went out, looking for something that would catch my attention for a bit, make me think of something other than waves licking the body of a beautiful girl at the edge of a beach of white sand and an unreasonably unreachable horizon. I had been running earlier in the day and had passed a dodgy area of town that made me think of dimly lit pubs in London and strange little winkels selling everything from old lamps to illegal cartons of cigarettes and condoms I wouldn’t trust to safely hold jello. I walked back around that way, hoping for a closer look.
At night all the lights are mostly off, with the exception of a couple of cafes, a coffeeshop across the street and a mysterious ground floor studio with bars at the window that separated the light thrust out to the street into neat little squares of yellow. Weird.
Inside I see what I least expected to find in this place: violins and cellos of every shape and size hanging from special shelves, leaning against tables and laying on individual workbenches. The floor inside is filthy with wooden shreds and oil stains. By a desk lamp in a distant corner is a mad little foreigner, working late into the night. All his might is focused on rubbing a small cloth vigorously against a violin that is already shining. He changes cloths, rubs and wipes again. A real pro, working this late at night.
Either that or an insomniac, a voice says in my head.
And why shouldn’t I understand his plight? Sometimes sleep is elusive as hell.
I keep walking into the darkness towards another canal at the end of the street. When I turn the corner I almost run into what I initially mistake for a gentlemen, his sharply grown gray goatee slightly yellowed from decades of tobacco. He is tall, thin, maybe 55 or 60 and wears a black overcoat that drops down to his calf. In each arm is a girl, blond and brunette, not a day over 22 each. He dresses like a Frenchman but when he speaks it’s with a viscous Austrian accent, rolling his r’s and hardening his w’s:
“Caan yoo teil me vaarr ist de red light deestreect?”
I give him the simple directions and he hobbles off with his ladies, giddy as a pervert in a schoolyard. Where on Earth is he taking them, I wonder, but the question quickly fades in my mind, as such question must in a town like this. Wondering too much about pimps, perverts or punks in a town like Amsterdam will either turn you into one or drive a man straight into the canals with madness and blues.
–
In the dim light of a thinning moon, the damp streets already smell of scattered debris and cheap Chinese food. The violent rain from earlier in the morning scrubs the cigarette buds from the sidewalk. But you can’t wipe the soot off coal without dirtying up something else and the streets have a film of filth in their corners and ridges.
The air is thin, though, giving another sense of cleanliness and above me the space between the apartment homes along the canals seems larger than normal. Scattered lights in the windows cast large squares along the streets and throw hard shadows down into the black water.
A blue sign leaning lazily against a large glass window reads in white Gothic letters: “Christian Rationalism”. To boot, it’s in fucking-of-all-things Portuguese. I ponder the meaning of it for a moment, wondering if it’s something like the inverse of Scientology or if it’s some poor hack who actually thinks he has a grip on something that actually has - as it will surely turn out - a grip on him.
Religious Brazilians struggling in foreign lands, though - there’s little that would be more obvious. Whatever, I decide. It’s probably nothing like Scientology, and yet somehow, just as stupid.
–
At one point I find myself nearly giving up, standing at the edge of a canal, under one of the steel bridges that temporarily spans these waters while Amsterdam is reconstructed. I note, leaning against that cold steel in the darkness of criss-crossing I-beams that there is no guardrail, that the water, the steel, the rivets and I are all a part of the same continuous medium through which the vibrations of the rail trains above move violently. I become entrenched in the city for a moment.
Time goes by like the boats in front of me and the cars and trains overhead. Here, there is no one. The dark thoughts, the demons, they pass through me like the vibrations of the bridge that enter me via the rivet against the back of my skull. Amsterdam is also a place of energy like New York or Rio… but here, where I am, there is no music. There is no memory. There is light on the other side of the canal, where hundreds of bikes are parked with no owners in sight. But not here - here it is just dark.
I try to think of nothing but my head is crowded with distractions and I find it nearly impossible.
Think of nothing. Think of nothing. Think of nothing.
You’re thinking of thinking of nothing. How does that work?
Shhhhh. I’m trying to think of nothing.
I know, but it’s not working. Try something else.
What does that mean.
I don’t know what it means. I wonder if all those people walking around are actually thinking of nothing.
They’re thinking things.
Shhhhhh!
Oh, sorry. Think of nothing… got it.
You do?
No, no, I’m just saying I’m going to try.
Oh. Ok. Shhhhh.
…
…
I wonder how those yoga people think of nothing. Are they thinking of nothing? Really?
Yep. Nothing at all. It’s tantric or something.
What does that mean? Tantric.
I don’t really know.
I know you don’t know. You’re me.
Right.
Say, this would be a weird conversation, right?
You betcha.
Wait, weren’t we supposed to be thinking of nothing?
Shhhhhh!
–
Christ. I am so alone in this place.
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In Amsterdam people don’t just exist in the wet and cold; they live it. It’s a way of life here. The atmosphere is more liquid than gas, more water than oxygen. I find it amazing that humans can survive at all, and wondered for a while if the Dutch have some special adaptation for the environment. But the large tourist population, though in constant flux, does suggest the place is attractive to other humans. It’s just that it rains all the time, and not just precipitation. It RAINS. This is some old testament shit lately.
“you’ll never see me wear a suit of white”
The past two days have been a freak show on which epic poems should be written. The weather goes from gloriously sunny, not a cloud in the sky to dark and furious, the wind sweeping the hail from the streets before it can melt, lifting up even the ones already fallen. It was deserving of Johnny Cash tunes coming from a radio in the corner by the kitchen turned just low enough that you can hear the music over the voices in the cafe but the lyrics are mumbled; a dark and melancholy mixtures of minor chords and baptist sayings that annoy me a bit but make the song genuine.
Yeah. In this darkness falls hail, non-stop furious hail for short bursts. Then, rain. Plenty of that.
A few minutes later it’s sunny again. No trace of the downpour. This cycle has repeated itself again and again every 10 minutes for 48 hours now. Who can put up with this kind of thing? It’s hard to plan a trip to breakfast or a mid-day coffee sneak-out like this. Hell, it’s hard to choose the music with the mood changing all the time. No wonder the Dutch are so obtuse; nobody can stay grounded when the fucking weather freaks you out. It’s like Mother Nature’s natural PMS. Imagine what their government is like…
“I’ll try to carry off a little darkness on my back…”
I went out in between paragraphs and coffees to feel the gusts that I could see brushed onto the shimmering puddles outside and WHAM! - just like that, I saw the roof rip off the bus stop and fly out into traffic. I looked around and saw the obvious tourists gaping at the wreck. Women had screamed and men had startled, and everyone went into fight-or-flight mode in that kind of surprise. Everyone except the Dutch. They continued with their coffee. I turned toMerinda, who runs the cafe I like to frequent, and wailed.
“Holyshitdidyouseethatroofriprightoutofthebusstop?”
“Ya, mahn. Dat is some stroang vinds, eh?” was all she said, and she went right back to cleaning up her coffee counter.
The sun took a little longer to come back that time; that’s ok, though. The sound of Johnny Cash on the radio brought me back indoors first.
“up front there ought to be a man in black…”
Speaking of flipping out, the Dutch government has completely lost it, apparently. In a couple of weeks you will be able to count the whores in the red-light district on just two sets of hands, or roughly, the number of condoms on a good hooker at any given time. After that, who knows?
Like the polar bears, they will soon be gone from their native habitats. Also like the polar bears, nobody is scurrying to put them on an endangered-species list. Strange.
The city council here bought the land and the properties and is starting to renovate and refresh, putting up fancy white displays with fake-plastic jewels and eventually restaurants of the high-end variety. They’re calling it ‘red-light fashion’ and I’d like to meet the bright spark of a marketing student that came up with that one. I’d take pleasure in doming him the favor of smacking the lame right off his face. It’s fascinating to watch, though, both in the day and at night now, with red windows next to white ones, hot girls barely dressed in straps in one window and strap-less dresses barely girl-ed in the next.
Sure there is more to Amsterdam: there’s cheese. There’s art. There’s… well - other things. But the hookers and the mushrooms and the tolerance are a big part of it all, and it’s madness to think that the city would be what it is without those girls, the flowers of the sex-trade. Without them, who the hell is going to come to Amsterdam, and why? For hail?
Hmmmf.
Posted in Politics, Rants | No Comments…
How appropriate. It started when I woke up - there was no hot water and I don’t know about you but I don’t wake up right without a shower. I splashed cold water on my face and said fuck it, I will proceed. I worked frantically throughout the morning, getting stupid shit done and out of the way in anticipation that my new laptop would arrive this week. I’ll need a lot of time to get all of it configured properly and the way that best fits my needs. I have a lot of OCD-esque behavior when it comes to having the task bar up top, for example, and the right shortcuts placed and everything basically within 3 clicks away.
Shut up. You can’t do what I do.
At about noon or 1 I went for my run. Pissed at the stupid apple headphones that never stay in my ears with my stride, I recalled the ones I’d bought over Christmas that turned out to be even worse. I can’t return the damn things for a variety of reasons and I am sort of stuck with $40 head phones that I neither like nor use, and they do not function properly. Ugh.
But whatever. I went for my run, and this always does me good. And it did. When I came home, expecting to take a warm shower and get started with some of the other tasks like getting a new florescent bulb for the kitchen light (which has been dark for 3 days now, since either everyone’s too busy, doesn’t know where to go around here for this bulb, or else all shops are closed at that time when we can go). But I remembered that there was no hot water. Again, fuck it. I sacked it up and took a cold one.
“Whatever,” I told myself, “these are little things. People deal with worse all the time.”
After my frozen shower, I noticed an email telling me I had a package way over at the office: could it be that my laptop has arrived? Sweetness. Tonight would be a perfect night to spend configuring this thing. Cool. Okay, fine, I’ll take the time to go out to Amstelveen and pick this up. I’ll make the time. Shit. But first I’d have to run to the hardware store around the block (in the red-light district) and get the light bulb.
As I turned the corner a street away in a swarm of red-light district tourists, a pretty female cop barred me from passing, saying that I would have to go around to the other side of the block, which is about 300 or 400 meters the other way. Ok, I thought. No big deal.
As I started around the block I saw a fire ambulance stopped right in front of the shop I needed to go to. Fuck.
–
You never see much from the outside, and I’ve come to expect minor things from ambulances because the codes tend to not happen on my shift… it’s relatively quiet anytime I get on a rig. At this point in the story, however, I’m just hoping I can get to the hardware store because I’m so close to getting all these little things done. All I need is this light bulb. And to mail a thing to one of the Katies.
–
But I went around. The fire truck was stopped literally in front of the store I needed to get into. A cop on a horse told me I’d have to wait. That was when I saw the man on the ground with his shirt ripped open. The medics were doing chest compressions and going, in my opinion, far too slowly. I didn’t see anyone bagging the guy, though he was intubated and there was an oxygen container nearby. Maybe there’s a line connected to the intubation tube thingy that I can’t see, I thought. I’m glad I did. It would would have done no good to try and cross the police barrier and have the horse cop trample me. Besides, this cop sounded like he didn’t speak English and by the time I explained that I’m an EMT (something they don’t have here), there would’ve been storms of trouble, confusion and probably a tourist or two shoved into the canal by the horse’s ass.
Horses have big, clumsy asses.
Flash forward to 10 minutes later. Everyone in the red-light district is staring, crowding - even the whores across the canal adjusting little straps on themselves that around here pass for clothing. I stand and wait, doing as I’m told and notice that the O2 tank is in fact, connected to the guy. Good.
It’s surreal to be in silence in the red-light district of Amsterdam, where it’s always bustling, even if it is with the snaggle toothed weirdos chasing cheap hookers and the coke peddlers. Today there is no bustle; instead, everyone is silent, curious, apprehensive, waiting for a shout or a cry or SOME kind of drama, release of this tension that is almost keeping the water in the canals still.
In front of me is a giant black police horse; behind and next to me are two prostitutes that have stepped out of their booths. They are wearing next to nothing but otherwise behaving very much like normal human beings: someone is down, we stop and stare. Some of us hope. Others write it off as a lost cause. Somebody prays, I’m sure, though what the hell good does that do? Somebody wonders why? Somebody wonders if they’re next.
I stand there and consider how I fit into all this.
–
I was disappointed in myself for two reasons: even though it wouldn’t have done any good, I realized that I wish I was brave enough to act without so much concern for myself. Consequences be damned. I want and feel an urge to do something, but I, very practically, weigh options and move towards logic. It’s a quality I recommend and admire for others but I hold a double standard for myself; I wish I was less like this. More John Wayne, less Bruce Wayne. More Captain Kirk, less Mr. Spock. More Vincent Freeman, less Jerome Morrow. More Hunter Thompson, less ordinary men.
This might not make a lot of sense to anyone but me, I realize. I’m learning to be ok with that.
More importantly and less existentially, I was disappointed that what was frustrating me at that moment was the fact that my day was being inconvenienced. That my plans were being thwarted. It didn’t occur to me until I saw the man on the ground that someone was struggling for their very life, and losing, and all I wanted was a fucking light bulb.
–
Eventually - and still compressing an intubated man on 100% O2 at a rate of no more than 35 beats a minute - they got him on the rig and took off. The crowd scattered and went about their normal affairs, whores being whores and degenerates being, you know, weirdos. After the scene was cleaned I proceeded to my hardware store to discover that even with a wall the size of a couple of hummers filled with light bulbs, mine was out of stock.
“I could order it,” he said in broken English, but it would only arrive Friday.
Ok. Fine.
Defeated, I went home and got my things to go across town and pick up my laptop. I put Katie’s letter into the mail slot on the way, though I might have put it into the wrong box and I hope they figure out that the UK is not anywhere inside of Holland. I’m always amazed that the postal system works, and always very wary when I drop that letter into the slot.
Really? Someone is really going to come at 4pm and take this thing to where it says to go? Wow.
–
A good friend invited me out to coffee as I was already on the train heading out. I had to pass it up since I was going to pick up my laptop. Another time, she said. Maybe, maybe not, I thought. People are always saying “another time”. Few of them follow through. You hang on to the ones that do.
A while later I was at the office, picking up the package. The strange little Dutch man in a gray suit and a brown tie with a 1906 mustache and a strange elongated skull handed me the box. Oh no! I thought, as soon as I touched it: too light.
You know when you pour yourself the cereal and then you pick up the milk container and realize there’s not enough milk? Just like that.
“What is this?” I asked him. He shrugged. I read the fine print. The memory card for my phone. I remembered now that it hadn’t been shipped together.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
This card was about the size of my thumbnail and just as thin. but the box he gave me could’ve fit a couple of laptop computers.
Inside the box that could’ve housed the laptop was a smaller box… easily 1/6th the size of the larger box.
Inside of that one was another box. You could’ve fit 5 of those little boxes in the larger box.
Inside that small box was a plastic envelope with a cartridge that was 4 times too small for the small box.
Inside the cartridge was the memory card.
They’d used 120 times the necessary packing for this thing, and made me think I was taking home my laptop, for which I’ve been waiting for over 12 weeks now. Meanwhile, my fateful loaner machine continues to overheat and threatens to blow up at any moment - literally, to explode. I live in constant fear and perform backups three times a day.
Further defeated, I got right back on the train and went home to finish work. No point in trying any more for the day. Time for a sip of bourbon and to imagine what I really want: the rest of the night with no thoughts whatsoever.
I think I’ll go get to that.
–
Bah, it’s no big deal - don’t listen to me. Nothing is injured, health abounds, except for that poor gentlemen, and I still have a full fridge and a roof over my head, as well as a working heating system, though no hot water for a shower. And no light in the kitchen. But you know, those are LITTLE things. They just bothered me at the time. But my landlord told me something yesterday that helps:
I told him I was having a problem with my mobile phone and he said: “What do you mean you’re having a problem? People have been living and dying for 1000’s of years with and without cell phones and now YOU have a problem?”
aahhh, the Dutch. Fuck ‘em. Bless them. I can’t really decide.
Posted in Anecdotes, Rants | No Comments…
After many trials, much deliberation, constant interruptions and no less than 3 death threats the search is over. I have new flat mates. And not a moment too soon.
With one Katie gone and the other soon bound for the grey Isles of Britannia, I was left wondering how to replace such characters in my life. That and their respective rent payments. They’d become such dependable friends and I knew I would miss them so.
Remaining-Katie helped me to shed some light on the matter from her usually helpful female perspective. Her reliable company by the window was just as appreciated with our almost mandatory tumbler of whatever alcohol sat on top of the fridge. Already-left-Katie, bless her heart, could do little from the heart of darkness, the war-and-disease-ravaged lands she currently assists in raising to civility. She wrote to me of her daily issues - problems of blatant and rampant racism, crossing war fronts in the line of fire, outrageous palm beaches with hammocks for the evenings, savage kitten-spewing cats, missing pants and large rats that were somehow responsible for the absence of the pants in the first place. Suddenly my issues of not having flat mates seemed pale in comparison.
But everyone has their problems, and large or small, I had to deal with mine.
So let’s get to the hunt for new flat mates. What this city holds in terms of dubious characters and outright weirdos is understood by some and well-known to most. I imagine almost any place on Earth with a large enough population of humans will have its fair share of shady types so know that I recognize that and am not here peddling in insignificant judgments. There’s no need to get all self-righteous or defensive and protective of your own town of wayward freaks. I know they’re everywhere. I’m from San Francisco and I have friends in other strange places like Portland, Manhattan, Las Vegas, Fairbanks, Brussels and Tilburg. I know these things.
But Amsterdam, friends… it’s a housing mess. This is true. Sure, New Yorkers pay 3 grand for a studio apartment in Manhattan and Parisians have to deal with the French - but do they have to worry about squatting mafia connections and large porn kings returning from a 2-year long flight from the cops?
Rhetorical questions, of course.
But seriously, you’d think that for an apartment in the center that is practically a living postcard with canal-side natural light, an absurdly large living space, a large kitchen, a sink in the bathroom and a decently normal flatmate with all of his teeth would attract good people so fast you’d wonder where they had all been living before.
But lo - the oddities of humanity are larger in number, and they love to answer them some Craigslist ads. They came in droves.
The first two girls that replied were from Spain and came as a pair. Ideal, I thought, and they seemed interesting. Red-and-blue-hair-kind of interesting - true - but interesting nonetheless. That is, until they asked about the possibility that I dye my hair green so that the mood would feel more rounded and we could project ourselves better across the continuum.
“What continuum?” I asked, naively. I shouldn’t have.
“You know, the essence of ‘x’,” said one of them.
“What?”
“Ecstasy,” she corrected me. “It’ll be more soothing when we all do ecstasy.”
It went downhill from there.
All in all I received:
- 21 responses from people living abroad who wanted the place no matter what.
- 12 promises to deposit all necessary funds into my own account no matter how strongly I pointed out that we might have mice and maybe they should see the place first.
- 10 Jesus freaks.
- 8 propositions of marriage for a visa. Eight.
- 6 responses from people whose names were so unpronounceable it was impossible to know their sex. 4 of them wouldn’t say. What’s up with that?
- 6 replies in languages I could not identify.
- 4 requests that I stop posting ads on craigslist because of global warming.
- 4 Nigerian Bankers.
- 2 accusations that I was actually an ex-missionary in Africa who should burn in hell or else pray there’s no afterlife. Apparently there’s an explanation for these on the craigslist website, but damned if I’m going to read it.
- 5 responses from ex-professional athletes in their late 30’s who did not seem to read the HUGE part about how I was looking for young students/professionals between 20 and 30, and not large ex-linebackers for the Flevoland Flounders.
- 1 pet chicken.
- 1 proposition that I help a couple raise their child.
And as I said, no less than 3 death threats.
…what? I don’t always know how to react to people.
Along the way I got, of course, numerous tugs on the sleeve and side-lip-whispered rationales and explanations out in the corridor for things ranging from criminal records to massive debt to schizophrenia. Naturally, I’ve left out the handful of otherwise reasonably normal people that I actually let come over and see the place. But even among these I had:
- 5 exceptionally boring people.
- 4 cases of clinical B.O.
- 2 people with interpreters.
- 1 violent allergy to peanuts AND ketchup.
- 1 more Jesus freak
ughh.
Nothing like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but trouble all the same. I tell you, looking for a place to live or for flat mates to share your own is one hell of an exercise in getting to know humanity, assuming you’re into humanity. So you can imagine my glee when 2 girls of caliber and seemingly normal levels of decency showed up at my door with registration papers, phone numbers, passports and a fun and friendly demeanor. Hold on to them, Pete!
I snagged each of them by the arm, one at a time, and yanked them into the apartment, thrusting the contract and clean dishes at them with promises of respectful living conditions and no more than 1 mouse at a time since, you know, it’s Amsterdam. You can’t keep those little fuckers out forever.
Tibi Dabo, I told them, so long as they didn’t have pet chickens and didn’t set fire to my books.
And wouldn’t you know it? They signed on the dotted line and paid up. Jelena with her thorough accountant style and Maryla with her indifferent nonchalance to anything that might bother her. You can tell high caliber when you see it, I’ve been told. And that night, we all saw it.
Good times lie ahead, I think.
Posted in Anecdotes | No Comments…
Jesus, what a weird night. Things have been hazy in the past couple of days, the return home dropping itself fully on top of me like a large bag of oranges or some other citrus. At first I thought it was jet lag that was keeping me awake through all hours of the night, forcing me to go to bed at 2 or 3 and waking up alert as all hell at 5, knowing that what you need is a 5k run.
Yeah, that’ll do it. What kind of bipolar maniac would think that’s ok? And then be so schizophrenic to wonder why you’re tired as hell come 10 in the morning and again at dusk. 3 days later the pattern continues.
Then someone sent me an article about a drug they’re trying on these monkeys, something that doesn’t just postpone sleep, it replaces it entirely. Fuck, I thought. That’s an elegant solution to my jet lag problem. I could USE some of that.
Then I thought about how the last thing this world needs is another sleep deprived, over-evolved chimp - least of all one who writes in that state. No, we don’t need that.
Now, late into the night, the bottle of Jameson almost gone and the two blunts my flatmate left me still sitting on the table for a lack of a lighter or anything resembling heat in this ancient building, I’m forced into all kinds of complicated things like answering emails about the apartment I’m trying to rent. What hope did I think I had? Craigslist wasn’t made for ads like this:
Death of an Era: 2 rooms available to share postcard apartment with occasionally drunk migrant
That doesn’t work, Pete. You’re only going to attract more degenerates with that kind of talk. Leave it off the papers, man. Get a grip. Sit down. Think. Maintain.
Or maybe just get some sleep.
But how? Later, one of the Katies, due to leave in less than a week’s time says there’s a film I must watch. It’s an oldie, and it’s scary, she says.
Ok. Maybe I’ll get some sleep. Good. Put it on.
“Don’t Look Now”, with Donald Sutherland and Julie something is, for the record of fact, a horribly confounding, twisted and in all other ways terrible movie. Its strangely placed camera angles and scene transitions do enough to trip you out throughout the whole movie, and at one point you start to think that none of it is an accident and that some brilliant art students must be behind all this razzle and dazzle that you haven’t quite understood yet. “I’m sure it’ll all tie together before the end,” you tell yourself.
Wrong.
Imagine that after all the confusion of the 6th Sense it turns out that instead of being a ghost himself, Bruce Willis is actually a Trafalmadorian spy sent to gather toy soldiers from autistic boys. What if THAT were the twist? Would you be pissed off that all the imagery and symbolism had gone to waste. Would you be confounded at WHY any art student would do a thing like that? Would you wonder what sociopath funded a movie of that sort?
Well, now you know how I feel. Sort of.
Because I sat patiently and confused through seemingly pointless scenes that halfway assured me they would make sense later, some creepy shots of blind old ladies and a half hour of a far-too-intimate sex scene showing Donald Sutherland’s hairy white ass. That is NOT a part of well-balanced breakfast.
And for what? The red-coated midget has NOTHING to do with his dead daughter? The murdering old lady dwarf dressed like a European little-red-riding hood and packing a meat cleaver has absolutely NOTHING to do with ANY imagery of the film? Her only purpose is to suddenly turn a drama flick into a horror movie with a single hack of his jugular? What?
Naturally, you’d have to watch the flick to know what I’m talking about in its entirety, but trust me: not worth the time. If you want to waste your time without being pissed off, just watch Transformers with the sound turned off. At least that way you won’t have to put up with Shia LaBeouf’s unwarranted antics and you can enjoy Megan Fox without the winging.
–
I am understandably upset. I imagine the scene in the meeting room where the art students that made this contortion of images at the moment when things go astray.
Lead art student: Ok people, they’ve cut our due date by a few days, so we’re going to have to wrap it up. No more scene additions.
Gabe: But I had this great idea for this symbol around the red candle that would…
LAS: Sorry, Gabe, we don’t have time for it.
Gabe: Fuck.
LAS: Ok, now we need to finish that scene in the dark and fog smitten building, right? Ok. So the midget in the red coat is standing, facing the corner, Donald approaches her, thinking it’s his daughter, the suspense is building, the music is climbing, she sniffles, he says “it’s ok, baby, I’m here,” he reaches out to touch her aaaaannnnnnndd…
[silence]
LAS: Mitch!
Mitch: yeah?
LAS: Wasn’t that your scene?
Mitch: Wasn’t MY scene!
LAS: Loni?
Loni: Don’t look at me, man… I did the weird scaffolding scene.
LAS: Joe?
Joe: Nope.
LAS: Really guys? Really? NObody knows what’s under that red coat? The entire movie has to be based on this. NObody?
…
well, do we at least have any ideas?
Joe: how about an old lady?
LAS: What old lady?
Joe: no, no, the red coat. There can be an old lady under there.
LAS: you mean like the spirit of the daughter aged a century in the afterlife?
Joe: I don’t know. Sure.
Mitch: Won’t work. We’ve been showing a child running through the streets of Venice.
Loni: It could be a midget old lady.
LAS: will you guys listen to yourselves? A midget old lady? Does she look like the blind woman? Or her sister, maybe?
Joe: No, no. Just some scary-looking, creepy old lady with dwarf face.
Mitch: Are you stoned? What the hell is dwarf face?
Joe: Are you drunk?
Mitch: Shut up.
LAS: Look, I’m not following this but let’s say ok, what then?
Loni: Meat cleaver.
LAS: What?
Loni: Meat cleaver. She turns around, looks at him randomly and while he’s trying to figure out who she is, she hacks his jugular with a meat cleaver.
LAS: Guys, c’mon! We’re artists. We’re better than this. Don’t we have any better ideas?
Joe: Well, Donald Sutherland could undress himself and…
LAS: Meat cleaver it is! Done.
–
Or something like that. Shit christ. What a terrible experience. Like that time Aaron told me the “Mr. Green” joke.
Ridiculous.
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