Friday, May 13, 2005

On becoming a man.

When I was 19 years old, I decided that my father was an utter asshole. I picked up the phone, told him to go fuck himself and didn't see him for another 6 years.
Still, some years later, I found myself on an empty railroad platform awaiting a stranger that I hated and loved. He had grown a little fatter, and he still smelled of cheap cologne and tobacco. It was a pleasant surprise to see him wearing old faded jeans and a stained shirt, instead of a suit and tie. We embraced and all was fine. Before taking me to his home, we stopped at a roadside cafe for coffee and all things considered, I thought that was a mighty fine idea.
We talked about nothing, watching the sunset, through the restaurant windows. The skin on his hands had become almost translucent, there were veins running right under the skin. In a rough way, he was a beautiful man. We talked about nothing. And yet, somewhere up my spine, two weary soldiers were staring at each other with tears in their eyes. The hostilities were over.
We drove to his home in silence. He lived in a 17th century schoolhouse, under the shade of an even older village church. I met his new woman, and fell in love with her. She was the embodiment of the wildness he had never been able to express. She had been his high school sweetheart. Back together after 40 miserable and lonely years. I played with his seven cats. I lost a wrestling match with his three enormous dogs. I drove his woman up the wall by refusing to refer to him by his name, or by "daddy". He was my father and I addressed him as such. And all this while, I didn't feel a thing.
I didn't speak much the next few days. Neither did I think much. We took long walks through the Frysian fields and forests. We went sailing in his crappy little plastic boat that he would have given his life for. And once in a while there was a spontaneous, but uncomfortable hug. Two men loving each other unconditionally and neither having the faintest clue how to express it.
He had a another guest over for a day. The talk was polite and witty. In the morning we took her back to the railwaystation, an hour and a half through the most beautiful country in the world. The guest and my father in front having another witty conversation, and me in the backseat, quiet. I remember the look on the guests face when she turned around and saw the tears streaming down my face. She never mentioned it.
After we dropped the guest off, years of pent-up grief started flooding my eyes, my nose, my cheeks. I had no idea why I was crying. My father cursed; went silent; and cursed again. "Tough guys don't cry eh? Father?", I managed to squeeze out of my blocked throat. He never answered. Pissed off for being in a situation that he had no idea how to handle. Pissed at himself for having no clue how to console his son. He never asked me why I was crying. He just stared straight ahead at the road.
I didn't realize it at the time, but something had fundamentally changed in me that day. I had left the disneyworld of childhood and I had become a man. My father never bothered to ask why I had been crying. I guess he didn't need to.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

sixteen, drunk, fuck

This blog is officially a succes now. I'm number one on yahoo search!!! Well, I might be number one but only if you enter the query: "drunk+sixteen+fuck". Still. I'm number one.

Don't even bother posting comments to this one, I'll delete it in a couple of days.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

What the Media wont show you.


This American Murder Machine, forced these poor children to pose for these pictures. Real Muslim children would never do that.


These boys are being forced at gunpoint to hail the American oppressor.


This little girl was kidnapped by this American Evil murderer.


The white American racist conquerors.


this woman was probably forced by the American conquerors to display these images.


Now you see what those awful yanks did?


An evil oppressing American soldier, trying to save an Iraqi child from an Islamic suicide bomber.


Mr. Bush, on behalf of the Dutch people I thank you for bringing freedom to the Iraqi people. (And please pleeze pleeeeeeeeze lemme date one of your gorgeous daughters.)


In the words of one of my favorite philosophers, Wim Rietdijk: Some oppose the expulsion of criminal foreigners, sterilization of psychopaths and ousting Saddam or the Saudi regime. What else is this than openly side with evil?

It will always be a great enigma to me why almost everybody hates the Yanks for liberating the Iraqis......... Almost everybody...... everybody... except the Iraqis themselves.
It's like they don't deserve freedom.

images courtesy of http://www.republicanandproud.com/

Let's go camping

If I didn't know myself any better, I'd have sex with me. (Which incidentally, I do.... a lot.) About a year ago I bought this house which is way too big for a man alone, but hell, I was "dating" this gorgeous woman in Istanbul, and I was thinking of settling down and having some kids. (I'm almost 37 you know.) But for some reason she broke up with me. (Nope, it wasn't the sex, me being the best lover in the universe and all.)
So now, I share this hughe four room apartment, with my cat Mickey. Which means, there is one room I have absolutely no use off.

until today.

It took quite a bit of work, but I finally managed to pitch a tent in my spare room. I got this CD called "Sounds of the Forest", which plays on continual repeat in the room. I bought this deodorant called "Forest Pine", (With a name like that, you can bet it was dirt cheap.) with which I spray the whole room four times a day. I got this battery operated transistor radio. I got this flashlight.......
What more does a man need.

So.

Nowadays I come home from work, and I go to my tent. I lie down on my inflatable mattress, under my sleeping bag, and I read. I seem to be on holiday continually. THIS is the utmost proof, that I am fantastic.
I'm 36 years old. I still do the same stuff I did when I was 7 years old. Fuck you people. I love me!

Monday, May 09, 2005

Indian turd

When I was sixteen years old, my parents sent me to India. I won't go into their motives for this strange move. (That story would include ugly words like: psychosis, hysteria, guru and other words that make you shiver.) I spent over two years there, never seeing my parents or visiting my beloved Holland, in between. It was an "amusing" experience to say the least. The Indian culture never ceased to amaze me. And I do believe, I never ceased to amaze those tiny little Indians that seem to run around all over the Indian sub-continent.
It's quite hard adjusting to a different culture. It's like being thrown into the water, when nobody seems to notice the tiny detail that you never actually learnt how to swim. I was sixteen. Fuck my parents; It was hell.
I had some interesting encounters though. For instance one of my friends wanted me to meet his family. So off on his motorcycle we went, through the slums and rice-fields to a stately mansion in the middle of no-where. During the polite encounter with the family, I suddenly felt the urge to relieve myself, and consequently asked one of the young boys to show me the bathroom. He brought me to a dimly-lit little room, with a hole in the floor, a cup and a little tap. Now for those of you who never visited India, your regular toilet consists of a hole in the floor, a tap, a cup and a lightbulb that dimly lights up your smelly surroundings.
I squatted over the hole, and without much exertion I was able to create a beautifully shaped turd. Panic struck however when I was unable to flush. No matter how much water I threw on it, the turd wouldn't leave. It just sat their, smiling a relaxed and taunting smile at me.
Finally I gave up, zipped up, and went back to the living room, passing the actual toilet on the way. I just hope they weren't too surprised when they went to take their bath the next morning.