These days I find myself bored at work but consumed at home. I struggle to fill the day and then come home to race around from project to project. At three in the morning of Saturday night, a taxi driver gave me career advice:

Don't work for a company, get the company to work for you. They'll eat you up and spit you out. If you can, find an excuse so you can work 4-days a week. If you don't need the money, the extra time is essential to live. There's gotta be a dying parent or child on the way. Even if the excuse is transparent, the company will keep you if they want you, or get rid of you if they don't. Oh, and you gotta visit this girl I'm bangin' in Revere.
A lot of people are turning me on to the idea of moving back to San Francisco. I say back but I've never actually lived within. The city, despite it's yuppies, still has creative life. The warehouses of Oakland beckon. In a surprise move, I got enthused all over again. I've wanted for quite some time to work for the nascent Molecular Foundry on Berkeley's campus. I sent two applications with resumes. No response. As Alex tells me, Time to submit some more resumes electronically so that a computer, rather than a human, can roll them up and stick them in the  trash. I hear a fast server can delete 10E15 applications per second!

I contacted my Stanford advisor, told him about the renewed push to catapult me over the fortress walls of the Foundry. Just this morning, he sent off an e-mail to the director of the institute. So honored, so scared. What if I get what I want?

---

The weekend came and with it all sorts of craziness. I'd say I had a blissfully boring time but my life moves a pace. I've been incredibly emotional of late. All this angry, joy, frustration, warmth is percolating over, somewhat uncontrollably. I feel oddly heavy and sad at work, rapturous during music concerts, and then sullen other times. I'd blame all this tumult on too much to drink, but I realize way back when in high school and at the start of college, I would wound myself up over Harold and Maude or a Cat Stevens album.

The rains inundate Boston but I made a particular point of venturing outside into the thick of it. I only have two days off, and dammit, I'm going to spend those days outside.

I took Dustin to the Haymarket to search through soggy eggplants and rutabagas. No okra today so I settled on fiddleheads. With a backpack laden with tomatoes, I caught the subway south to the JFK Library. Bank of America has opened many New England museum free for the month of May, a cost accommodated by excessive overdraft protection and bastard ATM fees.

---

I have a short list of six places I want to see in Boston before that improbable time when I must bid Bean town adieu. It's been a year and I haven't seen any of those spots, until Saturday. John Fitzgerald Kennedy was born into aristocracy in Brookline, MA as part of a huge Irish Catholic family. You know the story of his presidency better than I do. His library lies near Umass Boston in a forgotten part of the city on the waterfront. The rains poured down as I hopped a bus to the library doors.

Karma came through. I followed an elderly group in, telling them about the Bank of America offer. None of them were card holders, but I could bring a guest for free. A woman older than I became my surrogate mother and was overjoyed with the gesture that saved her ten bucks. And now I know why I got that Sigur Ros ticket on Sunday.

The JFK Museum isn't big and could have covered the historical events better instead of featuring Jackie O and JFK's brother Robert. Nonetheless, the videos were outstanding, especially the 17-minute show of JFK's youth and rise to the Presidential nomination. I saw bits of the infamous Presidential debates between Nixon and Kennedy, Kennedy's wow inaugeral speech, and Jackie's tour of the White House. I'm too young to know many presidents, but JFK's colossal intellect towers over the bumblings of the current president and Reginald Reagan. JFK wrote books, drafted his own speeches, threw himself into the job. He spoke succinctly with theatrical drama that I would like to cultivate; I humor myself to say that our writing styles are similar. He's a colossal role model for a life of service.

The museum has an inspiring atrium. Just glass on two walls, steel pole girders above and beige marbles walls on the other two sides. With the wind whipping outside, I lay on a marble bench to look at the single ornamentation, a large American flag draped from the ceiling. It's a call to action.

---

I'm no Bill Cosby so I haven't thought much about becoming a parent. My brother has a daughter heading on to two. We drove out on Sunday to the homestead to greet my parents, his wife, the kid, and the dog. Nothing big, just lunch we fixed ourselves, and a chat about whatever goes on in life.

I love my parents for their hard work, values, and focus, but I lament our incredible rift of communication. Sunday was spent discussing baseball, the price of silver, and furniture construction. Friday and Saturday night, well, they wouldn't or couldn't know. And so we discuss the stock market until I go home disgruntled, saying to myself that it'll be another month until I return and there's no way I'll spend the night there again. Fortunately, though, my dear parents are wonderfully healthy, happy, busy, and excited. They do well, just not swimming in my turbulent waters. My dad wants to build me a bed.

Strangely – especially for those that know me – I spent a lot of time that Sunday afternoon alone with my niece Sasha. I thought I didn't like kids; I discovered that I'm quite the clown. Blocks are more than just for stacking; you can cup your ears with them, put a coin in one to panhandle, make a tall lamp out of them. I feel like a imaginative kid again. It's one adventure after another with Sasha until she or me get exhausted. Hey, I can be a parent, even quite a good one. I'll probably err of the too intrusive, too accommodating, but that's okay.

Happy Mother's Day, Mum. You da best.

---

 The singer slowly pistons his electric guitar with a fraying cello bow. I have great love for an Icelandic band, the enigmatic and orchestral Sigur Ros. Ages ago, whilst at Texas, I scheduled a collaborative chemist visit to Exeter, England solely to coincide with a Sigur Ros concert in London. Ah, yes, I must be at the lab on those dates, definitely for the lab work. Dear Mikal in London arranged for tickets and we were off to the mid-week show with other adoring masses. The anthemic majesty of quiet force overwhelmed me. Although it was a bit disconcerting to see how the reverberations, hums, and wails come forth from human manipulation of seemingly regular instruments, I couldn't shake that signature falsetto voice I heard on stage that still comes forth in my quiet moments of mania.

 Bitch Cameron in the Artist's Way told me to accept freebies. Rain inundates Boston for weeks on end. Many buy supplies at Home Despot to ready an ark. My Mother worries about the water in Peabody. Governor Romney blames the floods on the sins of gay marriage. Despite the torrents, I purposefully strode outside on the weekend. Sigur Ros came to town. It's impossible to get tickets having tried twice before. And yet come Sunday afternoon, a ticket materialized gratis no less thanks to my patron saints Sage and the force of nature Meridian.

 Sigur Ros played to an exciteably wet crowd early in the evening Sunday night under a billowing white canopy pavillion near the space-age industrial center of South Station. Four of us - Sage, myself, Meridian, and the effervescent Briann (sp?) sailed forth in Meridian's car to our destination. He trooped in with VIP tickets to a box. Sage and I nestled in our seats the back of the audience under a blanket she thoughtfully brought. As the crowd thinned after the opening, we moved forward and center.

 Such a magical band and not many perfomers for such a full sound: drummer, keyboardist, two guitartists, the singer backed by two seated women rhythmically bowing violins. The graphics were primitive and subdued but rich too. Two twin disco balls cast a splash of little lights on the canopied white tent. When the balls spun, the lights races like stars rushing in the cosmos. For another song, the screen projected the silhouette of white birds perched on a white phone line with a black background. A back-lit shone on the torn horsehair of the guitarist's bow. The performers shadows cast large on the ceiling of the tent. The seated crowd looked into their inner space.

 During the calm, we could hear the steady rain. To our left was the foggy Boston sky-line. The singer's voice billowed fog. He spoke in Elvish. I had a quick wash of the General with coca-cola in the car beforehand. I wasn't drunk. The ethereal music, my current exuberance, the wondrous bountiful night buoyed me, surprised me with intese joy. For one number, I thought I was floating. Sage and I nestled closer under our blanket as my legs shook. Sigur Ros played some beautiful anthems from Agaetis Byron and (). I intoned with the singer, tried to be quiet, but couldn't.

 During the encore, we hopped the subway. Meridian and his date were still reveling in their box. I got home by eleven. Little could or did go wrong. All the pieces are coming together and I feel so grateful, so undeserving. It's simply wonderful.

---

 After one hell of a weekend, I've now had a few days of quiet monotony at work - is there any other way at work?. In the tumult, I've had time to reflect on all the fun. Sure, lots of drinks, late nights of partying, talking, and giggling is euphoric, but as a disciplined child of growth, I often look for the lessons taught. So to round out the class today:

 I got a lot to learn

 More and more I kept thinking I was perfect and now I realize that some of my boosted ego does indeed stem from years of growth but a lot of my vanity is just an egotistical facade. I'm pretty selfish. I bully people. I think about my needs above others. I can be loud and still have a tinge (make that a hammer) of playfully-annoying abrasiveness. Much of this aggressiveness comes forth when I drink. I think some quiet decency could suit me better, but how does a single thirty-three year old suddenly or slowly become more selfless? Can I adopt a dog? A kid? Donate a lung? See, there I go again. Remember, it's not all about me. Let's talk about you: what do you think of me?

 People need space

 I got this misinformed feeling that everyone is like me. Everyone likes to talk, everyone likes to run around. And yet some folks are quieter, do matters in their own way on their own time, are more protective of their inner circle. Instead of getting upset that Becky writes back so slowly or Ruben never writes, I just gotta acknowledge their way of communication. So, people, you have space and, dammit, be beautiful with that space. I'll be sitting over there thinking of a million things to say - cause that's what I do to fill the void, but I'll try to keep my mouth shut.

 I need people

 For years now, I've lived alone. And dated alone either with the very infrequent casual relationship of a few months or more likely the decided singleness. As I projected my solitary trend, I presumed that I would end up older and still lonely, but acceptedly so. However, of late, some huge, gnawing part of me wants to jump back into the dating pool. The random hook-up is probably over; it's unfufilling. I want real, strong relationship with communication, intimacy, and sharing (awww), to rip open another and tear at the emotional flesh inside. It'll come, it had better soon. My bed is a bit too big for one.

 Needs

 In a fit of my depression, Sage counselled that our needs are actually rather simple: food, some clothing, a roof over our heads, and something to do during the day. Other people are not essential but are important. And that's it. The larger problems that bother me: home location, job, relationships - these aren't really problems, just puzzles. Some outcomes may be slightly better than others but whatever may come is interesting in its own right. So enjoy what you got, live for the moment in its place, and carry on.

 Life ain't just black and white

 I certainly like to theorize, for example with this list. Life, however, doesn't work in black and white. It scintillates with shades of gray. Matters, especially the complex critical ones that fascinate me are different for everyone. Instead of firmly deciding this or that, to declare everything anything, for example to firmly stay at work or to go, it may be better to let time, my gut, and the wonder of experience to figure things out.

---

Pron

---

Ye Gods, I proclaimed a week ago, having run a 10k race on three-hours of sleep: if I have another weekend like that, I'll end up dead. I had another weekend like that, and I'm still much alive. I don't know how I keep moving and I'm not sure how all these things happen, but they do.

 Some notes for myself for an eventual day of reckoning:

 Seattle Jeep stolen by crack dealers...rift in the force...MIT party too crowded, trampoline nearly empty and just as good...Joad and Leslie lovely as ever on Cinquo de Mayo...exchanged 2-year plans with eager Ryan...biographical interpretive dance...six-hour fiesta at the Palace...forced transcendance...pushy mania...I'm on fire, but is this a good thing?...you can be quiet if you are beautiful...Sage turns twelve, eminates wisdom...rearrange the furniture, close the doors, reflections of Mt. Fuji...passing on of the rabbit ears...botched sketch...the silliness of boys...earned my tail...freight train to the Rainbow Gathering...blue and orange dreads...moldy watermelon at dawn...we come out of shells...dizzy Rosebud...wonderous congratulations...cancel my appointments...no rest for the wicked...MIT Steer Roast take two...blowing up balloons...vision in red and black...fifth-floor frolic...couches in the elevator...Palace party for three...all change clothes, they don't make the man...standing on Dustin...stack em like cord wood...mission botched...tall Vietnamese to stay...drawing 7-deadly sins...logic, not found...what are you doing today besides dying?...Francesca's with Sage...and Alex...snakeskin belt...unexpected phone call...emotional turbulence...magic in the Arboretum...wisdom of the elders...falling apart...the strength and character of trees...wandering paths...channeling emptiness...poi and advice...the herald of spring...exit confidence, enter what? doubt, hibernation...difficult dinner...phone call...redemption...lesson learned, let others just be beautiful...yield...closure?

---

NYC was amazing, amazing, amazing.
 
We got hitched in the Municipal Building and it was a truly overwhelming multiculturally orgasmic experience.  Long lines in a dingy, dimly lit room, a long wall covered with graffiti where countless other couples before us stood to fill out their paperwork.  Absolute random chaos, languages upon languages, prissy brides, laid back brides, reticent grooms, Wall Street power grooms, arguing couples, pregnant brides, brides with huge rocks, brides with bad dresses and bad makeup, mail order brides, brides and grooms who looked like they just met each other yesterday, couples taking pictures of each other.  We had fun noticing that even if you didn't see the couples standing next to one another, you could still pick out which bride went with which groom.  Back the next day to stand in yet another line to register with the chapel.  Long lines of couples called in Noah's Ark-style into the chapel until filled to capacity, then brought in the back room for their own private 2 minute ceremony.  The couple in front of us, Hispanics with similarly dyed orange hair (he spoke not one word of english), were nice enough to lend us their witness.  She took some good pictures.  I asked the woman who married us if it was really cool having a job where she got to see so many happy couples each day. She said sometimes people are happy, but some people cry because they don't want to get married.  She seemed disappointed that we weren't exchanging rings.  I guess not everybody who breezes through municipal buildings for weddings is too serious....
 
The ceremony might have taken 1 min, 15 sec.  THen it was over and we were out on the street, dazed and blinking in the sunshine.  Juilen wanted pictures but there was no one to take any.  After changing into comfy shoes we walked the short way over to Pier 17 where we had seen a Pizzeria Uno of all things, which Muhunthan had given us a $25 gift certificate to.  We wanted to blow it on some drinks but when one party is drinking root beer, it's hard to blow, so we had to get a pizza, and that ended up being our wedding dinner.  We topped it off with 2 desserts each after longingly cruising Chinatown and ending up in Little Italy.
 
We kept saying we didn't feel married, and figured that this is why people do the big Thing--rings and a ceremony/party and shit.  Now that people fuck and live together before the marriage, it's a bit like having a birthday--you feel exactly the same, there's nothing to really  mark it.  Julien felt a twinge of sadness, realizing that he might have liked his family and friends there, but for me it was just perfect.  He felt better about it soon afterwards, though, and we decided we can always have a big 10 yr. anniversary bash with friends and family if we want.

---

Having finished the beginner intensive Spanish class this winter, I enrolled for the next adult ed. Spanish class. My initial foray was a disaster. The pleasant Puerto Rican instructor jumped to chapter 6 where my previous class just began chapter 3. He said I would survive. I told him I didn’t know the preterito of ser and couldn’t conjugate survive. Discombobulated, I dropped down a class level.

I entered the Spanish Inquisition. Our Cuban teacher with beard and longish hair like Castro berates us. “I cannot speak slowly,” he says, “It is better for you this way. You will speak like a native.” The students shiver in their chairs. We try to avoid the glare of the revolution. “Hablabamos, again, hablabamos, you, hablabamos.” The frivolity of group learning present in my first course has left us for the sterness of six verb tenses. My mouth can’t wrap around the machine-gun vowels. And yet I may learn something. The older German man in the class tries to figure out the rules. Rules? There are no rules with Castro.

Unfortunately, once I enrolled for this class, I realized that I was done with Spanish. My attention moved on, and I covet my Tuesday night that is now broken up with a class after dinner. I do the homework hurriedly either Monday night or Tuesday just before class. I used to plan ahead, be on top of things. Still, this Spanish learning is good for me in the same way one hundred sit-ups might be good for me. Think of the Spanish serials I can watch. Only five more weeks.

---

A collection of thoughts.

Both my brothers, budding chemistry professors, applied for the same new faculty grant. I edited each of their teaching and research statements. I wonder if I’ll continue to help them along their rise in the academic world. Editing is something I do well, effortlessly. Perhaps not science, but writing is in my future.

The waves of yin and yang ebb and flow in my life. Monday to Friday, I live a programmed schedule. Up at seven o five, write for twenty minutes, eat the same breakfast every day, out the door, work precisely eight thirty until five thirty. Each night has a list of activities and then bed around eleven. It’s a routine that yields predictability, stability, efficiency. But then the weekend explodes and I’m out until dawn, who knows where, doing who knows what. Parties, trips, and odd meals grabbed when I can. The yin causes the yang; the yang leads to the yin. My energy is the five days of pent up burn. My plodding at work runs from a need to retreat into myself.

Don’t hurt me. At this moment, this early May, I’m surprisingly happy. I spent fall, winter, early spring complaining, complaining, killing. And yet my life has shaped up due to my own slowly massaging, deft hands sculpting who I am and what I do. I like my routines. Perhaps I delude myself into accepting work (as it still is not fulfilling) but the paycheck and 5-day schedule makes possible the other parts with a growing circle of friends. I’m meeting more people, becoming integrated into the community. I like my projects, my little classes. At some point, the novelty will have run its course and it will be time to hit the road and travel, but for now I sit to breathe and survey what I hath wrought.

The tulips from the Netherlands that I have planted indoors have risen. My apartment still lies cold in the morning.

I learned the 5-beat weave at poi class. It’s kinda fun throwing around socks filled with beans.

---

It’s Sunday, eight-thirty in the morning. I’ve slept some, three hours, and I’m crunching on cereal. My brother bangs on the door. It’s time to run. I shuffle to let him in, grab my running shoes, and we’re driving off to the family homestead. My parents are happy to see me. The wife thinks I should rest the bruised foot. I’m surprisingly awake. Tito’s gives you wings.

John registered me for the James Joyce Ramble in Dedham, MA. It’s a 10k race on a sunny, but slightly chill Sunday, the last day of April. He races a lot. I’ve never felt the surge at the starting line. At the estate where the race started, we chugged some free coffee, stretched the legs, and stood with two thousand other runners, mostly yuppies like ourselves from the suburbs.

The wonderful gimmick of this race is that costumed actors on soap boxes every two-hundred yards or so read from James Joyce. A program lists that The Dead happens around mile six while you can catch Ulysses miles three and four. Finegan’s Wake makes a good start. However, few running probably could name anything Joyce wrote. He’s some Irish guy, invented the Joicycle, right?

A gong sounded. We were off. I wasn’t sure I could run, much less walk properly. Images of fire spinners were dancing in my head. The packed surged forth. John suggested I pace with him for the first mile. When we hit the first mile marker, I took off, past the rotary, chasing, chasing, overtaking, weaving. At an intersection, a Joycean reader mentioned “Stephen Daedelus” and I was off, through the town, around a bend, into a preparatory school. At mile five, I wearied. Mile six, I struggled. Keep going, keep passing.

Bum foot, three-hours sleep, I hit the gate at forty-six minutes. Actually, the results post me at:

290 Me #653 33 M 137/504  M2039 CAMBRIDGE MA          46:23  7:28

That’s 290 out of 1924, or somewhere in the top 15%. I kinda wish the 7:28 mile pace was more like seven-minute miles but there will be other races. My brother John-Boy fell back at:

1172 My Brother # 652 33 M 394/504  M2039 PORTSMOUTH NH         58:10  9:22.

Having children is not conducive to fast race times.

The rabbit went home, had lunch with his parents, and then rested. It was already a long weekend.

---

I work at a small start-up tech company in Cambridge. I’d name the company but I worry about mixing my private life with my corporate life. The collision of worlds could get me fired or bring the labbies to the parties. Nonetheless, over the months I’ve been working away, you’ve heard how miserably I am. It’s almost insufferable to keep reading about my constant complaints: pay too high, work too boring, stir paint all day. My ennui churns in waves. When my outside life picks up, I can ignore the drudgery. However, if I’m otherwise bored and have to face only work, well, I mope professionally.

My colleague listens to my moping, and blames me for part of my problems. Don’t like your job? Take initiative and change it. Running around the lake on a Friday for lunch, he mentioned a job opening in his division. What’s there to lose? I could have a new boss, new responsibilities, maybe even a kick in the ass to my flagging loyalty. I asked him more about the new position on Friday afternoon.

Come the following Tuesday, I marched in and asked the science director for the switch. He had to check up on the personnel logistics, but then assented. I feared for the acrimonious fall-out from my current uncommunicative, difficult boss. He never mentioned the desertion without leave, but the two of us are in the early stages of divorce: denial.

In less than thirty days, I switch from stirring glitter all by myself to finally working with people. It’s not exciting work, just formulation, but I get to orchestrate a chain of command. I’ll either enjoy the change or realize that I am way over my head. Here’s to a new start. Furthermore, the new boss, a great guy, is aware that I may wish to leave come fall so much of the grunt work shall be over the summer.

---

My lease comes up June 30 on the Palace. It’s drafty, huge, expensive, lonely. The landcouple that lives above me requested two-months notice if I wanted to move out. Coincidentally, a Davis Square co-op near my house is looking for a new inhabitant. Score.

I’ve eaten at college co-operatives for four years at Stanford, and then lived in a co-op for two years in Austin. In both cases, the co-op life was one of the best facets of my experience. I liked all the people and activity, yet I had a room to which I could retreat. There was always someone new, and a quiet Friday meant discussing philosophy or rutabagas. These houses were huge forty, fifty person affairs.

Last Thursday, I nervously headed out to Millstone co-op in Davis Square armed with a zucchini-chocolate cake and a basket of sweet nothings. That evening, I had a lengthy dinner with half of the inhabitants and then a tour. Millstone occupies the top two floors of a triple-decker a bit further away from Davis than I am. Eight people are pretty much crammed into seven bedrooms.

Dinner was well prepared by my hostess Stephanie, but already I was getting the jitters. The adjacent property was an empty lot soon to be a construction zone for high-rise condominiums. That’s sounds a bit loud, don’t it? The common space was somewhat cramped, disorganized. I admired their rules, but the co-op lacked flexibility. I got the sense they ate kale all winter because that is what was chiefly available organically. The three-hour house meetings, the retreats, the earnestness. I couldn’t envision shoving all my belongings back into a 11x12 room and spending two hours to eat dinner and help clean-up.

It’s just my life has moved on. I have a bigger apartment. I have a strong community of friends. I’m settled so I don’t want to sell the red couches, fill in the nail holes, and pack up my belongings. I called the Palace landcouple on Monday night. I renewed the lease with month-to-month terms. Ah, the Palace needs some work, perhaps a more vibrant lay-out and extensive heat, but it’s spacious, private, funky, mine. We’re tied together until I skip town.

---

I’ve been going to a lot of parties lately. A lot. Like one or two each weekend. I spent too much of my adolescence Friday and Saturday nights on my bed staring at the ceiling until I fell asleep around eight o’clock with the light on, waking grumpy at eleven, and then going back to bed, wondering what everyone else was doing that night and whether my youth was meant to be spent this way. I’m now making up for lost time. I’ll either get tired of staying out until dawn or I’ll never shake the need to be in the midst of the action.

Until then, party, party, party. Clubs are too expensive in Boston. I don’t know any of the local bands. Because of the Boston peculiarity of freaky expensive housing yet a preponderance of post-college artist and tech types, groups of common souls band together and rent a large house or set out to convert a warehouse space. I’m discovering these amazing lofts, rolling three-story houses, cavernous warehouses. Someone, somewhere is throwing a party in Boston. Let’s go, kay?


For those in the know, Beltane is one of the high Pagan holidays. It hovers around May 1, halfway between the Spring Equinox and Summer Solstice. It is the height of spring, the time of greatest fertility, and the return of warmth to the earth. It is also a fire festival and a time for rituals. A couple can get married or hand-fasted on Beltane for a year and a day. An already married couple can remove their wedding bands and the rites therein for this one night. The veil between the real world and the spirit world is supposed to be thinnest on Beltane Eve. You can find more on the internet (no shit): http://www.celticspirit.org/beltaine.htm

I always wanted to throw an orgiastic Beltane party when I heard about the holiday a few years ago. I’m glad someone went through the trouble for me this year. Here’s the invitation:


Wow, shit, a black and white masquerade party at someone’s house. I’m there. I got a lot of black and white stuff. I bussed myself over to Kim and Kyle’s place. While they got ready, I tried to repair their relationship that had a big hiccup a little while ago. We hit the bank for some money, almost hailed a cab, and then Dr. Sewell showed up in a hired car with a lovely Spanish doctor. Off we zoomed over the bridge, into Boston, through the hood, and towards Jamaica Plain. It’s a rougher area of Boston so the mansion was more like a mansion as rents are cheaper.

What we found was a little estate. The centerpiece was a 3-story house lit with multicolored lights, beige colors, plants, and dark statuettes. Folks lounged, a clarinet toned away for an ululating woman. Since everyone was dressed mostly in black, it felt like a gothic cocktail party. Outside there was a canopied tent, a flat one-story garage with roof deck, a large fire pit, and even a barn with a black-lit mural interior for tweaked-out fuzz trance dancing. An elaborate band named Incus lives in this fanciful property.

I brought little, but thought I should mix up beforehand a liter of red lounge gimlet in a Nalgene bottle, you know to share. I forgot the sharing part, and you know how thirsty you can get moving around? Most of the liter was finished and I was, let’s say, bubbly. I had these white horns on my head lit with Christmas lights, and this black and white outfit. Add a little of my standard mania and you get someone all over the place. I either was the hit of the party or the bane of it, running, running, dancing, talking, jumping. At one point, I was poking my horns over the roof of the garage much to the delight of the kids below. After such a boring week, all the endorphins and euphoragens just come out. I hope those who took my picture remember me cause I don’t remember their names.

The trance dj was fabulous. I could have taken anyone in the room home with me. Outside by the fire, a medieval sounding acoustic group of mummers played for their own merriment.

Eventually came the fire spinners, a whole troop of them. Spectacular. Awe inspiring. There was the guy with two flaming swords, the man with the long staff, one end burning singly the other end with a revolving double fork. Then the woman with a flaming hula hoop, three linear sections burning like the double bonds on a benzene ring. The poi with the flaming chains, hell of a lot for someone’s backyard party in the city. Dear god, where was I?

The night lengthened. The sky lightened. Shit, I needed to get home faster than Cinderella with her pumpkinifying coach. Sewell ably drove the gang; I owe him big. I slumbered by five-thirty. Three hours later my brother banged on the door. I had a road race to run through the suburbs, but that’s the subject of another tale. Happy Beltane from the horned rabbit.


A few years ago, a couple got the idea to have a debauchery party. Hand out fake money, let people buy each other, and if it gets kinky/nasty, well all the better as it’s once a year and all good, fake-money fun.

The fourth carnal incarnation rolled around one Saturday night a few weeks ago. The venue this time was a large warehouse space in Charlestown/Somerville. I had visited the spot earlier in the year, precisely at the start of the year, for a pajama New Year’s Eve party with my brother and the couple. That party got broken up by the man around four, so this time there were rules. No loitering outside, lock-up inside at one, you must be on the guest list to enter– no exceptions, and no random photography.

So Sage and I put on some, well, scandalous clothes in the South End. We bumped into a pimp taxi that did a U-turn on the highway to the debauchery den. The den was bustling, but pleasantly so. I exchanged ten real dollars for ten fake dollars, changed into a black devil outfit with wings, and then had a look around.

The joint had changed remarkably from it’s New Year’s Eve clothes like that friendly secretary at work putting on a surprisingly French maid’s latex outfit. A dance floor had an elevated stripper pole next to a swing. A long hallway held tables burgeoning with the bar, all sorts of food, costume supplies, even a food-nipple station for the adventurous. A lounge area resembled a bordello with black and red couches, raised bunk beds, a hookah bubbling away, and lots of nestled folks. The hosts even installed an interior smoking porch: a black lit room with columned and railed porch so those that wanted could smoke thinking they were outside. The strangest part of the place might have been the kitchen that looked like a regular, brightly-lit kitchen, freakishly real in an otherwise freakish place.

I got rid of my money readily on simple pleasures. I bought a drink for two dollars, got someone to bring it to me, three dollars if it were a gin and tonic. I paid two dollars to get a group on the stripper pole, a few more dollars to remove other people’s clothing. The guests wore a panoply of black, leather, furs, slutty, whorish, whips, chains, yes, it was that kind of frivolous night.

The night went on, I got more drunk, met a whole bunch of people whose names I don’t remember. The big winner of the money was a guy dressed as a cop who simply shook down all of us with a threatening billy club for a buck. Don’t worry, I earned my money too. And that’s when the night got hazy. Well, I – um – and then – um – and then lots of – um – but not without some – um – and I thought – um – but that’s really – um – but, well, it’s just a night and I’m still young. The devil costume got changed for a horned angel. I’m glad nobody at work just happened to walk in. A good guy like myself doesn’t kiss and tell, and my stories are lurid enough for this audience; just don’t press me for the details or I’ll get ornery. There was a photo room with real-live photographer. Let’s hope he burns those pictures. Reminds me of the day I got photographed green with the lovely and talented green Alyson, naked in the playa, and got a hundred photos straight to the internet. Fortunately, I don’t remember now the photographer’s web site.

Eventually, six of us crawled out into the gray light of morning in Somerville. The kind Meridian drove the drowsy crew back to my final destination for what was to be a short night. I had a busted car to attend to and my mind was going quickly flat.


Grad chemist at large, Dustin, stopped by Friday night. After a quick dinner, we took off to a cocktail party where he knew a lot of his MIT colleagues. Since it was a cocktail party for engineer geeks, I had to dress the part. Everybody needs a white 3-piece suit. On went the suit, black overcoat, black boa, and white hat. I felt like an idiot on the subway, but the brothers hanging out in dodgy Central Square kept saying, “Nice suit.”

We walked from Central Square to the river. There lay a sprawling three-story house named Brambleberry. It’s an amazing house. Some force of personality put it together over the years. The walls have creative murals like the white room covered with blue and orange twisting arrows. Upstairs is a small wooden door labeled “The Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry Make-Out Room.” Inside is a stand-up closet with furry, pink walls, a hanging lamp, and soft dub music piped in through its own speaker. Who comes up with this shit?

This house had the best house bar I have ever drunk at. A large bar behind which were two floor-to-ceiling dark wood (walnut?) bookcases stocked with a huge array of liquors. You want a gin and tonic? Which gin? Seagram’s, Tanqueray, Boodles, Bombay, Hendrick’s? Lots of glass stemware floated around. Since my foot ached and I looked the match for the bar, I sat at the bar to drink and talk.

Eventually I wandered the run of the house. On the ground floor was a buffet spread with the most amazing appetizers: smoked salmon in endive with cream cheese, stuffed brie, chocolate strawberries, asparagus wrapped in proscuitto, more, and more. Who has got this kind of time and money? I was asked at the door if an island of conservatism could exist in a sea of liberalism. I answered Charleton, MA, the most Republican town in Massachusetts, and then posed my own quandary: can you name all the state abbreviations that are the same as periodic table elemental abbreviations?

It’s a great group, this smart MIT gang. Kind of made me wish I had attend the T long ago instead of somewhat conservative Amherst. After touring this magnificent house, I realized that I couldn’t move into the dilapidated co-op in Davis Square. With another gin and tonic, it was back into the night with my white suit.

Easter came. Spring burst forth. The warm weather finally returned to Boston. Patriot’s Day also came, the Monday after Easter where many Bostonians have the day off to watch either the Revolutionary War re-enactment in Lexington or the huff, huff, huff running multitudes of the Boston Marathon.

With a day off, though, it is time for me to travel, west – young man, to Seattle and the apartment that Holly and her husband Cris share. I have visited several times before so there was no need for our usual madness, but as Holly and I share a special bond over ten years, we like to reconnect when we can.

I left work leisurely Friday night, hopped a direct flight west that lasted agonizingly long. Why do I keep flying? When will I learn? I thought with the midnight arrival time, we might hit the clubs that Friday night, but with the late flight, we were too tuckered out and just went home. I slept in the dungeonette on an air mattress. One weekend, I’m sleeping in a room with twenty tarantulas in rural Virgina; the next weekend finds me in a dungeonette in Seattle. Let’s see what the future holds. A rubber ball factory in Cleveland?

Holly is good to show me the grandeur of Seattle’s outlying topography each time I visit. California only wishes it could be Washington, more remote, more rugged, more green. One trip, we hauled ourselves to the far corner of the Olympic Peninsula. The next trip we holed up in Gig Harbor. This time, we drove north and west to Whidbey Island, nestled in the Puget Sound. The plan was to explore the coastline Saturday and Sunday and stay the night in a high-frills, inexpensive hotel for a night.

The plan hit a snag immediately when Holly’s boy Cris understandably got annoyed with our chatter. Many friends notice that Holly and I can be insufferable together, emitting a stream of manic banter. Furthermore, the triangle dynamic might have doomed a placid weekend away; two men vying for the attention of the same woman could have ended in disaster. But, he politely bowed out, suggesting a bad headache, and we dropped him off at the apartment to tend to video games and coveted time just to chill.

We chilled ourselves in the rain, then hail, driving out of Seattle. The rain stopped when we arrived at the tulip fields. Now I’ve traipsed Dutchyland’s tulip fields countless times so I was surprised here that Washington state had its own version. Instead of windmills and clogs, there are bleak fields and majestic snow-capped mountains. The topography is astounding even if the variety of colors and sheer number of fields aren’t what you might find near Leiden.

We picked up a tulip map and tootled around the countryside stopping in the cold. Holly shot a bazillion, most wonderful photographs while I contemplated humanity in the bower of red or yellow petals. Some tourists were about and cars were slowing and stopping all over the place. A neutral-density filter brightened the foreground of Holly’s photos while I stared at farm buildings. Every field contained an abandoned, yellow school bus.

While the sun grew lower in the sky, we climbed the bridge in the car, passed the massive Indian casino to Whidbey Island. We parked at an empty motel with spacious rooms, even a kitchenette in the room. Dinner found us at a local Thai place and then we returned to hunker down for the night. I wanted to stay in from the cold, but with some prodding, Holly got us out to the two hot-tubs and heated pool, all vacant except two frolicking folks with bunny ears (us). She’s a Pisces; I prefer earth, thank you very much. The stars were up and the water remained warm.

What do two educated kids do in a hotel room for a night? Drink lots of the General and then take massive amounts of photos. Heck, we had Tito’s, sugar, two big bags of lemons and limes, glasses, even a kitchnette. It was PBS’s Red Lounge Gimlet Road Show . We started our rapport with the General and strapped on a pair of novelty bunny-ears, perfect to celebrate the eve of Easter and our intrinsic silliness.

Now I take good pictures. Everyone wows over my photos. But try as I might, this girl Holly is a professional behind the lens both with expert equipment and a patient eye for capturing moments. When she’s not shooting shots of yours truly, she’s an overworked wedding photographer. As the night got longer and longer, she shot more and more photos. We analyzed lighting, mood, expressions, bunny ear placement (like tv reception), and dress. Five hundred freakin’ pictures. I won’t claim again that I don’t have enough self-portraits. I’m famous, I’m a rock star.

Sorting through the resulting cornucopia, I revel in the emotional range of the subject. Who is that guy with ears? He’s got such energy, mirth, life. For thirty-three, I think I still got a lot of oomph to enjoy the next thirty-three. When Holly tripped over the couch and I started running circles in the room over the two hotel beds, it was a sign that the lack of sleep had met the surfeit of vodka.

We woke with ears on, paid the hotel bill to a laughing desk clerk, and jetted back to Deception Pass. By a towering bridge over the canal that links the Sound to the ocean, we strolled from the beach up to the bridge, taking more pictures, reveling in the day. Further up the road, we walked some more around the coast. Holly suggested better camera equipment; small digital cameras quickly take crappy pictures. We stopped at an abandoned fort and lighthouse. We climbed the lighthouse tower. Huge green guns pointed absented towards Russia. I fell in love with green grass, metal, and concrete. Never thought I would like concrete, but I do now. Cover my apartment with it.

We had a late Easter lunch at a Wendy’s in town. I stuffed aside my aversion to fast food, more than made up for the hot register girl who laughed at my ears. Can I take her home with me? Bad bunny, bad bunny.

The rains returned for our ride back to Seattle. We reunited with the boy. Holly cooked an Easter dinner of lamb and asparagus that we ate while watching The Howard Stern movie. Cris had to sleep early due to a long day ahead.

On Easter morning, Holly ran errands and I got to tour Seattle. We walked through the Fremont section of town that is an old hippie enclave with a Nepalese import store, garden greenhouses, and Thai restaurants. A huge concrete sculpture of a troll clutching a real VW Beetle sits in wait under the Fremont Bridge. It’s a great side of town, perhaps one place for home if I ever lived in Seattle. We had a sushi lunch at an airy, hip place with conveyored plates of sashimi and edamame zipping by. We checked out a small park with twisting paths and an old gas works for a view of downtown. The sun was up; an amphibious plane landed in the harbor; Seattle was eminently livable.

We rented a movie, cashed a check, paid off Holly’s post office box, and headed home. We talked a bit about art, waited for the boy to come back. As the evening progressed, he got grumpy. It’s tough for him with a dead-end job and a timed struggle to get back into school. If they two of them can straighten out their finances, they’ll be fine and his mood will likely improve. We watched Baraka, a film I saw with Becky a week before that shook my view of the world and how to travel it. It was time to hop a night flight back to Boston. Agony, agony, but such light joy in the tulip fields of Washington.

Everyone’s luck runs out. My streak ended last weekend. Simple. A party. Need to get there. Should pick up Sage and then motor over. Really simple. I got a ZipCar membership so I hired a car for the day and night, a Mazda in my neighborhood, brother to my former Gobi vehicle.

It’s seven at night and I hustle some wings, horns, fur coat into the car. Don’t ask. It’s raining and the sun is fast setting. I nudge the car out of its cramped space and then I’m careening down Mass Ave through the pot holes of Cambridge and over the river into Boston. The driving is not going well. The car seems to veer to the right.

I make it into Boston, past the dinner crowd and the mass of taxis, and through to the South End. Parking is horrible. I dump the car in an alley. Damn, damn, damn. Flat tire on the front right.

I unload the wings, horns, fur coat into Sage’s apartment. Don’t ask. I freak out. Fortunately, Sage is not a freaker-outer. She counsels calling ZipCar. The company wants me to wait for at least ninety minutes for AAA to come by. It’s raining, dark, and the wheel is on the side where the road is. Bad idea. We take a cab instead.

Sleepy Sunday, I do call AAA again. A friendly guy switches off the jacked flat and puts on the spare donut. Now I know how to change a flat. I motor the car back to Cambridge at a much more relaxed pace. I park the car, call the Zipcar company, and be happy that the ordeal is over.

The ordeal isn’t over. ZipCar contacts me Monday morning. The wheel is busted. So are the suspension and the front fender. They want eight hundred bucks. Now I freak out. An e-mail battle breaks out. I lose. I call the garage. The mechanic straightens me out, says that indeed with a flat tire, the Mazda turns into a low-rider where something an inch off the ground will crumple the fender. Time to pay up.

I should of put the whole thing on a credit card, taken the Visa auto rental insurance, but I cut up that card due to a wrong address and late fees. There’s a five hundred dollar deductible. I pay it. In return I get a digital picture of what I hath wrought. I still think the previous driver left me a bum car, but a little money can fix problems. In this case, a lot of money.


A car is a car. I can always walk, can’t I. Not always. Last Wednesday, I go out for my daily run around the lake. I step off a curb, my foot curls toes first under my foot, and with the pressure of the rest of my body, wham, I can’t walk. I hobble around some, go for the run, and then sit at my desk. As the evening comes, I can’t walk at all. I spend the next few days shuffling around, trying to hide my lameness from my colleagues cause I’m such a stoic. Fortunately, I didn’t bust the important bits, the ankle and the knee. Unfortunately, I have a party to attend on Saturday night and a 6-mile road race to run on Sunday. Not what the doctor ordered, but both the party and the run happened.

My faith in humanity has been restored. A book told me this week I should accept freebies.

 A slow Thursday night in springtime, I loped after dinner (asparagus risotto) down to Davis Square. There was still light in the sky and the dogwood came out. I have been catching up on entertaining movies at the second-run Somerville Theater. Tonight I settled into Dave Chappelle's Block Party. I liked the comedian for his "edgy" sketch show as well as for his self-effacing stand-up. Furthermore, I knew the movie was about Ohio, and not just any Ohio, hippie smallsville Yellow Springs, OH, home to Antioch College and my dear brother, professor of chemistry at large. See, Dave isn't from the hood or the big city. He's from Yellow Springs. The coffee shop in town has his coffee mug as well as my brother's and his movie, Block Party, premiered at the little movie theater.

 So Dave, settled into the success of his own sketch show, decides to do something different: bring together the contemporary musicians he admires for a block party in a derelict part of Brooklyn, Bedstuy. Kind of like Watt Stax but for New York at the turn of the century. Kayne West signs up, so does the Roots, then Lauryn Hill.

 The movie opens with Dave back in Ohio inviting a few brothers and a few squares to his block party in New York. He gives out golden tickets for bus ride, hotel, and ticket to the show. Hey, there's Yellow Springs. There's Tom's Market, and there's HaHa Pizza, and there's Dino's coffee. Where's my brother's house? Dave runs into a college marching band, the predominantly black CSU (Central State University?) band from Ohio and invites them along too. In New York, Dave lines up a location, a block fronted by a decaying church, the Broken Angel, restored by two hippies. There's an elementary school across the street and a Salvation Army.

 The concert was fine. I'm not much of a rap afficiando. Jill Scott and Erika Badu belt out some soul numbers. Lauryn Hill returns with the Fugees to bring down the house. The star, however, is Dave Chappelle and his irrepressible wit, charm, and innocence. He busts on everyone and brings everyone into the picture. A free show with the big players in New York one overcast September Saturday. It's about community, about spontaneity, about doing something just cause you can. My faith in humanity has been restored.

 But, shit, that faith doesn't apply to Boston. People rather stare at the street than look you in the eye. Even among the groups of which I'm part, it takes weeks for introductions, and then you may or may not speak after that. It's a cold world up here in the North East.

 I exited the show, hit the street, saw the moon rise, and headed back to home. Taxes needed to be done and I wanted to open a savings account with ING bank. I passed the ludicrous overdone bar-club that's part of the Indian restaurant Diva, turned down Chester St, past Red Bones, and into the warm evening. In front of 31 Chester, a blue Victorian that I came so close to living in last March, sat five or so people. Simple question shouted: hey, you, do you want a drink? Sure.

 They had martini glasses, little cordial shots, beer, Benedictine, pear-flavored liquor. No reason, no occasion, except the moon was full, one of the couples was moving, and they just made a run to the large liquor store in Brookline.

 I got handed a glass of Benedictine and Brandy. The block party continued. It was as fast as a car wreck, but a good one, a car wonder. There was a middle-aged man named Lang and his irrepressibly cute girlfriend. They met at the renaissance faire in Novato, California. The bubbly and quite drunk Asian woman named Jimini. Then the guy that lived next door, in a tuxedo having returned from the Free Mason lodge down in Porter Square. His Japanese girlfriend Icoca shyly came out later.

 The party, though, grew as we pulled in more people from the sidewalk. Apparently, the four of them called out to twenty people so far, and I was the second to accept a drink. Bostonians are a bit skitish and skeptical: is this some kind of prosletising ceremony? We were joined by Dahi, a Irish guy conveniently on the way back from the local liquor store. He rang up his friend Emily. A middle-aged woman reluctantly joined us, didn't want a drink, and then downed several pear shots. She told me all about the good nights for bars and her review of Block Party. Matt came.

 A bit strange to ram into so many people at once, and then to quickly learn so much about them. Let's see. Lang lived once in San Francisco where this kind of propaganda is more common. He already had two kids from a first marriage. He dropped art school in San Francisco to take up database programming. His girlfriend works in a realtor's office in Cambridge. They move on Saturday close by to Somerville's Inman Square. I gave her my number; she used a make-up pen on a scrap of paper. One B&B cordial turned into two glasses of pear liquor followed by two beers. Lang ran into the house in a tizzy to scare up some cranberry juice. A cosmopolitan was urged on me. A few folked came that were either coming from bars or on the way to more bars. For one like me that doesn't go out, I was surprised that there is a community of people who do, and walk some distance to do so. Hmmm, Toast on Monday nights.

 The neighbors called to complain about the noise. The party broke up friendly between eleven and twelve.

 The moon hung in the sky. I tangoed home. Taxes will get done another night. My faith is humanity has been restored.

    On the plane to London, I made the return trip through Boston. I’m tired now; I wanna sleep some before I hit the Continent. I’m apprehensive spending a day by myself in Amsterdam. Sure, I know the city but do I really want to eat alone and hit the cafes alone? The Dutch can be intimidating but I must do what I must.
    The language comes back to me slowly. Europe is supposedly freezing. I did bring enough clothes and I am wearing clean underwear. It will be great to see all the kids again but naturally I fear for the en masse reconnection. Oh well, just dive in.


    Hey, I’m caught up. This writing is actually a morning page from our stopped aircraft at London’s Heathrow Airport. Bitch of a phrase for the poor French.
    This airport is a colossal abomination, an anachronism that survived the world war. With four terminals connected by bus routes, roundabouts, viaducts, Heathrow is more like four airports.
    I took a bus from terminal 3 to terminal 4, and then wandered past the high street stores in the terminal. Heathrow is a freakin’ United Nations of peoples. Gangs of Indian families rush hither and yon.
    I’m surprised I lived here once. The shoppes, newspapers, signs are vaguely familiar and yet now decidedly foreign. Maybe because I flew in from Texas but I no longer have a desire to live here. It’s too aloof, provincial, petty, foreign, British. I have no friends here except for the good doctor in Exeter.
    I hope I don’t have the same reaction in The Netherlands. Amsterdam will be home for two days, and I loop around feeling disdainful, it won’t be much fun for my stay. I may sleep some first at the hotel. Where, though, to eat? The skies are still bleak. How to tell whether rain comes? Probably not a question of if, but when.

    Yo, I’m here. It’s 3 in the afternoon and I’m having my first biertje of the day. Amsterdam is a strange city, fun but impersonal, like a prostitute. I’ve been wandering around on my own for 3 hours getting my bearings.
    3 hours and I have already bought some tulip bulbs, drunk a cappuccino on the Spui, had a biertje on the tilting canalside bar, shopped for a T-shirt at the Waterlooplein market and stopped by an internet café.
    It’s crazy freezing here, six degrees (Celsius, natuurlijk) making staying out all day chilly. I didn’t bring gloves but I did buy a hat in Austin. The sun shines a little, a good day if any in Holland.
    It’s pretty dead everywhere. Weekends, especially late spring weekends, are busier. Winter still holds this village in its thrall.
What am I supposed to do here? I dunno. I have a hotel room, some time, some money. Let’s see what comes up. Oh, by the way, the coffee sucks here, but at least it is served with a cookie.


    The sun is about to set. It is almost six o’clock. The wind picks up, shoppers hurry home. I sit pretty much alone in a trendy noodle bar called Wagamama. Fortunately, there are some other sad singles like myself and the restaurant is quiet. I was wondering whether the Dutch eat out early or late, and then I remember that they don’t eat out. A bunch of the wait staff speaks effortless English as they are indeed British. I guess the company recruited ex-pats for a primarily ex-pat clientele.
    The service feels like it takes forever, but remember that this is Amsterdam and I can’t do anything first without visiting a coffeeshop.


    Hey, I’m in another coffeeshop, but having just coffee. See, I don’t have to get high all the time, just some.
The evening took some normally strange turns last night where I left off at Wagamama. An American couple sat next to me. I eventually had the nerve to strike up a conversation. They were concluding an 8-day trip in Amsterdam, and it sounded like they weren’t on a Gestapo tour nor were they drinking a lot of coffee.
    Probably college kids on a spring break. I told them my story, urged them to explore, and lamented the aloof Dutch culture. The conversation halted when I mentioned the Rokerij coffeeshop. I don’t think drugs were their thing perhaps now I was associated with the stoner American underworld of Amsterdam. Dramatic silence ensued until the guy wanted to know whether the Rokerij was located. I drew a map on the back of a Wagamama card and showed them their way. Score. Maybe they will go before their jam-band opens at the Melkweg.
    I wandered to the Rokerij myself through the 2-foot high chess set at Max Euweplein. The joint was almost full. In the Rokerij I found a comfortable seat. I was asked to take off my green cap. Strange, it’s an anti-gang thing. I ordered up a tea and then a biertje. No American couple. I eyed a woman standing by herself giving me the eye. Some of the novel charm of the opium den of the Rokerij has waned with my frequent visits but with its laconic four fans, wooden staircase to nowhere, and columns that don’t quite reach the ceiling, it’s a fantastic coffee emporium.
    After the Rokerij, I had a big-ass beer – Barbar (8% ABV) at a Belgian bruin café called La Chouffe. I sat at a table for six occupied by a wizened Dutch homeless man with headscarf. The waitress fed him peanuts, tomato juice, and Sauza tequila.
    I lumbered up and to the Winston to drop off my E-Ink messenger bag at the Billy the Kid room in the Winston. I looped up to the 3-story coffeeshop called Abraxas right off the Dam. I ordered a coffee and sent some manic e-mail. Upstairs, I had a light next to 3 giggling Americans – not my thing. Still, Abraxas is the most gezellig of the shops and they have an outstanding baked goods section.
    Time to venture home past the prostitutes, hustlers, homeless to my quaint Billy-the-Kid room. Strange to be hazy once again in Amsterdam after quite the day.


    Couldn’t help myself, but this is the Rokerij chain and I do hope to visit three of the four of these fabulous coffee emporiums. More tea. Forgot to take off my cap again. I’m such the gangster.


    Wandered to CS Stedelijk Museum. It’s Amsterdam’s modern art museum moved temporarily for a few years to the 2nd and 3rd floors of the former main post office near the train station. It’s one of the few (10) things I wanted to see in Amsterdam but haven’t yet gotten around to do.
    A hefty 9 euros gets you in and there isn’t lots to see, but the quality is superb. Let’s see, I saw four or so films by a contemporary directress from Iran. In one film, black clad men bury a body near a ring of black crouching women while a ring of fire lights up the desert. Music by Philip Glass. In another film, a woman sings to an empty audience a Don Juan sings Rimbaud verses to an audience of only men. A section of the museum was devoted to video game-like installations. In one vignette, the artist compiled Doom-like characters killing themselves. In another screen, I saw an archer character climb the mountainous back of a Ton-Ton to stab it in the temple. In other parts of the museum, there was some great, bulky rock furniture and portraits of decaying cars. Only in The Netherlands do I feel comfortable checking my bag at the front, the small bag with the lighter, pipe, and weed in it.
    I’m in the 14th century Waag (weigh house) having an espresso and a fancy slice of tart with slagroom. I eye two American women, one quite fetching. Maybe hitting the road is a good way to meet a mate.


    I had two tipples at Wynand Fockink when it opened at 3. It’s an ancient, standing room only, bar next to the opulent Hotel Krasnopolsky. Their specialties are brandewijn, flavored spirits that are fruity. I drank from a small borrel glass a veenbes (cranberry) and barmen (some other fruit.)
    Meanwhile, I chatted up the bartender – bald, mustached, youngish, exuberant – and an older Dutch woman. They ask me in Dutch/English my thoughts about The Netherlands and told me their stories of Boston. I could follow their Dutch quite well but don’t have the vocabulary to respond in kind.
    4:30 and I await Dutch Girl. Should be interesting.

… And a whole hell of a lot of …


    I think Linda told me on Friday about the daylight savings time change on Sunday but who the hell am I to remember? Furthermore, I knew that Amsterdam held this weekend a gigantic housewares exposition, but I didn’t know then that 100,000 farmers would spend their Sunday morning driving to Amsterdam clogging the highways. So I got to the airport thirty minutes before my international flight departed. I ran through customs and the rest of the airport to get to the gate 15 minutes before the flight departed. I got on the plane 3 minutes before they closed the doors and 5 minutes before we pulled away. Such a modern miracle all with some hand luggage and a on a cup of coffee, a bowl of loops (cereal), and a few slices of thick, buttered ontbijt brood. I made it, not an omen for the trip as this suggests a future portent, but rather a symbol of seamless good fate working in the past to buoy my life forward, a march towards destiny.
    Those fickin… are going to be hard to fill. It is Sunday afternoon and I must somehow recall back to Wednesday afternoon. Four days. What can happen in four days? A lot.
    As I waited in the Billy-the-Kid room of the Winston, Dutch girl arrived late. It is difficult to write about the evening as our expectations were so different and now due to tacit conflict, we may never speak again volgens mij.
    She asked for a drink in a coffee shop. It was to be our evening of baudy decadence without involvement. I took her to Abraxas, sadly full of thugs. I had a brief joint over a kopje koffie and a conversation. I felt as if little time had past between us.
    Supperclub was closed during the week. I suggested instead Club 11 with the floating Chinese restaurant as a dinner back-up. Although difficult to find, Club 11 (Elf) was indeed open. We ventured through a graffiti corridor in the back of a semi-condemned gray concrete office tower to reach a service elevator that took us to a spacious green and beige restaurant. Club 11 had changed little since I took Rene a year ago for lunch.
    Wednesday meant a reservation was not necessary and a table was free. I watched the city grow grey as the day ended. We ate the thirty euro set menu with asparagus fritter, sword fish, and apple tart. Her panacotta in chocolate saus had hot piri-piri in it.
    We took the elevator back to a windy cold city. She wanted to see women; we were to see women. We stopped into a half full bar on the thick tourist Damrack, a

- Tea on a flight to London; what could be more British? –

bar called Teasers. Slightly chunky women in black thongs, furry white go-go boots, and white tops tease you to buy six-euro flasks of pils. She drank a cola lite and I had a big beer as we ogled the talent. Damn fine but crass nonetheless. A US Hooters would find the attire too skimpy the bar too prurient. With the whores on display a few streets over, Teasers seems simply Disney in its family fun.

- My nails are too long –

As Emeril would say, time to kick it up a notch. Baam, I dropped off bag so we could wend our way into the bowels – no breasts – of the Red Light district. I knew of a strip club (stiptent) that I could see from the fourth floor of the Winston Hotel. Down a narrow alley, past velvet curtains, fluorescent lights and red lamps, to a Moroccan guy at the door that wanted five euros. Through some black curtains to a small bordello of a bar with two rings of tables and a lot of chairs. We bellied up to an older Dutch cocktail waitress with her tits out. Two women danced back and forth above us on the bar. A large bespeckled American businessman was lovin’ it at the end.
    The game for the girls was to sell lap dances. In pleasant but persistent English, the two women – on a little black, the other a little Spanish – asked whether we wanted a dance. The two younger, bedraggled American guys next to us declined and told the head waitress that they earned a living in the States moving weed.
    She bought in. The slightly black woman was full of joy and tits: Hold your hands on the rail. Shimmy, shimmy, bounce, bounce. Now I turn around. Grab my tits-only for the lady. So strange, so normal. What life am I living again? I left a ten euro service fee between Dutch girl’s seated legs for the “dancer” to bite with a bend over. We watched two more women, one more black, one Filipino, dance to an uninterested audience. The previous dancers emerged from the back mostly clothed to chat up the patrons and to urge us to buy them expensive drinks. The balding bespeckled American businessman bought round after round of gold martini cocktails with jovial trepidation. I told Dutch girl was similar to an American strip club but smaller. She wanted more action. It’s Amsterdam; more action is always possible.
    If a woman you are interested in suggests a date at a live sex show, she won’t fuck you afterwards. All that sex for her on stage is merely aesthetic, comic, and remote. I’ve take two women to Casa Rossa in Amsterdam – not at the same time of course, let’s be decent – and I have a zero percent success rate with post-theater bedroom shenanigans.
After watching sexy waitresses, rubbing breasts of strippers, the Dutch girl wanted the real thing, dammit, and having me plow her unmetaphoric furrow like a spring farmer in heat would not do. Instead, we ponied up thirty euros a randy head for the privilege of cramping into tiny movie theater seats in a red shoebox of a theater with a bunch of Japanese, a few giggling American spring breakers, some perplexed older couples, and groups of British hooligans smoking their fags.
    Scene 1, a bored teutonic woman removes her leather, she lights a cigar, and then she smokes the cigar on her back, legs in the air, out of her pussy. Scene 2, a leather pony-tailed blond guy fucks his girlfriend slowly on a stage that revolves. Scene 3, a comedy act in which a frazzeled American college cap boy eats a banana out of a pleasant woman’s snatch. Scene 4, a shaved head burly black man fucked his Nubian wife thoroughly and energetically. After 6 numbers, the snow repeats anew. Between acts is an intermission in which bored viewers can buy fifteen-euro drinks. When the tired pussy-cigar smoker returned, it was too smoker and past time to leave.
    We tred the dark streets through bands of leery tourists past tapping fluorescent windows and over arched canal bridges back to the Billy-the-Kid room at the Winston, a room that Dutch girl clearly loathed. During the sex show, I made a point to myself to think once about work so that when I return to the office, I can say that I was contemplating the progress of polymers while a couple fucked for money five feet from my thoughts.
   

I fly across the Atlantic, hungry for dinner, sitting next to a taciturn, young, possibly Indian woman. I flutter from great tiredness to a need to get all this down, not necessarily elegantly, but in a great mass of undigested experience.
    As Ruben put it, I live like a fucking rock star. Sex shows, concerts, late nights, jet sets, academic projects, sumptuous dinners, formal ceremonies, switched languages, fervent youth. I ought not to ask for now more than what is now.
    I hopped from shaggy tattoo in black in Austin to the land of skinny jeans, preppy Dutchness. I jumped from gritty streets, explosions of creative noise, to sleek temples of 22nd century architectural wonders, from slow drawls and slacker ramblings to guttural speak and head speeches. It’s been quite a ride.

   Where was I? Thursday naturally. The big day. Dutch girl and I checked out of the Winston. The Beastie Boys stayed here. Quentin Taratino wrote Pulp Fiction on an extended stay of heroin (don’t ride the white horse) in the Budweiser Room. Winston, decaying art funk, give me some of your fuck-all creative anarchy. We bought a quick breakfast at Amsterdam Centraal and headed back to Eindhoven. Funny, I say “back to” as after two days in A’dam, I felt as if I lived in The Netherlands again, as if I had a flat (still leaving London) in Eindhoven, and as if I would have chemical work chez Meijer (France, non?) komt Maandag.
    And yet, having lunch at the ol’ lunch table, the Koffie Kamer, in the lab, I realized both the familiarity of the setting and my resolute absence from it. Life hasn’t changed in the Meijer group, but I have moved no longer to want to be part of it. Former colleagues asked a few questions, but few needed to say much. Some were surprised to see me. I was surprised what a small place it felt.
A historical explanation is due. I met Rene, a Dutchy, during my tenure at Eindhoven. Witty, smart, hard working, blunt, self-effacing, fast-walking, driven, generous, lost in the details. Rene worked with me as a graduate student in lab 2. As all good graduate students must, it was time for Rene to graduate.
    Ph.D defenses in The Netherlands are called promoties, and for the Dutch, they are akin to getting married to science. There is a formal ceremony (mass), fancy costumes, assembled guests including all family, a reception afterwards, a fancy dinner, lots of speeches, extravagant gifts, and then a party. As a wedding has a best man, Dutch tradition dictates two paranymphen.
    I suspect historically European defenses were real defenses either with the possibility of literal attack from a disgruntled audience member or verbal attack from a dissatisfied examiner. For either case, tradition created the roles of two supporters. We sit on stage in elaborate garb. Technically during the questioning process, we can give answers to help the candidate, but now the paranymph position is merely ceremonial, a friendly face such as a family member, spouse, or scientific colleague to buoy your morale during the day.


    I was so asked and honored to be one of Rene’s paranymphen, the other spot ably filled by fellow honorable American and former Eindhoven post-doc colleague Chris Radano(vitz).
    Come two o’clock on Thursday, 23 March 2006, I walked to Rene’s modern apartment above the Heuvel Gallerie to suit up. My costume fit. The outfit was the most elaborate ensemble worn yet, rented by Rene days earlier: black tuxedo pants, white shirt with cuff links, silver stretchy shirt sleeve stays (think poker dealer), white over vest that tied in the back, black suit jacket with tails, white bow tie. Whither the top hat?
    As this is The Netherlands and Chris and I are American, we did things a little differently. We wore cheap sun glasses to escort Rene to the lecture hall, Chris and I on one bicycle, myself straddling the rear luggage rack while Chris peddled around the corners. My hips hurt the next day.
    Can you picture this? Mr. Dudek in tuxedo with tails, wearing sunglasses (later crushed – good final mission) on the back of bike ridden ably by a similarly dressed American with a thick neck through the city center of a sizeable south Netherlands city to a university hall for a solemn ceremony? And the night before I was with former bombshell Dutch girl slightly high watching people fuck in the Red Light district? Sic transit Gloria mundi.
    A Ph.D defense is strickly one hour long and open to the public, especially co-workers, friends, parents, spouse, spouse’s brother, spouse’s brother’s girlfriend. Yes, the Dutch bring everyone along. As you live at most two hours away, there is no excuse not to attend.
    I sat next to Rene at the front of the hall. At precisely four, all rose as the Biddel entered the room. He’s a town magistrate (possibly?) in black felt hat, black robes, wielding a black staff topped with what looks to be a miniature version of the Ark of the Covenant. Behind the Biddel followed a small parade, all in black, of the Dean with a huge chain and university medallion, and seven faculty members. The high professors wear robes; the assistant professors and lecturers don snappy suits. There must a visiting professor from somewhere else in The Netherlands and another visiting professor from somewhere else in the world. Rene invited Prof. Jim Feest from Durham, UK.
    All sat. The ceremony comes to a start with the Dean wrapping a crystal ball with his hand in a wooden cradle. Yes, my Boston co-workers thought Oompah-Lompmahs would show up as well. For the first question, Bert, Rene’s advisor, asked him to summarize his work in a ten-minute speech. The three of us – Chris, Rene and myself – had taken our position positions, Rene at a central lecturn, Chris and I at flanking chairs, the committee of eight seated solemnly in black at two blue tables.
    Rene presented a canned speech on a computer to the assembled audience. In Dutch. It’s all in Dutch. I struggled to follow the speech, stare at the projected slide behind me, sit up straight, inspect the audience, gauge how Rene was doing, and laugh appropriately.
    After the brief summary, each examining professor asked a few questions, some challenging, some benign. Rene fielded each question with wit, authority, humility, and honesty, declining some questions and praising others. He did well.
    At the hour point, the Biddel returned unannounced, banged his staff on the floor in the middle of the room, and said declaratively, “Hora est.” All stopped. We returned to our spots, all rose, the committee of eight exited for a 15-minute evaluation but more likely a talk about what was for dinner. On their return, all rose. We flanked Rene, standing this time, as he faced his advisor for the results. He passed. He received his Ph.D certificate, was read his rights, and then got to bask in the glory of a 3-page laudatory career synopsis prepared and read by Bert to assembled audience. When Rene was five… And then finally it was over.
    Freakishly enough, Chris and I and Rene joined the Biddel and committee of eight in a freight elevator. We rose one flight to the reception hall. As in a wedding receiving line, the audience queued to thank not just Rene, but also his wife Anouk and parents. Meanwhile back at the ranch, Chris and I drank some spirits like a jenever, a harsh gin-like liquor, as well as some small beers. Many former colleagues were surprised to find the Yanks as paranymphen. My hand spilled jenever nervously in a brief chat with Bert.
    I hopped the back of Chris’s bike and we drove off into the sunset back to Rene’s pimp pad to get ready for dinner. And what a wedding feast for forty at a closed for the night restaurant named Boon. Three courses. The appetizer and dessert comprised of a sample of many small, wonderful bites. I had a gorgeous steak. We chatted animatedly to Tom de Graf and Michel. I was surprised how much people remembered about my small life.
    After dinner, the party started, around ten o’clock, in the same restaurant. Both Bert and Jet gave lengthy speeches and parting gifts to Rene who responded in kind. Then Michel and Hinke gave some group gifts followed by all of us singing two songs set to familiar tunes but with humorous added words supplied by Michel and Jeroen v. Herrikhuyzen. The bar opened up. Rene paid for all – natuurlijk. I drank some great red wine with dinner and then had biertje after biertje until I got witty, annoying, flighty, happy. I took what pictures I could and made the rounds. Bert came over after dinner graciously to press the flesh with the two American superstars (us). I grew quickly irritated with the two new assholish American post-docs. The night lengthened, the bar emptied, the four of us – Rene, Anouk, Chris, and myself – stumbled home still in tuxedo tails through the warm two o’clock Eindhoven air. Quite the spectacle. Thursday came to its merry close.

    Friday, we woke late. Chris and I wandered to work to hold court. So little has changed in modern Eindhoven and I hardly miss it. No desired foods, shops, streets, walks – just the same old monstrous ugly. This city holds no place for me.
    Over coffee – Henk’s of course – folks came slowly around the koffie tafel for a chat, to kick it with the paranymphen, or a pair of nymphos as Chris put it. I took a brief look at my former fume hood; such a great place to work: fantastic labs, almost space age. There was surprisingly little to do after a brief tour of reminiscence.
    Michel came by with his new dog Luna, a scrappy, friendly pure-breed white miniature terrier vaguely resembling a pit bull with a pig’s body and a horse’s head. The three of us left to give the dog a walk on the university’s rainy grounds. We picked up a surprised Rene at his apartment and headed into Eindhoven center where we had lunch at a café. The dog behaved and Michel became an instant celebrity, good for a usually quiet guy who lives with his father in the country. We looked for a café for a cup of coffee. Although we had lived a collective six years in Eindhoven, none of us knew the restaurants or walks well as there is nothing to know. After coffee, the group parted. This is the last time to four of us will ever be together.
    I ran around in the late afternoon for light shopping. I bought some tea and sweet waffles and looked at some Dutch clothing. The culture focuses on design so that even the clothes are put together with care. Furthermore due to the prevalence of tall, skinny Dutch men, men’s clothes in The Netherlands are made to fit me. And yet most of what I inspected was too expensive, too sudden, too awkward.
    (My hand is falling apart from all this writing. The sky is almost completely dark.) Good-hearted, generous, wild raven-haired, black-clad Dodo, fellow chemist, had the four of us (Rene, Anouk, Chris, myself) over for dinner Friday night. She lives in a rooftop Eindhoven apartment with hard-working, talented boyfriend Pascal. Their vibrant walls are a cheery yellow. Plants dominant, a lizard lies in the warmth of a terrarium, the couches beckon for a lizard-like day of repose in such Tuscan splendor. Dodo prepared a wonderful spread of sushi stuff – avocado, pickled pumpkin skin, sliced fried egg, braised beef, shrimp, sliced ahi, wasabi in a tube, tofu pillow covers. We took nori sheets, added a layer of rice, choose toppings, rolled, cut, savored, delighted in our own sushi. Two kids of rice, tea, a rolling mat, knife with wooden block. I need to have such a party myself.
    Afterwards we moved to her warm couches to discuss the politics of science. I counseled Rene on his future and all of us weighed in on those colleagues we didn’t like. Rene learned that through his brash bluntness, he often offends. As I (used to) do some offending myself, I tried to suggest ways to stop, but also I asserted the importance of your own expression and the inevitability of enemies. Don’t let those that bother you take up more energy than those you love. Chris and Anouk departed. Rene and I stayed further for more character-problem solving with Dodo. We returned late to Rene’s hip apartment for some brief slumber.
   
    Come Zaterdag morgen, Rene and I accompanied Chris on the crowded trains to Schipol airport. We said goodbye over a messy Burger King burger. I envy Chris for his management polymer synthesis job at Philadelphia oil-additive company Rohmax.


    After we dropped off Chris at Schipol, Rene wanted to explore Amsterdam. I thought that with his promotie planning, the huge party, all that family, and two weeks of house guests, he would want to return to Eindhoven and sleep a long deserved sleep, but he wanted to explore Amsterdam, or at least humor me one more day.
    One year ago, we had in Amstedam for a day caroused, smoked, drank, and had a fine time. This day was to honor that one. With noon rains and wind, we wandered at will through the Jordaan. We stopped at a café for lunch: goat cheese/red pepper soup with a gigundus chocolate tart for me. Afterwards, further into the delights of the city.
    Rene took me on an extended walk through the real part of Amsterdam and into his past. We walked passed Turkish immigrants selling sesame bread rings, past stalls of detergent, past men begging. Rene took me to one of his high schools and pointed out the directions where he once lived during an exceptionally happy time of life. We wandered through the Vondelpark to Museumplein where we had an afternoon koffie by the American embassy. We discussed fluorescent DNA bases.
    It was time to drink. I took Rene to a Belgian bar for a kwak in its wooden holder straight from the tap. It was time to smoke. The search for the perfect koffieshop began. Looking for good music, good chairs, the right mix of people, low lighting, not too crowded. Abraxas was full of thugs. Softland nearby with its trippy space-age funk was almost ideal.
    We broke for Bojo Indonesian food near the Leidesplein. On the walk, in a hazy daze, I insisted on speaking only Dutch. That lasted nearly an hour, and I was understood! A year without and still I remember vocabulary. The herbal fuzz gave me the courage and conviction to keep trying phrases. Oh if I had been so stubbornly outspoken two years ago, I might now be a fluent speaker. Rene exhibited remarkable patience.
    Our Indionesian eten was a foggy affair. The small restaurant, the location of my first dinner I ever ate in The Netherlands about 15 years ago, with its low lights, good cheer, and Indonesian tribal fixtures is the perfect post-koffieshop retreat. For a tourist spot, many of the patrons were Dutch.
    Full, we marched into the night, not far however, to the flagship Rokerij almost next door to Bojo. The fans were still spinning narcotically and the wooden staircase in the rear still went nowhere. We sat in the main section to drink some tea and have a smoke. For some reason, despite all the smokers and a marked lack of windows, the Rokerij is not smoky. We eyed three wasted American college women opposite us who left in a slumber. I wish I could remember all our conversational gems, but perhaps we were mostly quiet or said little of import or discoursed on the meaning of life but forgot the discoveries.
    In a mood for walking, Rene and I hoofed it to the Rokerij branch in the Jordaan. We got a little lost due to Rene’s confusion making the trip more enjoyably memorable. The weather was soft, the mist pleasantly cooled, mensen were setting down to dinner in cozy yellow-lit cafes. A few bicycles creaked by.
    The Buddhist Rokerij, almost empty, transfixed us. The walls are a cheery red. A small gilt Buddha rested on a stack of beer coasters, flanked by two large white lit cylindrical candles. A dude at the bar annoyingly chatted up all the bar staff in laconic but presumptuously friendly American dialect. Two kids opposite us – more of these American college kids – laughed uproaringly in their first throws of herbal mania. It took me a while to notice that the girl lacked a hand. I did notice that this Rokerij has the best koffieshop bathroom in the world: a small, clean closet tiled entirely – walls, floor, ceiling – in 3-inch square, just-off colors.
    With my herbal frequency during my Dutch period, a lot of the charmed intensity has dissipated. My body knows what to expect and my mind has experienced it all before. Yet, similarly, I no longer go to keggers to get wasted on cheap college beer, so maturity from experience should be viewed instead as a boon.
    The hours strolled by. We hustled through the Jordaan and up the Damrack to Centraal Station. Both of us felt waves of melancholy, a strong realization that we were leaving perhaps permanently one of the special places in the world. The arch of the canal, the windows in the narrow 17th century houses, a row of bicycles locked to a wrought-iron bridge. Such a complete image and now no more.
    Rene slept some on the train. I idled through a newspaper and got scared by a passing drunk demanding money. Eindhoven is such a let-down after Amsterdam’s intimate elegance. Anouk greeted us cheerfully at half een. The fog had lifted; I felt home again.
    Naturally with all the commotion, none of us remembered the day-light savings time change on Saturday night. We had leisurely coffees on the two oranges couches, pale green wall (assertive but not offensive green), black and white check tile in the kitchen and hallway, blond laminaat, dark brown chairs and armoire, and powerfully exotic plants. We left in the car with the luggage. Rene cursed the traffic. We discussed Dutch science and industry, or rather the lack of it. I gave them advice on buying a car in the United States. The left me at the curb with a warm goodbye.
    As I race through the airport, my story has come full circle and reaches no end, but like life marches forward. A wonderfully charged week of my life, but now as I write on my bed in Cambridge on Monday morning just before another week of work, I am surprisingly speechless. Veel success.