Melissa

Poor Melissa
She's trying to pick up the pieces.
And I really want to help
but she won't let go of the hammer.

Tags: poetry

Possum Wranglin

Some guys came to install insulation in our house the other day. They soon discovered our out-of-the-ordinary roommate. We hadn’t told them about the possum. I’m not sure why. I guess we thought they might refuse to put in the insulation. Or maybe we were worried that the property manager would get upset that we didn’t say something sooner. So we just waited to see what would happen, hoping for the best. The best didn’t happen.

The insulation guys didn’t discover our friend till they ripped down all the air ducts from the basement roof except one – the one where the possum lived. So, now he was kind of trapped in there. One of the guys – the tall, thin one - refused to do anything until he was gone. The other – the short one with long, stringy grey hair - didn’t seem to care. In fact, he seemed a little excited at the idea of removing it himself. He was on the verge of it a couple times, reaching for the hammer and pry bar, but his partner’s inertia (or lack of inertia) always won out.

I looked at the situation: the insulation guys weren’t going to deal with the possum and they weren’t going to install the insulation until he was gone; the 40 degree temps of our home provided some good entertainment and jokes, but I was ready for warmth – even if it was only a 5 degree difference; my roommates didn’t want to deal with the situation or be around while it was being dealt with, so they were gone. There was only one option. I said fuck it, “give me that hammer and pry bar. I’ll get him out” I figured I’d keep ripping out the remaining duct until the possum was forced out the other end. Then he would hopefully climb down some pipes and get out of the basement the way he came in. I started ripping away. It was a dirty job, but I’m getting used to that.

Meanwhile the insulation guys called-up Roger, the property manager. He came over pretty quickly, assessed the situation, and asked me to stop what I was doing. “Why?” I asked. “Even if you do get the possum out of the duct, you have no way to control where he’ll go after that,” Roger said. I just assumed the possum would want to get away from all the commotion and leave the basement, but now that I thought of it, I realized he’d probably just run to the closest dark corner. So, I stopped to listen to alternatives.

Roger had a cage. His idea was to hang it from one end of the duct and push the possum from the other with a long piece of wood. The plan sounded good to me – especially the cage part.

So, we tried it. We poked and prodded, and that poor possum was scared shitless – literally. Let me tell you, there’s nothing worse than the smell of fresh possum shit. It was nasty. It was in the duct, on the cage, on the floor, and on the possum. I was just glad it wasn’t on me. The possum was scared, stubborn and pissed off. We couldn’t force him into that cage for nothing. We had him hanging over the edge a couple times, like those guys dangling off a cliff in the movies, but he just wouldn’t let go. As much as he hated what was going on in the duct, he hated what that cage represented all the more. So, he fought, hissed, and hung on for dear life.

The problem was that the duct was still 5 feet long. That left a lot of room for the possum to maneuver around our prodding efforts. I suggested removing the duct down to just one foot, but Roger was worried the possum would charge us. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t, but I could tell it would turn into a pissing contest if I tried to convince Roger of that. So, I let him play alpha male. I figured two things would happen: 1) Roger’s plan would work; 2) Roger’s plan wouldn’t work, he’d tire out, and be open to trying it my way.

Roger is pretty stubborn – almost as stubborn as that possum. It took him an hour and a half of poking at that thing till he was willing to try my suggestion. Even then it took one of the insulation guys to come down, and after hearing my suggestion saying, “Hell, I would’ve done that in the first place.” But Roger finally did acquiesce.

With tools in hand, I excitedly attacked the remaining duct and the possum dropped to the bottom of the cage within minutes. After an hour and half of struggling with that damned animal, we felt like we had just won some kind of war. We excitedly high-fived each other.

The question now was what to do with the possum. We decided to carry him into a patch of nearby trees and we did. But by the time we got there the possum was so freaked-out, he refused to get out of the cage. Roger tried shoving him out gently by pushing on him with his hand. Was this the same guy that was afraid this thing was going to charge us?

Seeing force wasn’t going to work, we tried a different method. We covered the cage with a cloth and put it in reaching distance of a tree. A shaking claw slowly reached out and grabbed hold of the tree, then the other. The possum pulled his weary body from the cage and began to climb. It was slow going at first. His whole body shook with exhaustion. But he continued on and gradually gained momentum.

With an empty cage between us, Roger and I walked on. I looked back one last time. The possum was up high on an exposed branch just sitting there. He was obviously freaked-out - still shaking - and for good reason. It was broad day light, he had just been forcibly removed from his home, and he had nowhere to go. “He’ll be alright,” I told myself, “He’s got better survival skills than any of us.” Still, I wished him the best of luck. It was all I could do.

…

Days later Roger came over with one of our landlords. I felt a current of pride run through me as Roger told him, “John was instrumental in getting the possum out.” Then he told the story of our dueling plans, the wasted hour and a half on his, and how quickly mine succeeded. Here I thought I had Roger all figured out – a good guy, but stubborn, full of pride, etc. Then he goes and does something like that. People surprise me some times.

Tags: journal, possums, people

Simon

This is Simon. He was born among the freshly fallen snow of the Cascade Mountains in Oregon. By now he's melted, and making his way through the soil toward the McKenzie River. He'll eventually evaporate and some day he'll fall from the sky again.

Next December a little girl in Boston will be excited with the first snow of the year. She'll have curly blond hair, blue sparkling eyes, and a smile that restores faith in even the most cynical of souls. She'll run out into the snow and catch flakes on her tongue while looking up to the heavens, spinning, spinning, spinning. She'll spin herself exhausted, exalted, and fall backwards into the soft snow. Simon will be all around her.

Or this spring, somewhere in Nebraska, a magnificent thunder storm will come in. A 60 some year old man eating a frozen dinner will lay down his fork, turn off his TV, and go outside. He'll watch in wonder as the bolts of lightning crash from the sky and big drops of rain fall on his head. He'll forget his loneliness, even if it's just for a while. Simon will be there.

Or late this summer in a small African village, the people will pray for rain. Their crops have been melting from drought and relentless sun. Suddenly clouds will cumulate, and after a moment of hesitation, water will fall onto the village below - a downpour of relief. The villagers will rejoice in song and dance. Simon will be on their heads, among their crops, and at their feet.

Long live Simon.

Tags: nature

Religion

The other night a couple of my roommates’ friends came over. As I made my salad at the kitchen counter, I could hear them speak of things like crab legs, corn chips, vodka, pot, shrooms, and fire. That sounds like some crazy party I thought, and finally asked. It was indeed a party. The friends were picking up my roommates and they wouldn’t be back till morning. As I sat down at the kitchen table to eat, one of them asked what I was up to that evening. I knew if I said “nothing,” she’d probably invite me. In that brief instant that’s an eternity to the calculating mind, I weighed all the options and consequences. The party sounded interesting. On the other hand, I hadn’t had a night of madness for quite some time, and as crazy as I can get with other people, I can almost always get crazier by myself. So I just said, “I’m going to spend a nice, quiet evening at home.” Which was partially true … I guess. But I didn’t want to go into the whole thing. How do you explain the need for madness?

Once they all left and I polished off my dinner, I headed down to the neighborhood grocery store. It used to be a Safeway, but the millions in profits they were making just wasn’t enough, so they moved on to a bigger, more profitable location. Now the store is called the Red Apple. They cater to the Mexicans, the anarchists, and the tweekers; the homeless, the poor, and the downtrodden. They serve all the rift-raft. They serve me.

Much to my surprise, they no longer serve Olympia, so I chose another cheap beer: Hamms. I bought three 24 ounce cans - or as my roommates and I call them, “master cylinders.” I now had beer, a partially smoked blunt all the way from Michigan (thanks Jay Jay), and the whole evening ahead of me.

I got home, opened a can of beer – damn did it taste good, and started a fire in the fireplace. After a few moments of deliberation - should I catch the alcohol buzz first then smoke? Or should I just jump in head first, no wading? - I dove.

Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young is the best music to listen to while stoned – beautiful harmonies, songs of hope and despair, everything you need to ride that roller coaster of emotions.

It wasn’t long before I broke down in tears. It was the lyric “you know the way it’s supposed to be,” that pushed me over the edge. I thought of how fucked-up society is. It’s not just what we’re doing to the environment. It’s what we’re doing to ourselves. I thought of the greed, the addiction, the neurosis. We could do so much better. Damn right I cried. There’s a lot to cry about, and if you haven’t felt the need, you’re just not paying attention. But that’s not all.

Moments later, I’d be thinking of all the beauty in the world – the people I’ve met, the people I love, the people that love me. I’d think of all the places I’ve seen, so many beautiful places. I thought of everything and everybody in my life – all in an instant. What a wonderful thing it is to be alive. And my heart soared.

I spent the whole evening like that, back and forth, tossed like a ship in a storm of madness. But I’ll tell you something: insanity is the most sane thing there is.

Wendy once asked me why I get so fucked-up some times. I told her because I didn’t want to be like everyone else, and that’s so easy to do. But that wasn’t right. Not completely. I like to get fucked-up, because it makes me feel something. And I’d rather get fucked-up and feel something, even if it’s only sadness (and sometimes that is all that it is), than feel nothing at all.

Tags: journal, madness, drugs, alcohol

A Night of Madness

The other night a couple of my roommates’ friends came over. As I made my salad at the kitchen counter, I could hear them speak of things like crab legs, corn chips, vodka, pot, shrooms, and fire. That sounds like some crazy party I thought, and finally asked. It was indeed a party. The friends were picking up my roommates and they wouldn’t be back till morning. As I sat down at the kitchen table to eat, one of them asked what I was up to that evening. I knew if I said “nothing,” she’d probably invite me. In that brief instant that’s an eternity to the calculating mind, I weighed all the options and consequences. The party sounded interesting. On the other hand, I hadn’t had a night of madness for quite some time, and as crazy as I can get with other people, I can almost always get crazier by myself. So I just said, “I’m going to spend a nice, quiet evening at home.” Which was partially true … I guess. But I didn’t want to go into the whole thing. How do you explain the need for madness?

Once they all left and I polished off my dinner, I headed down to the neighborhood grocery store. It used to be a Safeway, but the millions in profits they were making just wasn’t enough, so they moved on to a bigger, more profitable location. Now the store is called the Red Apple. They cater to the Mexicans, the anarchists, and the tweekers; the homeless, the poor, and the downtrodden. They serve all the rift-raft. They serve me.

Much to my surprise, they no longer serve Olympia, so I chose another cheap beer: Hamms. I bought three 24 ounce cans - or as my roommates and I call them, “master cylinders.” I now had beer, a partially smoked blunt all the way from Michigan (thanks Jay Jay), and the whole evening ahead of me.

I got home, opened a can of beer – damn did it taste good, and started a fire in the fireplace. After a few moments of deliberation - should I catch the alcohol buzz first then smoke? Or should I just jump in head first, no wading? - I dove.

Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young is the best music to listen to while stoned – beautiful harmonies, songs of hope and despair, everything you need to ride that roller coaster of emotions.

It wasn’t long before I broke down in tears. It was the lyric “you know the way it’s supposed to be,” that pushed me over the edge. I thought of how fucked-up society is. It’s not just what we’re doing to the environment. It’s what we’re doing to ourselves. I thought of the greed, the addiction, the neurosis. We could do so much better. Damn right I cried. There’s a lot to cry about, and if you haven’t felt the need, you’re just not paying attention. But that’s not all.

Moments later, I’d be thinking of all the beauty in the world – the people I’ve met, the people I love, the people that love me. I’d think of all the places I’ve seen, so many beautiful places. I thought of everything and everybody in my life – all in an instant. What a wonderful thing it is to be alive. And my heart soared.

I spent the whole evening like that, back and forth, tossed like a ship in a storm of madness. But I’ll tell you something: insanity is the most sane thing there is.

Wendy once asked me why I get so fucked-up some times. I told her because I didn’t want to be like everyone else, and that’s so easy to do. But that wasn’t right. Not completely. I like to get fucked-up, because it makes me feel something. And I’d rather get fucked-up and feel something, even if it’s only sadness (and sometimes that is all that it is), than feel nothing at all.

Tags: journal, madness, drugs, alcohol

The Phoenix

Like a snake
I shed my skin.

I won't be posting to this website again.
The political game is nothing but a giant pissing contest
and I've got better things to do.
Let the people burn in the hell they're creating.

I'd rather be The Phoenix
rising in the ashes.

Check out my other website: Loose Ties

Bound

I know I should be happy.
But I'm not.
The world is full of lies and deceipt - masks.
How can I be happy about that?

I just want to drop all the pretenses and jump into that emotional stew that boils underneath it all.

I want to look into your eyes and know the truth.
But every time I do, you look away.
Or I look away.
Both of us afraid of what we might find.

I'm so sick of being afraid.
I want to lose myself in you,
in me,
and everything in between.

These boundaries have kept us apart too long.

I need to break these shackles and be free.

But I don't know how.
For the life of me, I don't know how.

Tags: poetry

The Stars

“One of these days we really need to get together and party,” she said, as I was starting to get out of the car and enter the cold, winter night. She’s said it many times before, but it never happens - even when we try. We tried that evening, but here it was only midnight, both of us sober, both of us bored, and me going home. “Yeeaaahhh,” I replied with a sarcastic tone in my voice, “when the stars are aligned correctly.” Of course, we weren’t really talking about partying, and I don’t think those stars will ever be aligned again.

They were once years ago before I left for Guatemala and met Wendy. We were like objects in space drawn to each other. I could feel the gravity every time I was around her. I just wanted to be with her and I was certain she wanted to be with me. There was an energy between us. But I was afraid to let go, to succumb. Some of the reasons were justified, some weren’t. Now, years later, I want to feel that gravity again; I want to see those stars. But I don’t.

There’s still the attraction on the surface; it’s what’s underneath that’s missing. We just can’t seem to connect. The whole evening was like that. I’d try to enlighten and impress her with my whole rebel attitude, but I wouldn’t explain it too well and she wouldn’t understand it too well. Or I’d make a stupid joke and she wouldn’t laugh (although in all fairness, she laughed more than can be expected). Or she’d be talking about some actress’ new love interest. Like I give a shit about that. We just couldn’t connect.

We’re no longer the same. The skies have changed – they always do. I’ll adjust…I always do. But I’m not happy about it.

When I got home my roommate Andrew asked how my evening went. I wanted to tell him it was a disappointment. But I didn’t. Instead I gave the standard response: “It was good.” God, how I hate the standard response. I wanted to tell him everything – the history, the present, my hopes and desires, the sadness of it all, the loss. But I couldn’t. Instead I just said, “It was good.”

Tags: journal, love, sex

Mr Bro

My brother wrote me the following the other day. T is for Talia - my adorable niece:

“T is getting used to going to school, though she cries when I drop her off. Which is tough on me, but she's a big girl now. So, suck it up kid. Life can be a real shit sandwich at times.”

When I read it, I laughed out loud. A few heads turned – I was in the library. Part of me agrees with it; part of me doesn’t. But it’s my brother pure and true.

Tags: journal

The Bag Lady

Her bag of groceries sits in the chair next to her.
The receipt folded in zig-zags flickers ever so slightly.
She reads yesterday’s news
with a scowl on her face.
It’s not what she’s reading;
she always has that look.
She smells of stale cigarettes,
feet pigeon toed beneath the table.

I often try to picture these people as children.
Innocent, playful, happy.
Look at what the world does to us.
It’s enough to break a man’s heart.
And it does.
Every day.

Tags: poetry

At the Coffee Shop

The guy sitting at the table in the distance to my right is talking real loud. Not like he’s trying to be obnoxious, but more like it’s his nature. He’s either mentally retarded or hard of hearing. My money’s on the former.

An older guy sits across from me. He’s got long, gray hair and a beard to match. He looks like a guy that never got over the 60’s. He keeps making this sound, “ah chh, ah chh, ah chh.” It’s all he does. Making music I suppose. He doesn’t sit in one place more than two minutes. He’s got to keep moving. Too much acid back in the day is my guess.

On the way to the library, some guy crosses the street and starts walking beside me. “Hi,” he says and starts talking to me like we’re best friends. He starts telling me of a script he finished today. He’s been working on it for 5 years. It’s the next in the Back to the Future Series. The idea is that Michael J. Fox and the wacky scientist go to the future to get the cure for Parkinson’s disease and bring it back. I doubt Hollywood will touch it, but I keep my pessimistic realism to myself. I offer him the best of luck as we part ways.

That’s what I love about Eugene – all the crazies. They add color to an ordinary day.

Tags: journal

I'm a Working Man

So I’m busy doing odd jobs to pay rent. I don’t want a real job. That would be too much commitment, too much responsibility. I like jobs where I can take it or leave it. Just this week I’ve been a writer, a construction clean-up crewman, and a landscaper. That’s another advantage of being freelance – it’s always something new.

The shittiest job by far was the construction clean up. I had to go around sweeping up where floors had been ripped out. It was real dirty. Clouds of dust filled the air and covered my body. By the end of the day I looked like a ghost. Good thing I decided to wear a mask, or I’d probably be blowing gobs of dust out my nose, and coughing them out my lungs.

The job wasn’t just dirty; it was strenuous. After sweeping up the dust and rocks I had to lug them out to the dumpster. I actually liked that part though – good exercise. It made me feel alive and awake.

I also had the rare honor of picking-up all the scraps of wood, insulation, and tarpaper from around the huge dumpster. Sometimes I had to climb in the dumpster to smash the stuff down and make room. That was a real experiment in humility. But I grinned and bared it. “It pays the bills and it’s only temporary,” I told myself.

There was a Mexican guy working there too. He was ripping-up the last of the wooden floors. That was the job I was expecting to do, but I got there too late. So I got the shit job. My job was so shitty, even the Mexican didn’t want to do it. Anyway, I got to talk to Eroberto for a little while. He first came to the U.S. back in 1986. He spends his time working here to make money, and then heads back down to his motherland. He once owned a house here. I asked if he intends to buy another one. “No, then if I want to move I have to deal with selling the house and selling all the things in it. This way if I want to leave, I can just leave.” I understood. Even with a wife and two kids, Eroberto doesn’t need the security of a home. Security is cultural. It’s relative. It’s an illusion. Tomorrow a piano could drop on your head and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Things like that happen every day, all over the world.

The only other workers were a builder and his son. Once the son looked at me and kind of said hi. The father never even acknowledged my existence. OK, that’s not completely true. When I was cleaning around the dumpster, he said, “watch your head,” as he dropped some wood scraps on the ground in the spot that I had already cleaned-up.

I guess he thought he was the “high class” labor and didn’t need to fraternize with those below his esteemed position. I thought of going up to him and saying, “Look buddy. I do this because I choose to. I have a degree in computer science. If I wanted to, I could make four times as much as you. But I don’t care about that shit. See?!?” But it was just a brief fantasy. I live this lifestyle for a reason and I don’t want to get caught-up in that whole money-status game again. It’s so easy to do.

Tags: journal

Home

I’m back home - Eugene, Oregon. I’m even renting a room. The wanderer is through wandering – for a little while anyway.

I share a house with a young couple: Sarah and Andrew. They’re two of the nicest people I’ve ever met. On my first day in the house, Sarah hooked me up with a whole bunch of stuff: slippers for the cold, wood floors; a mattress complete with blankets, pillow, and comforter; and a bike. She even brought over a lamp from the anarchist neighbors that were moving to New Orleans (I thought people were moving out of New Orleans not into it). I think it was Sarah’s motherly instinct kicking in. “I have this uncontrollable urge to give you all kinds of stuff,” she said.

Andrew walks around in an old wool coat with disheveled hair and blurry lensed glasses. He plays guitar, sings songs, and occasionally writes poetry on a couple old typewriters that are lying around the house. I suspect he’s some kind of genius. He seems to know a lot about everything, especially farming since that’s what he does.

The house is old and worn. It has character and lots of it. The rooms are spacious and open with wood floors. In the living room there’s a fireplace surrounded by old, second-hand chairs that date back to the 60’s. Anything newer would be sacrilege.

We don’t ever turn on the heat (we’d rather save our money for other things). And even if we did, it wouldn’t make a difference - the house is unheatable. It has no insulation and there are gaps in the walls, windows, and floors. Sometimes the cold is annoying, but other times I relish it – bring on the elements!

In the mornings I can see my breath as I drink my cup of hot tea. A double layer of clothing from top to bottom is required at all times.

Sarah made us dinner the other night. She was stirring pots in front of the stove, covered in a thick, old winter coat all the way from her neck down past her knees, and had black hoody pulled over her head. I thought, “That’s not something you see everyday.” Maybe that’s why I like this place so much. It’s different.

Out front, we have a big, covered porch. It’s an ideal place to hang out and watch the tweekers, anarchists, and working people go by. Porches rock. Every home should have one.

My room is a statement of simplicity: a bare wooden floor, a mattress laying on that floor, the old funky lamp from the neighbors’ in the corner, and an antique sewing machine that I use as a desk (also complements of the New Orleans bound neighbors). Other than my clothes and books lying about, the rest of my room is bare – no pictures, no foofoo decorations, no clutter, no distractions. I may add some personal touches over time, but I’m not in any hurry about it.

There are plenty of other things I could tell you about… like the Goth neighbors upstairs or Johnny and Liza that live next door. But that will have to wait for some other time.

Tags: journal

New Years Eve in Amsterdam (Part V)

This is the last in a series (New Years Eve in Amsterdam).

The night was over all too quickly – as nights like that usually are. Before I knew it, everybody was putting on their coats. Annette was heading in the other direction than the rest of us, so we said our good-byes right there. As I watched everyone else kiss and hug her, I was deciding how to do it myself. The customary Dutch greeting – a kiss on each check – was expected. But I couldn’t settle for that. I didn’t know what I could settle for. More importantly, I didn’t know what I could get away with. So, I decided not to worry about it and see what felt right when the time came. The time came. I gave her the customary greeting, but before she had a chance to pull back, I gave her a quick peck on the lips. She smiled and ruffled my hair with her hand, as if to say I was a silly, little boy.

We all walked out. Everybody moved on to give Frank and Annette some time alone. Wendy and I took slow, deliberate steps. Frank was our guest, so we couldn’t abandon him. Everybody else walked at a normal pace and were soon out of sight.

Wendy started to worry about the next day. It was around four in the morning and she had to be at work sooner than any sane person would want to be. So, I walked back to speed-up Frank and Annette. When I got around the corner she had her arms drapped around his neck; his were around her waist. I kind of felt bad for having to rush them. I just said, “Sorry Frank, but you guys need to speed it up a little. Wendy has to work in the morning.” They understood, so I walked back and let them have a little more time together.

When Frank caught-up to us, I asked if he got her number. He simply said, “no.”
“What?!? You’re visiting here from another country, you meet a girl, and you don’t get her number? What’s wrong with you? Well, I can get it for you if you want.” He still had a couple more days in Amsterdam.
“No, that’s alright.”
I couldn’t understand it. There’s nothing like meeting a girl when you’re away from home. You’re alone, in a new place where the only thing anybody knows about you is that you’ll be gone tomorrow. No rules, no roles to play, no expectations. The future is wide open. And here he was passing all that up.
“Don’t feel like you have to hang out with me,” I told him, “If I was visiting you and met a girl, I wouldn’t be hanging out with your sorry ass; I’d be hanging out with her.” I said it jokingly, but there was some truth in it. He didn’t want her number. I didn’t ask why and I didn’t push it any further.

The next day I didn’t get out of bed till 3:00PM. Wendy was already long gone on some miserable flight to some miserable place. I felt bad for her.

Frank and I didn’t get out Wendy’s apartment till around 5. We hopped on our bikes and pedaled around looking at Amsterdam’s new daring architecture – stuff you’d never see in The States. The U.S. has lot’s of money, but no balls. Later we got a bite to eat at a good Italian joint. Frank said he was glad he came. I said, “Yeah I am too. We got to party and hang out, and you even met a girl.”
“Awww shut-up,” he said like a shy, little boy.

The End

Tags: travel, journal, Amsterdam

New Years Eve in Amsterdam (Part IV)

This is the 3rd post in a series (New Years Eve in Amsterdam).

We spent some time in the streets watching the madness. Then we continued on to a local bar. We had already bought tickets at $12 a piece. In Amsterdam, that’s the thing to do on New Years – pay money to get into an “exclusive” party and then pay more for the drinks. We walked right in - they didn’t even ask to see our tickets. So much for exclusive.

It wasn’t as crowded as we had hoped, and compared to everyone else, we were on the younger side - and we weren’t that young ourselves. It didn’t matter as much to me as it did to some of the others in our gang. I figured it was New Years, there was people in a festive mood, music, and an endless amount of alcohol – let’s make the best of it.

We drank, laughed, and tried to dance to the undanceable music. Who was this DJ? Did he understand anything about music, rythme, and the human body? Obviously not.

Nothing was going to get me down though. I was in a rare sociable mood. It’s the kind of mood I strive for – happy to meet everybody, everything is interesting, everything means something. Bas and I were talking for a while about some deep, drunken topic. Something to do with the social ills of society. There was a girl behind us listening. I looked back at her waiting for a comment. She said nothing, so I turned back and continued the conversation with Bas. Soon enough she jumped in, “What are you guys talking about? I keep hearing the word ‘money’ – money this and money that.” Bas tried to fill her in, but he was too drunk or too befuddled. So I started talking to her. She was in the computer industry… part of my ugly past, but I was beyond judgements. It was all about having a good time. We talked for awhile, I felt a little chemistry, and Bas faded away. Then I glanced back and there was Wendy talking to Jasperina. “Oh yeah, I have a girlfriend,” I recalled. I figured I should go pay attention to her. I told the girl I’d be right back, and I meant it, but I never returned. Later on in the evening I saw her hugging some other random guy – lucky bastard.

I bounced between everybody, having a good time. I’d talk to Wendy for awhile and then I’d see Frank up at the bar by himself. So I’d go up and talk to him, “Hey Frank, that girl over there is by herself and she’s obviously looking for somebody, anybody. You should go over and talk to her.” Picking-up girls at the bar isn’t his thing. I understood, but I still kept pushing him. After while I’d go back to Wendy, talking to everyone in between. Back and forth I went.

I spotted Annette and Eric standing at one of those tall, round, bar tables by themselves. They looked like an old couple that had been together way too long and had nothing more to say to each other – conversation exhausted, each of them staring off in another direction. Earlier when we got to the bar, Eric was trying to make his move on her and had been ever since. He obviously failed miserably and I could tell she was getting ready to bolt.

I sauntered up to the table and started talking to her. I wanted to include Eric in on the conversation, but he had crashed and burned so badly he was beyond rescue. I knew any attempt to pull him out of his firey pit would be too blatent. Pity was the last thing he needed. So I left him there to burn and flirted with Anette. I subtly reffered to Frank (or at least I thought it was subtle), trying to set the wheels into motion.

Then I returned to Frank once again. There were all these hot, willing women around and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Frank was my only hope. I kept pushing him, “Eric is boring Annette to death. You should go rescue her.” But all of that is easier said than done and I knew that. So, we just drank and talked.

Later I was talking to Wendy and Jasperina. Jasperina was playing match-maker too. Why is it couples are always trying to hook-up single people? Misery loves company I guess. I told Jasperina that Annette was getting ready to leave. There was Frank up at the bar, a single, smart, fun, good looking guy. And there was Annette, equally desireable. Why weren’t they hooking-up?

Annette put on her coat and started to make the good-bye rounds. She was up at the bar talking to Frank. Jasperina, Wendy, and I looked on. After a longer than normal good-bye, Annette left. We were disappointed ,but we knew we did all we could.

We quickly forgot the match-making business and were having our own jolly laughs. Then Jasperina nudged me and motioned toward the bar. I looked. Annette was back talking to Frank. Ha, we were right after all.

Continued in Part V.


Tags: travel, journal, Amsterdam