The Canals of Amsterdam, Part Three

FYI, the complete set of The Canals of Amsterdam can be found here: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four


That girl looks like JaG, I thought to myself.

Wait a minute. You've never actually seen this girl in person, and you think that's her, up ahead?

Yeah. Maybe. The hair looks about right. And those clothes seem like something she would wear.

You're crazy. What are you gonna do? Shout out her name for all of Amsterdam to hear? If you're wrong, you'll look like the Stereotypical American Tourist Who Mistakes Pedestrians for Dutch Bloggers. Don't ruin it, man.

(This is the conversation I had with myself while we walked along the road towards The Politburo, home of the other Dutch blogger, Bicyclemark. )

Bicyclemark is not Dutch, actually. He's from Jersey. But he also has Portuguese citizenship through his parents, and so he gets to live in the EU fairly easily. At least, easier than I would have it, since the last time my Scottish ancestors lived in Europe the Civil War hadn't even been fought yet.

Neuwirth and I arrived with a sixer of Heineken in our hands. There was an elaborate dinner being grilled in the back garden, but through the miracle of miscommunication or misunderstanding or misdirection, we had already eaten. And that girl that I thought was JaG? Yep, it was her.

And before I go any further, let me address the fact that I was arriving at a Saturday night Dutch barbeque with a six-pack of Heineken. In the states, or at least in the smaller cities in the states, if you arrive with Heineken, you're considered someone with reasonably-decent taste. At the very least, you're not That Guy who brought his half-empty case of Miller Lite to the party.

But who are you if you show up to a party in Amsterdam with their most well-known beer? Would I get a dismissive shrug, a tut-tutting behind my back about my predictable choice in lager? Honest, I tried to get something interesting, but this was the only thing they had in the cooler.

(Truthfully, I wasn't even concerned about what people would say; I just wanted to drink something a bit more interesting and exotic than something I can buy at Target.)

And no one really cared about what I brought; they weren't really drinking beer, as far as I could tell.

JaG and I finally met, and we talked about various things that people talk about when they sort of know each other. We talked about education a bit (we're both teachers), and more about the state of blogging. JaG likes to treat her blog, and the act in general, like a former boyfriend that she doesn't love anymore, but I think she still has a soft spot for it at times.

More people arrived, and Mark spent some time socializing as the sun went down, but Neuwirth and I kept to ourselves, afraid that if we drank too much, or got too social with people, we might miss our chance of getting on that boat.

"I don't think it's gonna happen, man. I think he forgot."

No, no, he'll take us out there. JaG just said he told her we were going out on the boat. The boat! It'll happen!

I suddenly remembered Neuwirth and I driving to the airport almost a week ago. We're both two guys who grew up in a fairly land-locked area, Lake Michigan aside. Nautical lifestyles lived by those people from island nations or coastal areas is a strange and mysterious concept to us. In addition to flying across the Atlantic for the very first time, on a plane, Neuwirth was also gonna be on a boat! On several boats! He was very excited and couldn't stop playing this song.

We had to get on that boat.

To be continued...

Just an FYI, Part Three of the Amsterdam story will be up in the next couple of days, I hope. Got knocked down with a resurgence of the crud I've been carrying around in my lungs these past couple of weeks, and haven't had the time/energy to get it done. Patience, my readers; it won't be nearly as long of a wait as the infamous Death March tale...

The Canals of Amsterdam, Part Two

FYI, the complete set of The Canals of Amsterdam can be found here: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four


Neuwirth and I figured we should get a little culture in our system, as opposed to all of the beer and English breakfasts we had been ingesting, so we spent Saturday morning in Amsterdam at the Rijksmuseum. It was either this or the Van Gogh museum, so Neuwirth went with the Rijks.

Upon further reflection, Neuwirth chose poorly, and aside from the Dutch burrito place that he chose later than evening for dinner, this was one of the only disappointing decisions he made on our behalf. When you go to Amsterdam, go to the Van Gogh museum. Or at least choose to visit the Rijksmuseum when it is not going through a massive renovation. The pickings will be slightly better than the "greatest hits" of Dutch masters that we ended up seeing.


We finally met up with Bicyclemark in the early afternoon. He arrived, naturally, on his bike, and was taller than I imagined him to be. I always imagine bloggers to be shorter than they actually are, for some reason. I have this same problem with The Gurrier. Maybe it's all those photos taken from a webcam that throws off my perspective.

Mark showed us around the park, and an indoor horse stable, where we watched people take riding lessons, all riding "English" to my eyes. A youth spent riding Western will always make me think this other method somewhat odd.

We eventually found ourselves at Mark's home, a three-story building known as The Politburo by its many, varied residents. A lesbian couple, visiting frisbee enthusiasts, and others that were either away on holiday or wandering around the many rooms. Users of the toilet are asked to sit while urinating, regardless of gender, and are politely reminded to clean the seat after each use. It was easily the most unique residence I have ever seen, to say the least.

Mark made himself a snack and we talked about the philosophy of hacking. Now, since this is Amsterdam, and I have already made reference to backpackers and hippies and traveling frisbee players, it would be natural to assume that I am talking about hacky-sack. You would be wrong in this assumption.

Hacking can refer to anything from lock-picking enthusiasts to computer programming to Matthew Broderick's character in War Games. Hackers like to take things apart, they like to break into things, and they believe in free and open access to anything related to computers and software and things like that. "Hacking" can take on many terms, and even after talking to Mark about it, I still don't feel like I fully understand it. I know it involves more than illegally downloading music and films, and is more than just a bunch of social misfits trying to break into the Pentagon, but its overall goals are still a mystery to me.

Mark announced that he had some business to take care of, so we decided to part ways for a while, until JaG showed up later that evening. We were a bit surprised by this turn of events, since we had just seen THE FORMER JAIL CELLS IN THE BASEMENT OF THE POLITBURO, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! WHAT OTHER FANTASTIC DUTCH MYSTERIES DO YOU HAVE HIDDEN IN THE "POLITBURO", MR. BICYCLEMARK, IF THAT REALLY IS YOUR NAME?

We headed back to the Hotel of Curiously Decorated Rooms, relaxed a bit, ate the aforementioned Dutch burritos, and waited to meet up with Mark and JaG. We were getting excited. A ride through the canals on Mark's boat, The Red August, was promised.

To be continued...

The Canals of Amsterdam, Part One

About five years ago a guy named Bicyclemark started commenting on my blog.

This was back when everyone blogged. Well, not everyone, but it was a new thing, and there was a nice community of people from all over the world that took the time to write about their daily lives, and they read and they commented on other peoples' lives.

Some people rolled their eyes at this supposedly-narcissistic activity, and wondered why in the hell you would want to know what someone halfway around the world ate for dinner? Why was it important for the average person to write about the last movie they saw, or what they did with their friends on a Saturday night? Writing was for the professionals; why let amateurs screw everything up with their half-hearted attempts at prose or, (even worse), poetry?

This past August I met up with a couple of bloggers from the Netherlands, and along the way hopefully answered the questions of those people who never understood what blogging was about.

I've been traveling overseas for years, mostly Ireland and the UK. When you travel solo, when you hope to spend your evenings talking to strange people in foreign locales, it helps to stick to countries where you know the local language. This theory falls apart a little when you realize how many people speak English around the world, so maybe I just like going to Ireland a lot.

Each time I plan a trip I always try to figure out how I can fit Amsterdam into the itinerary. Mark and I have been blog-friends for a long time now, and I felt bad that I hadn't made it over there to visit him. There was Just a Girl, too, another Holland blogger I had been reading for years, and I felt a slight digital pang of jealousy when the L.A. blogger Tony Pierce made it over there a few years ago and arranged their first meeting.

When my friend Neuwirth said he wanted to do the Grand Tour overseas, I made sure that Amsterdam was on the list of places to see. Time to finally meet Bicyclemark and find out what this guy was all about.

Neuwirth and I flew into Amsterdam on a warm Friday night in August, and our first view of the city was the Central Station in the heart of the city.

Now, for those of you who avoid European travel in general, and Amsterdam in particular, I don't recommend making the Station Amsterdam Centraal your first stop. Every bad cliche you have heard about the 'Dam being home to a bunch of dirty pot-smoking layabouts will be unfortunately confirmed. After spending the first three days of our trip in the bucolic green splendor of northern Wales, a muggy, crowded rail station full of college backpackers and shifty-looking hippies took some getting used to.

Disoriented and tired after a day of traveling from Betws-y-coed to Amsterdam by way of a brief stopover in Liverpool, we eventually found the correct tram and made our way to the Hotel de Filosoof. Translated, that means The Hotel of Philosophy, or The Philosophy Hotel, depending on whether you like your European place-names Americanized or not. Recommended by Mark, and as stated on their website, "each of the 38 rooms is decorated in different philosophical and cultural themes."

This should give you another clue as to the unique qualities Amsterdam possesses. While they may be known for being ground zero for the world's soft-drug culture, not to mention an entire area of town dedicated to legalized prostitution, they also have hotel rooms dedicated to Søren Kierkegaard and Confucius. Amsterdam, you are a city of many hidden secrets and delights.

I am not sure which philosopher, or school of philosophy, our room was devoted to. All I know is that there many, many pictures of women on the walls. We apparently got the power-of-the-female room, but on the plus side, it did have a nice view of the garden.

Mark had a date that evening, and JaG wouldn't be in town until Saturday, so Neuwirth and I spent the evening wandering around the neighborhood and drinking a lot of booze. We sat outside and watched people glide by on their bicycles, one after another. I don't know if Bicyclemark got his name before he came to live in Amsterdam, but after seeing the bike culture here, I don't think he could live in any city but this one.

To be continued...




FYI, the complete set of The Canals of Amsterdam can be found here: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

The Mercy Seat

Profiles Theatre
Uptown, Chicago

Now playing through November 15th

At the bequest of my good friend Amanda, I headed into the city to check out Profiles Theatre's production of Neil LaBute's The Mercy Seat. She was the Stage Manager.

(Not like the character, The Stage Manager, from Our Town. She was the actual Stage Manager. Just so we're clear.)

The play concerns two people in a New York apartment the day after the attacks of September 11th. One is married, one is not. One has decided to use the attacks as a means to get out of his fading marriage, as the ultimate Reset Button. A nice clean escape, only not so much.

Two people in a room, quietly talking, then massive shouty anger, then quiet again. It was like a Pixies song done as a 90-minute play.

LaBute's plays are about awful people doing awful things, and not even the horrors of Sept. 11th can cover the horrible choices pondered by these two people. It's real good.

Got the chance to meet a few of the Profiles crowd, and caught up with Amanda a bit. It's always wonderful to see her, and whenever we hang out we slip into this rapid-fire sarcasm-filled dialogue that wouldn't be out of place in a Howard Hawks film.

As usual, after consuming good quality Chicago theatre, I start wondering whether I could ever get involved with one of these groups. Sure I write and direct and run a successful (youth) theatre program, but I always wonder if I'm just a country mouse who would get laughed right out of them big fancy PRO-fessional-type places.

I've been told that I need to move on from my current station, and try something new, and I think about that sometimes, but then I'll get into a teaching groove, or Limelight will get more awesome, and then those plans fade away. The plan to publish The Last Dance is now over six years old, by the way.

We started working on a new play this week, speaking of Limelight. All These Will Be Worthless. So far it's a comedy about the fear of the end of the world, the fall of the Berlin wall, and a mutant-hunting Ronald Reagan. It'll be way better than The Mercy Seat.

Here Come the Man!

Last week I finally got to see Van Morrison perform Astral Weeks live, after almost a year of waiting.

Van played the Hollywood Bowl last year, performing his legendary album in its entirety, and I thought hard about heading out there to see it, but the high costs of traveling out to California deferred this dream.

He put out a live album from the performance, and eventually a DVD, which I figured would have to suffice. The concert was such a success that Morrison added more dates, in New York and London, and then he added more, but Chicago never showed up on any of the tour announcements.

The Chicago date was finally added while I was in Ireland, of all places, but fate conspired against me yet again and no tickets were gotten. Time to press play on the DVD player again.

Then they opened up a few final tickets and I headed to Ticketmaster. Pit seats, going for an insane amount of money. And I bought one. One, because that's all you could get. Duder tried getting one himself, but they were all snatched up.

And so I found myself about twenty feet from Van's gold microphone last Tuesday at the Chicago Theatre.

No opening act, no delayed start. Van comes out precisely on time, and plays a tight set of about 100 minutes, with no encore. He never interacts with the audience, letting the music speak for itself.

First half of the show is a warm-up, consisting of other songs from his career. It would be easy to make this the "hits" portion of his show, considering how unknown Astral Weeks really is to the average fan. He'll throw in the "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Gloria" to keep these people satisfied, but most of the songs in the first half were the deep cuts, semi-obscure numbers that didn't get (most) people singing along, but instead served as companion pieces to the Astral Weeks numbers.

"Fair Play", "Little Village", and "In the Garden" set the tone for what was to come, and despite a few annoying people who chose to talk half the time (except, of course, when he played a quick and perfunctory "Have I Told You Lately"), it was a remarkable first half.

Van could have chosen to use this tour as a "greatest hits" comeback, like many artists of a certain age do, throwing out "Moondance" and "Wild Night" night after night to the eager fans, but instead he's been performing one of his most obscure albums to sold-out crowds for the better part of a year.

He has the reputation as a sour grump who's always complaining about the public's perception of him, and the record companies' inability to "get" him. So he's doing everything the way he wants to do it, releasing the live Astral Weeks on his own label, allowing no production sheen added to the mix, refusing to load his sets with the easy hits. This is one reason why I love him.

Astral Weeks live was fantastic, although a lot of the surprise has been lost after a year of listening to the live album over and over again, but no matter. "Slim Slow Slider" is still the highlight, as he threw in new lyrics about "going to see the German doctor" and riding that passenger train. It was a phenomenal show, and it was worth every penny I paid. This was one of those rare chances to see something legendary, performed as the artist wanted it performed.

As we filed out after the show I started talking to a middle-aged guy who was sitting next to me, both of us marveling at what we had just seen. "Pretty great, huh?" I asked.

"Yeah, it was. Now, what was 'Astral Weeks'?" the man said. "Was that his band?"