The Online Journal of Poppy Z. Brite
09/01/2010 :: 04:05 AM
Dutch Men's Underwear
Apparently everyone wants to know what's so special about it. Well, European men's underwear and Dutch ones in particular are just very colorful, creative, and comfortable. I discovered this when Chris bought some nice Claessen ones on our trip in November and they were too small for him, but fit me just fine. Dutch men have tiny butts (or I have a huge one), for I have to wear XL. At least in boxer-briefs, my preference.
My favorite pair so far (from the Bijenkorf, a big, fancy department store near my hotel) is actually Swedish. Björn Borg made them. They're covered with rainbow soccer balls.
Dutch socks are great too, but overpriced at the Bijenkorf. I get mine at HEMA, a less upscale but fascinating sort of practical variety store. Again I'm reminded how specialized European shops are: it took me three days to locate a Sharpie-type pen in this cosmopolitan city.
Dutch design in general is excellent, imaginative, and often inexpensive, but seems underrated by the Dutch.
Have just come back from the Waterlooplein flea market. You really have to be careful what you buy there or you can go nuts. Things I successfully resisted: an old leather doctor's bag that weighed about 40 pounds; a ceramic phrenology head; a cheesy '70s leather jacket that would have looked good on Starsky or Hutch. Things I did not successfully resist: two pairs of pants; a little cast-iron winged pig; a tin with birds on it; a gas mask. I managed to wake up at a decent hour today and it's only 1pm. Still, despite my best efforts (I rested most of yesterday, even ordering room service for dinner -- a lovely herring and beet salad, pea soup, and a nice Dutch cheese plate that included a goat cheese from "Assendelft," hee hee hee), I am tired and I can't quite walk off that catch in L5. Will probably repair to the Green House for some more of that Super Lemon Haze, which is absolutely numbing and still queen of the trip so far.
08/31/2010 :: 04:59 AM
Having Fun(gus)
I just woke and showered (at a lovely 1:44pm Amsterdam time) and I haven't had any coffee yet, but last night I paid for 24 usurious hours of hotel Internet and so far I've only used it to look up Psilocybe tampanensis, so I'll try to type fast. Let's see: I have answered Hunter Thompson's question, "What was I doing here? Was I just locked into some kind of drug frenzy?" The answer is yes. I've had no interest in psychedelics for, oh, about 20 years now, but last night, for the first time ever in Amsterdam, I ate some of the mushrooms you can buy in the "smart shops" here. The experience was ... well, cute, which is not a very apt word but which still comes to mind. When I was 19, it all seemed so profound, a limitless journey through the windmills of your mind and all that crap. This time, everything seemed fun, but very manageable and separate. "This is an effect of the drug. That over there is real. And never mind the clown in the bathroom." I watched Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas on my computer, then went out into the cool, clear night and looked at the lights (which were a little sparklier than usual, but that was all) and ate a delicious cone of hot frites with vinegar and sambal and stopped by the Green House for a nightcap. And then I went to bed and slept for a long time. And that was all. I don't know if I'd bother with them again, but what with all the gonzo in my life lately, I'd have been disappointed if I hadn't tried any.
I've also done many other things, the kinds of things nice tourists do in Amsterdam: gone to a giant organ concert at the Oude Kerk, eaten Indonesian food, bought a truly ridiculous amount of men's underwear (I am in love with European, and especially Dutch, men's underwear).
And now it is time for my new morning tradition, which is a gram of Big Buddha Cheese in the giant house bong at Goa. I've always gone to Goa for the atmosphere and bought weed to be polite, but now they actually have this decent weed on the menu, and I'm so happy for them that I've incorporated it into my routine.
More later, if I can get back before my 24 hours ends or force myself to cough up another 15 euros. (They still use Ethernet cables here!)
08/25/2010 :: 09:01 PM
Bon Voyage
I spent most of today driving to and from Mississippi to help my mother with a car emergency (nothing dangerous, just expensive and inconvenient for her). On top of all the other bad habits -- adrenochrome, threatening Chris while hacking grapefruits to mush with a large hunting knife -- Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas seems to have given me a lead foot. I didn't get a ticket, though, and having to make the drive was probably good, as it kept me from hanging around the house and getting all nervous and wibbling about my trip. Right now I'm trying to pare my luggage down to a bare sliver -- though there's only so much you can pare for nine days if you want to stay clean and not have to mess with laundry -- and tomorrow I'm off! Bringing computer and iPhone, so I may be posting and/or tweeting from the Dam.
08/24/2010 :: 01:27 PM
Vienna Waits for You
I hope yesterday's entry didn't come off wrong. I meant to imply I was afraid I would inadvertently bring further destruction and mayhem to Amsterdam, not that the loss of this beloved, historic old tree was merely an inauspicious augur for my trip. Of course, either one is magical thinking, which probably stems from a massive ego. I'm sorry.
Not a very good day so far. I woke up with fragments of a dream of being maddeningly attracted to some writer (God save me) I was traveling with, no one I can remember at the moment, and an urge to listen to Billy Joel's "Vienna." I put on the song, but it didn't help. "How could you have felt so strongly just last week that this song applied to you?" my mind berated me. "This song is for a young, ambitious, hypercreative person who's trying to get everything done at once! You do nothing! 'Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while' -- like you're so in demand! Hell, you don't even WANT to be in demand!" And so on. My mind is really not very nice to me sometimes.
But I don't care. Vienna -- well, Amsterdam -- still waits for me. And soon. The way I've been some of the time lately, I don't know how the hell I think I'm going to take care of myself for nine days in a foreign country, but it scarcely feels foreign to me anymore and I'll be OK there. And at least there won't be a Times-Picayune with heartbreaking triggery stories every morning. In deciding to leave for the actual anniversary, I totally failed to account for the K+5 coverage that would lead up to it over these past couple of weeks. Of course I'm glad it's there. But it kind of makes me want to cling to the ground and scream "NO, NO, I CAN'T GET ON THAT PLANE, I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE, I MUST HAVE BEEN CRAZY TO THINK I COULD GO ANYWHERE."
Boo fucking hoo, I know.
08/23/2010 :: 02:48 PM
Anne Frank Tree Felled by Storm
Well, that's not very freaking auspicious.
08/21/2010 :: 11:40 PM
Dutch Readers?
I would like to go to a nice Mass at St. Nicolaaskerk on Sunday, August 29. I don't care what language it's in. Can someone please translate this schedule for me? (I can read the days/times, but am not sure about the qualifying information.)
Zondag
10.30 uur
Eucharistieviering (Nederlandstalig) met een aparte kindernevendienst: de Kleine Nicolaas. Op 22 augustus begint de mis om 10.00 uur i.v.m. de rechtstreekse tv-uitzending.
Zondag
13.00 uur
Eucharistieviering (Spaanstalig)
Ma t/m Zat
12.30 uur
Stille Mis (vrijdag Spaanstalig)
Voor informatie over bijzondere vieringen en over andere activiteiten in de Nicolaaskerk: klik linksboven op 'Nicolaaskerk', en dan op 'Agenda'.
08/21/2010 :: 08:00 PM
Warning: Hippie-Dippiness Ahead
Things were getting a little excessive around here. There are only so many nights in a row you can drink beer and watch Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas without strange things happening to you. Instead I've spent the last several days being quiet and calm, sleeping a lot, reading, watching no movies, accessing no Internet. Both of these phases have been necessary (as far as "necessary" can mean anything in the weirdly intuitive way I seem to be living my life lately) to prepare for my trip to Amsterdam, which is looming and scaring the shit out of me even though I can't wait to be there again. I plan to read a lot of Hunter S. Thompson and Graham Greene on the trip, as well as bringing It along for comfort.
When I say "intuitive," I don't mean any kind of psychic crap. I've met a few people who may have been psychic -- few and far between, and almost never the ones who think they are -- but I myself am definitely not. I mean that, five years after the destruction of the life I was living, I finally, consciously understand that the only way to build a coherent new life is to follow my obsessions as I always did and see what happens. For about four years now I've been mostly dismissing those obsessions because I was accustomed to turning them into something arguably useful; i.e. fiction. When that stopped happening, I gradually stopped valuing them unless unless they led to something concrete (like gardening, allowable because it created exercise, beauty, and produce). Chris has provided me with a wonderful reeducation by example: in the past year, I've watched him turn his own obsessions into one of the most popular restaurants in New Orleans. In doing so, he has also provided me with a space where, for the time being, I can do just about anything I want to do as long as it doesn't hurt anybody or cost us a fortune.* I can't think of any greater gift anyone has given me since my mother taught me to read.
And it's symbiotic, because God knows Chris was born with a wild talent, but he's also using a great many skills he learned in mostly low-paying jobs at various restaurants over the course of nearly twenty years while I made a (usually) decent living writing books. I still contribute royalty, reprint, and eBay income, but he's the sugar daddy for now.
To what point all this confession? I don't really know. I guess I just want to say that as the fifth anniversary of the federal levee failure approaches and I get ready to face one of my worst fears (yeah, yeah, by going on a really nice vacation; shut up, I NEED THIS), I'm pretty happy and very, very grateful.
*Motto from a depressed day last week, with apologies to Flannery O'Connor: "It ain't no real pleasure in life, and most of what passes for pleasure costs a goddamn fortune."
08/15/2010 :: 05:17 PM
Today's Tip
Do not act out the "White Rabbit" bathtub scene from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, playing both Benicio del Toro and Johnny Depp, complete with gestures, in any restaurant you wish to return to. They were very nice about it, but they really needn't have been.
08/14/2010 :: 07:58 PM
Night of Small but Unfortunate Encounters
1. As I am putting trash out, a dragonfly buzzes into the mudroom. I love dragonflies, as they are both beautiful creatures and friends of the gardener, so I turn off the indoor light, hold the door open, and as this big insect is buzzing around my head, holler, "Go to the light! Go to the PORCH light! Go -- " Instead, the dragonfly decides to go for the crack of light under the other door, which leads into the house. In a flash, a black paw with claws extended comes under the door, smacks him down, and drags him through. Last I saw of him was a set of iridescent wings sticking out either side of Junior's mouth.
2. As I am wheeling trash to the curb, I call out merrily, "Hey, how you doing?" to a man two houses away before realizing that he is in fact peeing on the side of that (unoccupied) house. Of course he becomes acutely embarrassed, starts pouring out profuse apologies, notes that he has been drinking beer, and basically seems to think I am going to bring down the entire NOPD on his ass here and now. I don't actually like people peeing on the houses, but as I tell him, "Hey man, when you gotta go, you gotta go." Only back inside the house does it begin to seem a little odd that I had to calm him down, but hey, I've been living here and I used to live in the Quarter; the sight of a guy surreptitiously peeing does not cross my eyes. I'm a little embarrassed at having sung out such a loud and cheery greeting to him, though.
08/12/2010 :: 07:07 PM
St. Mary's Cemetery
I attended Milton's funeral but not his burial, since I tend to feel those are mainly for the family. Today I took a long walk through St. Mary's Cemetery where he was buried: an Uptown cemetery that used to be quite grand but whose newer section is kind of a potter's field, filled with poor people and poorly maintained. I had some idea that I'd be able to find Milton's grave, but of course I couldn't, so I just took pictures of every fresh-looking grave I saw. Some other stuff, too.
I made a Flickr set of these pictures. Some are beautiful, some upsetting, some probably both. Because we just had the remains of a tropical storm come through, there is standing water in some of the graves and bones have floated to the surface (a common occurrence here, and the reason people who can afford to do so bury their dead above ground). I left the cemetery in a haze of heat and sorrow and ant bites, and am now listening to the Saints/Patriots preseason game and sharing this experience with you.
[ETA: Dammit, I titled all those photos, but somehow the titles aren't showing. I'm on it now.]
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