You have been good to me, and I will see you again!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Mykro
My dear friends and strangers,
I have been off the grid for a while. The reason (which for once is not plainly being awol) is that I became the proud features and copy editor at MykroMag, an up and coming online magazine which will slowly make it's way to being printed, hopefully!
We just went online with our second issue, check it out at www.mykromag.com.
I wrote a piece for it as well, and even published some photo's. Why not?
It's a tribute to the city of San Francisco called 'The Fourty-Niners'. Hope you like it!
I have been off the grid for a while. The reason (which for once is not plainly being awol) is that I became the proud features and copy editor at MykroMag, an up and coming online magazine which will slowly make it's way to being printed, hopefully!
We just went online with our second issue, check it out at www.mykromag.com.
I wrote a piece for it as well, and even published some photo's. Why not?
It's a tribute to the city of San Francisco called 'The Fourty-Niners'. Hope you like it!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Fourty-one cents
Scarlet patent leather pumps, sweaty ginger hair, electric blue dress. As she staggers out the door, inebriated, her jacket hanging off one arm, they look at her and at each other. Four in the morning, three young men lingering in front of the venue. Orange light, brown stones, the faint thump thump from the music inside. One wears black. His hair is slicked back, smothered in solidified hair product, you could snap off a strand if you so desired. She struggles to button up her trenchcoat, the cigarette in her lipsticked mouth waiting to be lit. The one in black starts. One dime at a time, he tosses them at her, but she is too involved with the buttonholes to notice. The fourth coin hits her cheek, and she looks up in surprise. He hides behind a group of people heavily dicussing. She can't see him, and reaches in her pocket for her lighter.
Ignoring his friend, number two decides a different approach. He walks up to her, offers a light. She gestures to the lighter in her hand, but accepts his offer nonetheless. As her fingers surround the flame, they block out the wind, and he asks her where they are going afterwards. Where is the afterparty? She shakes her head, it's time for bed. Tomorrow's another long day, and it's too late already. The dime man shouts something. She can't quite distinguish his voice, as sounds of smokers blur his shouts. He hollers again, he's screaming profanities, she hears it now. Is he talking to her? She looks at him, he looks back. A penny finds it's way across the crowd, hits her smack in the eye. Tell him to stop, she tells his friend. That's no way to treat a woman. She nervously tries to ignore him, and starts groping in her bag, looking for her bike keys. The purse is too full, she's in a hurry. A phone falls out, it bounces on the sidewalk. As she tries to pick it up, bending over, more bursts out of the bag. A tampon, a pen, lipstick, her sunglasses, pocket change, the keys. She snatches them and grabs the dimes that were thrown at her in the process, unaware, distracted. No one notices her as she scrambles on the floor, the crowd continues smoking, smooching, smouldering cigarettes, smiling. But she doesn't smile as she gets up. The men are still there, they gather around her, she starts walking to her bicycle. Parked right in front of the club, it's rusty body leans against a pole, waiting to go home.
Where are we going, they ask again. Listen boys, I'm going home. Keys in hand, she leans over the bike. The third one taps her on the shoulder and points to a tarrying taxicab. Let's go, he gestures, slyly grinning, baring one gold tooth. He is small, stout. The smell of cheap cologne finds it's way to her nose. It itches. The lock is as rusty as the bike it holds, and the key protests silently. She wriggles it in vain, as the one in black approaches. There are no more dimes. He stands still in front of her, urges her to stand up straight, as he points his finger directly in her face. Tell him to go away, she whispers to the friend, voice trembling. You know what we're doing? You're coming with us, the one in black shouts. She leans back, but he is too close. I'm going to fuck you long and hard in the ass, you whore! Her eyes widen, she snaps. Before she knows it, her hand flashes, and with a swift but deliberate gesture she streaks him across the face,
SMACK
For a moment everything falls silent.
But he reacts fast.
His left fist pulls back, and he moves his whole body. With a loud thump, it lands on her right eye, forcing her body off balance. The smokers stop smoking, she falls to the ground, sobs. The man screams she hit me first, she hit me first, she hit me first, she hit me first. Large men in shimmering jackets step out of nowhere and hold him down. The bouncers. He tries to escape, his face fiery red, his eyes flaming, his fists clenched. She is bleeding, a golden ring cut it's way through her flesh, throbbing cheeks, she cries. A man grabs her shoulders. Can you walk, let's get you out of here, which one was it, you want to call the police, are you alright, give me your hand, come on let's go, sit here, don't listen to him, we have him, you want water, what's your name, she can't hear him, he talks too much but his hands are big and the low voice soothing her, she sinks in a chair inside. The four large men still have their hold on him, his friends stand by. Hands in pocket, astounded, quiet, ashamed. One picks up the cigarette she dropped, covered in red lips, still smoking from the light he gave her.
As the sirens grow louder, he let's it fall back to the ground, stepping on it as if to hide the evidence. The police take him away, hollering, howling, piercing, and disregarded the key sits safely nestled in the lock as the bike waits, and waits, to go home. No one will ride it tonight.
Ignoring his friend, number two decides a different approach. He walks up to her, offers a light. She gestures to the lighter in her hand, but accepts his offer nonetheless. As her fingers surround the flame, they block out the wind, and he asks her where they are going afterwards. Where is the afterparty? She shakes her head, it's time for bed. Tomorrow's another long day, and it's too late already. The dime man shouts something. She can't quite distinguish his voice, as sounds of smokers blur his shouts. He hollers again, he's screaming profanities, she hears it now. Is he talking to her? She looks at him, he looks back. A penny finds it's way across the crowd, hits her smack in the eye. Tell him to stop, she tells his friend. That's no way to treat a woman. She nervously tries to ignore him, and starts groping in her bag, looking for her bike keys. The purse is too full, she's in a hurry. A phone falls out, it bounces on the sidewalk. As she tries to pick it up, bending over, more bursts out of the bag. A tampon, a pen, lipstick, her sunglasses, pocket change, the keys. She snatches them and grabs the dimes that were thrown at her in the process, unaware, distracted. No one notices her as she scrambles on the floor, the crowd continues smoking, smooching, smouldering cigarettes, smiling. But she doesn't smile as she gets up. The men are still there, they gather around her, she starts walking to her bicycle. Parked right in front of the club, it's rusty body leans against a pole, waiting to go home.
Where are we going, they ask again. Listen boys, I'm going home. Keys in hand, she leans over the bike. The third one taps her on the shoulder and points to a tarrying taxicab. Let's go, he gestures, slyly grinning, baring one gold tooth. He is small, stout. The smell of cheap cologne finds it's way to her nose. It itches. The lock is as rusty as the bike it holds, and the key protests silently. She wriggles it in vain, as the one in black approaches. There are no more dimes. He stands still in front of her, urges her to stand up straight, as he points his finger directly in her face. Tell him to go away, she whispers to the friend, voice trembling. You know what we're doing? You're coming with us, the one in black shouts. She leans back, but he is too close. I'm going to fuck you long and hard in the ass, you whore! Her eyes widen, she snaps. Before she knows it, her hand flashes, and with a swift but deliberate gesture she streaks him across the face,
SMACK
For a moment everything falls silent.
But he reacts fast.
His left fist pulls back, and he moves his whole body. With a loud thump, it lands on her right eye, forcing her body off balance. The smokers stop smoking, she falls to the ground, sobs. The man screams she hit me first, she hit me first, she hit me first, she hit me first. Large men in shimmering jackets step out of nowhere and hold him down. The bouncers. He tries to escape, his face fiery red, his eyes flaming, his fists clenched. She is bleeding, a golden ring cut it's way through her flesh, throbbing cheeks, she cries. A man grabs her shoulders. Can you walk, let's get you out of here, which one was it, you want to call the police, are you alright, give me your hand, come on let's go, sit here, don't listen to him, we have him, you want water, what's your name, she can't hear him, he talks too much but his hands are big and the low voice soothing her, she sinks in a chair inside. The four large men still have their hold on him, his friends stand by. Hands in pocket, astounded, quiet, ashamed. One picks up the cigarette she dropped, covered in red lips, still smoking from the light he gave her.
As the sirens grow louder, he let's it fall back to the ground, stepping on it as if to hide the evidence. The police take him away, hollering, howling, piercing, and disregarded the key sits safely nestled in the lock as the bike waits, and waits, to go home. No one will ride it tonight.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
High school reunion
Oh, high school. I once asked a friend of mine from Indiana if American high schools were really like they are depicted in those cheerleader/quarterback movies. YES, he answered me, AND IT'S HELL. I can only imagine. Although mine was a bit preppy, when I look back on those days (especially the later years) I feel like I made some good friends and learned some good stuff. As for reunions, I haven't gone to any yet since I feel they're not gonna be shocking enough. When I go to a reunion, I don't want to know what college you go to, I want to know how many kids you got and what time has done to your face.
(hanging out with Kaas in the high school days when sitting on the street was always preferred to, you know, chairs)
So the reason why I am bringing this up is not because I am in a nostalgic mood (even though I pretty much always am) but because I came across an article about this girl who decided to send a stripper in her stead to her ten year high school reunion in Southern California, and made a movie out of it. The movie may never be shown because her former classmates are not giving permission, but the trailer is out and it's amazing. Going back to high school and doing something like this is probably something many people have dreamed about.
Here is the trailer:
And if you want to read more, click here for the article and here for an interesting commentary written on Jezebel.
(hanging out with Kaas in the high school days when sitting on the street was always preferred to, you know, chairs)
So the reason why I am bringing this up is not because I am in a nostalgic mood (even though I pretty much always am) but because I came across an article about this girl who decided to send a stripper in her stead to her ten year high school reunion in Southern California, and made a movie out of it. The movie may never be shown because her former classmates are not giving permission, but the trailer is out and it's amazing. Going back to high school and doing something like this is probably something many people have dreamed about.
Here is the trailer:
And if you want to read more, click here for the article and here for an interesting commentary written on Jezebel.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Head
Ryan and I walked down Mission to have a burrito and check out some random dollar stores on the way to Four Barrel Coffee. It was crazy windy. We cut through Clarion alley to see the murals, and towards the end, I spotted a burnt pigs head in an exploded grocery bag. It nearly gave me a heart attack, especially since at first I somehow thought it was a human head.
After I walked back from the coffee shop (no more than fifteen minutes), the head was gone.
If I didn't have these pictures, I swear I would have thought I made the whole thing up.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I just now discovered this song.
I was sitting at the bus stop and it made me cry. Okay it didn't, but almost.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Divine Fire
The other day I watched My Fair Lady again. I kind of hate musicals (or at least the songs) but I love watching this movie for the costumes and the brilliant dialogue. Kaas gave me this movie when I left because of our favorite quote, belted out by main character Professor Henry Higgins, who basically plays the asshole. As he finds out he is losing Miss Doolittle, the grumpy professor proclaims:
'I can do without anybody. I have my own soul, my own spark of divine fire!'
This quote obviously lends itself to various situations and opportunities.
Anyway, last week I completed my sewing class at the Apparel Arts school. I decided I really want to know how to make clothes (dresses!) but in order to do so you need to know the basics obviously. Finishing the project first in class gave me a secret feeling of great triumph -probably the Aries in me- and in my head I kept hearing Henry Higgins singing: I did it! I said that I could do it and indeed I did!
Here is the purse that I made all by myself! It had pockets! Lining! Pleats!
'I can do without anybody. I have my own soul, my own spark of divine fire!'
This quote obviously lends itself to various situations and opportunities.
Anyway, last week I completed my sewing class at the Apparel Arts school. I decided I really want to know how to make clothes (dresses!) but in order to do so you need to know the basics obviously. Finishing the project first in class gave me a secret feeling of great triumph -probably the Aries in me- and in my head I kept hearing Henry Higgins singing: I did it! I said that I could do it and indeed I did!
Here is the purse that I made all by myself! It had pockets! Lining! Pleats!
Monday, April 6, 2009
25
Last week I turned 25. Given the fact that this joyful occasion was to be celebrated in sunny California, I decided to throw a barbecue in the back yard. Food and drinks were abundant and the sun came out to party. And when I least expected it, out came the piñata. Growing up in Amsterdam, I was of course completely unfamiliar with this tradition, but luckily some of my friends are Mexican and brought out the little cardboard horse filled with candy, which I had to beat the shit out of. After it was done I could not stop laughing, and in the mean time everyone else stuffed their pockets with mini chocolate bars.
So much better that those stupid 'Celebrations' Ali B hands out back in the motherland!
Of course, I was filmed. Watch this video to see how it's (not) done. Unfortunately, as with beating a piñata, I don't know how to perform a simple task like rotating a video so you will have to twist your neck to see the action (which by the way is much better in High Definition.)
Thanks Adam!
So much better that those stupid 'Celebrations' Ali B hands out back in the motherland!
Of course, I was filmed. Watch this video to see how it's (not) done. Unfortunately, as with beating a piñata, I don't know how to perform a simple task like rotating a video so you will have to twist your neck to see the action (which by the way is much better in High Definition.)
Thanks Adam!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sitting at the dock of the bay
Naomi and I went to Fisherman's Wharf and amongst all the tourist traps, we found a completely abandoned pier with a view of the Golden Gate bridge and the Bay, where we were able to drink some white wine without having to hide the little bottles with a brown paper bag. As we were enjoying the scenario, a seal swam up to us, just to say hi and do a few flips before he swam off again. It was a lovely day.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Cleaning the hell up
Now that I live with five roommates, I have started to become the housewife of the bunch.
Yes, you read that right.
I, once jokingly called 'Messy Mees', am doing more cleaning than anyone in the household, from scrubbing the kitchen to doing hand wash to cooking fresh meals to organizing my shit. Not having a job may help. It's like everyday is one of those days when you try to avoid other responsibilities by cleaning house. Like when you have a paper to hand in, or when you have to study for a midterm, and you suddenly develop a very detailed interest in cleaning every damn corner of the stove. Plus, this house has so much dust I just want to mop every bit of it but it's quite big, so it kind of became a larger project.
Also, I have found someone who is my mess making equivalent, my close friend and roommate Karina. Since she was recently fired/laid off, we decided to clear out her work room, next to the kitchen.
The floor was gross.
The table wasn't positioned right.
I've always hated those hanging things.
We moved everything in the kitchen and nobody was able to cook all day.
But the result was so refreshing!
Karina sorted every tiny little sewing tool around.
And now there's space to work!
It felt like I was cleaning my own head along with that room. And now, back to getting my own life in order. Get on it, miss List!
Yes, you read that right.
I, once jokingly called 'Messy Mees', am doing more cleaning than anyone in the household, from scrubbing the kitchen to doing hand wash to cooking fresh meals to organizing my shit. Not having a job may help. It's like everyday is one of those days when you try to avoid other responsibilities by cleaning house. Like when you have a paper to hand in, or when you have to study for a midterm, and you suddenly develop a very detailed interest in cleaning every damn corner of the stove. Plus, this house has so much dust I just want to mop every bit of it but it's quite big, so it kind of became a larger project.
Also, I have found someone who is my mess making equivalent, my close friend and roommate Karina. Since she was recently fired/laid off, we decided to clear out her work room, next to the kitchen.
The floor was gross.
The table wasn't positioned right.
I've always hated those hanging things.
We moved everything in the kitchen and nobody was able to cook all day.
But the result was so refreshing!
Karina sorted every tiny little sewing tool around.
And now there's space to work!
It felt like I was cleaning my own head along with that room. And now, back to getting my own life in order. Get on it, miss List!
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Castro Theatre
San Francisco, gay capital of the United States, home of marines who were thrown out of the army for their sexuality and never returned to their mothers and fathers! When I decided to move here, my professor (who also happens to be the head of Gay and Lesbian studies at the University of Amsterdam) said the climate in SF wasn't very good. I replied: 'I guess Los Angeles weather is warmer!' But apparently he was talking about the sexual climate. For people from Amsterdam, where there is at least an idea of complete gay tolerance (even though I still feel there are quite some problems there still) San Francisco is probably not very innovating. But for the rest of the U.S., it certainly still is.
Last Tuesday I finally went to see 'Milk'. I had wanted to see it earlier, but it only played in the Castro Theatre for a week or two, and I missed it. Somehow it seems like the only place to see this movie, when you live in this city. So, as I sat on the 24 bus on my way home from the spa, I spotted that the Castro Theatre had decided by popular demand, to return it to the screen for two more weeks.
I took my friends Femke and the Experimental Jetset there for a real San Francisco experience, and it was absolutely wonderful. I had never been to this theater and it reminds me in a way of the Tuschinski, mainly for being so old. Tuschinski is much more in the style of the twenties, whereas the Castro is built in baroque style. As we sat down, an old man started playing the organ, while pictures of the old Castro days were being shown. It was a strange feeling, watching a movie while sitting in a theater which is in almost every shot. And by the end we were all in tears. I really feel that had this movie come out a few months earlier, we might have been able to stop Proposition 8. But it gives us hope for the future. Now let's hope Sean wins an Oscar for his role as Hervey Milk this next Sunday!
Here's a grainy picture of the old man playing:
Here is a great NY Times review for the film.
Last Tuesday I finally went to see 'Milk'. I had wanted to see it earlier, but it only played in the Castro Theatre for a week or two, and I missed it. Somehow it seems like the only place to see this movie, when you live in this city. So, as I sat on the 24 bus on my way home from the spa, I spotted that the Castro Theatre had decided by popular demand, to return it to the screen for two more weeks.
I took my friends Femke and the Experimental Jetset there for a real San Francisco experience, and it was absolutely wonderful. I had never been to this theater and it reminds me in a way of the Tuschinski, mainly for being so old. Tuschinski is much more in the style of the twenties, whereas the Castro is built in baroque style. As we sat down, an old man started playing the organ, while pictures of the old Castro days were being shown. It was a strange feeling, watching a movie while sitting in a theater which is in almost every shot. And by the end we were all in tears. I really feel that had this movie come out a few months earlier, we might have been able to stop Proposition 8. But it gives us hope for the future. Now let's hope Sean wins an Oscar for his role as Hervey Milk this next Sunday!
Here's a grainy picture of the old man playing:
Here is a great NY Times review for the film.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
I won't complain
Stevie Wonder is blind. He has forty-two albums to his name, of which some are compilation albums. I have them all, now. It's almost too much to deal with. Maybe I should dedicate the entire month of February to Stevie and listen to one album a day. I could prepare in the remaining week of January with some compilations, or maybe a snippet of the Christmas album. I don't think I can stand listening to a Christmas album for an entire day having suffered through the holiday season in the States.
Stevie Wonder is pretty much the only man I really know who is blind. For some reason, when I listen to his music, it makes me think what some things must be like for Stevie. Like the concept of being black without being able to see the difference in people's skin tone. Or how he sees his wife and children. Or what it feels like to be left on a stage without anyone being able to guide you to the back during an award show. Things a blind person deals with that I don't take the time to dwell on normally. Things Stevie deals with all the times. It gives me more compassion for him than any other artist, without trying to say I pity him of course. No way to pity Stevie.
I took a class on the senses last year and the age old question arose again: would you rather be deaf or blind? I love seeing colors, landscapes, people interact, different shades of light, and I also very much like to see traffic when I ride a bike, or all of the steps on the stairwell. But if I were to be deaf, I would never be able to dedicate an entire month to a musical genius, his voice, and how he plays the keys.
So, to bless the fact that we don't need to make this horrendous choice, a video of the good man singing at his friend's funeral. And take the lyrics to heart.
Stevie Wonder is pretty much the only man I really know who is blind. For some reason, when I listen to his music, it makes me think what some things must be like for Stevie. Like the concept of being black without being able to see the difference in people's skin tone. Or how he sees his wife and children. Or what it feels like to be left on a stage without anyone being able to guide you to the back during an award show. Things a blind person deals with that I don't take the time to dwell on normally. Things Stevie deals with all the times. It gives me more compassion for him than any other artist, without trying to say I pity him of course. No way to pity Stevie.
I took a class on the senses last year and the age old question arose again: would you rather be deaf or blind? I love seeing colors, landscapes, people interact, different shades of light, and I also very much like to see traffic when I ride a bike, or all of the steps on the stairwell. But if I were to be deaf, I would never be able to dedicate an entire month to a musical genius, his voice, and how he plays the keys.
So, to bless the fact that we don't need to make this horrendous choice, a video of the good man singing at his friend's funeral. And take the lyrics to heart.
Monday, January 19, 2009
One half hour
Today, as I changed over from the BART to the Muni at Civic Center, I put my headphones on and pressed play. The Allman Brothers Band began their live version of the Mountain Jam, 33 minutes and 41 seconds of instrumental jamming recorded at the Fillmore East in February, 1970.
I stood on the platform waiting for the N-Judah to roll into the station, and was quickly joined by quite the character. I had seen him before on the train, and it's hard to miss him. This guy is super tall with long blond hair but the most striking thing is that he wears protective shields all over his body, and a long green cape. The shields, from knee caps to shoulder pads to elbow protectors make him look big and muscled, and the combination with a cape makes him look like a warrior from outer space. I may have been influenced by watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy yesterday but in stead of being put off by what most people would think of as a complete nut, I felt drawn to his appearance. Subtly, without trying to catch his eye, I tried to read what the tattoo on his left cheek said. As a train arrived, I thought I heard it was the K, and the warrior boarded it. As he turned around he looked me right in the eye, gave me a faint smile. The tattoo read 'VERITAS' and I noticed a crucifix drawn above his right eyebrow.
It took me a minute to realize that it was actually my train that he had gotten on. The next one would be twenty minutes.
I continued waiting, and listening to the guitar and organ and drum solos in my ear. Small thoughts crossed my mind, like how I felt my jeans slowly creeping south and that I really need to buy a belt. Or what time the Obama inauguration might start tomorrow. Or what the concert hall looked like at that specific concert in February 1970. As the jam continued I drew deeper into the sounds, but I kept being disturbed by a homeless guy asking me for money for food (I had none). You know how when you stand around for a long time they just keep asking you, probably because their memory is nonexistent or they think maybe you'll change your mind or I don't know what it is. There are many many many homeless and drug addicted people in this city and even my big headphones are no way of stopping them continuously asking me for a cigarette or money. If they keep it up they may be responsible for me smoking a lot less, seeing how the street is the only place where you are allowed to smoke and I get really tired blowing people off all the damn time. Anyway, the poor guy was coughing his lungs out and I started thinking he may have really been asking for money for food. It's a good thing I had so much time on the platform. All of a sudden I remembered. In my bag was almost an entire hamburger. I ordered it in Berkeley with a friend but it was so greasy I couldn't even eat a quarter of it. Somehow they convinced me to bring it in a doggy bag, even though I knew I probably would put it in the fridge until I would have to throw it out a few days later. This time it was me who approached the man and carefully handed him the hamburger. He was really happy, and held it in his hand as he boarded his train. I hope he likes sauteed mushrooms and artichoke on his burgers.
I was home thirty minutes later than I could have been. It was another sunny day in California and tomorrow we welcome a new day. I am in no rush.
I stood on the platform waiting for the N-Judah to roll into the station, and was quickly joined by quite the character. I had seen him before on the train, and it's hard to miss him. This guy is super tall with long blond hair but the most striking thing is that he wears protective shields all over his body, and a long green cape. The shields, from knee caps to shoulder pads to elbow protectors make him look big and muscled, and the combination with a cape makes him look like a warrior from outer space. I may have been influenced by watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy yesterday but in stead of being put off by what most people would think of as a complete nut, I felt drawn to his appearance. Subtly, without trying to catch his eye, I tried to read what the tattoo on his left cheek said. As a train arrived, I thought I heard it was the K, and the warrior boarded it. As he turned around he looked me right in the eye, gave me a faint smile. The tattoo read 'VERITAS' and I noticed a crucifix drawn above his right eyebrow.
It took me a minute to realize that it was actually my train that he had gotten on. The next one would be twenty minutes.
I continued waiting, and listening to the guitar and organ and drum solos in my ear. Small thoughts crossed my mind, like how I felt my jeans slowly creeping south and that I really need to buy a belt. Or what time the Obama inauguration might start tomorrow. Or what the concert hall looked like at that specific concert in February 1970. As the jam continued I drew deeper into the sounds, but I kept being disturbed by a homeless guy asking me for money for food (I had none). You know how when you stand around for a long time they just keep asking you, probably because their memory is nonexistent or they think maybe you'll change your mind or I don't know what it is. There are many many many homeless and drug addicted people in this city and even my big headphones are no way of stopping them continuously asking me for a cigarette or money. If they keep it up they may be responsible for me smoking a lot less, seeing how the street is the only place where you are allowed to smoke and I get really tired blowing people off all the damn time. Anyway, the poor guy was coughing his lungs out and I started thinking he may have really been asking for money for food. It's a good thing I had so much time on the platform. All of a sudden I remembered. In my bag was almost an entire hamburger. I ordered it in Berkeley with a friend but it was so greasy I couldn't even eat a quarter of it. Somehow they convinced me to bring it in a doggy bag, even though I knew I probably would put it in the fridge until I would have to throw it out a few days later. This time it was me who approached the man and carefully handed him the hamburger. He was really happy, and held it in his hand as he boarded his train. I hope he likes sauteed mushrooms and artichoke on his burgers.
I was home thirty minutes later than I could have been. It was another sunny day in California and tomorrow we welcome a new day. I am in no rush.
Friday, January 16, 2009
What twenty bucks buy you at..
The Chinese shop:
4 cucumbers
1 grapefruit
2 cans of tomato sauce
1 red pepper
1 green pepper
1 tofu
1 piece of butter
2 red onions
4 potatoes
1 big bag of strawberries
1 lemon
1 orange
2 roma tomatoes
1 bushel of fresh rosemary
0,790 lbs of feta cheese
The Cheese shop:
1 piece of Old Amsterdam aged cheese.
4 cucumbers
1 grapefruit
2 cans of tomato sauce
1 red pepper
1 green pepper
1 tofu
1 piece of butter
2 red onions
4 potatoes
1 big bag of strawberries
1 lemon
1 orange
2 roma tomatoes
1 bushel of fresh rosemary
0,790 lbs of feta cheese
The Cheese shop:
1 piece of Old Amsterdam aged cheese.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Miktor & Molf
I visited Miktor & Molf a few times when they still had their studio in a trailer in a warehouse. I would bring beer and cigarettes and licorice and once, the Hitkrant. Most of the time I would just sit there and read a bit and bum smokes from Matthijs or the other way around. Sometimes they took off their shirts for mysterious reasons, sometimes they fought, sometimes I would get my skateboarding lesson but they did most of it, not me. And I guess sometimes they work. They are getting their shit together and showing their stuff at places like Sid Lee Collective (of which I have absolutely no clue what it is) and SPRMRKT (some clothing store). Way to go boys, way to go.
Miktor & Molf come up with the funniest titles for things ever.
Miktor & Molf love me, and I love them too.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
It's that time again
By Stephane Kaas 2008
I just can't help myself. For as long as I can remember I have gigantic piles of clothing everywhere. Hard to imagine I worked in an organized clothing store for years. Maybe that's kind of the equivalent of cooks never making themselves dinner at home. Who knows.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Dune
I was quietly browsing craigslist for cars and jobs, when I heard the front door open and voices speaking in Spanish. I keep getting caught off guard by the fact that we have two cleaning ladies. They both listen to the name Maria and they come once a month on Thursdays. Having maids really weirds me out. It's understandable from my roommates point of view, she works all the time and she has the means to hire them. I on the other hand, am seemingly always at home in sweats when they come in. The last time they were here I was so intimidated that I didn't dare ask if I could use the bathroom (because they were cleaning in there) so I sat in bed 'till they were finished, by which time my teeth were floating.
This time I wisely decided to flee the house and bike over to the beach. Biking down there is easy. It's twenty blocks downhill and it was a beautiful day. The waves of the Pacific get pretty intense and I found my little spot on a dune where I can just sit and stare at the water for hours. I made a promise to myself to go down here more often while I still live in the Sunset. It's so close and so nice. If I had to live anywhere outside of the city I am positive it would be in the dunes. Proximity to water and forest (if you're lucky) makes it smell really good and the sunsets are truly marvelous. If you're on a west coast, anyway.
While I was sitting on my dune I read a little in the book my father gave me for Christmas, selected letters from Neal Cassady. A great book for anyone with a fascination for the Beat Generation, like me!
After a gruesome bike ride uphill back home, I find my room cleaned and the Maria's made my bed. I think they even sort of organized my bedside table. Wow.
I need a shower.
This time I wisely decided to flee the house and bike over to the beach. Biking down there is easy. It's twenty blocks downhill and it was a beautiful day. The waves of the Pacific get pretty intense and I found my little spot on a dune where I can just sit and stare at the water for hours. I made a promise to myself to go down here more often while I still live in the Sunset. It's so close and so nice. If I had to live anywhere outside of the city I am positive it would be in the dunes. Proximity to water and forest (if you're lucky) makes it smell really good and the sunsets are truly marvelous. If you're on a west coast, anyway.
While I was sitting on my dune I read a little in the book my father gave me for Christmas, selected letters from Neal Cassady. A great book for anyone with a fascination for the Beat Generation, like me!
After a gruesome bike ride uphill back home, I find my room cleaned and the Maria's made my bed. I think they even sort of organized my bedside table. Wow.
I need a shower.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I wonder what happened to Nicole Wray
I have a professed love for R&B music. Not only the R&B that Ike Turner used to make, but also the later kind. I guess my little last.fm chart over here on the site makes it pretty clear.
I don't share this love with many of my friends. Most of them listen to cool obscure music and classic oldies or you know, anything not produced by Timbaland or Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis.. (That means you, Femke!)
With a lot of spare time, a new MacBook and finally figuring out how to use a torrent program, my love for this music is blowing up even more. People have ready made collections like '100 Best R&B and HipHop Songs of the 90's' and I spend my evenings like a teenager listening to Mary J Blige in my room on my headphones while dancing and singing along with no sound. At least I don't use my hairbrush as a microphone and having an airbed prevents me from jumping on the bed, so it's not thát bad.
Anyway. If any of you have a secret urge to listen to some classics, download this mix by Sotu the Traveller. It has Mark Morrisson, Ginuwine, Keath Sweat, and Jodeci among others. And if anyone gives you shit for it, remember he's a part of Appletree Records. That'll give you some credit.
I leave you with one of my favorites. Mazzel!
P.S. Don't download the new Beyonce album(s)! It SUCKS.
I don't share this love with many of my friends. Most of them listen to cool obscure music and classic oldies or you know, anything not produced by Timbaland or Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis.. (That means you, Femke!)
With a lot of spare time, a new MacBook and finally figuring out how to use a torrent program, my love for this music is blowing up even more. People have ready made collections like '100 Best R&B and HipHop Songs of the 90's' and I spend my evenings like a teenager listening to Mary J Blige in my room on my headphones while dancing and singing along with no sound. At least I don't use my hairbrush as a microphone and having an airbed prevents me from jumping on the bed, so it's not thát bad.
Anyway. If any of you have a secret urge to listen to some classics, download this mix by Sotu the Traveller. It has Mark Morrisson, Ginuwine, Keath Sweat, and Jodeci among others. And if anyone gives you shit for it, remember he's a part of Appletree Records. That'll give you some credit.
I leave you with one of my favorites. Mazzel!
P.S. Don't download the new Beyonce album(s)! It SUCKS.
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