July 2003 Archives
"Pat?"
"Yeh?"
"What d'ya think of the sign?"
"I think ya should underline 'what an Irish bar should be'"
"Right. Which word?"
"What?"
"..."
"What the fuck are ye doing underlining that word?"
"You said what!"
"I did not. Lookit, it's stupid. Underline another!"
"Which one?"
"Feck it, I don't know. Underline 'be'."
"Right so."
"Jaysus, that's awful. Do Irish as well."
"Ah, feck it, I do them all."
"I can remember everything from the time I was three and on. That in itself is unremarkable, but it's 84 years ago nonetheless.
I have already told you that I used to live on West-Kruiskade in Rotterdam. It was a large two-storey house. My grandparents lived on the first floor and we lived upstairs: my parents, my five year old sister and I. My sister and I used to play on our grandparents' floor, but one day we were told not to go downstairs. "Your grandmother is ill." We weren't aware of it, but later it appeared she had died and had been buried. One morning - I can still picture it, I was playing at a table - I saw that my mother was crying. The tears fell into the pot, for she was slicing up a cabbage. I thought: "I hope she washes that cabbage, otherwise it will be very salty." I knew tears were salty, because I used to lick them away whenever I cried.
Ten cents
Ten cents used to be a fortune for a child. I would fantasize about it in bed. What if I, a four year old, had ten cents, imagine the things I would be able to buy. There was a shop on Kruiskade called "De Zoete Toko". I would look at its delicacies for a long time. For starters, 1 cent would get you five thin pieces of licorice. Four cent would get you an ounce of Maria biscuits, and two cents an ounce of 'borsthoning'. It looked like a chunk of chalk, but tasted wonderfully sweet. That would be 7 cents, so you could get a piece of chocolate for 2 cents. The word 'Santé' was printed on it, it tasted a little earthy, but good. A 1 cent sour lozenge would cover the 10 cents.
When I was six years old, I had to go to school. Next to me, on the other side of the aisle, sat a boy named Wim. His father was a sailor and he'd bring him wonderful things from his travels. One time Wim got walnuts the size of an egg, they were very special. I thought: it must be wonderful to be able to say 'my father brought it for me". I bought some shiny pieces of coloured paper in the book shop with my pocket money. I would cut them in two, bring them to school with me and I would hand them out to the kids I liked. And when they asked me how I got them, I would proudly say: "My father brought them.""
{ from “Memories of Old Rotterdam - and other stories” by my grandmother, J. de Boer - van Oosten. }
He: "I will. Text me if there's something important."
She: "... where they don't wear pants."
He: "Huh? Who says?"
She (sings): "... they don't wear pants, in the Southern part of France..."
He: "Well. B. does wear pants."
/ beat /
She: "Thank. God."
He: "Ha ha ha ha ha."
I'm a bit paranoid about people not understanding the confirmation e-mail to prove they are human which they receive when they e-mail me, especially when it seems to come from an unrelated address (for example if they've filled in a form on one of my websites), or if English isn't their first language. One friend who has very poor English started texting me after she sent an e-mail. So I still check what Knowspam is holding back. Perhaps I'll get over it.
"I read in the dailies that the bicycle is back 'in fashion'. People are buying a lot of bicycles. If you want to really enjoy nature, the best way to do it is on bicycle, that is a fact. A car just races past all the beautiful spots. I would like to tell you something about my first bicycle.
I must have been 13 years old - some 75 years ago - and we were living in Rotterdam on West-Kruiskade, near Diergaardesingel. Diergaardesingel was very interesting in those days, because it had, as we called them, 'American houses'. In those days they were rather special. They even had a kind of gadget that you could say your name in when you rang the bell! One of those houses was the home of Fientje de la Mar. She was my age. She didn't know me, but I knew her. Because everybody in Rotterdam knew where Nap de la Mar, her father, lived. As children, on Saturday afternoons, we were allowed to go to the 'Casino' on Coolsingel, where Nap de la Mar performed. It cost 20 cents, yes, that's right, for 20 cents we would have a few hours of entertainment. I do not think we understood all of his jokes, but we had a great time anyway. During the intermission there would be a raffle and whenever a number was called, we would check our tickets to see if it was ours. I never won anything, but the excitement was worth a lot.
About the bicycle. Fientje, who was my age, had a really nice bicycle, a Fongers, I believe. I did not have one and whenever I saw her on her bicycle in her pretty sailor suit with those marvelous pleads, I would be awfully jealous. But when I turned 14 I finally got my own bicycle. It was a masterpiece, with shiny wheels and two hand breaks. O, I was so pleased and happy. The day I got it, our help was not in and my mother said: "When you have done the dishes, you can go for a ride on your bicycle." O my, what a big pile of dishes it was that day, there was no end to it.
Finally the moment had arrived. I got on and my first trip was to Diergaardesingel. If Fientje were to step out of the house, she would see that I had a beautiful bicycle too. I kept riding around the block, Diergaardesingel, West-Kruiskade, back to Diergaardesingel, past Fientje's house. Six times around the block I went and, yes, I was lucky. There she was, with her beautiful mother. I rode along the curve, slowly, hoping that she would see me. But she was talking with her mother and she didn't see me at all.
I was very disappointed and went to a friend on Oude Binnenweg to show off my new posession. I rang the bell and he came outside and he was awed. He looked at it from all sides and asked: "Can I have go?" To which I answered: "Absolutely not, it's brand new!". I thought: that wild boy on my beautiful bicycle, no, there is no way! Later, I married this friend. I have had more bicycles, but the memory of my first one is still fresh. Cycling was something you had to learn. These days when toddlers four or five years old get their hands on a bike they just get on it and ride away with it. They have learnt how to steer with their little tricycles.
I was almost 13 years old when I started cycling. My friend who lived in Kralingen would teach me. We rented a bicycle for 25 cents an hour and rode around on the squares on Avenue Concordia. One time I fell and had to rest my leg for six weeks and put bandages with Burow's solution on it. But when I got my first bike I did know how to ride it!
My father was 50 then and he wanted to have a go too. He started to learn and I would run after him and hold on to him. He was very afraid. But he did get the hang of it and yes, he wanted to ride to Scheveningen with me. So we went. I rode in front because he was afraid to ride next to me. He rode after me, very afraid. I had to look over my shoulder all the time to see if he was still there. But we got to Scheveningen unscathed and back again. My father was very proud and I was exhausted from being afraid for my father and from looking over my shoulder."
{ from “Memories of Old Rotterdam - and other stories” by my grandmother, J. de Boer - van Oosten. }
"I would like to tell some stories about my youth in Rotterdam, where I was born and where I lived until 1941.
After the Germans bombed Rotterdam, I and my family with me, moved to Bussum and I still live there now. Still, I'm a Rotterdammer at heart. My eldest daughter lives there, so I often visit. The other day she took me for a ride through the city. Oh my, so much has changed! Sometimes I don't know where I am in Rotterdam. That's because it's been such a long time. I still picture the old town.
My husband and I knew all the shops on Hoogstraat by heart, from Oostzeedijk to Korte Hoogstraat. Sometimes we made a game out of it.
I'm glad to say I had a happy childhood and I'm so full of memories of those days that it is impossible to stick to some sort of chronology while I am writing it down. So I'm going to pick one subject and tell all that springs to mind. Then I'll choose another subject, and so on."
tbc
{ from "Memories of Old Rotterdam - and other stories" by my grandmother, J. de Boer - van Oosten. Written around 1982/83 at the age of 87. She died at the grand age of 100. }
Update: The second I posted this I received the following e-mail from 'Dan Legal' who works at dpmg, a "Company Focused on The Traffic Generation". .
{ Dogtroep Leidsche Rijn, bring your own bucket }
When I go see a performance I want to feel it. I want to be moved. I want to be sickened. I want to feel joy. Make me wonder, make me sad. I want to choke on its beauty and cough up blood. As a member of the audience I expect no less than that. I suppose that makes me a tough customer.
'Location theatre' group 'Dogtroep''s latest untitled production in Leidsche Rijn was an hour's worth of 'spectacular' lightweight entertainment. Deeply unfulfilling.
Set on four square kilometers of virgin land on the biggest building site of the country, framed by meadows, Dutch rail and spectacular thunderstorms, its flimsy 'story' failed to impress.
{ empty your bucket }
A builder, an 'native american', a Roman, a whore, a farmer's wife and a pilot try to live together on a barren plot of land. Objects rise from beneath the soil, pneumatic drills have a mind of their own, water floods a large part of the set, perspectives change. The builder grabs the whore by her fanny -- it shocks the M.O.R. crowd.
{ set }
Visually clever, the show was emotionally empty. It didn't even tickle where it should scratch an itch. This by a company that used to tell stories that made you quiver inside.
It is fluff for the passe-partout-pre-show-dinner masses by a generation of theatre makers who have nothing left to say. Who don't want to say anything that might upset the sponsors or offend the punters -- they might not come back next super-subsidised season.
"Total theatre"'s gone total shit.
Dogtroep, Leidsche Rijn, seen: 17/7/2003.
{ entrance }
Que yo me quiero sentar
En aqul tronco que veo
Y as no puedo llegar
Compay Segundo Dies at 95.
Dead-letter box is a weblog about spies and spying.
I have always been keen on espionage. Not as a profession, mind. Just... entertainment: Fleming's books and James Bond films, John Le Carre TV series and books, The Avengers, 'Get Smart' - the 60's comedy TV series which I think was titled "Spion 2000" on Dutch TV. I lapped it up as a kid, and occasionally as an adult.
I've been going through my bi-annual surge of interest in the subject and thought it might be a good thing for a weblog.
-- In memory of C.v.d.B., my cousin-in-law, who died last week at the age of 55.
My excuse? I won the tickets. But going to see The Human League in 2003 is a style crime. They are, as we say in Dutch, 'goed fout'.
'Fout' [fowt] means 'wrong'. It's used in various ways. 'Not right', or 'a mistake'. It is applied to war time collaborators as well, which gives the word a certain weight.
The word 'fout' is also reserved for all things on the wrong side of camp, deeply into 'tacky' territory.
Tacky as the stage set up in the Paradiso. Everything is white and overwhelmingly Greek, the synths, the microphone, the iBook in the back, the backdrop hanging down like globs of come running somebody's abs.
"Here comes the mirror man
Says he's a people fan
Here comes the mirror man..."
When Phil Oakey walks on stage wearing a tent-like black flimsy duster over ill fitting white threads, stumbling around as if he's a debutant on Stars In Their Eyes, everything about him is oh so very wrong.
20 years or more in the business and he has no stage presence. He has no voice either - well, he has his top-range and his bottom-range and absolutely fuck all in the middle. He ostentatiously gargles water and god knows what at the back of the stage, the victim of some kind of throat infection.
"I'm only human, of flesh and blood I'm made."
Irony upon irony. What an absolute fucker of a week. I feel weak in the stomach. Like butterflies, only wet and dying from too much love and longing. I'm gagging and I'm gagged.
From my vantage point up on the balcony at the Paradiso I ogle the boys in their tight little T-shirts with their buzz cuts and their pocket cameras snapping moments of the band, but mostly of themselves.
Away from the crowd, I connect with the place itself. The Paradiso -- so many memories.
Look, there's the stage, remember the flowers? Red prickly roses and white carnations. Paid for out of my own pocket. On the tables, on the mike stand, in his mouth.
"Take a cruise to China or a train to Spain
Go round the world again and again
Meet a girl on a boat meet a boy on a train
And fall in love without the pain..."
Look, there's the bar where I stood on a platform, eye to eye at l