Went to Amsterdamn this weekend. Talk about fucked up. Me and me amigo, Doug, went to this cafe and got all bent. The women working in the cafe started yelling at this guy at the counter with all the lines you'd find in cheap-ass, bottom of the barrel 1980s cinema: "We give, and all you do is take. . .Where is the 250 dollars?. . .All we want is to be treated equal. . .What have you done for us lately?. . .We don't do this for just everyone. . .Get out and don't come back. . .I'm gonna slug you." Yes, tonight's feature was the story of a man who wore out his welcome. Remember, we were really ploughed and the only ones there.
Act II: a man walks in and says, "I'm leaving the band. I don't want to play with those guys anymore. I came here to make it big, and they just sit around and get high. The classic hardluck musician story -- a man who couldn't quite get over the hump. We really didn't believe this was happening, so we decided that they purposefully must put these shows on for gringos as part of the deal.
Last night I was clubbing and grooving Padre-style. Doug and I were shimmying with two women. They revealed that they were 27 and 28. That's cool, I thought. Older women. After Doug and I -- the only person I know here -- spent a grueling hour trying to work them, they also revealed that they were married. We were caught completely off guard. They smiled and walked away. "Fuck off," we said.
Cheers
I made some strides this weekend on the social scene, but only through the use of alcohol. I accompanied Doug to another pub. We sat there and drank for 2 1/2 hours until we could muster up enough balls to talk to people. We then ended up playing some drinking game with these crazy Brits. The game was kind of like Asshole but with a Hawaii Five-O theme.
In the midst of a snowball fight, I ripped the crotch of my tan cords about 2 feet. So, naturally I drank tea until 3:00 with all of these British people, and I told them how lame it was that we were doing so. I then went into how they say words wrong and that I didn't give a shit what we borrowed from them and blah, blah, blah. I taunted them for their primitive methods and dreamt of Zubaz. I would've killed for a Desert Storm shirt.
Saturday was good as well. I was out with more people whom I didn't know and was forced to finish my last two drinks by two bouncers at closing time. (Brutus and Popeye. Brutus had a floating eye, the other looked like Lou Albano.) Anyway, we were screaming, as were eight other Brits, and they were all singing Madonna's "Borderline". After that, we stumbled into the street where I discovered these hot and sleazy looking girls, They ran up to me, and one started going off about how her only dream in the world is to go to Cincinnati, Ohio. I was like what the fuck. Za Za Za. She scrambles to give me her address and then says, "Oh, by the way, I'm like 14." I think it may have been 16 -- either way this Lolita's trying to fix things so that I get put in the brig for bumping her ugly. Now everyone on campus calls me child molester.
I'd still do her. Ho Ho Ho.
No change here. I recently got drunk and waited for "Master of Puppets" to be played at a club. When it came on, I started killing people. I got into a fight, walked 2 miles home, and ate a garlic pizza on the way. Joking with some girl and this guy and his mom, I say za za Oedipus Complex, and they say, "Oh, don't you start with that American psychology." Mom had a nice tail.
Going out tonight. I'll try for something memorable. Other than that, I really don't have that much to say. I sleep late, stay up late, and read a lot, which is strange. There is a feeling of peace knowing that I'm away from The States.
By the way, if you think HU's science building is embarassing to look at, you've got to see the choice of architecture on this campus. My eye's are bleeding. In the sixties they erected this tall watertower shaped like a chemistry flask or vial. Anyway, it doesn't work or hold water. It's perhaps the ugliest structure I've ever seen. I'll send pictures, 'cuz maybe you have to see it to get the full effect.
I've just finished my fourth week of classes here and don't know what to think. Things are a bit better. I hang out with two American girls, one who is the coolest girl I've ever met. The other one is nice. Doug has some bad fraternity stories, but for the most part knows what's cool and what's not, plus when we're drunk, we have fun. The other Americans are the worst people on this earth, and would make you feel lucky to hang out with the zombies that you do. One, who we call Dundee, came to Europe with an Australian hat (hence Dundee), a German war jacket, and a Euro-beard. He goes to Rutgers and got in a fight with a 70 year-old British barmaid because she didn't know what a Long Island Ice Tea was. He also refuses to accept any British customs different from those in the states.
Then we have the pot guy:
The rest of the people suck because they debate the virtues of various micro-brews or wear Harley Davidson shirts. My roomate is 18 year-old Nigel Tufter. I can't understand a word he says. His friends are all very nice, but the age difference is there, and I can only listen to so much House of Pain.
The Euro-disco is all right -- if you're so pissed you can't stand. Drunk food exists as well. White Castle has been replaced by Joe's Diner, an R.V. converted into a moving restaurant. Joe is an old fat black man who drinks all night at the bar and then goes outside to make fries for all the drunk bambinos. He's used the same cooking fat forever, and the next day you can feel it.
One aspect of the social scene that I know you'd enjoy are the bartenders. Each dorm has a pub, and all of the bartenders are women in their 60's and 70's. It feels awfully funny to come staggering up to the bar to order another pint and then have this gentle old woman go 'sure thing, luv.'
Americans are not that big a deal here, so I'm not getting laid like The Fonz. Girls are hot, but I don't really know any or have any means of knowing them. Plus I get laughed at for my argyle sweater and white socks, but fuck it if they think I'm gonna wear Doc Marten's and wrap a fucking scarf around my neck.
Suicide seems so much easier when you're in a primitive country. The computers are from 1978 and there's no food here except potatoes.
Tonight could not have been worse. Cyndi, Doug, Paula, and I drink several pints at the pub and board a cab.
We try Silk's, an unknown club to us. They're hosting "universal sounds" on this particular night: a techno hip-hop bass thing. Everyone's there. By the way, the drug scene has been very dry so far, so everyone is anxious to score. We enter, and it's a nice place, total 90210: neon, packed with about a thousand or so people, sunken dance floor. Doug acquires some whiz. I take a piss. On the way, I run into Lewis and the drug guy. I ask the drug guy if I can score some shit in the stall, like a bad Vice episode. He looked at me like I was wearing a fucking wire. So yada, yada. I get the shit and Drexall or whatever his name is invites me back to his place after a night of dancing where we'll shoot smack or something.
I return to the dance scene. Paula and and Cyndi are long gone. Doug takes me into the corner, where we have a piece of paper and a line of white dust. It all reminds me of those Lick-'EM-Aid sticks we used to eat as kids. We lick it off our fingers scrunched down in the furthest edge of the room, only to have a mustachioed security guard nab us with the paper and powder, and haul us into the hallway where we are surrounded by authority types. It was similar to being in an underage bust in the states, except we were well over the age of consent, in a foreign country, and armed with illegal substances. We offer to just leave -- sprinting comes to mind -- but it's not really an option. They take the paper and say they are going to clinically test it. We say fine, like we don't give a fuck. Piss runs down my leg. They kick us out and tell us how people like us ruin it for people like them, as they point toward the dealers who sold it to us.
They didn't even let me get my jacket. It was cold, very cold out. We smoked bad cigarettes, and thought about where we went wrong. It was all good fun, really. I was busted taking what appeared to be cocaine or angel dust in a posh nightclub. In the end, we just went to a different club for the usual shit-faced high jinx, including an insane dance war.
Then it occured to me: I fucked up. If you're gonna get busted, you might as well get pulled over speeding in a sports car with a hooker and a glove compartment full of horse.
FEBRUARY 27, 1995
Friday night, Doug, myself, and a few of the lads went to a pub to get shitty. I got there by 6:00 for the fourth Friday in a row. We drank with all these crazy Brits. Doug and I become obnoxiously American and start quoting The Karate Kid: "Get 'em a body bag, Johnny. . . But Sensei, I can beat this guy.. . .What? His hand on her ass?. . .No stupid, her left hook. . .You mean she hit him?. . .That's an understatement . . .Why didn't she say anything?. . .She shouldn't have to. . ."
Anyway, this is going on, and I start singing Bubba's name in place of lyrics to the songs playing on the juke box. So Doug starts in on Shintzy. I had already heard the story, but the rest were curious. So Doug told all to the inquiring lads and lasses.
There was a kid named Shintzy. He had two retarded brothers. One day, he walked in on one of the brothers brushing the other's nuts with one of those brushes you use to wipe away mistakes on a typewriter. From that point forward all of our lyrics dealt with Shintzy and testicles being brushed. During Clapton hour, we had "Lay down Shintzy, why do you brush your balls?" and "Shintzy." This caught on. Soon we had everyone around us singing about Shintzy and Bubba. Rob repeatedly obliged all those who missed the previous Shintzy explanations. The kid must've told that story ten times in the span of an hour.
We then returned to my room where I gave the chop to my puking roommate. We smoked until we saw those little green people (ala Jim Walsh) that are so weird and always appear. We were kicking back, listening to tunes when these Norwegian females from across the hall came over (a new batch shows up every three weeks) and started dancing. Their English was broken and I let them know it. Their primary goal is a series of prized shags with American men -- too much Baywatch. No problem here, but they were not so fit. Hell, neither was I. I told them me llamo Roberto and that I was Americano, and one of them jumped into my lap. I told her I played Yahtzee for fun and all shit broke loose. It was alot like that night at the Chess house where we smashed Paul's tuba with baseball bats and pissed on Angelo in the parking lot.
Very entertaining weekend; could very well be made into a novel. Doug and I ride the subway to South London, a bad neighborhood where the Beastie Boys concert is. He doesn't have a ticket, so we are prepared to go to a scalper. At the station, we are greeted by a million others who are trying to do the same thing. We got an offer from an Oriental girl: "I love you long time for ticket." We start playing, and this means going up to every person and asking. The problem is that it's the scalper's turf: They buy cheap and sell high. Tickets were going for sixty pounds (about a hundred bucks). We tried to get to the Courtney Love look alikes before the scalpers to buy their tickets, but they told us to fuck off and that they would break our faces. We finally got a girl to sell for twenty pounds. The whole scene was enhanced by a screaming wino who spit on people, a man selling incense saying he had the best around, and another guy selling a black newspaper. It all took a lot out of me.
We go to the auditorium which is a great place -- floor with a balcony, about 5,000 people capacity. We were on the floor. Hurricane opened, and was better than I thought he'd be. He knew enough not to play more than five songs. The next band sucked. We got up to the stage where we were invariably surrounded by other Americans. The worst. Two girls talked about how wasted they were before droping their pants and pissing all over. Man con fraternity hat introduced himself as Craig and said that he was seeing "astronomical stars cuz he wuz on Northern Lights. (the same stuff I attacked you on)." Another kid turned and asked if I liked The Beastie Boys.
I said, "Yeah, they rock."
He goes, "You from London?" and we said "Yeah" in the most American accent we could.
He said, "Cool, I'm from The States." Washington, he said. We said we'd never heard of it.
The Beasties came out with "Stand Together." Crazy, dying, panic, shit. All beat-up and rowdy. In two nights, I heard almost all of their songs. They seemed cool, but the instrumentals sounded bad and they looked worn out. Saturday was better. But is was like Groundhog's Day, because we had to do the same thing for Doug and a girl again the next night. Those scalpers are pricks.
We returned to our London meeting place by 12:30 all battered and sweaty, but there were six of us -- 4 girls -- and they wanted to go clubbing in London's seedy underbelly. So we went to this place that was supposed to be awesome, and I was like, I shouldn't, but what the hell? We were out to score some Ex and go crazy. So we get there -- pricy cab, pay the nine pound admission ($14!!) -- and enter. On the screen, we see two guys wrestling in thongs, and I thought it was like a screen at First Ave. You know, funny stuff.
We get upstairs and there's this really cool club atmosphere -- huge, booming music, full bar, balcony.
Yet, I sensed something was wrong.
There were crossdressers and other unusual looking people. We went to the coat check, and the guys in front of us took their pants off. One man had no-ass pants and was wearing a jock, the others just thongs. There was a 15 to 1 guy-girl ratio. The girls left us, and Doug and I were sitting by ourselves on the end of a bench. We smoked cigarettes to prevent shaking. Soon I saw it all. Every kind of homo. They were crying , kissing, hugging. Some had their cocks out and were stroking each other. The were all gay and tripping on Ex. There were huge football guys who looked like fucking McMahon, no shirts on, ultra-tight jeans. They were looking to get laid. It was hilarious. Doug was trembling and we both broke out in hysterical laughter at our predicament. We had to go meet the girls at 3:00, which meant we still had an hour-and-a-half to go. It got so bad that people were butt-fucking right there along the railing, and we later saw a flyer that encouraged it. Men were dancing in front of us trying to allure and/or provoke us, but we didn't move. They were ready to either bung or kick the everliving shit out of us.
I must look like a drug dealer because I got asked for Ex the whole time. All the gay guys asking me for drugs, right? Doug looked like a scared little kid forever questioning his sexuality. 1,000 lustful naked men zipless-butt-fucking to techno beats, so in love. We went down the stairs. I got my ass grabbed twice. They smiled. I almost fainted. Doug and I longed for the days of gay bashing among our friends. Although, it wasn't really their fault. We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time; it was us who didn't belong.
We finally rounded up the women and got the fuck out of there. On the ground outside the club was a flyer:
Shit!! We hadn't known this, and I cried for a long time and am still not so OK. The rest of my extended weekend was fun, but this is what will stand out in my mind for a long time to come.
If there's one thing that Doug and I have brought to England, it's the words coined for the strip of skin between your asshole and nut bag. I have tons of British friends singing CHOAD, SAND BAR, TAINT, and SCRUM. They haven't gotten into the "Beat Off" dance as much, but I still do it. I usually bring it out when everyone's high. I think it scares them.
Is it bad that I hear all the music from The Real World in my head when I walk around and interact with the people I live with?
Mother's Day. My parents are coming in a week and if it's anything like today's phonecall, it will be terrible. (It's also the same day as my roommate Nigel's 19th birthday. Great.) They've figured out that their son is in Europe fucking around, wasting money, not learning a thing and harming his body. I have not seen many historic sites in the area -- and I've been here 5 months. They're gonna want me to give them a tour, and I'll show them a pub. I'm getting miserable fast.
The library closed before I could make an effort to do work, so my day was spent eating toast, watching soccer, and then going to see Natural Born Killers on the big screen with Doug and 2 dorks. Usually these films draw a big crowd. They show Tarantino films every week and everyone has Reservoir Dogs flags and lines are communally recited throughout the whole movie. It was packed tonight, and for a movie that overemphasizes a point, I don't think anyone got it. The problem is that no one here has ever seen tabloid television or been enveloped by mass American culture, so yada, yad, fuck off Brits.
Since we've been here, me and my American crew of four have had a sorry tradition of all going out to eat when our parents come. We did it with Cyndi's folks, Doug's folks, and I'm sure we'll do it with my folks. Last night it was my friend Paula's turn. We were treated to fish and chips with Paula's mother and her fiancee. Her mom was a sweet and soft spoken woman. But this Richard guy was fantastic: shirt unbuttoned, hairy chest, gold chain, shitty beard, baseball hat. He tried to be the funny guy and was in my face. He started asking me if I liked Gallagher. I said he was my favorite. And then he asked me what my favorite skit was. I didn't know. . .I said they were all funny. To the rest of the tables' dismay, he started quoting Gallagher. I kept him going. In fact, it was the featured piece of conversation for the entire two hour dinner, right up to the door.
School sucks. It's ninety degrees outside. Every pale English bloke is hurting my eyes Thin White Duke-style. I leave Saturday, home on Manday, and all I'm going to remember here is how much I busted my ass to finish two term papers the final week. It's such bullshit. It's rained everyday until now.
I'm outta here tomorrow. People are crying. I'm pissed. I'll reach the states by Monday night and will be back in Cincinatti Monday night. It's been a great year. I'm glad I got to know you in class. I can't believe we'll be seniors next year. Have a good summer. Friends forever.
