"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>sex is easier to clean up than shopping


l-r: moi-même, marie from czech republic, and julia from australia . . . it was my one attempt in luxembourg to have some fun, and i look apatheic. july 14th, at URBAN. original photos can be found here.

yesterday was one of my busiest days since london. my feet traversed more kilometres across this amazing city that i think is easier to love once i get over myself.

i woke up before most of the drowsy girls in my dorm. threw on a tube top, my grey skirt and black calve-length leggings. ate my continental breakfast like a locust while crappy christian rock played over the speakers. ran out the door. ate mango pieces in Dam Square, while the day began to break and the world started fresh once more. pigeons frolicked like lovers.

met with a tour guide in front of Centraal station for a, get this, FREE 3 hour walking tour.


my tour guide was 23-year-old sunny-california-ex-navy-seal-surfer-dude jeremiah, with an overabundance of boyish charm, good-looks, and charisma. he took us through the red-light district, nieumarkt (newmarket? thank god it’s nothing like north of the 400), the jewish district . . . he gave us such detailed and fun anecdotes/stories about amsterdam’s canals, land-reclamation, architecture, prostitution, weed-culture, the dutch-indian trading company, the clashing of religions, WWII, and post WWII, the damrak and dam square, the royal palace, anne frank’s house, the largest bridge, and even the smallest house.

he was amazing, and all the girls from canada, australia, usa, and britain took a deep shining to him. i learned that catholicism became illegal after the protestants took over. that because the houses were built on mud, almost all 17th century houses lean in and out. that a series of ropes and pulleys were used to hoist furniture to the top floors since the stairwells were too narrow. that prostitution was adored by the church because such indulgences would increase patronage and donations at the church! that the jewish population went from 120,000 pre WWII to just 5000 post WWII, so the jewish district became a ghost town and was dismantled for wood to create heat and warmth during the winter of ’44, where dozens of bodies lay piled on the streets. that because of over-population, people began to live on their canal boats, and today, they actually own the water that encompasses their boats and slips. they even have cable tv on those boats! we learned about the whipping of prostitutes by “righteous” women.

and we learned about the “miracle” of amsterdam – a holy wafer that wouldn’t burn, that hovered about the fireplace it was thrown into, and when it disappeared, it magically appeared in another location.

a levitating, fire-retardent, teleporting wafer.

it’s neat learning about religion.


through the 3 hours we walked, jeremiah and i spent much time yapping. he left home at the age of 15, enrolled in the usa navy, made it through s.e.r.e. training, went to college for four days, and has now banished the USA because of its backward policites. he’s been a tour guide in rome, now amsterdam, and soon australia.

he’s invited me out to pub-crawl with him tonight.

suffice it to say, he’s brilliant, witty, a true lover of everything the planet has to offer, nomadic, beautiful, independent, and any girl that gets him is a lucky fucker.

saying goodbye, i found myself wandering through the TheatreMuseum of amsterdam (small and short but adequate), the Torture Museum (graphic depictions of middle-age and medieval torture devices used against women and religious prisoners, with the actualy instruments there to observe).

the sun in the city suddenly blased like satan’s bbq, and my body felt like a diaper rash minus the baby powder.


skipped lightly back to the hostel, showered, ate dinner (chick peas, corn, and green peas slathered in balsamic vinagrette, the dinner of champions), then lightly made my way to the Anne Frank House.

the secret annex where her and her family hid for 2 years, cut off from society, completely hidden by the help of others, betrayed by an unknown source, sent to auschwitz and bergen-belsen and mauthausen, died of typhus, the gas chambers, exhaustion a month before the allied liberation.

the annex, just as anne must have experienced it, isn’t air-conditioned, so we felt the immense heat that she endured whilst isolated in the summers. the entrance hidden behind a bookshelf. the steep staircase, so dangerous. her bedroom plastered with photos of cinema stars and the monarchy. her actual diary, letters her father wrote after he learned of her death, the original manuscript of her published book, her ambitions to be a journalist, a writer, and so cute, a figure-skater.

how she meticulously doctumented her life, poured her observations on her era, her society, and her feelings onto paper, time-capsuling history.

i see her in me. we are alike. is this not what i’m doing right now? whether traveling or not, journalling is the most important photography human can make of history. we illuminate our world for posterity, we write ourselves into existence. we document, we testify, we give weight and value to personal experience. we bear witness. we are not victims, but have revolution on the mind.

do you see the world that i paint for you of 2006? do you know that i am living in a riotous time in history, and recording it is necessary?

i walked out of anne rank’s house sobered and solemn.

sad, moed, but still wanting to engage in this love affair with la vie.

isn’t that why i came back to europe? 6 more weeks to go.

as the sky turned from a salmon to a flint-grey (that sounds like a “Deep Thoughts with Jack Handy” moment),i sat on the patio of the Majestic café in Dam square, that overlooks the war monument, youn people everywhere, filling in the square, smoking J’s, chatting, giggling, playing instruments, drinking beers, watching the evening strollers and rumbling streetcars go by.

my virgin collada was sweet and tangy. the street cleaners sprayed high power hoses onto the 16th century cobblestones, cleaning the day’s debris off the face of the city.

i jovially yapped with some elderly people next to me from florida, they were full of spunk and jollyness. i wished i could join them in their hotels.

i wish layne was here with me, he’d love this more than i could. he’d infuse it with something extra.

the gauze of night set in and city lamps illuminated, but i wanted to watch the world forever.

woke up this morning, ate my free pancakes, and ran off to the sexmuseum.

photos of rudolph valentino, mata hari, marilyn monro, victorian porn, 20’s porn, 30’s porn, pompeii artifacts, kama sutra drawings, flashing men, lesbians and gays and transgendered, oh my.

lots of beastiality, i was surprised to see.

i am reminded of “big floppy donkey dick” from south park.

smiled and waved at the “ladies” in the red light district windows on my way to the grocery store.

sex has always been easier to clean up than shopping.

tomorrow, maybe the rijksmuseum (rembrandts galore) before hopping on a train to copenhagen.

forbidden mohammed cartoons and all.


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