A one-child policy

                                   Amsterdam, 29 June 2012.

Toda Raba I say to my latest Israeli customer, thank you so much in Hebrew, one of the many thank you's I have picked up in my "carreer" as an ambulant street seller...seems to work too, a happy customer with a newly game - if nothing else it will serve to keep inpatient young offspring busy in the often endless queue outside the Anne Frank Huose here in sunny Amsterdam - and another Five Euro ahead for me...

If no customers I just continue making games while my mind goes on never ending narratives, trying, mostly in vain, to find solutions for world problems.,.

Maybe the aim of the infamous one-child policy of China's exploding population, maybe it helps stemming an ever increasing influx of children but also in creating abandoned baby girls in a society bend on boys, with female infanticide and gender-selective abortions...

Similar baby girl unfriendly practices in India where the preference for male offspring comes into reality by the idea a dowry for the bridegroom, maybe male children better capable of supporting parents in old age...

However, the lack of female will greatly enhance prostitution, sexual rape, a generation of deperate bachelors that lack sexual outlet, no capability of finding a adequate female companion of wive...

Better I stop this negative mental narrative and concentrate on my customers

His case is about to be dismissed

                                      Amsterdam, 24 June 2012.

Stale tabacco breath mixed with the smell of cheap Pilsener waving into my face, black rotten horse teeth with pieces of Shoarma meat sticking to the gaps only mere decimeters away from me, yellowish tabacco stained fingers, nails with plenty of dirt underneath holding a transparent styrofoam half full box of Appie Heyn Shoarma meat, two rolls of bread with a corner bitten from one of them...

Was it Jor, Jos, Joost or Shiva, or maybe my real name Hans, he mixes them all up, even after nearly seventeen years of mutual acquaintance he hasn't gotten my name straight...I guess twenty years of heavy drinking and drug abuse can do that to you, countless unnumerable gray brain cells blown to smithereens...

twenty to thirty hastily deperate visits to the toilet - one for each beer he consumes - getting rid of what Rob, the King Of My Toilet, describes as black water with chunks of dark matter with a terrible stink that comes out of his ass with great speed....

Shit three times in a row but what sort of life is that???...I guess his case is about to be dismissed...but then I know why he is here, the last two of these Hoegaarden Wit Beer my mate Paul brought along last night when we had our Italy against French soccer match watching session...nice beer and not exactly in the cheap price class he is used to...

The Shoarma meat and bitten into rolls of bread come as a bonus for me, an empty bank account took care of that...the promise of a bottle of red wine tomorrow when his Rabo Bank card will supply newly printed social wellfare Euros will probably be a Rose...after all remembering my real name is just as difficult for poor Rob, the Street Alcoholic, as seeing the difference between Rose and Red Wine...    

My payroll Desperado customers

                                     Amsterdam, 20 June 2012.

With a nice summer sun once again shining over my beloved Mokum, I find myself back in front of the Numero Uno tourist spot in Amsterdam, the Anne Frank House selling my funny handmade games to people of all nationalities, Americans fascinated by my GATOR cap - a free gift from a Cuban customer presiding in Fort Lauterdale, Florida - Japanese families nervously approaching me, dragged to my little street shop by their exited progeny, Spanish speaking Ecuadorians with no English in the South-American heads - No Problemo as Arnie would say - Italians who have conveniently forgotten the bad economic state of their Maffia ruled native European boot, Greek tourists who have wisely moved their doomed Euros to unknown Swiss bank accounts...

Rowdy English school children on an educational visit to Holland's capital, or maybe a group of Turkish German speaking muslimas shyly wanting to know what I am selling, Wie Geht Das Dann?,...

Pictures aplenty with everybody promising me to mail them rather sooner then later...

When I fianlly get home, plenty of dough in my pocket but not so many games anymore, dusty from the street and mentally exhausted from all the tourist questions I had to answer in a multitute of languages, I find my Yahoo inbox full to overflow with mails...some of these pics here in this blogstory.     

A trvial incident in the life of a street alcoholic

                                             Amsterdam, 19 June 2012.

Business is slow but at least the weather is perfect for a determined street seller like me, and slow or not my games still go fatser as I can possibly make them...

The positive nature of slow business means at least I can retract my gray brain cells to the more obscure corners of mind and memory tracts while my hands do the job, more and more games ending up on my maroon red window curtain that serves as sort of carpet that displays my little one-man street business...

A mental journey back to the orient, back to King Bhumipol's Asian realm where life is easy, the food healthy, tasty and cheap, where the ladies always give me beamy smiles, a couple of red ones and the privacy of my room will ensure willing models for my chaotic artwork...

If nothing else I can go and see some Farang friends and have a cold to the touch beer, maybe listen to the Hot Momma stories on Pattaya's infamous boulevard...

But no, Nada of this...heavy screams originating from the Westermark remind me that Gerard, one of the square's alcoholics has been freed from a three month monkey house sentence this very morning and already well on the way to King Alcohol's realm of mind destroying cheap supermarket supplied pilsener, maybe a couple of mind enhancing pills as a bonus...

The man is out of his mind on dope and booze but that is a trivial incindent in his loser's life on any given day. But after three months of prison enforced cold turkey he is super high and ready for a fight with whoever crosses his miserable existence...

I am not all that amazed to see him walking by ten minutes later, sweating like a pig and bleeding like a cow that has just met the butcher's knife...I guess he found his destiny for today...

Like I said, a trivial incident in the life of a street alcoholic!!!    

Delightful little names

Delightfull little names given to me during my backpack trips around the globe:



Barang....Cambodia
Farang....Thailand.
Limey.
Ferengi....Malaysia and Indonesia.
Rooinek.
Soutie.
Khawaja....pronounced in Egypt as Khawagga, from
the turkish Fat Man.
Msungu...certain african countries.
Gwailo....in Hong Kong.
Gringo....seems obvious.
Honkey.
Rosbiff.
Tomi.
Satan Nyora...Devil Snake in Bantu..< I liked that one >
Sassenach.
Round-Eyed Foreign Devil...Taiwan < I`ll never return >
Gai-Jin...you guessed it, yes Japan.
Sahip...India.
Bwana...Kenia.
Orang Puti...Borneo.

If anybody out there in the Internet realm has got any more to add...pls do so.

Hope you enjoy my collection of delightfull little names.

Terminated with extreme prejudice

                                     Amsterdam, 16 June 2012.

I have got to admit, he does look quiete pleased here the old man, sitting there surrounded by two grand daughters, one of which is mine - the one on the right you know - and he never knew about untill recently....

two and a half decades of Pas De Contact, never could be bother to answer serious attempts of make up and hug, living in the Dutch capital, far away from my native soil in the south of Holland, contact with a "loving" family terminated with extreme prejudice...

Struggling with feelings that aren't the nobelest when my sister send me a friendship request on Facebook, trying again against all odds, ugly relations fighting inside my Farang mind while I was once again living it up in that southeast Asian paradise for Farang males and shelter of hope for a better life for impoverished undereducated Thai Hot Mommas, called  Pattaya... 

My sister on the right and my old ladyfriend Amanda on the left...

Enough personal shit here, think about it what you want!!!

Thrown back to soccer stone time

                                              Amsterdam, 14 june 2012.

At night back at my apartment after a mad cycle trip back from the house of a friend, a 12 % Kasteel beer down my throat, exasperated by the flow of cycle traffic, realising I am most probably not the only Amsterdam citized who has watched the debacle of the Dutch soccer team, oranged clad Dutch warriors against the black and white clad Angstgegner of German origin throwing us back to soccer stone time, no way we will make it to the next phase of the European soccer championship this time around...

Should get ready for bed, early time up tomorrow, hard work at the petting zoo awaiting me, but no...exasperation is still in full swing, taking over all my mental control and capabilities...so I take a spraycan - no matter what color - and add DEAD to the painting I made of Antonia last week...

At night back at my apartment where I have been amazed at her enthusiasm and seemingly unquesable thirst for the Adults-Only game, having lost count of the numerous sessions of physical pleasures we have shared, playfull manual and oral stimulations we shared with each other, never wasting any time but ripping off uncomfortable clothes, her purse on the table, naked among a pile of clothes, panting and sweating on my bed, a half empty bottle of Appie Heyn table wine, needless to mention color red, waiting for further consumption...

But no...nothing of that will happen again when she sees what I have done to her painting, raping and mutilation of what is basically my own artwork but in the process of making it she got to consider it her personal possession...

A post mortem libido urge.

                                      Amsterdam, 11 June 2012.

The perils of Thailand's prostitution industry have taken over the well meant intentions of Lord Morpheus' dream world, tossing and turning, clammy sheets that feel wed to the touch though in my hazy presence of this regularly returing limbo, it only adds to what is top of the pops in the order of uncomfortablity...

Ring, ring does my house phone but in my dream like state of existence it only sounds like these feminine knuckles raping the outside of my New Star guest house door, down and trodden, out on booze and Ya Ba, flat broke ladies of the nightlife, maybe looking for a couple of hours of sleep at my side before returning to the boulevard, maybe one or two red ones helping a starving Hot Momma's belly in the dreaded morning after...

Ring, ring it goes again but this time it is my cell lying comfortably close at the side of my bed, bringing me back to my Farang Land life, back to my bed and my house here in Amsterdam West, the crappy old and dusty house I occupy when I am not on the road in some far-away garbage belt dictator ruled state in Farawayistan...

A sweet female voice asking me if I was asleep, a voice full with promise and true Amazonian feminine sexuality, Antonia from Aruba, one of my Aldults-Only-Game partners, asking me if I am in the mood for some carnal games of pleasure and fun....

Three o'clock in the morning, more dead then alive, on my bike down to her house, the feeling that I am driven by a post mortem libido urge uppermost in my wine destroyed mind but trodding on with determination...  

Hannes doing a good job on my artwork

                                      Amsterdam, 09 June 2012.

Hannes, the four year old son of my upstairs neighbours Anne marie and Renske, improving my latest artwork...     

                                     The finished product...

Selling my games at the Anne Frank House

                                              Amsterdam, 06 June 2012.

Another foto from a customer of me selling my games at the Numero Uno tourist hotspot in Amsterdam, the Anne Frank House.

Thanks Mathilde.

Guilty without a reasonable doubt

                                    Amsterdam, 04 June 2012.

In between the showers of heavenly piss harrassing my beloved good old Mokum, I manage a quick sortie to the Anne Frank House today, not much hope of making big money but then what can I do but try to gather the rent, a miserable doomed Euro at a time, but then even a miserable doomed Euro is better as the proverably Nada...

Mister Ben from the nearby city of Leiden, the first human being stopping by, drenched to the bone with that heavenly piss that threatens the Amsterdam streets one more time in short moments, mister Ben who desperately wants to know where is the gay monument, not much interested to join the Anne Frank queue of soaked would-be visitors trying in vain to protect themselves against the urine of the Gods, the other wrarth of these devine beings blowing underneath there newly boughts umbrellas whose cover shows the colors of my city, black, white and red, three crosses embedded in a red and black background, bought in one of the Westermark square souvernir shops...shit, they do better business then me with their darned umbrellas...

Mister Ben from Leiden who after a short of time of pensive thinking is willing to pose for me, wants to know about these funny looking games, buying four for twelve miserable doomed Euros, money for food a cheap bottle of Mooi Kaap, red wine, nothing left over for the rent...

But then who cares...back home, the home that will be threatened with eviction soon though my savings will help me out I guess, my old ladyfriend Antonia is waiting, always willing to pose for me and brightening up my lonely evenings every so often, who always tells me she knows what I want...I guess I am guilty without a reasonable doubt!!!

  

No carnal frontiers for a street alcoholic

                                     Amsterdam, 02 June 2012.

Back to the days of rain, back to days of financial insecurities causing me momentary lapses of sanity, too much worrying about my bills, the rent is due, gas and light have got to be paid, the mad life of a dedicated street seller trying hard to make a decent living, paying his taxes but getting hardly any feedback...

I am an agent of chaos but at least I have enough D'Argent for some nutriiouc food back at the local supermarket though the appearance of Rob, The King Of My Toilet I usually like to call him due to his habit of raping my toilet bowl with his incessant bouts of alcoholic diarhea, does not amuse me...quite the opposite, maybe a night in the house alone with my jars of paint will quit the worrysome state of my mental health... but no a five crumbled Euro note is pushed into my hands with a hastily demand to buy him the cheapest bag of tabacco, his watery half drunk eyes on the queue...

A bag of Samson tabacco in my hand, waiting for Rob standing in the queue and calling to me in strong Amsterdam voice to buy some dope from the nearby coffee shop, screaming after me about that 150 kilo African hooker he picked up last night downtown for 150 Euro, a Euro a kilo and that for a all nighter...bemused faces in the supermarket queue follow my fast disappearing frame...

Shit three times in arow, the man knows no shame whatsoever, nor does he have any carnal frontiers...

The Eoru crisis might be back full on, world markets in an uproar again but the local street alcoholic Rob, aka The King Of My Toilet, still counts his dough by the kilo, black and meaty!!!