and the Live Sex Show
Panama Red Plays Roosendaal
to Amsterdam, Buffy
Chopping Wood, Carrying
Amsterdam, April 12, 2001
Yesterday I was standing in Centraal Station, waiting for the
13 or 14 tram to take me out to Slotermeer (meer means moor, who
knows what a sloter is) and I see undoubtedly the reigning Princess
of Amsterdam Dutchgirl Cops. Had that little Rita Meter Maid cap
on. Nine snug on her hip. Urgently Blonde. Makes Me Just To Want
to write capitals all over The Place. She was a large, beautiful
woman. I am a small, beautiful man. I could see possibilities..
So I'm standin there
waitin for the tram eyeing this confection and I'm actually trying
to figure out somethin I can do, some crime I can commit that will
not entail a visit to the Politie station, yet which will be serious
enough to deserve a very strict dressing down from this Wagnerian
epitome. This apex of North Sea breeding. All the stars in the universe
an I get to see just once THIS particular magnificent heavenly body,
In all her radiant glory
friends and neighbors this was a Bee Ay Bee Ee. An not no bimbo
neither. I wanted physical, spiritual and mental contact now. Fantasies
running rampant. I felt, of course, like a Thurberesque pervert.
Or pervertesque Thurber. Ta pocketa pocketa. The tram comes. I get
on. Exit stage left.
So later I'm sittin
in the Pollux with my personal trainer, Peppermint Patty, an we're
talkin about this phenomenon. I said "you know lately I've
turned to writing about women as objects every great once in a while,
on occasion, frequently, all the time." Patty says: well I
wouldn't worry about it. It's probably just one last squirt of testosterone
before you wither and die.
ME: Thank you. You've
cheered me immensely.
PP: Think nothing of it. Just part of the job.
My days here actually
go that way. I am surrounded by beauty in everything I see and supported
by love in all that I do. Time to go wash the stairs.