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Welcome to Amsterdam, Buffy

Chopping Wood, Carrying Water

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, this BABE!!!

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.

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