Poppy Z. Brite's Blog, page 62
July 11, 2011
I Smoke, Therefore I Amsterdam
Dear Joe Orton: Why have you haunted my life so persistently? I was born three or four months before you died, so it's not like I could be your reincarnation (or Kenneth's, as the case may be, but I'm feeling more Joe-ish again these days).
I am very tired, I am very merry, I went back and forth all night on the fairy ... you know, Edna St. Vincent Millay had her moments of brilliance, but that has got to be one of the stupidest poems ever ... catchy, though, kind of a poetry earworm ... this is looking to be a disjointed entry ... or maybe "enjointed," har har har.
I'm having my elevenses at Coffeeshop Freeland, which I'd somehow missed all these years until yesterday. It's where I was watching the young men play pool, if you were following my filthy-minded Twitter feed. No pool this morning, but I like the atmosphere here; there's a touch of the old Amsterdam brown café to it, which is very rare in modern coffeeshops. It's gezellig, to use the Dutch word. There's a big upstairs space I haven't checked out -- I've pretty much given up Dutch stairs unless there is no choice -- but the downstairs is roomy and comfortable. The bartender's "best weed" rec (an Amnesia) is wholly ordinary and rather dry, and I probably wouldn't buy weed here again, but it's a nice place to hang out.
I have a new nom d'amour. It's Billy Martin. Shut up.
July 9, 2011
Rampage
Well, I have to say this trip to Amsterdam makes all my previous ones look like Christian youth group retreats. Though the Christian youth probably smoke less weed.
In a dream a couple of nights ago, I had a huge screaming fight with Rickey. Yes, that Rickey. He was bragging about, all other things being equal, how much less of a mess he's made of his life than I have. This infuriated me: "All other things are NOT equal; you're cis and good-looking; you had a minor back injury and I'm permanently disabled; you're not a has-been; etc." And he was giving it right back to me, of course, mostly about my "delusions." I was like, "Boat, Billy Joel, Trollface, pfft, I'm over that" and he just looked at me like O RLY??? and I knew he was probably right. I hate it when my own characters pick on me.
July 6, 2011
Tired Days
This is one of my Tired Days, which I'd forgotten about. On my other trips, Tired Days have been optional, though the trip went better if I observed them. This time, they seem to be bodily enforced.
Fortunately, having extended the trip makes me not feel rushed. I was coughing and hacking up lungs, so I didn't smoke anything yesterday afternoon or night ... and this morning, I could feel my damned back again for the first time since I got to Amsterdam. So today is Take It Very Easy & Use A Pipe Instead of A Bong Day. (Helluva long acronym, that.) Right now I'm sitting in The Green House drinking fresh mint tea with honey and gently smoking "Hercules," a sativa strain the weed guy here swears is even better for pain than my beloved Super Lemon Haze. I haven't decided yet.
(Eating cannabis is always a tossup and usually a failure for me. Recently I've heard even raw tourists talking about how their "space cake" had no effect. So my faith in the THC-laced brownies and muffins of Amsterdam, never high, is now lower than ever. By regulation, they just can't put enough in there.)
OK, you guys. I've been avoiding this subject, but in the land of huge rubber dicks and porn stills in every other window, I can't anymore: TESTOSTERONE. I had heard about this side effect, but nothing could have really prepared me. Right now, I basically want to stick it in anything with two legs, though as yet I've nothing much to stick. I'm becoming a dangerous creature. I'm totally checking out the window girls in the Red Light District. Yesterday I saw my best friend here and spent the whole visit entertaining filthy thoughts about him (and he's hot, you bet, but our relationship isn't LIKE THAT). The most not-my-type man in the world can walk by and my thoughts will start screaming, "I bet you have a DICK!!! Whip it out and let's see what you can do with it! DICK DICK DICK!" Basically, it's puberty all over again except that this time I know what I'm missing.
July 5, 2011
Staying Longer
I'm feeling way too good here for this trip to be halfway over, so I've extended it for five days. The world back home will just have to deal, because after this I'm not planning to have any fun for a long time. I've been living on frites with sambal sauce and waffles, with the occasional Chinese or Indonesian takeaway meal for vegetables. Of course, I'm getting plenty of greens.
And y'all -- THANK GOD I brought my cane. I knew I'd need it in the airports but thought I might be able to leave it in the hotel room once I got here. No way. The stairs, the uneven cobblestones -- I'd have been on my ass repeatedly. This is the first time I've had to travel with any kind of mobility aid, and it takes some getting used to. Most people are nice. When the occasional fucked-up tourist stumbles into you and doesn't apologize, at least you have something to whack him with.
July 3, 2011
Made It
Twas a grueling trip, but not as bad as I feared, thanks in large part to my kind-hearted new friend who picked me up from the airport and brought me right to my hotel. Problem??? Well, it's like 8:30am and I can't check in until 2pm. So I leave my suitcase and go out and manage to entertain myself somehow or other, but the last hour or so I was getting pretty rough around the edges. Had a nap; had some frites with chile sauce and vinegar; had a leisurely visit, bong hits without number, and a nice chat with a lovely young Polish gentleman at the Green House; now having a strawberry-chocolate waffle. I cannot feel my spine. I repeat: I CANNOT FEEL MY SPINE. At home, there's seldom a moment when I can stop thinking about it, so this is green goddess (of a different kind) magic.
June 30, 2011
More Argh
I'll be in Amsterdam in, what, 36 hours? Less? Yet I feel like I suck. And I feel like I suck even more for feeling like I suck when I have the privilege of visiting my second favorite city in the world. Jesus, the mood swings since I got that first testosterone shot. I can deal with the extra energy that seduces me into overextending myself, the ridiculous horniness, even the zits (only tiny ones so far), but this ... well, as a guy who seems to have quite a lot of testosterone once said, we choose between reality and madness; it's either sadness or euphoria. Whoa ho ho ho-o, ho-o, oooooh.
June 29, 2011
Testes, Testes
[ETA: Fixed. I didn't mean for LJ to tweet a link to my private-community crosspost, sorry.]
Amsterdam Weather (& More About Binders Than You Wanted To Know)
Speaking of wardrobes, trans guys, please don't almost kill yourself with your binder like I almost did last week. The Underworks Extreme Chest Concealer is my favorite, but the medium is just a little too big, and the small is just a little too small. "Without discomfort of tummy compression" apparently means "pressing on that sensitive notch right under your breastbone and pushing all your guts into your lower abdomen." Unfortunately, I didn't discover the latter until I wore it out to dinner last week. It felt OK when I put it on, but shortly after finishing a delicious meal, I started getting hot flashes and waves of nausea and red swirliness and went into the restroom and passed out. My friend had to come and help me out of the place, and I felt sick for three days afterward. I didn't figure out why until I put the binder on again Monday and started feeling the same way within five minutes. Chris had to help me get it off. A tight binder actually feels good on my back, which surprised me when I started wearing them, but my stomach doesn't care for it at all. I've lost weight lately and the medium simply isn't binding anymore -- it just looks like an undershirt -- so I did manage to modify the small to be more comfortable by cutting off the bottom of the lower front panel and the neck, as well as slitting the sides so it didn't compress my ribs so much. The fabric doesn't fray, at least not yet (after one washing).
As Chris said, it's a learning experience, but I'd prefer not to lose consciousness in any more restaurants if I can help it.
June 27, 2011
First World Problem
One reason I prefer buying things locally is to support the local economy of the city I love. Another reason is that local stores don't send me three or four e-mails going "Did you like the product? Huh? Huh? Will you rate your transaction? Huh? Huh? Was everything OK? PLZ VALIDATE ME!!!1!" No, I will not rate the fucking transaction. Ever. If there's a problem, I'll let you know. Now STFU.
LOL,
PZB
On a happier note:
