And another sexy man, yeah. Inspiration enough, especially Lex has been very helpful. He sent me The Ramones, Run DMC, The Kinks, U2, Charles Brown, Otis Redding, Sheryl Crow & Eric Clapton, Billie Holiday, Slade, and more, but nothing like Elvis. Poor Jan thinks posting YouTube clips isn't creative, and on top of that he had never heard of Jeff Buckley. But I still prefer Elvis. I found some more gems that are not Elvis: Eartha Kitt, Die Toten Hosen, Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Cash, and The Dandy Warhols.
December 2007 Archives
Yes, yes, I see you impatiently clicking my weblog over and over again. Okay, okay, the next song. It is not easy. But the spirit is arriving, I have started cooking. And we are playing board games. Friends are calling for dinner dates. I am decorking a bottle. And I backed up an overdue amount of work, let it crash now, I am safe.
From now to christmas, let's try and find a bearable christmas song a day. To get even the worst christmas skeptics in a holiday spirit... (help appreciated)
I just read the BBC censored the word faggot from of this song. After twenty years, it suddenly is offensive. Heading back to the fifties we are, on the fast track:
BBC Radio 1 has said it will stand by its ban on the word "faggot" from the Pogues' 1987 Christmas hit Fairytale of New York to avoid offence.
The word, sung by the late Kirsty MacColl as she trades insults with Shane MacGowan, has been dubbed out.
But MacColl's mother, Jean, called the ban "too ridiculous", while the Pogues said they found it "amusing".
Every so often we receive treasures from the homeland. One of Michiel's co-workers is from Dutch descent, and his parents have a bakery in Whitby. And today he brought almond rings to work! Banketstaaf is the best pastry ever, at this time of year. Warmed up in the oven, with coffee, to die for!
December 19, 2003, I wrote:
10
Otger's birthday. Ten years ago in Stuttgart, a long cold Sunday. I sent Michiel and Piffin away and watched downhill skiing on tv, somehow that worked very well with the contractions.
December 19, 2004, I wrote:
11
Not only the weather, but even the forecast changes three times a day minimum. This morning there was no snow in sight, and still nothing when I look out the window. But I can tell you it hurts outside. We went to the cinema with Otger and three other boys, he's 11 today. Boy, were we lucky we didn't have to wait for streetcars, they just appeared miraculously when we needed them.
December 19, 2005, I wrote:
12
Otger is twelve today! Twelve years ago, Stuttgart. The contractions started as I woke up. After breakfast I sent Michiel and Piffin away. Alone, I watched downhill skiing on tv, somehow that worked very well with the contractions. When the contractions grew so severe that I didn't feel comfortable being alone anymore, I called Michiel and Frau Dietrich, the midwife. The midwife was wonderful, already in her sixties, with hundreds of home births behind her. She had only cut about five times in her whole carreer. She told me exactly how and when to turn, move, get up, or lie down, this way making it as easy as possible for Otger to come out. When she saw the tissue become too tight and too light, at the point of tearing, she pressed a towel against it that was soaked with hot coffee. That was enough to make the blood return to the tissue and thus prevent the tearing. Mother and son perfectly undamaged. For dessert, she put frozen spinach on my stomach. To prevent bleeding. And I didn't bleed. Not more than expected, that is. And Otger put his thumb in his mouth and went to sleep in his crib. And Michiel read through the whole thing.
December 19, 2006, I wrote:
13
Otger is 13 today! His grandfather sent him an incredible watch, he is so happy. But I don't have time now, I am trying to send this sketch to the editorial desk. And I am bootcamping to and fro between Windows and Mac. I am stupid, but the only way I can think of to get a picture from here to there is using a draft blog entry, open it in Mac, and attach it to an email. It's kind of creative, but somehow I'm sure there must be a better way.
December 19, 2007, I write:
14
The incredible watch is now one year old, and Piffin is wearing it every day. Otger just doesn't care very much for worldly possessions. In a different time, he could have been a monk. It was again extremely hard to find him a present, he doesn't ask much. A game of Backgammon was all he wished for. And a chocolate cake. And spinach pancakes, Piffin baked them. And four episodes of Weeds, we've run out now, have to wait until the next batch hits the video store.
Merry christmas. Zezunja did a rant about the quality of blogs, and mentioned me as one of the few she still reads. I am very flattered. She calls this blog ludic. Now I have been called many things in my life, but not that. Anyway, good thing that I wrote about the best frietkot in Toronto yesterday, because all of the sudden I am getting many hits from Belgium. More ludicy? We are watching all seasons of Weeds, which is extremely informative, I am finally starting to understand the appeal of living in the 'burbs (Hi Ann!). Even more ludicy? Never feed your dog beetroot when there is snow on the ground. I had something to explain in the dog park...
It must have happened as I got off the streetcar. The cold against my head, or just a too sudden move of my brain, but I turned around numbers again. At first Otger was mad at me for getting off the streetcar at least three stops too soon. I really had made sure we had the right stop, still I didn't think anything of it. But as we approached 971, there were no shops at all, and I knew full well the Australian Boot Company is stuck between all kinds of other stores. So I checked my arm, I had written the number on my arm when Otger promised me he would not be able to remember it. 791. Shit. Back through all that slush and ankle deep water. Otger, sick from school, on his sneakers, in desperate need of winter boots. Wet to his knees almost. Fortunately we walk past Chippy's, so I can make it up to him. After that, dry socks and nice boots. He is not the only emergency in the store today, the customer before us arrived on All Stars. Everybody sent on their way with wet shoes in a plastic bag and a sturdy pair of Blundstones on their feet.
So how is this historic storm working out for you? If you're in Ontario or North East US, please tell us your snow story in the comments. Our camera gave up in the cold, that's for sure. But as long as we have hydro, I am loving it. We walked Orbit this morning, nothing can keep us in. The DVP was all white, and there were not many cars. Orbit ran, and played. But after there was lightning and thunder, he decided we were not safe. And he pulled us home in a straight line, tail between his legs. And now all the neighbours are taking turns shoveling, or help each other dig out their cars, when they for whatever reason want to drive it. I saw a woman cross country skiing along Gerrard Street. The Chinese church across the street is funny. They always used to have a ploughing contract, and that effing plough would wake us up at five in the morning whenever there was the tiniest little bit of snow. But they must have cancelled the contract, because now they were shoveling the Chinese way. Like they were building the Chinese wall, they came out in dozens, and shoveled the whole parking lot and the sidewalks in no time.
Nicolien Mizee wrote this Dr. Phil article. Nicolien is an acclaimed author, and last year I portrayed her for the literary section. But I did a lousy job, because I had almost nothing to go on, hers is one of the worst portraits I did. I even found out her phone number in a desperate attempt to get my hands on some more pictures. And she was very nice, but didn't know how to e-mail me photo's. So today I feel a little bit like I am making it up to her, because my drawing of Dr. Phil is so much better than the one I did of her.
And in case you don't hear from me again:
Snow Blower: GTA Braces For What Might Be The Worst One Day Storm In 60 Years.
My brother always tells me that I would draw houses in perspective when I was three. Which is exceptionally young. Naturally I am very flattered by the fact that my brother would remember this about me, but I had never seen any real proof. Until tonight. I had nothing to blog, so I decided to look for something in my ancient drawings box. And there my eye fell upon it, a house with a front and a side. Which is a clear representation of a three dimensional object on a flat surface. There is no date on the drawing, but judging by the character on the left, I can't have been much older than three.
The Dutch christmas borrel at Toronto's Betty Ford clinic. Hi Guido! Are you really checking out my blog? How are my keywords? Look at my stats, bottom left. When do you figure I can stop working?
Finally I was drawing someone my friends in the dog park could relate to. It made for a fine subject while slipping and sliding on the ice. And I wasn't even the most elitist dog owner, one woman actually hadn't even ever heard of Dr. Phil. A doctor herself mind you. Which is pretty comforting when you think about it. Now I will stop thinking about Dr. Phil the moment he turns into fish wrapping paper. I don't know, I always get into these imaginary relationships with the people I have to draw, I can't help it. Like with Dr. Phil, jesus. I keep thinking of things in my life that I would have him talk about in his show. That is too creepy to even ask you guys what you would have Dr. Phil talk about regarding your lives. I have way more shit happening than I thought, I could fill (Phil) ten shows. Easy.
Raining all afternoon, probably freezing now. I am safely staying in. Otger is sick, since Friday already, but the fever subsided. He was watching a movie just now, and Michiel was in a conference call with Japan. That's the Duvekot evening for you. I made an extremely simple dinner, from all the scraps I could find in the kitchen, the weather way too foul to go grocery shopping. I only went to St. John's for bread. A girl on the street asked me for food, I gave her some money. Poor thing, she said a man had offered to give her ten bucks for a blow job. I should have taken her to St. John's, aside from the bakery they also have a drop in centre and a food bank. But I thought of that too late.
That's a long time since I started a portrait in my sketchbook. It's not even entirely certain I even have to do this drawing, but I couldn't resist starting anyway. I should make a category with all of my sketchbook pages, but I never have time for Unfug like that. First person to guess this victim wins. Though I am not sure what. I could send you a postcard?
The seasonal auction at the Buddies in Bad Times theatre, I think I was the only straight person in the audience. But what a wonderful atmosphere, this TO queer scene, and what a shame Piffin is out of town. Everybody so different, and yet so incredibly comfortably themselves. And even more polite than the average Canadian, if that is possible. I am leaving the pictures small, because they are all out of focus. But you get the idea, the auctioneer and the host, the lovely elves in sponsored underwear showing the art (and the Dutch bike!), and the way back with auntie Clare in the Beetle. On Queen I spotted a chair that I have used in a drawing. And crossing the Don Valley we drove into a police R.I.D.E. action, yikes, there had been free Steam Whistle all night! But Clare was good, she got the mouth piece as a souvenir. And yes, I bought something at the auction. Lot 7, A Capital Affair. One night luxury accommodation at Ottawa's Inn on Sommerset Bed & Breakfast (and of course the B&B turns out to be owned by friends of neighbours, Canada is a tiny place) and 2 tickets to any performance at the National Art Centre. I am thinking to maybe make that a Belgian Affair, with either Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker, or Jan Fabre. What do you think?
The both of them on one page, the art director apologized. It is a bit funny, isn't it? But then again. Tomorrow it will be fish wrapping paper anyway, I always find that a comforting thought. Nothing as volatile as newspapers. I am having a very volatile day myself. I cleaned the kitchen, did the laundry, and in a minute I will take on the vacuum cleaner. And Orbit just farted filthy. Shame on him in my almost clean house. Click for bigger picture.
I was talking with a friend about how hard it is to draw really big women. And then I found this cartoon, and I thought that it was really cleverly done. And I wanted to blog it, so I would have it archived. But then I read that this cartoonist is really controversial, and right wing, and homo-phobic, and mean, it goes on and on. So I thought oh no, I can't blog that, I will have to find something else to blog. I'll just put the image into the folder where I keep all interesting images I find. But then I thought why so sneaky, I do admire the image, it is very well drawn. And so here it is.
And a parental thingy. God, how glad I am to be raising my kids in Canada. Or is it media exaggeration that all twelve year olds drink themselves unconscious in Holland? Tell me. We here in Canada enjoy a phenomenon called "drinking age", and drinking age is nineteen. Of course beer store clerks can be fooled, but they do try to be strict. I sent Piffin to the beerstore the other day, with her twenty year old friend. Who looks fourteen, but carries ID. Of course they got beer without showing ID. Because Piffin looks thirty five. Otger is planning on not starting until he is 26, because it is up to then that a brain needs to fully mature. I can only imagine how smart I would have been if... Otger will save the world, I am sure of it.
And by the way, Sinterklaas did not forget us, so far away from Spain. He was very proud of me, rushing to the mall in between dog walking and cooking. And of Michiel, who did the wrapping while I was cooking. We got Canadian liquorice, yuk. Doesn't even taste like liquorice. And gloves, and scarfs, and holiday led lights. An a designer dish washing brush. And the kids yelled at us for singing.
Right now on the radio listeners are calling in to share the dreams they realized in their lives, or didn't, or haven't yet. Sometimes I quickly email my answer to the radio question, and listen to the host reading my email on the air, minutes later. But I still had this weblog entry to write, so I'll put my dream here. I realized my childhood dream. My upbringing was insanely strict, and my dreams for the future were part of my survival strategy. I used to fantasize about being able to eat cake every day after I would have left home. Now this may sound shallow to you, but I assure you, my stepmother's cooking talents would have had you dream that dream too. I certainly made the dream come true, and cake still tastes like freedom to me. At the time, I didn't realize the dream was going to give me high cholesterol. Is it too corny to inquire about your dreams?
And suddenly I am doing lesbian romance, I am discovering one niche market after another. I was contemplating lesbianism while on the streetcar the other day. I have tons of gay friends and family, I am literally surrounded with them. So I contemplated on the question why I am not simply one of them, and I honestly don't know. It just never occurred to me to turn lesbian. I've had the odd lesbian chasing me in my younger days, but I always found that somewhat unsettling. And then I woke up from this daydream in that streetcar, finding my eyes locked on a gorgeous guy. Phew.
Blackbird wanted me to write more, so I tried to think of an interesting way to oblige. I wanted to blog this song, but Anneke Gronloh has apparently requested embedding to be disabled. Back in 1966, when my mom had died, I went to the family Claassen every day after school, until my father would come home from work. The Claassen family was large, I believe there were four children. All much older than me. Mrs. Claassen and my mom had sung in the church choir together, that's how they were friends. Mr. Claassen was a retired organ and piano teacher who would rarely show himself, he hid in the attic, playing music. But when he did show himself, he could be quite entertaining. I remember him ranting about the TROS, a Dutch TV station, that had declined to send him the sheet music of one of their station call tunes. And about Anneke Gronloh, who had been one of his piano students, but according to him still owed him money. I don't think Mr. Claassen ever taught Armand. I embedded Armand because my brothers had named our orange tabby cat Armand. Which was a very subversive act on their part, my stepmother had no idea who Armand was, or what he stood for. It was a great cat, by the way. It used to jump off our balcony onto the curb, exactly on a pile of sand, that in my memory, was there for ever.
