Part III: Deep Throat
The following is Part III of V. Click for the beginning.
Lennert the producer indulged us as Rob sucked down a black coffee. I begged the waitress to let me sleep in the kitchen, preferably inside/on top of/ near the stove because it was damn cold. 8 AM is an absurd time to be awake. “It took a long time to find you guys. I’ve been stalking you for months.” Lennert stated shyly. “When we heard you were coming to Amsterdam we had to have you on the show.” I wondered how to respond to someone who admits to stalking you. I guess I was flattered. My eyelids were no longer obeying orders- but- this was Dutch television, and it was going to be awesome.
Dutch TV is not for the faint of heart. Famously in 2008 government run television channel number 3 screened the movie “Deep Throat.” A scandalous porno made in 1972 which was banned in 22 U.S. state. The plot is simple enough: a woman who can’t achieve orgasm goes to the doctor. Diagnosis? Her clitoris is at the back of her throat, she’s been doing it all wrong. The Dutch television broadcast caused a tiny stir, but not much: “Most politicians would rather be seen dead than censor the media.” Suck on that!
I didn’t know about the Dutch and their deep-throating past, so I was mildly surprised when the host asked Rob to take his eye out. As the cameras rolled Robs eyelid deflated, his fleshy eye socket revealed itself, and a metal peg that’s drilled into the back of his eye socket wobbled around in sync with his other eye. The live audience of 16 to 18 year olds writhed in disgust and the slopping sound of vomit hitting concrete quietly echoed through the studio. Someone lost their lunch, we were a Dutch television success!
The studio was kind enough to put us up in a hotel for a few nights in central Amsterdam for our time. Beautiful canals gave the city a Venetian feel, bikes littered the streets, and tall blonde haired and blue eyed people went about their business. A snaggle toothed crack-head offered me a bike for 50 Euros. I negotiated expertly: “It’s covered in duct tape, the handle bars are loose, and the back wheel has zero tread. I’ll probably spend a fortune on medical bills after the frame disintegrates from beneath me and I break my face. I’ll dump it into a canal for you and save you the pending lawsuit. Eight Euros is what this will fetch in scrap, I’ll give you that.” He didn’t fuss too much, and I got a sweet bike.
In a city where there are more bikes than people the canals are often dredged to pull all the hastily dumped stolen bikes from the depths. Piles of rusting bike carcasses drip quietly on the shore as the dredge makes its rounds. Lately, the rowdier locals have taken to tipping miniature cars into the murky waters. I’m waiting for them to start tipping houses into the canal. It’s a decent challenge.
As I peddled through the city into the night I found myself in the Red light district completely engulfed by tourists who came from all over the world to get high, wander, and stare at the women who stood in the dimly lit windows of small bedrooms. The girls beckoned to anyone who would give them a peek, pimps glared from corners while most men tried to avoid eye contact at all cost.
I however am not most men, and I happily pretended that I was at the zoo– making faces at the women in their glass enclosures, trying to tempt them out in the street. They weren’t having any of it…
A man wandered up to a window and mouthed “can I cover you in mayonnaise?” I thought it was fitting, the Dutch love their mayonnaise.
