After a long string of going-wrong last night was all right all night--The food curator at the "taste of art" resturant upstairs, Mr. Kukkelkorn, gave me this beautiful African teapot after I complimented it, and we ate a meal that bordered baccanallian, we met the mayor of Gerleen and took our picture with him and we did not stop laughing for hours. It wiped my mind free of the earlier homicidal/suicidal feelings that the near-disaster morning brought.
We ended the lovely, lovely welcome-to-Holland evening with Aska playing the grand piano in the lobby until 1:30am while we interpretive danced, sang along to "Moon River" and made movies. That was until the drunk jock dudes leaned over the balcony above and yelled "WHUUT AAH YOU DUUINK?"
We all froze. Aaron righted himself from some hunched animal move--
Aska put down the mirror.
"Yeah! We're doing a special performance!" I said.
"We're artists, we're doing a show at the museum across the street tomorrow night."
They were holding beers and had those Belgian-style mullets and giant beer cans and kicked the balustrade as they walked down, and then pushed around some furniture for good measure. I don't know what "faggot" is in Belgian, but I am pretty sure that is what they were muttering.
When they left, it was hard to get back into our dancing--I think we all have residual jock-sensitivity--they muffled our vibe only temporarily. Aska played The Carpenters "Superstar" real slow and it took us on a sweet note.
Right now we're setting up in the doorway of the Glaspaleis in Gerleen, which last night the curator-person described as "the bollocks of Holland". For those at home in Berlin, the show is the 26th at The Apartment, I blv 8 pm.
P.s. I still need a roommate.