Da Boy Tommy's Birthday Weekend

You know you won't get much sleep in during Da Boy Tommy's birthday weekend. That's a given for Monsieur Le Président's friends, just as much as they accept the laws of gravity.

It all started on Thursday night when, after running (or actually: swimming) into Justine and Josefien at the Olympia pool and inviting them over for spaghetti and drinks at the Kwekersstraat Mansion, I ended up stumbling out of the Pick bar well past midnight and returning home for a short night's sleep.

On Friday night, both Stijn and me joined Tommy in a pubcrawl which extended itself from the Rica to the Bras, then onto a local pita bar for some grub. Next up were De Vetten Os, Il Fiore, once again the Bras, with a final drink at 't Speelmanshuis.

As much fun as Thursday and Friday were; it was only last night we shifted into top party gear, at the annual election of Prince Carnival in Blankenberge - the infamous Prince Ball at the local casino. Normally around this time of the year, the Belgian Beach Club roams in the mountains of Switzerland, France or Austria, but as the 2011 skiing trip was postponed due to various reasons, at least we got to go to the Prince Ball.

And a ball we had. Our party of nine (Tommy, Julie, Julie, Bens Tiller, Pimöne, Katrien, Stijn, Eva and me) got the best seats in the house: right in front of the stage where we saw performances of the Quality Schlager Band, Swoop (see picture above), some ripe Dutch schlager queen and a couple of dance performance outfits.

We also got to enjoy the moment suprême - the election of the new Prince Carnival - from the first row.

Which was nice.

I must admit that I'm a sucker for these Carnival events. They're such fun: I like the music because it gets people moving around in polonaises and everyone's there with just one goal, and that's to enjoy the evening without too much fuss.

During the evening, we probably spent more time on the stage than the actual Prince Carnival did, performing several polonaises, exploring the backstage area and dancing around the various schlager artists. The rest of the crowd soon followed our lead - there was a moment in time during the Swoop show when the singer couldn't see his backing vocal girls anymore.

And when he started off the encore by getting the whole venue to sing along with 'Happy Birthday To You' - which I had requested while passing by the singer - for Tommy, we just knew this would be a night to remember.

Things only went uphill from there.

There's no ball like the Prince Ball in Blankenberge, believe you me.

BY THE WAY

Happy Birthday, Tomy.

SOMEONE WHO'LL BE LESS THRILLED TODAY

Renault driver Robert Kubica, who suffered broken bones in a rally accident in Italy yesterday. According to the BBC coverage, "there will be doubts about his ability to continue in the sport." This is to hoping that Kubica fully recovers and one day makes it back to Formula One.

Catching Up

Yesterday evening, I headed downtown (if there is such a thing as 'downtown' in Bruges as it's only e schorte groat) to see this film 'Winter's Bone' at the Lumière. If I hadn't turned my head to the right as I was walking by Bar des Amis, a mere 100 meter from my destination, there would've been a review of the film in this space.

Fortunately, as there's been waaay to much movie stuff on this blog the past week, I did look to the right, only to see four of my old high-school pals (Mitch, Friggyman, Kathleen and Evy) waving at me from their table in the BDA.

Now I may be the biggest movie geek you'll ever meet, but I will never, and I repeat NEVER, walk past a table des amis just to watch a film - there's just no way. So I diverged from the planned route, made my way through the crowd at Bar des Amis and sat my ass down to have a drink with my friends.

Mitch, Friggyman, Kathleen, Evy and me go way back, probably to 1999. Back then, we were all sixteen and, apart from Friggyman, we enjoyed our first brushes with the good life. I remember some boozywoozy nights at the premises next to the Vlissinghe bar (the infamous Renier residence) and I don't think any of us will ever forget those nights at the Charlie's with our South-African guests.

Anyway, we stayed in touch over the years, first via weekly get-togethers at Joey's (another bar in Bruges). The contacts were less frequent the last five years, apart from the odd metalfest, housewarming or birthday bash, so it was good to see them again on this odd Sunday night - a time of week where you wouldn't expect to bump into each other and have some drinks.

One beer turned into a couple of Duvels, and by the time it was midnight, Friggyman and the girls were gone and it was just Mitchman and I. We weren't ready to throw in the towel just yet, though, so on we went, to have a last call at the Crash, Bruges' resident metal pub.

Being as metal minded as we are, Mitchman and me didn't pay its vapid beer, its run-down interior and its funny crowd (and by 'funny' I don't mean 'haha funny') much mind; we just enjoyed the music.

We were lucky enough to have Pieter as our bartender, because Pieter's a real music connoisseur. We don't have to ask him to play some Rage Against The Machine or Queens Of The Stone Age tunes, that's pretty standard at the Crash when Pieter's behind the counter. He might jump in with some Metallica or Volbeat, or maybe even some Nirvana - it's all good.

So by the time I normally would've reviewed 'Winter's Bone' on this website, I stumbled out of the Crash.

The blissful feeling that got a hold of me after listening to aforementioned jams more than made up for the lack of sleep which manifested itself this morning, after an all too short night's rest.

Meh: I'll sleep when I'm dead!

Happy trails!

DM

BY THE WAY

Did you notice how fast January went by? I'm still recovering from New Year's Eve...

One Is None

If you've followed this blog for the past two weeks (and I'm very pleased to say there are more and more of 'you' each day), you probably know by now that I like to indulge myself with a beer from time to time.

Yesterday evening was one of those times. Along with me mates Da Boy Tommy, Bens Tiller and Ece, I went to this bar in Ghent called De Dulle Griet - 'The Angry Lady', for those of you who don't understand Dutch.

Before I go on, I must give you some background on the pubcrawl habits myself and me mates foster (pun not intended). About each week, we get together to have a brew, and we choose the locations to do so very carefully.

Very rarely you'll find us in some trendy lounge bar, sipping away at a Mojito as Kruder & Dorfmeister or Yonderboi tunes play in the background - NO: we're those guys you'll find singing along to 'Ein Knallrotes Gummiboot' in a dingy bar, run by an old lady with fewer teeth in her mouth than she has customers. More often than not, you'll see us initiating a 'farandoleke' and maybe even an 'avalanche'.

I dunno, there's something disarmingly honest about those run-down places where you'll find only the 'lowest' (at least by popular standards) denominator of the population: people who've had their share of life's struggles and frequent the bar to escape the drag of daily life.

The most interesting people you'll ever meet are not to be found at da club where everyone is mostly staring at each other instead of talking and 'looking cool' is the main occupation. No: they're right there, at that pub around the corner where you see the same people sitting behind the counter as you pass by, day in, day out.

Take the 'Monopole' near the station in Ghent. Now that's a réal old people's bar, with an interior that probably hasn't changed since the 60's: glass-in-lead windows, brownish mirrors against the wall, old, wooden tables with plastic covers, all lit by the brightest and coldest TL-light.

We've been going there for a couple of months now, and during that time we got to know it's most colorful punter: Fons Sijmons, ex-bassplayer in one of the best Flemish poprock bands ever (The Scabs). Fons is by far the most legendary figure the Belgian rock'n'roll scene has ever seen. And he's got a bevy of nicknames to prove it: 'Rampenfons' (it's funnier in Dutch), 'Disaster-Inducing Fons' and so on.

Apparently, Fons once achieved the remarkable feat of preparing a bath for one of his fellow bandmates or one of the roadies of the Scabs crew, which resulted in a flooding of the hotel lobby where he stayed.

Nowadays, The Scabs still play, but Fons isn't there anymore. Drug issues and legal problems got the better of him and he spends most of his days at the Monopole. (His daughter 'Reena Riot' incidentally, does a real good job as a singer-songwriter. If only her dad would follow her lead and crawl back onto the stage.)

Long story short: those kind of slouchy bars are our favourites, as the elevators of the people, who frequent them, don't go all the way to the top anymore; the conversations to be had there are honest and real; there's lots of space to hang out or sit; plus most of the time they've got those old jukeboxes which warrant great background music.

I must say, however, that De Dulle Griet in Ghent, though very old (it's got its name from a big-a$$ cannon which was built in the 15th century; the inn came shortly after), is not a slouchy establishment. It's beautifully decorated with old artefacts (flags, tin cups, standards, gramophones, paintings) and the service is splendid.

The main reason to go to De Dulle Griet - if you really need one - is because they've got a very special kind of beer: the Max. The Max ain't special because of its taste (it's a typical Belgian brew), but because of the way it's presented.

A Max comes in a 1,2 liter glass of about 30 cm in height. While the beer goes out for a mere €9,40, the glass itself costs around 90 euro. Because De Dulle Griet has had problems with tourists running off with their Max glasses, they now oblige people to relinquish one shoe when they order the beer. The shoe then gets hoisted to the ceiling in a metal basket.

What can I say, it's a special experience, drinking this Max beer. The fun begins even before you put the glass to your lips, because your shoe gets taken away from you.

So yesterday, that was a good start to our evening. We continued our pubcrawl - after first having made fun of some tap dancers, who were practicing in a showroom next to a bar - at café Jos. Next up was the Porter's House, where Bens and me kicked Da Boy Tommy's and Ece's a$$ in table soccer, and after that DBT (who's also known as 'MLP' - 'Monsieur Le Président') and yours truly had a final beer at the Cuba Libre before we hit the road.

And if you'll excuse me now, I'm off to the Charlie Rockets, out here in Bruges, to teach me ole mate (and birthday pal) Laurens a thing or two about pool.

Happy Trails!

DM

A Slow Burner

Yesterday, mere hours after having watched quite a weighty film (see below), I picked up my friend Reinhilde and drove all the way to Brussels to attend a housewarming party, thrown by Piman da Himp and Katrien.

(Nevermind that they settled into the house several months ago; any reason to party is a good reason. Who needs reasons to party anyway? I, for one, don't. I just do.)

The party could be described as, if you're familiar with festive vernacular, a 'slow burner' - starting off calm but culminating in chaos, anarchy and boobies. This was in no small part the merit of the music on my iPod (ranging from Milk Inc. over Tiga to Zangeres Zonder Naam), but the party also featured a great mix of pretty people and tasty beverages.

Have you ever, by any chance, seen the 'Party In Your Stomach' clip on YouTube? If you haven't, please click this link.

"Who always shows up at the end of the party", Jim Breuer asks, and he continues to answer his own question: "Tequila. And tequila doesn't show up alone - there's always eight or nine of 'em lined up. Like an idiot, your stomach lets in one shot of tequila, and then he sneaks in all of his friends when nobody's watching."

That's exactly how things went yesterday, and the situation derailed shortly afterwards - to the extent that Piman and Katrien must've thought they ended up somewhere in 80's Beirut when they entered their living room this morning...

When overseeing the ravages, the memories must've come back quickly: the dirty dancing, the wrapping with kitchen paper, the French kissing (though I had sadly already left the building at that point) and the tequila grimacing.

It was that kind of party which you talk about weeks on afterwards, and certain elements of the evening seem to come back out of thin air to those who were lucky enough to attend the event. That's the kind of party you want, 'slow burner' or otherwise.

BY THE WAY

A week after my main man Bakerman travelled off to Thailand, my favourite lighthouse girl, who goes by the name of Annelie, leaves for Sweden. You can follow the incredible adventures she'll undoubtedly experience via this link. (Though I have no idea why she chose the obscure 'Weebly' as her blogging interface.)

Anyway: godspeed, Annelie!

Have a good week, everyone.

Uncle Henry

As the Truck & Transport fair came to a halt today, so did my time at the 89th Brussels Motor Salon. I must say: I had a good time, met some really nice people and generally enjoyed the hours I spent at the desk by reading newspapers and magazines. I'll come back to one of those magazines in just a few days.

Before we get to that, it's time for something completely different than trucks, cars, newspapers or magazines - I'm here to talk about an 'ageing alternative icon' in the form of the one and only Henry Rollins. Rollins is one of my personal heroes.

This former front man of the legendary 80's hardcore band Black Flag and 90's rock outfit Rollins Band (the picture you see above this post is taken from the legendary video for 'Liar', which was directed by rock photographer and 'Control' and 'The American' director Anton Corbijn) now travels the world, either as a spoken-word artist or just as a world citizen, thirsty for knowledge and experience in countries his American countrymen would never follow him.

Yes: this is the American nutcase who flew off to Afghanistan, Pakistan, North Korea, Saudi Arabia and the likes, right after his country's administration branded those states as the 'Axis of Evil' - and lived to tell the tale.

He tours the world with those tales, and I've been lucky enough to catch a couple of his shows on more than one occasion: from Antwerp over Ghent to Brussels. Last time I went to see Rollins was at the Pukkelpop festival, last summer.

Rollins is a no-nonsense, down-to-earth and fear-no-one fellow, who prides himself on an unquenchable lust for life which doesn't leave him off the hook for one second. He is very opinionated and has the ability to elaborate eloquently on various political, philosophical and just plain daily-life subjects.

Most of the time the diary entrances on his website (the so-called 'Dispatches') start off with 'Man, I've slept like two hours the past eight days but it was totally worth it', having jeopardized his life by walking onto the streets of Karachi, Baghdad, Pyongyang or some other god-forgotten hellhole.

"Yup, people warned me not to go out there, being American and especially carrying tattoos like mine, but once you get there and don't act too conspicuously, it turns out the people are really friendly and there's no imminent danger involved."

This is the guy who once described himself as follows: "If you could think of a stove where the pivot light is always on, always ready to light all four burners? That is me, all the time. I'm always ready to go there."

Though aforementioned quote - which I identify with a great deal - might not paint a pretty picture of the man; I love his hardcore disposition in life which causes his non-stop sleep deprivation but which also leads him to live a fascinating life, experiencing things and getting to know other people, discovering stuff and living his short time on earth to the fullest.

This was something I mentioned to him in a mail I sent after having downloaded and listened to one of his 'broadcasts' he normally does on the KRCW radio. He made one on Christmas Eve while his technicians were at their respective families and put them into a Yousendit file, free for download.

He then asked to mail him if you had enjoyed the broadcast, to see how far it got. So I did, and whaddya know: Uncle Henry (as me and fellow Rollins fan Benjamin like to call him) answered right back:

"Dieter, hey. Thanks for checking and for checking those shows. I will make another one of those lo-tech shows soon. Thanks for listening. Henry"

It freaked the hell out of me to see the name 'Henry Rollins' pop up in my inbox - I'll never delete that mail.
 
I wish I had the man's writing talent as there are so much more dimensions to Henry Rollins than the ones I mentioned this post, but I hope all this whets your appetite a lil' bit - at least enough to YouTube the man and check out what he has to say. You won't regret it.
 
THIS JUST IN
 
Rollins posted a second low-tech broadcast.
 
MOMENT OF THE DAY
 
This morning, accelerating up the highway to Brussels, listening to Jamiroquai's 'Travelling Without Moving'. A title which, incidentally, pretty much sums up the entire Belgian traffic situation.

Icebear, oh Icebear

And just like that, the weekend was over again. Not that mine lasted the usual two days - I had to work at the Brussels Motor Salon again today. This after a most memorable Saturday...

Things started off in minor though: along with lifeguard friends Steve-O, Ducktales and Bakerman, I attended the funeral of the father of a good friend of ours. The man had gone way before his time, at only 53 years of age. We didn't know him, but we hope to have supported Justine and her brother Nicolas a little bit by showing them our sympathies.

It had been a long time since I attended a church service - be it on a regular Sunday, a wedding or a funeral - and it didn't take me long before I remembered why I generally stay away from Catholic rituals. With all do respect to the people who find peace and comfort in prayers, sermons and chants, but I do not, not for one bit, connect with ramblings about Jesus and his father. So I kind of sat through the initial part of the funeral.

The testimonies did strike a chord though: it was moving to hear the memories people had of the deceased. And when a Raymond van het Groenewoud song played, I actually had to fight some tears.

After the funeral service, Bakerman and me popped down to Zeebrugge, a port town right next to Knokke-Heist, where we enjoyed a meal at The Boat House. The Boat House is run by 'Schele Moens' ('Cross-eyed Moens'), an ex-fisherman who spent well over thirty years of his life out on the sea. We always crack up when we hear his fisherman's banter, delivered in a juicy West-Flemish dialect.

(I got to know my buddy Bakerman at the lifeguard service in Knokke-Heist. He's kind of like the night mayor of the town, having had a very popular bar there for about seven years. Bakerman knows every living soul in both Zeebrugge and Knokke-Heist, and I thoroughly enjoy my nights out with him because you meet a whole bunch of new people each and every time.)

After dinner, which consisted of cod with potatoes for Bakerman and shrimp croquettes for me, we headed out to the magnificent surf club Surfer's Paradise - a beautiful wooden house in the middle of the dunes, near the Dutch border.

As beautiful as the surfer's lodge looks from the outside; wait till you see what it hides in the inside.

(The guy who runs the place, Frank, used to be a famous wind surfer, back in the eighties. Frank competed on European level, then went on to introduce kitesurfing in Belgium at the beginning of the nineties and ultimately founded Surfer's Paradise.)

During his many surf trips around the world, he brought home a fine collection of souvenirs, which he used to decorate his clubhouse. The walls and ceiling of Surfer's Paradise are littered with Hawaiian oars, exotic fish and Australian roadsigns - but my favourite item remains the drawing Keith Haring once made for the club, back in the eighties when he came to Knokke for work.

(On this picture, you see a container which Haring painted for Surfer's Paradise. It has become a precious art object since then.)

It's a magical place and if you ever get the chance, don't miss out on a visit.

Anyway, that's where Bakerman and me, plus some other lifeguards, get together during the wintertime to take a weekly dive into the freezing sea. It's a ritual called 'icebearing'. It sounds and looks crazy, and it undoubtedly is, but the rush you get by throwing yourself into ice-cold water is amazing.

I have no idea what the long-term consequences of limbs and joints making sudden contact with freezing water, but I do know that my body pleasantly tingles afterwards, every time out. Plus, it's a chance to run over the beach, screaming and yelling and getting rid of most of the past week's stress. It's a catharsis.

After our weekly icebear session and a drink at the bar, plus a rendez-vous at the Belle Vue in Duinbergen where we played some pool, we attended the annual New Year's Party Knokke mayor Leopold Lippens throws for the people who work at the municipality.

Functionaries, they're called, and us, lifeguards, were invited as well. Which was nice.

We tipped over a number of Brugse Zot beers (literal translation 'Bruges Madman'), got together with some colleagues we hadn't seen since the summertime and then continued the festivities at bar Dino's, the Sapinière and ultimately the legendary Kitsch Club at the Casino.

I think I can say I lived every damn second of that Saturday to the fullest and I'm even happier to state that I don't regret a single one of 'em.

Though when my alarm clock sounded off this morning, at 7 am, I did realize that I could've used a little more than the mere three hours of sleep that I managed to get in...

Right, this should do for now - catch you guys tomorrow with my 'Green Hornet' review.

Between Angels and Suzuki Girls

Howdy. How's it hangin'? (I'm really asking myself this question, as I'm probably the only one who has actually visited this site. Meh.)

I must say, I feel rather goatish after having spent a large chunk of my day at the 89th Salon in Brussels, where all sorts of car, van and motorcycle manufacturers present their latest models. And models: that's what it's all about at the Salon.

Take the ones you see on top of this page - the Suzuki girls aka Agent Kitties from Hell. I turned blood-red when I saw them for the first time this morning, draping themselves on the hood of the latest Swift. The Dodge Damsels weren't too bad either, wearing leather kneeboots that ended right where their miniskirts began. Amazing.

I was at the Salon in my capacity as editor of a transportation magazine. For most of the time, it's a 8h/day desk job, scouring through press files looking for the amount of horsepower Scania put in their newest R-series long-haulage trucks - but just now and then I get to do something really cool.

For example: I visited the aforementioned truck brand at their facilities in Sweden, where I visited an icehockey game and got to drive a 60-ton road monster through the pinewoods (without actually carrying the appropriate license). Mercedes-Benz invited me to Hamburg (Germany) to navigate a Vito van through the town's gianormous port - their PR girls were really nice, too. I'm still hoping for Volkswagen to give me a drive in the Dakar Rally, but I imagine that's just a matter of time.

Now, I wouldn't exactly qualify visiting the Press Day at the Salon, collecting press releases, loading up on a mixture of coffee, champagne and grub and talking to corporate hotshots as 'really cool', but it definitely beats a day at the office. Plus, being around Suzuki Bad Kitties from Hell and kinky Dodge Damsels isn't too bad, either.

So I had a good time today. The night before was pretty sweet as well: I got an invite to the informal launch of Land Rover's new Evoque, which took place at the trendy K-Nal club downtown Brussels. The guys that organized the event also run the Kitsch Club in Knokke (a Belgian coastal town where I'm also a lifeguard during the summer), so they asked me over.

I gladly accepted the invite, enjoyed some whisky-cola's, digged the jams Monsieur Moustache and especially The Aikiu (YouTube those guys) were spinning and got blinded by the über-hipness of the Brussels party crowd.

(One word of advice though: if you see the band name 'Mustang' pop up - run. Mustang - the name sounds preposterous after you've seen them play - are a mediocre, four-piece pop group fronted by hoity-toity singer who'd fit right in with the Von Trapp family. I'm just glad they didn't do an encore.)

Roight, I'm out. I'm gonna enjoy the €34 worth of magazines I bought yesterday at Waterstone's: the new Vanity Fair, a nü-metal special by Kerrang! and the latest issues of both Total Film and Empire - I'm a magazine nut, me.

Catch y'all (me) tomorrow.

Back to the Future

(I somehow posted this on the wrong blog yesterday. Guess I lost my blogging touch the past few years... Here it goes again.)

Back in the day, when I was a student of journalism, I used to run a daily blog. As ‘studying’ wasn’t very high on my list of priorities, that website was my main point of focus. I just threw it all on there: the music I listened to, the movies I watched, how I enjoyed playing basketball - and yes: even the amount of beers I had the other day. Most of the time these rants were accompanied by the necessary photo material.

The number of visitors to the original blog, which carried the same name you see on top of this page, grew steadily over the three years I kept it. That number wasn’t all that bad, considering I wrote in ‘freaky-deaky Dutch’ (quoting Dr. Evil in ‘Goldmember’ here) and blogs weren’t that popular in Flanders back then. My friends checked in regularly, enjoying a good read about the night before, in which they often had participated.

Things got a bit out of hand though: after the summer of ‘05 - in which I had a blast at the beach of Harendijke (near Blankenberge, a town on the Belgian east coast) having spent my summer there as a lifeguard - I kind of spilled the beans on the good times me and my friends Tommy, Benjamin, Pieter and others (we now call ourselves the BBC - ‘Belgian Beach Club’ :-) had had out there.

Which turned out to be just a wee bit too good of a time for the people running the lifeguard service. Back in ‘06, WikiLeaks probably wasn’t even on line yet, but some photos (and especially videos) were leaked to the ones in charge - who subsequently banned us from ever being beach lifeguards again. All because of my urge to share my adventures with the internet crowd.

Things turned out fine though: the next summer I got a job as an intern at a premier Flemish entertainment magazine called Focus Knack. The subsequent summer, after apologizing to the same people who had put my name on the ‘Black List of Lifeguards’, I was allowed to wear the lifeguard uniform once more. Even though I’m crawling towards 30, I’m STILL a damn beach lifeguard - I just can’t help myself.

But all this is beside the point I’m trying to make with this post which, I guess, is: I’m going to try and bring it back to those early blogging days. I’d like to recapture that joy of posting stuff and getting a reaction or two. And if it helps me sharpen my pen, hey, you won’t hear me complain.

So consider me re-connected with the blogosphere (which is now deemed irrelevant thanks to the ‘tweeping’ community, though I could care less as Twitter is not really my cup of tea) and do check back for future posts.

DM