More about Life

Christmas is a time for family, buying stuff and remembering the world's most famous magical Jew. Many of us cram onto planes, spend hours queuing in shops and feel very lucky not to have to spend the holidays giving birth to babies, surrounded by animals because we'd forgotten that the Holiday Inn Beth Lehem is always booked up this time of year.

A few days before the famous day itself, we crept early out of our flat, leaving our feline family to fly to see my human one. My parents live near Brighton, the British Florida. The main difference is, of course, that the British sun retired a long time ago to the American Florida.

With a few days before Christmas, we used our time wisely: We shopped amidst the crowds and pockets of hopeful carol singers; pretty much the way early Christians did, although there was less tinsel in those days.

We did much of our shopping in the nearby town of Lewis. Lewis is a pretty, historic town populated by people who only read first editions of ancient books. This is based on the fact that there are two small shops selling new books, two small second hand bookstores and about a dozen antique bookstores. All of the rest of the shops are charity shops which is a well-recorded phenomenon in the UK.

The main shopping area was filled with seasonal busking, often done by kids who of the age when they really ought to be out hanging round bus shelters. Most notable being one young guy playing carols mournfully on a clarinet. I enjoyed it because, for me, it summed up the pathos of the season and was a nice break from the otherwise relentless good cheer.

We also used our time to grab some kultcha. Cath is a fan of Mark Rothko who was having a retrospective at the Tate Modern (formerly Battersea Power Station). For those of you know don't know, Rothko is famous for his huge works such as Black Square on Red Background; Red Square on Black Background and Black Square on Black Background.

The pieces are not only impressive in their size, but also in the work that went into them. It may seem like a simple shape painted on top of a painted canvas, but it took a surprising amount of planning and experimentation. Even the often rough edges of the shapes are very deliberately and specifically so. And they do have an impact when you see them in the flesh that a tiny little reproduction in a book or on a computer screen doesn't convey. It is however a very homageable style, and I have tried my own emulations. One of my efforts now hangs in a millionaire's villa in Southern France.

Christmas period itself was the usual mix of too much traditional British Christmas foods (minced pies, Christmas cake, sausages wrapped in bacon), traditional British Christmas television (James Bond, Morecombe and Wise. Wallace wrapped in Grommit) and the local village's annual Boxing Day pram race.

A couple of days after the festivities, it was time to return home. Our flight back was delayed a little. They tried to hide this for a while by not telling us, but sooner or later the cat was let out of the bag.

As usual the flights to Amsterdam are serviced by Sterile Island, a block of gates separated from the main terminus by a bridge into which is piped bird noises and new age music. As I have said before, standing on the conveyer belts in this bridge, with this calming audioscape coming at you and arriving at a half-empty, cold, remote, sterile place increasingly makes me think of a Soylent Green-style old folk reprocessing plant. It explains why 90% of the time, airline meals are "chicken." Old people taste of chicken. If you get "beef" or "lamb," you've got a Mediterranean labourer.

I wrote in my notes that we got upgraded to Club. This was so many flights ago and so short a flight, I don't recall it. And it wasn't as exciting as the time I got upgraded temporarily because I was allocated a seat where the stewardesses sleep. Actually that was more disappointing than exciting, and a different story.

For once the plane landed close to the terminal instead of in Utrecht, where it normally seems to land; there was no queue at immigration; so that meant the last possible delay to getting home was, yes of course, waiting for Schiphol's computer system to stop contemplating the meaning of life and deliver our luggage. Anyway, Merry Magical Jew Day!

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Christmas, Food, Music, Religion, Shopping, Transport, Travel, TV, UK

On checking out of our plush hotel, we couldn't help notice a big advertising board extolling "A Great deal for a great room." And we thought, yes it was a great room... and it was expensive. We assume they meant "a great deal" as in a deal that was great, but advertisers should beware of phrases that have two meanings.

We popped over to Baker Street, famous for being the home of musician turned detective Gerry Rafferty and his sidekick, Doctor Egan, who both lived together in Shylock Homes, an apartment block owned by a former money-lender. I think that's right. Anyway, I do know his nemesis was a man named Arthur Mori.

We were here to meet up with one of Cath's cousins, her husband and their kids for a very pleasant lunch in a nice neck of London.

However, before long it was time to head back. And time became more pressing when at Victoria we not only had problems trying to get the ticket machine to sell us a ticket, but we had to run to the express service just in time to watch it leave. So we ran back and jumped on a slow service. Once we did get to our destination, we found that the signs from the station to the airport were just plain confusing. I believe we British think travelling is sinful and only bad sorts and foreigners do it, so we do anything to make it impossible for them to get anywhere. Eventually we found the line to check in for our flight, but we were only in it 20 seconds before we were called out as our plane was hoping to leave soon.

Flights to Amsterdam from Gatwick generally leave from The Island. The Island is a small outcrop of gates joined by a high bridge, tall enough to clear big planes. The whole trip along the tunnel is accompanied by bird song and new age music. I think it's supposed to be calming, but I have a problem with the whole concept that natural noises need to have a soundtrack put behind them. If it was supposed to be like that, Nature would produce its own muzak. But it doesn't. The long conveyer belts and this supposedly restful soundtrack, reminds me of some science fiction film where old people are shunted off along extensive corridors to some place of final rest. Usually to be turned into food.

Obviously, one more snag is due, to make the quota, and that came in the form of the state-of-the-art Schiphol baggage system getting all confused and not being able to deliver our luggage for quite a while. Another clear example of people waiting for these time-saving computers to sort themselves out. But eventually, after their mini strike, the computers spat our bags out and we dragged them home to feed our surprisingly indifferent cats.

Labels: Anthropology, Books, Music, NL, Transport, Travel, UK

Because it was one of those classy hotels with foreign staff, we got a free newspaper. I don't remember which one, but as I remember being in a good mood, it was certainly not the Daily Malice.

I must have been in a good mood as we went shopping. And to prove that even the Gods were smiling down on us that day, as we shopped, we encountered a small camp where some young, attractive things thrust Wii controllers in our hands and commanded that we play a few games of Wii Sports. Not only that, but, if our fumbling yielded the high score of the day, we would win a Wii of our own. And because Odin was very pleased with the shelves he'd made that day, we did get high scores. However, this was quite early morning, long before lunching kids came by and no doubt trampled all over our high scores. Tsk, kids today. Trashing their elders and betters' computer game scores. When I was a young'un... oh, yeah, I used to do the same.

We had lunch at "Eat," one of those mid-market sandwich chains. The mildly pretentious order of a name made me yearn for a bar called "Drink!" an escort service called "Girls!" and an Irish Brothel called, "Feck!"

Eat's wares were very good and reminded me how great the competition is for sandwiches in London. People don't think of the sandwich as a typical London food, but sandwich places probably outnumber all other types of eatery. I have no statistics to back up this claim, but this is a blog not an encyclopaedia. If you do demand information to back up what I say, I'll have you know all relevant data is available in the only source I know and trust, More's Uncyclopaedia.

The area of our hotel is one where Japanese restaurants are locked in some kind of monumental battle. Each restaurant tries to out-psych the other by having a name that sounds most like a martial art. Nobu, Roka, Umu, Zuma. Actually, that makes no sense as, given my ignorance, most Japanese words sound like a martial art. Sushi. Teriyaki. Sake. Any one of these would beat me in a fight. I can see the proponents standing before me taking poses and naming them. "Raw Fish Roll." "Soy Sauce Cow." "Liquid Alcohol Rice."

The reason we were in London this weekend was for a wedding. Friends and former flatmates of mine were tying the knot after years of living in and around sin (and before that, East Acton).

Many, many moons ago, myself and a young trekkie called Norm joined forces with a couple of lasses who we'd met through improv and moved in together. It is the stuff that makes sitcoms. It also makes dramas. And occasionally horror stories. This was something of all three made into a musical and directed by Richard Curtis and David Lynch. Well, amidst the clutter and fallings in and out, romance bloomed for two of the household. And I don't mean myself and Crash Bandicoot, although me and that guy... we shared some times.

The wedding, like all good weddings, was a chance to meet up with people you hadn't seen for millennia. In fact many of people at the wedding I knew, it was almost like wedding in my own family.

Mitsubishi. Sanyo. Honda. "Off-Road Bike." "Wide-Screen, Surround-Sound Display." "Four-Door Family Hatchback."

I'd met Norm through a guy called Dave who ran something not unlike facebook, but way before that. This was before the web. Possibly even before the internet. As I recall it, messages were carried by young street urchins for a shilling a packet. Well, Dave started one of the longest-running internet communities on a thing called Mono. It was one of the first places I let stuff I'd written leak out. The fact that the crazy people there liked it helped me form the belief I'm not bad at it and kept me from being the greatest IT consultant the world has ever seen.

Back at the wedding, there was great food, cake, antipodean balloon artists, many, many old friends and a band that played covers. (Although they played them a lot more faithfully than I like my covers. To me covers, should be ironic or played in a completely different style to the original. But then, I'm wrong on quite a few things.) Cath and I hung out with those who refused to leave until the band had to pack up and the inflatable dingos started deflating.

Sayonara. "One Hand Wave."

Labels: Anthropology, Computers, Drink, Food, Games, History, Improv, Movies, Music, Travel, UK

Today we had a few peaceful hours without mammals under foot. Basically our kids spend the better part of the day at a kittie rave. A full-on drug festival. An acid mouse party. It's the only thing that explains how they were dozy, red-eyed and barely able to walk when we collected them. And what's more, we paid for the drugs.

Tenzin took something that knocked her out completely, but Borneo, with his singular appetites and dodgy ticker, had to have a completely different cocktail of drugs. Main ingredient in the mix was Ketamine, known on the street as "mean green", "K", "Ket" and "Special K". It's a horse anaesthetic. Well, actually it's lots of things, but it's also a horse anaesthetic. And a recreational drug.

It was quite a party just to get their teeth cleaned. Maybe next time I get my teeth cleaned, I'm going to wink at the dentist and hope I get the same treatment. If not, I'm going to the vet.

Top 5 Cat drug songs
1. Pussy in the Sky with Diamonds – The Beatles
2. Sorted for E's and Catnip – Pulp
3. Smoke Two Joints – Bobcat Marley
4. Ebeneezer Puss – The Shamen
5. Sweet Leaf – Black Tabby

Feel free to add ones I've missed.

Labels: Cats, Drugs, Music, Wildlife

Am currently thoroughly amused by the BBC row about Rage Against the Machine singing their song live on the radio. Source: Guardian.

Without irony, they told the band not to say the "Fuck you" part of their famous refrain, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me!" Even if this is all you know about the band, that this is one of their lines, what do you think the band are going to do? They almost have no choice. To drop any part of the line seems to undermine its whole sentiment, and so really they either sing the whole fucking thing or they dump the it and cover The Carpenters.

Not that I wouldn't pay to hear Rage Against The Machine lay into a carpenters song. I always felt On Top of the World was a song about the injustice of a hierarchical religious structure that puts a single being above all others.

The reason people are talking about Rage Against The Machine again (not that they should have stopped, but they did) is because there is a campaign to make them number one for Christmas in the UK instead of some bland garbage oozed out by X-factor. (I haven't heard the song, but I stand by the words "bland," "garbage" and "oozed.") It's a way of saying "Fuck You" to Simon Cowell, which is to be applauded however it's done. There is also another movement afoot the have the Christmas number one be Tim Minchin's beautiful and sentimental (although self-justifyingly so) White Wine in the Sun.

My only fear is that those drones that really like X-factor will see these campaigns and be even more determined to buy the X-factor ooze and so make even more money for Simon Cowell and cause Joe McElderry's drug-addled death to happen all the sooner. And even if RATM (Rage Against The Machine) does make it to number one, we all know they probably won't be on the Christmas TOTP (Terror Over The Profanities), although we can be pretty sure we'll hear the X-factor single whether it tops or flops.

Labels: Christmas, Music, TV, UK

At the beginning of last month we got a little booklet announcing a new TV channel here in the Netherlands. From the pictures it was clear we would see a lot of air-brushed teens wearing too much make-up and often dressed somewhat sexily. All, right! Except, of course, that it's actually the Disney channel.

Time was that The Disney channel would be filled with cartoon dogs, ducks and mice. Now, the schedule seems to be clogged up with something called, Hannah Montana. Which is something of a porn-star name, you have to admit. I do know who Hannah Montana is. At least I know every toy store I go into has tall section filled with pink crap with her face on it. For those of you in blissful ignorance, allow me to shatter that. Hannah Montana is the pop-star alter-ego of an ordinary, American school girl in a hugely successful US TV show. I also learnt from Cath, who is in charge of celebrity gossip in the house, that the girl playing her is not some nobody plucked from obscurity, but the daughter of the man who recorded "Achy Breaky Heart." Yes, that man was allowed to procreate! Five times according to Wikipedia.

It's shocking how airbrushed the young, white leads are in all these shows. (The black characters only seem to peer out from behind the white ones so it's hard to see how airbrushed they are.) I guess Disney has always been peddling fantasy, but when the fantasy was a mouse surrounded by dancing brooms or a cartoon princess adapted from a fairy tale, it seemed harmless. But when the canvas is a teenage girl onto which some cartoon vision of beauty is painted, it becomes a little disturbing.

What's even more disturbing is that this is a complete rip-off of my own idea, that I tried to peddle to Disney and they turned down. It was called Hannah's Montanas and was about an ordinary school girl who by night was a hugely successful porn actress. More news once my court case has finished, More vs The Frozen Remains of Walt Disney.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Movies, Music, TV

As the trip was drawing to a sad close, it was time to buy gifts. We spent a small fortune at an Aboriginal store / gallery and then went to a Hitchcockian bakery for lunch. Hitchcockian because here we noticed for the first time that in this town, ravens outnumber gulls. They strut around like they own the place, and quite possibly they do. It's unusual to be in a seaside town with hardly any gulls. It's clear the ravens had taken over.

We had another "slice of life" moment with a lawyer talking to a father and new wife about a child-custody issue with lurid allegations flying from both the father and the absent wife. Do all lawyers in the Americas conduct private meetings in public places? Maybe they all think they're on TV and need an audience. I'm not complaining, but it means that the writer in me needs to hang out in more American cafés. It means that my new legal soap opera, The Bar, set in a bar near law courts, will practically write itself.

That evening we chose the Spotted Bear Bistro to be our place du mange, as the French probably don't put it. We didn't book, but were early enough that we could nab the last non-reserved table. It's a small place that does tasty, well-sculpted food. I had some great duck and Cath some holy butt. Every meal was served with froth. Now before you start asking what is this froth? Is it some crazy American side dish like grits or fries? No, it's basically vegetable (or other) juice whipped up into a frothy pile. Intriguing and very molecularly gastronomic. The name of the place is very molecularly gastronomic as well: they all seem to have names that are .It was clear after tonight that all Tofino restaurants play reggae music while you are eating. The odd thing is that all the local radio stations play exclusively classic rock. I get the remote North American town / classic rock thing. The remote Canadian town restaurant / reggae connection is not so clear. It's probably so they can do all the old jokes when a customer asks things like, "what's this pudding got?" "Jam in."

Despite what is depicted in the literature, the bear illustrations and many totem poles, the local fish of choice is not actually the salmon, but the halibut. The halibut, or holy butt (I kid you not), or hippoglossus (I kid you not), which literally means horse tongue (I'm not sure if I'm kidding you here), is one of the world's favourite flat fishes. But it doesn't have the glamour of the salmon with its quintessential fish shape and heart-warming and -rending struggle upstream to have kids and die. The salmon is the self-sacrificing parent of the piscine world. The halibut is the bottom-lying loafer.

After dinner we took a strole on the beach and watched a large band of kids light a bonfire. It was Friday night and the kids have gotta do something for entertainment.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Food, Music, Travel, Wildlife

# posted by Peter More @ 12:23 0 comments

I haven't really said how great the breakfasts were at our bed and breakfast. In fact both the bed and the breakfast were splendid. And I do feel the bath should also have got a mention. But somehow Bed, Bath and Breakfast never caught on. Probably because it sounds like a novelty American store or a doss-house. There was a lot of thought and effort gone into these breakfasts. And our keepers must have got up so early to make them. I couldn't run a bed and breakfast place. Bed and lunch, perhaps. But not bed and breakfast.

As I'd said before this is an area chock full of First Nationals (this doesn't seem to be the correct term, despite seeming like should be) and there are a few places to find out about their culture.

One tribe have organised their own trail (seemingly with some help from the queen who apparently is an expert in the tiimapt and poo-up flowers). The Nuu-chah-nulth trail (previously the Wickaninnish trail) begins with the Wickaninnish Interpretative Centre, which sounds like a dance studio, but is in fact a museum undergoing refurbishment and gift shop. BTW, an interpretation of Wickaninnish is Nuu-chah-nulth.

At the museum we picked up more brochures on what to do in case of bear attack. Apparently it depends on the type of attack. Sometimes you play dead and sometimes you retaliate. And woe betide you do the wrong one. Basically, pregnant or nursing female bears require the opposite tactics to curious male bears. Which all means that the only way to know how to survive a bear attack is to be a competent bear psychologist and gynaecologist. Seems that bears are not the simple picnic-hamper-stealing creatures we all thought.

In one part of the Interpretative Centre, a ranger was giving advice in a strong Scot's accent. I think that made him a Celtic ranger. (That was the kind of joke you should play dead for.) I was disappointed his advice was not something along the lines of "ye be'er no bother a bear wi' bearns." (That was the sort of joke you should attack with a stick.)

First thing you see on the trail is a totem pole donated by the Nuu-chah-nulth tribe. It depicts an eagle standing on a whale which is balancing head-first on top of a bear eating a fish. The Nuu-chah-nulth are presumably circus folk. Although I am pretty certain "Nuu-chah-nulth" was a hit for Bananarama in 1986.

Near the totem pole is a stony beach covered in shell fragments. Here we had another encounter with the mysterious local habit of balancing stones on top of rocks. Apparently it stems from basic First Nations trail signals, and the stones mean things like, "turn left here," "bear seen ahead" and "wasp nest 300 meters South-West in the leaning tree." (You could say they were "really saying something," which is the last Bananarama joke I will ever tell, I promise.)

A little way on there is a barrier with not one but two signs warning you about bears. In this part of Canada, bears seem to be the equivalent of paedophiles in Britain and terrorists in America. I was expecting a sign saying, "Current Security level: Bearcom 3"

For all these warnings, bears seem to be pretty thin on the ground. (Not unlike paedophiles and terrorists.) On no part of the pathway, sorry, trail did we see a single bear, curious, pregnant, male, female or otherwise.

The path, however, was a haven for that neglected and oft vilified member of the animal kingdom, the slug. Give it its own curly home and it's cute. But, homeless, it's disgusting and slimy. People are so shallow.





We never had time to get all the way to the end of the path (at Florencia beach), but we got close. We rested near a couple of surfers who were discussing where the best places to surf were. Surfers, stoners and hackers. All three only ever talk about that one thing they do.

We traversed the trail back to the gift shop and then drove further along the coast to the small town of Uclulet. The exciting part of the trip is that you pass a tsunami hazard zone. Although, I believe tsunamis are actually more scarce than paedophile bear terrorists.

Uclulet is much less quaint and we didn't even stop. (Sorry Uclulettians.) We headed back to Tofino where we took in a gallery of First National stuff, a couple of shops and then ate Thai food at the Schooner restaurant. Here they played a reggae version of Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon. (This was probably Dub Side of the Moon by the Easy Star All-Stars, who have also redreaded the Beatles and Radiohead.) It worked remarkably well, but then one is famed for being laid-back music beloved by stoners and so is the other.

It was another day with a lack of bears. They must have been off terrorising Americans or hanging outside British schools. Despite this lack, it was quite the wonderful day and could only be rounded off with a bath overlooking the jungle.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Art, Food, Music, Sport, Travel, Wildlife

Again I seemed to be on an early schedule and got up and read on the balcony long before Cath and breakfast were served.

First order of the day was to get our clothes cleaned. Hotels charge to clean things about what it costs to buy them and by now we were getting low on fresh clothes. So we found a laundrette; slotted in the clothes, piled in the coins, and waited. We killed some of the time in an outdoor clothing emporium and a tiny little health-food shop that was squatting a much larger closed-down store.

After lunch, we took one of the many trails the island has to offer. We picked the Schooner trail, presumably named after the pub/restaurant. The map warned the trail was "steep in places and passes the community of Esowista, Tla-o-qui-aht First Nation." Well, perhaps it's fairer to say it "noted," rather than "warned." In the olden days a wooden sign painted red would have merely stated "cliffs!!! Injuns!!!"

The trail was not really steep, as Canadians like their trails to be safe. For almost all of it, there was a wooden walkway and inclines were stepped. To me this is not a trail. It's a pathway or promenade. This doesn't mean that it's entirely safe; there were still warnings about bears and signs indicating the dangers of dancing to Bon Jovi albums. Only in Canada are such signs necessary.

The trail led to another great stretch of sandy beach, next to the First Nation community. These were not made up of wigwams, tepees or tupiks but template houses like any other in the North Americas.

After the trail, we headed home and then out again to eat. We chose SoBo which does great world cuisine. I had a mushroom enchilada fit for a gourmet, Mexican hippy.

On the toilet doors, a nautical theme was there to cast no ambiguity over which door to use. The girls had a mermaid and the men a highly phallic conch.

That night we leafed through a magazine highlighting the wildlife photographer of the year and decided to ditch the tiny little pocket camera in favour of finding something with a bit more oomph. There were 12-year-old kids winning categories with far better cameras then we had. Mind you, it turned out in all cases that the parents of these kids were also wildlife photographers. It's not often what you know, but who spawned you.

Labels: Americas, Anthropology, Art, Food, Music, Travel, Wildlife

First order of the day was to check out. The conference being over today, we couldn't justify our luxury hotel any more. We left our bags and Cath went to the conference and the free coffee there whilst I went to a branch of Tully's, another local coffee outlet. I sat, read, wrote and listened to the eclectic mix tape the store played. One track was in Dutch by great Dutch band Bløf. It seemed unlikely to be listening to Bløf so far from Bløfland but I'm sure a local music journalist could explain it in terms of the local music scene.

I picked up some lunch-like things from a Chinese bakery and wandered through some more of the market. I watched some more fish being thrown, a giant squid being abused and tourists being scared with a monkey fish, before heading back to Tully's. While I was in there the second time, the chairs were replaced. Two burly, not-too-much-nonsense guys came in and replaced the chairs around as people sat and drank coffee. I assume they were official and not part of some elaborate plan to steal old chairs leaving newer ones in their place. I'm glad I was there when it happened, because even though the new chairs were quite different, I doubt I would have noticed whatsoever had I come back after the fact. I like to think I am that observant, but men don't notice the minutia like women do. Minutia like new chairs, new shoes, changes of hair style or colour.

Actual lunch was a plate of Thai food served by a Middle Eastern man. I had it with that exotic Thai drink, Dr Pepper. Actually I had the Dr Pepper because I never see it and there was a stage, when I was knee-high to something mid-sized, that it was my favourite drink. I am way taller than that thing now and Dr Pepper is just a quirky cola that you only find in unexpected places. Although I hear that in some quarters it is still popular and people even drink it warm. I kid ye not.

In full conference husband mode, I made myself feel better about not being the main bread-winner by visiting the hairdresser. My hairdresser (or barber, as he corrected, although he had been a hairdresser) was originally from Mexico but eventually found his way to Seattle and has been cutting hair for 25 years. Because of the length of my hair his first question was if I was a musician. Nope, lazy comedian. Being a Seattle barber, he'd cut a few rock star hairs, including members of Nirvana and, one time, Kurt Cobain. Were I the type, I would have said "wow" and been part-, full- or even over-awed. It was at least a cool thing to tell the kids back home. And to tell the truth there is a modicum of awe as it is my closest, if somewhat tenuous, connection to a dead rock star whose work I do admire. I guess closest connection apart from seeing his widow in concert.

The barber asked an innocent question at the end about if he wanted it cleaned up underneath. I said, "yes" expecting some clipping action under the back of the hair. Instead he got out the vacuum cleaner and hovered up the back of my hair! I'm not sure if it was just a local thing or something only he does to dumb tourists, but it certainly was a first.

Sporting my new post-grunge locks, I grabbed an iced decaf latte and skipped over to the conference centre and used the free internet until Cath came and only just recognised me.

We carted our stuff over to our new hotel on Pioneer Square. Coming from the old one with it's fluffy bears, four-poster beds and real coat hangers, there was a period of adjustment. Our view was now of a blank wall instead of Puget Sound (it's a kind of bay).

We seafooded at McCormick's and of course saw a rat on the way home. A gallery a couple of doors down from the hotel was preparing itself for something big. That thing, explained an emerging artist, was the next day's art walk. The artist added that he worked a lot with larva and insects and they seemed as much the creators of the art as he was. We said we'd try and come by, and maybe shake antennae with a few of them. We didn't make it.

Labels: Anthropology, Art, Drink, Food, Music, Netherlands, Travel, US, Wildlife