Met Tim Bleeker at Somerlust Park on Tuesday, a get-together that started as “chilling in the park”, and which turned into grabbing a drink at l’Osteria. The venue is not one I can recommend. When requesting a bigger table because more people would be coming, the waiter scoffed at us. Then he closed the red velvet roped entrance. Later, his colleague told me people often just barge into the venue, ignoring waiters' requests. (Continue)

The first week back at work is fairly quiet, I even found myself on the verge of boredom at one point. Organically, this makes me feel bad, but I remind myself that weeks before and after holidays tend to have this effect on my life. I tell myself I’m just landing. No one can convince me the municipality of Amsterdam isn’t using major construction projects to show tourists how crap the city can be. (Continue)

I’m not one to dwell on the negative, but let me just come right out and say it: I fucking hate summertime. Like, “I hate Brussels sprouts” hate. “I’d rather be eaten alive by a shark” hate. Whatever you hate most, times 70. That kind of hate. If I had a gun, summer wouldn’t live to tell the tale. April showers bring May flowers, but in my world those flowers take the unpleasant shape of anxiety. (Continue)