Goodbye Amsterdam. Byebye mushrooms, red light district, Ooorlaaam, vietsen jaaten, tieten, tips, geyle neuqsex, what a lekkere wife, beer, redhead, roommaid, oldtimer, blond en blond, angry girl in red coat from Utrecht, weed, haa-sjees, so me teen, fingerbanging, Runkle-look-a-likes, gay men in purple pants, studentchicks, headache, terrible wheater, motherfucking public transport, funny Euro, satan, sweet Jesus. See you Hank Moody, back to LA, back to hell. Hank Moody hates you all.

I can’t get over how the Dutch government is full of Christians who want to cut down on drug use. How can you be Christian and NOT condone drug use? What do you think Moses was doing when he was talking to God? The burning bush is the bush he was smoking. And Jesus looked like a pothead and acted like he was on ecstasy half the time. Even now you’ve got the Pope and his incense ball throwing smoke out all over the place. So how can you tell me I can’t have a cigarette?

We covered soft drugs in Amsterdam. So what about the hard stuff? In the US, the drug on the rise appears to be meth, which I have not been offered here. Maybe there is a God. Good old LSD should be making a comeback in the absence of mushrooms. But what do you know? The guy at the smart shop did let me know where I could get some of the dried mushrooms: The Adventures of Alice Through the Loophole.

I got my hands on some good old XTC. Man, I forgot how potent the love drug can be… as if Dutch girls need it. But the amphetamine / aphrodisiac mix is especially nice. The way cocaine is supposed to be… Cocaine has its uses, and I’m not here to be hatin’. Cocaine has a way of turning me into a positive and energetic guy – who happens to really want more cocaine. At any expense. At the end of any cocaine jag, I’m invariably in bed with someone I shouldn’t be, having pissed off at least 15 people I shouldn’t have, and fucking broke. And yet, for Amsterdam – like LA – coke is your drug of choice. I’d like to see what would happen if you’d legalize that shit. THAT should be what your parliament is talking about. Then again… there would be a LOT less tourism from Surinam.

Amsterdam. For a town that professes to be the Drug Capital of the Western World, it can hard to find the stuff. Start with the hash bars. As John Travolta said in Pulp Fiction, “It’s IL-legal for the cops to search you. That’s a right the police actually don’t have.” Well, they sure do now. I didn’t have my passport with me and almost got arrested. Instead, I got her phone number. (she’s off work at midnight.)

But magic mushrooms? Anyone who decided to ban mushrooms must have been on mushrooms. They’ve got the word ‘Magic’ right on them – Who wants to ban magic? That’s like banning Santa Claus, or the Easter Bunny, or Any Enjoyment in Life.

And now they make it so that you can’t even smoke in the coffeeshop… Do you know what goes on in the coffeeshop? They don’t sell coffee… (actually, they do. Esperesso and energy drinks. Kill my buzz, please). Keep the Christians out of government and back in the kitchen, where they belong!

The famous writer Hank Moody of the hit show Californication pays a brief visit to Amsterdam and will sign copies of his best seller, “God Hates Us All.”

Sunday, 8 november in The American Book Center Amsterdam at 15.00 hours.

Hank Moody is a New York writer who moved to Los Angeles for the film version of his book “God Hates Us All.” The book was turned into the film “A Crazy Little Thing Called Love,” starring Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, and was a huge success. Moody’s second book was delayed, after a creative block from viewing the film. Instead, Moody wrote a popular blog in Los Angeles and wrote a (not yet released) biography of the popular music producer Lew Ashby.

Moody is currently writing about his stay in Amsterdam.

And Hank Moody can be accessed via Twitter.

About “God Hates Us All”

“God Hates Us All” tells the story of a “drop out”-turned accidental drug dealer in New York. Although not autobiographical, the book shows many striking parallels with the real life of Moody.

With the success of the film and the popular TV series Californication, the book was re-issued in 2009.

Took a wrong turn into a street called the ‘RegularsWeirdStraat’ or something like that. Only in Amsterdam is Weird regular. And, boy, were those boys weird. Sorry, I should say QUEER. And I mean that in the most politically incorrect sense. (For more on Hank’s flirtations with homosexuality, tune in to Season 3 Californication.) (Sorry for the shameless plug: That’s why I’m here.) (Seriously, Sunday Nov, 8 on Comedy Central.) I have nothing against homosexuals. Especially if my daughter decides to be one. But these guys last night, I’ve got to say there were some well-dressed lady-men. Good looking mother-fuckers. (again, I mean that in the most politically and anatomically incorrect sense).

As promised, today we discuss Natascha (not her real name), the most attractive prostitute I found in my tour of the Red Light District. And – by attractive – I mean not disgusting. As are many of the pros in their windows downtown.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not referring to any specific women as disgusting; it’s the whole process. There’s a reason they call them “sex workers.” For them it’s work. And they’re apparently very good at what they do. As you can judge by the friends of any john, who wait outside, usually not for very long. “Get ‘em in, get ‘em out.” If I wanted sex this devoid of passion, I could’ve stayed in LA.

It should be said that different types of johns prefer different types of women, and Amsterdam’s Red Light district caters to every whim. As long as the whim includes red lights augmented with black lights and generally (surprisingly) ill-fitting white lingerie. Where are the school girl uniforms? The nurse outfits? Personally, I find an art-school chick in an old t-shirt and no bra one of the sexiest looks on this earth. But I guess I’ll have to settle for the standard Playboy-bunny wannabe outfit.

Maybe it’s just me, but part of sex is the thrill of the hunt. The feeling of being desired, of returning the sentiment… but in some areas of the Red Light district I felt surrounded. The hunter, hunted. And then I heard it: one tap-tap-tap on the glass and a come-hither look. A serious violation of the rules of attraction. I can’t imagine surrendering my seed to such a situation.

And then there was Natascha. Young, but not too young. Shoulder-length, blond hair, which she wore pulled back out of her face to reveal piercing brown eyes. She wore not lingerie, but a dress. As dresses go, it was pretty form-fitting. But a dress. And the kicker: the thick-rimmed glasses. Art-school chick glasses. Oooh, yes. And now you know the way to turn on Hank Moody. You have to give me the impression that you like to read, preferably my writing. Yes, that’s very attractive, indeed.

Spoiler alert: we did not have sex. Not yet, anyway. I get to take her out to dinner tomorrow. I did pay her for her time, though. (After Trixie, I have a nice track-record of painting whores’ toenails.) I spent my allotted 15 minutes asking Natascha the basics: yes, she’s from Eastern Europe. Yes, she likes the job for now but is saving up to be a writer (nice). And yes, she prefers legalized prostitution to illegal. The organization called The Red Thread is a sort of union for prostitutes, and they take care of her. With the dental dam comes a dental plan.

I’m glad I visited The Red Light district. So I can say that I did it. But in Hank Moody’s analysis of prostitution in the US vs. Holland, Venice Beach is far more depraved than Amsterdam. Off to a place called Club NL… More tomorrow.

“Natascha – the only pro in whose window I’d dare to go…”  

Yes, Dear Reader, Hank Moody visits the Red Light district in Amsterdam. How could I not? There is something deeply comforting knowing that a place like this exists in the world. Not just prostitution – which exists everywhere, even Utah – but a place that has the common sense to admit it. Amsterdam.

In America, Amsterdam is depicted as depraved and dangerous – a social experiment gone wrong, full of drug-injecting, baby-killing, baby-injecting terrorists. What they don’t tell us is that the city is historically beautiful, modern where it needs to be, relatively clean, and – above all – safe. Where in America would I find Marieke: a single, young, woman on her way home from the club alone at 2 in the morning? (don’t worry, I took good care of her) (until appx. 4:30 in the morning).

In America, sex is dirty and wrong, but guns are okay. Here, guns are out of the picture. And as for sex, you could probably flag down a police officer in the middle of masturbating and they’d help you finish off. In fact, just the fact that the Red Light district exists in this town gives the rest of the place such a relaxed vibe that I wouldn’t technically need to go there… but who are we kidding?

The only obscene thing about the Red Light district is that they plunked it down right in the middle of the oldest and most beautiful neighborhood in the city. A fitting homage to the world’s oldest profession. It’s as if the Red Light district is the reason Amsterdam exists in the first place. There should be museum of all the Best Tricks from the Golden Age: The vixens of the East India Trading Company, Henry Hudson’s ho, the Concubine who gave the clap to the Pilgrims, who gave it to America.

The Red Light district is billed – by some – as an outdoor theme park for adults. Like one big Disneyland for sex tourism. It’s a Balled World After All. Butt-Pirates of the Caribbean. And, of course, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. What I wasn’t expecting was the House of Horrors, which is how I would describe the experience of window-shopping for women – many of whom looked pretty well picked-over. Until I met her.

To be continued.

Shy she was, and she was called Irene – the redhead at reception. She laughed and avoided my gaze when I asked her for a room. She blushed when I asked for cocaine. She turned and bent down to do nothing more than show her ass.

She handed me my room keys: “I’ll bump in to you,” she said, with that slight, high voice. Then she grabbed the phone hook to pretend somebody had an urgent call. She ignored me out of the lobby, and I went.

Dutch girls are so nice, so shy, so easy. But a Dutch girl in bed is like driving a Porsche at 150 miles per hour. Getting there costs a few seconds, and your feel it, but once you’re there… Blood pressure, stiff, truth. Yihaaa! Until the end of the universe. Only Porsches will not be venereal.

Irene was 23, studied at some university or other; I don’t remember what or where it was. She loved me gently, without the sadism and the subcutaneous self-hatred, which the chicks in LA are so fond of. After sneaking into my room, she pushed her lips against my fly without any hesitation – but never asked for coke. Not even for a drink. God must have made a special deal for the Netherlands: He exchanged the sun of LA for nubile student girls. Girls without sadistic tendencies. Girls who want nothing but temporary love with Hank Moody.

She seemed young. I thought of Mia, felt Mia (half-expected a blow to the jaw). I feared she was underage. But fear not, Dear Reader, she was definitely over eighteen. She had at least a drivers license. As far as I know, in the Netherlands, you have to be 18 years old to drive a car, or whatever you may be riding. Irene had license to ride me.

Today Irene was not behind the desk. That, or she’d dyed her red hair into pale blond. Or she was not really Irene. She really was not. The pale blonde was short and fat and made no effort to do anything to sell me: no sex, no drugs, no alcohol. She just did her job. It’s a shame how people just do their work without regard to the enjoyment to be. Or Hank Moody to be. As if they do not live. Just doing ones job makes me tired.

“Irene is not here”, the thick blonde says. “She has emigrated.”

It was no joke. I wasn’t dreaming, and I wasn’t hallucinating because I was off my nut on so-called “Nederwiet.” (Tip for tourists: in something called ‘Dampkring’ they sell something called “nederwiet.” Smoke it, and the Infant Jesus is with you the rest of the day, to keep you warm – even if you don’t think of Karen). The truth was: Irene had gone to Israel. Sunday was her last day. Hank Moody was apparently her last fuck in Holland.

Now I can’t sleep. There are only hollow spaces in my head, filled with stupid, unwanted thoughts and desires… Irene had a tattoo on her ankle. Red hair is beautiful. Karen has a tattoo on her back. My desires to have Karen are as easy to remove as tattoos. And Becca…

Do I miss Becca? Fathers may miss their daughters.

As God did love Amsterdam, so did He send Hank Moody.