I landed at one in the afternoon — local time — and made my way to the train. I wasn’t too tired, cause I actually managed to sleep some on the way over. I sat in the back of the plane, packed tightly between two Danish boys (No Way Am I Gay) and a dude who jumps motorcycles for a living.

Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles was the last in the plane, and — don’t you fucking know it — the last person in our row, and as he made his way down I was praying to Jesus, Joseph Smith, Gandhi, Buddha, The Space Monsters the Scientologists buy in to, as well as anyone else who would listen — please please please don’t sit next to me. If you sit somewhere else on this plane I will be good for the rest of my life. I might even quit making dirty movies when I get back home if you sit somewhere else on this plane.

Of course I was crossing my fingers behind my back as I said that, which is why he sat next to me. It’s not good to cross Evil Space Monsters.

Within five minutes he was offering up his small cache of pharmaceuticals: Soma’s and Xanny Bars, mostly. Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles asked, “Want one Bro? I mean I’m not a pill popper or anything, but I hate these fucking flights.”

I declined. Politely, of course. And by mid-flight, I got to see the slide show he carried around on his lap top, which consisted mostly of pics of Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles flying through the air, his super hot girlfriend, his buddy who died jumping bikes, or his drunken friends doing stupid things at various parties in the OC.

I guess there’s a fairly lucrative circuit of Motorcycle Trick Shows in Europe and South America, and Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles is one of its stars. “See that dude up there?” Dude Who Jumps Motorcycles asked. “He’s world famous. Best one out there. He practices way more than I do.”

I asked him, “How do you practice doing back flips on a motorcycle through the air?” and he answered, “you just do it. Start small, I guess.” By this time he was so loaded on pills he couldn’t keep his eyes opened, and that’s about the time our conversation ended. I think he told me he was gonna quit the sport when his body couldn’t take it anymore.

I lost my VISA card in the god damn machine that sells tickets to the train in to Amsterdam Central. I wasn’t on the ground 15 minutes and I already had a problem. But an old Dutch man standing behind me went and got a Fix-it Lady. She wore a great uniform and with a piece of paper and several hard smacks to the side of the machine, she retrieved my card and took away all my anxiety. I thanked her until she thought there might be something wrong with me as the old Dutch man high-fived me, over and over.

I’m right across the street from the Van Gogh museum. Down the street from a great book store. From my balcony I look into a park, and last night I didn’t get high or buy a whore.