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About Amsterdam

I’ve seen it, ya know—shady parlors off Route 66, neon buzzin’ like flies on a corpse. Once knew a guy, Tony, greasy little mechanic—swore he got “enlightened” by some chick’s “magic hands.” Bullshit! Looked more like he’d been wrestled by a trucker. Made me laugh so hard I nearly choked on my chianti. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I’d quip—Tony’d just stare, clueless(\'cept he didn’t get it, the dumb lug).

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First off, I’m a violin maker, yeah? So, I’m all about that wood and strings life. I head down to the beach, thinking I’ll get some inspiration from the waves or whatever. You know, the whole “be one with nature” vibe. I stroll down the Keizerstraat, and it’s packed! Tourists everywhere, like ants at a picnic. I’m dodging strollers and selfie sticks like I’m in some kind of obstacle course.

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