First, I need to pick up on yesterday's petulant complaint about supposed friends. See, it has long been clear to me that most of my friends, now that they have reproduced and reared the children to adulthood, have as their primary purpose in life to protect me from myself. (For my gay friends, this has been the sole purpose all along, other than way back when we were young, the occasional dalliance.)

Today's pic is a shot of Nemo taken last week from the top of the Stedelijk Museum.

Late yesterday afternoon I experienced a species of guy panic known I'm sure all over the western world: the sudden realization that the stores were about to close and you needed to have a present in hand tomorrow morning. Yeah, like the eve of her birthday, your anniversary, Valentine's Day, or yes, Mothers' Day. It struck me that since Hans is far too dotty to think of Moederdag, I could pick up something for Rina in his stead.

So I race out to de Bijenkorf and hit their wonderful bakery/confisserie. It is packed with men of all ages, all of us wearing a similar expression: minor annoyance at being caught in this jam paved over with smug relief at having once again put ourselves in the position to please women in our lives.

Great male bonding. And like so much male bonding, we all know why we're there, but our mission is accomplished without acknowledging this.

No sooner do I get home than Rina invites me to join them upstairs tomorrow when Cyrus comes by for Moederdag. I accept.

So this morning I take up the small box of Belgian chocolates for later as well as the amaretto-flavored breakfast cake from the Bijenkorf. Rina has made blinis and serves them with smoked salmon, chopped onions, fresh dill, sliced cucumber, and a tasty yogurt sauce. Afterwards, we have her cake and Cyrus' cake and my cake.

Cyrus is an up-and-coming playwright, and in fact has a new play in rehearsal now. Oogverblindend (Dazzled). It's a telephone conversation between a Dutch woman and an Argentinean man and is in English since this is the only language they share.

We get to talking about language and literature, establishing some common ground, and then we talk about some language issues in his new play. He's been getting some flak from some folks about the English, complaints that it's not perfect. I tell him that it is illogical to expect these characters to be speaking perfect English, but that I'd be happy to look at the script and address specific points.

He returns in the afternoon with a copy of the script for my examination.

So my adventures are going to be a little thin while I focus on his text. I am beside myself with delight that the premier will be toward the end of the month, and for the first time I'll be able to attend one of his plays. Last year I attempted to watch the videotape of an earlier one, but my Dutch is simply nowhere near good enough.

In the evening, Rina drops in and is real motherly, glancing nervously out of the corner of her eye at my marks on the one open page of her son's manuscript and asking how his English is. I reassure her that it is excellent and remark that surely she knows this.

She comes right back: "How would I know? We don't speak English with each other."

Good point, Rina.