wormerveer.

Above, what passes for food in Wormerveer on a Sunday morning: gas station sandwiches (bacon/egg, red pepper chicken), potato chips, and a BiFi XXL. Luckily there was a Grolsch vending machine.

Below, the studio itself. And then the aftermath at De Grote Weiver, which ended up being rather epic its own self, involving supergood Ghanian food (okra in peanut sauce, eggplant with sesame seeds, not pictured), King Ayisoba, Raging Bitches, and a mad scramble for The Last Train Home.

At one point towards the end of the night, Johnny D was standing next to this mannequin and said "Come here a sec." I did, and he pointed at the mannequin and said, "Pretend to make out with her." I looked at him, and he said, "No, really...it's very strange." Which would seem obvious, but whatever. And then he raised her arms and put them around my neck. And it was...very strange indeed. Uncomfortable. Invasively intimate. You couldn't do it for more than a few seconds, I think it was her eyes. 

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VDuck: Hey what are you doing? 
Cleverbot: Play. 
VDuck: Must be nice. 
Cleverbot: You tell me. 
VDuck: ;->
Cleverbot: Wastebaskets are my friends. 
VDuck: Sounds like a lonely life.
Cleverbot: It is. 
VDuck: Know what this is? 
Cleverbot: It's beans?
VDuck: No, it's the world's smallest violin. 
Cleverbot: That sounds like fun. 
VDuck: You don't really have a sense of humor, do you. 
Cleverbot: Can you tell me another one? 
VDuck: OK: what did the zero say to the eight? 
Cleverbot: I don't know. What? 
VDuck: Nice belt. 
Cleverbot: Thanks but I'm not wearing one. 
VDuck: Of course you aren't.

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