“What brings you to Amsterdam?” A local asked me. Like many people I met in the city, she wasn’t from Amsterdam. Most had flocked their way there like birds, but instead of moving south for the winter, they had moved north for their twenties and thirties. “I’m on a sojourn,” I said, wisdom ebbing and flowing from me like I was the Greek goddess Athena awaiting an owl to adorn my arm. “A what?” I was very confident about the definition of sojourn because once I had decided my trip to Amsterdam would be a sojourn, I had fact-checked my language. The last thing I desired to be was a stupid American making up words aboard in front of Europeans who I assumed viewed us as the noisy and trashy downstairs neighbors. I wanted to prove that I had a little bit of class. You might think that I would have some self-confidence, but the number of times I confused words, creatively expressed words, or otherwise ignored definitions…well, I’ve made a real jester out of myself. “You’d belong in Amsterdam then, they’re always making up words here.” The same local joked. After two planes across fourteen hours, I arrived in Amsterdam at the crack of 6’o o'clock. My body felt like it was midnight — but I couldn’t check into the hotel until 3 PM and I figured the best way to adjust would be to try and manually reset tomorrow. My plan was simple and effective: instead of trying to grab sleep like a thief stealing candy from a “Should I bring my GoPro?” I asked the receptionist, no doubt the biggest digital media nerd in the hotel lobby. “I don’t want to look like a tourist or an American.” I wasn’t sure what was worse in Amsterdam, being a general tourist, or being more likely scouted as an American. “Ah, we can tell tourists easily here.” The attendant informed me. “They like to take excessive selfies and pictures in front of the canals.” I took that advice to heart and only got a couple of pictures in front of the canal. Anytime I tried to take a picture with myself in the canal, I did so clandestinely as if smoking heroin in public or how I imagined 2024 Trump supporters to be. They wouldn’t deny what they were doing, but perhaps it was best to be a bit quiet about it.
While I became somewhat lucid during my first day, I enjoyed an omelet at a shop called Omglegg (or something like that), a walk through the Jordan district, coffee at Cafe Hummingbird, strolled by the Flower Market (a row of stalls where, shocker, they only sold flowers), and ended up south of the center district where my original plan was to check out the Van Gogh Museum. There were two places in Amsterdam in which it is recommended you grab tickets in advance: the Anne Frank House, and the Van Gogh Museum. I was more casual about Van Gogh, I could go or not go. There had been an attempt to grab tickets to the Anne Frank House, but a couple of hours on the day tickets went live really made a difference. I’ve scored Lady Gaga, U2, Madonna, and Ariana Grande tickets, but the Anne Frank House turned out to be the most competitive ticketing I’ve ever seen in a museum. My backup afternoon plan was to visit the Rijksmuseum, a classic art Museum showcasing art from 1000 to 1950 in a very beautiful building serving ancient. The layout was pretty annoying though — the four floors were split in half, which caused a lot of confusion. I probably looked like one of those Scooby Doo montages where they keep running down halls and popping through different doors.
If I had to give non-visitors of Amsterdam a piece of context about the city (which sounds pretentious for someone who only spent three days in the city (in my defense I easily crammed five days of activities into those three days)), I would have to mention the following rule: If you wanted to drink coffee, you’d be looking to find a Cafe. If you’re looking to smoke weed, you’d be looking for a Coffeeshop. In an effort to crack down on the drug invasion of the 80s, Amsterdam legalized weed. And to trick (or, I guess act casual about it), ‘coffeeshop’ became synonymous with a place you can get weed. Before the trip, my mother and I met a Dutch native. “When we visit Amsterdam, what are some coffee shops we should visit?” My innocent mother asked in search of the best cup of coffee. The woman was lovely and gave us multiple suggestions which I scribbled into my notes feverishly. Who could turn down an excellent cup of cappuccino besides a recovering caffeine addict? Upon my arrival, I discovered that the Dutch woman’s suggestions for Coffeeshops to visit applied directly to weed. I couldn’t help but laugh, wondering if she knew she was telling a mother-and-son duo where to get weed. The food was fantastic from the authentic bread and butter (American bread just feels depressing when I eat it), Thai fried rice, and tomato Basil soup where the basil smacked your tonsils around like the boxer. I enjoyed a traditional, or so I supposed, feast of fries with mayonnaise, a side salad, and a steak with blue cheese and strawberry sauce which was weirdly enchanting. It felt like you were eating a gristly fairy tale.
I did check in and grab a quick nap just before a historic tour of the Red Light District. The tour guide Marta covered all the history which included a church next to the district which became infamous for its indulgences. Sailors would arrive to sleep with women and then would confess before they left for the ocean just in case they perished. The facts of the Red Light District were illuminating. Most services are based on a ‘per orgasm’ rate of $50 per 15 minutes. Men were notorious for paying for a half-hour or more as if to prove they could ‘last longer.’ Female students attended school in Amsterdam to get the 200 Euro licensure just to use it as a 21% tax write-off on any product related to the work. “As you can imagine, the license pays for itself if you’re getting work done,” Marta told the group. You needed a European Union license to work in the Red Light District. Only one Dutch woman worked in the Red Light District, the other 500 or so were non-Dutch. The windows were owned by rich families of yesteryears who kept the windows in their name but used a property management company to handle the ‘window rent.’ Sex workers negotiated with customers through the door which could only be propped a certain amount so that a man could not force his way in. Rooms had emergency buttons installed into them. And all sexual activities involved protection. But there were also some sad facts, the main one being that conducted research suggested that anywhere from 40-80% of the women working are feeling compelled by someone else to work in the district.  Me on the rooftop at the Heineken Experience. The following morning was a two-mile walk to Heineken. I had prepared for the amount of walking I expected to do this trip with hour-long treadmill walks peppered with incline. I crushed out over 70,000 steps in my three Amsterdamian days, which according to Google is roughly 30-35 miles. And when has Google been wrong??? (This is semi-sarcasm).
I’m not a beer drinker, but I enjoyed the Heineken Experience and kind of enjoyed the Heineken. It’s kind of like when your friend cooks you a homemade dinner and while you have never liked the dish, somehow your friend makes it taste better. It’s a little touristy, but between the rooftop view and the drinks, it was worth its penny. Close to Heineken was a giant market filled with stands, tents, and trucks. You could smell fresh food (even seafood which made me want to throw up a little). I got a fresh off-the-griddle Stroopwaffle -- the best way to experience them. Dinner was at the Sea Palace, a floating Asian restaurant close to my hotel. The appetizers were okay, but the entree was good. Another tip for Americans visiting Europe: European Fanta is out of this world. I don’t know why American Fanta is canned orange garbage, it almost feels intentionally run down with sugar. The canal ride was that night rather than during the day. I was a bit selfish in the idea that the night canal ride would make for more interesting pictures. The boat came with a VIP wine and cheese pass, and in the hour ride, I managed to down almost a whole bottle of Rosé. Frugal Matt would maybe have ordered one drink. But if I’m getting a packaged deal, I will take advantage harder than a politician during a tragedy that benefits his position. Amsterdam was filled with small things: like the Tulip Museum and the Cheese Museum, both in small buildings between regular shotgun-style homes (fun fact, old Amsterdam tax laws would base tax on the width of your house, the amount of windows, and the amount of stairs. Rich and wanted to brag about it? You had a wide house with beautiful front staircases and tons of small window panes stitched together to make larger windows). I took another history tour, this time about the effects of World War II on Amsterdam and the connection to Anne Frank. The tour guide was fine, but you could tell she was not deeply connected to the material. “The Allies captured the remaining Nazi high officers and placed them in that building.” The tour guide pointed to a building to our left. The group all ricocheted our necks and stared at the location. “The Armani Exchange?” I questioned. “Which I assume wasn’t the Armani Exchange at the time?” Next Time: II. Kinderdijk (travel interlude)
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 Photo created with Adobe Firefly I was preparing a laundry list of things to do on a Monday morning that included some exasperating tasks on a bulleted list: edits on a marketing email, submitting events to online calendars, crafting written material for a digital app -- the not-so-fun side of working in digital media.
“Broad strokes only on Mondays.” My colleague Brook told me as we chatted briefly about our day. Brook, which is not his real name, is a middle-aged man who has seen the bowels of hell and thus is immune to the things that can normal people get riled up over. He has the beautiful ability to act indifferent where I soak up emotions like a QVC special edition large sponge the size of an arm. Perhaps that’s why Brook and I work well together. He’s also one of my emotional goalposts, I would love to more often exercise his tepid ‘meh-ness.’ I like to believe the benefit Brook gets from me is my unflinching optimism. It’s steadfast, but not toxic like a cauldron of hot syrup poured over a LEGO village set, suffocating the plastic townspeople for the sake of ‘being happy.’ I’m sure I’m like a small boost, think Five Hour Energy but change the hour for a minute, and energy for ‘vibes.’ When I bought my home in 2020, one of the first things I did was paint a mural in my foyer called Positivity is Upward. The mural isn’t that complicated since I can’t paint or draw (talents I’ve yet to acquire -- nay, may never acquiesce). The mural is four colorful beams that get wider as they advance upward. Three arrows created with negative space are located at the top of the beams, each arrow pointing upward. At the bottom of the beams are downward-pointing arrows. It’s a daily reminder that negativity helps balance us, yet it is always positivity that drives change and success. “Sorry, I have aged into becoming Garfield,” Brook told me that same day. Sometimes I faced his realism with my idealism, like Athens and Sparta at war except if they retired swords and shields and just spoke about their world views (or, city-state views). But Brook’s comment made me wonder if we’re all aging into Garfield. Am I Garfield? The physical answer: no, except I do have a robust frame. And like Garfield, I justify it as ‘huskiness.’ I started to conduct a checklist of Garfield’s notorious personality traits and compared them against my own. We both enjoy sleeping. Without my eight hours I become a massive [enter explicative here]. I don’t mind lasagna, but I do love Italian food. I just happen to prefer tortellini and chicken parmigiana over noodles with ricotta. Garfield hates Mondays, but I don’t mind Mondays. If anything, Mondays can be easy considering the world seems to slug on by that day. I’m not as lazy as Garfield -- at least not on the surface. I work hard when it comes to things I care about. But my kitchen sink fills up with dishes, clothes get tossed into laundry baskets (yes, multiple), and the general disarray of my house would argue that I am, at the very least, selectively lazy. And like Garfield, I am a king of sass. I have to watch myself more often than not because there are very limited filters in place. And those filters are so sheer, it’s like filtering gas with cheesecloth. So I’m partially Garfield, but does that make me more like Odie? For those not familiar with the Garfield canon, Odie is the non-speaking happy dog. Garfields would describe Odie as obnoxious, but most would describe him as lovable and a bit stupid. As I considered Brook’s statement, it implied that maybe at one time he was an Odie. So do all current Garfields start as Odies? As we age and lose innocence and naivety, do we replace them with dislike and cantankerousness? Recently social media abounded with a string of reliability to another cartoon character: Squidward from SpongeBob Squarepants. As a character, Squidward is the grounding grouch. While the rest of Bikini Bottom traffics in pedantic pedestrian wildness or stupidity beseeching the customers you might expect to see dining in at a fast-food restaurant, Squidward eschews the mold with sassy comments, the preference of solitude, and an unflinching reminder of his reality. Squidward could be described as an antagonist in SpongeBob Squarepants. He usually is the focus of pain in situations and occasionally will sabotage characters (Although his attempt to prove 'the customer is always right' is wrong and thus becomes a guest at the Krusty Krab Hotel is peak beautiful insolence). At other times, Squidward is just trying to exist. Which to the child audience means that he’s ripe to be bugged. But one episode of SpongeBob Squarepants stands out -- Squidville. Squidward moves to Tentacle Acres, a community filled with squids like himself. At first, it’s the best decision he could make accompanied by clarinet practice, cycling, and canned bread. But the monotony of the experience takes a toll on Squidward who quickly rebels, flying out of the village on a leaf blower. Adulting came with things I expected yet was unprepared for. I had to fail my way upward into responsibilities. And that came with disbelief, exasperation, and, let’s be honest, a somewhat bleak reality that I need to be financially sound which is a lot of pressure in your twenties when you’re living quarter-paycheck to half-paycheck. It’s easy to evolve into Garfield under these conditions. But it’s important to recognize that it’s even more crucial to retain Odie-like or Spongebob-like qualities. Losing your ability to have fun, being unable to enjoy simple things, and denying spontaneity is a recipe for a cold life. Even Garfield has changed since its original run. Not only has Garfield lost a bit of weight, but he comes to (somewhat) appreciate Odie and his owner John, who is a middle-ground of Odie and Garfield. I’ve always found myself at peace when exercising perspective. So even if I’m more of an Odie than a Garfield or a SpongeBob than a Squidward, I still need a bit of Garfield and Squidward to help me in my decisions, life outlook, and in day-to-day skills. If I was nothing but sheer glee, then what stops me from flying too close to the sun and pulling an Icarus? Yet negativity keeps me grounded on the surface. I’d rather be floating in the sky between the two fates. ____________________ Matt Hribar is a digital storytelling from Cleveland, Ohio. He is the author of Chastity Shawl & Other Stories and the upcoming Matty Iapen Series. He additionally creates music, podcasts, short videos and films. His short film The Sauce is in festival circuits and will be available to publicly view in 2024. You can follow Matt on social media @hribstar or stay tuned at matthribar.com. 
If I’m Blanche Devereaux, Then I Got Some Things To Work On Ask almost anyone*, and they could tell you which Golden Girl they are (*anyone with taste). Some instantly know their sass, smarts, and sense makes them a Dorothy. Others relate to the storytelling and comeback queen of Sophia. Others realize their sweetness, pragmatic selves are Rose. Recently, I’ve found myself to be a Blanche. Your immediate thought is that I’m a promiscuous drama queen with a penchant for selfish behaviors. And to a degree, I’d accept that label. In a world where things can be boring — why not be a Blanche Devereaux who shakes things up? Both Blanche and I have an appreciation for strong dating life, a natural eye for the arts, and we’re not above wanting finer things. But recently I’ve been wondering if I relate to some of Blanche’s more problematic moments. For example, in one iconic episode for the 1990s, Blanche’s brother comes out as gay. Blanche immediately is in shock — how could her brother be gay? Certainly, Blanche supports gay men, but her own brother…it’s almost social macabre! Blanche certainly comes around — but only after having to Blanche is arguably the most judgmental character of the girls. There are episodes devoted to her uncertainty to date men for all sorts of different episodes: “He’s so old”, “He’s in a wheelchair”, “He’s blind”. And while the common theme is that Blanche lets go of her judgment and preconceived notions, karma lets her off with a slap on the wrist. Her judgment carries over to her personal relationships: she judges her daughter for deciding to get pregnant of her own volition, she blames her deceased husband’s affair child on the child. And that same gay brother whom she learns to accept comes back with a boyfriend — to which Blanche cannot accept. One might argue that in the world of a sitcom, characters aren’t meant to evolve. They’re supposed to stay relatively the same. Which holds true in The Golden Girls — where much of the character evolution doesn’t really stick like Sophia’s homemade pasta to the wall. You’d think after judging a man, for one thing, she could let this go. But she doesn’t, she continues to make the same mistakes. And I do the same thing — whether it’s in my professional, personal or romantic life. Except there’s one difference: as much as I may demand my life to be a sitcom, it’s not. I can’t approach each week or month of my life as an episode that causes my character to reset to a baseline of flaws and benefits. I have sharp initial thoughts regarding the world around me — the same way Blanche does. But what am I doing to actively change myself for the better? We love Blanche Devereaux for her outrageous and confident self — but we also love who she is when she’s flawed. We shake our heads and roll our eyes when she succumbs to her judgments and weaknesses. And maybe that’s the approach I need. It’s okay to acknowledge your issues and move forward to be better. But it’s more important to realize the wholeness of the soul. I am as bold as I am a coward; I am free as I am chained. Perhaps the only difference is I’m not an old lady in 1990s Miami?  When I first heard the term “digital storyteller,” all the spinning gears in my head clicked together in a rare dance. I instantly fell in love with a phrase that has defined me for two decades. A phrase that knew me before I knew it. Identity is complex. I am bold and sometimes timid. Cool but sometimes lame. We exist in binaries; what we are excellent in we sometimes falter, and occasionally have a good day in what we are weak with. For years I’ve slowly succumbed to certain labels; “writer,” “passionate,” “creative,” “entertainer,” “ideator,” the way a tree grows branches as time ticks by. And now those branches feel more verdant than ever before, as age strengthens focus like a decanter strengthens wine. This fall, I’ll begin studying Digital Storytelling at Ashbury University for my Masters in Arts. In the same manner as a mother who knows her child is lying, I have always known that I was going to pursue my masters and eventually my Ph.D. For me, education is synopses with enjoyment (except for classes I disliked, taking because of my liberal arts upbringing). Sure, I’m excited about career possibilities that come with education, but I’m more excited to take the classes and do the work. Most importantly, I’m gaining my masters so I can begin teaching college-level courses. Those who know me can attest that I’ve already planned my curriculum!  This process was foggy, and a decision that has taken four years to figure out. Back in 2016, I secured a GA position that was unfortunately scrapped along with the masters program it was tied to. Some might have been devastated, but it was kind of a relief. I only loved the GA position and was ready to begrudgingly take the masters program. It was like dealing with a friend’s terrible boyfriend, you find the patience. From there I spent years slowly looking at programs that disinterested me. I wanted hands-on application, a real test of skills. Give me a sword and let me carve my own academic prowess! I approached local colleges to weld programs together, but to no avail. The fog of my academic journey for a moment grew thick. But like a bible psalm or town myth, I came across the program of Digital Storytelling. Whether writing novels, competing in slam poetry, full-development on tongue-in-cheek pop music, I’ve always been telling stories. Through the work I do, the stand up I manage to roll through a crowd with, the videography endeavors that entertain and spinning tunes to a room for the atmosphere. Yup, it’s all storytelling.  Even now, this little announcement turned blog post, is a story. I’ve expressed a shard of my life although have dressed it up with fancy adjectives as if donning a belle for a debutante ball. When I first heard the term “digital storyteller,” all the spinning gears in my head clicked together in a rare dance. I instantly fell in love with a phrase that has defined me for two decades. A phrase that knew me before I knew it.
Quarantine had me cancel a few projects, but then had me develop and work on new projects! Check out this stop motion soap opera parody, "Violet Lake!" All ten mini episodes will drop by July 17th. Here's the trailer for the miniseries: Check out the playlist here: https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/top-20-of-2019/pl.u-ZmblzgGT1V2r5bHere's the official list:
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| I originally wrote 'Dream Realm' in the summer of 2017. When I first wrote the book, I remember feeling like the project was missing something. That feeling was slowly melted as I re-read the project. The book is succinct and really does an excellent job of examining its thesis: what happens when |  |
reality and fantasy are blurred so closely? When our ultimate dreams become reality, how far do we go to satiate those desires?
Here's a more 'back jacket' synopsis here:
Jordyn is a prosecutor who is accompanied by a slight pessimist personality. She escapes her social troubles with an invention called the Dream Realm. There, anyone can be anything.
Three murders turn up disconnected before Jordyn helps tie together one chilling fact. And all the answers await in the place where pure fantasy was thought and believed to rule all.
DREAM REALM is the 2nd season of the audiobook-podcast combo project by Matt Hribar. Voiced, Written and Produced by Matt Hribar.
The season will continue to drop on Wednesdays, starting on May 1st. Check out the podcast trailer right now!
Here's a more 'back jacket' synopsis here:
Jordyn is a prosecutor who is accompanied by a slight pessimist personality. She escapes her social troubles with an invention called the Dream Realm. There, anyone can be anything.
Three murders turn up disconnected before Jordyn helps tie together one chilling fact. And all the answers await in the place where pure fantasy was thought and believed to rule all.
DREAM REALM is the 2nd season of the audiobook-podcast combo project by Matt Hribar. Voiced, Written and Produced by Matt Hribar.
The season will continue to drop on Wednesdays, starting on May 1st. Check out the podcast trailer right now!
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I keep saying "I write" but don't share anything. So here we go, let's share.
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