WEEKLY WHINE

Don't let them confuse you

A recent report has claimed that world famous stuntman "Dynamite Eating" Edvard van de Kamp doesn't really exist. The report cites numerous indications of forgery, including supposed inaccuracies within accounts of Edvard's exploits, alleged inconsistencies, and some good old fashioned illogic. Asking one to prove that Edvard really exists is kind of like asking one to prove that Apollo astronauts actually went to the Moon. Granted, the Soviet Union never tracked Dynamite Eating Edvard, but we've still got a lot of ground to cover. Here are the leading concerns about him:

Where was Edvard born?: In a GoobNet report last year about Dynamite Eating Edvard, it was mentioned that Edvard was born in Rotterdam. The nonbelievers say that no Rotterdam hospitals contain a birth record of such a child. Edvard's father, Norman, says, "About three years after Edvard was born, fire struck St Phil's Hospital. A lot of records were lost then. Hell, once a doctor thought Anita still had her appendix. She had it out a year or so after Edvard was born. Edvard wasn't actually born at St Phil's, but he was definitely born.

"I couldn't drive, Anita was yelling so loud. She kept saying 'AAAAGGGHHH!'. I tried to calm her down, of course. I'd say 'We'll be there in a few minutes,' and she'd go 'Yeah well, Edvard doesn't have a few minutes! He's got his own schedule, and he's not going to wait for traffic! You just get your sluggish bum to the hospital now before he comes out!'"

"That's not what I said!" retorts Anita.

Norman answers, "No, I cleaned it up for the reporters. They're American, you know. Anyway, I finally just pulled over on Gronig Street, in front of a mailbox. Fortunately, a mailman happened to be there, so he helped deliver Edvard." Anita groans at his pun - this is surely the seven thousandth time she's heard him say that. Unperturbed, Norman continues, "So anyway, Edvard showed up, and he was just the most wonderful, most happy, most perfect thing I've ever seen. The mailman, whose name was Jan, held Edvard while I drove us to St Phil's. Anita, of course, passed out in the back."

"I most certainly did not!"

"Come on. We couldn't even wake you up when we got there! I kept going, 'Anee! Let's go! We're here! Don't you want to say hello to Edvard?' I think you only came to when Jan said something like 'Anybody want some doughnuts?'" There is no end to the witty reparté in the van de Kamp family. Norman tells us, "We got to talking, and Jan was a tympanist in his spare time. We told him that we could use a tympanist in our band, but he didn't want to leave the postal service. We kept trying, though. We wore him down after about six years."

Who was Half a Dirty Dozen?: Norman and Anita were members of the band Half a Dirty Dozen. The antiEdvardites continually claim that no such band existed, claiming that no record companies are aware of the band's existence. Anita has the answer: "Of course we never put out any albums. We only had a full half dozen for a week. As soon as Jan joined to be the tympanist, Dennis thought his niche was being swiped. There's room for more than one percussionist - bands and orchestras have entire percussion sections. But Dennis didn't like it."

This story has a tragic epilogue, it turns out: Barely six months after Dennis Vidika quit the band, a motorcycle accident in the streets of Leiden took his life. "For months after the argument, Dennis wouldn't say a word to me, wouldn't make eye contact, wouldn't even go near me," said Half a Dirty Dozen's tympanist Jan Michels. "Then finally he told Anita that he would come to our show at Leiden's Mad Briton pub. The poor guy. On his way over, the car in front of him stopped short. Neither he nor the car behind him saw it in time, so the car in back smashed him right into the one in front." Half a Dirty Dozen broke apart after that Leiden performance, when they heard of Dennis's accident. It was OCT 1974, and Edvard was seven.

Where did Norman and Anita get their money?: Anita says, "Jan always felt guilty about Dennis's accident. We kept trying to tell him that it didn't have anything to do with him, that it was just bad timing. And it was - it was just really awful luck. He went back to delivering mail after that, and he still does. Financially, he had it better than Normi and I did. See, we can't do real work. All we can do is sing."

Norman jumps in, "We can't even do that very well."

Anita responds, "Speak for yourself. We had a kid to support, no job, and nothing to do. Sure, we tried. Jan got Normi into the post office, but he couldn't stand it. He lasted a year, but he was all too happy to get out. Then one day, we got a call from Liann, who played the guitar for Half a Dirty Dozen. Turned out that she'd shown some of our music to one of her friends from high school, who was working in the States then, in Hollywood. Liann's friend got them to redo one of our songs for a major film in 1977. It got us a lot of money."

Which film was it?

A poorly concealed smirk crosses Anita's face. "We can't tell you that. It would ruin someone's career."

Where does Edvard get his dynamite?: When we pose this question to Edvard, he says that he doesn't want the authorities to find out about his source. "You see, Milton's business isn't entirely legal," he says as he rubs his spiked golden blond hair.

Not entirely legal? In the Netherlands?

"There are laws here. And Milton helps people break quite a few of them." He takes us to Milton's place of business on the condition that we not reveal anything that might lead anyone to him. This is a very fair deal to us, so we are whisked away to the outskirts of town. We'd expected Milton to be suspicious of us, but apparently any friend of Edvard's is a friend of his.

"Edvard's been coming to me for years," says Milton. "One of his Utrecht pals told him about me when he was starting up. I'm a facilitator, and in Edvard's case, I was able to facilitate his hobby. You should see his fans. They love him everywhere he goes. He has his parents tape his shows so that he can review them later. I've never been able to see him, but he showed me a bit of a tape once. It was somewhere in the middle of Poland or something, and he had those people riveted. They couldn't get enough of him. He ate seven sticks that time, which is a lot, believe me. They were fantastic. They all wanted his autograph or to say hello or something, but they were kind of nervous around him. I think they wanted to stay clear just in case. But yeah, Edvard's one of a kind. If everybody knew somebody like him, maybe this world wouldn't be such a lousy place."