The Nervous Waiter

The Nervous Waiter. Copyrighted Material.

It was Monday morning, and my partner was off to a business meeting on the other side of Holland. Facing the prospect of being home alone, I decided to head to the Red Light District for a beer and a cigar. I eventually wound up at the Greenhouse on Warmoestraat.

I like the Greenhouse because you can drink for cheap and also smoke inside. I ordered my first beer and was approached by a waiter who stumbled side-to-side and spilled some of my beer on the table. Realizing that it was 10am on a Monday, I figured the young waiter was new on the job. 

"First day, huh? You look a bit nervous, but you're doing alright," I said trying to help him relax a bit.

"I'm not first day on the job," he said before wiping whiskey-like sweat from his forehead. "I came straight from a Friday night booze," he said with a Korean level of pride. 

Realizing that only a select number of individuals in Amsterdam were capable of such a casual test of resilience, I rang my good friend the artist "KC." Without a doubt, they knew each other, and KC decided to join us. 

Fully knowing that KC coming to the center would only result in either an artistic or drunken epiphany, I commissioned a painting for 2,000 euros. I still haven't paid, and KC hasn't delivered. He did, however, take a picture of the work he has done so far. 

I am sure that he will finish today or tomorrow. I am currently at his studio, and since we're snowed in here in Amsterdam, he has nothing but free time. How I wound up at his studio after drinking and smoking at the Greenhouse is a matter of drunken contention and of such a voluminous number of incidents, that there simply isn't enough time in the world for me to recount so many drunken steps, so many stumbles on the wrong tram(s?), and so many vicious afternoon words from old ladies. There simply isn't enough time.

The Nervous Waiter

The Nervous Waiter. Copyrighted Material.

It was Monday morning, and my partner was off to a business meeting on the other side of Holland. Facing the prospect of being home alone, I decided to head to the Red Light District for a beer and a cigar. I eventually wound up at the Greenhouse on Warmoestraat.

I like the Greenhouse because you can drink for cheap and also smoke inside. I ordered my first beer and was approached by a waiter who stumbled side-to-side and spilled some of my beer on the table. Realizing that it was 10am on a Monday, I figured the young waiter was new on the job. 

"First day, huh? You look a bit nervous, but you're doing alright," I said trying to help him relax a bit.

"I'm not first day on the job," he said before wiping whiskey-like sweat from his forehead. "I came straight from a Friday night booze," he said with a Korean level of pride. 

Realizing that only a select number of individuals in Amsterdam were capable of such a casual test of resilience, I rang my good friend the artist "KC." Without a doubt, they knew each other, and KC decided to join us. 

Fully knowing that KC coming to the center would only result in either an artistic or drunken epiphany, I commissioned a painting for 2,000 euros. I still haven't paid, and KC hasn't delivered. He did, however, take a picture of the work he has done so far. 

I am sure that he will finish today or tomorrow. I am currently at his studio, and since we're snowed in here in Amsterdam, he has nothing but free time. How I wound up at his studio after drinking and smoking at the Greenhouse is a matter of drunken contention and of such a voluminous number of incidents, that there simply isn't enough time in the world for me to recount so many drunken steps, so many stumbles on the wrong tram(s?), and so many vicious afternoon words from old ladies. There simply isn't enough time.

I am Turn-of-the-Century Wrestling Historian

It was 1996, during Bash at the Beach, a WCW pay-per-view event, that Hulk Hogan, Scott Hall, and Kevin Nash betrayed their fans and initiated what they dubbed: "A New World Order of wrestling."

Hulk shouted, "all you fans, you can stick it!" before children started crying, and adults shouted angrily while bombarding the ring with plastic bottles and debris. 

A lot of children lost their faith in goodness, in America, and in the "good vs evil" duality of life on that fatefal day in 1996 because those were symbols that Hulk Hogan represented. However, the New World Order would become so popular just before the end of the century, that most children began to see them as "the cool" and thus good guys. 

It was an amazing reversal in public opinion that showed the ability of children to love the bad guys. And indeed, I myself began to admire the highly hierarchical, competitive structure that created a personality cult around a founding figure, in this case Hulk Hogan, who had after becoming leader of the NWO changed his name to "Hollywood" Hogan. A generation of children were forever changed. 

Wrestling was a fundamental part of my childhood. I still remember my first live wrestling event. It was 1994ish, and I was standing by a hastily built ring on Nicaragua St., just three blocks east of my house, right in front of the town's Catholic church and main park. I can't recall exactly who was fighting, or who won, but I do remember the two most extreme acts during the whole endeavor.

The bald wrestler in  nothing but a mankini had hidden a plastic fork next to his junk and, when the ref wasn't looking, pulled it out and stabbed his opponent in the forehead. The guy who got stabbed had 4 bloody dots on his forehead, and he plead with the ref. I was in the front row, and heard the ref tell him, "I didn't see it!"

I shouted at the ref, "look at the fork on the side of the ring, and look at the blood!" but the asshole either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me. I learned right there that life wasn't always fair, and that not everyone plays nice. The next lesson I learned would concern front-row seating.

I was standing by a bunch of conveniently placed pipes, maybe ten or twelve of them, when the Forking Victim bounced off the rope and the Bald Mankini picked him up on the rebound, swinging him over the third rope, to the street below, with him landing on the pipes, nearly destroying his back and my toes. 

He got up from the pipes hissing and grabbing his back, before using my shoulder for a little support. And indeed, I steer clear of any front-row seating to this day as if my life depended on it. Whoever said that wrestling doesn't impart important values, doesn't know the real meaning of self-preservation. 

Not surprisingly, 4-8th grade in the Bronx was my wrestling phase. It was not unusual for me to watch up to 15 hours of wrestling a week. All knowledge, if interpreted academically, is useful. Knowledge is power, for maybe in 50 or 70 years someone will want to know how kids spent their time just near the end of the previous century. 

I am pretty sure that in the year 2070, if I am still alive, I will be able to more accurately recall the lives of more wrestlers than Roman emperors. And not surprisingly, many of my contemporaries, who like me grew up on a steady diet of smack-downs and Stone Cold Stunners, will recall more the lives of wrestlers than US presidents. 

If I were to develop a television series to teach children American history, I would use the wrestling model of trash-talking, betrayal, challenges to duels, name-calling, and aggressive, near obsessive quest for power and glory. If only Andrew Jackson had some pyrotechnics like the Undertaker, more would remember the details of his life and duels. 

They say wrestling is fake, but it is merely an exaggeration of reality. Unlike reality, wrestling prefers to bring out the fireworks on a daily basis, as if to remind us that to some men, every day is the 4th of July, a day to celebrate war, "freedom," and no-win scenarios.

The Kobayashi Maru is the hardest test at Starfleet precisely because test-takers know ahead of time that they are pre-determined to lose. The Kobayashi Maru is a test of character and heart; wrestling is an attempt to visualize the heart and character of a man in the face of a no-win scenario, or to measure the arrogance of a man assured victory. 

I am Turn-of-the-Century Wrestling Historian

It was 1996, during Bash at the Beach, a WCW pay-per-view event, that Hulk Hogan, Scott Hall, and Kevin Nash betrayed their fans and initiated what they dubbed: "A New World Order of wrestling."

Hulk shouted, "all you fans, you can stick it!" before children started crying, and adults shouted angrily while bombarding the ring with plastic bottles and debris. 

A lot of children lost their faith in goodness, in America, and in the "good vs evil" duality of life on that fatefal day in 1996 because those were symbols that Hulk Hogan represented. However, the New World Order would become so popular just before the end of the century, that most children began to see them as "the cool" and thus good guys. 

It was an amazing reversal in public opinion that showed the ability of children to love the bad guys. And indeed, I myself began to admire the highly hierarchical, competitive structure that created a personality cult around a founding figure, in this case Hulk Hogan, who had after becoming leader of the NWO changed his name to "Hollywood" Hogan. A generation of children were forever changed. 

Wrestling was a fundamental part of my childhood. I still remember my first live wrestling event. It was 1994ish, and I was standing by a hastily built ring on Nicaragua St., just three blocks east of my house, right in front of the town's Catholic church and main park. I can't recall exactly who was fighting, or who won, but I do remember the two most extreme acts during the whole endeavor.

The bald wrestler in  nothing but a mankini had hidden a plastic fork next to his junk and, when the ref wasn't looking, pulled it out and stabbed his opponent in the forehead. The guy who got stabbed had 4 bloody dots on his forehead, and he plead with the ref. I was in the front row, and heard the ref tell him, "I didn't see it!"

I shouted at the ref, "look at the fork on the side of the ring, and look at the blood!" but the asshole either didn't hear me or chose to ignore me. I learned right there that life wasn't always fair, and that not everyone plays nice. The next lesson I learned would concern front-row seating.

I was standing by a bunch of conveniently placed pipes, maybe ten or twelve of them, when the Forking Victim bounced off the rope and the Bald Mankini picked him up on the rebound, swinging him over the third rope, to the street below, with him landing on the pipes, nearly destroying his back and my toes. 

He got up from the pipes hissing and grabbing his back, before using my shoulder for a little support. And indeed, I steer clear of any front-row seating to this day as if my life depended on it. Whoever said that wrestling doesn't impart important values, doesn't know the real meaning of self-preservation. 

Not surprisingly, 4-8th grade in the Bronx was my wrestling phase. It was not unusual for me to watch up to 15 hours of wrestling a week. All knowledge, if interpreted academically, is useful. Knowledge is power, for maybe in 50 or 70 years someone will want to know how kids spent their time just near the end of the previous century. 

I am pretty sure that in the year 2070, if I am still alive, I will be able to more accurately recall the lives of more wrestlers than Roman emperors. And not surprisingly, many of my contemporaries, who like me grew up on a steady diet of smack-downs and Stone Cold Stunners, will recall more the lives of wrestlers than US presidents. 

If I were to develop a television series to teach children American history, I would use the wrestling model of trash-talking, betrayal, challenges to duels, name-calling, and aggressive, near obsessive quest for power and glory. If only Andrew Jackson had some pyrotechnics like the Undertaker, more would remember the details of his life and duels. 

They say wrestling is fake, but it is merely an exaggeration of reality. Unlike reality, wrestling prefers to bring out the fireworks on a daily basis, as if to remind us that to some men, every day is the 4th of July, a day to celebrate war, "freedom," and no-win scenarios.

The Kobayashi Maru is the hardest test at Starfleet precisely because test-takers know ahead of time that they are pre-determined to lose. The Kobayashi Maru is a test of character and heart; wrestling is an attempt to visualize the heart and character of a man in the face of a no-win scenario, or to measure the arrogance of a man assured victory. 

How I Lost My Virginity

I went to Alfred E. Smith Vocational High School. I heard that it was closing down a few years ago, but can't be bothered to find out if it closed down. Anyway, I digress. 

Smith was low on "bitches" as my brother Chubby would say. Plus, back in those days I was an angry metalhead geek with furry chaps and a hairstyle my Garifuna friend described as "Sideshow Bob-ish."

I got a total of two measly blow jobs all the way until college. Fortunately, I had the whole Spanish and Latino thing at Yale, and could thus pretend to be more than just a loser.

I was merenguing my ass close to every chick I could, and enough were buying the routine. I dated a Chinese Quaker chick for like a week my first month, but I was too much of a loser to get anything but a neck licking out of it. 

Soon followed a Basque chick from Puerto Rico, but I never got beyond a titty lick. It wasn't really until November of my freshman year at Yale that I would get some real action. 

I'd seen her around Vanderbilt hall a few times throughout the semester. I knew her as the mutual friend of a Portuguese classmate of mine. I was so detached from women at nearly all-boys Smith, that I couldn't even recognize that she was trying to mack on me the minute she laid eyes on me.

She was the only biracial  girl in her Mid-West school, and just couldn't resist that we had a similar skin color. I couldn't resist the massive sight of her tits and that bunda, as my Brazilian brethren call a nice ass. 

So, somehow she ended up in my common room in Lawrence, apparently brought over by an unsuspecting suitemate of mine. I do remember vividly that it was the night before the Harvard-Yale game. I don't remember because I am a fan of The Game, or the sport for that matter, but rather because of what I would do, or rather, fail to do the next day. 

That night the biracial babe and I rubbed, and I convinced her to give me a blow job. Or rather, 4. Yes, it was a very one-sided affair. She'd already had a boyfriend back in Illinois, so she wasn't a virgin.

Each blow job consisted of me telling her not to care about the fact that she had a boyfriend back home. "Long distance relationships don't work," I assured her. "High school relationships don't last," I informed her between each blow job. It was my first real intense blow job session.

I jabbed my fingers inside of her, thinking that I was doing something, but I think she got off more on me being brown and Latino. So, I black out, worn out, and we spend the night cuddling. She liked the cuddling more than anything, so the day of The Game we hang out together, and at some point in the afternoon we find ourselves in a room of the princess suite in Vanderbilt.

A waist-high bed in a tiny double, but whatever, she was still privileged. I'd finally, after two months of not getting anything in college, decided to convince her that we needed to go all the way.

My idea of penetrating a woman consisted of what I'd seen on the Spice Channel: vicious pounding and insults. I thus hopped that biracial babe missionary style and, having exhausted myself the previous night, could only sustain a minute-long, half-limped brutal session. During the whole ordeal, I shouted, "Yea, take it, you slut! Take it, you whore!" expecting her to be having the time of her life.

I couldn't even cum considering the previous night, and just went dead before asking her, "did you cum?" 

She unconvincingly nodded, "yea." 

Before she even finished nodding "yea," she started crying; "yea, I am a whore, I cheated on my boyfriend!" 

I consoled her, but then realized that losing my virginity consisted of half-dick pounding, and making the girl cry in shame. And that, my friends, was how I lost my virginity. 

How I Lost My Virginity

I went to Alfred E. Smith Vocational High School. I heard that it was closing down a few years ago, but can't be bothered to find out if it closed down. Anyway, I digress. 

Smith was low on "bitches" as my brother Chubby would say. Plus, back in those days I was an angry metalhead geek with furry chaps and a hairstyle my Garifuna friend described as "Sideshow Bob-ish."

I got a total of two measly blow jobs all the way until college. Fortunately, I had the whole Spanish and Latino thing at Yale, and could thus pretend to be more than just a loser.

I was merenguing my ass close to every chick I could, and enough were buying the routine. I dated a Chinese Quaker chick for like a week my first month, but I was too much of a loser to get anything but a neck licking out of it. 

Soon followed a Basque chick from Puerto Rico, but I never got beyond a titty lick. It wasn't really until November of my freshman year at Yale that I would get some real action. 

I'd seen her around Vanderbilt hall a few times throughout the semester. I knew her as the mutual friend of a Portuguese classmate of mine. I was so detached from women at nearly all-boys Smith, that I couldn't even recognize that she was trying to mack on me the minute she laid eyes on me.

She was the only biracial  girl in her Mid-West school, and just couldn't resist that we had a similar skin color. I couldn't resist the massive sight of her tits and that bunda, as my Brazilian brethren call a nice ass. 

So, somehow she ended up in my common room in Lawrence, apparently brought over by an unsuspecting suitemate of mine. I do remember vividly that it was the night before the Harvard-Yale game. I don't remember because I am a fan of The Game, or the sport for that matter, but rather because of what I would do, or rather, fail to do the next day. 

That night the biracial babe and I rubbed, and I convinced her to give me a blow job. Or rather, 4. Yes, it was a very one-sided affair. She'd already had a boyfriend back in Illinois, so she wasn't a virgin.

Each blow job consisted of me telling her not to care about the fact that she had a boyfriend back home. "Long distance relationships don't work," I assured her. "High school relationships don't last," I informed her between each blow job. It was my first real intense blow job session.

I jabbed my fingers inside of her, thinking that I was doing something, but I think she got off more on me being brown and Latino. So, I black out, worn out, and we spend the night cuddling. She liked the cuddling more than anything, so the day of The Game we hang out together, and at some point in the afternoon we find ourselves in a room of the princess suite in Vanderbilt.

A waist-high bed in a tiny double, but whatever, she was still privileged. I'd finally, after two months of not getting anything in college, decided to convince her that we needed to go all the way.

My idea of penetrating a woman consisted of what I'd seen on the Spice Channel: vicious pounding and insults. I thus hopped that biracial babe missionary style and, having exhausted myself the previous night, could only sustain a minute-long, half-limped brutal session. During the whole ordeal, I shouted, "Yea, take it, you slut! Take it, you whore!" expecting her to be having the time of her life.

I couldn't even cum considering the previous night, and just went dead before asking her, "did you cum?" 

She unconvincingly nodded, "yea." 

Before she even finished nodding "yea," she started crying; "yea, I am a whore, I cheated on my boyfriend!" 

I consoled her, but then realized that losing my virginity consisted of half-dick pounding, and making the girl cry in shame. And that, my friends, was how I lost my virginity.