How I Met my Current Girlfriend

It was a typical summer afternoon and I was wandering around the Red Light District looking for a place to innocently wet my whistle. I was still a relative newcomer to the Amsterdam scene and so I generally just stumbled around letting destiny take me where it desired. Eventually I cut pass Oudezijds Achterburgwal -- Amsterdam's answer to Korea's Hooker Hill -- into Chinatown, and over to Zeedijk street. 

I could smell the booze and drunkenness from down the street and immediately made my way there. I quickly noticed that this wasn't your typical street party. There was booze being served on the street and I ordered a Heineken in the hope that it would help me understand just exactly what kind of street party I had stumbled into.

Around me were drag queens in colors so bright my eyes could barely process them without feeling that burning sensation that comes from staring directly at the sun. Even as I ordered my first beer, a chunky grandmother grabbed my ass and made a licking motion in my direction, the tip of her tongue flickering down and away from her fake mustache. 

The beer was pricey, and I noticed a liquor store. As I made my way into the liquor store, I came across a stunning six-foot blonde hanging out with her friends.  I may be a liberal, open-minded guy, but at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I have to confess that I'm simply not attracted to 7-foot-tall Dutch guys in flashy dresses and heels. As the closest thing to a straight guy in that festival, I knew I had an advantage.

So I get to the door of the liquor store and I glance over at her left hand, realizing that my target had a wedding ring. This is Amsterdam, where people don't waste time or mince words, so I quickly asked her, "Is that your wedding ring?"

"I'm not married," she replied, and I snapped back, "Oh yea? Well, let me get another beer and I'll be right back."

After almost getting into a fight with the Surinamese worker inside the liquor store, I calmly made my way out, beers in hands. Joana and I asked each other the usual questions and I learned she was also vegan and unemployed. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together if the pussy is good," I thought to myself. 

I would later learn that the vibe I gave her was that it'd be a one-night stand, but it's not everyday that I meet a vegan woman with as much free time as me. I'm surprised she didn't factor that in as we made out in the middle of the drag street festival while gay guys giggled and told us, "It's unnatural!"

We kept kissing and walked into one of the gay bars just to the right of the canal. We molested each other on the way to the back of the bar, and into a quiet nook overlooking the canal parallel to Warmoestraat. As we kissed, a senior citizen in drag blessed our union by drinking from his "holy heel."

Once he started drinking from his shoe, Joanna and I knew we both had drunk enough, and I asked, "Your place or mine?"

I was hoping she'd say hers since I was sleeping on a leaky air mattress with nothing but a radio for entertainment. 

"Let's go to mine," she suggested and I breathed a sign of relief on the way to grab the tram. Eventually we got to her apartment and sat on the balcony.

"So, you don't look 34," she uttered.

"I'm 24," I replied, not caring that she'd overheard the fact that I was much younger. When it comes to love, I've realized that it has no age. I've dated women in their 30s who had the maturity level of a 15-year-old school girl.

But our age difference didn't matter and we jumped in bed, having sex twice that night and twice the next morning. I knew the next morning I'd found someone with whom I share a wild chemistry and spirit of adventure.

What we like the most, however, is when we meet other couples and eventually they ask us how we met.

"We met at Day of Hearts; it's a drag street festival on the Zeedijk." 

Immediately people begin to wonder, and can't help but ask, "so, were you guys in drag?"

We laugh and always reply, "no, but we're working on gender-bending next year."

How I Met my Current Girlfriend

It was a typical summer afternoon and I was wandering around the Red Light District looking for a place to innocently wet my whistle. I was still a relative newcomer to the Amsterdam scene and so I generally just stumbled around letting destiny take me where it desired. Eventually I cut pass Oudezijds Achterburgwal -- Amsterdam's answer to Korea's Hooker Hill -- into Chinatown, and over to Zeedijk street. 

I could smell the booze and drunkenness from down the street and immediately made my way there. I quickly noticed that this wasn't your typical street party. There was booze being served on the street and I ordered a Heineken in the hope that it would help me understand just exactly what kind of street party I had stumbled into.

Around me were drag queens in colors so bright my eyes could barely process them without feeling that burning sensation that comes from staring directly at the sun. Even as I ordered my first beer, a chunky grandmother grabbed my ass and made a licking motion in my direction, the tip of her tongue flickering down and away from her fake mustache. 

The beer was pricey, and I noticed a liquor store. As I made my way into the liquor store, I came across a stunning six-foot blonde hanging out with her friends.  I may be a liberal, open-minded guy, but at the risk of sounding inconsiderate, I have to confess that I'm simply not attracted to 7-foot-tall Dutch guys in flashy dresses and heels. As the closest thing to a straight guy in that festival, I knew I had an advantage.

So I get to the door of the liquor store and I glance over at her left hand, realizing that my target had a wedding ring. This is Amsterdam, where people don't waste time or mince words, so I quickly asked her, "Is that your wedding ring?"

"I'm not married," she replied, and I snapped back, "Oh yea? Well, let me get another beer and I'll be right back."

After almost getting into a fight with the Surinamese worker inside the liquor store, I calmly made my way out, beers in hands. Joana and I asked each other the usual questions and I learned she was also vegan and unemployed. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together if the pussy is good," I thought to myself. 

I would later learn that the vibe I gave her was that it'd be a one-night stand, but it's not everyday that I meet a vegan woman with as much free time as me. I'm surprised she didn't factor that in as we made out in the middle of the drag street festival while gay guys giggled and told us, "It's unnatural!"

We kept kissing and walked into one of the gay bars just to the right of the canal. We molested each other on the way to the back of the bar, and into a quiet nook overlooking the canal parallel to Warmoestraat. As we kissed, a senior citizen in drag blessed our union by drinking from his "holy heel."

Once he started drinking from his shoe, Joanna and I knew we both had drunk enough, and I asked, "Your place or mine?"

I was hoping she'd say hers since I was sleeping on a leaky air mattress with nothing but a radio for entertainment. 

"Let's go to mine," she suggested and I breathed a sign of relief on the way to grab the tram. Eventually we got to her apartment and sat on the balcony.

"So, you don't look 34," she uttered.

"I'm 24," I replied, not caring that she'd overheard the fact that I was much younger. When it comes to love, I've realized that it has no age. I've dated women in their 30s who had the maturity level of a 15-year-old school girl.

But our age difference didn't matter and we jumped in bed, having sex twice that night and twice the next morning. I knew the next morning I'd found someone with whom I share a wild chemistry and spirit of adventure.

What we like the most, however, is when we meet other couples and eventually they ask us how we met.

"We met at Day of Hearts; it's a drag street festival on the Zeedijk." 

Immediately people begin to wonder, and can't help but ask, "so, were you guys in drag?"

We laugh and always reply, "no, but we're working on gender-bending next year."

Doping: It Happens More than You Think

In high school, I was on the track, bowling, cross country, wrestling, robotics, and biology team. I can say with certainty that no one in any of my teams, or another school's bowling team, was using performance enhancing drugs. As for the other teams, I can say for certainty that no 16-year-old could produce the results that I saw some of my friends at elite schools produce. 

I once asked a senior at Bronx Science with whom I'd grown up: "How the hell did you get so ripped!?"

"Steroids," he calmly responded. He would later offer me his connect, as he was surely to get a kickback from bringing new customers, but I politely declined.

I didn't decline because I was morally opposed to performance enhancing drugs, but rather because the vegan health nut in me recoiled at the dangers that these mystery substance represented to my diet.

Nonetheless, there it was, and the NYC Board of Education could probably never come up with the funds to regularly test athletes. I personally was only "tested" for wrestling, and it was only at the beginning of the wrestling season in Winter. We were told that we were only being tested for proper hydration and to make sure we weren't malnourished. All we had to do was produce a vial of pee from an unsupervised bathroom.

I know of several times when the urine was diluted or switched. It was really that easy. 

My school in the South Bronx was poor-performing and the students generally unmotivated. However, it was at high-performing, rich schools where my friends were under pressure to produce results and gain the upper hand in college admissions.

"This is your school on drugs." by Carlos Gomez

At Yale, I suspect athletes doping is rare, considering NCAA supervision. However, brain enhancing drugs are by-and-large unregulated. In fact, it was perfectly acceptable in many social circles to openly discuss Ritalin, Adderall, and the use of other hyperfocus/ADHD medication. The use of these drugs is rampant, especially before exams.

Besides the obvious medical risks that brain-enhancing drugs pose, they also provide an advantage to wealthier students who can afford these drugs. Lance Armstrong only did with his body what many of America's top-performing students do with their brains. These students, however, will be rewarded with good grades and better job prospects instead of scrutiny.

The end result? Many of America's cognitive elite are medicated, and prefer the easy route in life.

Doping: It Happens More than You Think

In high school, I was on the track, bowling, cross country, wrestling, robotics, and biology team. I can say with certainty that no one in any of my teams, or another school's bowling team, was using performance enhancing drugs. As for the other teams, I can say for certainty that no 16-year-old could produce the results that I saw some of my friends at elite schools produce. 

I once asked a senior at Bronx Science with whom I'd grown up: "How the hell did you get so ripped!?"

"Steroids," he calmly responded. He would later offer me his connect, as he was surely to get a kickback from bringing new customers, but I politely declined.

I didn't decline because I was morally opposed to performance enhancing drugs, but rather because the vegan health nut in me recoiled at the dangers that these mystery substance represented to my diet.

Nonetheless, there it was, and the NYC Board of Education could probably never come up with the funds to regularly test athletes. I personally was only "tested" for wrestling, and it was only at the beginning of the wrestling season in Winter. We were told that we were only being tested for proper hydration and to make sure we weren't malnourished. All we had to do was produce a vial of pee from an unsupervised bathroom.

I know of several times when the urine was diluted or switched. It was really that easy. 

My school in the South Bronx was poor-performing and the students generally unmotivated. However, it was at high-performing, rich schools where my friends were under pressure to produce results and gain the upper hand in college admissions.

"This is your school on drugs." by Carlos Gomez

At Yale, I suspect athletes doping is rare, considering NCAA supervision. However, brain enhancing drugs are by-and-large unregulated. In fact, it was perfectly acceptable in many social circles to openly discuss Ritalin, Adderall, and the use of other hyperfocus/ADHD medication. The use of these drugs is rampant, especially before exams.

Besides the obvious medical risks that brain-enhancing drugs pose, they also provide an advantage to wealthier students who can afford these drugs. Lance Armstrong only did with his body what many of America's top-performing students do with their brains. These students, however, will be rewarded with good grades and better job prospects instead of scrutiny.

The end result? Many of America's cognitive elite are medicated, and prefer the easy route in life.

The One-Eyed Jihadist, or Our New Perfect Enemy

Mokhtar Belmokhtar is perfect for the interests of the West! Not because he is a master terrorist, but rather because he enjoys attention, and is missing an eye; he looks like he was born for villainy. Though he seems to be more of an opportunist and profiteer than a devout Muslim -- his previous history of cigarette smuggling is evidence enough -- he is willing to portray himself as a self-less fighter for the Islamic cause.

Western powers will not bother to dispute Belmokhtar's desire simply to attract attention to himself, they will simply continue giving the public the general impression that he represents the Islamist rebels in the Azawad. The truth, however, is that we have no idea who he truly works for, or if he is simply a personal profiteer or self-aggrandizer.

I wouldn't be surprised if he becomes incredibly difficult to catch, and if every new terrorist attack is attributed to him. The new Bin Laden has been unveiled to us, and this one doesn't bother to hide the fact that he is blind to how the CIA will protect him, help him grow, make him powerful, and use him to scare the population into further submission.