The CIA Pin in my Closet

I went to Belgium last month. I can't be bothered to remember when exactly I wound up at that 24 hour bar in Antwerp with my girlfriend. The series of events in the bar mirror Korea, and at some point I had one too many beers and informed her that I was heading to the bathroom for a nap. 

"You are a great girlfriend, thanks for understanding and waiting," I said as I stumbled towards the darkly-lit bathcave hiding the reality of sunlight outside. 

I walked into a toilet stall, and sat on the toilet after putting the cover down. I knew I wouldn't be needing a hotel room that night; the stall would provide me with all the sleep I needed for the day, be it an hour or three. 

I closed my eyes, and began to dream. I was at my apartment in Diemen, just overlooking the A-10 ring, the highway surrounding Amsterdam. In this dream, I was with an ex of mine, and we were smoking on the balcony, the amazing view of cars moving in the night and the whole of East Amsterdam -- all the way over to Diemen train station, and the Ijburg bridge just over -- leaving her bombarded with images. 

"I feel like I'm in a Sim City simulation," she said. It was full panoramic experience, and I knew the spliff I'd gotten for her at Speakeasy was making her horny. We started kissing on the balcony, and I immediately started guiding her towards the bedroom. I like to keep it Korean style, so she knew she was going to be pounded on not much more than a blanket. I had been considerate enough to get a pillow for the night before, but, given the life of simplicity I have chosen to live, I couldn't yield on much more. 

We began making love, and even before I started penetrating her, we heard a noise, as if something had fallen and broken. I ran out of the bedroom and found my closet open. I looked to the left, at the kitchen door, and it too was also open. I ran out to the balcony and saw ropes dangling; they were the ropes from Hemubo, a window cleaning company that'd been doing work for a few days. 

I looked up at the roof and noticed movement. I figured that anyone that could rope themselves from a 10th to a 12th story floor would be impossible for me to catch even if I managed to get dressed and run to the roof like the Flash, so I instead decided to stay put. I looked inside my closet to see if my cellphones were still there. I shouted to my ex, "Help me look in the closet!"

After turning on more lights, I looked to the ornamental hooks a voodoo priest had given me, and noticed that the magnetism they created had attracted something. I looked in and found a CIA pin. I knew immediately my past career was catching up with me; all those missions out of Pyongyang, I thought. 

Suddenly, I heard a knocking that grew louder and louder. Someone wanted to use my stall. I stood up from my dream and returned to my girlfriend. I didn't mention my dream to her, but I definitely told her on the road back to Amsterdam to stop at my apartment before we proceeded to hers. I went straight for my closet, and I found exactly what I knew I would: a CIA pin. I ran out of the apartment, and vowed not to return.

The CIA Pin in my Closet

I went to Belgium last month. I can't be bothered to remember when exactly I wound up at that 24 hour bar in Antwerp with my girlfriend. The series of events in the bar mirror Korea, and at some point I had one too many beers and informed her that I was heading to the bathroom for a nap. 

"You are a great girlfriend, thanks for understanding and waiting," I said as I stumbled towards the darkly-lit bathcave hiding the reality of sunlight outside. 

I walked into a toilet stall, and sat on the toilet after putting the cover down. I knew I wouldn't be needing a hotel room that night; the stall would provide me with all the sleep I needed for the day, be it an hour or three. 

I closed my eyes, and began to dream. I was at my apartment in Diemen, just overlooking the A-10 ring, the highway surrounding Amsterdam. In this dream, I was with an ex of mine, and we were smoking on the balcony, the amazing view of cars moving in the night and the whole of East Amsterdam -- all the way over to Diemen train station, and the Ijburg bridge just over -- leaving her bombarded with images. 

"I feel like I'm in a Sim City simulation," she said. It was full panoramic experience, and I knew the spliff I'd gotten for her at Speakeasy was making her horny. We started kissing on the balcony, and I immediately started guiding her towards the bedroom. I like to keep it Korean style, so she knew she was going to be pounded on not much more than a blanket. I had been considerate enough to get a pillow for the night before, but, given the life of simplicity I have chosen to live, I couldn't yield on much more. 

We began making love, and even before I started penetrating her, we heard a noise, as if something had fallen and broken. I ran out of the bedroom and found my closet open. I looked to the left, at the kitchen door, and it too was also open. I ran out to the balcony and saw ropes dangling; they were the ropes from Hemubo, a window cleaning company that'd been doing work for a few days. 

I looked up at the roof and noticed movement. I figured that anyone that could rope themselves from a 10th to a 12th story floor would be impossible for me to catch even if I managed to get dressed and run to the roof like the Flash, so I instead decided to stay put. I looked inside my closet to see if my cellphones were still there. I shouted to my ex, "Help me look in the closet!"

After turning on more lights, I looked to the ornamental hooks a voodoo priest had given me, and noticed that the magnetism they created had attracted something. I looked in and found a CIA pin. I knew immediately my past career was catching up with me; all those missions out of Pyongyang, I thought. 

Suddenly, I heard a knocking that grew louder and louder. Someone wanted to use my stall. I stood up from my dream and returned to my girlfriend. I didn't mention my dream to her, but I definitely told her on the road back to Amsterdam to stop at my apartment before we proceeded to hers. I went straight for my closet, and I found exactly what I knew I would: a CIA pin. I ran out of the apartment, and vowed not to return.

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.