Amsterdammit

Pegs and I are supposed to go to Amsterdam over the long weekend, which for those of you who are keeping track would be the second long weekend in a row (and people accuse the French of having no work ethic). I say that we're supposed to go because I'm still not sure if I'll be able to get away for the weekend or if I'll be stuck here working on a couple of deals, but hopefully I'll be able to make it out there at least on Saturday and Sunday. Pegs has already said that she's going no matter what, which tells me that she either really likes Amsterdam or she hasn't seen her dealer in a while.

I've only been to the Netherlands once, but it definitely left an impression. The tulips, the tall people, the porn. I was about thirteen at the time of my visit, and the guy who picked us up at the airport was the grandfather of some family friends. I was in the back seat on the driver's side, and at one point I looked down at the floorboard, and there at my feet was a glossy, hardcore porno mag of the Penthouse or Hustler variety. The old dude had stashed it under his seat, and at the previous stop it must have slid out.

To a pudgy thirteen year old with a raging case of hormones and a level of sex appeal on par with Carrot Top, this was like mannah from heaven. I knew that the images of naked ladies at my feet were about as close as I could hope to get to the real thing until my growth spurt hit in six years or so, but Mama Pool was sitting next to me and the pages were harder to turn with my feet than you might think. I was tempted to fake being carsick so I could hunch over and get a quick peek at the illicit goodness within, but I figured that would be too obvious and ended up discreetly pushing it back underneath the driver's seat. To this day, I still think of the Dutch as a friendly and uninhibited people, the kind who will pick you up at the airport, condone drug use and keep graphic pornography under the seat of their car. You know, for whenever the urge strikes them during rush hour.