I was sitting in the sun on Sunday of all days. Avoiding solid foods (impending colonoscopy), enjoying an iced cold tea beverage from Cruizy-boo (Caribou) the local coffee chain when my phone rang. The number came across strangely and I couldn’t figure out who it was, but I answered it anyway.

On the other end of the connection was a German accented gentleman asking to speak with Mike. “Is Mike (blah blah blah) available? I’m looking for a Mike (blah blah blah).” said this accented gentleman. Now I knew this name Mike (blah blah blah) so I allowed this to happen, knowing that I would be soon let in on the joke.

Hearing the signature laughter of said Mike in the background and realizing that I was being drunk dialed from Europe, in broad daylight, in the middle of the gayest patio in crowded boystown, Chicago, I was at a loss how to get out of this situation with my ego and my gay identity intact.

Eventually the accented fellow relented and handed the phone to Mike and his laughter came thru in full force.

He wasn’t drunk. He was stoned. legally!

He was calling from Amsterdam and had been retelling (again and again) the story of our quick trip to the sin capitol of the world to anybody and everybody that would listen.

It went a little like this:

Shortly after I moved to Chicago, I met a man at the cell-block that informed me I was able to purchase real “poppers” from the internet and have them shipped direct from Amsterdam where they were still legal in their original formula (Amyl-Nitrate). This excited me to no ends since I’d never sampled the original formula due to the fact that Nancy Reagan’s war on harmless drugs required they be banned from the shores of this so-called “free” country.

I rushed home and put in an order for 4 bottle, thinking I’d give 2 out for Christmas gifts or housewarming gifts. I’d find a reason to give this particular gift of joy.

So you could imagine the anger when instead of a little brown box full of little brown bottles, I instead, received a certified letter from U.S. Customs advising me that my merchandise had been seized and that I would need to petition for its release.

I took the easier route.

I jumped on a plane that very weekend to Amsterdam. I called Mike in Frankfurt and told him to meet me there and “get a hotel, its boys gone wild Amsterdam”. (I should have trademarked that one) We did go wild, we tried legal mushrooms, smoked legal pot and drank a lot. I also had legal public sex with a hot Dutch leather Daddy and a beautiful bald headed British soccer thug. (yes, at the same time, international relations were at stake)

I purchased my 4 bottles of original formula “poppers”, packed my bags, jumped on the train back to the airport and was home for work on Monday morning, tired jet-lagged, and in pain (from the…well). I also had the biggest smile on my face from one of the best weekends on record.

The reason this story was told by Mike on Sunday, was because he was there, in Amsterdam, doing legal mushrooms, smoking legal pot and drinking lots of beer. …And telling the highlight of the weekend.

That hightlight went like this…

We had been sitting in a cafe, relaxing with a legal joint when, (and I swear this was true) about 20 big, muscled British rugby players walking along the opposite side of the canal, all stopped at the same time, turned to face the cafe across the canal, pulled out their dicks and started pissing in the canal.

When I came to, Mike was laughing hysterically. I’m not sure if it was the pot or the 20 naked British men that made me lose it, but… that memory is one of my most cherished highlights.