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About The Hague

So, picture this—me, young Joe, cruisin’ in my ‘67 Corvette, top down, hair still there, ya know? I’d never—never—go lookin’ for that kinda trouble. But my buddy Mike? Hoo boy, he’d drag me along, sayin’, “C’mon, man, live a little!” We’d roll up to some dive bar—neon flickerin’ like it’s half-dead. This one time, ‘round ‘82, Mike spots this gal—fishnets, red lipstick, smokin’ a cig like she owned the joint. He’s all, “Joe, she’s the one!” I’m thinkin’, “Fear’s takin’ over my head now”—like in the movie, ya get me?

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First off, I’m running late. Classic me. I sprint down the Kerkstraat, dodging cyclists like I’m in some kind of video game. I swear, these Dutch folks are born on bikes. Anyway, I finally get to my shop, and guess what? The coffee machine’s broken. Ugh! I need my caffeine fix, or I’m basically a zombie.

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