Vietnam Sexual Relations: Stalking Bill Clinton

In the summer of 2010, I urinated next to Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys at Lollapalooza. Since there were only two Port-O-Johns for ten patrons, I waited in that toilet line for six minutes next to the Keys guitarist. Auerbach is the most down-to-earth celebrity I’ve ever met. He is almost permanently stone-faced, but mini shit-eating grins present themselves if you look closely. He cracked tasteful jokes about Lolla representatives slacking on the personal hygiene component of the media tent.  Waiting in line is a mundane event no one looks forward to, except Dan Auerbach. For once in his day, Auerbach is able to dodge the frenzy of media tape recorders and tight-jeaned reporters that ask him the same question in 100 different ways, “tell me about your new breakthrough album ‘Brothers’.” At this moment, I am happy to talk about portable toilets with Auerbach, and so is he. If I didn’t slam that Blue Gatorade just 60 minutes prior, I would have never met Dan Auerbach. Blue Gatorade is essentially melted cotton candy, but on this day the aftertaste was that of the nectar from God’s balls. This was the highlight of last summer.

This summer is different. The highlights present themselves in different shades. I am sitting in a Saigon, Vietnam alleyway stealing Internet from a wireless hotspot labeled “Dang Dung”. It rains fat cats and un-neutered dogs against the sheet metal roof as I attempt to drown out the noise with my iPod (playing the “Brothers” album). The alleyway runs just 6 feet wide. I catch whiffs of “Black Menthol Marb Cigs” from the Vietnamese shopkeeper across the way. He smells like cabbage, but I don’t mind. There has never been a better moment in time to inhale cabbage and cigarettes in unison. 

Lugging my guitar halfway across the globe, it became time to hack away at this 6-string. Setting up in the alley, I fake a Bob Dylan tune on harmonica. A small Saigon crowd gathers in mild amusement. A middle-aged deaf woman takes particular interest, placing her hand on the neck of my guitar. She stays here for nearly an hour, feeling the vibrations up her arm while I adlib one of the seven something verses to “Hurricane”. She can’t hear a thing, but feels every song. Her enthusiasm is exciting, motivating and heartening. After the jam, we communicate simple questions via notepad and she invites me to lunch at her restaurant next door, Pho 2000. I look at a framed photo on the wall. I’ll be damned, it’s Bill Clinton eating curry at this very eatery back in 07’. Nice. I hope he sat in this very chair. My Vietnamese date smiles at me from across the table. I did not have sexual relations with that woman. 

Vietnam: Life is 1/4 over; "Back when I was in Nam."

Bangkok Airport Sleep - 2012

It’s three days after the demise of my band, my life’s work of the past 4 years. I’m in between jobs with a small travel fund set aside from playing Beatles covers in Midwest suburban pubs. Time is on my mitts. Time to do something weird. At the moment of this documentation, it’s 3 a.m. I am sitting in the Bangkok airport, typing next to a peg-legged man from the slums of Narnia. The airport looks like a state-of-the-art NASA space station, but the clientele is less flashy. His teeth are scurvy ridden, his vision is cockeyed, and his raspy broken English cuts in a shivering dialect. “Yu gimme da goola money freela,” says the Goonie monster. I would be scared if I wasn’t sitting across from the tourist police office.

“Sorry man, I don’t have any goola”, I reply. He looks pissed. This man is one eye patch away from a Captain Blackbeard that would make Ferdinand Magellan pee in his skirt.

There are 3 more hours to kill before my flight to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. On my budget, getting a taxi to a pricey airport hotel would be pointless. I opt for the airport bench for some shut-eye. Clutching my baggage I zonk out for no more than 30 minutes, too pumped up to sleep. Traveling the developing world with no itinerary, I’m elated.

The flight to Bangkok was primo. I ate eel next to a cute Chinese girl from Beijing. She was grouchy. Her sister had pawned off her 6-year-old boy for the second time to visit his relatives in Chicago. She spoke minimal English, but I could comprehend it was a chore of a trip for her. “I sick of lil kid,” Chinese girl says. I laugh. She laughs. We talk about American rock n’ roll. Trying to find common ground, I ask her if she has ever heard of Arcade Fire. “No. Who dat?”, she responds. I counter, “you know U2? The Bono Man?” Notta. I rattle off the 5 most popular bands I can think of. Nothing. China is definitely a shielded world, and the following quote says it all. “I like you but we can’t be friends because the Government no let us have Facebook,” she says. We exchange laughter over our language barrier. Somewhere along the line I must have said something right, and she offers a back massage. I realize the chronology of my dialogue doesn’t yield the charisma suave enough to deserve a back massage, but I got one. I wouldn’t believe me either. We land in Beijing and she departs with her sister’s kid. “Bye! Miss you later,” she says.

Back in the Bangkok airport, I hop a plane to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). The flight was rather uneventful except for one remarkable element; there were footprints on the bathroom mirror. Footprints on the bathroom mirror?! Did someone just get laid? Who joins the MileHigh Club on a 90-minute flight? Glenn Goulia maybe? Outrageous.

Completely cracked out from lack of sleep and excess of 7/11 fish-flavored snacks, I arrive at the Bee Saigon hostel in Nam to stumble upon my best amigo for the next three days.

“I’m kind of going through a quarter life crises,” explains Griffin Randolf, a 24-year-old garage rocker from Brooklyn, NY. This seems to be a common theme among travelers. They are either in-between jobs, addicted to travel, dodging reality, or more commonly, a combination of the three.

I get this kid. He too is in between bands and work. He offers travel tips and gives me his albums for free. Randolf’s coolness goes beyond the blessing of a great stage-name on his birth certificate. He has a conservative hipster combover, but lacks all the arrogance of trendsetter majesty. “I got a massage yesterday. This tiny Vietnamese lady was walking all over me like a sexy ninja. I tried to fight off the boner, but dude, it was impossible. Pretty embarrassing.”

His honesty is commendable considering that’s the third thing he ever told me. Randolf had recorded an entire album on GarageBand before having his laptop stolen just 2 days prior. We grab food down the block and talk about our rock n’ roll hopes and dreams.

Here’s an idea of how far your dollar goes in Vietnam (in $USD)… • Restaurant meal - $1.50 • Accommodation w/ air con - $3 to $9 • 1 bottle of beer from 7/11 - $0.60 • Haircut - $2 • 30 minute massage - $3 • Hand job - $4

I’m not condoning HJ’s, BJ’s, or TJ’s for monetary compensation, but it gives you a better grasp on the sliding scale of Vietnamese goods and services.

Ho Chi Minh City is a sprawl of controlled chaos. Motorbikes dominate every inch of road and sidewalk while cabbies mêlée for your business. Stop signs are generally disobeyed and crossing the street becomes a thrill in itself. Children sell fake Lonely Planet books for $2 (In past travels I met a young kid who worked for a business of selling these pseudo books on Ebay. The US Government caught him and destroyed his credit score, but spared him prison time since he was only a middleman).

The buildings are tall and slender, stacked close together like Dominos. Copious signage hovers over the sidewalk. Mobile venders watch your every move. In one block’s walk, a tourist is  hounded by 3-4 dudes selling sunglasses, lighters, and/or marijuana. The best part about Vietnam is that crime is extremely mild. Despite the hectic nature of the beast, it’s generally safe to walk anywhere at anytime of day. I love it here. The food sits atop the totem pole of culinary goodness (as Anthony Bourdain would attest). I recommend everything on the menu, even the cooked dog.

Proving my manhood, fueled by Ramen.

Nicaragua 2011

I've been hanging out with fake Colin Farrell for the past few days. This kid is a dead-ringer for the Irish movie stud; long-flowing locks, Enrique Iglesias-quality scruff, and dashing charisma that would turn the straightest homophobe into an avid penis enthusiast. Colin is a travel all-star, managing to live off $10/day, all day everyday. Colin is from Santa Monica, California and is thoroughly homeless, using his boyish charm to live on the couches and beds of salty females when he is home in Cali. He is the Wilt Chamberlain of backpacking.

The last two nights Colin and I have rounded up successful jam sessions in the hostel. I hack the battered 6-string, while Colin forms a drumset with a tin water bottle, 3 Ramen cups, and a pen and fork for drumsticks. A few folks gather around the circle to share in some 90's sing-a-longs. such as "No Rain" by Blind Melon. The crowd builds in density and the songs swell in volume as more and more people join the circle. Chris Ginger, a sunburned 35 year-old surfwaxer takes the guitar and unleashes the greatest one-hit wonder of all-time; "Save Tonight" by Eagle Eye Cherry. The place goes nuts and everyone is singing in harmony despite language barriers. Percussion roars. Germans are banging on trash cans with spoons, Aussies are clanking their rum n' cokes, and Hungarians are stomping to the beat in wooden shoes. The jamboree completes, and the masses head out to suck down some piss-poor rum.

"Ron Plata" is the choice rum of Nicas, and it tastes exactly how you'd expect a $2 bottle to taste. Picture rum and monkey ball sweat with a shot of "Colt-45" double malt on top. Siff. It's the Gatorade of the homeless. I partake in a shot, as a "bitter beer face" is plastered across my mug. My German friend Peter Eader drinks the bar out of house and home, as the putrid swill runs through the gaps where teeth used to be.

We find a phenomenal bar with a local Nica band kicking ass. They play traditional Latin songs, sprinkling in Cranberries covers wherever possible. Seriously, every third song was a Cranberries cover. I'm not sure what it is about "Zombie", but this song is a smash anywhere you go in the world. All hail chick rock.

I head for home early, stopping at a local hamburger stand and shamelessly stuff my face with White-Castle caliber “meat”. Mistake. I make it back to the hostel. Not feeling so well, I clog the hostel can without even trying. Water and poop soup come flowing to the top of the toilet as “Noooooooo!” comes out from my lips. Everything is in slow-motion. My life flashes before my eyes, all the good times, the bad times, the triumphs & tribulations of my 24-years. I pinch myself. Nope, not dreaming. The water inches to the brim. It all comes down to this. “Zombie” rings in my head like a broken record. I don’t even wait to see what happens to the terd. I run from the John, literally scared shitless. Juan, the prison-inmate hostel manager sees my ghost-faced stare and looks more pissed than suspicious. He can smell my crime. I hide in my room like a bitch. DSCN0974 Morning comes quickly. It’s a big day. Today I will do what I came to Nicaragua for; climb a volcano and slide down it on a sled. “Volcano Boarding” is the top attraction in Leon, Nicaragua. Marco, the tour guide, takes us up “Cerro Negro”, a massive volcano of evil black-ash rock. Marco is a French-Canadian who spends 6-months each year running tours in Nicaragua. He lives in a house on the beach that he bought for $3,000. No joke. You can purchase an acre on the beach for three G’s. Foreign investment is booming in Nicaragua, so check it out before it’s flooded by the white devil. DSCN0978 “Cerro Negro” is probably best known for daredevil Eric Barone’s legendary wipeout at 107 mph. He lived, but barely. See here: http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=67d_1222971493

Good news for me is that I will be going down on a sled, so it’s totally safe. Well not really. I witnessed a few people at the hostel with Freddy Krueger-like scars from falling onto the jagged ash-rock. According to Marco, no one has died in 5-years of volcano boarding. This reassures me, but barely. I’m not a badass. I’m actually a huge pussy when it comes to extreme sports, so this is a big deal for my manhood. DSCN0985 We get to the top. No one is within 10 miles of us. To protect me, Marco gives me an orange spacesuit that looks like Diddy’s getup from the “Mo Money Mo Problems” rap video. I peer down the 40-degree incline of the cano. I pee a little in the spacesuit.

Wooooosh!!! Away I go at 50 mph down Satan’s mountain as dusty rock sprays every inch of my body. 45-seconds later I’m at the bottom with dust on my face and rocks in my butt. I look like a Chilean Miner.

Wandering souls and non-sensual shoulder massages

Nicaragua 2011 

After wandering solo for the first few days, I teamed up with 2 Dutch girls to go to Ometepe Island. I´ve been traveling with Lynn Von Dutch and Elle Hollandia for about a week now. They are both 26. Their philosophy is ´¨travel, party, and marry a rich guy at some point.´ I can´t tell if they are kidding or not, but I have started to lean toward the latter when they asked to adopt me as their little brother. In Holland, it is the little brother´s role to find their sisters rich men to marry. These girls crack me up. Recently, I have been playing wing man for them while they hit on chiseled Chilean dudes. They ask that I protect them from making terrible decisions and in return I will recieve non-sensual shoulder massages. It´s overall a pretty nice deal. No complaints. DSCN0827 DSCN0837 We arrived in San Juan Del Sur, the burnout capital of the world. It´s a sleepy beach town full of gringos and little surf shops with hay roofs.Arriving at the hostel, I walked in on 2 people having sex in the 14-bed dorm. To avoid any awkwardness, the three of us started talking about good restaurants in the area. I dropped my bags and went to lunch with the Dutch girls. Here we ran into Kevin Queef from California, who we had met before in Ometepe. This time, Queef had a black eye from a sketchy drug deal he had partaken in the night before. Queef publically announces ¨does anyone have any weed?¨ whenever there is a large group he wants to impress. He told us the story about his night in jail and proceeded to nap in his unmarked white van. Sketchfest. DSCN0850 Nighttime arrived. I went down to the beach to find Canadian Adam and Mikka Ishfin from Finland. These 2 guys are the most unlikely travel duo. Mikka is a 43 year old bachelor who speaks zero english, while Canadian Adam is a 31 year old surf guru traveling the entire world in 14 months. The only thing they have in common is their love for Hockey, which is enough. These are my 2 favorite guys on the trip so far. We sat on an upside down row boat and sipped rum until 2am. Canadian Adam is going to show me how to surf, so I´m off to meet him and punch some sharks in the face. DSCN0894

Blood sucking sort of a dream

 Nicaragua - 2009

DSCN0824 So I'm sleeping in my bunk at the 'Bearded Monkey', when I feel what seems to be a large paperback book land on my back. I wonder if I am sleeping or dreaming, Rolling over in bed, I find a black mass lying with me. It is dark and my eyes are crusty, but I punch the black mass with a fist. I am not dreaming, it is a giant vampire bat that flops off my bed and into my face, eventually making its way back to the ceiling where it hangs above my bed the rest of the night. I wake up my Dutch neighbors with a few startled 'holy shits!' and resume sleep. A sweaty french guy slays the bloodsucker with a tennis racket the next morning. DSCN0826 I take a day trip out to Masaya by myself. It's a run down town with a market that runs for miles. After drinking muchas Gatorade, I really have to piss, so I squeeze through the cluttered isles of meat, trinkits and humans. A kind old man points me to the 'bano' to the back of his food stall. I go into the back room where a stumble upon two Nicaraguan homies watching a raggaetone music video, featuring a jacked and tan Latino man in a Kobe Bryant jersey, undressing his secretary. I laughed hard and peed a little in my pants.I wandered Masaya a bit more and had a questionable ham sandwich with ketchup and mustard. I added some pepto bismol to be safe. Getting lonely, I took the bus back to Granada to meet some gringos. The local transports are called 'chicken buses', which are old school buses coated with house paint.

The bus ride back was amazing. Remeber the elementary school buses when there was sometimes a little TV mounted in front, but the driver would never turn it on no matter how much the kids begged. This bus did have that TV...on...with a scrambled Latino version of Prison break playing on it. DSCN0928

Grand departure from Gordo country

Nicaragua - Feb 2011 I Took the bus down to Chicago where I met up with my Cousin Abby and her boyfriend Master Chef John who took me out for some whiskey with Scott Lucas from the 90´s grunge band LOCAL H. 

The next am, I hopped on the airplane to Nicaragua, where I sat next to a Nicaraguan girl who called me ¨´Brett Pitt´¨. Though I have a fairly generic look, I graciously took the complement with a shit-eating grin. She made fun of my rusty Spanish for most of the ride and slept on my shoulder the rest. I dont deserve such luck.DSCN0794 When we landed in Managua she introduced me to her giant family and they put me in their economy sized white van with 6 kids, 3 grandmas, and a few random uncles and aunts. I busted out the shoddy guitar I brought and we sang through ¨´I wanna Hold Your Hand´¨ by the Beatles. The van was driven by this intimidating dude we called ¨´the GODFATHER´, who drove us to his brothers house (Uncle Sanchez) becuase Sanchez too played guitar and wanted to shred some ´¨Juan Bon Jovi´´ with this goofy American. I pretended to like Bon Jovi and sang along with Sanchez. His English was broken, which made ´Living on a Prayer´ way better than the original version. We exchanged hugs and the Godfather dropped me at the Hostel.

I walked to the bus the next day to get out of Managua, as it is a total sketchfest with ´many gangbangers who shiv gringos for George Washingtons´, according to this Canadian named Johnny Gonzo I met on the bus. Gonzo is a wandering soul studying in Nicaragua, but he´s completely legit. He gave me his number and offered a place to crash if I ever needed. Sweet dude.

Managua is the most dangerous city in Nicaragua. The rest is completely peaceful, the people are friendly and very passive. Now onto Granada, which is the oldest colonial city in the hemisphere. Don't quote me on that. But it is old as balls. You can quote me on that. DSCN0798 DSCN0800

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