Dropping Bombs on Your Mom

I’ve decided to start sending unsolicited letters off to the email addresses of professionals. If I receive any responses I’ll be sure to post them. The following email was sent to a dentist surgery

Hi,

I am after dental information, see it’s been a long time—perhaps seven years since I’ve been to a dentist. I have just come off of a very long “bender” where I have been drinking during all waking hours for several days straight. During a bender it is not unusual for me to wake up in closets, alleyways, and super market store rooms. My clothes may be quite dirty and I am often savaged by young delinquent toughs. I was once stabbed in the leg with a screwdriver.

Now, when I’m not on a bender I won’t even touch the drink, I mean not even a glass of red with dinner. In fact I tend to skip beer and wine advertisements on television and cut out the alcohol ads from popular magazines, I keep them in boxes under my bed. I have six now. My psychiatrist says that I have mild Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, luckily it doesn’t seem to interfere in my day to day life.

While I am a generally healthy person and only go on these benders during paid leave from my job as an insurance adjuster I was feeling somewhat the worse for wear after a particularly well executed run. I remember waking up that afternoon having been thrown into a cardboard recycling dumpster the night before and noticing a large pool of blood around my face, smeared on the cardboard boxes. Shrugging it off I climbed out of the dumpster and made my way back to my house. I assumed that some rough bastards had beaten me severely.

Strangely enough though after I returned to my house and cleaned up I found no tell tale bruising around my mouth and I wasn’t sore at all. Could this be from a lack of vitamins?

-SDW

The view from the window is quite good, there is always a flurry of activity on the street below. Quinn Smith was a reclusive fellow, he wasn’t always that way but a few years in the big city, away from the warmth of small town life had driven him to isolate a bit. It had been more than a week since Quinn had left the apartment. It was a short trip, he went out for some groceries and made it the entire two blocks to the local IGA and back. Working as a copy writer for a women’s magazine there was never a need to commute any distance that couldn’t be measured in metres.

Quinn amused himself at times by staring out the window at the intersection below. This evening in particular he had spent the last three hours glued to the street dramas. Things were starting to clear out now and there was barely anybody left outside. He’d often pretend that there was an emergency and he’d put himself into the hero’s role. Charging down the stairs, his imaginary self would step in to save the day. Most of the time the emergencies were auto wrecks or senior citizens with heart problems. Quinn was a certified EMT and had never had the chance to use his skills.

Today however, Quinn was feeling fiesty. He imagined a mugging. Ok, he thinks, what’s that man doing? Every hair on his body stands up, he’s riddled with adrenaline and ready for action. He runs down the stairs and grabs the brute right by the head, pulling it back and slamming his elbow into the mugger’s windpipe. Villian dispatched, he picks up the dropped handbag, returning it to the woman with a sly, somewhat rakish smile. A smile that says “Yeah, I can be a manly and rough but I have a charm and seductive intelligence to me, and of course I’m spectacular in bed.” The woman would be obliged to ask him to have coffee—her treat—which would be nice because copy-writers don’t make a lot of money. They’d spend the afternoon blissfully discovering all of the things they had in common, remarking on how lucky it was that they were together and safe.

Quinn caught movement at the northern corner of the street, breaking the spell and interrupting some particularly forward remarks from the young lady he had just rescued. A woman, a very pretty one, was moving quickly toward the street light. There was a man just behind her and in two or three quick steps he caught up. Quinn’s heartbeat quickened and the adrenaline wash started, his arm hair was on end. With a practiced motion the man grabbed the lady’s bag with one hand and punched her in the face with the other. He hit her three times in quick succession and darted off with her purse. The lady stayed there in the foetal position until the police showed up about an hour later.

This is an amalgamation of a few different drinking trips that I made to Portland back when I lived in Seattle.

I’d just hopped the train from Seattle. I boarded at King Street Station in Pioneer Square with a small flask of scotch to gird the old loins for the three hour trek Portland. See, I had a hankering for a good solid bender and I knew too many people in Seattle to get any proper drinking done there. That meant I had to get as far away from them as possible—for their own good.

Portland is Seattle’s retarded little brother. It’s a bit meaner, somewhat stunted, and convinced that the shit on its teeth is delicious chocolate. What better place to go and get blind drunk? Plus, I was much more likely to be stabbed in Portland than in Seattle if for no other reason than the fact that Portland is filled to the brim with bloodthirsty villains. Nothing says “adventure” like a good stabbing and I’m a man who loves adventure.

I got to town around five in the afternoon, the timing was perfect— I wandered out of the train station and made my way into Old Town just as happy hour was starting. After a few streets I ended up walking into Kell’s, a shitty over-priced Irish bar.

“Can I have a Guinness and a Johnny Powers?”

“Neat or rocks?” The paddy behind the bar was prickly and sour, who could blame him though? He was like the Irish exhibit at the zoo. These guys are hired because of their accent and they have to put up with fifty wide-eyed yanks per day asking them what part of Ireland (or even more cringeworthy, The Old Country) that they are from. As soon as it’s revealed the customer, who invariably hasn’t had a potato eater in his family for six generations, exclaims that his family has a castle in that very county.

“Neat.”

I was eventually served a pint of Guinness and a glass of John Powers brand Irish Whiskey. I hate Irish Whiskey. It tastes like gasoline and canola oil but I keep drinking it in hopes that it will improve. There’s no better brand to self-flagellate with than Johnny Powers, that’s a proven fact. Anybody who says differently is a filthy lying liar and likely a communist to boot. I polished off two pints and two more Johnnies before hitting the road. Thankfully it was dark when I walked out the door, Portland is a mean town and I didn’t want to look it directly in the face.

The streets in Old Town Portland are nice and narrow, it’s the Portlandized version of Seattle’s Pioneer Square with hipper bars and better food. After a bit I noticed a bar called the Shanghai Tunnel, I was reasonably sure it wasn’t a strip joint although since strip joints account for roughly one in twelve businesses in Portland you never can be entirely sure of these things without looking inside. The sex industry is so rampant in Portland that if the girl you are dating is over sixteen you can be assured that either she is a stripper or has been one.

The Shanghai Tunnel was in fact a cozy little booze joint with an Oriental theme. I sidled up to the bar next to a weedy guy with glasses and an average looking blonde girl. They were talking about the bar business and I was drinking whiskey at a terrible pace.

“What do you know about the bar business?” I challenged the both of them.

“Well, I’m a bartender.” Bingo.

“Ha! Excellent, I used to be a bartender before I was chased out of the industry over an incident involving the mayor’s daughter, a pack of pornographic playing cards and a cucumber.” I scooted stools and leaned over Blondie to shake hands with my new found sponsor “I’m Scott.”

“Gerry, nice to meet you.”

“Shot?”

“Sure.”

“Three Sauzas please—Hornitos.” This was a bad idea.

“Cheers” in unison.

The shots were large, much larger than they would have been had they not been poured for a regular, respected patron and fellow service industry veteran. When on a drinking vacation the best course of action is to spot the man with the most social capital, crawl into his ass and then set fire to his reputation. This is a proven strategy that can never go wrong, I learned it from an old Chinese monk.

Gerry filled me in on all the details, he loved Portland because it was a young town. He felt like a bit of a big fish and who could blame him? He clearly had the place dialed in. To be a young bartender in a hot neighbourhood—even in Portland—is like being a rock star without having to know how to play music or perform in a band. All you have to do is show up and sling the fucking shots because man, you control the booze. Even when you’re off shift the chances are that you know the staff of every bar in town. It’s a beautiful thing, the drinks are strong and you can get away with murder.

The shots kept coming and Gerry was getting ready to move. He invited me to a bar called Dante’s a couple of blocks up. His blonde friend joined us, she was starting to get prettier and I wasn’t sure if I could blame the whiskey or the tequila for improving her appearance.

Dante’s is a dark bar with lots of exposed flame and red velvet. It rocks the classic wank martini bar aesthetic but it was packed with your general riff-raff. As we staggered in I could tell that it was going to be a good night. I drank a few more Sauzas on Gerry’s generous tab and began dragging him around the bar, explaining to everyone that he was a very important person and that I was his life coach, there to make sure that he wasn’t wasting his talent.

“What talent?” A particularly wide eyed brunette piped up.

“Oh, you don’t want to know. Actually you probably do but I don’t want him to get mobbed” shifting my eyes “he’s supposed to be relaxing right now.”

“Should I be asking him for his autograph?” This brought to mind a classic trick that I had learned from my dear friend Kevin. It was first employed during the 1999 Rugby World Cup in Cardiff where it met with resounding success.

“Funny that my dear, as Gerry doesn’t sign autographs but he does in fact let people sign his ass.”

“What?” She nearly hollered my face off.

“Really. I’ll show you.” I went to the bar and as luck would have it they had a Sharpie for me “Take this, and take it quickly before you’re spotted.”

“You want me to sign his ass?”

“It’s your duty.” I grabbed Gerry by the shoulder and leaned in “Man, drop your drawers there’s a beautiful twenty-one year old with a marker and she wants to sign your ass, as your life coach I insist!” A man has to pay attention to his life coach, Gerry bared his ass and it was soon signed. Moments later a crowd had formed and people were lining up to sign the ass. Some were having their photos taken with it. Gerry’s ass had become a celebrity.

In the meantime I moved in on the brunette. I learned her name was Marla and she was originally from a small town in Oklahoma named Waurika. I told her that Waurika was a boring dead end and she’s lucky she made it to Portland where she at least had a chance of being stabbed. She laughed and I moved in close.

“Hi” A tall frowny guy in a black shirt interrupted before I could get too much further along.

“Hello, pleased to meet you. I think I want to have sex with your girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Sorry, that was disingenuous, I meant to say that I’m going to have sex with your girlfriend.” What the hell, I’m in Portland I may as well get stabbed. I shot her a wink and a smile.

The girl giggled but she was no fool. She backed up a bit so he could get a clean shot. I was standing there grinning in whiskey-soaked oblivion watching him wind his fist up. I saw it coming but something in me couldn’t be bothered to get out of the way. The bastard caught me full on in the temple which wouldn’t have been so bad but he was wearing cheap silver rings and tore a good chunk out. I grinned and jumped onto him but was pulled away by an angry Samoan bouncer before I could bite his ear off.

I tried in vain to explain to the bouncer that it wasn’t my fault and a grave mistake was being made but this was to no avail. I then tried to explain that I was a life coach and that one of my clients was having his ass defaced in the most literal of senses just inside the doors. It was futile of course but at least the brute managed to hand me a couple of napkins to staunch the blood.

---

My first thought was to grab a hotel room. That hope was dashed as soon as I had wandered the periphery of Old Town. Either I obliviously walked by all of the cheap hotels in the neighbourhood or none exist in the area. Given the dearth of options I decided to check and see what time my morning train came at, the station being only a few blocks away.

The Portland train station as I soon found out was not a twenty four hour establishment. It was just a little past two thirty in the morning and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t open the front doors. To be sure that it wasn’t just my drunken lack of coordination I repeatedly yanked at the doors, throwing my weight into it.

“Hey get out of here” A chubby uniformed guy in his late twenties waddled out from behind something inside the station and stood looking at me through glass in the door.

“Hey buddy, I’m just trying to see if these doors will actually open. I can’t seem to find a hotel in this shitbox of a city you have here.”

“The train station is closed. Please come back at seven when we open.”

“What sort of train station is this? Did I move to a communist country? Did Portland secede? This is AMERICA dammit, I demand that the trains stations be open for twenty four hours of every day!” Where was this man’s sense of patriotism? Didn’t he know how important it was to keep the communist threat at bay? Hadn’t he heard of Containment? The only way to succeed is to keep American commerce in session twenty four hours of every goddamned day. It dawned on me that he might as well have been on their side, this man was clearly a communist and had to be dealt with accordingly.

“Please go get some sleep and come again in the morning.”

“You communist fool! Didn’t you hear me say that I haven’t been able to find a hotel?”

“Sir, leave or I’ll call the cops.”

“Call ‘em you red bastard, I’ll be right here.” We’ll get to the bottom of this.

He made quick intonation into his walkie-talkie, was silent and then fixed me in his beady stare. No matter how much I pleaded with him he wouldn’t come outside, not even for a moment. Once he made to open the door but I leapt too soon and spooked him. Failing to flush him out, I quizzed him to pass the time.

“Is it hard for you to lose weight?”

“Interesting career choice, how long have you been doing this?”

“Parents proud?”

“I bet this job really brings in the trim, huh?”

All of these were asked in the name of science and that filthy Stalinist bastard wouldn’t answer any of them. All he did was sit there and fittingly enough, turn red.

“Sir,” came from behind me. I turned to see Portland’s Finest emerging from their vehicle. “please take your hands out of your pockets.”

I turned and extracted my hands from my pockets while making a “woo” noise. I have always prided myself on my diplomacy and I’d be damned if I lost my edge at that point. They asked for my identification and my wallet, which I reluctantly handed over.

“This communist won’t let me into the station sir, there’s obviously been some sort of error. Please arrest this man and either open these doors or point me at a hotel so I can get some sleep before my train comes in the morning.” Reasonable, non?

“You are aware that the train station is closed?”

“Of course, what do you take me for?”

“How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“All of it.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I was going to get a hotel but I haven’t been able to find any. Plan B was to catch a midnight train back to Seattle.”

“There are no midnight trains, and it’s pushing three AM.”

“Fair enough.” While all of this was going on they were running my details and inspecting the contents of my wallet. The filthy troglodyte of a security guard was smirking in the way that only fat people can.

“There’s a hotel about three blocks that way.” The officer pointed in the direction that I had just come from.

“That’s horseshit and you know it! You must be in on it too, holy Mother of God is it the whole fucking town?”

The officer let out a sigh and motioned to his partner that it was time to throw this loony in the bin. As they cuffed me and led me into the back of the car the security guard chortled.

I immediately began asking questions “So am I being charged with anything?”

“Nope, we’re just going to take you to Detox.”

“The Drunk Tank?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t you guys at least going to kick the shit out of me?”

Pause.

“Nope, we’re just going to let you sleep it off.”

“Right, do I get a fine?”

“Nope.”

“What time do I get released?”

“Seven.”

“My train comes at eight, how far away is the station?” Just as I finished the sentence we pulled in. “Wow, this is great. I think you guys saved me seventy bucks for a hotel room. Are you sure you don’t want to kick the shit out of me? At least to get your money’s worth?”

“Sir, we’re not going to beat you up.”

They let me out of the car and I offered once again to hang tight for a good old fashion shit kicking but they wouldn’t have a bar of it. I told ‘em I could do anything—foetal position, face off the hood of the cop car, billy clubs across the mid-thigh. They clearly missed an opportunity. The sad bastards even chuckled as they processed me into the Portland Detox Facility.

I spent twenty or so minutes bugging the only other occupant of the tank, asking him how he got there and what he thought about the communist threat. I soon lost interest though as the man was clearly drunk and you just can’t talk to those people.

Seven AM came quickly and I was jarred awake by my name being bellowed over the PA system. They were kind enough to have all of my personal effects waiting for me. I thanked them and walked back to the train depot. Porky the security guard was just getting off shift as I arrived to catch my train. I thanked him for the place to crash and the foresight to save me the outlandish cost of a city hotel. He quickly removed himself from the situation, no doubt overcome with modesty.

I boarded the train with a renewed outlook on Portland, not only had I avoided any actual stabbing but they were kind enough to put me up for the night. What a lovely town. At that point I made a note to visit again sometime.

Below is an account of my first night in Fiji. I’d like to preface this by mentioning that all of the Fijians that I met on my trip with the sole exception of Suli were wonderful, warm people.

The Tokatoka Resort is the Fijian version of the Airport Howard Johnson, my travel agent put me there for the stopover between Nadi and the Beachcomber Island Resort. There are very few frills, some uncomfortable vacationing Indians, and a spartan pool that, in its defence, has a swim-up bar. The hospitality is world class though, everywhere I turn I’m greeted with “Bula”—the Fijian “Aloha”. I’m not yet confident enough to return it as I’m afraid that I’ll pronounce it wrong and insult someone’s mother. Fiji is not the place to haphazardly go about insulting mothers, this is a scientific fact.

Behind the tables in the Tokatoka cantina is a notice board with each of the house cocktails and an ingredient listing, all of the drinks are illustrated in perfect signboard glory. I am contenting myself with a Fiji Bitter which the barmaid recommended with great enthusiasm, pegging me for being a beer-type right off the bat. It’s a nice crisp beer made by international brewing concern Foster’s Pacific Group. The recipe evidently consists of washing detergent and forced carbon dioxide. Fair enough, at least it’s not Sandpiper¹.

Not being one to sit idly at a shitty hotel, I made a trek into the city of Nadi². I walked down the main street receiving “Bula!” every which way that I went. I stiltedly responded with “Cheers mate” and grinned as wide as I could. Not being hungry but being curious, I walked into a nice tandoori place and had a passable chicken tikka. The waitresses fawned “I like your tattoos”, “Do you ride motorcycle?”, “Do you have girlfriend?”. I smiled, finished my whiskey and got the hell out of there before their thoughts drifted too far. Coy gazes could soon turn into some manhandling and things would get scary quick smart, I erred on the side of caution.

The main street of Nadi, like that of any third world town, becomes menacing after sunset. The locals’ black skin blends into the corpuscle leaving only legions of disembodied bloodshot eyes. A Cheshire smile would break out underneath a floating pair of yellow-white orbs—“Bula bula!”. Yes, bula right back to you sirs.

Walking a bit further I spotted a saloon, I knew it was a saloon because there was a massive hand painted sign above the door that said “SALOON”. It was just under the similarly marked “NITE CLUB”. There were a mess of drunk natives out front in various stages of disarray. What’s the worst that can happen, eh? It’s better that I didn’t have an answer to that question at the time.

I walked in and was immediately accosted by a surly drunk named Suli. He attached himself to me like a rhemora and we ordered a longneck of Fiji Bitter. The barmaid, a tough woman keeping a stern eye on the happenings in this saloon, laid down two tiny glasses and a frosty quart. I poured quick and drank quicker as I had taken stock of the situation and knew that things would be ugly soon. It’s best to fortify ones self against these things, gird the loins and jump into the pit feet first. I smiled as the lines came out.

“I want to be friends with you bro!”

“We find Fijian girls!”

“You are on Fiji time!”

These lines could be repeated by any young hustler in any developing nation. I can’t hold him responsible or even blame him. I’d rob white people for a living too if I had to live in a tin shack and bust my ass for fat euro-trash tourists all day. In this game you either buy enough beer to appease the brute or you get led elsewhere with the promise of cheap dope and loose local women but you end up with a cracked skull and an empty wallet.

The bar itself was a plywood shack swarming with drunken brutes moving between the saloon downstairs and the night club upstairs. Everyone had sweaty faces and wide, bloodshot eyes. I have you bastards, I know what’s up. I was grinning and waving but they could smell blood. The filthy pricks were ready to make a meal of me, I would be spitted and roasted within the hour. On our third or fourth Fiji Bitter I was spotted and waved at by two massive men, I returned a quick “Bula” and cheered them. They made their way over for the Fijian version of small talk

“Bru, nice tattoos. Check mine out. Fijian tattoos” And one of them pulled sleeves back to reveal knotworks of scar tissue and black ink. I’m glad I made friendly because first one then the other leaned into my ear “Bru, Suli will rob you and kill you, watch out.”

I knew it was coming but perhaps it was hearing it put into concrete, ominous terms that brought me to my senses. I finished my beer, complimented everyone on their hospitality and tried to escape. I moved across the street to the front of the petrol station, it was well lit and full of traffic. My two buddies had already gone back up to the saloon, having done their good deed for the day.

It was no use, Suli (who I continually called Sulo much to his chagrin) had firmly attached himself to me. He was in my ear trying to intimidate me one second then appease me the next. This oaf had to be dealt with cautiously though so I smiled and made liberal use of “bro” and “mate” to calm his island fever. Every time I’d wave at a passing cab he’d wave it off. Mercifully an Indian cabbie who was filling up at the station shot me a look and was willing to drive me as soon as he finished.

I began to make my way to where he was refueling. Suli stood in my path holding my shoulders desperately. Luckily he was in the thrall of the bottle and a bit wobbly. I caught Suli when he wasn’t expecting it and just as the cabbie finished and unlocked his door I sent an elbow right into his ribs, knocking him off balance and breaking his grip on me. He grabbed onto the cab as we were taking off and held on for as long as possible. As his grip failed I thanked providence for Fiji Bitter and the fact that I had the good sense to get a few more into old Suli before attempting my escape.

[1] An atrociously oily Indian pale ale that I had the misfortune of consuming in the wilds of Mahabalipuram, Tamil Nadu.

[2] Which is pronounced “Nandi”, Nandi is a holy Hindu bull and the name makes sense given the large population of Indians in Nadi. Perhaps naming the town after a bull was too much for the natives and they bargained away the extra ‘n’. At least I hope so, I could imagine a smoky room with some scary Fijian Beasts and a few sweaty but shrewd Indians “Yes, of course we will be spelling it that way BUT sir you MUST pronounce it like this.” And an accord was struck.

So I’m heading to Fiji tomorrow morning at eight o clock. This will be my first solo holiday in years—probably about seven. I’ll be flying into Nadi, spending the night there and then off to some resort island to spend four more days in a hut drinking cocktails from the hollowed out skulls of missionaries. I’m confident that one of the locals will fight me to the death and I will die horribly and tropically.

Since this will likely be the case I’ll take a lot of photos for everyone so you can remember me as I was at the end—drunk and high on kava. If I do survive I should have some stories to tell, maybe even the one about the hooker with dysentery.

Yeah, I redid my BLAHG. Droppingbombs was getting a little long in the tooth and the last update I did was well over a year ago—nearly two. Anwyay, here we are at the dawning of a brand new age in mindless, driveling, self-indulgence. I’ll be updating this here cozy blahg with a couple of things:

• My boozing and photos thereof
• My self indulgent fiction and writing

Oh yeah. It’s going to be a hoot, follow along if you will. So the colour scheme is a bit spartan and there isn’t an RSS feed or a myspaceflikrwebdoohicky for you to twattle with your Gays Of Web 2.0 Pals. There may in fact be that sort of stuff in the near future but to tell the truth I’m a busy man and I like to spend most of my free time drinking whiskey and punching my dogs so that leaves precious little time for you WEB-TWO-POINT-OMG bastards (and yes Andrew, you cocksucker, those are tags—fuckoff).

Cheers suckas