November 27th 1:08pm - November 2009 Quote of the Month

Brighton: "I just fell in love with a dog. He has huge bollocks and sperm dripping from his penis."

November 25th 10:15am- My Thanksgiving

My Thanksgiving was spent en route in Bangalore, traveling via train from Trivandrum to Hampi. The twelve hour stopover in Bangalore was as memorable as fornication between a porcupine and a cat. I left the group I'd traveled with to convene with a Dane and German that I'd wandered with in the north. As I rambled around the streets alone, I envisioned my twenty-five relatives congregating around a candlelit wine-splashed dinner of roast turkey, succulent stuffing, cranberry sauce, cornbread, and pumpkin pie. I could almost detect the wafts of spices. I love American traditions, like Thanksgiving dinner, and fathers chasing their kids around with power tools.
As I paid for a Limca soda, an Indian man in line behind me crouched around my feet. I looked down to see if I had developed elephantitis in the past four seconds.
"Ummm, excuse me? What are you doing?" I asked.
"You're only wearing one anklet? Where's your other anklet?" he asked, still groveling. I felt like the offspring of an ogre and a giantess.
"I only ever had one anklet," I replied.
"Only prostitutes wear one anklet," he informed me.
I had been wearing one anklet for two months.
Three hours later I sat on the sidewalk reading outside the train station. A man wearing Joseph's colorful robes shambled towards me. He carried two sticks in arms that looked like they had been compressed by a ThighMaster. His bloodshot and wandering eyes bucked into mine as he asked me for a cigarette. I - truthfully - told him that I didn't have any. He bellowed in Hindi and shook his sticks at me, cursing me like I had just crossed the path of a black cat, broken a mirror, and walked under a ladder.

November 24th 9:45am- You Know You're Drunk When...

Four Brits - Manchester, Leeds, Brighton, and Brighton's Boyfriend - and I cavorted to Alleppey, Kerala for an overnight houseboat excursion through the Keralan backwaters. Depravity between us five shmammered adults mutated our communication skills and coordination into six-year-old competency. The trip was awesome. And we were champions.

You Know You're Drunk When...

*You, a male, place your nipple into a glass of tea. You attempt to milk yourself and acquire the nickname Milky.

*You break a bottle of Apple Vodka. Since smashing the taxi window you have become a calamitous individual climaxing in the breakage of two beer bottles, three glasses, and three bottles of Apple Vodka in five days. You replace the Vodka and then break the bottle before consumption three times. You are not pleased at the bank account deficit.

*You let a girl who has never shaved heads shave yours.

* You bite a hairy man's bare ass.

*None of you smoke but send the chef out into the Indian jungle in the middle of the night to buy cigarettes. He returns with three packs. The next morning four cigarettes remain. The chef steals two of them.

*You pretend to be pirates.

*The following morning, you don't remember half of the pictures taken.

*Your girlfriend refuses to let you shave your ginger hair, just leaving a filthy Mexican mustache. You don't speak for five minutes and then go to bed sulking. You ultimately share a bed with Milky while your girlfriend spoons with a male Brit and female American. The next morning, Milky announces that you grabbed him the entire night. He continually yelled, "I'm not your girlfriend!" but that didn't deter the intoxicated groping. You don't recall going to bed.

November 20th 6:25pm - Run Over and Bottled

After the Palolem headphone party where Brighton got ruffied and Leeds awoke the next morning with a blue whale hickey on his neck, we had an evening as civilized as the Puritans.
As we gorged ourselves on pumpkin squash and beetroot smoothies at an organic vegan restaurant, rain tramped the tin roof and a city-wide blackout emanated.
With two flashlights between nine of us, we tip-toed through two-foot deep floods over the juiced concrete to the nearest bar we could find. We wanted hot chocolate. Cuba, the bar, didn't have hot chocolate. We sedated ourselves with chai, India's diabetes in a glass.
An hour later, two Brits headed home on foot while Tarzan, Tarzan's girlfriend Jane, Brighton, and Manchester flagged down a taxi with contortionist dexterity. The cab shuddered to a stop two blocks later. It didn't restart. Blackness soaked the street. The moon sprinkled light as effectively as a mentally handicapped child with an iPhone. Another taxi tripped by. Tarzan and Brighton vaulted in. Manchester stretched to open the taxi door. Jane ducked to get in. Genius, the taxi driver, accelerated. Jane flying-frog-leaped away to avoid head collision. Manchester's hand, fumbling for the door, connected with the window. His hand went through the window with sloth speed. The cab shrieked to a stop as Manchester withdrew his blood-sprung hand. Genius emerged a neurotic Indian man on a rampage.
"You punched my window!" he bellowed.
"I didn't punch your window! Why would I do that? You drove away and destroyed me hand!"
Twenty spewing Indian men surged from all directions and stormed towards the offensive goras. Vocalized Hindi rants and gesticulations erupted like the swine flu over their heads. Tarzan and Brighton exited the cab. Within seconds thirty men surrounded the four foreigners. They backed towards the bar, and candlelight. Arms raised in surrender, one streaming blood, Manchester repeated, "I didn't punch your fucking window! You drove off, smashed my hand, and almost took Jane's head off!
Twelve Indian men eye-raped Brighton.
"Run!" she screamed, as panicked as if the government released a study educating parents that socks can kill children.
The four sprinted down the sloshed street followed by a mob of rabid raging Indian men.
Two Aussies and I sat in Cuba Restaurant and Bar playing Connect Four when we heard a commotion as loud as a chorus of gorilla farts.
Tarzan stood in front of Jane at the bar's entrance facing a sea of irate Indians. We cheetah-raced to them.
"I didn't fucking do anything!" Tarzan yelled.
"Come into the street. Step into the street," one of the mob demanded.
"Fuck you! I'm not coming into the street," Tarzan responded.
Asshole fired a glass beer bottle at Tarzan's face. The bottle punched his cheek but ricocheted onto the concrete. The Aussies and I plummeted between the Indians and our South African friends.
Jesus surrendered a cell phone for Jane to call the police. The horde grew. Tarzan and Jane told us Brighton and Manchester were across the street at Cheeky Chapati, an English-owned restaurant we had patronized the night before. They then snuck out the back with robber stealth. The rickshaw mob raged at our Cuba entrance as well as Cheeky Chapati's.
Manchester, the gushing hand handicapped by the English owner's personal gauze supply, was blitzkrieged by enraged Indian men.
"Will money help? Can I pay you to leave me alone?" he asked with five-year-old wisdom.
The owner demanded two hundred rupees, equivalent to four dollars, as compensation. He paid and the forty-person posse dispersed.
Ten minutes later Manchester, Brighton, the two Aussies and I sat in Cheeky Chapati with quieting beer and cigarettes. Brighton was still in hysterics. She commanded her boyfriend's presence. We called him.
"Manchester got run over and Tarzan got bottled," she hysterically sobbed into the phone.
"Oh my God! What the fuck?" we heard his voice exclaim through the mobile.
We ruptured into laughter. Manchester wrestled the phone away from her and assured Boyfriend that we were fine. Boyfriend and Leeds returned and we unreeled from frantic pursued sober foreigners into tipsy blockheads. Upon Brighton's insistence, we slept seven in one room.
The next morning we found out a cyclone was headed for India.

November 17th 1:55pm - Headphone Party

Noise ordinances agitate me. However, I'm twenty-three, not ninety-four. I'm unmarried and don't have thirteen children bounding around wreaking wreckage by choking on marbles and eating crayons.
Palolem's Silent Noise thwarted the midnight noise curfew by implementing a silent disco, or headphone party.
Last weekend myself and nine others strengthened our destructive synergy with beer, Old Monk rum and Bagpiper whiskey. The females expounded our sexual prowess by donning droopy clothing. The males resembled middle-class-bums in shorts and t-shirts. By entrance time, we had attained beer goggles, or imaginary optical aids through which average-looking members of the opposite sex morph into supermodels. Playboy Bunnies rimmed us and Grecian gods ringed us.
We ordered drinks at the circular bamboo bar and whooped the shrieks of the bombed and blitzed. Brighton, a female Brit, absorbed four sips of her cocktail before stumbling to the bathroom and then upstairs. Her conversation capabilities resembled that of a drugged kitten.
She joined us on orange seat cushions, head lolling and limbs as insurgent as Che Guevara. We slung her silly putty arms around the shoulders of her boyfriend and Tarzan and they trucked her back to our guesthouse. Our consensus: her drink was slipped a date-rape drug. Manchester was with her while it must have happened. He endured jokes for a week about drugging her.
We pitched downstairs to the debaucherous dance floor, headphones strapped to our ears and arms monkey-flailing.
Two titan screens flanked the three DJs. Tarzan's girlfriend Jane and I used our ninja tactics and dodged past non-existent security to strategically position ourselves behind the screen. We performed a Sound of Music routine, our black silhouettes projected onto the shit-housed masses dancing to different songs.
The headphones boasted three stations to choose from: pure house music, electrotech, and filthy funk. A midget colored dot on the headphones illustrated which station we listened to. One listening to the green station rabbit-bounced while another on the red swayed, and yellow dirty-danced with anything moving in the vicinity mirroring anyone of the counter-sex.
Upon removing the headphones, thousands of voices mumbling, singing, or shouting to conflicting songs enticed the eardrums.
The next morning the ten of us convened and recounted varying degrees of rat-assed inebriation.
After many of us had retreated to the guesthouse with crossed eyes and sloshed babbles, Leeds asked Manchester to escort three girls back on his way home.
"Don't you worry, I won't molest you tonight. I have a girlfriend," he informed them, as serious as Hitler.
When Manchester returned to the beach hut he shared with Leeds, he raped his pockets for the room key but was as successful as my ballerina vocation while a pumpkin-shaped eight-year-old. He beat the door of the beach hut of the drugged girl and her boyfriend until they answered.
"It's okay with me if you have sex. I promise I won't watch. Have sex. I won't watch," he repeated like a three-year-old girl desiring a walking, talking, life-sized Barbie doll.
When Leeds returned, their room was locked and Manchester was as absent as my intoxicated what's-appropriate sensor. Leeds slept outside on a wooden beach lounge chair and awoke the next morning with a bite on his neck that looked like a blue whale had given him a hickey.
Manchester awoke with their room key around his neck.

November 15th 7:43pm - A Kick and a Punch

One of the female Brits we traveled with, Brighton, had a passion for dogs that rivaled my rum rapture. She hijacked food off fellow traveler's plates to bestow on stray dogs. She cuddled rabid dogs and caressed those with Lyme disease. Stray dogs dominated Goa's Arambol Beach.
Multiple independent sources testified the existence of Arambol's Pig Dog. A pig - or dog - whose parents were a pig and dog. He had the pig snout, potbelly and short legs, as well as floppy dog ears and tail. I never beheld Pig Dog.
An Aussie couple and I sat on the beach as the dilated neon orange sun sunk into the ocean. The female was a nurse and someone I mentally referred to as Jesusa. She was one of the most compassionate people I had ever met.
A fully-dressed fifteen-male beach gang strutted past on the sand, holding hands and donning shoes and picture phones. As we were Brighton's comrades, her dog posse lay strewn about us in a six-foot radius.
Indian men are sexually repressed. Parents arrange marriages. Public displays of affection between Indian heterosexual couples are as common as an Army grunt wearing a ballerina too-too and carrying a pink plastic wand. The men take pictures of bathing suit-clad white girl whores with their camera phones and pokers out.
One man who resembled a taller, fatter, human version of Pig Dog scowled at one of Brighton's dogs as he paraded past. When the dog rumbled a low-throat growl, PigDog Man removed the phone's camera lens from three inches in front of his face and three feet from us white-woman-prostitutes. He retracted his right leg behind him. Defender Dog crouched, head down, eyes raised, body weight slung back in warning stance. PigDog Man football-punted the canine. His foot pulverized the dingo's chest. Defender Dog punched the sand with his side. His bawls and whimpers barraged our ears.
"Jackass!" I screamed. PigDog Man ignored me. I would have made as much an impact if I were a deaf mute mentally handicapped patient in a psychiatric hospital requesting alcohol.
The female Aussie vaulted from the sand and stalked after the perpetrator, courteously verbally assaulting him.
PigDog Man ignored her.
"I said, that is not okay. You can't kick dogs!" she screamed, clawing at his arm and turning him around to face her.
PigDog Man laughed in her face and u-turned.
She punched him in his right scapula.
Badass dove back to us shuddering and shaking, caged bull heavy-breathing.
"I am so sorry you guys. I don't know what came over me. I've never punched someone before. I am so sorry. I can't believe I did that."
"You're shaking!" her boyfriend vocalized.
Jackass and his beach gang strode off, laughing and holding hands.
Brighton congratulated Badass.

November 12th 10:05am - Scooter Gang

I awoke, vomited an intestine, and staggered twenty steps to Residensea's restaurant to join the heavy drinkers and demonic drunks that comprised our impending scooter gang: four Brits, two Aussies, two South Africans, and my solitary American self.
In America, four dollars could buy you some thread. In India, four dollars fetches a prostitute. Or a day-long scooter rental.
The saffron sun seared and the Indian jungle barreled by as we caravanned from Arambol in north Goa to Old Goa. We laced through pedestrians, bicyclists, motorists, and cars on the spiraling streets. I almost hit a cow.
We toured colonial Portugese architecture in the Basilica of Bom Jesus, the Church of St. Francis of Assisi, the chapel of St. Xavier, and the Se Cathedral. Outside St. Francis' church, a street peddler sold karma sutra books and cigarettes.
Our excursion terminated at a spice plantation. Ambrosial saffron, ginger, nutmeg and coriander violated our nostrils. The tour guide dribbled water down our backs.

Seven minutes into the return ride, the wind cuddled my face and the sun's rays stroked my shoulders. Harmonious nature echoed in my ears, enveloping me in bucolic song. That ended as rapidly as my spell as a religious guidance counselor. I believe in God as much as I do in cyclopses. A sound similar to fingernails scraping a blackboard combined with a baby shriek volleyed my eardrums. My scooter shuttered like a vibrator.
I perverted street-side and stopped. Two of our scooter gang pitched past me. The inferno of an exhaust pipe had cracked off and drug on the ground. After a scooter-gang-options-conference, we tied one of the Brit's shirts around the damaged goods, hoisting the exhaust pipe from the ground. Tarzan, the South African, offered to drive it back if I would take his girlfriend on the rear of his scooter. This was a good idea. If good meant ghastly. My track record with motorized mechanisms was as successful as the Vietnam War.
Normal people (Americans) drive on the right side of the street. Indians, under British rule from 1765-1947, drive on the left side of the street. I, Einstein, turned onto the right-hand side. Tarzan's girlfriend Jane sumo-wrestler-death-gripped me and I swung to avoid oncoming cars and cows. We careened towards a motorbike carrying a nine-month-old baby and it's father. He skewed to his left, I slue to mine, and we were on the correct side of the street again.
The scooter gang progressed down the highway when a car drove by, rolled down the window, and howled like a Satan-possessed being, "Your friend crashed! Your friend crashed!"
We arrested progress on the side of the freeway. The female Brit cried. A few of the males doubled back. Eight minutes later, Tarzan arrived, the scooter sputtering and stammering like a drunken whore.

A water truck had exuded a stream, Tarzan drove over a white painted speed bump, the water-slicked paint projected the scooter out from under him, he stoned his body off the bike and landed on his feet. The scooter's paint job and a sprained Tarzan ankle were the only casualties.
After negotiation with the owner, us saying he rented us a death trap, he saying we crashed it, Tarzan and I split the bill: two dollars each.

November 10th 12:20pm - Camera Toss

After traveling together for three days, Rob Awesome bequeathed the two Brits and myself with nicknames. One of the Brits was MK Ultra, the other, Polly. I was ComeBag. The combined ethanol of his Kiwi accent and booze pronounced it Comeback in my infantile Jesus mind.
It wasn't until we met fifteen other travelers at our Residensea Guesthouse and Rob Awesome introduced me as ComeBag that I caught the pronunciation like Bill Clinton snags STD's.
One day I floated in the ocean's fluid matter when Rob Awesome's voice accosted me across a soccer field-sized expanse of sea.
"Can you catch?"
"Of course I can catch. Can you throw?"
"I am a powerful man. You're a woman. You sure you can catch?"
Upon my repeated assurances, he rocket-launched a black object at me from the shore. It tore ten feet over my head before hurtling into the ocean with the speed of a black man bolting from the cops carrying a television.

I waited for the ball to surface. Rob Awesome scuttled through the waves and asked me where his camera was.
"I don't know. On the shore? Is this like let's guess locations? I'm only good at this game if I'm detecting male body parts."
"No no no. I threw my camera at you!"
"You threw your camera into an ocean? I thought you threw a ball."
"I thought you said you could catch!"

The waterproof and shockproof camera was not waterproof and shockproof after being hurtled three hundred and sixty feet through the air, pulverizing the ocean's face, and settling on the sand-shrouded floor for fifteen minutes. Shocking.
When Rob Awesome departed the bamboo beach hut we shared, he left me one knuckle duster, a bottle of whiskey, and male deodorant.

November 8th 1:12pm - Rob Awesome

Mumbai: Day One: The city was on a beer drought and served no alcohol.
Mumbai: Day Two: Bollywood, and we were told by a restaurant as well as by a bar that playing card games in public is illegal.
Mumbai: Day Three: We left.
By our arrival in Goa, the Kiwi was on his second Bolivian Marching Powder binge in sixty hours. He hadn't slept in forty hours.
As he referred to himself as Rob Awesome, he decreed that the day necessitated getting Rob Awesome in henna across his deltoids.
The Brits migrated to a restaurant for beer and lunch. I read and supervised the henna headway.
Rob Awesome lay on his stomach, arms at his sides, while an Indian man administered the henna. Rob Awesome compelled me to cater cigarettes to his mouth. I commanded inhale, he inhaled. The Indian man's eyes told me he thought this as mystifying as my dad motorboating a transvestite in a restaurant on my twenty-first birthday. Henna Man finished. Rob Awesome's body gyrated with gorilla snores. I woke him up.
"Hey, I'm heading up to the restaurant. You want anything?"
"Sweet. I'll get right on that. Don't roll over though, alright?"

"Right. Just don't roll over. You hear me? DO NOT ROLL OVER. The henna won't be dry for another twenty minutes."
"Yep, exactly. Just don't roll over. You CANNOT roll over. You'll ruin the henna."
I returned thirty minutes later with the Brits.
Rob Awesome had rolled over.

November 5th 5:15pm -The Kiwi

After I had a cerebral aneurysm from being a Bollywood extra, the Brit and I stood on a Mumbai street corner with five hundred extra rupees in our pockets. Five hundred rupees equates $10.70. In the US I could get a meal at McDonald's. In India, $10.70 paid over five nights accommodation.
While we discussed where to eat dinner, the other Brit joined us and the Kiwi's ejaculations from down the street drumbeat our ears. He stammered up to us, stuttered some words as bizarre as birthing two daughters in China, bucked his bag around my neck, and swung into the street. He had the brain capacity of one who had just teetered out of a goat orgy. He disappeared. We shrugged and went to a Chinese restaurant with some other travelers.
The two Brits and I returned to Seashore Guesthouse at four o'clock in the morning after going to a club that looked like a cross between a Japanese tea garden and a Vegas nightclub. Seashore Guesthouse is on the fourth floor of a five-story building. The Kiwi's sandals sprawled on the second floor landing. We found him in our guesthouse in the room he shared with the Brit from Manchester.
The next morning, he awoke Manchester with a credit card corner of coke in one hand and the remainder of my Old Monk rum bottle in the other. His mad cow eyes and four-foot-long dreadlocks were as nonsensical as nipples spouting vodka. Manchester responded correspondingly. He beamed love and tenderness, sniffed and sucked. Manchester and the Kiwi then woke me and the other Brit up and we whirled to Leopold's restaurant for some beer.
The Kiwi recounted his night over a cigarette and a beer pitcher at ten in the morning. Bagpiper Whiskey caused his coarse memory, but he recalled purchasing two grams of coke from a street drug dealer. He had never tried coke in his life. Fueled by Special Olympics in a bottle, coke seemed a good idea.
Hours later the Kiwi returned to our guesthouse. He walked up the stairs but couldn't find the hotel entrance. The different levels with varying hotels, shops and signs confused him. He wobbled outside and noticed scaffolding near the building. His six-foot-four-inch body with four-foot-long dreadlocks monkey-maneuvered up the scaffolding until he was outside our floor. He assaulted the window with his fist. A man we had slurred to earlier while waiting for the
Bollywood jeep opened the window. Asshole refused to let the Kiwi inside, telling him that there was a gap and it was too dangerous. Kiwi coerced a window open and tumbled into the worker's sleeping room.
"Sorry mate. I'm just sorry. Sorry love," he apologized to a two hundred pound woman sleeping on a broom.
The Kiwi's body pinball-machined the hallway. It took him seven minutes to open his door. He lay in bed for twenty-five minutes, soaked in silence and eyes as wide as a prostitute's legs. A European girl screamed at him, "For God's sake, keep it down!"
"I've been fucking silent for twenty minutes, Bitch!" he related in Leopold's restaurant, permeated with families and young children consuming breakfast.
"You daft cunt!" Manchester exclaimed. "You were probably still making noise."