There are thousands of amazing cities in this world - places with rich history, stunning architecture, world-renowned restaurants… and then there’s Plano, TX.

First - to get there from the Dallas airport, you travel along the President George Bush Turnpike. I’m not shitting you. Dude’s still in office and he already has a highway named after him. And to top it off, I have never paid so many tolls for such a horrible trip in my life. The irony was not lost on me.

Don’t get me wrong - Plano is truly breathtaking… if you are a huge fan of strip malls, chain restaurants, bland architecture, and giant trucks and SUVs. Everywhere - giant people driving giant vehicles. And by giant people, I mean the kind of people who eat a hearty breakfast at McDonald’s, guzzle Starbucks frappuccinos all day, pop in to Chili’s for lunch, and eat Applebee’s for dinner. What a lifestyle.

At least they have a fantastic beer selection at the local pubs. Wait… did I say local pubs? I meant the cookie cutter martini bars and chain restaurant happy hours. Oh and I just realized I said “fantastic beer selection”. I’m a silly goose. Obviously I meant “bullshit selection of colostomy bag contents poured into a brown bottle”. You like Michelob Ultra, Budweiser, Coors, and Miller Lite? Plano is perfect for you. You can even try the one beer they offer that maybe you haven’t tried before - Shiner Bock. What a treat - a beer brewed in Shiner, TX. I wonder if people in Plano realize that other countries do in fact brew beer. Some of those international beers are actually pretty tasty. I should have informed them.

Okay, I realize I’m being a pompous ass. People are different. For all I know these are nice people with great taste. Maybe they swarm to the strip malls in their SUVs to sip Budweisers because they have no other options. Ahh fuck it. If that’s the case, I still feel sorry for them. Dopes.

I can’t believe I haven’t told you this story yet. This shit is insane.

Momo and I traveled to Peru last year with J-Mo and P3. The four of us stopped in several amazing cities and towns, but the main attraction for us was the temple complex at Machu Picchu.

To get there, we took a train from Cuzco to Aguas Calientes, which is at the base of Machu Picchu (translates as “old mountain”). Learn more about all that shit on Wiki. I’ll tell you all about that experience some other time. This story is about the train ride back to Cuzco.

The ride took several hours. We were exhausted from hiking and figured we’d sleep the whole way back. A couple of hours into the ride, a surreal fashion show broke out. It started with a couple of Peruvians dressed in traditional costumes with masks and headdresses (kinda like this). They ran up and down the aisle of the train jumping and dancing. I was trying to sleep when they ran up and they scared the shit out of me.

Next, this trendy looking Peruvian couple started strutting back and forth down the aisle. They worked for the travel company, but I guess they also had a side job as fashion models. Dance music was blaring through the speakers in the train. It sounded like techno music with samples from old 80’s club songs. The two “models” were wearing hip, modern clothes along with Peruvian-made scarves, sweaters and shawls.

In Peru, a lot of people speak English. But for the most part, you have to speak clearly and articulately to communicate effectively. So during this little fashion show when the music was playing, I really don’t think the Peruvians understood the lyrics. The words were moving fast with audio effects on them and they were overshadowed by repetitive bass beats. After a couple of songs, it all started to blend together.

“chucka chucka dun dun na na na sessha” …. “chucka chucka dun dun na na na sessha” By the third song I was barely paying attention to the music and I had no idea what the lyrics were. Especially when I was so distracted by the fashion models.

Then I heard it. The words were clear and there was only one line to this song, repeating over and over again.

“Motherfucker gonna turn up the pressure! Motherfucker gonna turn up the pressure!”

This might be hard to believe, but it got even worse. The sample began repeating “Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” I am not shitting you. The song must have repeated the word motherfucker a hundred times.

The four of us looked at each other in amazement and confusion. No one else seemed to notice. All of these Peruvians on the train just bobbed their heads along with the beat watching the fashion show. And the models smiled and strutted the whole time.

I hope they got that song stuck in their heads and they sing along at home not realizing what they’re saying.

Read this post about First Class first.

I should point out the fact that business class and first class are entirely different. I was under the impression that those terms were interchangeable. And on my first flight, they were. It was a domestic flight from Philly to Chicago. I was listed as business class, but my seat was in the second row.

There was no distinction between business class and first class on that flight. On this flight, the seats were pretty standard, in the sense that they were in rows, all facing forward. But the seats were far roomier than economy class and I had plenty of space to stretch my legs. Plus, each seat had its own two armrests. There would be no bumping of elbows. In business class, there was a power outlet for my laptop, and we were served breakfast (French toast) on actual plates with real flatware. I don’t think economy class received a meal on that flight.

At this point, I hadn’t yet experienced real-deal first class. When I was checking in at the Philly airport, I used the self service kiosk. The computer asked me if I wanted to upgrade to first class for my flight from Chicago to Beijing. I was perplexed, because I was under the impression that first class and business class were one in the same. But the $629 increase in fare proved that they were different. I declined the offer. But when I got to the gate and gave the staffer my boarding pass, she said I had been upgraded. Honestly, I don’t know why they chose me. Maybe it’s because I was so polite and handsome (heh heh).

When I boarded that flight, I was ushered off to the left, toward the nose of the plane. To my right, I saw the business class passengers. It was a huge plane and there were maybe 20 business class passengers. In the first class section, I was one of maybe ten passengers. This is where I first sat down in my little mini-suite. How will I ever fly economy again?

Read more about my trip to Kuala Lumpur here.

Making my way through Malaysian customs in the Kuala Lumpur airport proved to be incredibly simple. If you have nothing to declare (you’re not bringing a ton of cash, cigarettes, booze, etc with you), you can just grab your luggage and leave the airport. Of course, the lines are considerably shorter for first/business class. But even in economy class, I would’ve been off my plane and in a cab within 20-30 minutes.

My departure was just as easy. I’ve been in line for hours on end in airports in Manila, Bangkok, Lima, etc. KL is an entirely different story. As an American, I was ushered through security quickly and politely.

The customs agent looked at my passport, which contains a photo of me taken nearly ten years ago when my hair was quite short. She asked curiously “Were you in the Army?” For a moment, I thought this would affect which security line I would have to pass through. I assumed they had a different protocol for military personnel and veterans. I replied “No.” She said, looking at the photo, “Your hair was so short.” “Oh, yeah. That was a long time ago.” “If you don’t mind me saying so, you look much younger now.” “Wow. Thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.” She smiled and wished me a good flight.

At the gate at the KL airport, I ran into a fellow I met several days earlier on my flight into KL from Beijing. On the flight into KL, we discussed our mutual love of beer and he told me how much he enjoyed California wines, which surprised him. I didn’t ask any personal questions on our flight into KL, but I could tell he was European. His accent sounded British to me, but with a hint of something different. Scandinavian perhaps.

He’s a middle aged man, who wears jeans with hiking shoes and a sport coat. Very much a traveler. I guess the one thing that struck me about this guy was he was unapologetically guzzling the free drinks they deliver in business class. I had a few beers myself, in addition to the champagne. He then moved on to the California white and kept going. I was impressed.

So as I arrived at the gate for my departure from KL, there he was. I had some time to kill, so I continued our conversation from earlier in the week. “Here we are again.” “Yes yes. So how was your stay in Malaysia?” I told him I was quite busy for the most part and didn’t have much time for sightseeing. The same was true for him.

This time, I gave him my business card and explained what I do for a living. He gave me his as well. Looking at his business card, I could see that his company is based in Norway. But he explained that he is actually from Denmark. I told him my wife lived in Norway years ago. And somehow we got on the subject of seafood (even though I explained that I’m vegetarian).

He described the paradox of Scandinavian seafood. He says the fish is some of the freshest and most delicate in the world, but Norwegian chefs are terrible. They take an amazing catch and make it nearly inedible with awful seasoning and improper cooking. He says it’s a different story in Northern France, where they can take an average catch and turn it into something extraordinarily delicious. He said the perfect combination would involve a French chef cooking a Norwegian fish.

The conversation turned toward China, where he currently lives. He owns a home in Denmark, but works in China for most of the year. His wife lives with him in China as well, but he said she is in Denmark for the month taking care of the house. And recently, his company decided to move him to Shanghai. He’ll make the transition in a couple of weeks, which he seems very excited about.

He says “Shanghai is metropolitan and vibrant, with a thriving arts community and great restaurants.” And the thing that he says he really loves about China is its rich history. People have called the country home for nearly six thousand years. He says the people in Denmark were cave dwellers as the Chinese built their first empire. I commented that I live in a country that has existed for less than 250 years. I thought about mentioning the fact that Kuala Lumpur has only been around since 1857, but I couldn’t think of a way to slip that into a conversation about China without sounding awkward.

We boarded our flight and this time, he flew economy class. He told me business class tickets was sold out when he bought his ticket. It’s probably for the best. Without being distracted by conversation, I got a lot of work done on the flight.

Read more about my trip to Kuala Lumpur here.

The Beijing airport is huge and modern. But the thing that struck me about being an international traveler in China wasn’t the impressive stretch of designer shops and upscale cafes - it was the people. My first stop in China was the Air China check-in desk. I needed to get my boarding pass for my next flight to Kuala Lumpur. The staffers were courteous and they gladly spoke English. My next stop was security. A police officer at the customs counter helped me complete a couple of short forms, and quickly guided me through to the baggage scanners without any hassle. When I arrived at the security scanner and sent my bag through, they noticed my personal washroom kit that the airline gave me during my flight. They opened it up and found the little tubes of soap and lotion, etc. But instead of throwing it away like they do in the US, they reached behind the counter, grabbed a plastic zipper bag and placed my items inside. Then they put that bag inside my carry on luggage and happily sent me on my way. I was shocked.

Later, I stopped at the restroom to brush my teeth. It had been nearly 20 hours since I left my house and my mouth was in bad shape. A washroom attendant was mopping the floor when he noticed me reaching for my toothbrush. He offered me a cup from the cabinet and I accepted. As I was leaving, he asked me for a “tape”. I was puzzled. What kind of tape could a young Chinese guy want from an American traveler? Obviously, I should have known, but I didn’t, so I asked. “What kind of tape?” “A tape.” He held his hands in the shape of a square. I was thinking “cassette?”, so I gave him a puzzled look. He explained further, “A tape for the cup.” Of course. A tip. As I fumbled for my wallet, he made small talk. “Where are you from?” “United States. Philadelphia.” “Yes yes.” “Do you know Philadelphia?” “Unites States number one.” Then he gave me thumbs up. I gave him a dollar. I guess he didn’t recognize “Philadelphia”. Not that he hasn’t heard of it - maybe it was my pronunciation that was unfamiliar.

My return flight through Beijing was not nearly as easy. I had a 5 hour layover, which I was dreading, but at least I could hang out in the Business Class lounge and get online. Too bad that’s not how it went down. To Chinese airport workers, international transfers to the US are like Sasquatch - they’re a complete mystery. The ticket agent in Malaysia told me my bags were checked through to san Fran where I would have to get my luggage and go through US customs. Made sense to me. So when I arrived in Beijing, I “knew” my luggage would already be on its way to my connecting flight. So I started looking for signs directing me to International Transfers. No sweat, I saw the transfers desk way off in the distance, and started walking.

A couple of minutes later, after a sweaty stroll through the oddly hot Beijing Airport, the dude at the transfers desk told me he couldn’t help me. To check in with my airline, I’d have to go through immigration. WTF? I started walking all the way back to where I started. But when I got there, I was a little confused. Why would I have to go through immigration with everyone else who planned to enter China as a visitor? I could see my gate on the concourse below. I just needed a boarding pass to get there. I asked the guy at immigration and he clearly said “you need to go over to the international transfers desk.” “The one way over there?” “Yes.” “They sent me here.” “You need to go over to the international transfers desk.” “Okay, if you say so.”

A couple of minutes later, after another sweaty stroll, I was back at the transfers desk. Of course the guy had the same answer he had before. I tried to explain further, but he just kept telling me to go through immigration. So fuck it. I followed his advice.

I filled out three forms, telling China that I was not carrying a shitload of cash with me, I didn’t have any drugs on me, I didn’t have any vegetables or whatnot, and I hadn’t been to a chicken farm in the past week. The officer at immigration sent me through and pointed me down the hall to an escalator. After a few minutes of walking, I was… what the fuck?!?… I was at the main entrance to the Beijing Airport. I could have walked right through the door to have an extended stay in China. And that might not seem so strange, but you have to have a visa to stay in China. They let me through immigration without a visa? Something seemed fucked up.

I asked no fewer than 5 airport employees where the United ticketing counter was. I ended up in the Domestic Departures area, then in the International Departures area. But nothing. No United counter whatsoever! I stopped another airport employee and asked again. “A8.” “A8?” “Yes. A8 *giggle*” I guess she thought of a funny joke or something. I walked to row A line 8. Malaysia Airlines. Again - WTF? I was so confused. I decided to ask the Malaysia Air staffer at the desk. She explained that the United agent would be at that counter in an hour. I guess they share a counter.

Too bad I was just at the airport’s main entrance. There are hardly any benches, no restaurants, no shops, and it seemed like the air conditioning system was dead. So I sat on a bench and nearly fell asleep while reading. That hour seemed to last all day.

Finally, I saw the United agent walk up to the counter. It was 9am and my flight was scheduled to leave at noon. I had been in the airport for two hours.

The ticket agent was relatively nice, but I was not on my best behavior. My mood was slipping and dude couldn’t have cheered me up if he was Don fucking Rickles. I got my ticket and showed him the info on my luggage. “I just want to confirm that my luggage is checked through to San Francisco.” “No Sir. You need to get your luggage at Baggage Claim and re-check it here.” “But Baggage Claim is nowhere near here and I’ve already been through immigration. I’m sure they won’t let me back into the arrivals area.” He turned to his coworker and they spoke Chinese to each other for maybe 5 minutes. I waited patiently, yet red-faced.

Then finally, things started looking up. The agent said they would have my bags transferred to my flight and they would give me a new Baggage Claim ticket at the gate. After another half hour of being ushered through security and customs, I was finally at my gate. I found the nearest Business Class lounge and sat down for a couple of free beers.

I took a lot of notes during my recent business trip to Kuala Lumpur. This is the first in a series of posts about my experience.

Before this trip, I had never flown first class. Let me tell you - first class is insane.

There are fresh flowers everywhere, standing individually in artfully folded napkins. They are placed in the first class restrooms, on the snack trays, and the dinner cart.

The seats are a work of art - at least in the first suite. They face away from each other at a slight angle so the passenger sitting next to you is not in your immediate peripheral vision. And there’s no danger of accidentally bumping elbows with someone. The seats have all the controls of a fancy office massage chair. You can move forward and back, adjust lumbar support, use the lumbar massage feature, open the foot rest, and there’s even a button marked “bed” that turns the whole thing into, well, a bed. And they give you a blanket, a regular size pillow, and a smaller pillow - all with fresh linens, not that crappy gossamer pillowcase you get in economy class.

The seat is the center piece to your own personal office space. You have a reading lamp, an LCD screen for movies, a power source for your laptop, a couple of drink holders, big cushy headphones, and a personal grooming kit with face soap, lotion, toothpaste, lip balm, mouthwash, tissues, earplugs, eye covering thingy, and socks.

The flight attendant constantly asked me if I wanted another beverage or a hot towel or a different movie (amazing selection by the way - Stranger than Fiction, Dreamgirls, Blood Diamond, etc). But instead of watching their movies on the little personal LCD screen, I plugged in my laptop and watched a couple of DVDs that I brought along for the trip. I almost forgot how much I love Scarface.

The food is truly fantastic. And I’m not just saying that it’s good compared to other airline food. This shit is brilliant, even for a vegetarian. I know I just keep listing things, but fuck it. I had French toast, fresh fruit, yogurt, potato and leek quiche, mixed greens with balsamic vinaigrette and croutons, egg fried rice, a cheese platter, focaccia bread, Heineken, pinot noir, port, Tanqueray and tonic, and various juices and bottled water. The port knocked me out. Literally. The flight attendant asked if I’d like a little port wine to go with my fruit and cheese tray. Then she made some remark about how she always says “port wine” by mistake when you’re really supposed to refer to it simply as “port”. I said, “Yes please. I love port.” “Really? Oh then I’ll give you a full glass.” Normally you’d serve port in a glass designed for desert wines. But she filled up a red wine glass. A wine glass full of port can be a dangerous thing. I was asleep within half an hour.

And when it’s time to eat, the flight attendant places a mini tablecloth on your dinner tray then serves your food on real plates and gives you real stainless steel flatware. And of course, the drinks are served in glass, not plastic.

I can’t believe I nearly forgot the champagne. As soon as I boarded and found my seat, the flight attendant brought me a glass of bubbly. I’ve always imagined what goes on behind that blue curtain in first class. I’ll tell you right now: It’s champagne, flowers, and extreme politeness from the time you board to the time you land.

Maybe I was just being paranoid, but somehow I thought that the Malaysian airport security people would be able to see through my polite and quiet demeanor and realize I’m a scumbag. Either that or I’d be kidnapped. You know… because that kinda shit happens in this part of the world. I don’t want to say any more right now - they might be monitoring.

When I get back, I’ll tell you about the wonders of First Class travel. Seriously, you have no idea what goes on behind the blue curtain. And check out this swanky hotel.

Okay, I’m afraid I’ve said too much.

I’m going here tomorrow. My hotel is next to this.

Dearest Readers,

This post is going to begin with an update, then it will include a few pointless insults, and it will end with something you may consider depressingly morbid.

I’m leaving you again. This time, I’ll be gone for a couple of weeks. My lady and I are headed to Peru. We’re going to climb up to Macchu Picchu, catch a bullfight in Lima, and chill out on the shores of Lake Titicaca (Haha! Titty caca! Sounds like another term for Cleveland Steamer.)

While I’m gone, Ev will be in charge. And I’m more than a little worried about that. I have no idea what he might subject you to while I’m away. I mean, we all know Ev is half-retarded. It’s sad really. His obsession with the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers alone could be dangerous. And for some reason, he’s convinced gaping anal sex with elderly women is hot.

So if you never hear from me again, you can assume I never made it back from Peru. Perhaps I’ll be trampled in a Lima oil protest. Or maybe I’ll be kidnapped by guerillas and held for ransom. Or of course, there’s always the danger that my plane will take a nose dive into the Nazca Lines.

Later skaters,
JJ

P.S. Check out the new website for The Codes.  I’ve added a bunch of pictures and lyrics, and posted a link to our MySpace page.

JJ looking like a mini-Ted Nugent on the way to Bonnaroo

700 acres of hippies in tents

This is where I dropped logs.

Hippie girls love bandanas.

JJ and Momo waiting for Beck to perform

The glass pipe king

Check out the stoner girl’s necklace.

Thom Yorke of Radiohead: musical genius or overrated pop star?

J.Mo wanted to put a glow stick on her tits, so she did.

Ferris wheel shot with a slow shutter - trippy, dude

The Bonnaroo Mushroom Fountain: public art and communal shower for naked hippies

Jam band fans riding out their magic mushroom trip at The Sonic Forest

Just got back into town after 5 straight days of intoxication. Drove through the night. Haven’t slept since Sunday night.

Drove an RV to Bonnaroo. Left my car parked at a friend’s apartment complex in Maryland. Someone tore the handle off the driver’s side door and stole my stereo. Fucking savages.

More tomorrow (including a few complete sentences).

In Amsterdam, they have these shops that are sort of like convenience stores. But instead of selling lottery tickets, cigarettes and beer - they sell mushrooms. Yep, those kind of mushrooms.

We stopped in at one of these special places just a half a block from our hotel. The shop was on a major street corner in the heart of the city, with people rushing past, heading to and from work. From the outside, it seemed relatively non-descript. I can’t even remember what made us want to walk inside to check it out. But as soon as we stepped into the place, we immediately knew what we were looking at.

The place was well lit with fluorescent lights and there were tall glass-door coolers on all sides. The refrigerator shelves were lined with hundreds of packages of dried mushrooms in clear, professionally labeled Ziploc bags. An attractive young lady with a kind face stood behind the cash register smiling at us as we browsed through the products.

Lady: “Good afternoon.”
JJ: “Hi.”
Lady: “Can I help you choose?”
Momo: “Ummm… We’re just looking around.”
Frankie: “Actually, I have a question.”
Lady: “Sure, how can I help?”
Frankie: “Well, we don’t really know what we should buy. Can you recommend something?”
Lady: “A lot of people love the Afghani ones. It’s a very visual high. I recommend them if you’re experienced.”
JJ: “Actually we’re sorta new to this. We don’t want to be too… messed up.”
Frankie: “We don’t?”
Lady: “Well the Mexican and the Thai variety are not as strong. The high is very relaxed.”
Momo: “That sounds cool.”

The thing that struck me about this conversation was how normal it sounded. And the lady’s voice was so completely soothing. She was helpful and nice, like a pre-school teacher. But we weren’t talking about milk and cookies. We were talking to a drug dealer. A drug dealer who sells hallucinogens out in the open, in public, protected by law.

It was fucking fantastic. It’s such a luxury to feel so free. Lighting up a spliff in a “coffee shop” is one thing. Buying a bag of imported psilocybin mushrooms at a corner store is entirely different.

This morning, I realized I haven’t written any actual content here in a while, so I started digging through my list of “stories I should tell on The Churning.”  Somehow I’ve managed to let several months pass without telling you about the sex club I visited while in Thailand.  How could I rob you of this valuable information?!?

Momo and I were in Bangkok hanging out with a friend of a friend.  She’s the Thai travel agent who helped arrange our trip, but because we share some of the same friends, she offered to show us around the city.

We ate dinner at a pub, as I downed several vodka Red Bulls.  I know, that’s a drink for douchebag frat boys and coked-out sluts.  But it’s also the perfect combination for getting over jet lag while catching a buzz.

So as we ate, we talked about the sort of things Momo and I wanted to do in Bangkok.  “Oh, we want to see the Imperial Palace, the Reclining Buddha, and we want to check out Kho San (the hippie hangout for ex-pat Americans).”  The agent’s reaction: “Don’t you want to see Patpong?”

Now in case you’re not familiar with Bangkok, Patpong is the city’s version of Amsterdam’s Red Light District.  That’s where you go to hook up with trannies, buy a massive dildo, or watch a woman shoot vegetables out of her most intimate area.  Of course we answered, “Hell yes.”  A couple of drinks later, we walked over to the strip of sex clubs.

And as we neared our destination, dozens of stylish young Thai men started giving me the eye, quietly murmuring to each other as they ogled.  Momo noticed, “JJ, those guys are staring at you.”  Our friend confirmed our suspicions, “Yeah, Patpong is a popular gay hangout.  They love blond boys.”  I was flattered and uncomfortable at the same time.

The clubs were surrounded by crowds of people bustling by looking for the best bang for their buck.  There were trannies and bikini girls standing outside each seedy doorway trying to lure potential customers.  They were shouting at passers by with the tone of a carnival barker, “Step right up!  See pretty girls naked!  Watch them do sexy tricks!”

It seemed odd, but our friend somehow knew the owners of several of these fine establishments.  She helped us weasel our way into one of them with a discounted cover charge and no drink minimum.  It pays to travel with a local!

The club was designed like a typical U.S. strip club, with a stage in the center and seating all around.  But the lighting wasn’t dim and the crowd wasn’t quiet like you might find here in the U.S.  Instead, the audience was cheering, the place was bright, and the music was booming.  We took a seat at a table in the back of the club and ordered beers.

Six young women were on stage, each completely naked except for their overgrown pubes.  Let’s assume these six women were of legal age (I really hope they were).  The nude dancers just sort of stood there looking bored.  A couple of them tried to keep moving, but I wouldn’t call it dancing.  It looked more like the kind of dancing a nervous boy would do as he stood next to the wall alone at his first school dance.

The girls each took a turn at the center of the stage as the rest stood and watched.  One after the other, they showed off their specialty, you know, their particular “trick.”

The first dancer took a seat in the middle of the stage next to a plate full of unripe bananas.  She peeled one and broke it in half.  She rolled onto her back, knees by her ears with her vag pointing up in the air, then shoved the half-banana in her hole.  She rolled forward then back again quickly, shooting the fruit several feet into the air and caught it with her hands.

The crowd exploded, but the dancer barely cracked a smile.  She repeated the trick several times and the crowd was loving it.  Then she moved into a “crab” position, with her back to the floor propped up on her hands and feet.  She shoved in another banana piece, lowered her pelvis toward the floor, then raised her vag back up again in a quick motion.  The banana shot across the club like a rocket, landing on a table nearly 20 feet away.

The next girl did similar tricks with potatoes.  And another followed with hard-boiled eggs.  By this point we were literally getting sick to our stomachs.  At first it was fascinating and a little sad.  But eventually it was downright depressing.  Plus I may never be able to eat hard-boiled eggs again.

As the last girl walked into the spotlight, I scanned the stage for her props.  No vegetables?  No fruits?  No food of any kind?  But there they were - several bottles of club soda.

Yep, you know what’s next… She crouched down into a squat, hovering over one of the bottles.  She lowered herself onto the top of the bottle, then bobbed for a minute, fucking the bottle top.  She reached down and grabbed the bottle with one hand, clenched her vag muscles, and twisted.  Club soda fizzed out of her hole and onto the stage.  I swear this woman should move to Beverly Hills and teach the Kegel technique to millionaires for $500 an hour.

I was clearly impressed, but I had seen enough.  We headed out to a bar and sat down to decompress over several more vodka Red Bulls.

this is the place(post area) where you write things about how you can’t believe you got away with something.

cedar key in florida is a nice little getaway. a very small town with some history behind it. but at the same time it’s filled with a lot of tough guy fisherman rednecks. i used to have to go there with my redneck boss to harvest clams. worst job ever. i wrecked his van twice, but those are two different stories.

jmo and i also used to go to cedar key for a little romantic type getaway. we would go to the fancy restaurant, hang at the beaches, and go to all the stores and shit. at one time when we spent the night and got a room, we stayed accross the street from the local bar.

yep, i got drunk in the motel room.

yep, i put on jmo’s (woman’s) clothes and went to the bar.

yep, i hung out with all of the tough guy locals.

yep, i was an asshole to everyone.

nope, i did not get beat up.

I had just taken a huge shit at a bar in Patpong, Bangkok’s red light district, when a dude snuck up behind me and put me in a half nelson.

The place was awesome. They had a Thai Elvis impersonator who was flanked by four hot gogo dancers in bikinis. There was a balding American guy who sang blues and classic rock. I was downing Singha beers and vodka Red Bulls, and even though there were dozens of Americans and Europeans in the place, I was definitely the whitest guy in the room.

My Lady and I had seats right in front of the stage thanks to our friend Niki. She helped us with our travel plans and offered to give us a tour of Bangkok night life. Turns out she used to manage the bar we were hanging out in.

So I had just taken a shit and I walked over to the sink to wash up. A well dressed Thai dude approached me with a clean towel in his outstretched hand. My first thought was, “Shit, what kind of tip should I give a Thai bathroom attendant?”

The dude handed me the towel. It was warm and moist, like the kind you get in a Sushi restaurant before the meal. I thanked him and turned toward the sink, facing the mirror. I started washing my hands and as I looked up toward the mirror, I could see the towel guy walking up behind me. I knew he worked there and I was pretty confident that he wasn’t going to try to steal my wallet or anything. But what did happen startled me even more.

He karate chopped me on the back. Okay, it wasn’t really a karate chop. It was like a massage style karate chop. He used both hands, tapping the muscles around my upper spine.

I was a little freaked out. I dried my hands and tried to turn around. He grabbed my shoulder and stopped me. “Relax,” he said quietly. This was getting totally weird, but for some reason I felt like I could trust the guy. I turned back toward the mirror and he grabbed my right arm. He pulled my hand up behind my head like a half nelson. He put his left hand on my hip and began to twist my body. I had no idea how to react. Then CRAAACKK! My back made a noise like a beer can being crushed. Nice!

He switched up and did the same with my left arm, twisting me the other way. Then he grabbed my chin in one hand and the back of my head in the other. I could tell he was going to twist my neck like a ninja. CRAAACKK! Then he spun my head in the other direction. CRAAACKK!

I felt better. I didn’t know I was tense but I must have been, because somehow having my back cracked made me feel more comfortable and loose. I tipped the guy 80 baht (two dollars) and headed back to our table. I told My Lady that I got a massage in the bathroom. She wasn’t buying it. I mean really, who would believe that. But Niki backed me up, “Yeah, that’s normal. They give massages in the restroom.”

Fuck. I wish she told me that before I went in there. For a minute I thought he wanted to make out with me.