CRASH COURSE IN DEATH DODGING

Getting hit by cars has generally been a good experience for me. As it stands, I am not dead. I have all four limbs, and I maintain the same generic face I was born with 24 years ago. Walking away unscathed feels pretty decent the first time, but when it happens twice, there’s never a better moment to waste a dollar on a lottery ticket.

The first time I was drilled by a Sierra Cutless Supreme while on my bicycle. Riding down the sidewalk, I was quickly T-boned at a neighborhood cross street. The shredding of metal polluted the air as I flew 8 feet off the bike landing softly on my ass, unscratched. Kevin Harrison, the lad who crashed into me, was a 23-year-old college grad from Madison, WI. He was totally sober but completely drained from another 14-hour day selling wheelchairs to the elderly over the phone. This was Harrison’s first full-time job, and telecommunicating to Old Man Clemens was sucking his mind dry from any ability to operate a motor vehicle. Upon impact, Harrison flipped out, panicking “dude, I’m so sorry! You okay, you okay? I hopped up from the road high on adrenaline, missing a shoe. I was holding my head in disbelief, not from pain. At that moment, Harrison thought he was going to prison for sure. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I said. It was hard to tell if Harrison was crying out of fright, or out of elation that I was not hurt.

Harrison gave me $60 to repair the barely-damaged wheel on my bike, which was a ghetto cruiser to begin with and would ride for another year unrepaired. Its tattered frame was worn down from all the late night trips to Taco Bell in college. Harrison’s financial donation would later be transacted for 50 Chicken Burritos from T-Bell. A man had just been paid for getting hit by a car, and that man was me. I celebrated Christmas in July while Harrison was dancing with Miss Misery. His car was barely worth more than my bike, his job was poo, and he dodged killing a man by a few miles per hour. 

Rapper 50 Cent always bragged about getting shot (or at least his PR team did). Who could blame him? It’s cool in a fuc*** up way (like competitive drinking or Mohawks). While getting hit by a car is notably less cool, it remains in the upper echelon of ways to dance with death and tell about it. People like to say, “It’ll be a good story to tell my grandkids,” but I’m not going to say that, as it may jinx me into getting hit by another car.

Where do child stars go post-glory? Facebook.

On October 3, 2010 I became Facebook friends with Buzz from the film Home Alone. I’m not talking about the “Buzz Fan Page”, I mean the actual dude. His real name is Devin Ratray, a 34-year-old humungous man who has since retired from acting to pursue film production. (Peaking at the age of 14, I would probably retire too.) Buzz is best known for eating the last slice of cheese pizza coveted by Kevin McCallister (Macaulay Culkin), leaving McCallister to sleep on an empty stomach with bed-wetter cousin Fuller. Below is the only exchange I ever had with Ratray, which was clearly a ploy for him to accept my “friendship”.

Brett Newski: “Devin, thanks for the autograph last weekend. You’re the man!”
Devin Ratray: “No problem. Anytime!”

Ratray has since “unfriended” me from Facebook for reasons unknown. I did not find this out until today, after spotting a bootlegged copy of Home Alone at a Vietnamese DVD stand. It was a reminder to my only cyber friendship with a celebrity fallen from glory. On this day, I too feel like I have fallen from glory.

AGENT ORANGE is probably the greatest travesty in US war history. The War Museum in Saigon is horrifying, but you don’t have to go there to see its effects on the Vietnamese people. Children and grandchildren of Vietnamese exposed to Agent Orange in the Nam War are born with deformities to this day. Short, crippled arms and legs are a common sight around the city. Those without the care of families will use a skateboard as a wheelchair. The “Agent Orange” section of the war museum is the kingpin of depression in an already sad collection of US War Crimes. This chemical turned fully-grown men into mutated trolls void of eye balls, limbs and reasons to smile…ever. Damnit America. And also, everyone should now hate the already shitty punk band “Agent Orange” just by association.

After two hours of intensity at the Vietnam War Museum, I joined a tour group out to the war fields of suburban Saigon. On the bus, we were briefed on the history of the Vietnam War in broken English over an extra broken Karaoke speaker system.

Having a tour guide you cannot understand is like having an overweight personal trainer. Distraction from the task at hand is inevitable. I slumped back in my seat, hiding my headphones under my hoodie as not to offend Joe, our 4 foot nothin’ Vietnamese tour guide leading the bus to the famous Cu Chi Tunnels. These tiny, underground holes were the Viet Congs base of operation for the Tet Offensive in 1968. They are about the size of an ass crack, or maybe a piece of computer printer paper, but no more. Not even one half of an American person could fit in some of these tunnels. Since the war, the tunnels have been widened to fit Cheeseburger shaped American bodies for tourism purposes.

As you know, tourism gift shops are generally tacky, overpriced, and encompass Webster’s definition of “terrible.” But not this one. In the Cu Chi gift shop you can forget about novelty T-shirts. Here, one can actually buy tickets to the gun show. For just $1.50, you can shoot an AK-47 or an assortment of other Rambo artillery from the war. (In Nicaragua, you can blow up a cow with a Bazooka for $200, but the Vietnamese are just more tasteful). One can also buy sandals made from a Goodyear tire for $2.50 USD.

We complete the tour. Our guide Joe is pumped up about his job, rattling off his war knowledge at 300 mph in Vietnamese English. I try to concentrate, but can’t look away from the four-inch long solo grey hair dangling from his chin. Despite communication barriers, I love this old guy. Joe informs me that his two favorite bands are CCR and the Jimi Hendrix Experience, both of which he discovered during his time as a hippy intellectual during Nam. No fightin’ for Joe. What a fortunate son.

Vietnam: 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 Marbolo” 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.

Billy C at Pho 2000.

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

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 jeans. I’d change spots if it weren’t for the only power outlet is under his seat.

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, so I opt for the airport bench for some shuteye. 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 B-cock was incredible. 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. I feel loved.

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?! 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 full-on 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. Having a laptop (with Garageband), I felt for the dude. 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, but it gives you a better grasp on the sliding scale of Vietnamese goods and services.

Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) 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 bound to be 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.