CHRIS WALKER VS. ENCOUNTERING A COUGAR AT THE DALLAS AIRPORT

I think a Cougar just hit on me.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, a Cougar is a single, older lady – 50 years plus – who is out on the prowl, looking for young dudes. I was just at the service desk of the Admiral’s Club in Dallas Fort Worth airport trying to get a new flight (because my flight to Reno was canceled) when a Cougar – one of the ladies working the service desk – began stalking her prey, Yours Truly.

The Cougar’d been searching alternate flights for quite a while when she said, “Thanks for being patient and such a sweetheart.” “No problem,” I replied. At the time, I thought nothing of it. It’s Texas, they call everyone sweetheart. After about five more minutes of searching we had this exchange:

Me: You know, if you can just get me to San Francisco I can grab a rental car or I even have friends in Vegas if you can get me there for the night.
The Cougar: Well, I can get you to Los Angeles but I’d hate to get you stuck there.
Me: Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad; I have a friend out there, too.
The Cougar: Chris, you look like the type of guy who has friends everywhere.

Oh really? After that, she gave me a drink ticket for my trouble. Sensing the Cougar had my best interest in mind, I just sat back and let her work her magic. Ten minutes later, the Cougar had me standby on a flight to Sacramento – which I need to head to in a couple minutes – and confirmed on a later flight to Sacramento (in case I don’t get on the standby flight). I told her thank you so much and, while printing out my boarding passes, she slipped me two more drink tickets saying, “Here’s a couple more. That way you can go to the bar and have a drink now and then head over the A Gates and have two more before you have to get on the plane. Or, you could just stay and have all three drinks with us here.”

Cougars are awesome! Unfortunately, I couldn’t take her up on her offer. If I get on this standby flight it means I have to be bright-eyed and sober so I can drive back to Reno from Sacramento tonight. Otherwise, I’d be three gin and tonics deep. What can I say? I guess I’m learning responsibility. Or something.

And on that note, let’s go standby.

CHRIS WALKER VS. SOUTHERN COMFORT. WITH A LIME.

Everyone’s got a kind of alcohol they refuse to touch. Judging from the Bands and Booze interviews, the majority steer clear of gin. While I’m not afraid of gin (and actually enjoy a good gin martini with blue cheese olives now and then) I vehemently avoid Goldschlager: a cinnamon flavored liquor with flakes of gold swimming in it. If a drink has to entice me to consume it with glimmering trinkets it can’t be trusted; it might as well be made by the devil, himself. Not to mention, last time I drank it some backwoods-hillbilly-motherfucker dropped me on my eye. But that’s another story altogether.

Another alcohol I stay away from is Southern Comfort. Our last confrontation was three years ago in Las Vegas. My friends and I were working an outdoor fireworks booth and, out of sheer boredom, started playing a variation of Texas Hold ‘Em poker for shots of bad sake. Around the time the sake ran out we came across a bottle of Southern Comfort, affectionately known as ‘So Co’. I still don’t remember where the bottle came from but I don’t remember being too concerned, either – we cracked it open and continued our game. I’ll have you know there were no winners that day, only losers. I’m still amazed we didn’t blow ourselves up.

While I wouldn’t say that particular So Co experience ‘destroyed me’ I haven’t gone running out to the store to buy a bottle since. I don’t know anyone who drinks it; all my friends enjoy a good whiskey or delicious meal of Rick Rambis (a.k.a. Wild Turkey). I honestly thought I’d live a long, fruitful life without crossing paths with that dreadful beast ever again. Then Dong Wang and I went out on Friday night.

Ever since my epically awesome St. Patrick’s Day I’ve been enamored with new Reno hot spot (is there such a thing?) Imperial Bar and Lounge. It’s got just enough dive bar atmosphere mixed with lounge scene to appeal to me. The drinks are also extremely affordable. I bought a round for five people, including two beers and three girl drinks, and it came to $19. Fucking unbelievable; try doing that in Vegas.

Although our night took us to Imperial it started at the lounge Tonic (actually, it started at our friend Ralph’s house with Irish car-bombs and a couple beers but that doesn’t count). Dong Wang and I met up with my friend Tiffany and her two cousins: Boy Cousin, who was visiting for the weekend, and Girl Cousin, who would turn out to be one of the most hardcore women I’ve ever met.

Both were cordial but Girl Cousin seemed disinterested in Dong Wang and I. Understandable, we aren’t supermodels but before long charm won over and as I accurately put it, “By the end of the night we’re all going to be great friends.” To solidify our newfound friendship we decided to take a shot; Girl Cousin picked it. Our following exchange went like this:

Me: So, what are we taking a shot of?
Girl Cousin: So Co and lime.
Me: So Co and lime? Cool, what’s in it?
Girl Cousin: So Co…with a lime.
Me: Oh.

I couldn’t believe this girl ordered So Co straight. I figured ‘So Co and lime’ was the name of some frilly, faggy drink but, no. I asked Girl Cousin, “You actually drink this by choice?” She said yes; in fact, she swears by the shit. As I write I am still in shock. It’s not like Girl Cousin is a burly lumberjack like Yours Truly. Or has a mustache. Or is built like a Chevy Duramax truck. She is a real girl, the attractive kind that wears makeup and probably watches The Hills and listens to whatever shitty pop music girls listen to nowadays. It’s the first time I’ve been impressed by a girl’s drinking habits since I learned The Mrs. (currently The Former Mrs.) drank Guinness. In the pages of the The Versus Girl Cousin will forever be known as So Co.

Another beer and we all walked over to Imperial – which had a line at the door. Dong Wang convinced us it would move fast so we waited until Tiffany used her “I’m hot” magic which allowed us to bypass the line. For the record: I love having hot girl friends (not to be confused with hot girlfriends); they make life so much easier.

Imperial was everything I’ve made it out to be over the past week: awesome. I caught up with a bunch of old friends; we all hung out at a table (which you don’t have to pay for. See: shitty Reno clubs.); we drank entirely too much. According to Dong Wang, near the end of the night So Co said something like, “I don’t even feel it, I can’t get drunk.” So, we all had another shot of Southern Comfort. With lime. Dios mio.

Speaking of dios mio, while outside smoking a cigarette with Tiffany I said, “Dios mio”, which means “Oh my god” in Spanish – and Tiff asked, “Where’d you learn that?” I don’t know, Panama? Guadalajara, maybe? Outside smoking was also where I met Half-Black Mike – the guy who got us into Imperial. Half-Black Mike was a pretty interesting guy because at first, I thought he was a pretty-boy who loved dudes but it turned out he was just Italian. Never would have guessed.

Around 4:00 AM, after a couple more drinks and a late night dinner with Tiffany, Boy Cousin, So Co, and Half-Black Mike at…some casino…Dong Wang and I made it back to his house where – as promised (on Wang’s MySpace) – I performed the “Abe Lincoln”. Unless you’ve been watching the Beaver Boys all week (like we have) that makes no sense. Basically, as soon as we got to Dong Wang’s house I just fell over and passed out on the floor despite the fact there are currently two empty beds in Wang’s house. Whatever, I love the floor.

The next day Dong Wang and I rose around the crack of noon (or 1:00 PM, to be exact). Then we went to the newly re-opened Pho 777 restaurant where we indulged in the Vietnamese deliciousness and did our best to recap the previous night’s intricacies. Even the next day I couldn’t believe So Co ordered straight Southern Comfort and we actually drank it. I never imagined a girl could be so hardcore – unless she was built like a Buick. Like I said earlier: still shocked. Or maybe the shock is from the fact I was up at 4:00 AM this morning to catch a plane to Dallas, to catch a plane Guatemala, and I’ve had a couple gin and tonics. What do I know? Either way, Friday night was pretty awesome; Imperial Bar and Lounge is awesome, and Southern Comfort…well, it’s not so bad. With a lime.

CHRIS WALKER VS. WHERE THE STREETS HAVE NO NAME

You never appreciate the fine line between ‘charming and rustic’ and “Fuck, this is some third world shit,” until you’re actually standing there, saying to yourself, “Fuck, this is some third world shit.” I learned to appreciate the line last Monday after Nacho, my Mexican Distributor, and I arrived in Panama City, Panama.

Looking out the window as we landed, Panama appeared gorgeous. Surrounded by ocean, there were lush, green forests, dark blue rivers running through them – it was paradise. Then we got off the plane, through the airport, and into the city. Not exactly paradise. Imagine a place that got the life bombed out of it 50 years ago and they just now kinda, sorta, got around to half-assing the rebuilding process. That’s Panama.

To clarify, places like Moltrasio or Bellagio, Italy are charming and rustic. Parts of Guadalajara, Mexico are charming and rustic. They have culture, rich history, and (most importantly) incredible, and often times simple, food. Panama is not charming. Nor is it rustic. It’s poverty’s tiara-wearing, slut of a prom queen; the role model all other crime infested, disease ridden dens of filth and debauchery aspire to emulate. Or, it’s a perfect example of what happens after America occupies you for a hundred years and then leaves. Take note, Iraq. Not that you were much of an ideal vacation stop beforehand.

Before you start thinking “Walker’s just being a spoiled snob,” understand my travels have taken me to some rural places. I’ve peeled apart shrimp under cover of a pink tarp in middle-of-nowhere, Singapore; I’ve eaten off banana leaves with locals in Thailand; I’ve stomached down fish eyeballs, animal intestine, and boiled chicken feet in mainland China; I’ve even mowed down traditional tacos in the parts of Cancun where people actually live. And I’ve loved every minute of it. If there was cold beer and interesting people to trade stories with I’d hang out in a coal mine for a while. I really don’t care.

“Rebel chef” Anthony Bourdain said it perfectly, the Big Boss has a variation of it, and I’ll say it now: the best, and perhaps only, way to fully understand a culture is to eat what the locals eat and drink what the locals drink. That is why Panama lacks appeal, there is no culture. Their national food is Bennigan’s and Dunkin’ Doughnuts. Seriously, they’re building another Bennigan’s and ten more Dunkin’ Doughnuts as you read this. During my week-long trip to Panama I ate at a Hard Rock Café, a T.G.I.Fridays, a Tony Roma’s, had drinks at Hooters, and the list of deplorable American fare continues. Nothing authentic, nothing to challenge my palette; it was so miserably American by the end of the trip Nacho, my Mexican Distributor, and I ate potato chips with lime and Tabasco and drank Brandy and Coke in their hotel room for dinner. I’m not even kidding.

One of the trip’s finest moments was when my Mexican Distributor and I went to visit potential customers. A hotel cab driver (not from our hotel as our hotel didn’t have a taxi service) was willing to wait for us while we were in meetings. As we traveled from customer to customer the landscape changed from sketchy, to bad, to if this cab breaks down we’re all going to die. After we’d left the worst area (the pictures below do not do justice) the cab driver told us if we weren’t so close to where we were in the first place he would’ve never taken us there. The hotel won’t allow him to take guests as far out as we were. It’s probably one of the most dangerous parts of Panama. Great to know.

Not pictured above are the guys shooting dice and dealing drugs I was afraid to photograph as they glared at us, passing through their neighborhood. I’m telling you, after traveling to Panama I’m willing to visit customers anywhere; how much worse could it be?

Speaking of taxis, Panama has about five street signs, seven stop lights, and virtually no stop signs. Traffic is a certified free-for-all. If you’re a middle-aged, overweight, stay-at-home, mother-of-
miserable-future-America who merges onto a 65 mile per hour highway going 45 MPH and gets upset when you ‘feel’ someone has either cut you off or tailgated you – shut the fuck up. Get out of the McDonald’s drive-thru and visit a third world country; you have absolutely no clue. And for the record, I’m willing to bet not one single Panamanian knows how to use a turn single. They all know how to use the car horn, however.

If you’ve read this far you might be sitting there thinking, “Gosh Chris, don’t you have anything positive to say about Panama; isn’t there anything fun to do?” To which I would respond, yes, I do have something positive to say: Panama is a fantastic place to leave. Wherever you are going from there will seem like Disney Land. And if it is Disney Land, well, you might as well be going to heaven. As for fun things to do in Panama, there are two: 01.) drink excessively; 02.) pay for a happy ending massage from a girl who will presumably leave you with the full-blown AIDS. Oh yeah, you can also visit one of Panama’s national landmarks (see: a shopping mall or Bennigan’s) or gamble but you can also do that in Las Vegas – or an Indian colony – and in Vegas you can actually touch surfaces without feeling like your skin is going to rot off. Kind of.

“But what about the Panama Canal?” you say. “It’s one of the Seven Wonders of the World!” Here’s what the Panama Canal looks like:

Epic, granted, but once you realize you actually have to go to Panama to see this thing – loses all appeal. Actually seeing the things you learned about in seventh grade history class is not all that awesome. Kind of like when the chick you lusted after in high school turns into a sloppy, chunky, mega whore and you go, “Wow, in retrospect, glad I dodged that bullet.” Do yourself a favor and check it off your list NOW.

Speaking of whores, I will say this: if you love paying for sex Panama is the city for you. It’s everywhere and all the locals do it – which also makes it so disgusting. It’s like, “Hey guys, I feel like getting the AIDS tonight! Again!” One of the customers we visited even goes so far as to carry condoms in the ashtray of his car. And although I’m sure sitting down to drink and swap tales with him would be amazing I couldn’t help from thinking “Fuck me, I shook this guy’s hand?” I seriously don’t know how they let anyone back in the country after going to Panama. Where are you on that one, Homeland Security?

Maybe this sounds like a bunch of bitching. I call it observation. I think the pictures alone would make you think, “Wow, totally looks like a place I don’t want to go to.” If I wasn’t with great friends who are hilarious and love to drink I probably would’ve thrown myself out my hotel window (which I often thought about). Drinking is the only fun thing to do in Panama that doesn’t involve living with the full-blown AIDS afterwards. Luckily for us, we are all exceptional drinkers. Check out what we did in just two nights:

And that doesn’t even count all the beer, Sangria, wine, and other shit we drank at lunch…and breakfast…and well, anywhere we happened to be. My tolerance is so high right now I can drink an entire bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label and still be straight as an arrow. Sounds like I’m ready for St. Patrick’s Day.

Cheers.