We really didn’t have too much time.
All we could do, really, was get up, pack our belongings and get to the
Airport. Virgin Blue is what they call a ticketless airline, so it’s
pretty easy to check in.
Pete had a nice conversation with the woman at the ticket counter. She
was attractive and after she saw Pete’s military ID card, she told us the
story of how her sister got married to an American in the Air Force.
She seemed to warm slightly to Pete’s modern-day Pirate style.
“That’s the problem,” Pete lamented. “Why is it that I never seem to
meet anyone like that in town or in the bars?”
“I don’t know. It never seems to work out, does it?” My mind was
circling, though it seemed unable to touch the peripheral character storage
portion of my memory to definitively verify his assertion, though I knew it
to be true. An hour later, while sitting next to Pete and an old dude,
I saw a gorgeous dirty blonde sitting by herself in the row in front of us.
I continued the thought, “And this is what I mean about never working out.
How different would this flight be if we were sitting next to her?”
The flight attendants began their pre-flight spiel, “Good morning and
welcome aboard VB Flight 145 from Sydney to the Gold Coast. In the
front and to the back, you’ll notice the emergency exits clearly marked.
Your flight attendants today are Brandy, Candy, Mandy and I’m Sandy.”
There were laughs from the cabin, and I whispered to Pete, “And I’m randy.” I told him later it would have been the perfect time for me to shout that
same line for all to hear so I could share in the glory of the live-action
laugh track. I missed my window of opportunity for this joke, though.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, we landed in the Gold Coast.
I could tell Pete was a bit worried. “Well, now what? Should we
get some maps? Where are we even going?”
“Let’s ask a cab driver,” I said flatly.
“Yeah, he’ll know where to take us.” No one has the level of general
knowledge of an entire city or area, and no single person is as much a
treasure trove as your average cabbie.
Pete pulled some money from an ATM and we stood in line for a taxicab.
We got one and sat inside. “Where you guys going?”
“Well, actually, I was hoping you could tell us. Here’s what I’m
looking for: Plenty of bars, plenty of women, nice location and not
“Heard of it. What’s it like?” Name sounded funny to me…still does,
kind of…probably due to the endless Point Break references and jokes that
one can derive from it.
“Surfer’s Paradise is a fantastic place. Lots of good bars and little
clubs.” He then gave us a list of the good area hotspots. Though we
never actively sought out any of them, we ended up going to about 75% of
them anyway, so his advice was stellar. “Well, this is the heart of
Surfer’s,” he said, dropping us in front of the Holiday Inn. “This
shouldn’t be more than $200 per night.” Right on budget. That is what
I expected to pay, though. We tipped the cabbie well for his help and
went into the hotel in the middle of paradise.
We went to reception and booked four nights, after we found out it was only
a hundred and thirty-five Australian dollars per night. “Do you
realize,” I asked, turning to Murphy, “that our tickets just paid for
themselves with what we’re saving in comparison to Sydney’s hotels?”
The two straightest, pimpest Gs in Surfer’s Paradise went up to room 816.
Our room was beautiful. The tub was small, but we had a huge room,
nice queen-sized beds, a well-stocked mini-bar and an expansive balcony with
an amazing view of the city.
“I’m taking a shower,” I told Pete.
Minutes later, I emerged, cleaner, to find Pete sitting on our porch.
“You know,” Pete decided, finally convinced, “this was a really, really good
I laughed. “Why do you say that?”
“Dude, just looking out on the street, I’ve seen…there are…beautiful women
everywhere. Just looking at the ratio here, we’re doing much, much
better.” Pete went to take his shower and I started to read The House of M
to kill time before our new nightly adventures began.
When Pete came out, he had an epiphany. “Dude, I’m going to go with
this new experience. I’m trying out all sorts of things I never would
have before, like just spontaneously choosing a hotel. So, I’m
adopting a mantra for my time here, too. Here it is: What Would
Charles Bronson Do? Whatever he would do, I’m going to do.”
“Damn. That’s awesome. I need one, too. Hmm. How
about: What Would Magneto Do?” I’ve since applied the axiom to my entire
“Sounds like a plan to me. Speaking of, do you want to start at the
hotel bar here, too?” Pete asked.
“Well,” I said, looking up from Magneto’s New World as reflected by small
caricatures, “It is kind of our tradition, now. Probably not a bad
idea to stick with our signature moves.” In truth, it was one of the best
decisions we made on the trip.
We went to the hotel bar, Sirocco, a posh establishment that opened less
than a week prior to commemorate our arrival.
At first, we couldn’t
get served. “What the hell?” Pete asked, referring to the blonde guy
with the over-gelled hair. “Why doesn’t he ask us what we want?”
“It’s not like we’re out of sight, either. We’re sitting right here at
the bar. What a douche.”
I laughed. “Spiky-haired idiot douche. SHID. That’s his
name from now on: SHID.”
Suddenly, a middle-aged man appeared. “What will you boys have?” His
nametag read Pieter.
“Stoli and Cranberry, I think,” I said. “So…what are the good places
to go around town?”
“Depends on what you’re looking for,” he wisely responded.
“We’re looking for a nice, cool, laid-back bar,” I said. “Not blasting
music, but not dead, either.”
“Well,” the other Pieter said, “All you really need to do is walk out here
to the right and go down the road. There are bars everywhere.
You may like Melba’s, but it does get a little loud.” This was the second
time I heard about the place, considering the cab driver mentioned it, as
well, so I took note of the name.
Pieter left to fill our drink orders and a young woman came to fill someone
else’s. She was blonde and had that good girl quality about her that
made you think, Now this is a girl my family would approve of.
Usually, though, that’s not a great sign, but she was so damn cute.
And she also had this devilish aspect to her that made me think she’d rock
the sack pretty hard, as well.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jo,” she kind of giggled.
“Jo…what’s that short for? Jo Lee, Jo Ann…”
“Jo Ann, yeah!” she let out a little laugh again.
“Nice to meet you, Jo. I’m Seth. This is Pete.”
“Hey,” Pete nodded.
“Hi, guys,” she smiled and departed with her drinks.
We, too, left shortly after that in pursuit of a good watering hole.
At the street corner, the light turned green and Mouser squeaked, letting
loose his trademark rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat defense against vehicular
“Holy shit!” Pete exclaimed. “Mouser’s here, too!”
“Nice to see an old friend.”
We walked south down the street and soon passed a bar called the Beach
House. We almost passed it when I grabbed Murphy and suggested, “Let’s
check this place out. It doesn’t look too busy, but we can at least
have a beer.” Almost as soon as I walked in, it became my favorite bar in
Australia Good music, fine service and great beer. We sat at the bar
and marveled at the waitress staffing.
“Look at this shit,” Pete noted in a low voice. “All of these chicks
have South Beach bodies. Makes you realize how fat girls in the US
“True. Should have called this place the South Beach House.”
“Hey, guys!” the most beautiful of them all announced. “What will you
“A couple of XXXX Golds,” Pete said.
“Schooners or pints?”
“Whichever is bigger,” I added to the order. “What’s your name?”
“Eliza,” she said, showing her perfect, white teeth.”
“Eliza. That necklace is awesome,” I complimented, pointing to the
multiple brass-colored discs on her ample chest. It gave me a reason
to stare at that glorious cleavage. “What is that? Copper?”
“Thanks, I love this necklace. It’s not metal. You know what
this is?” I shook my head from side to side. “These are seashells.”
“Really?” I asked, fingering them. “I never would have guessed that…”
“All my necklaces are seashell,” she confided, handing us our beer. We
paid and then she asked, “Are you American?”
“Yeah,” Pete told her.
“Do you know how I knew?” she asked.
“Our accents?” he guessed.
“Nope, she said, letting the mystery dangle for a second. “You tipped
me. Only Americans tip. Australians…” she made a puffing noise
and lipped her hand through the air as if brushing away an annoying fly.
She left to wait on another customer.
“That’s amazing,” Pete told me. “A woman who looks like that in the
states would have set down your beer and would have been a total bitch.”
“Much less actually appreciate a tip as opposed to believing it was owed to
her,” I observed. Amazingly enough, all the other women looked almost
as good, but this was our first night and we had to explore. After a
few more conversations with Eliza and another beer, it was time to move on.
However, we did take note that Karaoke was playing at the Beach House every
“Damn,” Pete complained, as we stepped outside. “We missed that by a
day. Now, we’d have to wait a week for a chance to sing and totally
own that place.”
“I know, but at least we’ll be able to do it, if we want. Look…there’s
an Irish pub about a block and a half up the road.”
“Maybe this one won’t suck like the one named after me.” We went inside and
sat down at the bar. Some hot redhead gave us our beer and I
complimented her hair. She smiled, but was far too obsessed with the
toolbag slaughtering American songs at the jukebox to really notice me.
Pete and I went outside to smoke. On the patio, I saw a dude with a
shirt that said, “Bend It Like Beckham”. Beneath the quote was a
picture of a stickman banging a stickchick doggie-style. I laughed my
ass off thinking of Posh Spice taking it while Pete complimented the tee.
“I like yours, too, mate!” the Aussie said, referencing Murphy’s classic GI
Joe logo top. We struck up a conversation and found out he was part of
a larger group consisting of two New Zealanders, a Frenchman and two other
Australians. They invited us to join their party, and although we made
a feeble attempt to deny them, we couldn’t really say no to such a motley
crew. Plus, I figured we’d go enough places to learn our way around
Which was true. We left the Irish Pub and went to a place called The
Beer Garden. I started talking to the Frenchman, “So, do you guys
really hate Americans?”
“Ah, no, I love zee Americans! I love everyone! I love the
American pussy! I eat it and then I…” If you are anywhere as
uncomfortable as I was by this point, than you’d probably be even moreso
when hearing the remainder of his illicit and sometimes disgusting details
of the Frenchman’s rather graphic fantasy fuck. However, I found I
preferred the horny frog as opposed to some fascist socialist bastard I’d
expected to encounter. So, he was all right in my book. I went
to the bar for another beer and saw an attractive Goth woman. She
poured my beer and came around to my side of the bar to smoke. We
talked briefly, but I began to worry about my sidekick.
I couldn’t find him, so I went outside on the patio. He was sitting
with a guy and a gal I didn’t know, so he introduced them as, “Kim and
James! This is my buddy, Seth.”
“Nice to meet you,” I offered, in conjunction with my handshake.
“Would you like to see a magic trick?” James asked.
“Uh…okay,” I thought. A bit out of place, this strange introduction,
but I went with it. He took of Kim’s top, exposing the curves of the
fantastic ridgeline of her chest. Baby Zombie, tattooed breasts.
James took the cigarette from his mouth, put it out on her top and then
rolled it up. He then pulled the overshirt taut to reveal…nothing.
No burn, no butt, nothing. He set the top down and opened his hands,
showing the cigarette had disappeared.
“Very nice!” I applauded. At that point, Beckham came out and told us
it was time to move on, so we invited Kim and James to join us.
We walked down the street and ended up at an outdoor bar. I sat across
from one of the New Zealanders and he began to ask me what I thought of the
war. “Well, it’s not like what the news tells you. They,
naturally talk about all the crap and none of the good. Generally,
it’s not nearly as bad as they say. Rarely, it is.”
“Yeah, but how can you justify going against the United Nations to invade?”
I knew it was just a debate and he didn’t really want to learn anything,
just attempt to convert me, so I went the other way with it, sticking with
truth, but adding offensiveness. “Ah, so what? The UN is an
archaic institution designed to prevent the Cold War. Mission
Accomplished! The only reason the UN didn’t back it was because
each one of the vetoers were found to have backdoor deals in violation of
the UN sanctions themselves. Whether it was the Oil for Food scandal
that went all the way to Kofi’s kid, the French trading off rockets Iraq was
never supposed to have or the Russians giving out night vision goggles to
help kill Americans, the ones opposed were not necessarily on our side,
anyway. I could give a fuck about those guys. Big deal.”
“It is a big deal!” he shouted. “It sets a precedent for blah blah-blahing…” He went on to espouse opinion and conjecture, never dealing with statistics
and facts. When I provided numbers for him, he accused me of being
brainwashed. Brainwashed by reality, maybe.
“Well, I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree,” I conceded, offering my
hand as an olive branch.
He stood up yelling, “No way! I’m not shaking hands with some
I laughed and took another drink from my beer. Be the bigger man and
all that complete horseshit. Really, he was just so far beneath me, I
couldn’t care less.
“Don’t worry about him. He’s crazy,” Beckham comforted.
“I’m not worried, trust me,” I assured. “He warrants not even a second
I’ve always heard Australian men are kind of assholes to women, but I never
saw it in action until Beckham yelled at one hot passerby, “Hey, come over
here, gorgeous! Hey, nice ass! Come on, bitch, come here!!” It
was an interesting approach I wouldn’t have thought of and never would have
After one beer, the group moved once again to a loud-ass club down the
street called Shooters. It was filled with a Bachelorette party
dressed as angels or devils…I assume it was some dress-code for who was
friends of the groom and who was with the bride. I found Pete, Kim and
James in the back of the club and we all hung out there, due to the relative
quiet sanctuary it offered.
Pete, after about half an hour, told me, “I’m going to do a walkabout.
See what our prospects are, here.”
“Okay,” I said. I talked to Kim for a while. She was difficult
to read, which was probably the result of being difficult to hear. On
one hand, I thought she was interested, but on the other, she was with
James. Given their relationship and its nature were enigmatic, I gave
the boy the benefit of the doubt and didn’t pursue any avenues. I was
charming, still, naturally. Kim said, “I have to leave, but…wait
here.” She disappeared into the bar briefly and came back with a coaster.
“Here’s my number. Give me a call!”
“I will,” I bar promised. We kissed, then I shook James’ hand and they
made their exit from my life.
Pete returned shortly thereafter and divulged his findings, “I didn’t see
any real women out there. Hey. Where did Kim and James go?”
“They left,” I informed him. “But they gave us their number.”
“Oh. Cool. Is she calling you a hottie?”
“What?” I looked at the coaster and hadn’t noticed Kim’s little personal
message. “I’m sure she’s talking about me. Come on.”
“You wanna go?” he asked. “I don’t see those other guys here, either.”
“Yeah, lets get out of here, I’m pretty blitzed already.”
We walked outside and started down the street. “Hey, look at that!” I
shrieked, pointing at a sign which read, ‘Theo’s Kebab.’
Pete walked up to a man outside the shop and asked a question which caused
me to burst out in laughter, “Are you Theo?”
The man seemed a bit pissed, and said stoically, “I might be.”
“Can I get a beef kebab and…” I paused, thinking. “Lettuce, tomato,
cheese, some of that…”
“Hot sauce?” he asked, holding a bottle filled with red liquid.
“You know what? Yeah, put hot sauce and ranch on it.” The guy didn’t
understand and held up the white sauce. “Yeah, the white sauce.”
“Give me the same,” Pete ordered.
“Hey, look Pete. It’s the devil and angel chicks from the club.” I
motioned towards the table of women. “What’s up, LADIES!!” They
completely ignored my drunken advances and I laughed. Theo handed us
our kebabs and we sat down to eat.
“Holy shit, that’s hot!” Pete said, biting into his before I had the chance.
“Hell, yeah, it is!” I agreed. My mistake was that the white sauce was
not ranch at all, but a white garlic and onion sauce, now used in
combination with the aforementioned hot sauce. “Damn good, though.”
“Hey!” a voice shouted from three tables down. I looked up. “Are
“Yeah,” I answered honestly.
“No offense mate, but I hate your fucking country.”
“Fuck you, you fucking cocksucker!” I told him.
“Holy shit, calm down dude!” Pete pleaded.
“Where the hell are you from?” I asked the instigator.
“Well, all of you ingrates can go to hell, because you’re just pissed off
we’re the only ones protecting you’re fucking ass!”
I ranted and Pete chastised my handling of the situation, “Let's just go
back to the hotel."
“All right,” I conceded, and we got up to walk away.
“You have to
realize we're kind of like ambassadors to the world. How they view us
is probably how they'll view America.”
“Something tells me that guy never liked America to begin with.”
“Okay, but you shouldn’t start out blasting the guy, though.”
“Maybe not,” I conceded, “but he’s the one who introduced himself with both
barrels blazing, not me, so you'll have to attribute that flaw to him. And as
ambassador, I'm here to tell this guy the US isn't going to put up with his
shit. We're ambassadors to the greatest country in the world, and we
are the greatest because less than fifty years from the inception of
our country we were out making an impact in global events, as we are now,
and this douche doesn't like how we're doing it currently. Well, fuck
him. We've been to Iraq. We know. What the hell could this
guy know about it when Australia is probably as far away as he's ever been
from his country? He hates us, admittedly, and throws this bullshit
because he thinks we have a perspective limited to our own country when he's
worse, because he's not even from the greatest country in the world;
he's from New Fucking Zealand! We attempt to make a difference while
this guy sits on his ass, does nothing and criticizes, and yet we are still
in the wrong, because we can't even defend our country's actions verbally.
What the fuck could he possibly know about the world from his isolated
little kindergarten of a country? And who will teach him if we
constantly back down and walk away?”
Pete was suddenly super-motivated. Both of us had just come from the
war. And we were shying away from a pseudo-intellectual. Pete
agreed, “You're right. Why are we walking away?” We both went
back and tore into the guy.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I said and then continued, “You may think all
Americans are bastards, but let me tell you something… and you have absolutely NO power
or influence in this world.” The angel/devil chicks looked like they were
about to say something totally inconsequential, so I cut them off and told
the bitches, “You shut the fuck up.” Then, the women left, and the argument
belonged to the men. At least they mind. I relished debating this fucker face to face. “You can hate the US, but I know this
fact: There is no fucking
way, if you were to visit, they would tell you they hate your fucking
country. You can’t preface a sentence with ‘no offense’ and then
follow it with the most offensive thing you can possibly think of and expect
it to be okay, you fucking retard.”
Now, I realize I probably didn’t make my point tactfully in the slightest.
In my defense, I was drunk and this bastard was looking for a fight anyway,
obviously, because the jackass continued to preach more and more of his
insulting anti-American propaganda. Pete found the guy's friend to be
a little more receptive, so he took over with a
more…subtle…approach. I let him and paced angrily for awhile.
The friend listened, though he disagreed, and the pair of Kiwis eventually
ended up backing down and walking away.
The douche attempted to get in the last, sarcastic word, “Have fun in great
and wonderful America!”
I said something fantastically classic and memorable like, “Fuck you!”
Pete yelled, “Have fun on your island in the middle of fucking nowhere!”
“Asshole,” I sneered. “Pussy, to boot. Where the
fuck are we, anyway?”
“I was following you. I thought you knew. I think maybe…the
hotel is that way?” Pete hypothesized, but at this point I was too pissed
and pissed to mess around with location exploration, so I hailed the taxi I
seen come around the corner and paid him the five bucks it cost to take me
the eight blocks to our hotel. Pete and I stumbled in and made our way
to the elevator, our room and bed.