That’s why I have Sunday routines, starting with Swan’s candy walk. We discussed hitting a different area this week but decided that disappointing our regulars was too much to bear. So, we hit the usual streets but added a new loop to freshen things up a bit.
As far as routines go, this is one of my favorites. The other Sunday tradition is the feeding at Hideaway Bar. They were down to three girls yesterday. How long can this go on?
While the floating bars are docked for the season, my other Sunday routine is dinner with Swan. She had mentioned going to Pujon Corner, but we ultimately decided to stick with John’s place for our Sunday meal. We’ll do Pujon later this week.
After our meal, we visited Alaska Club for our nightcap. We were surprised to see several of the Kokomo floating bar girls are now employed there. And in another coincidence, John Kim was there playing pool. I asked him if our leftovers smelled familiar, and he laughed. I wasn’t going to buy everyone a drink, but I did tip the dancers 50 pesos each. They seemed to appreciate it.
And that was how Sunday went down. Another good one.
We leave our windows open as I prefer cooling by fans. Sometimes that results in an unexpected visitor.
That was my excitement so far today. But the Hash is on the horizon. I’ll let you know how that goes tomorrow.
Today’s YouTube video is from the Filipina Pea exploring the issue of whether Asian women are easy. I thought she did a good job overall on a tricky subject. Making distinctions between Asian cultures, like Japan and Korea, was also important. I was pretty much invisible in Korea after turning 60, but here in the Philippines, I’m often reminded that “age is just a number.” Watch it if you please.
To the humor, then.
Thanks for stopping by.
The Alta Vista Clubhouse is a disappointment, especially when compared to Club Morocco.
In what way is it disappointing? Just by being too small? Or does it lack crucial facilities? Or is it just devoid of that energetic vibe?
This one called out, “what about me?” so Swan hurried back to satisfy her craving.
Called out in English?
Turkey time
Looks like a domestic Tom in front, and a wild turkey half-hidden behind.
Nice to see you again!
Dawg is giving off Snoopy vibes. How’re your fellers doing?
Puddles are the new norm, but I ain’t complainin’. Yet. It is definitely cooler these days.
They keep you on your toes and pull you out of your rut. See how painful such puns are??
I did the beef enchiladas. Three big ones. Spicy, but good.
Finally, someone who gives you more than one!
Food for thought
You never see that in Korea! Nothing but Kansas flatlands here, both front and back. There are rare exceptions, though.
Have yourself a merry little Hashing.
Thank you for the concern, John and Kevin, but I’m quite all right, except for the dead heroin addict I found in the library toilets when I rushed in for an emergency session at the urinal.
So yes, someone at the. library died of a heroin overdose, or maybe his supply was cut with fentanyl, the police said, and I was the one who found him.
I finished on my way to the Chevron, still had one last shot of Fireball packed away and decided to duck into the bathroom for a piss and a shot before picking up some more of that sweet nectar that keeps me going through the day. I even volunteered to do the booze run, having become sick and tired of the ex picking up the wrong beers and/or cigarettes.
I ignored the books on display at the library (which all seem to be homosexual propaganda these days) and headed straight to the bathroom, opened the door, and the most incongruous fucking thing I’d ever expect to see was in front of me: there’s a guy lying face down on the ground in the disabled stall, head and arm slightly poking out from under the door. He’s not moving. I thought I was hallucinating.
Thoughts run through my mind. Maybe he was a homeless person who’d crept into the building for somewhere to nap. The library doesn’t really have security, as such, and there’s a surprising amount of homeless people who wander the area. One of them could conceivably just come in off the street and camp out in the bathroom. I thought maybe he was a fellow booze hound who’d over-reveled and passed out. It didn’t occur to me – stupid, I know – this could be someone who needed medical help.
I call out “Hey, buddy, you ok?” No response. I advance and only then notice he’s lying in something he spilled. My brain connects the dots as I notice the color and the chunks: it’s vomit. I can’t just leave him there. Even if he doesn’t need medical help and he’s just some passed out fellow boozer or hobo, the last thing I need is my favorite library bathroom being noted as the place to get smashed and pass out. I move close to the stall door, making as much noise as I can. If he is just drunk I don’t want to surprise-wake him and have him come at me angrily. He still doesn’t respond to my calling him again and making noise. I get on my hands and knees and gingerly shake his shoulder. “Hey…dude, wake up, are you ok?” I recognize him, I think. He got in the elevator with me at the unemployment agency when I came in drunk on extract. He seemed quite jovial, and like a nice person.
No response. I’m still convinced he’s just passed-out drunk. I focus on his chest; it’s not moving. He’s not breathing. For some reason my brain can’t process that. No, no, he’s ok.
I get up and into the actual and make eye contact with a heavily-tattoed, blue-haired, and obese woman. Her name tag has Luna written on it and I wonder if it’s because she resembles a graffiti’ed moon or if they forgot to add the “-tic” part at the end. Whatever. I’ll tell her and she’ll call security and they’ll fish him out, and he’ll be ok. Something we’ll joke about later down the line; “Hey, minty library patron, remember that time you found that dude passed out in the bathroom? lol”
“Um, there’s some guy passed out in the men’s bathroom and I’m not sure if he’s ok.” I finally find the words. Her face creases in disbelief but she immediately gets out of her seat and waddles with me to go to the men’s room.
She hesitates at the last second and gingerly opens the door. “There’s no one else in there” I say, assuming she’s afraid of walking in on someone swinging their dick around or something. I hear her gasp as she walks in the door. I’m guessing she realizes something’s up too, as she doubles back and says she’s going to ring security while I wait there.
This old, almost doubled-over, guy shuffles into the bathroom, resplendent in his ill-fitting security uniform. “They said there’s some guy asleep in there?” he says, more to himself, as he moves past us and goes into the bathroom.
Luna shuffles over to the closed door, and cranes her neck to listen, I find myself doing the same. We can hear the security guard calling out “HEY! HEY SIR! ARE YOU OK? ARE YOU OK?” There’s a moment of silence and we hear the guard make a noise. Luna pushes the door open and we go in. The guard has managed to unlock the disabled stall door.
The guy is still not responsive. There’s even more vomit in the stall. I see a small piece of discolored aluminum foil and a lighter in the corner of the stall. I try not to look like I recognize it. The security guard turns around, exasperated. “Call 911! I’m not equipped to handle this! Call 911!” I seem to be the only one there with a phone and whip it out. Some people are walking past in the corridor now, and rubber-necking to see what’s going on. This big, older, guy I’ve never seen before comes inside, presumably to assist us.
911 tells us to put the guy flat on his back and start chest compressions. I hand the phone to Luna and help other guy drag the man out of the stall and position him on his back. There’s vomit running all down his front. His chest still isn’t moving. His mouth is slightly open and tongue poking out a little. His eyes are only just barely open. I don’t know how I know, but I get the distinct feeling he’s gone. Luna and other guy take turns with the compressions, as the operator and I call out the timing.
Paramedics arrive and they drag the man out of the bathroom and into the corridor, where they further try to resuscitate him. The machine he’s hooked up to makes multiple beeps and flatlines. I hear one of the paramedics say there’s evidence of black tar heroin use.
Luna and I are separated by the paramedic team. She’s with a bunch of the other bizarre.looking librarians, women all, and a lot of them look visibly distraught, almost on the verge of tears.
Me, I feel nothing. I don’t say that to sound big or cool. I just feel cold silence. I feel numb.
There’s shouting and there’s people running around. The medics tell security to shut the doors so no one walks on to the scene.
They call it at some 20 minutes and lift the dead man up to put him in the bathroom again, to clear access for staff still in the building, until the coroner arrives. The police are coming, they say, and they’ll want statements from those of us who were on the scene. The EMS people repeatedly tell us “good job” or “you did the right thing”. I feel a bit sheepish nodding my head in agreement when it was the guy next to me who was doing the chest compressions and I was just holding the phone and doing a count as directed by the operator.
The library manager is super nice to me, offering me water, candy, if I need to talk etc. The police surprisingly enough are nice as well. They ask me how I’m feeling. Still nothing. I just shrug. I don’t know what to say and I don’t want to sound heartless. They ask me some seemingly innocuous questions that the paranoid part of me can’t help but feel are to test if I even really am a patron of the library and I’m not some random homeless person who was shooting up with the dead guy in the bathroom. If so, I don’t blame them. I look shabby as fuck; my hoody is 50% hoody and 50% Morgoth the Third (my cat) fur, I’m two-strapping a dirty backpack with rips and holes in it. My shoes – once again – reek of cat piss.
I don’t really have much to say for the statement: I didn’t know the guy, I (think) I saw him before in an elevator, I went in the bathroom to wash my hands so I wouldn’t stain any of the gay library books and found him facedown, in a pool of his own vomit. End of.
The police officer clicks her pen in boredom and says that’s all she needs from me and I’m free to go. I decide to sprint to the Chevron and know for sure I am getting a handle of vodka which I intend to open and chug immediately. I need some brain bleach for this.
The ex is now spinning yarn that my opening the door shocked the guy in the stall causing his heart to give in.
“You didn’t see the amount of vomit,” I say in my defense.
“I don’t need to,” she replies, her words already slurred from the hits of vodka she took. “The sight of you would scare anyone to death.”
I ignore her snark and decide to drink myself to oblivion as planned. It could easily have been me in that stall, dead from an explosive mouthwash shit, and who would feed Morgoth the Third then?
This next drink goes to all the junkies out there who have died in public library bathrooms covered in their own retch. Cheers!
John, no screens on the windows? Somewhat surprising if not the norm. I’ve lived in a number of third world countries (albeit in relatively decent housing) and all the housing had screens. If no screens, any problems with bugs?
Thompson, sounds like you live in San Francisco.
Or Portland.
Some of the windows have screens, but I also leave the sliding doors open so the dogs have access to outside. My bedroom is screened up, so I can stay cool with fans and pretty much bug free.
Thompson, glad you are doing alright. You don’t want to end up like that addict in the library. What a way to go. Sorry you had to witness it, but you did the right thing. Another chapter in the story of your life.
“I drink much less than most people think, and I think much more than most people would believe. I am quite sincere about some of the things which people take very lightly, and almost insultingly unconcerned about some of the things which people take most seriously. In short, I am basically antisocial: certainly not to an alarming degree , but just more so than I appear to be.”
Hunter S. Thompson
Kev, the Alta Vista Clubhouse is not well-maintained. It is dirty, has holes in the ceiling, and needs paint. It offers no food and beverage service. The pool is okay, and there are basketball and tennis courts. Otherwise, it is completely useless.
I don’t recall if the little girl called out in English; I just heard the shout. She’s one of our regulars, and we paused at her house but didn’t see anyone, so we moved on. That’s when she came running.
My boys are both doing fine. Swan is Lucky’s new love.
“See how painful such puns are??”
Well, when it comes to puddle puns, I’m not getting down in the mud with you…
Yes, there are many curvy roads in the PI and many hills coming and going. However, some old-timers complain about the impact of too many Jollibees on that landscape.
Kev, the Alta Vista Clubhouse is not well-maintained. It is dirty, has holes in the ceiling, and needs paint. It offers no food and beverage service. The pool is okay, and there are basketball and tennis courts. Otherwise, it is completely useless.
Ugh. Sounds awful. A “clubhouse” in name only. Can you agitate for new management?
I’m a renter here so I have no voice. There are some homeowners who fighting for improvements. We’ll see what happens.