The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Remember what happened last night? Good. Now tell the world.

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The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by Palinka (RIP) »

We all have stories that we don't necessarily want people to associate with us but somehow, the stories are so great that they need to be told.

To help out with that, I have set up an anonymous account, The Urban Spaceman (you can find the password by looking up my occupation in my User Profile - something that only Board members are allowed to access).

Before using this facility, a few words. Moderators can see who is using/has used this account, if we need to do so. Therefore, do not use this account for anything but telling stories that you want to tell anonymously. Do not use use this account for any other purpose than relating stories, please. Do not send PMs to or from this account. Remember that this is an experiment, if successful it will continue. If not, it will be put down.

Any misuse of this account for flaming or any breach of the posting guidelines will be dealt with unkindly.

Now the nasty bits are over, please feel free to log-in to it and feel free to use its cloak of anonymity to tell those tales that need to be told.

Enjoy,
P.
"If I had all the money that I've spent on drink, I'd spend it on drink!"
"The trouble with internet quotes is that one can never be sure if they are genuine." - Abraham Lincoln
Kindly listen to this, please.
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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

It began with a kiss, and it ended in havoc. It was my first taste of alcohol. It would never be the end. The end.

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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by mistah willies »

The Urban Spaceman wrote:It began with a kiss, and it ended in havoc. It was my first taste of alcohol. It would never be the end. The end.
Is that some sort of 25 word haiku?

So, no holds barred, and no bars withheld?


Hmmm...

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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by oettinger »

Really hard to think of something I woudn`t want anyone to know was me. As I am kinda anonymous, because my parents didn`t really name me oettinger. Awesome beer though, they better had damn.
I will try though. Maybe I should go ask some friends for material, there has to be a reason some stuff is ousted from my brain.
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First Tale (Who’s Next?)

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

We met in the desert.

We were scientists.

We were experts.

We were Drunkards of the Modern manner.

Modern Drunkards.

This manner is not a belief system. It is a system of science, but not scientology, smokology, nor be it scatology.


We arrived in the city of Lake Havasu in our various, disparate vehicles. Most of these were airborne.

Much as we all would soon be.


It is the manner of our ilk that we measure our drinks as we measure the distance between towns, but a drip at a time, not a step and never a foot.


On the first day of our conference, we enjoyed the presentations and the modeling, but science does not impart to the thirsty, hungry, horny man much beyond humor.

No one gets off, that is, until they get off.


Now listen.

One of my old friends had joined us in this new field on the national level, and that fellow is the subject of this tale. We shall refer to him as “Mr. Odelay.”

(Urbane Spaceman indicates a drink now for you)


*wipes mouth on hanky fold, stuffs it back in suit breast pocket and continues*


Ahem.

On this first night, my good friend Sir Ashley and I scoured the landscape after the conference got out, and then we located a shopping center only two miles away from the conference that was hosted in a casino.

Mind you, it is very expensive to get a full drunk on in a casino. Each drink will cost you five dollars at the inconvenience store in the lobby, and ten dollars for someone to open it for you and pour it into a glass. That is why the casino was located two miles from the nearest booze store. They intended to hold us held hostage, them bastards.

Sir Ashley had driven to our conference in his personal vehicle, for that is how you can make some extra scratch. Mileage at $0.556/mile may not appear to hold much value, but it does, indeed, add up for you, if you don’t mind the extra wear on your ride.

We visited that little town. We bought them out of their supplies, alcohol-wise. We also nabbed large bags of Spicy Chicharrones and buffalo jerky, but not because we were on low carb diets.

When we returned to the casino, we searched for a place to gather with the rest of our fellow scientists for a bit of a taste of the lovely nectar.

We found a balcony that opened up with automatic-sliding glass windows.


Now, don’t ahead of yourself. These remained intact, for we are scientists, not fools.

Well, unless you count him, that Mr. Odelay, that is...



---tomorrow, we will see what happened next.

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Middle Part of the First Tale

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

Sir Ashley and I explored the entire structure of the casino with drinks in hand. We were met with neither curious nor spurious looks from those whom we encountered. Indeed, we crossed paths with couples who herded their offspring before them to the piss-pool, but when you bring kids into an adult entertainment center, what the hell are you thinking? (You have no footing. It is not your place to judge, lest you be judged, you gambling addict you. Rent a babysitter beforehand, or at least promise them a cut of your winnings.)


It was much like roaming about in an adult DizzneyWhirled with an oil can of Foster’s in one hand and a monstrous turkey drumstick in the other, cave-man-style.

Or better yet, it was like walking about in Vegas after dark…

…well, near and on the Strip or in Sam’s Town, that is.



We discovered that there were secret places to hold parties, and odd corner areas (corneas? You see, there were them tiny cameras all about the damned place) possibly for illicit activities as well. Illicit is as illicit does. Businessmen on travel will navigate the seas of treachery with adept hands…


We found the Balcony.

How had we missed it?


It was in plain view. Perhaps that was why we had not seen it at the start. It’s best to hide things in plain view sometimes. Located upon the high second floor, its entrance/exit was constructed with a wide, glassed-in view of the desert sky that folks could see from the first floor of the atrium/foyer.

But the rim of the walkway above held no view of those who visited the balcony. The walkway connected the wings of the hotel, and from such a perch, one could view newcomers as well as them slick beauties in the pools.

The piss-pool sat in a further-off caged container all of its own, for the wee ones.


We walked to the balcony and the glass doors swept away like the doors to the bridge of a mighty star-craft. Hot desert air kissed our faces. Her breath was scented with bougainvillea and jasmine flower, and sage.

Sir Ashley peered over the further end of the wide balcony, and chuckled. He said, “Look over here, Urb.” (That is short hand for Urbane Spaceman).

I looked to where I thought he had been pointing. Further beyond from us, poured in the cement, were various swimming pools and hot tubs, and a Tiki bar, of course. Hell yes and amen.

Lithe nubiles slowly roasted on their latex-grills under the unforgiving desert sun and others frolicked in the water.

Sir Ashley shook his head at me. He said, “No, look down. There be nets.”


It was true. Ten feet down from the balcony, the casino had erected wide, fine mesh nets, in order to catch those who thought it might be enjoyable to drive from the balcony. Businessmen must not be allowed to perish at the cost of the casino, perhaps. What would happen to the economy? Nets to catch the big fish, Yarrrr.


The thing about this odd discovery was that it made one think about what else the casino management might have encountered of folks who were cutting loose and did not know how to dance upon the edge. It is the manner of the Modern Drunkard to Judge the climb according to the fall, and dance only once you are fully aware of the repercussions and the risk. That is where true glory can be found. It is a dance indeed, and a fine one at that.

Them insecurity people had all the bases covered, and one could surmise that they had some interesting videos in a stockpile.


Now, the Balcony itself is not the focus of this particular Urbane Spaceman contribution from this here anonymous poseur.


Indeed, the Balcony was only the beginning of this short, but true, tale. It was a launch pad for what happened with that hapless friend of mine, Mr. Odelay.


And that is from where we will continue again.

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The Urbane Spaceman: Rise To The Arc

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

A word to the wise from The Urbane Spaceman to you, Modern Drunkardist: Good hotels and casinos will have small refrigerators to rent to you. Never use the mini-bar, nor attempt to remove a beverage from the bolted-down Frig that holds each container tightly and will alert the manage-mint that you have selected a Sprite.


The Sprite is a small, green woodland fairy who tastes quite well on the tongue, and the bolted-down Frig cannot be remove unless you are very strong. Like Lou Frig-No. He was green at one time. One would suspect that the Hulk didn’t taste all the well. However, the pursuit to taste either one can be detrimental to you. Hey no judgment here. Go about your life however you wish.


Instead of that, order the refrigerator along with your room purchase at the outset. It might be $5.00 per day for such an expense, but weigh that against the cost of a single drink from the casino, or the much greater repair-cost for ripping the damned thing from the cabinet and busting it open with your bare hands. Trust me.


Now, Sir Ashley and I had brought our largesse (which is here used to describe a Fucking Large Purchase, if one spoke French) back to each of our hotel rooms.

Of course, we also filled our bathtubs with ice from the machines. Hey, don’t use them dirty trash containers beneath the hotel room desk or in the wash room. That’s just nasty. Save the nasty for your activities, not your beverage. Use the bathtub as an homage for the original gangsters, if you partake of the mighty Gin.

There is nothing like taking a shower in the morning with your feet cooling off in ice cubes. Just be careful when you walk on ice. No need to break a hip, you know.

We planned to meet at the Balcony once we got our fellow and lady scientists informed about our small conference. It turned out to be quite a large conference on that Balcony. That is how we Modern Drunkards go about it. The best party will involve those who happen to attend, and not the ones invited, isn’t that correct?

That included including Mr. Odelay. And this was not a mistake on our behalf.

You see, we are a gregarious group, but it is not up to any of us, we Modern Drunkards, to attempt to control anyone else.

The pure distillation of such well-intended but ultimately evil pursuit is a drink called Intervention, and such a thing does not exist in the real world. It is a bad dream for all involved. It has no specific gravity. It holds no weight.


We wondered about the maximum load on that there Balcony, but we paid no mind to the maximum consummation. You see, consummation is the proof of the wedding, and to consume is to live, to truly explore the edge, the ledge, the driving point,

…and that,

well, that will be discussed in the next part, The End.


Consume!

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The Urbane Spaceman End of the First Tale, Who’s Next?

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

Perhaps by now you have understood that the setting for this tale is not actually located anywhere near Lake Havasu, and that there is the proper course for an avatar, free to tell truths under the cloak of anonymity. Recall that this here thing is open for use by any and each of us. Just spray air freshener and leave the fan on when you leave, cool?


Now, Sir Ashley and I had taken it upon ourselves to use our per diems along with personal savings to buy various types of booze for such a meeting in the desert with others who also liked to cut loose. It took us only one conference to understand that one must never expect anyone else to create the party. Fortunately, many others of our ilk also discovered this important fact, and that was how each hotel that held our conferences thereafter would never host us again.

We even encountered refusals from a reputation that preceded us via their hotel trade magazines. But there were those who thought they could handle us, or even manage us. It was never our intent to cause any of this. It’s just that there are too many Dry-folks out there. Sometimes, leading by example can work against you.


Here we go.


We staked out the Balcony because we had never used this tactic before. Usually it was a conjoined suite or a meeting room or entertainment space that we rented. But in doing it this way, it afforded the money to be used solely for booze.


I hid the first stash behind the large waste container that had small pebbles rolled onto its outer walls into grout. We pulled out the Jameson’s because that was our inaugural whiskey. He placed his first rack of Fat Tire next to my own four-pack of Guinness.

I always carry a church key. Let the service begin.

Ice in a metal bucket will keep very cold in the desert due to evaporation of condensation, but the ice will not last very long. I dropped a couple of cubes into his hotel room glass with the metal tongs and then some into my own room glass. He cracked the seal and poured. It was like a ceremony.

Indeed, it was a ceremony.

We stood like leaders and faced the setting sun with drinks in hand and surveyed our realm, the desert kingdom.

Them taut-bodied lovelies frolicked in the pools, singing their siren songs to us aboard our helm, and the pool lights blinked on, as if on command.

Soon, their light would lend an inviting, teal glow, but for now, only the deepening sky in the west greeted our raised chalices.

“To the start.”

“To no end.”

It tasted like more.









I sat and texted and smoked as Sir Ashley went to round up some who did not answer their phones. I used the networking contact sheet, making certain to not leave any message at all. (Hell, why does anyone leave a voice mail unless it is on a landline for work? I can see that I missed your call, and if I like you, I’ll call you right back. Isn’t that correct?)



The first to show up was Bird Man. I named him that because he jerked his noggin with odd, quirky spasms. Bird Man did not gaze upon things. He pierced objects with his sharp, beady eyes, and when he looked into your face, you felt the need to hide your impulse to smack him with your open palm. He just couldn’t seem to help himself. But he held no ill will to anyone. Just a bit spasmodic, that’s all.


He sat beside me, yes, right next to me, instead of directly across, as is the proper way for human interaction and personal space economy.

I wished I had purchased sunflower seed so that I could cast a handful on the glass table before us to see what he would do to it.

He looked deep into my soul and said, “Good to drink with you again, Urb.”

I nodded and raised my glass. I said, “Cheers to mental escape from the work we do.”

We drank and then I watched the pools ahead.


He glared into my ear hole and began to talk shop.

I grunted and said, “Shhhh. Let’s agree not to dirty the drink with what awaits us in the morning.”

He quieted his math and I could tell that he just needed help with his brain switch. Or twitch. Whatever.




Flicky showed up as the stars appeared in the dark end of the desert sky. His camera flash announced his presence. His device always hung from his neck, and his images always showed up in the worst locations. He had been instructed in university to document everything, and so he did. But there were times when one wondered if the camera could hang a man. How strong was that neck strap?


Someone with less patience than me would be the one who finally told him to cap it or lose it. Usually, that was when the night began to explode.

In his defense, it’s true in many fields that if one does not write it down then it never happened. Always record, in whatever manner appropriate. Since he was a visual sort of man, photography was his own favorite medium. True; there always comes a day after time has passed when you are thankful that someone had the foresight to snap a picture.

It’s just that he got a lot of people in trouble.




Sir Ashley returned and gave me the thumbs up. He shook hands with the other two men and after the niceties and small talk were filled, he caught my eye and nodded to the railing. I grabbed my smokes and met him there.

He said, “There are three other parties set up, and also, something strange. Wanna go for a stroll?”


Well, I don’t know about how you would respond, but when someone like Sir Ashley says something like that, then it must be investigated.


Other folks began to show up, and I said to the first two, “Be right back. Hold the court.”

Bird Man got up and sat down next to Flicky and peered deeply into his lenses. He said, “So what you got for a camera this time?”


Good enough.


I grabbed the stash and Sir Ashley led the way. He walked across the reach to the entrance of the western wing, and then we used the stairwell to the bottom floor.

He said, “There are some new folks who won’t answer their door, but before I knocked I heard a lot of loud laughter and giggling. It sounds like a bunch of ladies in there.”

I said, “Is the room on our contact sheet?”


He said, “No.”

Sir Ashley was a man above men.




As we neared, the unmistakable scent of cannabis wafted down the hallway, and along with it, perfume. It appeared to be a weak attempt to camouflage certain illicit activities.

In a hotel, it’s best to stuff a towel against the door bottom and turn on the wash room fan.

We reached the door he indicated and I set the stash down and knocked. The giggling beyond the door quieted, but then there came the sounds of glass tinkling and drawers slid opened and then closed.

There came the sound of a window opening four inches (and hitting the stop, which is a thing to prevent folks from falling to their death, but hell, we were on the ground floor) and then the air inside the room blasted out from under the door.


I coughed. I said, “Hello, are you with our conference? We have an event about to start…”


Then we heard some fevered whispering and more giggling, and then the door opened to the end of the metal security latch.

One eye peered out, and it was heavily made-up. She said, “How do I know that you are not rapists?”

Sir Ashley said, “How do we know that you’re not?”


More giggling, and someone pulled the eye away from the door. Then the door closed.


Sir Ashley winked at me.


The door opened fully this time and the remainder of the pot smoke blew out into our faces.

Inside the room, we made introductions and I set the booze stash on top of the table that they had pulled out in the middle of the room. I noticed the remnants of powder rails on its surface. These chicks were on vacation in Bolivia, or might it be Peru?


Sir Ashley said, “Anyone care for a drink?”

One of the lovelies pulled a bottle of rum out from under a pillow on the bed and said, “Sounds like a really good idea.”




We returned to the Balcony with our new entourage and found it to be filling up like a jigger-less neck to a punch bowl. A fellow nerd had brought a mini sound system that connected to his MP3 player and there was some pretty good party music playing.


Indeed, some of the more-reclusive nerds had shown up, and there were also some of the presenters there. They all and each seemed to be having a good time. Two of them were scheduled to present first thing tomorrow in one of the break-out sections. Luckily, the other break-out first-presenters were most likely still refining their slideshows in their rooms.

Thank goodness for that. It is tantamount to make certain to show up for work in the morning, no matter what it is you may do in the evening. That is true course for the Modern Drunkard, whatever your occupation. No matter how the world continues to try to fling you from its surface, and even if you never went to bed, you at least make the effort to show.



The doors swept open and Mr. Odelay entered the Balcony party with his hands outstretched, holding a bottle in each.

Folks turned and cheered at this sight.

It was his finest moment.




Many bottles passed along like a bucket brigade, and sips and toasts were made as the party got louder. At one point, maintenance crew showed up and knelt down in front of the Balcony doors. I saw this and went to talk with them.

One of them, called “George” according to his embroidered name tag said, “Very sorry, senior, but the cigarette smoke and the noise is coming into the lobby every time these doors open. We are told to stop them from opening.”

I said, “You can’t lock us out here! What about the fire code?!”

He said, “Me siento, but there are the fire doors on each side. You can exit the Balcony from them.”

I left him and went to the one near the first table and tested it. Sure enough, it opened, and I found myself in a hidden alcove that led to the walkway of the nearest wing. I walked out to maek certain and it closed behind me. I went back to it and found that it would not open. A placard nest to it read, “Not An Exit. Fire Exit Is Behind You.”

I strode back to them maintenance men. I said, “Let me back onto the Balcony.”

Once back out there, I motioned for Flicky to get up from his seat and when he did, I climbed onto the metal chair. I wavered a bit, and Flicky offered his hand for my steadiness. I clasped his hand and stood straight.

Some folks pointed and laughed, and someone shouted, “Don’t jump! There’s much to live for!”

I shouted back, “May I have your attention please?!”


People calmed their strenuous conversations and all faces were upon me.

I said, “Now listen. We have not been told to leave, but the sliding glass doors are now locked. However, there are doors on either side that we can use!”

Folks began to cheer that we would not have to leave, but I shushed them. I said, “Keep in mind those doors don’t let you back out here. We need to keep an ear for those trying to get back out here after they leave to use the restroom. Or just piss off the Balcony.”


Well, that last part was intended as a joke, but turned out to be a mistake.

I finished with, “Now let us raise a bottle or glass or Solo cup to the first party of the conference. May there be many more!”

At this, all drinks were raised and folks cheered.

The many folks at the Tiki bar and the pool area turned to see from where this chorus of exaltation arose.

Flicky helped me down and Sir Ashley clapped my back. He said, “Nicely done, Urb!”

I reached for a new bottle from the second stash, this one had a red, rubber covering that resembled melted wax, and I broke the seal. I toasted each of the politicians who had joined us, filling their glasses.

Thos ladies we invited lined us up and there was smoke all about, in various compositions. I am usually one of the last ones to remain at a party, but there was that tiny voice we each have in our head that told me it was time to find my pillow.

This time, I listened to it.


I didn’t even bid goodnight to anyone. I just grabbed a full bottle of Buffalo Trace and staggered out the side door, exit stage left.






A fly buzzed about my head and I swept my hand at it.

It kept coming back to buzz in my ear and I swung my arm around to kill it and then the sound of stuff falling from the bedside table made me open my eyes.

The table lamp laid on its side along with the unopened bottle of trace, and the hotel’s alarm clock screeched at me from under the other bed.


I sat up, took my clothing off, and headed to the shower.


I dressed in a clean suit and put on my shades like Jack Nicholson. There are times when Visine doesn’t work, and there are times when you just don’t need the extra photons in your face.

But a couple nips of Trace will clear your head.


Sir Ashley greeted me in the foyer in front of the break-out rooms.

He didn’t fuck with shades. His eyes were red and squinty, but he smiled. He said, “ Arm yourself?”

I nodded. I said, “Where are the eggs and bacon?”

He pointed to the buffet at the end of the hall.
We ate during the first break-out session, and then Sir Ashley left me to attend to some matter.


During the second section, he found me in another break-out room and sat down beside me. He said, “Helluva a party, huh?”


I nodded. I said, “Hell yes. That’s how we do it. For break, let’s have a sip, cool?”

He nodded and rubbed his face. He said, “I ended up with one of those ladies, you know, the ones we brought with us from their room. She’s still in mine. Let’s go to your room.”

I said, “Where did you go a bit ago?”


He shook his head and laughed. He said, “That Odelay guy. He was supposed to present in a break-out at first session, remember?”


I nodded and said, “Sounds like he didn’t make it.”


Sir Ashley nodded back at me. This is what he said:


Well, Odelay actually did make it. He made it back. Now hold on, I’ll tell you. You see, when he showed up on the Balcony, he was already hammered. He had a couple of bottles with him, but he didn’t share with anyone. Nope. He drank and drank, and then he vomited it all up, and he drank more. He tried to make moves on some of the ladies there, the ones attending the conference, puke all down his shirt.


At one point, he finished the first bottle and then took a piss off the Balcony, and then he threw the empty at the pools. Busted glass everywhere.


Folks took a hint and began to dribble out and that was how the party ended. That’s what I found out. I was, you know, busy with my lady friend. And where the hell did you go? You snuck off!

OK, OK, no harsh on you. Beer scooter, yup. Well, being one of the facilitators, I got a knock on the door from hotel security to come help with a man who keeps slurring my name. I mean, he tells them he knows me, and he can’t speak all that well.


Come to find out, they found him crawling on his hands and knees through the lobby front entrance, looking for his room.

They were deciding between calling an ambulance because he smelled like a distillery, or the police because they didn’t know him from Adam.

But they want to see if I do, indeed, know him.

Well, it was him, and we managed to get him back to his room. They helped me lay him on his side, and they left. He kept mumbling. So I asked him what he was doing crawling around on his hands and knees like that in the hotel lobby.

Basically, this is what happened:

The party ended, so he thought he should find another one. I guess no one would let him in the door. Somehow, he ended up in a taxicab. All he remembers about it was that the sun shone on his face at one point so he says, “Hey! Where am I? Where you taking me?!”

Driver says, “You wanted to go to DizzneyWhirled. I told you its gonna cost you, but you said you didn’t care. So we are a hundred miles out!”

The driver told him he wanted to be paid now or he would drop him off where they were, out there in the desert.

Odelay paid him, and that fucker brought him back to the hotel and dumped him out, then took off. Yeah, I’ll bet he kept that cash, never told his cab company.

But I’ll tell you what, Urb.

I wonder what he’ll do tonight?





Well, that is the end of the First Urbane Spaceman Tale.


Now the floor is open for someone else.


Consume!

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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by mistah willies »

tldr

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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by oettinger »

mistah willies wrote:tldr
tldr

hehe
Drink!
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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by Savage »

Well, holy carp! Anonymous lives?
like tears in rain

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The ZID Chapters

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

CH 1


Now listen as the Urbane Spaceman tells you a true tale. You might want to pour a drink and then take a sip.



Way back in the middles of them 80’s, the state of Californiplastic held a statewide party that involved the use of C11H15NO2.

1985 Ecstasy Drive. (More on that at another time.)


However, there was something else.

There was something that has continued to be enjoyed ever since Albert Hoffman synthesized it in 1938.

C20H25N3O.

Lysergic Acid, or more formally known as ZID


Now you may ask, “Hey there Urb (which is shorthand for Urbane Spaceman), why are you talking about drugs, when there is drinking afoot?”


That is a proper question.



...






Please excuse this Drunkard as he puts out a house fire with a drink and a piss.

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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by mistah willies »

Dude,

Yo should make a separate thread.

No harsh. But it's a bit to keep loading this whole single thing up

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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

Another job for the Urban Spaceman.

We picked up Jan at the airport as scheduled, a thirtyish hippie looking type with long hair whom customs no doubt took great interests harassing. This man was an expert in his field, and he was here for three days consulting on the dollar of an important individual. We were his handlers, the ones who made sure he arrived to where he was going and that he was provided whatever he asked. He threw his suitcase into the back and settled into his seat with a travel-weary sigh.

“America,” he said. “Land of the police. Your customs are real shit. You know that?”

An oversized spliff with a fat cone shaped tip was lit and passed to him. The air conditioned cabin was beset with white, rolling clouds of pungent smoke. Jan was much astute in his assessment of the officials who work for the US Customs and Immigration Services, or at least from his perspective. In his Dutch homeland, most of the time they barely bother to glance up from their station at a valid electronic passport. This was in the year just before the planes crashed and the rules were changed altogether.

“What do you want to do, Jan?”

“What do you think I want to do? I've been on a fucking plane for nine hours. Let's stop and get some nice, tasty beers.”

There was a place fifteen minutes from the airport known for wickedly good hand tossed pizzas as well as a twenty odd tap selection of various American, British and Belgian ales. Jan ate like a horse. He killed an entire sixteen inch pizza to himself and sucked back four pints of brown ale as if it were a quick snack. He was also very eager to sample American whiskeys which were of a limited selection in Holland. In accommodating this, it was required for us to switch venues and so we delivered him to another bar that specialized in catering to such tastes.

Jan quickly found he had an affinity with Pappy Van Winkle. The expensive twenty year stuff. Of course. Planted on his stool, Jan sat for two hours knocking back shots of straight bourbon interjected by other forays into random brown country until his cheeks were as flushed and rosy as a garden gnome. He got up to go take a piss and very nearly fell off his stool. Jan didn't want to drink alone and I certainly didn't blame him. But as the Urban Spaceman, I had to play it cool and keep my wits at least somewhat about me. Jan was my responsibility. I also happened to know that the other asshole who was my companion, a guy named “Doug”, was about as good at holding his liquor as a sieve was at holding water.

“Man, we need to go to the titty bar,” said Jan.

Not “strip club” mind you, but rather “titty bar”. It sounded strange coming out of his mouth with that tooth whistling Dutch accent of his.

I took him to the most vile, sleazy, grime-coated hole in local creation, hoping that it might dissuade him from lingering longer than was absolutely necessary. Naturally, the plan backfired. Jan sat drinking rail whiskey and stuffing one dollar bills into the G-strings of tramps with leathery, old skin like a thrift store handbag. As a contemporary Dutchman he was indulging his every perversion and loving it. Doug was off in the bathroom committing that timeless titty bar cliché of snorting cocaine with a “buddy” he'd ran into. I was mostly busy keeping a leash on Jan and trying not to catch a venereal disease from the lounge furniture.

Jan was so drunk he lit up a joint. The bouncer was immediately on him like stink on shit as titty bar bouncers are a particularly vigilant lot. I was able to defuse the situation with a brief explanation of Jan's foreign origin and his drunkenness as well as a one hundred dollar bill out of my own pocket, and we were escorted more or less civilly from the premises into the blinding glare of the afternoon sunlight. Doug was nowhere to be seen and wasn't answering his phone. Worthless asshole.

“Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

“No, I'm good,” answered Jan. “I just need to go take a little nap.”

Jan waited until we were in the car and on the freeway before deciding to puke. His retching was not in the least timid, it's fury and copiousness having been given further catalyst by a stomach full of undigested pizza. Tomorrow, we had a four hour drive to look forward to first thing in the morning, a trip to a site with ten thousand square feet worth of footprint upon which the vomiting man next to me was supposed to advise, and the Dutch fucker was so drunk he wouldn't have been able to tie his own shoelaces had he not been wearing sandals. Yes, this was going to be a blast.

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Savage
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Re: The Urban Spaceman - An Experiment

Post by Savage »

First off, you believe you are anonymous on the internet. Well, bless your heart. Every stupid comment I ever made is there. It wouldn't be too difficult to track me down. So when I got drunk, or in a bad mood, one could lambast me mercilessly. And, hoo boy, have I said some dumb and rude things over the last eleven or so years. At least the only pic I ever put up was me, fully clothed, in my office, with the Grump.
like tears in rain

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