Hello Reader,
In an SWT first, we’re recommending a new book for purchase. It’s not always easy to pick from the hundreds of excellent titles within the music genre. Various titles from Michael Azerrad, Bob Mehr, and Robin D.G. Kelley’s Thelonious Monk come to the top of my mind. The book we’ll be sharing an excerpt with you today is not music-centric work; rather, it’s a wonderfully written, humorous series of stories. To put it into perspective, if you’ve enjoyed reading any or all of Henry Rollins, Chuck Klosterman, or Hunter S. Thompson’s writings, we think you’ll love this one as well.
Even better, yet, this is from an artist, singer-songwriter, musician, and author we’ve discussed on SWT before. He’s the voice behind the intro song for our Water Tower Sessions series, which we discussed along with his acclaimed book and more here. And he penned one of the first essays in our fantastic Artist Essay series.
Yes, we feel that it’s time to advocate for Brett Newski.
And his new book, Piss In the Wind: Misadventures of an Indie Troubadour (Vol 1). Here’s the eye-catching cover of it:
Here’s just one of his thrilling adventures:
[%Name%], Sept 2011, somewhere in Vietnam…
Just witnessed an entire family of four piled on one motorbike. Two kids sandwiched between the parents, the tires sink into the pavement from the weight. I pass another biker carrying a giant sheet of glass the size of Shaquille O’Neal. The guy on the back of the bike holding onto it for dear life as his buddy dodges the potholes.
Eventually, the landscape switches from dusty, grim towns to immaculate, vibrant hills and fields. The rice paddies extend onward forever, and my bike and I break free onto the open road.
“Pop! Pop! Pop!”
The sound of gunshots. My motorbike is taking a shit. I hit the gas: nothing. My bike engine sputters, and I pull over.
The only sign of any humanity is a tiny metal shack about 200 yards ahead. I walk my shot-ass bike to the hut.
A skin-and-bones Vietnamese guy comes outside with his 4-year-old, and I point at my bike and shrug. I try to communicate, but the man doesn’t speak a lick of English. His toddler looks at me like I am an alien from a far away planet. He is wide eyed and curious. This far out in the sticks, it is possible the boy has not seen a white person before.
The skinny man pulls a toolbox out of his hut and begins to tear my bike apart. He gets down on his hands and knees and attacks it with a wrench, his hands quickly dosed in black oil. The 4-year-old pushes over a lawn chair for me to sit in, which strikes me as an advanced maneuver for a toddler.
The man works his ass off on my bike for a full 45 minutes.
The golden rule in Vietnam is that you must negotiate a price before a service is performed. Otherwise, they charge you five to ten times the price. I’m so fatigued from negotiating every single transaction along the journey that I just surrender to the moment and let the man work. I’m at his total mercy.
As he finishes and begins packing up his toolbox, I reach into my pocket to pull out some money. Much to my surprise, the man shakes his head, unwilling to accept. Instead, he goes back into the shack and brings out a giant used car muffler he’s converted into a bong. It’s a showcase bong, with arms and legs and wires and tubes jetting off in all directions. It’s also quite rusty. It looks like a weapon from the film Mad Max.
The man pulls out a lighter and gets to it. I watch as he rips the largest bong rip I’ve ever seen. Smoke pours into the ether. A mushroom cloud. I have found the Snoop Dogg of Vietnam.
He passes me the showcase bong muffler. I stink at smoking bongs, but the man is happy to help and lights it for me as his 4-year-old looks on in astonishment. Smoke pours into my lungs, and fiery pain rips down my esophagus as if the devil himself is hijacking my guts. I cough an earthquake. So much pain.
Snoop Dogg and his toddler erupt in laughter. The man laughs so hard he is wiping tears from his eyes.
I quickly realized this isn’t weed at all. It’s dirty tobacco. I just smoked an entire pack of cheap cigarettes in one bong rip. The pain.
The man seems legitimately excited to be hanging out with me. I am shocked at his kindness. Hard physical labor at no charge. The generosity from people on the road continues to amaze me. I am in more hospitality debt than I can ever pay back.
I hop back on my newly working bike and drive off. The man is still laughing as he waves goodbye. I wipe tears of pain from my eyes as he wipes tears of laughter from his.
Grab the entire book Piss in the Wind right here, and while you’re over there, pick up Newski’s acclaimed humor mixed with mental health book, It’s Hard to be a Person here.
Check out those links and tell him that SWT sent you!
Scummy Water Tower Productions co-founder, reviewer, business manager, and editor. Thank you for visiting this site: scummywatertower.com, and YouTube for Water Tower Sessions!
Contact me: alex@scummywatertower.com
