Blowing My Wad — Part 4: Muerto en Bocas Del Toro


This is what happened: I got hit by a truck about a year ago, and I got 500K to compensate me for my bones shattering and for the spinal fluid leaking from my ears. Since then, I’ve burned bridges. I’ve lied about my identity. I’ve isolated myself in a world of booze, whores and holidays. And it all seems like a giant blackout, now. This isn’t an ‘I found God’ kind of story. Though Lord knows if I get my hands on 500K again… This is just the story of how, for one year, I became Dennis Wilson, Bukowski and Hank Moody all rolled into one hot mess.

MY PASSPORT WAS PATHETIC. My high school trip to Puerto Vallarta was the extent of my world travels, and that needed to change, pronto. Not so much to be known as a world traveler, but just to say America wasn’t the only place I got my dick wet.

Since I was on a South American bender re: women, I decided to take my best friend, Colin, to Panama. He was more a traveler than me. But the good thing about Colin is that even though he lived a more active lifestyle than I did, his appetite for South American pussy and booze was equal to mine.

Colin and I have a history of letting things get out of control. From high school arrests to crashing cars to massive party fights… we’re probably the kind of friends who shouldn’t be friends. So we wanted to approach the trip with a bit of caution. We decided that when we first landed in Panama City we’d take it easy and not go out, since the next morning we’d be grabbing a prop plane to the island Bocas Del Toro, where we’d have plenty of time to get rowdy over the next nine days.


The women in Panama City are gorgeous and I’d say almost 90 percent of them have “street walker” listed on their resumes. And cheap hot pussy is not the best recipe for two guys trying to take it easy.

So we got hammered on our first night. And then we found a strip club. The women there acted like were our girlfriends. Problem was, you lost track of time… and every second cost you — a stripper’s drinks cost four times as much as ours did. It was essentially a sexy tourist scam. So imagine what the bill looked like, four hours, four girls, and 20 plus shots later.

Five grand.

I wasn’t prepared. And didn’t know what to expect when it came to currency. I had about two grand of cash on me but thought I could use my my credit card for the rest. Of course there was an issue.  Apparently I needed to tell my bank I was going to be out the country for fraud purposes. My card wasn’t working. But logic just wasn’t helping my case. Four guys strapped with guns were expecting to collect five grand for our dicks’ pleasures.

So I decided to do the next best thing: RUN! I grabbed my Indiana Jones tourist hat, snuck out the back and ran like hell. I made it back to the hotel, grabbed my shit, and told Colin to come with me. He didn’t. I kept going. I hiked for miles in what I’m going to call the jungle. Maybe it wasn’t the jungle. Dazed, drunk and tired, I was scared that at any moment I’d be arrested, or raped, or I’d pass out from dehydration.

Out of nowhere, a fucking Holiday Inn appeared. (Maybe it wasn’t the jungle.) So I slept in my Holiday Inn suite. Meanwhile Colin shucked his watch, forked over six hundred bucks, and agreed to never go back to the strip club.

For your viewing pleasure, Miss Panama 2012


The next morning, we met at the airport to go to Bocas. I told him not worry about the money — I’d pay for everything else on the trip. Also I let him punch me as hard as he wanted in the face. Colin told me the story itself was worth the risk, and the image of me running off in my Indiana Jones hat was priceless. This was true friendship.

We landed in Bocas Del Toro and taxied to the mini-mansion I’d rented that was right on the beach outside the jungle (a real jungle). The place had three stories, and it came with a boat, a pool, a golf cart… and four Colombian hookers.

The hookers had big tits and round asses. They spoke barely a lick of English between them. They were perfect. We drank. Lounged by the pool. Swapped partners and engaged in orgies with the Caribbean Sea as our backdrop.

I’d only paid for five nights at the mansion so we spent the last three days at the town hostel. We got the suite at the hostel, which meant it had two stained beds instead of one. We met a bunch of cool people, most our age, who were all down to party. They didn’t have as much cash as us, which made us very popular to the young men and women travelers.

When you’re on a bender in a foreign place, everything becomes a fucking Twilight Zone episode. There were mornings where I had a huge Rastafarian dude banging on my hostel saying I owed him money for “cocaine-ya.” I would have random locals wave at me, sometimes happy to see me sometimes just shaking their heads. I had one local tell me I owed him money for the 35-minute boat ride at 3 am to the source of the coke.

I had no idea any of that had even happened.

Last night in Bocas, I was hammered and I decided to pee on the floor in our hostel. Why? I couldn’t tell you. But the floor was made of wooden planks with major gaps in it. Apparently my piss trickled down into a lower hostel room, and ruined the the hostel manager’s boyfriend’s artwork. When I say artwork what I mean is his doodles were a piece of shit.

Regardless, when confronted… I denied my urine incident. I blamed the mess on the leaking fridge.

Picasso wasn’t buying it, so I bought a bunch of his artwork. And then I took it down to the beach, laid it out on the sand and pissed on it.


Clearly, it was time to head home. Next day, we skipped out before sunrise, caught a small plane back to Panama City. Then we flew back to LAX.

It’s adventures like these that make me wonder if I’m wasting my life. If I’m turning into some asshole douchebag with no purpose. I actually felt ashamed of the way I’d behaved.

With my bank account depleting at a lightning pace, this trip was an awakening. It’s easy for me to say that now as I write this, tired, weathered, and broke. But I think I knew on that flight back that all of it was going to end soon. And I had to make a choice: Start to put the pieces of my life back together or just keep riding the crazy wave.

We took a cab to the beach in Santa Monica. I was glad to see the Pacific Ocean again. A large wave came rolling in.

I decided to dive back in.




Related on The Smoking Jacket:
Blowing My Wad Part 1: How I Got Hit By a Dodge Minivan and Pissed 500K on Booze,
Whores, and Designer Furniture 

Blowing My Wad Part 2: Chicago Whores 
Blowing My Wad Part 3: 2 Weeks with Pornstar Maggie May