DOGS The best time I ever had in Bali was in Malaysia. I woke up sticky with sweat in a shameful leather throne to the groans of Asian porn playing on the big screen in front of me, and my buddy screaming about the urgency of our immediate escape because somehow he had pissed off every ho and pimp in this sleazy brothel. So we skedaddled like mice while my brain started to remember the prior events of the evening, where I was on stage by myself in front of 200 Malaysian onlookers, dancing with my pants split from front to back, as if my pants were smiling like the Joker to reveal all my little fleshy bits and pieces, which was all the result of a big dance move that I can’t remember gone wrong. Other than that, most of my Bali experiences were for ad campaigns, and like most ad campaigns, they don’t really revolve around actually surfing. But not this trip. This trip we were surf dogs of an enviable degree. Three surfs a day, crispy skin and fried eyes and hellish rashes and all that surf shit — with surf vids in between. Creed and Thom’s once wispy angel hair was starting to wilt away, curling up and snapping off. Dion had to take time off to heal his body from jangling his bones trying rodeos into the flats. Ozzie was so surf he got staph from a pimple on his knee — a real surf dog’s extreme surf trip. We’d drink beers in the evening and take turns playing tunes and telling stories for everyone to enjoy. Vibes were high like a church choir. The days came and went but we didn’t notice them passing, because we were busy having the best trip of our lives. And somehow we all had the same taste in music. This trip quickly replaced my favorite Bali memory of a whorehouse in Malaysia.