World's largest American flag, 5,400 Sq Ft, Port Authority of New York::cheeky:
World’s largest free-flying American flag hangs over George Washington Bridge | New York Post
Oops! That is more then twice as big!
Frank
- Thread starter frank12
- Start date
Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Oops! That is more then twice as big!
Frank
That bridge has been in the news lately.
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/10/n...ned-a-new-jersey-town-into-a-parking-lot.html
By creating an artificial bottleneck at the bridge, tens of thousands of hours were lost in increased commute time for days and at one point, it slowed an ambulance trying to cross it. It's all fun and games to be a bit mischievous, but that kind of thing could lead to someone dying before they made it to the hospital. This could come back to haunt Christy. I don't think he had anything to plan it, but he isn't doing back flips(or back rolls) to hang the blame on someone either. Seems one of his high school buddies is at the center of the event.
http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/10/n...ned-a-new-jersey-town-into-a-parking-lot.html
By creating an artificial bottleneck at the bridge, tens of thousands of hours were lost in increased commute time for days and at one point, it slowed an ambulance trying to cross it. It's all fun and games to be a bit mischievous, but that kind of thing could lead to someone dying before they made it to the hospital. This could come back to haunt Christy. I don't think he had anything to plan it, but he isn't doing back flips(or back rolls) to hang the blame on someone either. Seems one of his high school buddies is at the center of the event.
I came into work today and there was the same motley crowd of expats sitting around the bar. There was Alaskan Jessie, Police chief Jimmy, Mikey—the Irish King, Navy Seal Chuck, Swedish Marco, and Detroit Rick. Rick was rolling his eyes in the back of his head and channeling the spirit of Tony Montana. He was speaking exactly like Tony Montana speaks in the movie Scarface. Rick has perfected the art of voice imitation and can recite the whole Scarface movie from scratch. He can imitate Al Pacino better then Al Pacino.
Rick is one of these guys who can channel movie stars and imitate their facial expressions and voices while simultaneously rolling his eyes into the back of his head and going into a trance-like Presidente-induced state. He is very talented when he has enough Presidente beer in him. He is also very talented in channeling the spirits of dead people. But that is another story.
Swedish Marco and I were talking while Detroit Rick channeled Tony Montana. I was speaking Norwegian to him and he was speaking Swedish to me. I can catch about 60% of Swedish when it is spoken to me in a slow, sober voice. Marco was not exactly sober, but we did manage to carry on a semi-retarded level of conversation that bordered on autism.
I was explaining to Marco that I had the only Swedish made 550 Supermoto racing motorcycle in the DR, and that it was sitting right out front, leaning up against the pizza shack. I asked him, “What’s the only bike made in Sweden?” He didn’t ride motorcycles, so he didn’t know.
I meet a lot Swedish people at the bar during the winter months. They come down here to the north coast on charter flights (Apollo Tours) out of Stockholm. They start drinking on the flight down here and somehow manage to remain drunk for the entire two weeks that they are on vacation. They never really sober up long enough to realize that A.) they have left Stockholm; and B.) are not in Mexico. I keep a bottle of Norwegian Linje Aquavit in the refrigerator behind the bar and gave him and his friend a shot. He knew instantly what it was, but his friend had no idea.
I told Marco the answer about the motorcycle, but he had never heard of the Swedish bike company “Husaberg.” Swedes still think Husqvarna is Swedish. It’s not. Technically, not even my bike is totally Swedish anymore. The company was bought out by KTM about 18 years ago.
Bar owner Mikey was sitting at the bar buying drinks for anyone who looked in his general direction. He tried to buy me some drinks but I told him that I am not even a registered voter. I really wanted to remain sober. I also wanted to make it home in one piece in order to make love to my redhead. A few drinks would send me into a catatonic state where I would need heart defibulators and Viagra to revive me. I was chewing on Viagra pills and getting ready to end my shift and go home. I was trying to time it right.
Mikey had a couple of beautiful girls who came up the beach from Lazy Dog. They were standing around him while he held court in the court of the Crimson King.
Let me tell you a little bit about the Crimson King. The king is a huge, extraverted, gregarious individual who has owned the same bar in Massachusetts for 38 years. 38 years. To say that he is social butterfly would be the understatement of the year. To say that he throws money around like he prints it would be an understatement. He is the most generous bar patron I have ever met in 6 years of working on the beach. He buys drinks for anyone who even glances in his general direction. He is the life of any party.
These two Lazy Dog beauties were standing at the bar while Mikey told tall stories of mischief and sexual debauchery. At the other corner of the bar was his friend and travel companion--the police chief of his town, Jimmy (In an earlier post, I mistakenly called him Larry.). Jimmy was sitting at the bar watching the Monday night football game and listening to some crazy drunk guy from Quebec attempt to speak some semblance of the English language while some 6’3 Haitian drag queen tried to pick-pocket him.
French Canadians are a crazy group of people. When French Canadians get drunk, you might as well turn your hearing aid off. You’re not going to understand one single word that they say--they tend to mumble a lot and repeat the same phrases over and over—which they call foreplay.
Frank
Rick is one of these guys who can channel movie stars and imitate their facial expressions and voices while simultaneously rolling his eyes into the back of his head and going into a trance-like Presidente-induced state. He is very talented when he has enough Presidente beer in him. He is also very talented in channeling the spirits of dead people. But that is another story.
Swedish Marco and I were talking while Detroit Rick channeled Tony Montana. I was speaking Norwegian to him and he was speaking Swedish to me. I can catch about 60% of Swedish when it is spoken to me in a slow, sober voice. Marco was not exactly sober, but we did manage to carry on a semi-retarded level of conversation that bordered on autism.
I was explaining to Marco that I had the only Swedish made 550 Supermoto racing motorcycle in the DR, and that it was sitting right out front, leaning up against the pizza shack. I asked him, “What’s the only bike made in Sweden?” He didn’t ride motorcycles, so he didn’t know.
I meet a lot Swedish people at the bar during the winter months. They come down here to the north coast on charter flights (Apollo Tours) out of Stockholm. They start drinking on the flight down here and somehow manage to remain drunk for the entire two weeks that they are on vacation. They never really sober up long enough to realize that A.) they have left Stockholm; and B.) are not in Mexico. I keep a bottle of Norwegian Linje Aquavit in the refrigerator behind the bar and gave him and his friend a shot. He knew instantly what it was, but his friend had no idea.
I told Marco the answer about the motorcycle, but he had never heard of the Swedish bike company “Husaberg.” Swedes still think Husqvarna is Swedish. It’s not. Technically, not even my bike is totally Swedish anymore. The company was bought out by KTM about 18 years ago.
Bar owner Mikey was sitting at the bar buying drinks for anyone who looked in his general direction. He tried to buy me some drinks but I told him that I am not even a registered voter. I really wanted to remain sober. I also wanted to make it home in one piece in order to make love to my redhead. A few drinks would send me into a catatonic state where I would need heart defibulators and Viagra to revive me. I was chewing on Viagra pills and getting ready to end my shift and go home. I was trying to time it right.
Mikey had a couple of beautiful girls who came up the beach from Lazy Dog. They were standing around him while he held court in the court of the Crimson King.
Let me tell you a little bit about the Crimson King. The king is a huge, extraverted, gregarious individual who has owned the same bar in Massachusetts for 38 years. 38 years. To say that he is social butterfly would be the understatement of the year. To say that he throws money around like he prints it would be an understatement. He is the most generous bar patron I have ever met in 6 years of working on the beach. He buys drinks for anyone who even glances in his general direction. He is the life of any party.
These two Lazy Dog beauties were standing at the bar while Mikey told tall stories of mischief and sexual debauchery. At the other corner of the bar was his friend and travel companion--the police chief of his town, Jimmy (In an earlier post, I mistakenly called him Larry.). Jimmy was sitting at the bar watching the Monday night football game and listening to some crazy drunk guy from Quebec attempt to speak some semblance of the English language while some 6’3 Haitian drag queen tried to pick-pocket him.
French Canadians are a crazy group of people. When French Canadians get drunk, you might as well turn your hearing aid off. You’re not going to understand one single word that they say--they tend to mumble a lot and repeat the same phrases over and over—which they call foreplay.
Frank
Last edited:
The North coast is absolute the best part of the DR. Allow me to explain why.
I love the North Coast. It’s the only place I know where people are absurd and yet normal, bizarre and yet plain, outrageous and yet boring—a combination Broadway musical meets live sex show—The Sound of Music meets Deep Throat—only here, we have a lot more nudity and eccentric personalities running around—of the sort we used to see in the 60’s and 70’s when hippies, free-spirits, and political radicals ran through the streets naked, wild, and free.
On the North Coast, diversity is everywhere: businessmen, Sankies, students, aspiring writers, poets, transvestites, street hustlers, and politicians all sit next to one another inside beach cafes, restaurants, and bars, conversing over coffee, beer, Viagra and laughter.
The streets are alive and full of life—tourists sit underneath a canopy of towering palm and coconut trees enjoying the sunshine. Me and my stray dogs and stray friends enjoy sitting at beach cafes and restaurants watching surfers, bohemians, and eccentric characters stroll up and down the beach with flowers in their hair, while working girls gently stroll up and down the beach in high heel shoes that sink into 4 inch sand.
How much more laid back can life get?
Frank
I love the North Coast. It’s the only place I know where people are absurd and yet normal, bizarre and yet plain, outrageous and yet boring—a combination Broadway musical meets live sex show—The Sound of Music meets Deep Throat—only here, we have a lot more nudity and eccentric personalities running around—of the sort we used to see in the 60’s and 70’s when hippies, free-spirits, and political radicals ran through the streets naked, wild, and free.
On the North Coast, diversity is everywhere: businessmen, Sankies, students, aspiring writers, poets, transvestites, street hustlers, and politicians all sit next to one another inside beach cafes, restaurants, and bars, conversing over coffee, beer, Viagra and laughter.
The streets are alive and full of life—tourists sit underneath a canopy of towering palm and coconut trees enjoying the sunshine. Me and my stray dogs and stray friends enjoy sitting at beach cafes and restaurants watching surfers, bohemians, and eccentric characters stroll up and down the beach with flowers in their hair, while working girls gently stroll up and down the beach in high heel shoes that sink into 4 inch sand.
How much more laid back can life get?
Frank
A couple of nights ago, Tuesday, I had a customer--who spends his free time traveling between southern U.S and the north coast of the DR--come in and sit at the bar with me. He and I have recently gotten to know each other and he is a semi-retired attorney from the south. He travels a lot back and forth from the U.S and the north coast.
This southern gentleman has had a girlfriend here for a couple of years, and by all accounts it’s a normal relationship…which is to say, she is a single mother of two children, without much education, barely employed, and very poor. He, on the other hand, is very educated, established, partner in a law firm, and rich. Stinking rich. He’s also very articulate, funny, laid back, and damn good looking. I considered dating him, but i'm not even a registered voter.
He and I normally talk about football. He likes football, understands the game, and played football in college. After exhausting him with stories about my father’s homemade burial underneath his mango tree, he turned to me and said, Frank, I think I screwed up.”
“oh, why’s that?” I asked.
“I bought my girlfriend a car.”
“Ok, what’s wrong with that?” I asked smiling.
“she can’t afford a car.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was confused.
“I told my girlfriend the amount of money I was willing to spend on the car, but when we went looking for a car in Moca, they didn’t really have anything in that price range that was really decent. We searched a lot of places, but to no avail. Finally, we found something that was half-way decent, not fantastic, but decent, but it cost nearly twice the price that I was willing to spend.
She told me, “Buy this car, and I will finance the remaining cost.”
I asked her, “How are you going to be able to pay it?” she said, “I will pay for it.”
“How?” I asked.
“I will pay for it!” she answered emphatically.
The dealer started going over the finance charges, which were hard to follow to say the least because, first, they were in Spanish; secondly, they were spoken in a language that sounded like Hee-Haw, and only understood by autistic children and animals. In the end, I figured the amount to be something like 2% a month, financed over three years. For those of you (like myself) not well versed in the mathematics and Astrophysics, that amounts to 24% a year in interest.
An hour later, they were driving back to the north coast. She was a happy camper in her new car. Despite not possessing a driver’s license--and let’s face it--how many Dominicans really do--she took to driving like a true Dominican—running over chickens and dogs on the way home and laughing about it.
The next day, the attorney thinking about the finance charges and an interest rate that would make Bernie Madoff proud, he turned to her and asked, “How on earth are you going to pay for this car?”
“I don’t know?” she answered without so much as a hint of dismay.
Frank
This southern gentleman has had a girlfriend here for a couple of years, and by all accounts it’s a normal relationship…which is to say, she is a single mother of two children, without much education, barely employed, and very poor. He, on the other hand, is very educated, established, partner in a law firm, and rich. Stinking rich. He’s also very articulate, funny, laid back, and damn good looking. I considered dating him, but i'm not even a registered voter.
He and I normally talk about football. He likes football, understands the game, and played football in college. After exhausting him with stories about my father’s homemade burial underneath his mango tree, he turned to me and said, Frank, I think I screwed up.”
“oh, why’s that?” I asked.
“I bought my girlfriend a car.”
“Ok, what’s wrong with that?” I asked smiling.
“she can’t afford a car.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was confused.
“I told my girlfriend the amount of money I was willing to spend on the car, but when we went looking for a car in Moca, they didn’t really have anything in that price range that was really decent. We searched a lot of places, but to no avail. Finally, we found something that was half-way decent, not fantastic, but decent, but it cost nearly twice the price that I was willing to spend.
She told me, “Buy this car, and I will finance the remaining cost.”
I asked her, “How are you going to be able to pay it?” she said, “I will pay for it.”
“How?” I asked.
“I will pay for it!” she answered emphatically.
The dealer started going over the finance charges, which were hard to follow to say the least because, first, they were in Spanish; secondly, they were spoken in a language that sounded like Hee-Haw, and only understood by autistic children and animals. In the end, I figured the amount to be something like 2% a month, financed over three years. For those of you (like myself) not well versed in the mathematics and Astrophysics, that amounts to 24% a year in interest.
An hour later, they were driving back to the north coast. She was a happy camper in her new car. Despite not possessing a driver’s license--and let’s face it--how many Dominicans really do--she took to driving like a true Dominican—running over chickens and dogs on the way home and laughing about it.
The next day, the attorney thinking about the finance charges and an interest rate that would make Bernie Madoff proud, he turned to her and asked, “How on earth are you going to pay for this car?”
“I don’t know?” she answered without so much as a hint of dismay.
Frank
Four years ago, I was standing behind the bar talking to a gentleman from England. He lived in the south of Europe, but was visiting the North coast with his wife (also from England). He was telling me about him and his wife’s search for real estate properties here on the North Coast. They had just spent the day looking at different properties and he seemed to have narrowed his search down to two houses. He described them to me and asked me what I thought.
The first question I asked him was about their location? The next question I asked was whether or not they were inside a gated community? They were not inside a gated community...hence, the bargain.
Like everyone, they were looking for the most “Bang for your Buck.” I can relate to this principal. I do this with food and women. But with real estate, I’m more prone to think about safety first.
I said to him, “Look, I know there are some really good deals out there on properties on the south side of highway 5, up in the hills, down the Cayuhon De La loma, etc. There are a lot of good deals outside of town as well--in-between Sabaneta and Cabarete, but your number one concern should be about safety. In this respect, you want to be inside something gated and something that’s secure.”
He listened attentively, and then told me about this bargain that he found in one particular house here in Cabarete. It was a large house (I was there twice; it was large), it was walled in as well with 6ft walls, it had a nice manicured garden surrounding the compound, it was close to town, and it was a bargain. A real bargain. But why? One problem, he explained, “The house does not have any windows. None! Zero!”
“Really? No windows?” I asked, perplexed.
“The owners are Dominicans who live in the U.S, and since they’re not here all year round, someone came into the house and chiseled out every single window throughout the whole house...all of them! And they also chiseled out every piece of wood.”
I’ve heard a lot of strange robbery stories over the last twenty years, but I have never heard of someone stealing windows. Appliances, yes. Furniture, yes. Hi-fi equipment, yes. Beautiful daughters, yes. But windows, no.
This was new to me. So I asked him, “why on earth did someone steal the windows, and why don’t the owners just replace them if they’re trying to sell the house?”
“It doesn't make sense to replace the windows if they’re not going to be here all year round. Someone will just come back in and steal the next set of windows.”
It turns out that to have 6ft or 10ft walls is exactly the kind of stealth like protection that thieves love to have. They can work undercover without the neighbors having a clue that someone is on the inside of the compound walls. Basically, they work uninterrupted, completely shielded from the traffic and public view. They can even sleep in the house and not worry about anyone seeing them.
Against my advice, and unable to turn away a good deal, the English couple went ahead and bought the house. They had new windows made for the whole house (very costly), they had wood re-cut, stained, finished, and then put back throughout the house. Then they moved in. Happy campers.
9 months later, at 4am in the morning, the couple was woken up in their bedroom with 3 or 4 men standing around them with ski masks on. The robbers were very calm, very patient, and explained that they only wanted the valuables. All valuables. They wanted the jewelry; money, watches, and anything small enough to carry…like a safe or a skinny daughter. Luckily, their daughter was back in Spain—plus she was fat and quite heavy. But they did have some valuables, and the robbers took those with them and left through the front door. (The robbers had used a hydraulic car jack to gain entry in the other part of the house while they slept in their bedrooms with the A/C on—totally oblivious to what was going on. Then suddenly, surprise! we're home!
Well, that little episode did it for the wife. She wasn’t going to be living in that house anymore. Meanwhile, the husband tried to get a foothold into the business aspect of the North-coast. While he was trying to open a couple of businesses, he came home one night to another surprise: after opening and locking his front driveway gate, and parking his car, he got out and approached the front door of his house and was met by quite a few men wearing ski masks. D?j? vu. Is it skiing season, again?
They tied him up to a nice white plastic patio chair, pulled up a truck and started making back and forth trips--carefully emptying his house like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas…only much more thorough—in a way that only Dominicans can relate to—stealing the batteries, light bulbs, kitchen fixtures, rug, door mats, hand towels, and toilet paper that he just purchased from Pricemart…you know, the double cushion type that gives a better wipe.
A few months later, he was robbed again. Well, that was the final nail in the coffin. He came in and sat at the bar and told me, “That’s it, Frank.” and then added, “No mas!”
Reflecting back on the robberies, he said, “I am so relieved that my daughter was not here for any of this. Who knows what I would have done if they had tried to harm her, or tried something stupid.”
I sat there and reflected on whether or not to tell him the good news that he had absolutely nothing to worry about…his daughter was way too fat, and would have weighed them down during their getaway.
Frank
The first question I asked him was about their location? The next question I asked was whether or not they were inside a gated community? They were not inside a gated community...hence, the bargain.
Like everyone, they were looking for the most “Bang for your Buck.” I can relate to this principal. I do this with food and women. But with real estate, I’m more prone to think about safety first.
I said to him, “Look, I know there are some really good deals out there on properties on the south side of highway 5, up in the hills, down the Cayuhon De La loma, etc. There are a lot of good deals outside of town as well--in-between Sabaneta and Cabarete, but your number one concern should be about safety. In this respect, you want to be inside something gated and something that’s secure.”
He listened attentively, and then told me about this bargain that he found in one particular house here in Cabarete. It was a large house (I was there twice; it was large), it was walled in as well with 6ft walls, it had a nice manicured garden surrounding the compound, it was close to town, and it was a bargain. A real bargain. But why? One problem, he explained, “The house does not have any windows. None! Zero!”
“Really? No windows?” I asked, perplexed.
“The owners are Dominicans who live in the U.S, and since they’re not here all year round, someone came into the house and chiseled out every single window throughout the whole house...all of them! And they also chiseled out every piece of wood.”
I’ve heard a lot of strange robbery stories over the last twenty years, but I have never heard of someone stealing windows. Appliances, yes. Furniture, yes. Hi-fi equipment, yes. Beautiful daughters, yes. But windows, no.
This was new to me. So I asked him, “why on earth did someone steal the windows, and why don’t the owners just replace them if they’re trying to sell the house?”
“It doesn't make sense to replace the windows if they’re not going to be here all year round. Someone will just come back in and steal the next set of windows.”
It turns out that to have 6ft or 10ft walls is exactly the kind of stealth like protection that thieves love to have. They can work undercover without the neighbors having a clue that someone is on the inside of the compound walls. Basically, they work uninterrupted, completely shielded from the traffic and public view. They can even sleep in the house and not worry about anyone seeing them.
Against my advice, and unable to turn away a good deal, the English couple went ahead and bought the house. They had new windows made for the whole house (very costly), they had wood re-cut, stained, finished, and then put back throughout the house. Then they moved in. Happy campers.
9 months later, at 4am in the morning, the couple was woken up in their bedroom with 3 or 4 men standing around them with ski masks on. The robbers were very calm, very patient, and explained that they only wanted the valuables. All valuables. They wanted the jewelry; money, watches, and anything small enough to carry…like a safe or a skinny daughter. Luckily, their daughter was back in Spain—plus she was fat and quite heavy. But they did have some valuables, and the robbers took those with them and left through the front door. (The robbers had used a hydraulic car jack to gain entry in the other part of the house while they slept in their bedrooms with the A/C on—totally oblivious to what was going on. Then suddenly, surprise! we're home!
Well, that little episode did it for the wife. She wasn’t going to be living in that house anymore. Meanwhile, the husband tried to get a foothold into the business aspect of the North-coast. While he was trying to open a couple of businesses, he came home one night to another surprise: after opening and locking his front driveway gate, and parking his car, he got out and approached the front door of his house and was met by quite a few men wearing ski masks. D?j? vu. Is it skiing season, again?
They tied him up to a nice white plastic patio chair, pulled up a truck and started making back and forth trips--carefully emptying his house like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas…only much more thorough—in a way that only Dominicans can relate to—stealing the batteries, light bulbs, kitchen fixtures, rug, door mats, hand towels, and toilet paper that he just purchased from Pricemart…you know, the double cushion type that gives a better wipe.
A few months later, he was robbed again. Well, that was the final nail in the coffin. He came in and sat at the bar and told me, “That’s it, Frank.” and then added, “No mas!”
Reflecting back on the robberies, he said, “I am so relieved that my daughter was not here for any of this. Who knows what I would have done if they had tried to harm her, or tried something stupid.”
I sat there and reflected on whether or not to tell him the good news that he had absolutely nothing to worry about…his daughter was way too fat, and would have weighed them down during their getaway.
Frank
I was standing behind the bar on Friday, September 19th a few years back. It was nearing closing time and I was wiping the bar down and staring out over the beach. I like looking like I’m busy when in reality, I’m doing nothing more than watching girls walk up and down the beach.
I’m a professional girl watcher. This is a fact. I like watching girls walk by. I’m also a little sick because I also take a certain delight in watching girls trying to navigate down the beach in high heels while they sink 4 inches into quick sand—making them look like a duck trying to walk over metal grates.
Like I said, it was Friday, September 19th. I know this because the next four days of my life became a roller coaster of chaos, mayhem, and sexual debauchery--all at the same time.
As I was staring at girls walk down the beach, a 5’11 redhead walked past. As she walked past the bar, she glanced up at me. I was staring at her. Our eyes locked for maybe 2 seconds. But that was all the time that was needed to do the necessary damage. One sustained glance of a wild redhead can send me spinning into an abyss so fast that I start to hyperventilate.
She took maybe two more steps, turned south, and walked up to the bar. As I watched her walk up to the bar, I looked at her ankles and I knew right there that she was Scandinavian. Scandinavian have big, strong ankles. When she got around 5 feet away, I said, "Hei p? deg." She smiled and said, “Snakke du Norske?”
She smiled and took a seat at the bar. Again, our eyes locked for maybe a second and half. If that. Maybe shorter! As if I wasn’t hooked enough already, now I was falling faster then ever...i was spinning out of control without so much as a parachute to help break my fall. I was falling faster than a rocket ship coming back down to earth.
She had freckles in ways that only redheads can possess. That is to say, I could make out the map of Norway on her chest. She was beautiful, she was sexy, and she was an Amazon. She was Attila the Hun and Lucy Lawless (Xena), only bigger and stronger. Her name was Camilla.
Camilla and I started talking. She told me she was from Kolbotn; its a little outside of Oslo. When she told me this, I started laughing. I said, “Kolbotn? Really? I played American football for your town for the 1992 and 1993 season.” And then I added, “I was the quarterback and Safety for your football team (In Norway, some teams don’t have enough players, so people have to play both offense and defense).
She was sitting at the bar laughing while I told her about her town i played for. I was telling the whole story while staring at the freckles on her boobs. Unconsciously, I was trying to count them...all of them. But the freckles disappeared into her t-shirt. The good thing is that she's Norwegian, so she doesn't wear bras. She saw me staring at her chest and started laughing. I didn't care. I was in love.
Nothing can send my head spinning faster than counting freckles on the chest of a wild redhead. After about 5 minutes, she asked me…and I quote, “Hvor skal vi?” I started laughing, and said, “We can go to my place.”
I closed the bar so fast that I can’t even remember counting the money. In fact I didn’t, I just shoveled the money—all of it--including my tips—into the bank bag and handed it to the manager and said, “Jose, I’m on a mission from god! I got to go now, right now!” and then I grabbed Camilla by the hand and left the building just like Elvis Presley.
Camilla and I spent Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday together. We were like glue; we were stuck together. On Tuesday morning, September 23rd, I took her to Hummingbird and then I went to Lax to read and write. I was drinking coffee and reading when the manager called me around 10am in the morning and asked where I was. Now, I had known this manager for a couple of years, and he had never, ever called me at 10am in the morning. In fact, I don’t think he had ever called me period. I said, “I’m at Lax.” He said, “You need to come by O’Shays right now.” I said, “Ok,” and got up and started walking down the beach. As I was walking, I started wondering what and the hell could i have done to warrant a strange call at 10am with a demand to come right now? Especially when everyone knows I do not work or function when the sun is out and its daylight. That's why I only work nights...everyone knows this. I’m a vampire.
When I got close to the hallway that runs from the beach to the street, I was met by three men who were blocking my path, I tried to get around them, and they moved to block me. It was like football practice all over again. I made a quick switch-back, and then navigated around them while laughing at the same time. I didn’t know if they were trying to be funny? Were they drunk? Couldn’t be…it was 10am in the morning, and they were dressed very formal. too formal. I got around them with a trick football move, and started to head up to the office--taking two steps at a time. They shouted out in Spanish, “Stop! Are you Frank?” I said, “Yes.”
They said, “We’re the police. Your manager called you because we asked him to. You need to come with us right now.” I said, “Ok, can I put my book bag up in the office?” They said “yes, of course.” The next thing I know we were piling into a piece crap junker car that had no headlights, two broken taillights, a missing front bumper, and no tread on its tires. it was worth maybe $50...maybe $60 if it had a half tank of gas in it. We started heading west down highway 5.
It was Tuesday, September 23rd. I wouldn’t get to see, nor have any contact, with my Xena—my wild redheaded War Princess—for several days while I sat in jail with 11 Haitians, Domincans, and a 6’3 Haitian drag queen—dressed in a pink skirt and white high heels--who slept on my shoulder all night, snoring.
Frank
I’m a professional girl watcher. This is a fact. I like watching girls walk by. I’m also a little sick because I also take a certain delight in watching girls trying to navigate down the beach in high heels while they sink 4 inches into quick sand—making them look like a duck trying to walk over metal grates.
Like I said, it was Friday, September 19th. I know this because the next four days of my life became a roller coaster of chaos, mayhem, and sexual debauchery--all at the same time.
As I was staring at girls walk down the beach, a 5’11 redhead walked past. As she walked past the bar, she glanced up at me. I was staring at her. Our eyes locked for maybe 2 seconds. But that was all the time that was needed to do the necessary damage. One sustained glance of a wild redhead can send me spinning into an abyss so fast that I start to hyperventilate.
She took maybe two more steps, turned south, and walked up to the bar. As I watched her walk up to the bar, I looked at her ankles and I knew right there that she was Scandinavian. Scandinavian have big, strong ankles. When she got around 5 feet away, I said, "Hei p? deg." She smiled and said, “Snakke du Norske?”
She smiled and took a seat at the bar. Again, our eyes locked for maybe a second and half. If that. Maybe shorter! As if I wasn’t hooked enough already, now I was falling faster then ever...i was spinning out of control without so much as a parachute to help break my fall. I was falling faster than a rocket ship coming back down to earth.
She had freckles in ways that only redheads can possess. That is to say, I could make out the map of Norway on her chest. She was beautiful, she was sexy, and she was an Amazon. She was Attila the Hun and Lucy Lawless (Xena), only bigger and stronger. Her name was Camilla.
Camilla and I started talking. She told me she was from Kolbotn; its a little outside of Oslo. When she told me this, I started laughing. I said, “Kolbotn? Really? I played American football for your town for the 1992 and 1993 season.” And then I added, “I was the quarterback and Safety for your football team (In Norway, some teams don’t have enough players, so people have to play both offense and defense).
She was sitting at the bar laughing while I told her about her town i played for. I was telling the whole story while staring at the freckles on her boobs. Unconsciously, I was trying to count them...all of them. But the freckles disappeared into her t-shirt. The good thing is that she's Norwegian, so she doesn't wear bras. She saw me staring at her chest and started laughing. I didn't care. I was in love.
Nothing can send my head spinning faster than counting freckles on the chest of a wild redhead. After about 5 minutes, she asked me…and I quote, “Hvor skal vi?” I started laughing, and said, “We can go to my place.”
I closed the bar so fast that I can’t even remember counting the money. In fact I didn’t, I just shoveled the money—all of it--including my tips—into the bank bag and handed it to the manager and said, “Jose, I’m on a mission from god! I got to go now, right now!” and then I grabbed Camilla by the hand and left the building just like Elvis Presley.
Camilla and I spent Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday together. We were like glue; we were stuck together. On Tuesday morning, September 23rd, I took her to Hummingbird and then I went to Lax to read and write. I was drinking coffee and reading when the manager called me around 10am in the morning and asked where I was. Now, I had known this manager for a couple of years, and he had never, ever called me at 10am in the morning. In fact, I don’t think he had ever called me period. I said, “I’m at Lax.” He said, “You need to come by O’Shays right now.” I said, “Ok,” and got up and started walking down the beach. As I was walking, I started wondering what and the hell could i have done to warrant a strange call at 10am with a demand to come right now? Especially when everyone knows I do not work or function when the sun is out and its daylight. That's why I only work nights...everyone knows this. I’m a vampire.
When I got close to the hallway that runs from the beach to the street, I was met by three men who were blocking my path, I tried to get around them, and they moved to block me. It was like football practice all over again. I made a quick switch-back, and then navigated around them while laughing at the same time. I didn’t know if they were trying to be funny? Were they drunk? Couldn’t be…it was 10am in the morning, and they were dressed very formal. too formal. I got around them with a trick football move, and started to head up to the office--taking two steps at a time. They shouted out in Spanish, “Stop! Are you Frank?” I said, “Yes.”
They said, “We’re the police. Your manager called you because we asked him to. You need to come with us right now.” I said, “Ok, can I put my book bag up in the office?” They said “yes, of course.” The next thing I know we were piling into a piece crap junker car that had no headlights, two broken taillights, a missing front bumper, and no tread on its tires. it was worth maybe $50...maybe $60 if it had a half tank of gas in it. We started heading west down highway 5.
It was Tuesday, September 23rd. I wouldn’t get to see, nor have any contact, with my Xena—my wild redheaded War Princess—for several days while I sat in jail with 11 Haitians, Domincans, and a 6’3 Haitian drag queen—dressed in a pink skirt and white high heels--who slept on my shoulder all night, snoring.
Frank
I wasn't clear on the point of the story. Is this why you ended up in jail? or is there more to come? Or did it have to do with the property?
What i am about to write will upset, alienate, and stir a lot of hatred in a lot of people here. So i want to preface what i am going to say by admitting that i am not smart. Not remotely. Not kind of. Not sort of. But I am comfortable with my stupidity, and have been so for a long time ago. Too long.
Because i stand behind a bar--and have done so for nearly 35 years now--not including working on cruise ships--I am jaded about people's intelligence. Very jaded. It's not something that i am proud of. I'm not. It's not something that i like about myself. I don't. I constantly try and keep an open mind about people's potential to be smart, but nearly every time when i think i have finally met a smart Dominican or Expat living in the DR, i am disappointed.
It's gotten to the point where i think people here are from another planet. I cannot remember meeting more then a half dozen intelligent women on this island. I am not misogynist. Not remotely. I love women. All women. big and small. round and tall. plump and skinny. brown or yellow. Venereal disease filled or not. i don't discriminate. I will have sex with any female with a pulse.
But most of the women and men (but certainly not all) who have gravitated to the DR (or are from the DR) are as dumb as rocks--and this includes 99% of my superstitious-filled Dominican relatives.
Let me explain.
Like all transient places on this planet--South Florida, Mexico, Brazil, Thailand, South east Asia, Southern Spain, Canary Islands, and California--to name but a few that come to mind--the people drawn and attracted to these places are some of the biggest misfits, socially retarded, sexual deviant, and derelict individuals (of which i am the king) i have ever met.
I am not saying that i am better then anyone. I'm not. I am not saying that i am smarter then anyone. I am not. I am not saying that i am more "normal" then anyone. I am not remotely normal. What i am saying is that the Caribbean--and this island in particular--attracts more sexual debauchery, more lunatic fringes, more drama queens, and more chemically addicted and mentally challenged socially inept individuals then any place i've ever lived or traveled to. And yes, i have been to over 30 islands in the Caribbean--many of them dozens and dozens of times. So i have met more then my share of misfits and madness.
How do so many mad, sexually twisted, socially retarded, sick individuals arrive to this island? I'll tell you: they arrive by teleportation. Transporters convert a person or object into an energy pattern (a process called dematerialization), then "beam" it to a target, where it is reconverted into matter (rematerialization). Unfortunately, there are many transporter accidents, and this resorts in many individuals arriving down here who have not rematerialized correctly...hence, they're not complete. They been put together wrong. They're built wrong. As a result, many are crazy (with the papers to prove it) and do not know it.
Look at what a motley group of twisted locals and expats we have cohabiting together.
Nearly all Dominicans--my relatives included--are simple minded, superstitious prone, religiously twisted, gossip addicted, Soap opera following, illogically thinking, rum worshiping, sexually retarded, chronically lying, immorally prone, unrealistic people on this planet.
The ex-pats here are some of the most intensely dysfunctional, chemically addicted, illogical thinking, hard-headed, animal talking (they speak to their pets in public in baby talk), sun worshiping, cheating, lying, desperate, sexually deviant individuals on the planet.
Mix the two species together and what do you get?
Madness. Complete madness.
This island is so screwed up that it makes parts of Papua New Guinea seem advanced. Sadly, i wouldn't have it any other way. Its what both attracts and keeps me here. After a while, you just sort get used to the dysfunction, sexual debauchery, and stupidity. If you're smart--and i am not--you realize that its not getting any smarter out there. You got to learn to make stupidity work for you. if you don't, you fall into an abyss of boring, monotone, monotony, and comatose induced necrophilia.
Frank
Because i stand behind a bar--and have done so for nearly 35 years now--not including working on cruise ships--I am jaded about people's intelligence. Very jaded. It's not something that i am proud of. I'm not. It's not something that i like about myself. I don't. I constantly try and keep an open mind about people's potential to be smart, but nearly every time when i think i have finally met a smart Dominican or Expat living in the DR, i am disappointed.
It's gotten to the point where i think people here are from another planet. I cannot remember meeting more then a half dozen intelligent women on this island. I am not misogynist. Not remotely. I love women. All women. big and small. round and tall. plump and skinny. brown or yellow. Venereal disease filled or not. i don't discriminate. I will have sex with any female with a pulse.
But most of the women and men (but certainly not all) who have gravitated to the DR (or are from the DR) are as dumb as rocks--and this includes 99% of my superstitious-filled Dominican relatives.
Let me explain.
Like all transient places on this planet--South Florida, Mexico, Brazil, Thailand, South east Asia, Southern Spain, Canary Islands, and California--to name but a few that come to mind--the people drawn and attracted to these places are some of the biggest misfits, socially retarded, sexual deviant, and derelict individuals (of which i am the king) i have ever met.
I am not saying that i am better then anyone. I'm not. I am not saying that i am smarter then anyone. I am not. I am not saying that i am more "normal" then anyone. I am not remotely normal. What i am saying is that the Caribbean--and this island in particular--attracts more sexual debauchery, more lunatic fringes, more drama queens, and more chemically addicted and mentally challenged socially inept individuals then any place i've ever lived or traveled to. And yes, i have been to over 30 islands in the Caribbean--many of them dozens and dozens of times. So i have met more then my share of misfits and madness.
How do so many mad, sexually twisted, socially retarded, sick individuals arrive to this island? I'll tell you: they arrive by teleportation. Transporters convert a person or object into an energy pattern (a process called dematerialization), then "beam" it to a target, where it is reconverted into matter (rematerialization). Unfortunately, there are many transporter accidents, and this resorts in many individuals arriving down here who have not rematerialized correctly...hence, they're not complete. They been put together wrong. They're built wrong. As a result, many are crazy (with the papers to prove it) and do not know it.
Look at what a motley group of twisted locals and expats we have cohabiting together.
Nearly all Dominicans--my relatives included--are simple minded, superstitious prone, religiously twisted, gossip addicted, Soap opera following, illogically thinking, rum worshiping, sexually retarded, chronically lying, immorally prone, unrealistic people on this planet.
The ex-pats here are some of the most intensely dysfunctional, chemically addicted, illogical thinking, hard-headed, animal talking (they speak to their pets in public in baby talk), sun worshiping, cheating, lying, desperate, sexually deviant individuals on the planet.
Mix the two species together and what do you get?
Madness. Complete madness.
This island is so screwed up that it makes parts of Papua New Guinea seem advanced. Sadly, i wouldn't have it any other way. Its what both attracts and keeps me here. After a while, you just sort get used to the dysfunction, sexual debauchery, and stupidity. If you're smart--and i am not--you realize that its not getting any smarter out there. You got to learn to make stupidity work for you. if you don't, you fall into an abyss of boring, monotone, monotony, and comatose induced necrophilia.
Frank
Last edited:
Yesterday (Saturday) I was sitting at work waiting for the college football games to start. there were three Bowl games on, but the one i was waiting for was USC vs Fresno State.
Sitting around the bar, there was Big Frank, Bermudian Keenan, an American special forces "mercenary" (training military in Haiti) from Utah, and Jeff & Seven who just flew in from Canada. Jeff and Seven own the mannequin that sits at the far end of the bar:
Big Frank was holding court. It was the court of the Crimson King. The king was telling fascinating stories about sexual debauchery, chaos, and mayhem in some glorified brothel/bar in Sosua that was called ?The Palace.? It was run by a guy called ?Boston Johnny.? The Palace was something akin to the house of the rising sun, only kinkier. He said it was full of some of the skankiest girls and guys you?d ever seen.
Bad Company was playing on the satellite radio in the background while Big Frank told stories about Boston Johnny, and the juxtaposition and irony was not lost on me:
Hey
Bad company
And I can't deny
Bad company
Till the day I die
I?ve always been a fan of Bad Company. Formed in 1973, Bad Company was a super group comprised of ex-King Crimson bassist Boz Burrell, former Mott the Hoople guitarist Mick Ralphs, and singer Paul Rodgers and drummer Simon Kirke, both previous members of the group Free. Powered by Rodgers' vocals and Ralphs' blues-based guitar work, Bad Company was the first group signed to Led Zeppelin's Swan Song vanity label.
Bermudian Keenan was sharing some stories about his Bermudian uncle Kim. Kim owns a lot of land across the street from Coconut Palms right outside Cabarete. Over the years, I?ve heard a lot of stories about Kim. I must have met him at some point, but when, I can?t remember. Must have been in O?shay?s. Kim was a very likable man with long, grey, dreadlocks. I say was, because, Kim just recently and unexpectantly passed away. He willed be missed by many.
I?ve known Keenan for about 6 or 7 years. As I said, he?s from Bermuda, but has lived here on the north coast a long time. He is one of the most likable characters you will ever meet, and a genuine stand-up guy. He has owned a lot of small businesses here and speaks fluent Dominican.
When I first met Keenan, he owned a motorcycle rental business. He and his partner rented out big sports bikes--crotch rockets?where Morning Breeze is now built. After that, he opened an internet caf? in the same location. After that, he had a scooter rental business near the Cayuhon De La Loma, a flat-bed tow truck business, and various incarnations of different businesses. He?s smart. Very smart. He?s also good guy.
Keenan is from St. Davids island?right across the bay from St. George.
Keenan is one of these guys you instantly like the moment you meet him. He?s personable, never brags, patient, and never tries to come across as knowing much even though he has been here a long time and?as I mentioned?has owned a lot of businesses. He is very unassuming?I like that about people.
I also like his Bermuda accent. It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how many Caribbean islands you go to, every island has a different accent, a different dialect. That fascinates me. Caribbean dialects fascinate me. And no dialect fascinates me more than a Bermudian dialect.
I?ve spent a lot of time in Bermuda. I had a Bermudian girlfriend, Mandy Petty. When I worked on ships, I was in Bermuda for two days a week for four months at a time. I got people to cover my shifts while I ran around the island in a non-stop eating frenzy. I used to hang out a lot at the White Horse in St. George, Oasis nightclub in Hamilton, and then I would sojourn over to Tobacco Bay for some midnight sexual escapades where Kenny (now the Mayor of St. George) ran a fish stand.
Bermuda is such a small, charming place. I wish I had the money to live there. Sadly, I can?t even afford to eat a fish sandwich there. It?s expensive. Crazy expensive.
Frank
Sitting around the bar, there was Big Frank, Bermudian Keenan, an American special forces "mercenary" (training military in Haiti) from Utah, and Jeff & Seven who just flew in from Canada. Jeff and Seven own the mannequin that sits at the far end of the bar:
Big Frank was holding court. It was the court of the Crimson King. The king was telling fascinating stories about sexual debauchery, chaos, and mayhem in some glorified brothel/bar in Sosua that was called ?The Palace.? It was run by a guy called ?Boston Johnny.? The Palace was something akin to the house of the rising sun, only kinkier. He said it was full of some of the skankiest girls and guys you?d ever seen.
Bad Company was playing on the satellite radio in the background while Big Frank told stories about Boston Johnny, and the juxtaposition and irony was not lost on me:
Hey
Bad company
And I can't deny
Bad company
Till the day I die
I?ve always been a fan of Bad Company. Formed in 1973, Bad Company was a super group comprised of ex-King Crimson bassist Boz Burrell, former Mott the Hoople guitarist Mick Ralphs, and singer Paul Rodgers and drummer Simon Kirke, both previous members of the group Free. Powered by Rodgers' vocals and Ralphs' blues-based guitar work, Bad Company was the first group signed to Led Zeppelin's Swan Song vanity label.
Bermudian Keenan was sharing some stories about his Bermudian uncle Kim. Kim owns a lot of land across the street from Coconut Palms right outside Cabarete. Over the years, I?ve heard a lot of stories about Kim. I must have met him at some point, but when, I can?t remember. Must have been in O?shay?s. Kim was a very likable man with long, grey, dreadlocks. I say was, because, Kim just recently and unexpectantly passed away. He willed be missed by many.
I?ve known Keenan for about 6 or 7 years. As I said, he?s from Bermuda, but has lived here on the north coast a long time. He is one of the most likable characters you will ever meet, and a genuine stand-up guy. He has owned a lot of small businesses here and speaks fluent Dominican.
When I first met Keenan, he owned a motorcycle rental business. He and his partner rented out big sports bikes--crotch rockets?where Morning Breeze is now built. After that, he opened an internet caf? in the same location. After that, he had a scooter rental business near the Cayuhon De La Loma, a flat-bed tow truck business, and various incarnations of different businesses. He?s smart. Very smart. He?s also good guy.
Keenan is from St. Davids island?right across the bay from St. George.
Keenan is one of these guys you instantly like the moment you meet him. He?s personable, never brags, patient, and never tries to come across as knowing much even though he has been here a long time and?as I mentioned?has owned a lot of businesses. He is very unassuming?I like that about people.
I also like his Bermuda accent. It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how many Caribbean islands you go to, every island has a different accent, a different dialect. That fascinates me. Caribbean dialects fascinate me. And no dialect fascinates me more than a Bermudian dialect.
I?ve spent a lot of time in Bermuda. I had a Bermudian girlfriend, Mandy Petty. When I worked on ships, I was in Bermuda for two days a week for four months at a time. I got people to cover my shifts while I ran around the island in a non-stop eating frenzy. I used to hang out a lot at the White Horse in St. George, Oasis nightclub in Hamilton, and then I would sojourn over to Tobacco Bay for some midnight sexual escapades where Kenny (now the Mayor of St. George) ran a fish stand.
Bermuda is such a small, charming place. I wish I had the money to live there. Sadly, I can?t even afford to eat a fish sandwich there. It?s expensive. Crazy expensive.
Frank
C
Concrete
Guest
HAHA...yeah, those bookends are far past their useful date. The one on the right (yellow shirt) is the biggest loser on the North Coast; he's homeless, shameless, and is currently locked up in jail right now for trying to have sex with a farm animal. The one on the left is Air force Rob; he's a retired Air Force pilot who taught AP Calculus at Carol Morgan in Santo Domingo for two years. He still has two flight records standing at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. He flew for both the Air force and Marines in Pensacola, Florida. He did his 20 years and then retired at the age of 40, moving down here to Kite Surf and chase women. He is now living in the Philippines. Allow me to tell you a little about Rob:
I came into work and heard a genius of a song playing, Black Cow By Steely Dan. I love this song. It?s abstract jazz meets rock, fused together with a smooth, funky groove, a saxophone and a jazzy electric piano. The song fuses jazz and rock together in an effortlessly clever masterpiece.
I looked around the bar. Except for Air Force Rob, all I saw sitting around the bar were fresh, ripe, virgin tourists. I knew they were new because a plane full of tourists had just landed this morning and the news had spread like wildfire. Now, they were here, seated around the bar like burnt lobsters ? sunburned and raw. I could tell that they were fresh meat simply because every single one of them smelled of coconut suntan lotion and burnt skin. Unfortunately, the smell of the coconuts started to permeate the air and this started a chain reaction. First, the beach vendors started arriving by the dozens; then the prostitutes started arriving in a conga line that stretched from the hallway to the street; then the stray dogs started coming one after the other, assuming their position in line behind the beach vendors, the prostitutes and the crabs. Everyone started circling around the bar like vultures circling fresh road kill.
Among them sat Air Force Rob. He?s ex-military, and like a lot of military men who?ve spent too much time in foxholes and brothels he has impaired vision. Military personnel who?ve spent too much time overseas ? particularly in Asia ? sometimes develop cataracts that severely impair their vision, and this in turn affects their reasoning skills and better judgment.
What are cataracts? It?s a clouding that develops in the crystalline lens of the eye or in its envelope. The clouding varies in degree from slight to complete opacity, and obstructs the passage of light. Usually one eye is more affected than the other. Early in the development of a cataract, there?s near- sightedness (myopia), and the gradual yellowing and opacification of the lens may reduce the perception of light brown to dark colors. Hence, Romeo is unable to distinguish any real details of the girl he?s speaking to right now at the bar. She?s absolutely beautiful: a tall, curvy, Mocha Goddess with long brown legs and a hairdo that?s a miracle invention of peroxide, hairspray and gel. She smells of coconut suntan lotion and mold. She?s extraordinarily tall and is wearing a short blue dress. Unfortunately, it?s a combination of these things that have severely impaired Rob?s vision, reasoning skills and better judgment.
Rob is studying the Mocha Goddess. It?s easy to see from across the bar that he?s attracted to her. Unfortunately his cataracts are clouding his vision and he?s missing the finer details, like the lack of front teeth. But there?s more. Something?s not quite right. She?s too tall, her hair is too big, her hands are too wide, her feet are too long and then there?s this: she has an Adam?s apple. There?s no disguising it. He keeps glancing over at me and smiling. I smile back. He has no clue. Rob?s fallen for the bait? hook, line, and sinker.
Granted, Lady-boys are hard to spot, sometimes impossible to spot. Still, Air Force Rob?s a smart guy. Even so, like all the other guys down here, his clouded vision is not so much a result of progressive opacity in the lens as much as a direct result of the mistaken the smell of pussy in the vicinity. It?s a common problem with military men everywhere, endemic in fact. The sight and smell of pussy has over-powered their senses and better judgment to such an extent that they are rendered powerless when in the vicinity. Everything from this point on is absolute instinct, pure instinct. Even if you told Rob right now, ?Hey man, that?s a dude you?re talking to!? He wouldn?t believe you. Military personnel have a talent for conspiring in their own seduction. And right now, true to form, Rob is conspiring in his seduction to the point where he?s completely entranced, seduced and submissive. He?s fallen for the legendary trap of a Lady-boy.
Air Force Rob arrived down here four years ago to take on a teaching position at one of the more exclusive private schools in the capital. Rob?s credentials were unorthodox to say the least. He had no teaching credentials, no prior education experience and no teaching certifications. What he did possess in copious amounts was the discipline, tenacity and patience required to teach himself a completely new subject from scratch. Which subject did he teach himself? AP Calculus. In less than three years, Rob?s private high school students tested the highest AP Calculus scores in the school?s history.
In many respects, Rob is a genius. He can explain in detail the physics of nearly every known metal, he can go into great detail on the physics and limitations of nearly any airplane in the world, he set records at the Air Force academy. He devotes himself thoroughly to every subject he studies to such an extent that he will lock himself inside his room for days, emerging only when he?s mastered the subject completely. In this respect, he is obsessive- compulsive. He tackles subjects head-on. He?s a perfectionist. But like most military men, he suffers from a little understood universal disease: pussy worship.
What exactly is pussy worship? Once a victim is infected, they?re powerless. They cannot be cured. They cannot be treated. It?s like catching herpes: once you catch it, you have it for life. Men like Rob spend their whole lives trying to control it but, honestly, it?s all in vain. It controls you.
I?ve spent a lot of time studying Air Force Rob. He?s smart. Really smart. Scary smart. And yet, like nearly all military men who find themselves ship- wrecked and beached on some Caribbean or south-east Asian island, he?s addicted. He?s surrendered himself to worshipping pussy.
In many respects, Rob is like a Buddhist monk who, once confronted with the secrets of the universe, climbs the tower of the monastery and locks himself inside, emerging only to eat, drink and use the toilet. Rob?s trying to reach the highest state of Zen. People in this situation are like drug addicts. They?re not to be trusted. Why? Because they?ll do anything for their drug. They?ll lock themselves inside a room for days, forgoing food and water. The only difference about Rob?s drug is that, instead of cocaine or heroin, it?s pussy.
Don?t get me wrong? nearly all men are afflicted with pussy worship to some degree. Only for reasons not quite understood yet by the medical community, military personnel tend to get infected the worst, maybe they lack some mutation in their genes that would help them resist it. They spend copious amount of time and money searching, chasing, wooing, courting and paying for pussy. But like most drug addicts, the drug is stronger than they are. In many respects, pussy is the most lethal drug in the world. Why? Because people die for it and kill for it at a higher rate than any other physically-addicting drug in the world. At any given time, somewhere, someone is killing for it, dying for it, or being killed over it. Rob?s problem: he?s already killed for it.
From my book, "The Sex Lives of Misfits."
Frank
Yesterday (Sunday), we were quite busy for the early NFL football games. They start at 2pm here because of the 1-hour difference between the DR and the east coast of the U.S.
The bar was full and every table inside was full. Big Frank was seated in his normal perch, holding court. I rotated between sitting with him and a motley group of expats at the bar who were salivating over a bra-less hippy chick from Oregon. She was seated at bar, resting her bra-less boobs on the bar’s mahogany wood like a sack of potatoes. Everyone was staring at them. I was staring at them.
Nearby, a preacher that lives here on the north coast, was sitting at the bar talking loudly to a Haitian who did not understand one word of English. The preacher is a nice guy, but clearly insane. He was going on about President Obama ruining the world, Armageddon, and masturbation causing blindness.
I looked over at the hippy chick-- making eye-contact with her--and said, “So, how’s it going?”
“Well, it would be going better if that man over there (she was pointing at the preacher) wasn't so full of misinformation. There’s already enough misinformation out there floating around as it is. We don’t need more stupid people helping to circulate it around.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, laughing.
“Listen to all these stupid people screaming that this will kill you or that will kill you, and if this or that doesn’t kill you then the combination of them will certainly conspire to kill you. Today, we have all these spiritual counselors and emotional counselors all trying to help you make it through your day without you breaking down and collapsing. But, by encouraging us to worry and fear everything out there that exists we’ll be unprepared for the day when we really do have a life-threatening crisis and we have no one to depend on but ourselves.”
“Hum? Interesting.” I answered, staring at her boobs. They were now perpendicular to the bar.
“And on top of all the misinformation and lies that these stupid religious people are actively spreading around, we also have to listen to people talk about how terrible their love lives are. I can’t help but think: yes it would be nice if your boyfriend wasn’t wearing your panties to work, but not that long ago you might have come home to find him dead from a yeast infection your panties inadvertently passed on to him.”
“Hum. It’s a paradox.” I answered, laughing.
“Yeah, it’s a paradox, alright.” She answered.
People sitting around the bar acted as if they were watching the football game. They weren't. They were listening to her and cracking up. Everyone was taking side way glances at her boobs every time they took a drink of their beer.
I’m in love again. My life is insane.
Frank
The bar was full and every table inside was full. Big Frank was seated in his normal perch, holding court. I rotated between sitting with him and a motley group of expats at the bar who were salivating over a bra-less hippy chick from Oregon. She was seated at bar, resting her bra-less boobs on the bar’s mahogany wood like a sack of potatoes. Everyone was staring at them. I was staring at them.
Nearby, a preacher that lives here on the north coast, was sitting at the bar talking loudly to a Haitian who did not understand one word of English. The preacher is a nice guy, but clearly insane. He was going on about President Obama ruining the world, Armageddon, and masturbation causing blindness.
I looked over at the hippy chick-- making eye-contact with her--and said, “So, how’s it going?”
“Well, it would be going better if that man over there (she was pointing at the preacher) wasn't so full of misinformation. There’s already enough misinformation out there floating around as it is. We don’t need more stupid people helping to circulate it around.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, laughing.
“Listen to all these stupid people screaming that this will kill you or that will kill you, and if this or that doesn’t kill you then the combination of them will certainly conspire to kill you. Today, we have all these spiritual counselors and emotional counselors all trying to help you make it through your day without you breaking down and collapsing. But, by encouraging us to worry and fear everything out there that exists we’ll be unprepared for the day when we really do have a life-threatening crisis and we have no one to depend on but ourselves.”
“Hum? Interesting.” I answered, staring at her boobs. They were now perpendicular to the bar.
“And on top of all the misinformation and lies that these stupid religious people are actively spreading around, we also have to listen to people talk about how terrible their love lives are. I can’t help but think: yes it would be nice if your boyfriend wasn’t wearing your panties to work, but not that long ago you might have come home to find him dead from a yeast infection your panties inadvertently passed on to him.”
“Hum. It’s a paradox.” I answered, laughing.
“Yeah, it’s a paradox, alright.” She answered.
People sitting around the bar acted as if they were watching the football game. They weren't. They were listening to her and cracking up. Everyone was taking side way glances at her boobs every time they took a drink of their beer.
I’m in love again. My life is insane.
Frank