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Cabarete Diaries, part 2
(Lost in Translation)
In the Hall of Fame of ?Lost in Translation? episodes, our restaurant staff manage to come up with some fascinating, bizarre, scary, and weird misunderstandings.
A Canadian customer (friend of Big Frank?s) came into the restaurant this week and asked Big Frank if we have Seagram 7 whiskey behind our bar. Big Frank confirmed that we did, and the Canadian clapped his hands together in excitement.
I was standing at the bar with my coffee and watched how happy he got. It never ceases to amaze me how happy or sad some people get over whiskey. Alabama Gary throws a baby tantrum whenever we run out of Jack Daniels. I?ve seen him throw himself onto the ground and flop around like a fish out of water whenever we run out of Jack Daniels.
Beer drinkers are the same way. I saw a really intelligent, cool Canadian guy, get up and leave when we ran out of large, regular President beer. I said, ?We just ran out of Presidente regular, but look, we got plenty of other beers?including Presidente Light and six or seven other beers.
?Nope. That will not do. That will not do at all,? he answered before getting up and leaving.
This perplexes me. I mean, we have like 6 or 7 different beers. Is one beer so much superior then another beer? They all have roughly the same alcohol content. They all have hops, yeast, and barley. They all do the same job--make you urinate like a horse and get you high, right? Well, apparently, not, because people will get up and leave if you do not have what they?re used to drinking.
Now contrast with me. If you tell me, ?Hey look, Frank, look, I'm very sorry, but we just ran out of the chardonnay you were drinking, but as a consolation, look here, we found some white cooking wine. Will this do??
"Hell yes, it will do!"
For me, it?s all the same. They all got roughly the same amount of alcohol in them. They all taste similar when they?re ice cold.
A vodka drinker is even better. Some vodka drinkers will come in and ask for Absolut Vodka. If you say, ?I?m sorry, we?re out of Absolut,? they will say, ?No problem, you got Ketel One, Grey Goose, Stoli, Sky, Smirnoff, Van Gogh, etc.
Vodka drinkers have a second, third, and fourth alternative to go to. It?s not the end of the world if you run out of Absolut. But whiskey & beer drinkers?they?re from another world. They?re from another galaxy. They do not have a second or third alternative. If you do not have what they want, they simply climb back into their space ship and fly to the next planet. They keep on flying until they find the beer or whiskey they?re looking for.
As I sat at the bar drinking my coffee, scouting the beach for any topless females to take back to my space ship, Big Frank?s friend came up from the beach laughing. No, he was crying. No, he was hyperventilating. He could not breath. That?s not good. Not good at all! I put my coffee down and ran over to him. As I sprinted towards him, I tried remembering what little CPR I knew. Did I even remember my CPR classes? Probably not. Not to worry. I would give him one quick drop kick to the center of his chest to re-start his heart. I saw it in a movie once. It worked flawlessly.
False alarm. As I approached him in a full sprint, he regained use of his respiratory system, and started breathing oxygen again. His eyes rolled back from behind his head and he stopped speaking in tongues. He held onto the armrest of Big Frank?s chair and slowly regained use of his language ability. He said, ?Frank, you?re not going to believe what your waitress just brought me.?
?What?? Big Frank asked, bracing himself.
?I asked for a "7&7", and she came to the table with?with?? he could not finish the sentence. He started laughing hysterically, then crying, then hyperventilating, and then his eyes slowly rolled back into the back of his head. All you could see were the white of his eyes. It was scary. He looked like Linda Blair from the Exorcist. He looked possessed by the Devil.
I got back off my bar stool and started approaching him again. I was prepared to drop kick him dead center in the middle of his chest where I would send him flying into our hanging bananas and Mama Juana man. They would help cushion his fall. He was losing consciousness, fast. This was not good. Not good at all. He was returning to the point of no return. This was not a good scene to have inside a restaurant. People were sitting around eating. This could kill our Happy Hour business.
Suddenly, as if the demons left his body, he stood up and composed himself. He braced himself firmly on Big Frank?s armrest and said,
?Look over there, at my table,? he said, pointing his finger out to his table as he began losing it again. He was cupping his mouth, doing his best to prevent himself from laughing hysterically. ?You see that?the waitresses brought me seven 7up?s.?
Big Frank stood up tall, like a Meer cat, and peered over the boobs of this stunning girl standing in front of us. He got on his tippy-toes and looked over the girl's breasts. He started counting out loud??one, two, three, four, five, sex, seven. Yep, you got seven 7up?s on your table.?
?Isn?t that hilarious!? the guy announced, looking around the restaurant for confirmation. ?I asked for a "7&7", and they bring me out seven 7up?s. Isn?t that the ****ing funniest thing you ever seen?? he asked, laughing hysterically again, before collapsing on the floor and losing consciousness.
In the Hall of Fame of ?Lost in Translation? episodes, our restaurant staff manage to come up with some fascinating, bizarre, scary, and weird misunderstandings.
A Canadian customer (friend of Big Frank?s) came into the restaurant this week and asked Big Frank if we have Seagram 7 whiskey behind our bar. Big Frank confirmed that we did, and the Canadian clapped his hands together in excitement.
I was standing at the bar with my coffee and watched how happy he got. It never ceases to amaze me how happy or sad some people get over whiskey. Alabama Gary throws a baby tantrum whenever we run out of Jack Daniels. I?ve seen him throw himself onto the ground and flop around like a fish out of water whenever we run out of Jack Daniels.
Beer drinkers are the same way. I saw a really intelligent, cool Canadian guy, get up and leave when we ran out of large, regular President beer. I said, ?We just ran out of Presidente regular, but look, we got plenty of other beers?including Presidente Light and six or seven other beers.
?Nope. That will not do. That will not do at all,? he answered before getting up and leaving.
This perplexes me. I mean, we have like 6 or 7 different beers. Is one beer so much superior then another beer? They all have roughly the same alcohol content. They all have hops, yeast, and barley. They all do the same job--make you urinate like a horse and get you high, right? Well, apparently, not, because people will get up and leave if you do not have what they?re used to drinking.
Now contrast with me. If you tell me, ?Hey look, Frank, look, I'm very sorry, but we just ran out of the chardonnay you were drinking, but as a consolation, look here, we found some white cooking wine. Will this do??
"Hell yes, it will do!"
For me, it?s all the same. They all got roughly the same amount of alcohol in them. They all taste similar when they?re ice cold.
A vodka drinker is even better. Some vodka drinkers will come in and ask for Absolut Vodka. If you say, ?I?m sorry, we?re out of Absolut,? they will say, ?No problem, you got Ketel One, Grey Goose, Stoli, Sky, Smirnoff, Van Gogh, etc.
Vodka drinkers have a second, third, and fourth alternative to go to. It?s not the end of the world if you run out of Absolut. But whiskey & beer drinkers?they?re from another world. They?re from another galaxy. They do not have a second or third alternative. If you do not have what they want, they simply climb back into their space ship and fly to the next planet. They keep on flying until they find the beer or whiskey they?re looking for.
As I sat at the bar drinking my coffee, scouting the beach for any topless females to take back to my space ship, Big Frank?s friend came up from the beach laughing. No, he was crying. No, he was hyperventilating. He could not breath. That?s not good. Not good at all! I put my coffee down and ran over to him. As I sprinted towards him, I tried remembering what little CPR I knew. Did I even remember my CPR classes? Probably not. Not to worry. I would give him one quick drop kick to the center of his chest to re-start his heart. I saw it in a movie once. It worked flawlessly.
False alarm. As I approached him in a full sprint, he regained use of his respiratory system, and started breathing oxygen again. His eyes rolled back from behind his head and he stopped speaking in tongues. He held onto the armrest of Big Frank?s chair and slowly regained use of his language ability. He said, ?Frank, you?re not going to believe what your waitress just brought me.?
?What?? Big Frank asked, bracing himself.
?I asked for a "7&7", and she came to the table with?with?? he could not finish the sentence. He started laughing hysterically, then crying, then hyperventilating, and then his eyes slowly rolled back into the back of his head. All you could see were the white of his eyes. It was scary. He looked like Linda Blair from the Exorcist. He looked possessed by the Devil.
I got back off my bar stool and started approaching him again. I was prepared to drop kick him dead center in the middle of his chest where I would send him flying into our hanging bananas and Mama Juana man. They would help cushion his fall. He was losing consciousness, fast. This was not good. Not good at all. He was returning to the point of no return. This was not a good scene to have inside a restaurant. People were sitting around eating. This could kill our Happy Hour business.
Suddenly, as if the demons left his body, he stood up and composed himself. He braced himself firmly on Big Frank?s armrest and said,
?Look over there, at my table,? he said, pointing his finger out to his table as he began losing it again. He was cupping his mouth, doing his best to prevent himself from laughing hysterically. ?You see that?the waitresses brought me seven 7up?s.?
Big Frank stood up tall, like a Meer cat, and peered over the boobs of this stunning girl standing in front of us. He got on his tippy-toes and looked over the girl's breasts. He started counting out loud??one, two, three, four, five, sex, seven. Yep, you got seven 7up?s on your table.?
?Isn?t that hilarious!? the guy announced, looking around the restaurant for confirmation. ?I asked for a "7&7", and they bring me out seven 7up?s. Isn?t that the ****ing funniest thing you ever seen?? he asked, laughing hysterically again, before collapsing on the floor and losing consciousness.
You are right about beer drinkers and whiskey drinkers being fanatical fans.
Once I was caught drinking a Bohemia Lite and was told "te enga?aron", because it was not a Presidente Light. The difference is almost indistinguishable. Brahma Lite is also nearly indistinguishable.
I think Quesqueya regular (not lite) is a bit stronger, but it is unavailable in Barahona, so far as I can ascertain.
Seven 7-Ups is indeed funny.
Once I was caught drinking a Bohemia Lite and was told "te enga?aron", because it was not a Presidente Light. The difference is almost indistinguishable. Brahma Lite is also nearly indistinguishable.
I think Quesqueya regular (not lite) is a bit stronger, but it is unavailable in Barahona, so far as I can ascertain.
Seven 7-Ups is indeed funny.
Remember, all liquor starts its little life as vodka.
It's what you do to it afterwards that changes things.
Btw, great visual on the 7&7 story. I can just see the bar chica proudly setting all the bottles down and scurrying off to update Facebook.
It's what you do to it afterwards that changes things.
Btw, great visual on the 7&7 story. I can just see the bar chica proudly setting all the bottles down and scurrying off to update Facebook.
(Sane vs Insane People)
After sitting at a bar day after day, and listening to North Americans tell me about some of their long held, most cherished beliefs, I decided to both compile a list--as well as do some research on my own--in order to find out just exactly how ****ing crazy we North Americans really are?
Critical thinking skills are underrated. Critical thinking skills have long been recognized as the way by which educated, informed individuals, make good, sound, reasonable and logical decisions...some of which involve mating. And yet, shockingly few people actually understand exactly how critical thinking strategies work.
Survey data shows that between 67% and 73% percent of adults in the U.S. subscribe to at least one paranormal belief. Some of these beliefs include, but are not limited to these:
1. The soul continues to exist, though the body may die.
2. Some individuals are able to levitate (lift) objects through mental forces.
3. Black magic really exists.
4. Black cats can bring bad luck.
5. Your mind or soul can leave your body and travel (astral projection).
6. Big Foot really exists; he lives in Canada.
7. Astrology is a way to accurately predict the future.
8. There is a devil. He's a badly dressed drag queen that wears fuchsia and mauve and is color blind.
9. Psychokinesis, the movement of objects through psychic powers, does exist.
10. Witches do exist; they fly around on broomsticks in Moca.
11. If you break a mirror, you will have bad luck.
12. During altered states, such as sleep or trances, the spirit can leave the body.
13. The Loch Ness monster of Scotland exists.
14. The horoscope accurately tells a person’s future.
15. God exists...I know, because he speaks through Televangelists and always asks for money. Always seems to be broke?
16. A person’s thoughts can influence the movement of a physical object.
17. Through the use of formulas and incantations, it is possible to cast spells on persons.
18. The number “13” is unlucky.
19. Reincarnation does occur.
20. There is life on other planets and they have the same Happy Hour Specials as we do.
21. Some psychics can accurately predict the future.
22. There is a heaven and a hell.
23. Mind reading is possible
24. There are actual cases of witchcraft, and hence, sticking needles into life-like dolls really does work.
25. It is possible to communicate with the dead.
26. Some people have an unexplained ability to predict the future.
27. Some people can both see & communicate with dead people.
28. Crystal balls can be used to see into the past and future. (some are used to make bets in Vegas and beat the house.)
29. Tarot Cards are reliable at predicting things, but are a poor substitute for strip poker.
30. Redheads smell different...like sulfur...and hey consume more oxygen as well.
31. You can Pray Away a burst appendix, infections, contusions, Hang-over's and severed limbs.
After sitting at a bar day after day, and listening to North Americans tell me about some of their long held, most cherished beliefs, I decided to both compile a list--as well as do some research on my own--in order to find out just exactly how ****ing crazy we North Americans really are?
Critical thinking skills are underrated. Critical thinking skills have long been recognized as the way by which educated, informed individuals, make good, sound, reasonable and logical decisions...some of which involve mating. And yet, shockingly few people actually understand exactly how critical thinking strategies work.
Survey data shows that between 67% and 73% percent of adults in the U.S. subscribe to at least one paranormal belief. Some of these beliefs include, but are not limited to these:
1. The soul continues to exist, though the body may die.
2. Some individuals are able to levitate (lift) objects through mental forces.
3. Black magic really exists.
4. Black cats can bring bad luck.
5. Your mind or soul can leave your body and travel (astral projection).
6. Big Foot really exists; he lives in Canada.
7. Astrology is a way to accurately predict the future.
8. There is a devil. He's a badly dressed drag queen that wears fuchsia and mauve and is color blind.
9. Psychokinesis, the movement of objects through psychic powers, does exist.
10. Witches do exist; they fly around on broomsticks in Moca.
11. If you break a mirror, you will have bad luck.
12. During altered states, such as sleep or trances, the spirit can leave the body.
13. The Loch Ness monster of Scotland exists.
14. The horoscope accurately tells a person’s future.
15. God exists...I know, because he speaks through Televangelists and always asks for money. Always seems to be broke?
16. A person’s thoughts can influence the movement of a physical object.
17. Through the use of formulas and incantations, it is possible to cast spells on persons.
18. The number “13” is unlucky.
19. Reincarnation does occur.
20. There is life on other planets and they have the same Happy Hour Specials as we do.
21. Some psychics can accurately predict the future.
22. There is a heaven and a hell.
23. Mind reading is possible
24. There are actual cases of witchcraft, and hence, sticking needles into life-like dolls really does work.
25. It is possible to communicate with the dead.
26. Some people have an unexplained ability to predict the future.
27. Some people can both see & communicate with dead people.
28. Crystal balls can be used to see into the past and future. (some are used to make bets in Vegas and beat the house.)
29. Tarot Cards are reliable at predicting things, but are a poor substitute for strip poker.
30. Redheads smell different...like sulfur...and hey consume more oxygen as well.
31. You can Pray Away a burst appendix, infections, contusions, Hang-over's and severed limbs.
You appear to have omitted the belief that many maladies can be cured with Vaporrub.
(There Are Rules Here, You Know.)
Another day in paradise, another Kafkaesque moment to cherish and behold.
I went to the bank to today to withdraw money from the ATM machine. I put my card in and typed in my pin number and waited. I waited some more. Then I waited some more. It was getting dark, but I needed money. I really needed money. I was willing to wait until the sun went down and hell froze over. One problem: I need to urinate.
So, there I was?waiting for my money and looking around for some place to urinate. The flower pots nearby started looking more and more inviting the longer I waited. I needed to urinate something fierce, like now! Unfortunately, I couldn?t leave my position at the ATM machine for fear my money and bank card would come flying out of the machine and I wouldn?t be there to catch it.
I couldn?t wait any longer. I started looking around for some place to urinate. But it needed to be somewhere where I could keep an eye on the bank machine. Finally, I said, ?**** it,? and I walked over to the plants that was growing alongside the parking lot and started watering the flowers. It felt fantastic. It felt euphoric. It felt like heaven. I felt like losing your virginity...yeah, it hurt, but it felt good.
Here?s the problem with urination...once you get to a certain age, and you need to urinate, you have to urinate like yesterday. It?s not like when you are younger. When i was younger, I could sit at a poker table for eight hours straight without urinating. I could sit on a plane for 8 hours without urinating as well. I could even have sex for, oh?I don?t know...maybe all of fifteen minutes and not have to urinate afterwards. Not anymore. Those days are gone. Long gone. Those days end immediately once you get close to 50yrs of age. You can kiss those days goodbye. Today, when I get the urge to urinate, I unzip my pants and water whatever plant is nearby.
What I love about this country is the unbridled freedom. You can urinate anywhere you want. When I have to urinate, I simply pull my surfing shorts up on my right leg and pretend like I?m checking my oil gauge or chain. Then I pull out my penis and urinate on my tires. I?m a professional at urinating outdoors. I have a PHD in outdoor urination. I can even urinate while riding my motorcycle down the highway. I?m serious. I even urinate while I sit at the bar drinking coffee without anyone noticing. I simply wash the urine away with coffee and water and watch it stream down to the sand on the beach where stray beach dogs walk past, smell it, and then urinate in the same spot. Urine begets urine.
Coffee makes me urinate. I don?t know about you, but, when I drink coffee, man, I got to urinate like right now! Like yesterday. It?s the only time when my urine comes out in a full 45 degree arc. It comes gushing out like a faucet. I could put a three story fire out with my urine. Caffeine goes right through me. I do my best urination after a cup of coffee. After sex...not so much. After sex, it comes out slow at first before building into a steady stream of wild river rafting. After sex, I have to fight to make it come out. I shake it. I shake it violently and beg for it to come out. I shake it like a tree limb. I shake it like a monkey swinging from a tree. I shake it sideways?back and forth, up and down?in order to entice it out of its hiding place. After sex, the urine doesn?t want to leave the body. I don?t know why? There?s a long pause. There?s a hibernation period, and then suddenly, "Gush!!" It comes streaming out like Niagara Falls.
Back at the bank.
After I finished urinating and waiting for what seemed like hours for my ATM bank card and money to get dispensed, I walked into the bank and asked for the bank manager. Someone went to get the manager?who was only standing 10 feet away?and pointed at me. I sat down and waited. Then I waited some more. I took a nap. I read my phone. I checked my emails. And then I fell back asleep again. Meanwhile, the bank manager went to lunch. I woke up, checked some more emails, read the paper online, and waited. I kept on waiting. I waited until my hair turned grey. Finally, after what seemed like days, right before they closed, she came over to me and asked me what I was waiting for?
?The bank machine ate my card and didn?t give me my money,? I answered.
?When did this happen?? she asked.
?This morning.?
?Why did you wait until now to come and see me??
?I?ve been waiting all day to see you.?
?Where??
?Waiting right here in this chair,? I said pointing behind me.
?Oh. I?ve been busy. Ok. I?ll go get it.? She said, and went over to the machine with a big group of keys in her hand and disappeared.
I sat back down and waited. Then I waited some more. I checked my emails again. I played a game. I started falling asleep again. It?s crazy, but here, in the Caribbean, time stops. Everything stops. Time takes forever. There is no hyper-activity here. If anyone dares display any hyper-activity or rush of energy, they?re locked up. They?re incarcerated. The go to straight to jail. If they don?t go to jail, they?re put in a mental institution. They do not tolerate hyper-activity or over-efficiency here. There is no ?Chop-chop culture here. There is no ?Hurry the hell up,? attitude here. This is not China. This is not Asia.
The good thing is that no one here has hyper-tension. No heart disease. No heart attacks. When they die here, they simply fall over from old age. The only time you hear someone dying at a young age here is when they drive like they?re in the Indy 500, or they hold onto two wires while they stand in a puddle of water and say, ?Watch this!?
Basically, the only way to die young here is from accidents or stupidity. Stupidity is a big cause for early death here. Stupidity is a big reason why South Americans end up winning the Darwin Awards every year: they take themselves out of the Gene Pool. No one dies here from hyper-tension or heart disease. Why? Because people here do not know stress. Those diseases are for the rat race and corporate climbers of the western industrialized countries. Not here. Here, it?s a manana attitude. It?s an island. It?s very laid back here?and for good reason, it?s hotter than hell. It?s Dante?s Inferno outside.
Bank inside the bank
?Ok, I got your card,? the bank manager came back over and announced proudly.
?Great! Thank you!? I replied, ecstatic and relieved.
?I just need two forms of ID, and you can have it back,"
?Here is my passport,? I answered, handing it to her.
?I need another ID,? she answered.
?You?re holding it.?
?No, I need another ID in order to give you this one. I need two ID?s.?
?Yes, I know. You?re holding my only other ID. Look on the back of the card, it?s my Norwegian ID card.?
?No, I need a different ID. I need two ID?s,? she repeated.
?Yes, I know. Look, you?re holding my Norwegian ID with all of my personal information on the back?my birth date, f?dselsnummer (similar to a state Social Security number), address, etc. It?s got more information on it then my Passport. It?s got a lot more information then a passport?including my sexual preferences and tastes in women.?
?Sorry. I cannot give you this back until you show up with two other ID?s. There are rules here, you know.?
?Rules? Since when are there rules around here?? I asked shocked.
Another day in paradise, another Kafkaesque moment to cherish and behold.
I went to the bank to today to withdraw money from the ATM machine. I put my card in and typed in my pin number and waited. I waited some more. Then I waited some more. It was getting dark, but I needed money. I really needed money. I was willing to wait until the sun went down and hell froze over. One problem: I need to urinate.
So, there I was?waiting for my money and looking around for some place to urinate. The flower pots nearby started looking more and more inviting the longer I waited. I needed to urinate something fierce, like now! Unfortunately, I couldn?t leave my position at the ATM machine for fear my money and bank card would come flying out of the machine and I wouldn?t be there to catch it.
I couldn?t wait any longer. I started looking around for some place to urinate. But it needed to be somewhere where I could keep an eye on the bank machine. Finally, I said, ?**** it,? and I walked over to the plants that was growing alongside the parking lot and started watering the flowers. It felt fantastic. It felt euphoric. It felt like heaven. I felt like losing your virginity...yeah, it hurt, but it felt good.
Here?s the problem with urination...once you get to a certain age, and you need to urinate, you have to urinate like yesterday. It?s not like when you are younger. When i was younger, I could sit at a poker table for eight hours straight without urinating. I could sit on a plane for 8 hours without urinating as well. I could even have sex for, oh?I don?t know...maybe all of fifteen minutes and not have to urinate afterwards. Not anymore. Those days are gone. Long gone. Those days end immediately once you get close to 50yrs of age. You can kiss those days goodbye. Today, when I get the urge to urinate, I unzip my pants and water whatever plant is nearby.
What I love about this country is the unbridled freedom. You can urinate anywhere you want. When I have to urinate, I simply pull my surfing shorts up on my right leg and pretend like I?m checking my oil gauge or chain. Then I pull out my penis and urinate on my tires. I?m a professional at urinating outdoors. I have a PHD in outdoor urination. I can even urinate while riding my motorcycle down the highway. I?m serious. I even urinate while I sit at the bar drinking coffee without anyone noticing. I simply wash the urine away with coffee and water and watch it stream down to the sand on the beach where stray beach dogs walk past, smell it, and then urinate in the same spot. Urine begets urine.
Coffee makes me urinate. I don?t know about you, but, when I drink coffee, man, I got to urinate like right now! Like yesterday. It?s the only time when my urine comes out in a full 45 degree arc. It comes gushing out like a faucet. I could put a three story fire out with my urine. Caffeine goes right through me. I do my best urination after a cup of coffee. After sex...not so much. After sex, it comes out slow at first before building into a steady stream of wild river rafting. After sex, I have to fight to make it come out. I shake it. I shake it violently and beg for it to come out. I shake it like a tree limb. I shake it like a monkey swinging from a tree. I shake it sideways?back and forth, up and down?in order to entice it out of its hiding place. After sex, the urine doesn?t want to leave the body. I don?t know why? There?s a long pause. There?s a hibernation period, and then suddenly, "Gush!!" It comes streaming out like Niagara Falls.
Back at the bank.
After I finished urinating and waiting for what seemed like hours for my ATM bank card and money to get dispensed, I walked into the bank and asked for the bank manager. Someone went to get the manager?who was only standing 10 feet away?and pointed at me. I sat down and waited. Then I waited some more. I took a nap. I read my phone. I checked my emails. And then I fell back asleep again. Meanwhile, the bank manager went to lunch. I woke up, checked some more emails, read the paper online, and waited. I kept on waiting. I waited until my hair turned grey. Finally, after what seemed like days, right before they closed, she came over to me and asked me what I was waiting for?
?The bank machine ate my card and didn?t give me my money,? I answered.
?When did this happen?? she asked.
?This morning.?
?Why did you wait until now to come and see me??
?I?ve been waiting all day to see you.?
?Where??
?Waiting right here in this chair,? I said pointing behind me.
?Oh. I?ve been busy. Ok. I?ll go get it.? She said, and went over to the machine with a big group of keys in her hand and disappeared.
I sat back down and waited. Then I waited some more. I checked my emails again. I played a game. I started falling asleep again. It?s crazy, but here, in the Caribbean, time stops. Everything stops. Time takes forever. There is no hyper-activity here. If anyone dares display any hyper-activity or rush of energy, they?re locked up. They?re incarcerated. The go to straight to jail. If they don?t go to jail, they?re put in a mental institution. They do not tolerate hyper-activity or over-efficiency here. There is no ?Chop-chop culture here. There is no ?Hurry the hell up,? attitude here. This is not China. This is not Asia.
The good thing is that no one here has hyper-tension. No heart disease. No heart attacks. When they die here, they simply fall over from old age. The only time you hear someone dying at a young age here is when they drive like they?re in the Indy 500, or they hold onto two wires while they stand in a puddle of water and say, ?Watch this!?
Basically, the only way to die young here is from accidents or stupidity. Stupidity is a big cause for early death here. Stupidity is a big reason why South Americans end up winning the Darwin Awards every year: they take themselves out of the Gene Pool. No one dies here from hyper-tension or heart disease. Why? Because people here do not know stress. Those diseases are for the rat race and corporate climbers of the western industrialized countries. Not here. Here, it?s a manana attitude. It?s an island. It?s very laid back here?and for good reason, it?s hotter than hell. It?s Dante?s Inferno outside.
Bank inside the bank
?Ok, I got your card,? the bank manager came back over and announced proudly.
?Great! Thank you!? I replied, ecstatic and relieved.
?I just need two forms of ID, and you can have it back,"
?Here is my passport,? I answered, handing it to her.
?I need another ID,? she answered.
?You?re holding it.?
?No, I need another ID in order to give you this one. I need two ID?s.?
?Yes, I know. You?re holding my only other ID. Look on the back of the card, it?s my Norwegian ID card.?
?No, I need a different ID. I need two ID?s,? she repeated.
?Yes, I know. Look, you?re holding my Norwegian ID with all of my personal information on the back?my birth date, f?dselsnummer (similar to a state Social Security number), address, etc. It?s got more information on it then my Passport. It?s got a lot more information then a passport?including my sexual preferences and tastes in women.?
?Sorry. I cannot give you this back until you show up with two other ID?s. There are rules here, you know.?
?Rules? Since when are there rules around here?? I asked shocked.
Chapter 159 (For What It?s Worth)
I was sitting at the bar, enjoying an extra strong coffee, when a genius rock song, Buffalo Springfield?s??For what?s it?s worth??came over the restaurant?s sound system. I sprinted over to the sound board and turned the song up. I turned it way up.
This wasn?t just any rock song playiong. This was the mother of all folk-rock anthems. This was the Hippy Revolution Anthem of 1967. This was the Star Spangled Banner of youthful repression of the late 60's & early 70's.
?There's somethin' happenin' here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun, over there
Tellin' me I got to beware
(I think it's time we)
Stop, hey, what's that sound?
Everybody look. What's goin' down?
There's battle lines bein' drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speakin' their minds, once again
Gettin' so much resistance from behind?
These weren?t just some half contrived lyrics here, this was anti-establishment, anti-status-quo, and Beatnik revolutionary poetry sung in a folk-country-rock style that recalled the Beat Generation, Stonewall, and Women's Liberation all in one. This song became the anti-Vietnam war anthem of the 60's & 70's.
I went over and turned the song up as loud as it would go. Then I sat down and looked around the bar. Hmm. No one here except one guy at the bar drinking Heineken. Everyone else fled.
The staff were still running around looking for hiding places. Everyone knew that Timmy would running down from the office any second now. Oh well, **** it. If there is a better 60's revolutionary protest song out there to be fired over, I can't think of it. If you didn?t jump up off your bar stool--or fall off it--when this song came over the radio, then you probably weren?t consuming oxygen. If you weren't inspired to fight the system, fight the Man, then you probably weren't human. If you were totally uninspired by this song, then you probably were not from this galaxy.
While the song broke into a chorus, I went back into the liquor room and poured myself a double shot of Cointreau into my coffee. Then I went back up to the bar and sat down and waited for Timmy to come hurdling down the steps. Meanwhile, I looked over at the guy drinking Heineken; he was singing along with the chorus:
?Stop, hey, what's that sound?
Everybody look. What's goin' down??
?How?s it going?? I asked him.
?Great song!? he answered.
?I know, right??
?People don?t get it.?
I looked around. All the Dominican staff were hiding. Everyone was waiting for the wrath of Timmy to come downstairs any second now.
?Yeah, they don?t get it,? i answered looking around.
?Where you from?? He asked.
?Ohio, and yourself??
?Nevada.?
?Nevada?? I gave him a quick up and down glance, and then I said, ?The only people that come down here from Nevada work at the gold mine?you work at the mine??
?Yep.?
?What?s it?s like?? I asked.
?Big.?
?How big?? I asked.
?We grossed 1.4 Billion last year. We?re the only mine site last year that produced one million ounces of gold.?
?Damn!?
?52% went to the Dominican government.?
?Really?
?Yep. But we only make 17 cents on the dollar after everyone is paid.?
?Why?s that??
?The company I work for has a partner. It?s a 60/40 split. After the Dominican government gets their 52%, and our partner gets their stake, and after the bank loans are paid, over-head costs, etc. what?s left over is 17 cents on the dollar.?
?Interesting.?
?I?m only here for another year, then I will probably go back to work in Nevada. There?s a company in Nevada that?s getting ready to produce 1.9 million ounces of gold a year. They?re getting everything up and ready to go on-line soon; they?re getting ready for massive gold production.?
?Really? There?s that much gold in Nevada?? I asked, surprised.
?Oh yeah. Big time. Between central and northeastern Nevada, is the richest gold belt in the world; it?s called the Carlin Trend. The Carlin Trend is a geologic feature in northeastern Nevada which represents a period of erosion or non-deposition likely associated with a collision between a tectonic crustal block called a terrane and the North American Plate. The collision occurred during the Mississippian Period, about 350 million years B.P.?
"Are you a geologist?" i asked.
?No. but I work with geologists all day.?
?Hmm?the Carlin Trend?? I asked.
?Yep. Look it up. The Carlin Gold trend is one of the world's richest gold mining districts. It is a belt of gold deposits, primarily in Paleozoic limy sediments, that is about 5 miles wide and 40 miles long, extending in a north-northwest direction through the town of Carlin, Nevada. Gold was first discovered in the area in the 1870s, but there was very little production until 1909, and only about 22,000 ounces was produced through 1964. By 2008, mines in the Carlin Trend had produced over 70 million ounces of gold, worth around US$85 billion.?
?Great. So, you?re buying drinks, right?? I asked, smiling.
?I didn?t say that I owned the gold mine! I just work there. I work for the Man?just like you.?
?Yeah, I work for the Man, alright. We all work for the Man,? I said, toasting him with my Cointreau laced coffee.
[video]https://youtu.be/gp5JCrSXkJY[/video]
I was sitting at the bar, enjoying an extra strong coffee, when a genius rock song, Buffalo Springfield?s??For what?s it?s worth??came over the restaurant?s sound system. I sprinted over to the sound board and turned the song up. I turned it way up.
This wasn?t just any rock song playiong. This was the mother of all folk-rock anthems. This was the Hippy Revolution Anthem of 1967. This was the Star Spangled Banner of youthful repression of the late 60's & early 70's.
?There's somethin' happenin' here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun, over there
Tellin' me I got to beware
(I think it's time we)
Stop, hey, what's that sound?
Everybody look. What's goin' down?
There's battle lines bein' drawn
Nobody's right if everybody's wrong
Young people speakin' their minds, once again
Gettin' so much resistance from behind?
These weren?t just some half contrived lyrics here, this was anti-establishment, anti-status-quo, and Beatnik revolutionary poetry sung in a folk-country-rock style that recalled the Beat Generation, Stonewall, and Women's Liberation all in one. This song became the anti-Vietnam war anthem of the 60's & 70's.
I went over and turned the song up as loud as it would go. Then I sat down and looked around the bar. Hmm. No one here except one guy at the bar drinking Heineken. Everyone else fled.
The staff were still running around looking for hiding places. Everyone knew that Timmy would running down from the office any second now. Oh well, **** it. If there is a better 60's revolutionary protest song out there to be fired over, I can't think of it. If you didn?t jump up off your bar stool--or fall off it--when this song came over the radio, then you probably weren?t consuming oxygen. If you weren't inspired to fight the system, fight the Man, then you probably weren't human. If you were totally uninspired by this song, then you probably were not from this galaxy.
While the song broke into a chorus, I went back into the liquor room and poured myself a double shot of Cointreau into my coffee. Then I went back up to the bar and sat down and waited for Timmy to come hurdling down the steps. Meanwhile, I looked over at the guy drinking Heineken; he was singing along with the chorus:
?Stop, hey, what's that sound?
Everybody look. What's goin' down??
?How?s it going?? I asked him.
?Great song!? he answered.
?I know, right??
?People don?t get it.?
I looked around. All the Dominican staff were hiding. Everyone was waiting for the wrath of Timmy to come downstairs any second now.
?Yeah, they don?t get it,? i answered looking around.
?Where you from?? He asked.
?Ohio, and yourself??
?Nevada.?
?Nevada?? I gave him a quick up and down glance, and then I said, ?The only people that come down here from Nevada work at the gold mine?you work at the mine??
?Yep.?
?What?s it?s like?? I asked.
?Big.?
?How big?? I asked.
?We grossed 1.4 Billion last year. We?re the only mine site last year that produced one million ounces of gold.?
?Damn!?
?52% went to the Dominican government.?
?Really?
?Yep. But we only make 17 cents on the dollar after everyone is paid.?
?Why?s that??
?The company I work for has a partner. It?s a 60/40 split. After the Dominican government gets their 52%, and our partner gets their stake, and after the bank loans are paid, over-head costs, etc. what?s left over is 17 cents on the dollar.?
?Interesting.?
?I?m only here for another year, then I will probably go back to work in Nevada. There?s a company in Nevada that?s getting ready to produce 1.9 million ounces of gold a year. They?re getting everything up and ready to go on-line soon; they?re getting ready for massive gold production.?
?Really? There?s that much gold in Nevada?? I asked, surprised.
?Oh yeah. Big time. Between central and northeastern Nevada, is the richest gold belt in the world; it?s called the Carlin Trend. The Carlin Trend is a geologic feature in northeastern Nevada which represents a period of erosion or non-deposition likely associated with a collision between a tectonic crustal block called a terrane and the North American Plate. The collision occurred during the Mississippian Period, about 350 million years B.P.?
"Are you a geologist?" i asked.
?No. but I work with geologists all day.?
?Hmm?the Carlin Trend?? I asked.
?Yep. Look it up. The Carlin Gold trend is one of the world's richest gold mining districts. It is a belt of gold deposits, primarily in Paleozoic limy sediments, that is about 5 miles wide and 40 miles long, extending in a north-northwest direction through the town of Carlin, Nevada. Gold was first discovered in the area in the 1870s, but there was very little production until 1909, and only about 22,000 ounces was produced through 1964. By 2008, mines in the Carlin Trend had produced over 70 million ounces of gold, worth around US$85 billion.?
?Great. So, you?re buying drinks, right?? I asked, smiling.
?I didn?t say that I owned the gold mine! I just work there. I work for the Man?just like you.?
?Yeah, I work for the Man, alright. We all work for the Man,? I said, toasting him with my Cointreau laced coffee.
[video]https://youtu.be/gp5JCrSXkJY[/video]
(Porn withdrawals)
As if any day here is a normal day, yesterday, a macabre and absurd situation occurred. Alabama Gary called me at home and asked me if I heard anything from Big Frank? I said, “No, but I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to him.”
I was sitting at home, trying to look at porn. I had the whole condo to myself. This seldom happens. There is always someone running around here. The Redhead always has friends over, people are always coming in and out. People are always in the kitchen cooking and eating my food. There is never any down time in this place. Ever. Solace does not exist in this place. Between the monkey, the cat, the Russians coming and going, the KGB, and our neighbors that mate like rabbits, this place is never quiet, never at peace…I’m never home alone.
As luck would have it, the only moment of solitaire that I’ve had in months to look at porn in peace...the internet goes down. I started screaming. I started running up and down the parking lot hollering at the top of my lungs. I was cursing. I was pulling my hair out. I was banging on peoples car hoods.
Why did this have to happen right now? I had the hand lotion ready. I had the paper towels ready. I fluffed the pillows up on the bed. I had the 500watt sound system turned up. I had the motor tuned up and running. I was humming along. I was like a Formula 1 driver waiting for the green light. I was ready to take off into porn space. I haven’t seen any good porn forever and a day. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months.
How and the hell can the internet go down? Right now! It’s as if the gods were conspiring against me. Of course they were conspiring against me. The internet has been perfect for months. But as soon as everyone leaves the house, as soon as I get some quite time, it goes down. How is this even ****ing possible? This is 2015. Isn’t the internet supposed to be running efficiently in this day and age? Maybe the redhead unplugged something? Of course she did. I ran around the condo disconnecting and reconnecting everything. I checked every connection. Nothing. I re-booted the router. Nothing. I checked the fuse box. Nothing. I looked underneath the sink for Gremlins. Nothing.
I got dressed and sprinted over to the condo management’s office. I pounded on the door. I was hollering. I was screaming for help. I was out of breath. When the manager answered the door, I said, “Do you have internet?” I could barely talk. I was totally out of breath. I’m not even sure he understood what I saying. I repeated the question, taking a deep breath in-between every syllable. I was standing there bent down on all fours, about to vomit. I could taste blood in my mouth. I had just sprinted across the parking lot and did a 200 yard dash in like 20 seconds. These were Carl Lewis times. These were Olympic qualifying times. These were NFL wide receiver times. Never in my life have I been as fast as I had been right now. But right now, with the internet down, and my only chance to watch porn in peace, I was ready to sprint to Santo Domingo and back for a good internet connection.
“Yes, the internet it down. I’m sorry.” The manager answered, after taking some time to decipher what I was saying to him.
I started screaming. I started pulling my hair out. I fell onto the ground and started flopping around like a fish out of water. I was hysterical. I was hyperventilating. I couldn’t breath. I needed oxygen.
The manager ran into his condo and told his wife to call the paramedics. "Fast!"
As if paramedics in the DR would know what to do. What would they tell them, “Frank is suffering from porn withdrawals. Hurry, get the defibulators!”
I jumped up and started running through the parking lot again, banging on people’s car hoods. Car alarms started going off in unison. It sounded like a WWIII sirens going off in downtown USA. People started running around looking for shelter. I was screaming. I was crying. I was hyperventilating. This cannot be healthy. Porn withdrawals must rank right up there with cardiovascular disease.
I ran back into my condo and jumped into bed and balled up into an armadillo like ball. I was in the fetal position, sobbing. All I wanted was 15 minutes of porn. 15 ****ing minutes! I would have settled for 10 minutes. Maybe even 5 minutes if it was hot and steamy.
My life is insane.
To be continued…
As if any day here is a normal day, yesterday, a macabre and absurd situation occurred. Alabama Gary called me at home and asked me if I heard anything from Big Frank? I said, “No, but I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to him.”
I was sitting at home, trying to look at porn. I had the whole condo to myself. This seldom happens. There is always someone running around here. The Redhead always has friends over, people are always coming in and out. People are always in the kitchen cooking and eating my food. There is never any down time in this place. Ever. Solace does not exist in this place. Between the monkey, the cat, the Russians coming and going, the KGB, and our neighbors that mate like rabbits, this place is never quiet, never at peace…I’m never home alone.
As luck would have it, the only moment of solitaire that I’ve had in months to look at porn in peace...the internet goes down. I started screaming. I started running up and down the parking lot hollering at the top of my lungs. I was cursing. I was pulling my hair out. I was banging on peoples car hoods.
Why did this have to happen right now? I had the hand lotion ready. I had the paper towels ready. I fluffed the pillows up on the bed. I had the 500watt sound system turned up. I had the motor tuned up and running. I was humming along. I was like a Formula 1 driver waiting for the green light. I was ready to take off into porn space. I haven’t seen any good porn forever and a day. I’ve been waiting for this moment for months.
How and the hell can the internet go down? Right now! It’s as if the gods were conspiring against me. Of course they were conspiring against me. The internet has been perfect for months. But as soon as everyone leaves the house, as soon as I get some quite time, it goes down. How is this even ****ing possible? This is 2015. Isn’t the internet supposed to be running efficiently in this day and age? Maybe the redhead unplugged something? Of course she did. I ran around the condo disconnecting and reconnecting everything. I checked every connection. Nothing. I re-booted the router. Nothing. I checked the fuse box. Nothing. I looked underneath the sink for Gremlins. Nothing.
I got dressed and sprinted over to the condo management’s office. I pounded on the door. I was hollering. I was screaming for help. I was out of breath. When the manager answered the door, I said, “Do you have internet?” I could barely talk. I was totally out of breath. I’m not even sure he understood what I saying. I repeated the question, taking a deep breath in-between every syllable. I was standing there bent down on all fours, about to vomit. I could taste blood in my mouth. I had just sprinted across the parking lot and did a 200 yard dash in like 20 seconds. These were Carl Lewis times. These were Olympic qualifying times. These were NFL wide receiver times. Never in my life have I been as fast as I had been right now. But right now, with the internet down, and my only chance to watch porn in peace, I was ready to sprint to Santo Domingo and back for a good internet connection.
“Yes, the internet it down. I’m sorry.” The manager answered, after taking some time to decipher what I was saying to him.
I started screaming. I started pulling my hair out. I fell onto the ground and started flopping around like a fish out of water. I was hysterical. I was hyperventilating. I couldn’t breath. I needed oxygen.
The manager ran into his condo and told his wife to call the paramedics. "Fast!"
As if paramedics in the DR would know what to do. What would they tell them, “Frank is suffering from porn withdrawals. Hurry, get the defibulators!”
I jumped up and started running through the parking lot again, banging on people’s car hoods. Car alarms started going off in unison. It sounded like a WWIII sirens going off in downtown USA. People started running around looking for shelter. I was screaming. I was crying. I was hyperventilating. This cannot be healthy. Porn withdrawals must rank right up there with cardiovascular disease.
I ran back into my condo and jumped into bed and balled up into an armadillo like ball. I was in the fetal position, sobbing. All I wanted was 15 minutes of porn. 15 ****ing minutes! I would have settled for 10 minutes. Maybe even 5 minutes if it was hot and steamy.
My life is insane.
To be continued…
Last edited:
(Big Frank)
So, yesterday, after giving up on porn, I decided to follow up on Alabama Gary’s question: What happened to Big Frank? No one had heard from him in three days. No one had seen him. This was very uncharacteristic of him. The only time Big Frank has disappeared like this is when he has checked himself into a brothel and not emerged for three strange days.
Three strange days.
Big Frank has been known to check into brothels and hibernate and detox for three days. He won’t drink for three days. He eats healthy. He swims. He walks. He caravan’s with females during the afternoon and night. He gets massages. He goes to bed early. He wakes up early. He exercises. He’s the only person I know to reemerge from a brothel younger, slimmer, and in good shape. Big Frank enjoys brothels like women enjoys weekend retreats at Health Spa’s.
It has happened before.
Big Frank has disappeared for three strange days in the past and reemerged reinvented, healthy, rejuvenated. Whenever he goes on these religious sexual retreats, he checks in with us. He calls throughout the day and night. He checks in regularly. He gives us directions. He makes sure things are operating. Basically, he conducts his business poolside…at the brothel.
Big Frank is the master of multi-tasking. He gives advice. He will tell you what to do, and what not to do. He will tell you this: "Do not make the same mistakes I have made....learn from my mistakes." He enjoys sharing his life experiences and all of the mistakes he has made.
Big Frank always shares advice such as this: “Bang as many girls as you can, Franky, but never bang the wait-staff!”
Another priceless piece of life changing advice was, “Just as there are two types of drug dealers in this world, there are two types of bartenders. Remember, Franky, being a bartender is no different from being a drug dealer.”
“Oh? How’s that? I asked.
“Because, as a bartender, you’re selling a highly addictive, mood altering drug that has the power to overwhelm people’s senses to such an extent that it sometimes compels people to behave in completely irrational, immature, unpredictable, fantasy-filled ways. Under the influence of alcohol, people are prone to believe that they are behaving logically, rationally, and intelligently — despite all evidence to the contrary. Now listen to me very carefully, son, you have two choices in life: you can either choose to be the stupid drug dealer that abuses the product that he sells, and as a result, has to slave his entire life just to pay for his addiction, or you can choose to be the really smart drug dealer — the one who never touches his product, and, as a result, gets to enjoy all the financial and emotional benefits of never having a debilitating, life-destroying addiction to feed for the rest of his life. Now tell me, Franky, which kind of drug dealer do you want to be when you grow up?”
I wasn’t a rocket scientist, but I was familiar enough with multiple choice questions to know the answer.
The internet had been down all afternoon, so I decided to go into work early. At work, I asked the secretary if they had spoken to Big Frank today. She said, “No. It’s one of the weirdest things ever…Big Frank has not called in three days.”
"Three days!"
Weird was an understatement. In the last 8 years, Big Frank has called a minimum of two to three times before noon. Now, it was nearly 4:30pm, and no one had heard from him. Stranger still, he just moved back to his house in the DR and has no TV at home. He has no car, no A/C, so it wasn’t as if he was sitting at home in the comforts of luxury, watching TV.
“Ok, give me the remote for the gate, I’ll go and check on him,” I told the secretary.
I went downstairs to the bar and waited for the remote control. Everyone had gathered around the bar. There was the wait staff, the bartenders, and the kitchen staff. Everyone was talking about the possibility that something terrible may have happened to him. He’s 72yrs old, not exactly fit, 300lbs, and he chews on Viagra pills like children chew gum. He consumes Viagra throughout the day as if they’re Flintstone vitamin pills. People come in and see him chewing on them and are in complete shock. He doesn’t care. He could care less what people think. He’s going to get laid before lunch and that’s all there is to it. He wants to be ready. Chewing on Viagra for him was like people going to the gym and stretching and warming up their muscles.
After the secretary came down with the remote, everyone started talking about what they were going to do with their severance pay if something terrible has happened to Big Frank. This is what staff in the service industry in the DR do all day long here…sitting around talking about what they’re going to do with the windfall of money once their severance pay comes rolling in.
The staff can spend 40 hours a week talking about their future plans of how to spend $1000 to $2000 US dollars. They talk about how the money is going to change their lives 360 degrees…they’re going to buy a big SUV, purchase a small piece of property and put pigs, turkeys, and chickens & roosters on it. They’re going to grow Yucca and sweet potatoes. Some of the staff plan on opening their own small restaurant or bar. Does it matter that one or two thousand dollars is not enough to open a business? Does it matter that the money will not last long? Does it matter that the electricity bill alone at a restaurant like ours is well over $2000 dollars a month? Does it matter that everyone here have loans out on furniture and scooters, etc. Everything here is purchased on credit.
Does it matter that if Big Frank has died, his sons will take over the restaurant…everything will continue on like before. No. because, to the staff, all this is just useless details, infringing on their dreams. I understand this. Everyone has dreams. I have dreams.
Right now, I’m dreaming of coffee and Bailey’s.
To be continued...
So, yesterday, after giving up on porn, I decided to follow up on Alabama Gary’s question: What happened to Big Frank? No one had heard from him in three days. No one had seen him. This was very uncharacteristic of him. The only time Big Frank has disappeared like this is when he has checked himself into a brothel and not emerged for three strange days.
Three strange days.
Big Frank has been known to check into brothels and hibernate and detox for three days. He won’t drink for three days. He eats healthy. He swims. He walks. He caravan’s with females during the afternoon and night. He gets massages. He goes to bed early. He wakes up early. He exercises. He’s the only person I know to reemerge from a brothel younger, slimmer, and in good shape. Big Frank enjoys brothels like women enjoys weekend retreats at Health Spa’s.
It has happened before.
Big Frank has disappeared for three strange days in the past and reemerged reinvented, healthy, rejuvenated. Whenever he goes on these religious sexual retreats, he checks in with us. He calls throughout the day and night. He checks in regularly. He gives us directions. He makes sure things are operating. Basically, he conducts his business poolside…at the brothel.
Big Frank is the master of multi-tasking. He gives advice. He will tell you what to do, and what not to do. He will tell you this: "Do not make the same mistakes I have made....learn from my mistakes." He enjoys sharing his life experiences and all of the mistakes he has made.
Big Frank always shares advice such as this: “Bang as many girls as you can, Franky, but never bang the wait-staff!”
Another priceless piece of life changing advice was, “Just as there are two types of drug dealers in this world, there are two types of bartenders. Remember, Franky, being a bartender is no different from being a drug dealer.”
“Oh? How’s that? I asked.
“Because, as a bartender, you’re selling a highly addictive, mood altering drug that has the power to overwhelm people’s senses to such an extent that it sometimes compels people to behave in completely irrational, immature, unpredictable, fantasy-filled ways. Under the influence of alcohol, people are prone to believe that they are behaving logically, rationally, and intelligently — despite all evidence to the contrary. Now listen to me very carefully, son, you have two choices in life: you can either choose to be the stupid drug dealer that abuses the product that he sells, and as a result, has to slave his entire life just to pay for his addiction, or you can choose to be the really smart drug dealer — the one who never touches his product, and, as a result, gets to enjoy all the financial and emotional benefits of never having a debilitating, life-destroying addiction to feed for the rest of his life. Now tell me, Franky, which kind of drug dealer do you want to be when you grow up?”
I wasn’t a rocket scientist, but I was familiar enough with multiple choice questions to know the answer.
The internet had been down all afternoon, so I decided to go into work early. At work, I asked the secretary if they had spoken to Big Frank today. She said, “No. It’s one of the weirdest things ever…Big Frank has not called in three days.”
"Three days!"
Weird was an understatement. In the last 8 years, Big Frank has called a minimum of two to three times before noon. Now, it was nearly 4:30pm, and no one had heard from him. Stranger still, he just moved back to his house in the DR and has no TV at home. He has no car, no A/C, so it wasn’t as if he was sitting at home in the comforts of luxury, watching TV.
“Ok, give me the remote for the gate, I’ll go and check on him,” I told the secretary.
I went downstairs to the bar and waited for the remote control. Everyone had gathered around the bar. There was the wait staff, the bartenders, and the kitchen staff. Everyone was talking about the possibility that something terrible may have happened to him. He’s 72yrs old, not exactly fit, 300lbs, and he chews on Viagra pills like children chew gum. He consumes Viagra throughout the day as if they’re Flintstone vitamin pills. People come in and see him chewing on them and are in complete shock. He doesn’t care. He could care less what people think. He’s going to get laid before lunch and that’s all there is to it. He wants to be ready. Chewing on Viagra for him was like people going to the gym and stretching and warming up their muscles.
After the secretary came down with the remote, everyone started talking about what they were going to do with their severance pay if something terrible has happened to Big Frank. This is what staff in the service industry in the DR do all day long here…sitting around talking about what they’re going to do with the windfall of money once their severance pay comes rolling in.
The staff can spend 40 hours a week talking about their future plans of how to spend $1000 to $2000 US dollars. They talk about how the money is going to change their lives 360 degrees…they’re going to buy a big SUV, purchase a small piece of property and put pigs, turkeys, and chickens & roosters on it. They’re going to grow Yucca and sweet potatoes. Some of the staff plan on opening their own small restaurant or bar. Does it matter that one or two thousand dollars is not enough to open a business? Does it matter that the money will not last long? Does it matter that the electricity bill alone at a restaurant like ours is well over $2000 dollars a month? Does it matter that everyone here have loans out on furniture and scooters, etc. Everything here is purchased on credit.
Does it matter that if Big Frank has died, his sons will take over the restaurant…everything will continue on like before. No. because, to the staff, all this is just useless details, infringing on their dreams. I understand this. Everyone has dreams. I have dreams.
Right now, I’m dreaming of coffee and Bailey’s.
To be continued...
(Lazarus of Bethany)
In something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or Not, Lazarus rose from the Dead on Easter weekend in front of Lazy Dog bar.
Although I did not witness it personally, two members here on this forum witnessed it…as did hundreds of other good Christian soldiers. I’m talking about a full, certified Resurrection--in the likes of Jesus Christ and Lazarus of Bethany.
Basically, what happened was that a very inebriated Dominican male died on the beach in front of thousands of spectators in front of Lazy Dog bar. He then went to either heaven or hell, forgot to pay his bar bill, and hence, returned back to earth to finish drinking his bottle of Brugal rum.
I call this the “Lazarus Effect.” I have personally witnessed this hundreds of times when people are trying to either get out of paying their bar bill, or trying to get laid. I’ve performed this miracle myself and have gotten out of bar bills as well as gotten laid as a result of my performance. Basically, the more dramatic the performance, the better the results.
Don’t try this at home without professional supervision.
In the case of the Dominican this past Saturday, he took Resurrection one step further. You could say that he raised the bar even higher than anyone I have witnessed trying to get out of paying their bar bill. He actually died a full death, but then came back to life to drink more rum.
Earlier, he was running around the beach in front of Lazy Dog with a bottle of rum in his hand. He was drunk, happy, and having a good time. At some point…during his extraordinary drinking festivities, he decided to go for a swim directly in front of Lazy Dog. At some point later, a beautiful Canadian woman, Sheri, and her husband noticed that someone was laying in the water face down.
Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but, one would think that with hundreds of people standing around, surrounding a dead person in the water, someone would have noticed that someone completely submerged in the surf, for…oh, I don’t know...15 minutes or more, face down, was not snorkeling or sun tanning.
Sheri and her husband noticed that the person face down in the water looked dead. He was as dead as a drunk zombie. He was not moving. He was not coming up for air. He was not trying to get into the Guinness book of World records for holding his breath the longest.
Sheri and her husband screamed and pointed at the dead body in the water. People started dragging him out while simultaneously rifling through his pockets looking for any loose change. He’s dead…he won’t need any loose change where he’s going. There are no vending machines in heaven.
On the beach, in front of hundreds of horrified Dominican spectators snapping pictures, eating pork sandwiches, and pouring drinks for their friends, people were sent to get popcorn and watch the show. For Dominicans, watching someone performing CPR is like a matinee show. It satisfies an instinctive urge to breathe more oxygen. Professionals kept performing CPR on the dead man while people were sent to get more popcorn. More photos were taken. More selfies taken. More drinks were poured. People were horrified…so much so that someone came down to the beach and started selling hot dogs and Lambi for the hungry spectators.
After heroic efforts, the man was finally revived (probably suffered brain damage. I’ve got it ) and taken away. People were forced to go back to their boring lives of looking out over the horizon while projectile vomiting and staring at big butts on the beach.
More drinks were poured. More toasts were made. More selfie-pics were taken. What are Dominicans to do for entertainment if no one is willing to step-up to the plate and kill themselves in some dramatic, over-the-top, spectacular fashion that earns them a Darwin Award? How else are you going to get the coveted Darwin Award without some kind of spectacular swan song or self-immolation?
As fate would have it, the drowned man who was carted away with a round of applause from nearby spectators, re-appeared on the beach with a bottle of rum in his hand only minutes later. He came back revived, reinvigorated, and refreshed…he never looked better. He was frolicking and dancing about like Lazarus of Bethany and Jesus Christ resurrected from the dead.
Apparently, although studies are still being conducted as of this writing, Dominican rum is known to have special medicinal properties—it acts as a medicinal Serum for healing dead people...these are people who still do not know that they are dead.
Dominicans rum companies have gone to great lengths to develop a “rum serum,” code-named "Lazarus". It was intended to assist coma patients but is shown to actually be able to bring the dead back to life. But it's also known to cause erections, induce pregnancy, cause projectile vomiting, and cure malaria, the common cold, and herpes.
In something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or Not, Lazarus rose from the Dead on Easter weekend in front of Lazy Dog bar.
Although I did not witness it personally, two members here on this forum witnessed it…as did hundreds of other good Christian soldiers. I’m talking about a full, certified Resurrection--in the likes of Jesus Christ and Lazarus of Bethany.
Basically, what happened was that a very inebriated Dominican male died on the beach in front of thousands of spectators in front of Lazy Dog bar. He then went to either heaven or hell, forgot to pay his bar bill, and hence, returned back to earth to finish drinking his bottle of Brugal rum.
I call this the “Lazarus Effect.” I have personally witnessed this hundreds of times when people are trying to either get out of paying their bar bill, or trying to get laid. I’ve performed this miracle myself and have gotten out of bar bills as well as gotten laid as a result of my performance. Basically, the more dramatic the performance, the better the results.
Don’t try this at home without professional supervision.
In the case of the Dominican this past Saturday, he took Resurrection one step further. You could say that he raised the bar even higher than anyone I have witnessed trying to get out of paying their bar bill. He actually died a full death, but then came back to life to drink more rum.
Earlier, he was running around the beach in front of Lazy Dog with a bottle of rum in his hand. He was drunk, happy, and having a good time. At some point…during his extraordinary drinking festivities, he decided to go for a swim directly in front of Lazy Dog. At some point later, a beautiful Canadian woman, Sheri, and her husband noticed that someone was laying in the water face down.
Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but, one would think that with hundreds of people standing around, surrounding a dead person in the water, someone would have noticed that someone completely submerged in the surf, for…oh, I don’t know...15 minutes or more, face down, was not snorkeling or sun tanning.
Sheri and her husband noticed that the person face down in the water looked dead. He was as dead as a drunk zombie. He was not moving. He was not coming up for air. He was not trying to get into the Guinness book of World records for holding his breath the longest.
Sheri and her husband screamed and pointed at the dead body in the water. People started dragging him out while simultaneously rifling through his pockets looking for any loose change. He’s dead…he won’t need any loose change where he’s going. There are no vending machines in heaven.
On the beach, in front of hundreds of horrified Dominican spectators snapping pictures, eating pork sandwiches, and pouring drinks for their friends, people were sent to get popcorn and watch the show. For Dominicans, watching someone performing CPR is like a matinee show. It satisfies an instinctive urge to breathe more oxygen. Professionals kept performing CPR on the dead man while people were sent to get more popcorn. More photos were taken. More selfies taken. More drinks were poured. People were horrified…so much so that someone came down to the beach and started selling hot dogs and Lambi for the hungry spectators.
After heroic efforts, the man was finally revived (probably suffered brain damage. I’ve got it ) and taken away. People were forced to go back to their boring lives of looking out over the horizon while projectile vomiting and staring at big butts on the beach.
More drinks were poured. More toasts were made. More selfie-pics were taken. What are Dominicans to do for entertainment if no one is willing to step-up to the plate and kill themselves in some dramatic, over-the-top, spectacular fashion that earns them a Darwin Award? How else are you going to get the coveted Darwin Award without some kind of spectacular swan song or self-immolation?
As fate would have it, the drowned man who was carted away with a round of applause from nearby spectators, re-appeared on the beach with a bottle of rum in his hand only minutes later. He came back revived, reinvigorated, and refreshed…he never looked better. He was frolicking and dancing about like Lazarus of Bethany and Jesus Christ resurrected from the dead.
Apparently, although studies are still being conducted as of this writing, Dominican rum is known to have special medicinal properties—it acts as a medicinal Serum for healing dead people...these are people who still do not know that they are dead.
Dominicans rum companies have gone to great lengths to develop a “rum serum,” code-named "Lazarus". It was intended to assist coma patients but is shown to actually be able to bring the dead back to life. But it's also known to cause erections, induce pregnancy, cause projectile vomiting, and cure malaria, the common cold, and herpes.
http://i1278.photobucket.com/albums/y516/Husabergfrank/FeedtheNativesCover_zpsr2jbhgwk.jpg
I just finished writing another book. It's long. It's crazy. It's completely absurd. But they're all true stories. The book is called "Don't Feed the Natives (Fear & Loathing in the Dominican Republic meets Zen & the Art of Riding Lawn Mower Maintenance).
The book is about a man riding a John Deere riding lawn mower throughout the Dominican Republic with a Norwegian Hitchhiker. The book is the funniest book you'll ever read about the DR or your money back! It will be available on Amazon in a few days time. I'll keep you posted.
I just finished writing another book. It's long. It's crazy. It's completely absurd. But they're all true stories. The book is called "Don't Feed the Natives (Fear & Loathing in the Dominican Republic meets Zen & the Art of Riding Lawn Mower Maintenance).
The book is about a man riding a John Deere riding lawn mower throughout the Dominican Republic with a Norwegian Hitchhiker. The book is the funniest book you'll ever read about the DR or your money back! It will be available on Amazon in a few days time. I'll keep you posted.
(Lazarus of Bethany)
In something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or Not, Lazarus rose from the Dead on Easter weekend on Cabarete Beach.
Although I did not witness it personally, two members here on this forum witnessed it--as did hundreds of other good Christian soldiers. I’m talking about a full, certified Resurrection--in the likes of Jesus Christ and Lazarus of Bethany.
Basically, what happened was that a very inebriated Dominican male died on the beach in front of thousands of spectators in front of Lazy Dog bar. He then went to either heaven or hell, forgot to pay his bar bill, and hence, was sent back to earth to finish his bottle of Brugal rum.
I call this the “Lazarus Effect.” I have personally witnessed this hundreds of times over the years when people have tried to either get out of paying their bar bill, or are desperately trying to get laid. I’ve performed this miracle myself and have gotten out of numerous bar bills, as well as have gotten laid as a result of my performance. Basically, the more dramatic the performance, the better the results.
Don’t try this at home without supervision.
In the case of the inebriated Dominican this past Saturday, he took Resurrection one step further. You could say that he raised the bar even higher than other past Dominicans vying for first place in the coveted Darwin Awards. He actually died a full, detailed infused, rum-induced, salt water consuming death...but then came back to life in order to finish his drink.
Earlier, he was running around the beach in front of Lazy Dog with a bottle of rum in his hand. He was drunk, happy, and having a good time. At some point…during his extraordinary drinking festivities, he decided to go for a swim directly in front of Lazy Dog. At some point later, a beautiful Canadian woman, Sheri, and her husband noticed that someone was laying in the water face down.
Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but, one would think that with hundreds of people standing around, surrounding a dead person in the water, someone would have noticed someone completely submerged in the surf, face down, for…oh, I don’t know...something like 15 minutes or more. He certainly wasn't snorkeling or sun tanning, face down in the surf with his arms and hands extended out like Superman.
Sheri and her husband noticed that the person face down in the water looked dead...as in dead as a door nail. As in dead as a drunk zombie. He was not moving. He was not coming up for air. He was not trying to get into the Guinness book of World records for holding his breath the longest.
Sheri and her husband screamed and pointed at the dead body in the water. People started dragging him out while simultaneously rifling through his pockets looking for any loose change. He’s dead…he won’t need any loose change where he’s going. There are no vending machines in heaven.
On the beach, in front of hundreds of horrified Dominican spectators snapping pictures, eating pork sandwiches, and pouring drinks for their friends, people were sent to get popcorn and watch the show. For Dominicans, watching someone performing CPR is like a matinee show. It satisfies an instinctive urge to breathe more oxygen. Professionals kept performing CPR on the dead man while people were sent to get more popcorn. More photos were taken. More selfies taken. More drinks were poured. People were horrified…so much so that someone came down to the beach and started selling hot dogs and Lambi for the hungry spectators.
After heroic efforts, the man was finally revived (probably suffered brain damage) and taken away. People were forced to go back to their boring lives of watching big butts walk down the beach, watching people projectile vomit into the ocean where they feed fish, and watching Dominicans swim in the ocean fully clothed.
More drinks were poured. More toasts were made. More selfie-pics were taken. What are Dominicans to do for entertainment if no one is willing to step-up to the plate and kill themselves in some dramatic, over-the-top, spectacular fashion that earns them a Darwin Award? How else are you going to get the coveted Darwin Award without some kind of spectacular swan song or self-immolation?
As fate would have it, the drowned man who was carted away with a round of applause from nearby spectators, re-appeared on the beach with a bottle of rum in his hand only minutes later. He came back revived, reinvigorated, and refreshed…he never looked better. He was frolicking and dancing about like Lazarus of Bethany and Jesus Christ resurrected from the dead.
Apparently, (although studies are still being conducted as of this writing) Dominican rum is known to have special medicinal properties—it acts as a medicinal Serum for healing dead people...these are people who still do not know that they are dead, and hence, walk around with an alcohol induced glaze over their eyes and try and stiff the wait staff because they are so cheap.
Dominicans rum companies have gone to great lengths to develop a “rum serum,” code-named "Lazarus". It was intended to assist coma patients but is shown to actually be able to bring the dead back to life. But it's also known to cause 8-hour erections, induce pregnancy, cause projectile vomiting, and cure malaria, the common cold, and herpes.
In something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or Not, Lazarus rose from the Dead on Easter weekend on Cabarete Beach.
Although I did not witness it personally, two members here on this forum witnessed it--as did hundreds of other good Christian soldiers. I’m talking about a full, certified Resurrection--in the likes of Jesus Christ and Lazarus of Bethany.
Basically, what happened was that a very inebriated Dominican male died on the beach in front of thousands of spectators in front of Lazy Dog bar. He then went to either heaven or hell, forgot to pay his bar bill, and hence, was sent back to earth to finish his bottle of Brugal rum.
I call this the “Lazarus Effect.” I have personally witnessed this hundreds of times over the years when people have tried to either get out of paying their bar bill, or are desperately trying to get laid. I’ve performed this miracle myself and have gotten out of numerous bar bills, as well as have gotten laid as a result of my performance. Basically, the more dramatic the performance, the better the results.
Don’t try this at home without supervision.
In the case of the inebriated Dominican this past Saturday, he took Resurrection one step further. You could say that he raised the bar even higher than other past Dominicans vying for first place in the coveted Darwin Awards. He actually died a full, detailed infused, rum-induced, salt water consuming death...but then came back to life in order to finish his drink.
Earlier, he was running around the beach in front of Lazy Dog with a bottle of rum in his hand. He was drunk, happy, and having a good time. At some point…during his extraordinary drinking festivities, he decided to go for a swim directly in front of Lazy Dog. At some point later, a beautiful Canadian woman, Sheri, and her husband noticed that someone was laying in the water face down.
Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but, one would think that with hundreds of people standing around, surrounding a dead person in the water, someone would have noticed someone completely submerged in the surf, face down, for…oh, I don’t know...something like 15 minutes or more. He certainly wasn't snorkeling or sun tanning, face down in the surf with his arms and hands extended out like Superman.
Sheri and her husband noticed that the person face down in the water looked dead...as in dead as a door nail. As in dead as a drunk zombie. He was not moving. He was not coming up for air. He was not trying to get into the Guinness book of World records for holding his breath the longest.
Sheri and her husband screamed and pointed at the dead body in the water. People started dragging him out while simultaneously rifling through his pockets looking for any loose change. He’s dead…he won’t need any loose change where he’s going. There are no vending machines in heaven.
On the beach, in front of hundreds of horrified Dominican spectators snapping pictures, eating pork sandwiches, and pouring drinks for their friends, people were sent to get popcorn and watch the show. For Dominicans, watching someone performing CPR is like a matinee show. It satisfies an instinctive urge to breathe more oxygen. Professionals kept performing CPR on the dead man while people were sent to get more popcorn. More photos were taken. More selfies taken. More drinks were poured. People were horrified…so much so that someone came down to the beach and started selling hot dogs and Lambi for the hungry spectators.
After heroic efforts, the man was finally revived (probably suffered brain damage) and taken away. People were forced to go back to their boring lives of watching big butts walk down the beach, watching people projectile vomit into the ocean where they feed fish, and watching Dominicans swim in the ocean fully clothed.
More drinks were poured. More toasts were made. More selfie-pics were taken. What are Dominicans to do for entertainment if no one is willing to step-up to the plate and kill themselves in some dramatic, over-the-top, spectacular fashion that earns them a Darwin Award? How else are you going to get the coveted Darwin Award without some kind of spectacular swan song or self-immolation?
As fate would have it, the drowned man who was carted away with a round of applause from nearby spectators, re-appeared on the beach with a bottle of rum in his hand only minutes later. He came back revived, reinvigorated, and refreshed…he never looked better. He was frolicking and dancing about like Lazarus of Bethany and Jesus Christ resurrected from the dead.
Apparently, (although studies are still being conducted as of this writing) Dominican rum is known to have special medicinal properties—it acts as a medicinal Serum for healing dead people...these are people who still do not know that they are dead, and hence, walk around with an alcohol induced glaze over their eyes and try and stiff the wait staff because they are so cheap.
Dominicans rum companies have gone to great lengths to develop a “rum serum,” code-named "Lazarus". It was intended to assist coma patients but is shown to actually be able to bring the dead back to life. But it's also known to cause 8-hour erections, induce pregnancy, cause projectile vomiting, and cure malaria, the common cold, and herpes.
(Jesus does Porn)
I’ve had a splitting headache all day. I went to the gym this morning but couldn’t be bothered to get off the restaurant sofa next to the pool. Instead I ordered a double espresso and laid back down and watched cirrus clouds whip themselves up into a frenzy.
I laid on the sofa and stared straight up into the sky. I watched planes take off and land at POP airport for hours. I was frozen on the sofa. I was unable to move or form speech. My head was throbbing like crazy. It was out of control. It was throbbing something fierce. I couldn’t even form a sentence. I just pointed at the espresso machine and the waiter knew what to do. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I had the mother of all migraines.
I did notice one thing, however...after watching cirrus clouds whip themselves into an angry frenzy all morning, i realized that Sosua is in the direct corridor path of POP airport. If a plane engine were to malfunction or toilet back up, Sosua is going to get **** on something fierce.
As I lay there frozen on the sofa, staring up into the sky--head throbbing like a swollen penis--a magical, fabulous song came over the restaurant sound system: The Pusher, by Steppenwolf.
"The Pusher" is a rock song written by Hoyt Axton, made popular by the 1969 movie Easy Rider which used Steppenwolf's version to accompany the opening scenes showing drug trafficking.
"You know I've smoked a lot of grass
O' Lord, I've popped a lot of pills
But I never touched nothin'
That my spirit could kill
You know, I've seen a lot of people walkin' 'round
With tombstones in their eyes
But the pusher don't care
Ah, if you live or if you die"
I laid there staring up into the sky, daydreaming. I remember when this song first came out. I used to hear it coming from people’s car stereos and front porches on my way home from school in 1969. I remember walking home and seeing my older brother and sister’s friends sitting on their front porches smoking pot while their parents were working in factories, warehouses, and department stores.
Back in the 60's and early 70's, nearly every teenager i knew sat on their front porches and got high while their parents worked all day. After school let out, life was a free for all. It was partyville. It was hippyville and hippy values. it was Vietnam protests...it was come as you are goddammit because you ain’t built right no how.
the 1960's & 70's was a good time to grow up. Back in the 60’s & 70’s you could run through the streets…naked, wild, and free. It was a time of freedom. It was a time of change. It was a time of experimentation. And it was a time of sexual revolution and rebellion.
There was no way and hell I was going to go into work today. Not with this throbbing headache. Instead, I called the Redhead and told her to come pick me up. I couldn’t drive anywhere. Hell, I couldn’t even ****ing move.
When I got home I laid in bed next to our cat, Jesus. He was sleeping at the foot of the bed and only marginally picked his head up to look at me. But as soon as I grabbed a bag of catnip and started opening it up, Jesus immediately stood up at attention. I love catnip. Catnip is a natural herb, full of medicinal qualities, part of the mint family, and ten times more effective than Deet in repelling mosquitoes. It also makes a wonderful tea, clears acne, and enlarges the penis by up to 30%. It’s not an accident that cats love it. It sends them into paroxysms of ecstasy. That’s why American Indians used to smoke it; it makes you comfortably numb, calms the nerves, and gives you a different perspective, allowing you to see things from a different angle.
I gave the Jesus some of my best catnip, and then I lit up a bowl for myself. My head was throbbing. I would have smoked cow **** if someone said it would cure my headache. Yeah, I was desperate. When you got a migraine, you’ll try anything. You’ll even drink your own urine if someone tells you that it will make your head stop throbbing.
Fifteen minutes later, all hell broke loose. Jesus started meowing and climbing the walls. Then he started climbing the curtains. Then he found a bath towel and started humping it wildly. Jesus is crazy. Certifiably crazy…with the papers to prove it. Jesus will hump anything stationary. You cannot stop moving or he will hump your leg. He’s exactly like a dog. He will hump stranger’s legs out in the parking lot. He will hump the curtains and bed sheets. He will hump other dogs in our complex. The cat is a ****ing machine. The cat is a porn movie. I’m not kidding. I have never seen a cat as horny as this cat. Jesus must have sex at least once a day with something stationery. Basically, if it doesn't move, Jesus is humping it.
After I Jesus stopped climbing the walls, I ran and grabbed my camera….this is what I recorded:
I’ve had a splitting headache all day. I went to the gym this morning but couldn’t be bothered to get off the restaurant sofa next to the pool. Instead I ordered a double espresso and laid back down and watched cirrus clouds whip themselves up into a frenzy.
I laid on the sofa and stared straight up into the sky. I watched planes take off and land at POP airport for hours. I was frozen on the sofa. I was unable to move or form speech. My head was throbbing like crazy. It was out of control. It was throbbing something fierce. I couldn’t even form a sentence. I just pointed at the espresso machine and the waiter knew what to do. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I had the mother of all migraines.
I did notice one thing, however...after watching cirrus clouds whip themselves into an angry frenzy all morning, i realized that Sosua is in the direct corridor path of POP airport. If a plane engine were to malfunction or toilet back up, Sosua is going to get **** on something fierce.
As I lay there frozen on the sofa, staring up into the sky--head throbbing like a swollen penis--a magical, fabulous song came over the restaurant sound system: The Pusher, by Steppenwolf.
"The Pusher" is a rock song written by Hoyt Axton, made popular by the 1969 movie Easy Rider which used Steppenwolf's version to accompany the opening scenes showing drug trafficking.
"You know I've smoked a lot of grass
O' Lord, I've popped a lot of pills
But I never touched nothin'
That my spirit could kill
You know, I've seen a lot of people walkin' 'round
With tombstones in their eyes
But the pusher don't care
Ah, if you live or if you die"
I laid there staring up into the sky, daydreaming. I remember when this song first came out. I used to hear it coming from people’s car stereos and front porches on my way home from school in 1969. I remember walking home and seeing my older brother and sister’s friends sitting on their front porches smoking pot while their parents were working in factories, warehouses, and department stores.
Back in the 60's and early 70's, nearly every teenager i knew sat on their front porches and got high while their parents worked all day. After school let out, life was a free for all. It was partyville. It was hippyville and hippy values. it was Vietnam protests...it was come as you are goddammit because you ain’t built right no how.
the 1960's & 70's was a good time to grow up. Back in the 60’s & 70’s you could run through the streets…naked, wild, and free. It was a time of freedom. It was a time of change. It was a time of experimentation. And it was a time of sexual revolution and rebellion.
There was no way and hell I was going to go into work today. Not with this throbbing headache. Instead, I called the Redhead and told her to come pick me up. I couldn’t drive anywhere. Hell, I couldn’t even ****ing move.
When I got home I laid in bed next to our cat, Jesus. He was sleeping at the foot of the bed and only marginally picked his head up to look at me. But as soon as I grabbed a bag of catnip and started opening it up, Jesus immediately stood up at attention. I love catnip. Catnip is a natural herb, full of medicinal qualities, part of the mint family, and ten times more effective than Deet in repelling mosquitoes. It also makes a wonderful tea, clears acne, and enlarges the penis by up to 30%. It’s not an accident that cats love it. It sends them into paroxysms of ecstasy. That’s why American Indians used to smoke it; it makes you comfortably numb, calms the nerves, and gives you a different perspective, allowing you to see things from a different angle.
I gave the Jesus some of my best catnip, and then I lit up a bowl for myself. My head was throbbing. I would have smoked cow **** if someone said it would cure my headache. Yeah, I was desperate. When you got a migraine, you’ll try anything. You’ll even drink your own urine if someone tells you that it will make your head stop throbbing.
Fifteen minutes later, all hell broke loose. Jesus started meowing and climbing the walls. Then he started climbing the curtains. Then he found a bath towel and started humping it wildly. Jesus is crazy. Certifiably crazy…with the papers to prove it. Jesus will hump anything stationary. You cannot stop moving or he will hump your leg. He’s exactly like a dog. He will hump stranger’s legs out in the parking lot. He will hump the curtains and bed sheets. He will hump other dogs in our complex. The cat is a ****ing machine. The cat is a porn movie. I’m not kidding. I have never seen a cat as horny as this cat. Jesus must have sex at least once a day with something stationery. Basically, if it doesn't move, Jesus is humping it.
After I Jesus stopped climbing the walls, I ran and grabbed my camera….this is what I recorded:
Here's my new page where i have three out four books exclusively about the North Coast. The last book in particular mentions Cabarete and some other towns on the north coast, as well as some of the more eccentric expats here.
https://www.facebook.com/frankgenaodominicanrepublic
https://www.facebook.com/frankgenaodominicanrepublic