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Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Chapter 172 (Expats & Contradictions)
Last night, I was sitting at the bar drinking the strongest, most lethal double espresso ever invented. I was flying. I had a caffeine buzz so intense that I was actually outside my body. I was flying, hovering overhead. The only consolation was that I was also listening to a genius song being played over the restaurant sound system. The genius song: Golden Brown by The Stranglers. I came back down to earth and went over and turned the song up. I turned it way up.
This is one of the most timeless and brilliant songs to emerge from post-punk, late 70’s England. The song is driven by one of the most eerily, hypnotic sounds that ever graced the radio, and is dominated by a Harpsichord played in 13/8 time. Halfway in a scorching guitar solo — played with heavy reverb — comes in like a shot of heroin. The reverb picks you up and places you onto its wings where it flies you directly into the sun.
This is a storytelling poem of a song that rings more like an early 20th century Dylan Thomas poem than pop music, and it couldn’t have been invented without the help of some kind of hallucinatory drug. The song came out in the winter of 1981 — taking English radio stations by storm. But what makes this song timeless is that it starts with a hypnotic and driving Harpsichord riff that reminds you of something Ray Manczarek from The Doors could have written had he mixed Magic Mushrooms with sniffing glue. The song catches you from the first note of the Harpsichord, and doesn’t let go until the reverb from the guitar has you crash landing on the sun.
Big Frank was sitting at his usual Widows peak chair, arguing with a group of expats about cheapness & contradictions. He was getting frustrated. He called me over to his table and asked me to sit down.
“Listen Franky, I have been in the Caribbean for 35 years now. I’ve been to so many different islands i've lost count. I’ve got friends scattered all over the Caribbean. I know the Caribbean better then I know my right hand. Some islands are so small that I know them better then I know my own penis. But I have never lived on an island like this island. This must be the only island in the Caribbean where people actually take pride in ****ing over poor people.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Look around,” he said, sweeping his hand across the beach, “Some of these expats living here have no problem paying $10 or $15 for a meal, but then they will try argue over giving 50 pesos ($1 Dollar) to the waiter as a tip. Some of the expats here have no problem drinking all afternoon but then will stiff the wait staff after they’ve waited on them hand and foot all afternoon. Some of the expats here seem to take delight in depriving someone of one or two dollars. They see it as an act of intelligence when they can save one dollar and keep it from someone who needs it much more then they do.”
“Humm, ok, “I answered looking around the bar.
“If these expats can save an extra 25 pesos by depriving it from some poor Dominican or Haitian, they revel in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen Franky, people are full of contradictions. Everyone. Some people don’t have any problem spending a lot of money on alcohol, but refuse to spend anything on food. Other spend a lot of money on Smart Phones, but then don’t have any money to make a phone call (he looked around at our staff). Others spend a lot of money on a car or motorcycle, but then they live in a shack (he looked over at me and smiled). But no contradictions are more prevalent then what we got right here on the North Coast with the expats."
"Uh-huh," i answered, looking down at my smart phone.
Look at Alabama Gary,” he said pointing at him. Gary was out on the beach urinating on the bushes that surround our coconut tree. “If Alabama Gary can save 25 pesos from a motoconcho—basically denying the motoconcho a tip, then he revels in it. He basks in his ability to save 25 pesos from someone who is basically—for all practical purposes—barely surviving and feeding his family. But then Alabama Gary has no problem walking into a casino and blowing hundreds of dollars."
“Humm, yeah, good point. I answer, watching Alabama Gary stand inside our bushes and urinate all over our outdoor speaker that sits hidden inside our bushes. He didn’t care. He just shook his penis and smiled.
“The contradictions are mind boggling, Franky. Look at some of these expats who refuse to pay more than 30 pesos for a Carro public (public taxi) or Motoconcho (motorcycle taxi). They will argue over some small change and nearly fight with the driver if the driver doesn't give them back the exact change. Is twenty extra going to make any difference at all in an expats life? No. But twenty pesos can make a significant impact on a poor Dominican’s life,”
“It’s the principal, Pops,” he tells Big Frank.
“Principal? These Dominicans and Haitians are driving back and forth 12 hours a day on motorcycles, cars, and vans. They work six and seven days a week, day & night. They’re working in a scorching heat, without any AC, sweating their balls off, trying to survive and make ends meet. Meanwhile, these crazy expats come down here and try and save twenty pesos from someone barely surviving.”
“It’s the principal, Pops,” Alabama Gary reiterates, and then adds, “People do not want to be ripped off and taken advantage of.”
“I understand that Gary, but what is an extra twenty pesos to you? It’s not enough to buy a pack of gum. But an extra twenty pesos to a poor Haitian or Dominican is a lot of money. By giving them a little extra, you make their day. You make them smile. You restore faith in humanity.”
“You sound like some kind of socialist-Obama lover, Pops,” Alabama Gary says to him.
“Listen Gary, nearly every expat living down full time here is either from North America or Europe,” Frank says, sweeping his massive arm over the entire bar and beach. You know what that means? That means that most of the expats here are living on some kind of State Pension or Disability. A large portion of the expats living here are receiving some kind of “Government Check.” Most expats here are either retired or semi-retired. Another portion are on some kind of government disability. A few are living off of inheritance money. The rest are a loose group of students, surfers, and backpackers who, understandably, are on a very limited budget. My beef is not with the latter group. These are just kids. My beef is with the adult expats living here and trying to deny some dirt poor Dominican or Haitian an extra twenty or thirty pesos. My beef with the expats that go out for Happy Hour everyday but then won’t tip the waitress that’s running up and down the beach for them."
"Uh-huh," I answered, looking over at Alabama Gary and pointing at him.
"You know what these cheap expats say in order to justify not giving any extra money to a Dominican or Haitian?” Big Frank asks.
“What?” Alabama Gary asks.
Expat: “You don’t need to tip the waitresses or waiters here”
Me: “Why’s that?”
Expat: “These people don’t need it. They’re used to living on very little money.”
Me: “They still need to survive. They have children and families to support.”
Expat: “Yeah, but they don’t need the extra money. They live very simple. They have very simple lives. There’s no reason to over-tip them!”
Me: “How can you over-tip a poor person?”
“Here’s the problem, Franky, a lot of expats here feel as if they have the right to exploit a poor person’s dire situation. They feel that it’s the poor person’s fault that they are poor. For many expats, they feel they have the right to penny-pinch the most destitute, most needy, and the most poor.
“Why is it my responsibility to save the world?” Gary asks.
“Listen, Gary, it’s not your responsibility to save the world. But look right here on the beach…you see that?” Big Frank asks, pointing at Anna—the fruit lady. “She walks up and down this ****ing beach 12 hours a day in the most scorching hot sun available with a club foot that is bent backwards. She goes back and forth all day long for 12 hours a day. And then, when an expat—who has been living here for some time--asks how much is the pineapple or mango, and she gives the price…you know what they say?”
“What?”
“These crazy expats here tell her this: “But Anna, we can get that pineapple for 50 pesos less at the supermarket!” The expats tell her that she is over-charging!” they tell her, “Your prices need to be more in line with the supermarkets and colmados!” They tell her that she is over-charging and trying to “rip them off.”” Can you believe that? A cheap expat would rather spend 100 pesos in gas driving to the supermarket in order to save 50 pesos from Anna. So, instead of helping provide a living wage to Anna—who is barely scratching out a living every day here on this beach, they rather give their money to a ****ing supermarket. A supermarket! What does that tell you about the state of mind of the average expat here?”
“It says that we are smart with our money, Frank.” Alabama Gary answers.
“No it does not. It shows where people’s priorities are. Look around, we don’t care that the Motoconcho and public taxis and Guaguas have to pay $4.50 for a gallon of gasoline. We don’t care about their daily maintenance costs. We don’t care about the people walking up and down the beach all day in the scorching hot sun. We don't care about their daily grind and the toll on their bodies. We don’t care about their children and their families trying to survive. We don’t care about the school uniforms and supplies and food that needs to be bought everyday…we only care about saving 10, 20 or 30 pesos."
"At the end of the day, that’s all an expat really cares about. The most important thing to an expat is getting something as cheap as possible—the most Bang-for-the-Buck—so that he or she can brag to all of their friends and love ones, and say, “Hey, look at me…look at how smart I am. Look at how cheap I got this thing from that stupid, poor Dominican or Haitian.”
https://youtu.be/BJL8GjLCGxU
Last night, I was sitting at the bar drinking the strongest, most lethal double espresso ever invented. I was flying. I had a caffeine buzz so intense that I was actually outside my body. I was flying, hovering overhead. The only consolation was that I was also listening to a genius song being played over the restaurant sound system. The genius song: Golden Brown by The Stranglers. I came back down to earth and went over and turned the song up. I turned it way up.
This is one of the most timeless and brilliant songs to emerge from post-punk, late 70’s England. The song is driven by one of the most eerily, hypnotic sounds that ever graced the radio, and is dominated by a Harpsichord played in 13/8 time. Halfway in a scorching guitar solo — played with heavy reverb — comes in like a shot of heroin. The reverb picks you up and places you onto its wings where it flies you directly into the sun.
This is a storytelling poem of a song that rings more like an early 20th century Dylan Thomas poem than pop music, and it couldn’t have been invented without the help of some kind of hallucinatory drug. The song came out in the winter of 1981 — taking English radio stations by storm. But what makes this song timeless is that it starts with a hypnotic and driving Harpsichord riff that reminds you of something Ray Manczarek from The Doors could have written had he mixed Magic Mushrooms with sniffing glue. The song catches you from the first note of the Harpsichord, and doesn’t let go until the reverb from the guitar has you crash landing on the sun.
Big Frank was sitting at his usual Widows peak chair, arguing with a group of expats about cheapness & contradictions. He was getting frustrated. He called me over to his table and asked me to sit down.
“Listen Franky, I have been in the Caribbean for 35 years now. I’ve been to so many different islands i've lost count. I’ve got friends scattered all over the Caribbean. I know the Caribbean better then I know my right hand. Some islands are so small that I know them better then I know my own penis. But I have never lived on an island like this island. This must be the only island in the Caribbean where people actually take pride in ****ing over poor people.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Look around,” he said, sweeping his hand across the beach, “Some of these expats living here have no problem paying $10 or $15 for a meal, but then they will try argue over giving 50 pesos ($1 Dollar) to the waiter as a tip. Some of the expats here have no problem drinking all afternoon but then will stiff the wait staff after they’ve waited on them hand and foot all afternoon. Some of the expats here seem to take delight in depriving someone of one or two dollars. They see it as an act of intelligence when they can save one dollar and keep it from someone who needs it much more then they do.”
“Humm, ok, “I answered looking around the bar.
“If these expats can save an extra 25 pesos by depriving it from some poor Dominican or Haitian, they revel in it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Listen Franky, people are full of contradictions. Everyone. Some people don’t have any problem spending a lot of money on alcohol, but refuse to spend anything on food. Other spend a lot of money on Smart Phones, but then don’t have any money to make a phone call (he looked around at our staff). Others spend a lot of money on a car or motorcycle, but then they live in a shack (he looked over at me and smiled). But no contradictions are more prevalent then what we got right here on the North Coast with the expats."
"Uh-huh," i answered, looking down at my smart phone.
Look at Alabama Gary,” he said pointing at him. Gary was out on the beach urinating on the bushes that surround our coconut tree. “If Alabama Gary can save 25 pesos from a motoconcho—basically denying the motoconcho a tip, then he revels in it. He basks in his ability to save 25 pesos from someone who is basically—for all practical purposes—barely surviving and feeding his family. But then Alabama Gary has no problem walking into a casino and blowing hundreds of dollars."
“Humm, yeah, good point. I answer, watching Alabama Gary stand inside our bushes and urinate all over our outdoor speaker that sits hidden inside our bushes. He didn’t care. He just shook his penis and smiled.
“The contradictions are mind boggling, Franky. Look at some of these expats who refuse to pay more than 30 pesos for a Carro public (public taxi) or Motoconcho (motorcycle taxi). They will argue over some small change and nearly fight with the driver if the driver doesn't give them back the exact change. Is twenty extra going to make any difference at all in an expats life? No. But twenty pesos can make a significant impact on a poor Dominican’s life,”
“It’s the principal, Pops,” he tells Big Frank.
“Principal? These Dominicans and Haitians are driving back and forth 12 hours a day on motorcycles, cars, and vans. They work six and seven days a week, day & night. They’re working in a scorching heat, without any AC, sweating their balls off, trying to survive and make ends meet. Meanwhile, these crazy expats come down here and try and save twenty pesos from someone barely surviving.”
“It’s the principal, Pops,” Alabama Gary reiterates, and then adds, “People do not want to be ripped off and taken advantage of.”
“I understand that Gary, but what is an extra twenty pesos to you? It’s not enough to buy a pack of gum. But an extra twenty pesos to a poor Haitian or Dominican is a lot of money. By giving them a little extra, you make their day. You make them smile. You restore faith in humanity.”
“You sound like some kind of socialist-Obama lover, Pops,” Alabama Gary says to him.
“Listen Gary, nearly every expat living down full time here is either from North America or Europe,” Frank says, sweeping his massive arm over the entire bar and beach. You know what that means? That means that most of the expats here are living on some kind of State Pension or Disability. A large portion of the expats living here are receiving some kind of “Government Check.” Most expats here are either retired or semi-retired. Another portion are on some kind of government disability. A few are living off of inheritance money. The rest are a loose group of students, surfers, and backpackers who, understandably, are on a very limited budget. My beef is not with the latter group. These are just kids. My beef is with the adult expats living here and trying to deny some dirt poor Dominican or Haitian an extra twenty or thirty pesos. My beef with the expats that go out for Happy Hour everyday but then won’t tip the waitress that’s running up and down the beach for them."
"Uh-huh," I answered, looking over at Alabama Gary and pointing at him.
"You know what these cheap expats say in order to justify not giving any extra money to a Dominican or Haitian?” Big Frank asks.
“What?” Alabama Gary asks.
Expat: “You don’t need to tip the waitresses or waiters here”
Me: “Why’s that?”
Expat: “These people don’t need it. They’re used to living on very little money.”
Me: “They still need to survive. They have children and families to support.”
Expat: “Yeah, but they don’t need the extra money. They live very simple. They have very simple lives. There’s no reason to over-tip them!”
Me: “How can you over-tip a poor person?”
“Here’s the problem, Franky, a lot of expats here feel as if they have the right to exploit a poor person’s dire situation. They feel that it’s the poor person’s fault that they are poor. For many expats, they feel they have the right to penny-pinch the most destitute, most needy, and the most poor.
“Why is it my responsibility to save the world?” Gary asks.
“Listen, Gary, it’s not your responsibility to save the world. But look right here on the beach…you see that?” Big Frank asks, pointing at Anna—the fruit lady. “She walks up and down this ****ing beach 12 hours a day in the most scorching hot sun available with a club foot that is bent backwards. She goes back and forth all day long for 12 hours a day. And then, when an expat—who has been living here for some time--asks how much is the pineapple or mango, and she gives the price…you know what they say?”
“What?”
“These crazy expats here tell her this: “But Anna, we can get that pineapple for 50 pesos less at the supermarket!” The expats tell her that she is over-charging!” they tell her, “Your prices need to be more in line with the supermarkets and colmados!” They tell her that she is over-charging and trying to “rip them off.”” Can you believe that? A cheap expat would rather spend 100 pesos in gas driving to the supermarket in order to save 50 pesos from Anna. So, instead of helping provide a living wage to Anna—who is barely scratching out a living every day here on this beach, they rather give their money to a ****ing supermarket. A supermarket! What does that tell you about the state of mind of the average expat here?”
“It says that we are smart with our money, Frank.” Alabama Gary answers.
“No it does not. It shows where people’s priorities are. Look around, we don’t care that the Motoconcho and public taxis and Guaguas have to pay $4.50 for a gallon of gasoline. We don’t care about their daily maintenance costs. We don’t care about the people walking up and down the beach all day in the scorching hot sun. We don't care about their daily grind and the toll on their bodies. We don’t care about their children and their families trying to survive. We don’t care about the school uniforms and supplies and food that needs to be bought everyday…we only care about saving 10, 20 or 30 pesos."
"At the end of the day, that’s all an expat really cares about. The most important thing to an expat is getting something as cheap as possible—the most Bang-for-the-Buck—so that he or she can brag to all of their friends and love ones, and say, “Hey, look at me…look at how smart I am. Look at how cheap I got this thing from that stupid, poor Dominican or Haitian.”
https://youtu.be/BJL8GjLCGxU
Last edited:
Frank12,
Please let big Frank know that if he is willing to haggle over menu prices prices, I'm game. Here in the DR as in many places around the world, there are two prices: "The price" and an acceptable "other price". Many businesses and individual vendors fall into this category of entrepreneurship. Then there are those businesses where there is only one price, "the price".
Sometimes, it is difficult to distinguish between the two. Vendors at the beach start at $25US for that chopped coconut calling it an antique and a treasured souvenir from the Caribbean. We all know that the "other price" comes into play here. At the butcher, things are a little more straight forward. Best customers can sometimes get a small discount because foreigners businesses value the repeat business and their pricing takes into account the occasional discount to keep and maintain a retail relationship going forward.
Tips: Let me declare my bias right from the beginning. I'm from NA where a beer is almost $6 at the worst hole in the wall one can find. Poured drinks sometimes requires a 2nd mortgage if one gets gets carried away. $6 a beer! Based on my usual level of consumption, I don't have any money left for a tip. Ask your boss for a raise. Here, propinas, tips, gratuities voluntary contributions to someone's retirement fund can very quickly get out of hand. "The rich" have money because they don't spend it. Investment and return make up their core mantra. The working class don't mind tipping for good service, but here "good service" can mean many different things - the least of which in a bar, means that the server appears at the opportune moment when there is two mouthfuls of beverage left to see if another is wanted/required. Having pry your server from his/her phone chat on your way to the banos is not good service from a beverage server.
Additionally, here tips are expected for just about everything. We are told that one must offer a gratuity to the guy on the street who is standing in a public parking spot, to the guy who offers to "keep an eye on one's moto" (I wonder what happens to it if you say no), to the servers, to the PN who stops to ask if everything is ok, the guy who offers to rent you that coveted chair on the beach and of course to those eager beavers who insist your windshield has become obscenely dirty from one traffic light to the next.
If I was to add up what I am expected to hand out in otherwise "extras" daily here as I go about my rather unremarkable life, I'd be broke. I still need to purchase furniture, food, liquor, electricity and all that stuff at prices that some would consider to be high. When it comes to purchasing drinks and a meal at a restaurant, those costs are somewhat fixed and can be anticipated. We rich Gringos can budget for these costs (ask a Domincano if they budget, I dare you). What we can't reliably anticipate are the ancillary costs. Retiree residents here are no different from those living on fixed incomes at home. There is a finite amount of money available each month, and one cannot blow the entire wad as it is always necessary to have a little extra stashed away for when the cockroaches eat the washing machine.
It is just not feasible to drop some coinage into the hand of everyone who extends theirs here in the DR as this includes just about everybody. I can appreciate the effort of that the lady walking up and down the beach selling fruit, what I feel compelled to point out is that I don't go to the beach to buy fruit. I certainly don't wish to stare at a pineapple for 3 or 4 hours as I consume beverages and begin to feel compelled to ask the pineapple "how it's going".
Small amounts many times a day adds up to a lot over the course of a month before that next infusion of cash becomes available. We have to say no to somebody. It's not going to be the merchant who has the much needed toilet plunger, it is not going to be to the restaurant that is providing us Easter dinner just like at home and it is not going to be to the internet company who knows they are the only game in town so they charge accordingly.
I am a firm believer in that service industry businesses should pay their staff a living wage and not rely on the transient customers to subsidize their payroll. The employee expecting compensation for their good service is expected to provide good service, not mediocre service that is just enough to keep me from moving next door for my next drink. Eye contact when I arrive, a promise to be available to provide for my every need, checking with me just about every time they pass by to see if I need anything else are all minimum requirements from anyone expected a tip.
I start subtracting from any tip I may be inclined to offer the moment I sit down. Every time, I have to get someone's attention, I subtract. Every time someone does not ensure I am content and I am not, I subtract. When I get to zero, I still subtract and that means I am often tempted to ask the server for a tip just for putting up with a level of service I feel has been sub-par. Poor, inattentive service and an extended hand is an insult to me and an indication that those with the extended hand somehow feel entitled without putting forward the effort to demonstrate that they are truly deserving of the voluntary reward they seek.
In summary, businesses should pay living wages. Those expecting a tip for good service should ensure they provide such or the impetus to not provide the tip is very easy to justify to oneself. Everyone needs to understand that most gringos here cannot pay everyone. You don't see the same level of expectation from Dominicans serving Dominicans. The expectation of a tip as the norm and as a required cost of doing anything here is an affront to the practicality of economic reality - and is just plain unrealistic.
If my budget allows $5/day, when it is gone, it's gone. I budget tips for restaurants as a separate line item, but I do not feel compelled to reward unsatisfactory service just like I do not patronize businesses that include a mandatory tip in their pricing. I do not believe in the practice of tipping as a way to bankroll someone else's payroll and I do not ever accept the premise that someone who is unable to make me feel genuinely appreciative of their efforts is deserving of anything extra.
Call me a miserly gringo if you wish, but it's my money and if you want it, you need to make it easy and agreeable for me to part with it. My money has value to me, even at 10 pesos a pop, 3 times per day. As for the fruit lady, she may need to reevaluate her potential market. I don't see many breach goers needing a pina, but they might be more receptive to an empanda...
Note: This diatribe is not directed at or reflective of the level of service at Frank12's place of business. I have not yet been there for any length of time. I've stopped in twice to see if Frank was around and both times he was napping under the office desk. It is just a general statement on how much it would cost if "rich gringos" tipped everyone who extended their hand each time they do. It should be clear from what I wrote, that tipping for hours of decent service at an establishment is not unreasonable; but tipping at every possible opportunity is beyond the means of many living here on fixed incomes and those who work the hardest for their tip usually do much better than those who shuffle through the day expecting it regardless of whether they smile or not.
Please let big Frank know that if he is willing to haggle over menu prices prices, I'm game. Here in the DR as in many places around the world, there are two prices: "The price" and an acceptable "other price". Many businesses and individual vendors fall into this category of entrepreneurship. Then there are those businesses where there is only one price, "the price".
Sometimes, it is difficult to distinguish between the two. Vendors at the beach start at $25US for that chopped coconut calling it an antique and a treasured souvenir from the Caribbean. We all know that the "other price" comes into play here. At the butcher, things are a little more straight forward. Best customers can sometimes get a small discount because foreigners businesses value the repeat business and their pricing takes into account the occasional discount to keep and maintain a retail relationship going forward.
Tips: Let me declare my bias right from the beginning. I'm from NA where a beer is almost $6 at the worst hole in the wall one can find. Poured drinks sometimes requires a 2nd mortgage if one gets gets carried away. $6 a beer! Based on my usual level of consumption, I don't have any money left for a tip. Ask your boss for a raise. Here, propinas, tips, gratuities voluntary contributions to someone's retirement fund can very quickly get out of hand. "The rich" have money because they don't spend it. Investment and return make up their core mantra. The working class don't mind tipping for good service, but here "good service" can mean many different things - the least of which in a bar, means that the server appears at the opportune moment when there is two mouthfuls of beverage left to see if another is wanted/required. Having pry your server from his/her phone chat on your way to the banos is not good service from a beverage server.
Additionally, here tips are expected for just about everything. We are told that one must offer a gratuity to the guy on the street who is standing in a public parking spot, to the guy who offers to "keep an eye on one's moto" (I wonder what happens to it if you say no), to the servers, to the PN who stops to ask if everything is ok, the guy who offers to rent you that coveted chair on the beach and of course to those eager beavers who insist your windshield has become obscenely dirty from one traffic light to the next.
If I was to add up what I am expected to hand out in otherwise "extras" daily here as I go about my rather unremarkable life, I'd be broke. I still need to purchase furniture, food, liquor, electricity and all that stuff at prices that some would consider to be high. When it comes to purchasing drinks and a meal at a restaurant, those costs are somewhat fixed and can be anticipated. We rich Gringos can budget for these costs (ask a Domincano if they budget, I dare you). What we can't reliably anticipate are the ancillary costs. Retiree residents here are no different from those living on fixed incomes at home. There is a finite amount of money available each month, and one cannot blow the entire wad as it is always necessary to have a little extra stashed away for when the cockroaches eat the washing machine.
It is just not feasible to drop some coinage into the hand of everyone who extends theirs here in the DR as this includes just about everybody. I can appreciate the effort of that the lady walking up and down the beach selling fruit, what I feel compelled to point out is that I don't go to the beach to buy fruit. I certainly don't wish to stare at a pineapple for 3 or 4 hours as I consume beverages and begin to feel compelled to ask the pineapple "how it's going".
Small amounts many times a day adds up to a lot over the course of a month before that next infusion of cash becomes available. We have to say no to somebody. It's not going to be the merchant who has the much needed toilet plunger, it is not going to be to the restaurant that is providing us Easter dinner just like at home and it is not going to be to the internet company who knows they are the only game in town so they charge accordingly.
I am a firm believer in that service industry businesses should pay their staff a living wage and not rely on the transient customers to subsidize their payroll. The employee expecting compensation for their good service is expected to provide good service, not mediocre service that is just enough to keep me from moving next door for my next drink. Eye contact when I arrive, a promise to be available to provide for my every need, checking with me just about every time they pass by to see if I need anything else are all minimum requirements from anyone expected a tip.
I start subtracting from any tip I may be inclined to offer the moment I sit down. Every time, I have to get someone's attention, I subtract. Every time someone does not ensure I am content and I am not, I subtract. When I get to zero, I still subtract and that means I am often tempted to ask the server for a tip just for putting up with a level of service I feel has been sub-par. Poor, inattentive service and an extended hand is an insult to me and an indication that those with the extended hand somehow feel entitled without putting forward the effort to demonstrate that they are truly deserving of the voluntary reward they seek.
In summary, businesses should pay living wages. Those expecting a tip for good service should ensure they provide such or the impetus to not provide the tip is very easy to justify to oneself. Everyone needs to understand that most gringos here cannot pay everyone. You don't see the same level of expectation from Dominicans serving Dominicans. The expectation of a tip as the norm and as a required cost of doing anything here is an affront to the practicality of economic reality - and is just plain unrealistic.
If my budget allows $5/day, when it is gone, it's gone. I budget tips for restaurants as a separate line item, but I do not feel compelled to reward unsatisfactory service just like I do not patronize businesses that include a mandatory tip in their pricing. I do not believe in the practice of tipping as a way to bankroll someone else's payroll and I do not ever accept the premise that someone who is unable to make me feel genuinely appreciative of their efforts is deserving of anything extra.
Call me a miserly gringo if you wish, but it's my money and if you want it, you need to make it easy and agreeable for me to part with it. My money has value to me, even at 10 pesos a pop, 3 times per day. As for the fruit lady, she may need to reevaluate her potential market. I don't see many breach goers needing a pina, but they might be more receptive to an empanda...
Note: This diatribe is not directed at or reflective of the level of service at Frank12's place of business. I have not yet been there for any length of time. I've stopped in twice to see if Frank was around and both times he was napping under the office desk. It is just a general statement on how much it would cost if "rich gringos" tipped everyone who extended their hand each time they do. It should be clear from what I wrote, that tipping for hours of decent service at an establishment is not unreasonable; but tipping at every possible opportunity is beyond the means of many living here on fixed incomes and those who work the hardest for their tip usually do much better than those who shuffle through the day expecting it regardless of whether they smile or not.
Chapter 174 (Big Frank's missing) Part 4
I reluctantly left the bar and drove down the street and headed back to Big Frank’s house with the secretary in tow. I made her come with me. If i was going to stumble upon a crime scene, I wanted witnesses. I didn't want to get arrested again. There was football on tonight. I didn't want to miss it.
The secretary was on the back of my bike holding on for dear life. On the way to Big Frank's house, I found myself daydreaming about buying a Lazy Boy chair—the kind of Lazy Boy chair with the refrigerator in the arm rest. I was daydreaming about how I was going to spend my severance pay. I wanted to buy something fancy.
Would I buy a Lazy Boy chair and watch football all weekend? Or would I buy another motorcycle? These were things to consider if Big Frank was dead in his house. Was I being rational? No. of course not. Who is rational in these kinds of macabre, absurd situations? Would I need to rifle through his pockets and take any cash he has before the police arrived? Absolutely. Should I fill my gas tank up using his money…you know…for transportation costs.
I opened the front door and started calling out his name, “Big Frank!” “Big Frank” as I slowly made my way through his house. I checked every room on the way back to his back bedroom. The door was shut. I called out his name, “Big Frank, you in there?” No one answered. I turned around. The secretary looked like she was going to faint. She was bracing herself against a chair. She sat down and put her head in-between her legs and started hyperventilating. “Women’s intuition,” she proclaimed. This made me start to shake as well. This was not looking good. As I turned the door handle, I knocked loudly on the door. No, I was pounding on the door. I nearly put my fist through it.
“Who’s there!?” I heard Big Frank call out.
“It’s me, Franky.” I answered, breathing a sigh of relief, but a little disappointed about my Lazy Boy dreams shattered. Now I would not only not get a new Lazy Boy chair with the refrigerator in the arm rest, I also would not be able to upgrade my motorcycle. Damn.
I turned around and looked at the secretary. She was crying. She was very disappointed. I think she was hoping for a new car or Colmado.
“My phone fell and broke, Franky.”
“Ok. Do you want me come inside?” I asked, about to open the door.
“No, no. I got girls in here with me. I’ll see you at the bar later for the football game.”
Girls? As in plural? Did he really say “Girls?” Yes, he most certainly did. Of course he did. He was locked inside his bedroom with a room full of naked girls. A bevy of them. They’re probably all beautiful. Maybe I should just peek inside his bedroom to make sure he’s not tied up or anything. No. seeing Big Frank naked is going to be a pretty sight. Not at all. But the girls would most certainly be a welcoming sight.
The secretary and I left and drove back to the bar. It was the Trail of Tears. We both were dreaming what we might do if he got our severance pay. When we told everyone the news about Big Frank still being alive, everyone let out a sigh of disappointment. A few people passed out. Someone needed rushed to the clinic across the street. Everyone had pieces of paper and calculators out where they were typing furiously. Everyone was trying to figure how much money they were going to get for their severance pay.
Now the kitchen staff were crying. They walked away slowly mumbling curse words to themselves. They were not happy. Not happy at all. They walked the Trail of Tears like everyone else. The wait staff slowly walked back to their tables and hesitantly waited on people. The bartenders started doing shots to sooth their sorrow. Everyone was disappointed.
Instead of jubilation and celebrating, the staff now were ready to slit their wrists. Everyone reluctantly went back to work and tried to finish their shifts without burning the place down.
It was another day in paradise, working for the Man.
I reluctantly left the bar and drove down the street and headed back to Big Frank’s house with the secretary in tow. I made her come with me. If i was going to stumble upon a crime scene, I wanted witnesses. I didn't want to get arrested again. There was football on tonight. I didn't want to miss it.
The secretary was on the back of my bike holding on for dear life. On the way to Big Frank's house, I found myself daydreaming about buying a Lazy Boy chair—the kind of Lazy Boy chair with the refrigerator in the arm rest. I was daydreaming about how I was going to spend my severance pay. I wanted to buy something fancy.
Would I buy a Lazy Boy chair and watch football all weekend? Or would I buy another motorcycle? These were things to consider if Big Frank was dead in his house. Was I being rational? No. of course not. Who is rational in these kinds of macabre, absurd situations? Would I need to rifle through his pockets and take any cash he has before the police arrived? Absolutely. Should I fill my gas tank up using his money…you know…for transportation costs.
I opened the front door and started calling out his name, “Big Frank!” “Big Frank” as I slowly made my way through his house. I checked every room on the way back to his back bedroom. The door was shut. I called out his name, “Big Frank, you in there?” No one answered. I turned around. The secretary looked like she was going to faint. She was bracing herself against a chair. She sat down and put her head in-between her legs and started hyperventilating. “Women’s intuition,” she proclaimed. This made me start to shake as well. This was not looking good. As I turned the door handle, I knocked loudly on the door. No, I was pounding on the door. I nearly put my fist through it.
“Who’s there!?” I heard Big Frank call out.
“It’s me, Franky.” I answered, breathing a sigh of relief, but a little disappointed about my Lazy Boy dreams shattered. Now I would not only not get a new Lazy Boy chair with the refrigerator in the arm rest, I also would not be able to upgrade my motorcycle. Damn.
I turned around and looked at the secretary. She was crying. She was very disappointed. I think she was hoping for a new car or Colmado.
“My phone fell and broke, Franky.”
“Ok. Do you want me come inside?” I asked, about to open the door.
“No, no. I got girls in here with me. I’ll see you at the bar later for the football game.”
Girls? As in plural? Did he really say “Girls?” Yes, he most certainly did. Of course he did. He was locked inside his bedroom with a room full of naked girls. A bevy of them. They’re probably all beautiful. Maybe I should just peek inside his bedroom to make sure he’s not tied up or anything. No. seeing Big Frank naked is going to be a pretty sight. Not at all. But the girls would most certainly be a welcoming sight.
The secretary and I left and drove back to the bar. It was the Trail of Tears. We both were dreaming what we might do if he got our severance pay. When we told everyone the news about Big Frank still being alive, everyone let out a sigh of disappointment. A few people passed out. Someone needed rushed to the clinic across the street. Everyone had pieces of paper and calculators out where they were typing furiously. Everyone was trying to figure how much money they were going to get for their severance pay.
Now the kitchen staff were crying. They walked away slowly mumbling curse words to themselves. They were not happy. Not happy at all. They walked the Trail of Tears like everyone else. The wait staff slowly walked back to their tables and hesitantly waited on people. The bartenders started doing shots to sooth their sorrow. Everyone was disappointed.
Instead of jubilation and celebrating, the staff now were ready to slit their wrists. Everyone reluctantly went back to work and tried to finish their shifts without burning the place down.
It was another day in paradise, working for the Man.
"...even at 10 pesos a pop, 3 times per day"
should read
...even at 10 pesos a pop, 30 times per day
I'm not that miserly.
should read
...even at 10 pesos a pop, 30 times per day
I'm not that miserly.
Gringo.... don't worry about your skimpy tips... I can beat anybody at that game
when I enter a bar, I always hear thew same song
BBoy where are you??
Hey Big Spender..... spend a little dime on me...... ( to music , yaknow ??)
some old Cabaret (not Cabarete) singer
when I enter a bar, I always hear thew same song
BBoy where are you??
Hey Big Spender..... spend a little dime on me...... ( to music , yaknow ??)
some old Cabaret (not Cabarete) singer
(The Heat & Madness)
****ing hell, I'm sweating here. Roasting. Boiling. Baking. Sweltering. It's a sauna. It’ a furnace. You can fry an egg on my stomach. It's ridiculous. It’s insane. Oh, It’s fantastic.
This is madness. It’s not right. People are freezing up north. They’re blistering cold. They’re sitting inside ice boxes. They're living in Igloos. As I write this, there are people getting frost bite on their toes. Frost bite on their fingers. Frost bite on their penises. It’s not fair. It’s freezing rain up north. People are being bombarded by hail. They’re being bombarded by sleet. They’re being bombarded by madness.
Meanwhile, here we sit in the DR. Roasting. Baking. Burning. Frying. If it was any ****ing hotter right now we would be melting. Like ice cream in the hot baking sun. There are women sitting around the bar right now with their faces melting onto the bar. Their white facial creams are dripping onto the bar below them. Their facial creams are dripping onto the floor all around them. There are puddles of white fluorescent facial creams forming all around their chairs. It looks like a fluorescent pond around the bar. It looks like a lake. It looks like a ****ing fjord.
There is now a glacier of fluorescent facial cream all around the bar. It's flowing like a river. The river is now running like a torrential flood down the bar and out onto the beach. People are getting their boogie boards out. People are getting their surfboards out. People will soon be surfing down the beach on fluorescent white facial cream.
It’s madness. Pure, unadulterated madness right now.
****ing hell, I'm sweating here. Roasting. Boiling. Baking. Sweltering. It's a sauna. It’ a furnace. You can fry an egg on my stomach. It's ridiculous. It’s insane. Oh, It’s fantastic.
This is madness. It’s not right. People are freezing up north. They’re blistering cold. They’re sitting inside ice boxes. They're living in Igloos. As I write this, there are people getting frost bite on their toes. Frost bite on their fingers. Frost bite on their penises. It’s not fair. It’s freezing rain up north. People are being bombarded by hail. They’re being bombarded by sleet. They’re being bombarded by madness.
Meanwhile, here we sit in the DR. Roasting. Baking. Burning. Frying. If it was any ****ing hotter right now we would be melting. Like ice cream in the hot baking sun. There are women sitting around the bar right now with their faces melting onto the bar. Their white facial creams are dripping onto the bar below them. Their facial creams are dripping onto the floor all around them. There are puddles of white fluorescent facial creams forming all around their chairs. It looks like a fluorescent pond around the bar. It looks like a lake. It looks like a ****ing fjord.
There is now a glacier of fluorescent facial cream all around the bar. It's flowing like a river. The river is now running like a torrential flood down the bar and out onto the beach. People are getting their boogie boards out. People are getting their surfboards out. People will soon be surfing down the beach on fluorescent white facial cream.
It’s madness. Pure, unadulterated madness right now.
(The noise)
The noise from motorcycles, cars and trucks here is insane. It’s deafening. It’s unrelenting. It’s obnoxious. It’s also disturbing and sometimes violent. You cannot escape the noise here. Ever. Never. The noise persists here every minute, of every waking hour, of every day. The noise consists of low bass vibrations to the high-end engine pitches from valves and RPM’S that can break and shatter glass and tooth enamel.
There is no escaping the noise.
The noise persists throughout the day and night. It continues into the wee hours of the morning. If it’s not the high-end pitched whining of the engine scooters and Chinese bikes without mufflers, it’s the low rumblings of the Harley Davidson’s and dump trucks. If it’s not the cars with the loud speakers on top of their roofs playing commercials at all hours of the morning and afternoon, it’s the motoconchos whizzing up and down the streets. If it’s not the motoconchos whizzing up and down the streets, then it’s the Dominicans themselves talking incessantly throughout the day and night on their cell phones at unbelievable decibel levels.
This island is an island of persistent whining and noise.
Between the cars, the trucks, the scooters and the motorcycles, you also have to contend with the stereos blasting from 1000 watt stereo systems from passing vehicles. There is no reprieve from the noise. There is no reprieve from stereos blasting their music at ungodly levels that rival an atomic explosion. And whenever there is a short break, then you have to contend with people talking at decibel levels that match a 747 jet engine taking off. If it’s not the people talking loudly at all hours of the day and night, then it’s the ****ing roosters calling out to each other in the wee hours of the morning.
There is never a reprieve from the noise. There is never a break. There is never a pause. It goes on from morning until late at night. If it’s not the engines making excessive noise, then it’s the horns from the cars and motorcycles being constantly leaned on and used like a child’s toy. Dominicans play the car and motorcycle horn here like a piano. They play it like a bagpipe.
If it’s not the horns being used in every conceivable situation, then it’s the diesel generators running whenever the electricity goes out. The noise is relentless. It’s deadening. It’s non-stop. It causes madness and premature greying of the hair. It causes baldness. I used to have a full lion’s mane of hair on top of my head. But now, in the last few years of living within the confines of highway 5, I have lost nearly all of my hair, suffered premature greying, and a lower sperm count.
The noise is madness…pure, unadulterated madness.
The noise from motorcycles, cars and trucks here is insane. It’s deafening. It’s unrelenting. It’s obnoxious. It’s also disturbing and sometimes violent. You cannot escape the noise here. Ever. Never. The noise persists here every minute, of every waking hour, of every day. The noise consists of low bass vibrations to the high-end engine pitches from valves and RPM’S that can break and shatter glass and tooth enamel.
There is no escaping the noise.
The noise persists throughout the day and night. It continues into the wee hours of the morning. If it’s not the high-end pitched whining of the engine scooters and Chinese bikes without mufflers, it’s the low rumblings of the Harley Davidson’s and dump trucks. If it’s not the cars with the loud speakers on top of their roofs playing commercials at all hours of the morning and afternoon, it’s the motoconchos whizzing up and down the streets. If it’s not the motoconchos whizzing up and down the streets, then it’s the Dominicans themselves talking incessantly throughout the day and night on their cell phones at unbelievable decibel levels.
This island is an island of persistent whining and noise.
Between the cars, the trucks, the scooters and the motorcycles, you also have to contend with the stereos blasting from 1000 watt stereo systems from passing vehicles. There is no reprieve from the noise. There is no reprieve from stereos blasting their music at ungodly levels that rival an atomic explosion. And whenever there is a short break, then you have to contend with people talking at decibel levels that match a 747 jet engine taking off. If it’s not the people talking loudly at all hours of the day and night, then it’s the ****ing roosters calling out to each other in the wee hours of the morning.
There is never a reprieve from the noise. There is never a break. There is never a pause. It goes on from morning until late at night. If it’s not the engines making excessive noise, then it’s the horns from the cars and motorcycles being constantly leaned on and used like a child’s toy. Dominicans play the car and motorcycle horn here like a piano. They play it like a bagpipe.
If it’s not the horns being used in every conceivable situation, then it’s the diesel generators running whenever the electricity goes out. The noise is relentless. It’s deadening. It’s non-stop. It causes madness and premature greying of the hair. It causes baldness. I used to have a full lion’s mane of hair on top of my head. But now, in the last few years of living within the confines of highway 5, I have lost nearly all of my hair, suffered premature greying, and a lower sperm count.
The noise is madness…pure, unadulterated madness.
(Zombies & Mocha-Colored Natives)
I came into work and assumed my position in the shade, under a canopy of coconut trees. The heat has been sweltering and ungodly intense. It’s Dante’s Inferno here. One problem is that the sun bakes the roof all day long and then the heat seeps down into the restaurant where it melts everything it touches. Even after the sun has gone down, it takes hours for the roof and concrete walls to cool down to a bearable temperature that doesn’t melt your face.
My only refuge when it gets this hot is to seek shelter on the beach, underneath a canopy of coconut trees. It’s one of the few places where I can sit and think clearly without the humidity index raising my hair two feet up into the air.
Whenever I am on the beach, under the influence catnip and caffeine, my powers of observation are as keen as my sense of smell. I can detect small, almost undetectable nuances in people’s walk, talk, and body language. Like a stray beach dog, I can sense the presence of crazy. I can smell it. We have a lot of crazy people here on the north coast. Their attracted to the north coast like flies to ****. Between the Germans and French, we also have to contend with the Italians and Russians. On top of them, we also have to contend with the Canadians and North Americans. There’s enough crazy people here to fill a small island the size of Australia.
I try and keep my distance. But it’s impossible. Unfortunately, if you want to get laid with a warm blooded, oxygen consuming homo sapien, you must do your best to find the least crazy expat within a group of profoundly chemically addicted, sexually starved runaways. Because, let’s face it…nearly everyone down here is running from something. I’m running from the IRS, but I’m also running from myself.
When I see a group of drunk French Canadians prancing up and down the beach promenade in high heels, I know something is wrong with every fiber in their body. I like watching how their high heels sink deeper and deeper into the sand where they accidentally pierce the water main and sewage lines. This has the comical effect of showering everyone in a nice cold shower of raw sewage and strewn toilet paper.
I’m mostly an introverted kind of guy, but if you sit here on the beach long enough, you slowly find yourself getting folded into the sexual tapestry and raw energy of the beach nightlife. The beach is full of raging hormones and pheromones that stain everything they touch. I have been tattooed by women’s pheromones and hormones, and let me tell you, it’s not easy to wash off. Once a female has walked past and sprayed you with a liberal dousing of her pheromones, you become temporarily blind, hypnotized, and entangled in their web of voodoo.
Cabarete is quite small. It’s a beach town without a single stop light. You could walk up and down its beach promenade from one end to the next in less than 40 minutes. But there’s more to Cabarete then just the beach. Oh yeah, there’s mountains and rivers, lagoons and marshlands, caverns and caves. There’s also cacao and coffee farms, agriculture and dairy farms…as well as 1 to 5 star brothels…and all of this is within 20 square miles of town. It’s a lot like living in certain parts of California. You can be surfing one hour, and disappear into the interior of the mountains the next hour.
There’s also many charming restaurants—German, French, Tex-Mex, Italian, Sushi, Seafood, Irish, and Local cuisine—are but a few. One of the best restaurants serving typical Dominican food is Casa Mami’s; it sits on the outskirts of town, next to the police station. The police station was originally built by Christopher Columbus to house Jack Sparrow. I spent some time there—dining in the full lap of luxury in one of their two 5-star prison cells that lacked a toilet, food, electricity, and running water. Recently, however, it has been rebuilt and modernized after a group of Viagra induced zombies went on a rampage—sporting full erections and an insatiable appetite for local mocha-flavored flesh. It seems that the northern Europeans and Americans cannot resist the mocha-colored indigenous natives.
In some ways, Cabarete can feel like a place from the Lost World, only crazier and with more nudity.
I came into work and assumed my position in the shade, under a canopy of coconut trees. The heat has been sweltering and ungodly intense. It’s Dante’s Inferno here. One problem is that the sun bakes the roof all day long and then the heat seeps down into the restaurant where it melts everything it touches. Even after the sun has gone down, it takes hours for the roof and concrete walls to cool down to a bearable temperature that doesn’t melt your face.
My only refuge when it gets this hot is to seek shelter on the beach, underneath a canopy of coconut trees. It’s one of the few places where I can sit and think clearly without the humidity index raising my hair two feet up into the air.
Whenever I am on the beach, under the influence catnip and caffeine, my powers of observation are as keen as my sense of smell. I can detect small, almost undetectable nuances in people’s walk, talk, and body language. Like a stray beach dog, I can sense the presence of crazy. I can smell it. We have a lot of crazy people here on the north coast. Their attracted to the north coast like flies to ****. Between the Germans and French, we also have to contend with the Italians and Russians. On top of them, we also have to contend with the Canadians and North Americans. There’s enough crazy people here to fill a small island the size of Australia.
I try and keep my distance. But it’s impossible. Unfortunately, if you want to get laid with a warm blooded, oxygen consuming homo sapien, you must do your best to find the least crazy expat within a group of profoundly chemically addicted, sexually starved runaways. Because, let’s face it…nearly everyone down here is running from something. I’m running from the IRS, but I’m also running from myself.
When I see a group of drunk French Canadians prancing up and down the beach promenade in high heels, I know something is wrong with every fiber in their body. I like watching how their high heels sink deeper and deeper into the sand where they accidentally pierce the water main and sewage lines. This has the comical effect of showering everyone in a nice cold shower of raw sewage and strewn toilet paper.
I’m mostly an introverted kind of guy, but if you sit here on the beach long enough, you slowly find yourself getting folded into the sexual tapestry and raw energy of the beach nightlife. The beach is full of raging hormones and pheromones that stain everything they touch. I have been tattooed by women’s pheromones and hormones, and let me tell you, it’s not easy to wash off. Once a female has walked past and sprayed you with a liberal dousing of her pheromones, you become temporarily blind, hypnotized, and entangled in their web of voodoo.
Cabarete is quite small. It’s a beach town without a single stop light. You could walk up and down its beach promenade from one end to the next in less than 40 minutes. But there’s more to Cabarete then just the beach. Oh yeah, there’s mountains and rivers, lagoons and marshlands, caverns and caves. There’s also cacao and coffee farms, agriculture and dairy farms…as well as 1 to 5 star brothels…and all of this is within 20 square miles of town. It’s a lot like living in certain parts of California. You can be surfing one hour, and disappear into the interior of the mountains the next hour.
There’s also many charming restaurants—German, French, Tex-Mex, Italian, Sushi, Seafood, Irish, and Local cuisine—are but a few. One of the best restaurants serving typical Dominican food is Casa Mami’s; it sits on the outskirts of town, next to the police station. The police station was originally built by Christopher Columbus to house Jack Sparrow. I spent some time there—dining in the full lap of luxury in one of their two 5-star prison cells that lacked a toilet, food, electricity, and running water. Recently, however, it has been rebuilt and modernized after a group of Viagra induced zombies went on a rampage—sporting full erections and an insatiable appetite for local mocha-flavored flesh. It seems that the northern Europeans and Americans cannot resist the mocha-colored indigenous natives.
In some ways, Cabarete can feel like a place from the Lost World, only crazier and with more nudity.
(Jesus Christ & Boobs)
I walked into work and Big Fred called me over to his table. He said, “Franky, you see those people over there,” he pointed out to the beach at a couple sitting underneath a coconut tree.
“Who? The bleached blond with fake boobs with the hairy man resembling a woolly mammoth?” I asked, looking out at the beach.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I see them, why?”
“They’re from New Jersey. They came in here and said, “Frank, do you remember us?” I said, “Oh my god, yes, how you guys been?” But I didn’t recognize them?””
I looked over at the bleached blond. I studied her boobs. I didn’t recognize her or her boobs.
“No, I don’t recognize them either,” I answered.
“Well, they remember you. They asked me about you and the Redhead. They asked me about my boys, too. They also asked about our staff, and about our bartender, Mary. They remember everything. They remember every detail.”
“Really?” I kept studying the bleached blond’s boobs. I didn’t recognize them. I didn’t recognize them at all. And I never forget boobs. Ever. I can still remember a pair of boobs I saw back in 1969 when my mother’s friend’s smothered me in her breasts. I don’t forget boobs, nor do I forget smells. I’m like a dog. I can remember a smell from 40 years ago.
“Listen, Franky. I don’t recognize those people from Adam or Eve. The problem, Franky is this: In a tourist town, we meet a lot of people every day. We meet hundreds of people every month. We meet thousands of people a year. But for many people who come from these small towns in North America or Europe, they can remember every single detail from a vacation they took five, ten or twenty years ago. They can remember details all the way down to the color of the bar napkin we served their beer on. Some people can remember every single detail from a vacation they took twenty years ago. Seeing things again for them is like a revelation. They can remember innocuous things like the color of my shirt or the stain on my pants I had twenty years ago. They remember details that you and I take for granted every day. For many people, coming on vacation to an island is like losing your virginity the first time. You will never forget the details. You remember every smell. You remember where the moon was up in the sky when you sat on the beach. You remember what songs were playing on the radio when you sat at the bar. These people remember what you said, and what I said, and how we said it. They remember what we were wearing. They even remember how we farted. They remember things in such incredible, vivid details, that it’s surreal.”
“Uh-huh?” I answered, looking around the bar at the girls. There was a girl sitting at the bar topless, having a free drink.
“Listen, Franky, for a lot of people, coming to an island for vacation is no different than watching Jesus Christ doing shots of tequila at the bar. They will never forget it. You know why?”
“Why?” I asked, looking around the bar.
“Because back home in their small towns of New Jersey, Idaho, North Dakota, Norway, and northern Canada, the most exciting thing that might happen this month might be going to the movies, going to a football match, or going out to dinner and eating pizza. For many people, their whole lives revolve around getting up in the morning and going to work and then coming home. That’s it. For many people, paying the utility and cable bill is their whole week. For a lot of people, coming home and cooking dinner, and then watching a little TV before going to bed is their whole day.”
“Really?” I asked, watching another girl take her top off at the bar for a free drink.
“Listen, Franky, for many people going out on the weekend is a big deal. On Monday, their weekly routine starts all over again. Where, you and I, we come into work and meet a dozen new people every single day. We see a new set of boobs at the bar every hour.”
“Uh-huh,” I answered, looking over at the at the topless girls at the bar.
“What I’m getting at here, Franky, is this: never underestimate people’s excitement to be down here on vacation. Never take it for granted. And especially, never ever do anything stupid that may ruin someone’s vacation. Remember, some people work 52 weeks a year so that they can have seven days of vacation. Many of them have never been out of their country. Many of them have never been out of their county or state. Most have never been on a tropical island. For many people, seeing a topless girl resting her boobs on the bar like a sack of potatoes is a like seeing Jesus Christ walk across the water. It's that rare. It's that shocking.”
"Uh-huh," I answered, looking over at the topless girls.
Some things never change.
I walked into work and Big Fred called me over to his table. He said, “Franky, you see those people over there,” he pointed out to the beach at a couple sitting underneath a coconut tree.
“Who? The bleached blond with fake boobs with the hairy man resembling a woolly mammoth?” I asked, looking out at the beach.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I see them, why?”
“They’re from New Jersey. They came in here and said, “Frank, do you remember us?” I said, “Oh my god, yes, how you guys been?” But I didn’t recognize them?””
I looked over at the bleached blond. I studied her boobs. I didn’t recognize her or her boobs.
“No, I don’t recognize them either,” I answered.
“Well, they remember you. They asked me about you and the Redhead. They asked me about my boys, too. They also asked about our staff, and about our bartender, Mary. They remember everything. They remember every detail.”
“Really?” I kept studying the bleached blond’s boobs. I didn’t recognize them. I didn’t recognize them at all. And I never forget boobs. Ever. I can still remember a pair of boobs I saw back in 1969 when my mother’s friend’s smothered me in her breasts. I don’t forget boobs, nor do I forget smells. I’m like a dog. I can remember a smell from 40 years ago.
“Listen, Franky. I don’t recognize those people from Adam or Eve. The problem, Franky is this: In a tourist town, we meet a lot of people every day. We meet hundreds of people every month. We meet thousands of people a year. But for many people who come from these small towns in North America or Europe, they can remember every single detail from a vacation they took five, ten or twenty years ago. They can remember details all the way down to the color of the bar napkin we served their beer on. Some people can remember every single detail from a vacation they took twenty years ago. Seeing things again for them is like a revelation. They can remember innocuous things like the color of my shirt or the stain on my pants I had twenty years ago. They remember details that you and I take for granted every day. For many people, coming on vacation to an island is like losing your virginity the first time. You will never forget the details. You remember every smell. You remember where the moon was up in the sky when you sat on the beach. You remember what songs were playing on the radio when you sat at the bar. These people remember what you said, and what I said, and how we said it. They remember what we were wearing. They even remember how we farted. They remember things in such incredible, vivid details, that it’s surreal.”
“Uh-huh?” I answered, looking around the bar at the girls. There was a girl sitting at the bar topless, having a free drink.
“Listen, Franky, for a lot of people, coming to an island for vacation is no different than watching Jesus Christ doing shots of tequila at the bar. They will never forget it. You know why?”
“Why?” I asked, looking around the bar.
“Because back home in their small towns of New Jersey, Idaho, North Dakota, Norway, and northern Canada, the most exciting thing that might happen this month might be going to the movies, going to a football match, or going out to dinner and eating pizza. For many people, their whole lives revolve around getting up in the morning and going to work and then coming home. That’s it. For many people, paying the utility and cable bill is their whole week. For a lot of people, coming home and cooking dinner, and then watching a little TV before going to bed is their whole day.”
“Really?” I asked, watching another girl take her top off at the bar for a free drink.
“Listen, Franky, for many people going out on the weekend is a big deal. On Monday, their weekly routine starts all over again. Where, you and I, we come into work and meet a dozen new people every single day. We see a new set of boobs at the bar every hour.”
“Uh-huh,” I answered, looking over at the at the topless girls at the bar.
“What I’m getting at here, Franky, is this: never underestimate people’s excitement to be down here on vacation. Never take it for granted. And especially, never ever do anything stupid that may ruin someone’s vacation. Remember, some people work 52 weeks a year so that they can have seven days of vacation. Many of them have never been out of their country. Many of them have never been out of their county or state. Most have never been on a tropical island. For many people, seeing a topless girl resting her boobs on the bar like a sack of potatoes is a like seeing Jesus Christ walk across the water. It's that rare. It's that shocking.”
"Uh-huh," I answered, looking over at the topless girls.
Some things never change.
Haha...not far enough!!
But i did get out yesterday and shot this video:
[video]https://youtu.be/wKlgTLVFTU4[/video]
Thou Art here!
(Exercising, Diets, & the Seven Deadly Sins)
In the past three days, I have walked 15.79km, 13.47km, 8.27km respectively, and yet, I have gained 2lbs. No joke. I must be the only human being on this planet that can walk nearly 40km in three days and actually gain weight!
Don’t let anyone fool you. Don’t let anyone lie to you. Doing lots of exercise is bad for you. It’s bad for your diet. It's bad for your health. And it’s bad for your shoes. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, I know it sounds preposterous. Listen to this: the more exercise you do, the hungrier you will get! You understand this concept? The more calories you burn, the more you start craving fat food!
I walked 15.79km on Saturday. I walked throughout Santo Domingo. I walked half the city. I walked from sun up to sun down. I got the proof…I took pictures of every single neighborhood I walked through--from morning until night. But all that walking made it absolutely essential for me to keep replenishing my energy. I needed energy to keep going. I needed energy to see straight. First, I stopped for pasta. But after a few hours, I walked the pasta off. Then I stopped for chocolate cake. After a few hours, i walked the chocolate cake off. Then i stopped for sushi. After five minutes, i walked the sushi off. Then the KGB and me stopped for pizza (see photo). But I walked that off as well. Then we went for ice cream in the afternoon; I walked that off after an hour.
I needed more ice cream in the evening. No, it wasn’t my idea. It was my doctor’s orders. No joke. My doctor said, “Listen, Frank, if you are walking that many hours a day, then you need to replenish your energy and bring your sugar levels back up. It's essential!" That’s exactly what he said. And then he added, “You don’t want your sugar levels to drop too low. That’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Low sugar level can kill you, and it can kill the people around you as well.”"
I don’t know about you, but I listen to my doctor when he tells me to eat more pizza and ice cream. That’s the kind of doctor I can get behind. That’s the kind of doctor I can support. That's the kind of doctor I have no problem paying.
My biggest problem is that I live in Caribbean. Living somewhere tropical has made me fat and lazy. Living somewhere warm has made me reluctant to move fast. In fact, it has made me reluctant to move at all in-between the hours of...say, 12noon and 7pm. It’s just too damn hot.
I don’t care who you are…those siesta hours between 12noon and 3pm make a lot more sense once you live down here. They make a lot more sense once you are out and about in the scorching midday sun. Once that sun starts heating up the asphalt and synging the eyebrows off your face, you'll understand. You'll see the light. Moving around during the afternoon is for crazy people. Moving around during the hot scorching summer days are for people with amnesia…dementia…and Alzheimer’s. It’s not meant for sane people to be out and moving about under a scorching midday sun. Only Englishman and Madmen do that. And look how far they got.
Living in the Caribbean has made me a fat, lazy bastard. No, it’s made me a fat, full-of-****, procrastinating, lazy bastard. It’s also made me a cross-dresser because wearing underwear in the hot tropics is for insane people. More on that later.
Listen, living in the Caribbean is not for everyone. It certainly isn’t all that it’s made out to be. Not remotely. The Caribbean induces the Seven Deadly Sins on everyone who moves down here. The devil comes along and drops all seven of the sins right onto your shoulders as soon as you arrive down here. The Seven Deadly Sins becomes the burden that we must all bare if we want to live down here in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, breaking all of them is also what makes you feel alive.
The sins are usually given as wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. Each is a form of Idolatry-of-Self wherein the subjective reigns supreme over the objective. No one suffers all seven of the deadly sins as much as me. Thankfully, I don’t suffer them lightly, and i do not suffer them equally. I am an equal opportunity employer when it comes to sinning. I enjoy taking them all out for a test drive. The ones I suffer from most are as follows:
1.) Sloth—I’m amazingly lazy. Stupidly lazy. Scary lazy. I lay down in the liquor room, and underneath the secretary's desk where the AC streams out like liquid nitrogen. I take naps all the time underneath her desk.
2.) Lust—I’m weak around tits, asses, and food…not necessarily in that order...it depends on what I’ve eaten that morning.
3.) Gluttony—I cannot walk past food, nudity, nice legs, asses or chocolate…I can’t do it. I won’t do it…and I shall not do it.
The Catholic Church divides sin into two categories: Venial sins, in which guilt is relatively minor, and the more severe Mortal sins. I suffer from both. I suffer from sins not yet invented by the Catholic Church. No joke. I belong in another century. I belong in another time and era. I belong in another galaxy! I suffer from every sin imaginable. I suffer from every sin that has ever plagued Mankind. You know why? Because I’m weak. I’m weak around food. I’m weak around women. I’m weak around coffee. I’m weak around fast motorcycles. But I’m especially weak around chocolate.
I think if I had to peg my biggest weakness in life, I think it would most definitely be chocolate. Not just any chocolate. Certainly not American chocolate. That’s ****! That’s not even chocolate…at least not according to the E.U, and I agree with them. American chocolate has something like 8% chocolate in it. I’m sorry. 8% is not enough to get me out of bed in the morning. But if you want to talk about 60% or more, I’m getting out of bed. I’m getting out of bad like right now!
Same thing for food. If you are cooking fake bacon in the morning, I’m staying in bed. I’m sorry, if you are vegetarian and cooking some fake bacon, I’m staying in bed all morning. You need help. I’m sorry, if you are a vegetarian, you need a psychologist. And you need one now! But if you start cooking some quarter inch thick Canadian or European bacon, I’m getting out of bed. I’m getting out of bed like right ****ing now! You understand?
Same thing for sex. If you are some skinny, anemic looking, petite girl, I’m not getting up. I’m not disturbing my sleep. I’m sorry. If you are just some tiny little thing, I’m not getting up. I’m not moving. Because, first, I could accidentally crush you if I rolled over on you; and secondly, I don’t want to be charged with 2nd degree murder if you are a skinny vegetarian.
But look, if you got some meat on your bones, I want you. If you got hips…big hips…the bigger then better, I want you. If you got thighs…thunder thighs, I want you. If you got meat, bacon, and chocolate on you, I‘m getting up. I’m getting up right ****ing now.
(Exercising, Diets, & the Seven Deadly Sins)
In the past three days, I have walked 15.79km, 13.47km, 8.27km respectively, and yet, I have gained 2lbs. No joke. I must be the only human being on this planet that can walk nearly 40km in three days and actually gain weight!
Don’t let anyone fool you. Don’t let anyone lie to you. Doing lots of exercise is bad for you. It’s bad for your diet. It's bad for your health. And it’s bad for your shoes. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, I know it sounds preposterous. Listen to this: the more exercise you do, the hungrier you will get! You understand this concept? The more calories you burn, the more you start craving fat food!
I walked 15.79km on Saturday. I walked throughout Santo Domingo. I walked half the city. I walked from sun up to sun down. I got the proof…I took pictures of every single neighborhood I walked through--from morning until night. But all that walking made it absolutely essential for me to keep replenishing my energy. I needed energy to keep going. I needed energy to see straight. First, I stopped for pasta. But after a few hours, I walked the pasta off. Then I stopped for chocolate cake. After a few hours, i walked the chocolate cake off. Then i stopped for sushi. After five minutes, i walked the sushi off. Then the KGB and me stopped for pizza (see photo). But I walked that off as well. Then we went for ice cream in the afternoon; I walked that off after an hour.
I needed more ice cream in the evening. No, it wasn’t my idea. It was my doctor’s orders. No joke. My doctor said, “Listen, Frank, if you are walking that many hours a day, then you need to replenish your energy and bring your sugar levels back up. It's essential!" That’s exactly what he said. And then he added, “You don’t want your sugar levels to drop too low. That’s dangerous. Very dangerous. Low sugar level can kill you, and it can kill the people around you as well.”"
I don’t know about you, but I listen to my doctor when he tells me to eat more pizza and ice cream. That’s the kind of doctor I can get behind. That’s the kind of doctor I can support. That's the kind of doctor I have no problem paying.
My biggest problem is that I live in Caribbean. Living somewhere tropical has made me fat and lazy. Living somewhere warm has made me reluctant to move fast. In fact, it has made me reluctant to move at all in-between the hours of...say, 12noon and 7pm. It’s just too damn hot.
I don’t care who you are…those siesta hours between 12noon and 3pm make a lot more sense once you live down here. They make a lot more sense once you are out and about in the scorching midday sun. Once that sun starts heating up the asphalt and synging the eyebrows off your face, you'll understand. You'll see the light. Moving around during the afternoon is for crazy people. Moving around during the hot scorching summer days are for people with amnesia…dementia…and Alzheimer’s. It’s not meant for sane people to be out and moving about under a scorching midday sun. Only Englishman and Madmen do that. And look how far they got.
Living in the Caribbean has made me a fat, lazy bastard. No, it’s made me a fat, full-of-****, procrastinating, lazy bastard. It’s also made me a cross-dresser because wearing underwear in the hot tropics is for insane people. More on that later.
Listen, living in the Caribbean is not for everyone. It certainly isn’t all that it’s made out to be. Not remotely. The Caribbean induces the Seven Deadly Sins on everyone who moves down here. The devil comes along and drops all seven of the sins right onto your shoulders as soon as you arrive down here. The Seven Deadly Sins becomes the burden that we must all bare if we want to live down here in the Caribbean. Unfortunately, breaking all of them is also what makes you feel alive.
The sins are usually given as wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony. Each is a form of Idolatry-of-Self wherein the subjective reigns supreme over the objective. No one suffers all seven of the deadly sins as much as me. Thankfully, I don’t suffer them lightly, and i do not suffer them equally. I am an equal opportunity employer when it comes to sinning. I enjoy taking them all out for a test drive. The ones I suffer from most are as follows:
1.) Sloth—I’m amazingly lazy. Stupidly lazy. Scary lazy. I lay down in the liquor room, and underneath the secretary's desk where the AC streams out like liquid nitrogen. I take naps all the time underneath her desk.
2.) Lust—I’m weak around tits, asses, and food…not necessarily in that order...it depends on what I’ve eaten that morning.
3.) Gluttony—I cannot walk past food, nudity, nice legs, asses or chocolate…I can’t do it. I won’t do it…and I shall not do it.
The Catholic Church divides sin into two categories: Venial sins, in which guilt is relatively minor, and the more severe Mortal sins. I suffer from both. I suffer from sins not yet invented by the Catholic Church. No joke. I belong in another century. I belong in another time and era. I belong in another galaxy! I suffer from every sin imaginable. I suffer from every sin that has ever plagued Mankind. You know why? Because I’m weak. I’m weak around food. I’m weak around women. I’m weak around coffee. I’m weak around fast motorcycles. But I’m especially weak around chocolate.
I think if I had to peg my biggest weakness in life, I think it would most definitely be chocolate. Not just any chocolate. Certainly not American chocolate. That’s ****! That’s not even chocolate…at least not according to the E.U, and I agree with them. American chocolate has something like 8% chocolate in it. I’m sorry. 8% is not enough to get me out of bed in the morning. But if you want to talk about 60% or more, I’m getting out of bed. I’m getting out of bad like right now!
Same thing for food. If you are cooking fake bacon in the morning, I’m staying in bed. I’m sorry, if you are vegetarian and cooking some fake bacon, I’m staying in bed all morning. You need help. I’m sorry, if you are a vegetarian, you need a psychologist. And you need one now! But if you start cooking some quarter inch thick Canadian or European bacon, I’m getting out of bed. I’m getting out of bed like right ****ing now! You understand?
Same thing for sex. If you are some skinny, anemic looking, petite girl, I’m not getting up. I’m not disturbing my sleep. I’m sorry. If you are just some tiny little thing, I’m not getting up. I’m not moving. Because, first, I could accidentally crush you if I rolled over on you; and secondly, I don’t want to be charged with 2nd degree murder if you are a skinny vegetarian.
But look, if you got some meat on your bones, I want you. If you got hips…big hips…the bigger then better, I want you. If you got thighs…thunder thighs, I want you. If you got meat, bacon, and chocolate on you, I‘m getting up. I’m getting up right ****ing now.
I'm in Norway working right now, but i got a lot more stories to add. I'll eventually get around to putting them on here. I also got another book about the restaurant business and the crazy sex starved expats in the DR coming out sometime in the next month or two.
Frank
Frank
Im in Baltimore
When you coming back I'm in town next week...they don't sell Presidente here and I need a fix
When you coming back I'm in town next week...they don't sell Presidente here and I need a fix
(Hedging your Bets)
In third world countries, women are forced to Hedge their Bets.
What does this mean exactly?
Basically, it means having lots of other potential boyfriends on the line. It means not putting all of your eggs in one basket. It means not placing all your hopes and dreams on one man. More on this later.
In places like Scandinavia, women do not need to Hedge their Bets. If a relationships turns sour, women have both the financial means as well as the financial independence to survive on their own—both for them and their children. In Scandinavia (probably true for all of northern Europe), there is a system of support for women and their children. There is free daycare so that the woman can work. There is also free education for their children. No woman needs to stay in a dysfunctional relationship, or with a dysfunctional man, for financial reasons. This gives women the financial freedom and security to either study, work…or both.
Contrast this with the DR. In the DR (True for all third world countries) when a relationship sours, women are forced to stay in a dysfunctional relationship for financial reasons. They are forced to stay in a dysfunctional relationship for their children. There is no “System” of support. There is no free daycare, no free education, no financial help from the state and government.
In third world countries, women have no choice but to remain in a dysfunctional relationships because they have no way of surviving on their own. Hence, they Hedge their Bets.
In poor countries, women have only their family as a means of outside support. However, often, their families are worse off than they are. This forces women in third world countries into a Survival Mode that few people from Industrial Western countries can relate to. As a result of being forced to survive on their own—with no means of support from the government, family, or a man—women sometimes seek out other boyfriends to help them survive. In other words, they Hedge their Bets as a means of survival. This survival instinct kicks in especially when they have children to support. Their survival instinct teaches them not to invest too much hope on one single man. They look for other potential suitors just in case the relationship doesn’t work out. They sometimes have several boyfriends on their fishing line. If one fishing line breaks, they still have another fishing line ready (we’ll call that Plan B). If Plan B fails, they go to a third fishing line (We’ll call that Plan C). Some women have so many fishing lines cast out into the water that they sometimes lose track of all of their lines, and hence, you get a traffic jam. You get lines entangled together with other lines…and some must be cut free. More on that later.
Some women have a Plan D, E, F, G, H, I…XYZ ready. They have so many fishing lines cast out that they can start a fish market…hence the phrase “Fish Monger.” Some women casts so many fishing lines out that they are prepared for an Apocalypse. They’re prepared for the End of the World.
Basically, women in third world countries are forced to Hedge their Bets because the market is vulnerable to change. Market forecasts are as unreliable as they are unpredictable. Markets are impossible to predict. And the “Men Market” is the most unreliable of all. What may appear as a good investment initially can turn out to be a terrible investment? That’s why few relationships make it in the real world. In third world countries, you never know if a couple is together out of financial necessity. In Scandinavia, you know when a couple is together, it is never out of financial necessity.
Men are no better. The problem with men is that we like diversity. No man wants to eat the same food night after night. We can only eat Italian food so many times before we start craving something different. This is essentially true for everyone—man or woman. You can only eat vanilla ice cream so many times before you start to crave a different flavor.
We can’t eat the same flavor of ice cream day after day, for the rest of our lives. That’s overkill. That’s boring. That’s monotonous. There are 31 flavors out there. The most popular is chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. But there many flavors that are a combinations of these three…dark-chocolate, milk-chocolate, mocca-chocolate, caramel, Bubble-gum…and my personal favorite: Strawberry-Vanilla. Its texture is smooth, creamy, and you need polarized sunglasses if you stare directly into its aura. More on that later.
Men get tired of the same flavor. So we sample. That’s what Men do. We’re chronic samplers. We also foragers. You ever see a man walk past a sample plate inside the mall or supermarket? No. that’s because we want to taste everything on the plate. Only a stupid man would push aside something without sampling it first. Never trust someone who doesn’t sample everything first--before deciding on what best for their taste. You cannot trust someone who hasn’t tried a variety of snacks. How else can someone know what they like? Anyone who turns their noses up at something without tasting it cannot be trusted. You see dogs…they taste everything…but not before smelling it. More on that later.
Back to Hedging bets. In Scandinavia, the women don’t need to Hedge their Bets, hence, the women here are more honest. People will say, “Scandinavians are the most honest people in the world because of their value system. That’s bull****. Scandinavians are more honest simply because there is nothing to lose by leaving a dysfunctional relationship. No one needs to stay in a relationship for financial reasons. No one needs to tolerate a dysfunctional person for financial or security reasons. An independence is born from not having to totally rely on someone for financial support. This independence creates freedom. And what we know about freedom is that it creates more freedom. The more freedom you have, the richer you are. The more freedom you have, the more choices you have in life. Is there such a thing as having too much freedom? More on that later.
Here in Scandinavia, no one needs to depend on another human being for financial support. No one needs to stay in a dysfunctional relationship for security. Everyone is taken care of, and therefore, no one needs to Hedge their Bets.
Back to the DR. women are forced to Hedge their Bets out of necessity. They’re forced to invest in different men because they need to survive. You cannot tell a woman, “Stay in your terrible relationship with your dysfunctional alcoholic man and continue to put up with his **** because…you should.” That’s bull****. You cannot expect anyone to not want a better life—both for them and their children. You cannot expect people to not want a better life for their children’s future. Therefore, in a dysfunctional third world society, women are forced to either sell their bodies or to Hedge their Bets.
Life in a third world country can be hard. The DR can be a very dysfunctional place. With little infrastructure…or poor infrastructure at best, you force people into a corner. You force people into a survival mode that borders on the Kafkaesque. Systems don’t work…or work poorly. Lying is tolerated because people understand its part of surviving. People are forced into a survival mode and can’t depend on either the government or society to financially help them.
Who would want such a government that forces women into financial servitude? American Libertarians and Conservative Republicans for one. They want as little government as possible. The less government for them, the better. The DR has no infrastructure in place to financially help women out and Libertarians and Conservatives love that. That’s one of the reasons why they flock here…the government and rules here are non-existent, or poorly enforced at best. They want to live in a place with little to no taxes…which means…little to no infrastructure. Look at how great it’s working out in Africa, South America, and south-east Asia.
But enough of politics.
In third world countries, women are forced to Hedge their Bets.
What does this mean exactly?
Basically, it means having lots of other potential boyfriends on the line. It means not putting all of your eggs in one basket. It means not placing all your hopes and dreams on one man. More on this later.
In places like Scandinavia, women do not need to Hedge their Bets. If a relationships turns sour, women have both the financial means as well as the financial independence to survive on their own—both for them and their children. In Scandinavia (probably true for all of northern Europe), there is a system of support for women and their children. There is free daycare so that the woman can work. There is also free education for their children. No woman needs to stay in a dysfunctional relationship, or with a dysfunctional man, for financial reasons. This gives women the financial freedom and security to either study, work…or both.
Contrast this with the DR. In the DR (True for all third world countries) when a relationship sours, women are forced to stay in a dysfunctional relationship for financial reasons. They are forced to stay in a dysfunctional relationship for their children. There is no “System” of support. There is no free daycare, no free education, no financial help from the state and government.
In third world countries, women have no choice but to remain in a dysfunctional relationships because they have no way of surviving on their own. Hence, they Hedge their Bets.
In poor countries, women have only their family as a means of outside support. However, often, their families are worse off than they are. This forces women in third world countries into a Survival Mode that few people from Industrial Western countries can relate to. As a result of being forced to survive on their own—with no means of support from the government, family, or a man—women sometimes seek out other boyfriends to help them survive. In other words, they Hedge their Bets as a means of survival. This survival instinct kicks in especially when they have children to support. Their survival instinct teaches them not to invest too much hope on one single man. They look for other potential suitors just in case the relationship doesn’t work out. They sometimes have several boyfriends on their fishing line. If one fishing line breaks, they still have another fishing line ready (we’ll call that Plan B). If Plan B fails, they go to a third fishing line (We’ll call that Plan C). Some women have so many fishing lines cast out into the water that they sometimes lose track of all of their lines, and hence, you get a traffic jam. You get lines entangled together with other lines…and some must be cut free. More on that later.
Some women have a Plan D, E, F, G, H, I…XYZ ready. They have so many fishing lines cast out that they can start a fish market…hence the phrase “Fish Monger.” Some women casts so many fishing lines out that they are prepared for an Apocalypse. They’re prepared for the End of the World.
Basically, women in third world countries are forced to Hedge their Bets because the market is vulnerable to change. Market forecasts are as unreliable as they are unpredictable. Markets are impossible to predict. And the “Men Market” is the most unreliable of all. What may appear as a good investment initially can turn out to be a terrible investment? That’s why few relationships make it in the real world. In third world countries, you never know if a couple is together out of financial necessity. In Scandinavia, you know when a couple is together, it is never out of financial necessity.
Men are no better. The problem with men is that we like diversity. No man wants to eat the same food night after night. We can only eat Italian food so many times before we start craving something different. This is essentially true for everyone—man or woman. You can only eat vanilla ice cream so many times before you start to crave a different flavor.
We can’t eat the same flavor of ice cream day after day, for the rest of our lives. That’s overkill. That’s boring. That’s monotonous. There are 31 flavors out there. The most popular is chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. But there many flavors that are a combinations of these three…dark-chocolate, milk-chocolate, mocca-chocolate, caramel, Bubble-gum…and my personal favorite: Strawberry-Vanilla. Its texture is smooth, creamy, and you need polarized sunglasses if you stare directly into its aura. More on that later.
Men get tired of the same flavor. So we sample. That’s what Men do. We’re chronic samplers. We also foragers. You ever see a man walk past a sample plate inside the mall or supermarket? No. that’s because we want to taste everything on the plate. Only a stupid man would push aside something without sampling it first. Never trust someone who doesn’t sample everything first--before deciding on what best for their taste. You cannot trust someone who hasn’t tried a variety of snacks. How else can someone know what they like? Anyone who turns their noses up at something without tasting it cannot be trusted. You see dogs…they taste everything…but not before smelling it. More on that later.
Back to Hedging bets. In Scandinavia, the women don’t need to Hedge their Bets, hence, the women here are more honest. People will say, “Scandinavians are the most honest people in the world because of their value system. That’s bull****. Scandinavians are more honest simply because there is nothing to lose by leaving a dysfunctional relationship. No one needs to stay in a relationship for financial reasons. No one needs to tolerate a dysfunctional person for financial or security reasons. An independence is born from not having to totally rely on someone for financial support. This independence creates freedom. And what we know about freedom is that it creates more freedom. The more freedom you have, the richer you are. The more freedom you have, the more choices you have in life. Is there such a thing as having too much freedom? More on that later.
Here in Scandinavia, no one needs to depend on another human being for financial support. No one needs to stay in a dysfunctional relationship for security. Everyone is taken care of, and therefore, no one needs to Hedge their Bets.
Back to the DR. women are forced to Hedge their Bets out of necessity. They’re forced to invest in different men because they need to survive. You cannot tell a woman, “Stay in your terrible relationship with your dysfunctional alcoholic man and continue to put up with his **** because…you should.” That’s bull****. You cannot expect anyone to not want a better life—both for them and their children. You cannot expect people to not want a better life for their children’s future. Therefore, in a dysfunctional third world society, women are forced to either sell their bodies or to Hedge their Bets.
Life in a third world country can be hard. The DR can be a very dysfunctional place. With little infrastructure…or poor infrastructure at best, you force people into a corner. You force people into a survival mode that borders on the Kafkaesque. Systems don’t work…or work poorly. Lying is tolerated because people understand its part of surviving. People are forced into a survival mode and can’t depend on either the government or society to financially help them.
Who would want such a government that forces women into financial servitude? American Libertarians and Conservative Republicans for one. They want as little government as possible. The less government for them, the better. The DR has no infrastructure in place to financially help women out and Libertarians and Conservatives love that. That’s one of the reasons why they flock here…the government and rules here are non-existent, or poorly enforced at best. They want to live in a place with little to no taxes…which means…little to no infrastructure. Look at how great it’s working out in Africa, South America, and south-east Asia.
But enough of politics.