- Thread starter frank12
- Start date
Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Yes, it is working beautifully. That's what tax money should be going to...making sure people are taken care of--especially the children and old people.
Frank
And it works quite well..... it allows you to live your life without always wondering if the-clan-from-under-the-mango-tree is going to cave your head in, enslave your wife, kill your sons and rape your daughters...... just because you got old an weak
Frank is in his mid-twenties. Young.
I am not going to Cabarete until Frank returns! Boycott is on.
I am not going to Cabarete until Frank returns! Boycott is on.
Chapter 233 (Aromatic Smells in the DR)
The DR is alive with smells. There is a cornucopia of smells that radiate across restaurants, empty lots, sidewalks and streets. On certain days, simply driving down the street means opening your nostrils to an attack of aromatic smells that possess the power to intoxicate, seduce, and cause hallucinations. Every day, we have the smell of garbage, decaying fruit, diesel fumes, grilled pork, horse manure, wet dog, wild flowers, food carts, cheap perfume, beer, and, oh yeah…urine—all riding on hot currents of air.
Yesterday, I drove my bike out of the gate and turned west into the sun, towards Sosua. I was immediately met by the succulent smell of grilled pork being sold across the street from the police station. Soon after I was met by the smell of sweat stinging my eyes as it flung off a galloping horse being ridden by a 9yrs old kid trying to outrun the police. Passing the horse, I was attacked by diesel fumes being pushed out of huge vents that blow hot diesel exhaust onto the scorching pavement in front of a massive condo complex across from the casino.
Passing the casino I came to the supermarket where the smell of jamon & queso and grilled pork sandwiches lingered across the street. A little further down the street, the smell of ripening bananas, Passion fruit and orange peel came lingering across the street.
The breeze coming off the ocean blows with such intensity that it covers everything with a thin layer of salt which carries with it the smell of rotting seaweed. As soon as you cross its trajectory, the smell of seaweed enters your nostrils where it quickly makes its way up to your brain where it sits and hibernates. It's a smell you can never forget.
Further down the street a shirtless man, walking barefoot on scorching hot asphalt, is pushing an overloaded wheel barrel full of empty Presidente beer bottles. The left-over beer inside the bottles bake in the scorching midday sun all day and carry with it the stale smell of yeast, hops, and barley.
Further down the street, passing a Chinese restaurant, the smell of sweet & sour pork comes drifting over the street where it is immediately joined by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, croissants, and sweating French and Italian tourists unfamiliar with deodorant.
A further half block down highway 5, I was attacked by the smell of garbage and decaying fruit where people have tossed their trash over a chain link fence into an empty lot where an all-inclusive hotel once stood. The smell of decaying fruit is immediately joined by the acrid smell of burning grass.
This international tour of smells starts one mile east of town, near the Texaco gas station, and continues until you reach Sosua and beyond.
In Sosua, I was met with the smell of deep fried fish and traffic exhaust. I saw tourists gagging at garbage smells and the odor from a dead rat laying along the curb, baking in the hot, scorching sun. Dead rat smell was immediately over-taken by the smell of wet dog. Stray, wet dogs were bee-lining down Pedro Clisante in a congo line that followed the trajectory of one lone female dog in heat.
Further down the street, the smell of BBQ chicken being grilled along the main street emanated into the congested traffic of passing motoconchos. The smell of BBQ chicken attracted every stray dog and cat within a 2-mile radius. Chicken feathers lined the curbside where workers had recently killed and plucked a chicken along the curb. White chicken feathers were everywhere, and the chicken blood pooled along the curb.
I stopped outside one of the cheaper hotels, and was met with the intense smell of floor cleaner and bleach. "Artificial and cheap,” I thought to myself, before detecting a dank-smelling fungus coming out of a nearby air-conditioning unit. Next door, at a sidewalk restaurant, the smell of freshly cut cabbage and beets lingered.
Nearby, a group of shirtless French Canadian tourists—built of lymph, cellulite, water and fat, came spilling out of a cab and onto the sidewalk where they were closely followed by the stale smell of citrus, beer and sweat.
Across the street, observing people from a widow’s peak perch—which included swiveling bar stools with holes in them—cheap perfume radiated from several working girls who sat seductively with their legs crossed in such a way that they were still able to flash their white panties to passing Pentecostals, Seventh Day Adventists, Evangelicals, and Jehovah Witnesses passing out Watchtower Magazines.
I carefully studied the religiously fevered. They smelled of stale mint, synthetic fibers, wholesale cheapness, and although attractive, were strikingly unfragrant and boring.
The DR is alive with smells. There is a cornucopia of smells that radiate across restaurants, empty lots, sidewalks and streets. On certain days, simply driving down the street means opening your nostrils to an attack of aromatic smells that possess the power to intoxicate, seduce, and cause hallucinations. Every day, we have the smell of garbage, decaying fruit, diesel fumes, grilled pork, horse manure, wet dog, wild flowers, food carts, cheap perfume, beer, and, oh yeah…urine—all riding on hot currents of air.
Yesterday, I drove my bike out of the gate and turned west into the sun, towards Sosua. I was immediately met by the succulent smell of grilled pork being sold across the street from the police station. Soon after I was met by the smell of sweat stinging my eyes as it flung off a galloping horse being ridden by a 9yrs old kid trying to outrun the police. Passing the horse, I was attacked by diesel fumes being pushed out of huge vents that blow hot diesel exhaust onto the scorching pavement in front of a massive condo complex across from the casino.
Passing the casino I came to the supermarket where the smell of jamon & queso and grilled pork sandwiches lingered across the street. A little further down the street, the smell of ripening bananas, Passion fruit and orange peel came lingering across the street.
The breeze coming off the ocean blows with such intensity that it covers everything with a thin layer of salt which carries with it the smell of rotting seaweed. As soon as you cross its trajectory, the smell of seaweed enters your nostrils where it quickly makes its way up to your brain where it sits and hibernates. It's a smell you can never forget.
Further down the street a shirtless man, walking barefoot on scorching hot asphalt, is pushing an overloaded wheel barrel full of empty Presidente beer bottles. The left-over beer inside the bottles bake in the scorching midday sun all day and carry with it the stale smell of yeast, hops, and barley.
Further down the street, passing a Chinese restaurant, the smell of sweet & sour pork comes drifting over the street where it is immediately joined by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, croissants, and sweating French and Italian tourists unfamiliar with deodorant.
A further half block down highway 5, I was attacked by the smell of garbage and decaying fruit where people have tossed their trash over a chain link fence into an empty lot where an all-inclusive hotel once stood. The smell of decaying fruit is immediately joined by the acrid smell of burning grass.
This international tour of smells starts one mile east of town, near the Texaco gas station, and continues until you reach Sosua and beyond.
In Sosua, I was met with the smell of deep fried fish and traffic exhaust. I saw tourists gagging at garbage smells and the odor from a dead rat laying along the curb, baking in the hot, scorching sun. Dead rat smell was immediately over-taken by the smell of wet dog. Stray, wet dogs were bee-lining down Pedro Clisante in a congo line that followed the trajectory of one lone female dog in heat.
Further down the street, the smell of BBQ chicken being grilled along the main street emanated into the congested traffic of passing motoconchos. The smell of BBQ chicken attracted every stray dog and cat within a 2-mile radius. Chicken feathers lined the curbside where workers had recently killed and plucked a chicken along the curb. White chicken feathers were everywhere, and the chicken blood pooled along the curb.
I stopped outside one of the cheaper hotels, and was met with the intense smell of floor cleaner and bleach. "Artificial and cheap,” I thought to myself, before detecting a dank-smelling fungus coming out of a nearby air-conditioning unit. Next door, at a sidewalk restaurant, the smell of freshly cut cabbage and beets lingered.
Nearby, a group of shirtless French Canadian tourists—built of lymph, cellulite, water and fat, came spilling out of a cab and onto the sidewalk where they were closely followed by the stale smell of citrus, beer and sweat.
Across the street, observing people from a widow’s peak perch—which included swiveling bar stools with holes in them—cheap perfume radiated from several working girls who sat seductively with their legs crossed in such a way that they were still able to flash their white panties to passing Pentecostals, Seventh Day Adventists, Evangelicals, and Jehovah Witnesses passing out Watchtower Magazines.
I carefully studied the religiously fevered. They smelled of stale mint, synthetic fibers, wholesale cheapness, and although attractive, were strikingly unfragrant and boring.
I can't believe you failed to notice the sewage smell as you passed the big tanks filled with, yeah you guessed it, sewage.
But Franks virility is 2nd only to this man....
http://ca.askmen.com/news/entertainment/most-virile-man.html
Chapter 235 (Wet Beaver)
It’s Sunday, and I’m in a particularly good mood right now. No, I’m in an exceptionally good religious mood right now. I often get these feelings on Sunday’s. I don’t get them on Sunday’s in Norway. People in Norway spend their Sunday’s Barbequing with friends and family and deconstructing the art of hops, barley, and yeast while either watching the English Premier League, or sailing around a beautiful fjord, or hunting for wild mushrooms and wild blueberries in the forests. Nature is over-rated. But here in the DR, people are under the influence of god, rum, sun, and coconut suntan lotion.
Sunday mass is going on beside me right now. The choir is singing a song I’ve never heard before, “Freedom to Run.” No joke. I’m in Sosua Ocean Village right now. They have Sunday mass here. Good for them. They sound like they’re having too much fun. So am I. I’m sitting next to the infinity pool, overlooking the fishing boats and sailboats passing by. Most of the fishing boats seem to be heading east. The sailboats seem to be heading west.
I’m sitting here drinking Mojito’s and enjoying salutations I just received from a group young Russian girls in bikinis flashing me their panties. I salute them with my Mojito and lay back in my wicker lounge chair.
I’ve been flashed a lot throughout my Mojito years in the Caribbean, but I must say, listening to gospel music while a group of young, beautiful Russian girls take off their panties and put their bikinis on takes it to a whole new level. You got to love Russians. I’ve been studying Russians now for…oh, I don’t know…maybe 6 or 7 years. I love Russians. Of course, you cannot trust Russians. But then, you cannot trust American rednecks from the Bible Belt either. The thing about American rednecks from the Bible Belt and Russians is that, for all intent and purposes, both groups are nothing more than glorified Hillbillies. Basically, the ones you meet down here are a glorified version of the Beverly Hillbillies who recently came into money. True story.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love Russian culture, I love Russian food (ok, I’ve eaten enough Borsch and Pelmini to last me a life time), and ok, the Russian language could use some romance thrown into it, but it’s not bad once you have ear plugs stuffed deep inside your eardrums.
The thing about Russians is that, like American Rednecks, they love guns, alcohol, driving recklessly (the videos are all over Youtube), fighting, war, cabbage, and charismatic hillbilly politicians—I.E Bush & Donald Trump. Russians are more like Americans then people realize. The only difference is that they lack the fundamental religious fervor that American rednecks possess in plenty. Between the two, I prefer the Russian hillbillies over the American Rednecks because the Russians are less likely to do something completely stupid because they think “God” is behind their actions. Only Americans and illiterate Muslims seem capable of using “God” in this manner.
Back to the Russian females.
The Russians across from me keep flashing me their panties as if it’s the most natural thing ever. I’m in heaven. I’ve died and gone straight to heaven. I did not pass go, I did not collect my $200 dollars. I simply went straight to the Panty God. I’m not moving from this lounge chair even if a hurricane rolls in. I got my polarized Oakley sunglasses on, I’m listening to gospel music, and I’m getting the occasional glimpses of pubic hair and wet bush glistening in the sunlight staring back at me. It’s almost blinding when the sun hits wet pubic hair in the right angle. You need a good pair of polarized sunglasses to stare directly into its path. I’m like Bilbo Baggins here. I’m looking for the Golden Ring inside the deep, impenetrable forest. It’s a damn good thing I got my Oakley’s on right now. I could be blinded.
I found my religion. My religion is wet beaver (WB). My religion is the wet beaver sitting directly across from me right now. I’m not moving even if someone tries to pay a million dollars to move. These kinds of unique experiences only come around once every blue moon. I’m going to order another Mojito and stare into the direction of Wet Beaver until I either go blind or pass out from sun stroke. I’m in heaven, and nothing is going to take me from my front row heaven seat until I pass out or fall into a coma.
It’s Sunday, and I’m in a particularly good mood right now. No, I’m in an exceptionally good religious mood right now. I often get these feelings on Sunday’s. I don’t get them on Sunday’s in Norway. People in Norway spend their Sunday’s Barbequing with friends and family and deconstructing the art of hops, barley, and yeast while either watching the English Premier League, or sailing around a beautiful fjord, or hunting for wild mushrooms and wild blueberries in the forests. Nature is over-rated. But here in the DR, people are under the influence of god, rum, sun, and coconut suntan lotion.
Sunday mass is going on beside me right now. The choir is singing a song I’ve never heard before, “Freedom to Run.” No joke. I’m in Sosua Ocean Village right now. They have Sunday mass here. Good for them. They sound like they’re having too much fun. So am I. I’m sitting next to the infinity pool, overlooking the fishing boats and sailboats passing by. Most of the fishing boats seem to be heading east. The sailboats seem to be heading west.
I’m sitting here drinking Mojito’s and enjoying salutations I just received from a group young Russian girls in bikinis flashing me their panties. I salute them with my Mojito and lay back in my wicker lounge chair.
I’ve been flashed a lot throughout my Mojito years in the Caribbean, but I must say, listening to gospel music while a group of young, beautiful Russian girls take off their panties and put their bikinis on takes it to a whole new level. You got to love Russians. I’ve been studying Russians now for…oh, I don’t know…maybe 6 or 7 years. I love Russians. Of course, you cannot trust Russians. But then, you cannot trust American rednecks from the Bible Belt either. The thing about American rednecks from the Bible Belt and Russians is that, for all intent and purposes, both groups are nothing more than glorified Hillbillies. Basically, the ones you meet down here are a glorified version of the Beverly Hillbillies who recently came into money. True story.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love Russian culture, I love Russian food (ok, I’ve eaten enough Borsch and Pelmini to last me a life time), and ok, the Russian language could use some romance thrown into it, but it’s not bad once you have ear plugs stuffed deep inside your eardrums.
The thing about Russians is that, like American Rednecks, they love guns, alcohol, driving recklessly (the videos are all over Youtube), fighting, war, cabbage, and charismatic hillbilly politicians—I.E Bush & Donald Trump. Russians are more like Americans then people realize. The only difference is that they lack the fundamental religious fervor that American rednecks possess in plenty. Between the two, I prefer the Russian hillbillies over the American Rednecks because the Russians are less likely to do something completely stupid because they think “God” is behind their actions. Only Americans and illiterate Muslims seem capable of using “God” in this manner.
Back to the Russian females.
The Russians across from me keep flashing me their panties as if it’s the most natural thing ever. I’m in heaven. I’ve died and gone straight to heaven. I did not pass go, I did not collect my $200 dollars. I simply went straight to the Panty God. I’m not moving from this lounge chair even if a hurricane rolls in. I got my polarized Oakley sunglasses on, I’m listening to gospel music, and I’m getting the occasional glimpses of pubic hair and wet bush glistening in the sunlight staring back at me. It’s almost blinding when the sun hits wet pubic hair in the right angle. You need a good pair of polarized sunglasses to stare directly into its path. I’m like Bilbo Baggins here. I’m looking for the Golden Ring inside the deep, impenetrable forest. It’s a damn good thing I got my Oakley’s on right now. I could be blinded.
I found my religion. My religion is wet beaver (WB). My religion is the wet beaver sitting directly across from me right now. I’m not moving even if someone tries to pay a million dollars to move. These kinds of unique experiences only come around once every blue moon. I’m going to order another Mojito and stare into the direction of Wet Beaver until I either go blind or pass out from sun stroke. I’m in heaven, and nothing is going to take me from my front row heaven seat until I pass out or fall into a coma.
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Chapter 236 (Heavenly Scents)
Dead animals decaying on the side of the road contain butyric acid, which is also found in moldy cheese.
To drive down any highway on this island is to immerse oneself into the deep aroma of foul scents of dead animals. Dead animals are everywhere on this island. The smell of death permeates this island like decaying fruit. It over-shadows the beautiful smells of wild flowers, diesel exhaust, and ripening fruit. It’s a smell that sticks in your head for a very long time. It’s a smell you never forget. Even after you have driven five miles down the road, the smell still lingers inside your car or motorcycle helmet—bouncing off the interior and sticking inside your nostrils.
In a macabre twist, the smell of decaying animals along the side of the road always makes me hungry. Very hungry.
Butyric acid, while rancid on its own, is important in nature as the scent attracts flies, insects and other animals who come to enjoy the “Free Buffet” of food rotting in the sun. The rancid smell is basically a call to the wild, announcing “Food Orgy over here!" Buzzards gliding on streams of hot current air can pick up the smell from very far away. Bears, wolves, vampires and other exotic animals can detect the smell from twenty miles away or more downwind. It’s strong and it’s rancid.
I kept driving. A few miles down the highway, another dead animal cooking in the hot scorching sun—announcing another “Free Buffet” came ricocheting inside my motorcycle helmet. I thought, for the love of god, I’m starving now. I stopped in Sosua and got something to eat. The smell was now on my clothes and in my hair—which made me hungrier the longer the smell lingered around me. What can you do in a situation like this? I ordered more food.
Sosua...the smell of death.
As I sat eating my food, some much needed raindrops began to fall. It was the first raindrops in a very long time. The smell of rain hitting hot asphalt carried with it the unmistakable smell of wine and cheese. Perfect. I ordered the stinkiest cheese they had, along with the cheapest wine. Together, the pairing could not have been better orchestrated. I called over the ma?tre de—a Dominican girl missing her front teeth and with belly rolls of fat perfectly orchestrated and protruding out from a child’s shirt and folding neatly over her tight shorts three sizes two small—and told her to keep pouring the cheap wine until I either pass out or explode.
The smell of wet asphalt and stinky cheese is beautiful. The smells are critical in producing floral scents of cherry, mahogany, woodworm, pencil shavings, 10w-50 motor oil, damp earth, mold, and the white stuff found underneath one’s toenails.
“The smell of wet asphalt is extremely fragrant" I told the ma?tre d'.
She looked at me like was high—which I was. I had just smoked some catnip.
“I’m sorry, what’s your name, darling?” I asked her.
“Jaunita.”
“Look, Juanita, a lot of people who smell a woman’s flower for the first time don’t like the smell. They will always tell you it's too floral and there’s too much hint of flowerily bouquet. Some people think a woman’s flower smells like a horse stable. Other’s think it smells like shrimp. But in fact, that’s just fruity note that lingers on your palette. It’s beautiful. I can smell yours right now,” I told her.
She didn't understand. Oh well.
I escaped into the air-conditioned sanctuary of the back of the restaurant. Once there, I inhaled something beautiful. I called over the maitre d' again, and said, “Whatever that smell is that’s lingering from the hostess stand where the female waitstaff are standing, smells rich and opulent. I love it!”
“Thank you. It’s a mixture of mosquito repellent, damp panty hose, hairspray, leather, and hair-dye.”
“No kidding? Well, it smells opulent!” I held my glass of wine up to the girls standing around the hostess stand and toasted them. They were all laughing.
I called Jaunita over to my table again. I had just enough wine and catnip inside of me where I can sometimes take things a little over the top. She was standing in front of me. I was about eye-level with her crotch. I looked up at her and said, “You smell beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling. The female staff behind her were still laughing. I don’t know if they were laughing at me or at something else. I continued, “Jaunita, you smell of peat moss and birch tar—which reminds me of Irish whiskey. Do you have any Irish whiskey in this fine establishment?”
“No, I’m sorry,” she answered. She acted as if she never heard of Irish whiskey.
“Ok, no problem.” I answered.
At the risk of being slapped, I pulled her closer to me and looked up into her big, beautiful eyes and said, “Juanita, you smell of earthly scents of damp earth, musk oil, Pinot Noir, and horse saddle. Are you from the country?”
She laughed and nodded, yes. Now I was getting somewhere.
In a hushed tone, I said, “Don’t be offended, but you smell of wet horse and cat urine.”
She raised her eyebrows and stepped back.
“Now wait a second, darling,” I said, grabbing her hand and pulling her closer. “In very high-end perfumeries and vineyards, they put these smells inside the bottle in order to make people addicted and sexually aroused. It’s what makes some people so irresistible. The smell of wet horse and cat urine makes me sexually aroused," I said to her, staring into her big brown eyes.
She wasn’t amused.
Dead animals decaying on the side of the road contain butyric acid, which is also found in moldy cheese.
To drive down any highway on this island is to immerse oneself into the deep aroma of foul scents of dead animals. Dead animals are everywhere on this island. The smell of death permeates this island like decaying fruit. It over-shadows the beautiful smells of wild flowers, diesel exhaust, and ripening fruit. It’s a smell that sticks in your head for a very long time. It’s a smell you never forget. Even after you have driven five miles down the road, the smell still lingers inside your car or motorcycle helmet—bouncing off the interior and sticking inside your nostrils.
In a macabre twist, the smell of decaying animals along the side of the road always makes me hungry. Very hungry.
Butyric acid, while rancid on its own, is important in nature as the scent attracts flies, insects and other animals who come to enjoy the “Free Buffet” of food rotting in the sun. The rancid smell is basically a call to the wild, announcing “Food Orgy over here!" Buzzards gliding on streams of hot current air can pick up the smell from very far away. Bears, wolves, vampires and other exotic animals can detect the smell from twenty miles away or more downwind. It’s strong and it’s rancid.
I kept driving. A few miles down the highway, another dead animal cooking in the hot scorching sun—announcing another “Free Buffet” came ricocheting inside my motorcycle helmet. I thought, for the love of god, I’m starving now. I stopped in Sosua and got something to eat. The smell was now on my clothes and in my hair—which made me hungrier the longer the smell lingered around me. What can you do in a situation like this? I ordered more food.
Sosua...the smell of death.
As I sat eating my food, some much needed raindrops began to fall. It was the first raindrops in a very long time. The smell of rain hitting hot asphalt carried with it the unmistakable smell of wine and cheese. Perfect. I ordered the stinkiest cheese they had, along with the cheapest wine. Together, the pairing could not have been better orchestrated. I called over the ma?tre de—a Dominican girl missing her front teeth and with belly rolls of fat perfectly orchestrated and protruding out from a child’s shirt and folding neatly over her tight shorts three sizes two small—and told her to keep pouring the cheap wine until I either pass out or explode.
The smell of wet asphalt and stinky cheese is beautiful. The smells are critical in producing floral scents of cherry, mahogany, woodworm, pencil shavings, 10w-50 motor oil, damp earth, mold, and the white stuff found underneath one’s toenails.
“The smell of wet asphalt is extremely fragrant" I told the ma?tre d'.
She looked at me like was high—which I was. I had just smoked some catnip.
“I’m sorry, what’s your name, darling?” I asked her.
“Jaunita.”
“Look, Juanita, a lot of people who smell a woman’s flower for the first time don’t like the smell. They will always tell you it's too floral and there’s too much hint of flowerily bouquet. Some people think a woman’s flower smells like a horse stable. Other’s think it smells like shrimp. But in fact, that’s just fruity note that lingers on your palette. It’s beautiful. I can smell yours right now,” I told her.
She didn't understand. Oh well.
I escaped into the air-conditioned sanctuary of the back of the restaurant. Once there, I inhaled something beautiful. I called over the maitre d' again, and said, “Whatever that smell is that’s lingering from the hostess stand where the female waitstaff are standing, smells rich and opulent. I love it!”
“Thank you. It’s a mixture of mosquito repellent, damp panty hose, hairspray, leather, and hair-dye.”
“No kidding? Well, it smells opulent!” I held my glass of wine up to the girls standing around the hostess stand and toasted them. They were all laughing.
I called Jaunita over to my table again. I had just enough wine and catnip inside of me where I can sometimes take things a little over the top. She was standing in front of me. I was about eye-level with her crotch. I looked up at her and said, “You smell beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she answered, smiling. The female staff behind her were still laughing. I don’t know if they were laughing at me or at something else. I continued, “Jaunita, you smell of peat moss and birch tar—which reminds me of Irish whiskey. Do you have any Irish whiskey in this fine establishment?”
“No, I’m sorry,” she answered. She acted as if she never heard of Irish whiskey.
“Ok, no problem.” I answered.
At the risk of being slapped, I pulled her closer to me and looked up into her big, beautiful eyes and said, “Juanita, you smell of earthly scents of damp earth, musk oil, Pinot Noir, and horse saddle. Are you from the country?”
She laughed and nodded, yes. Now I was getting somewhere.
In a hushed tone, I said, “Don’t be offended, but you smell of wet horse and cat urine.”
She raised her eyebrows and stepped back.
“Now wait a second, darling,” I said, grabbing her hand and pulling her closer. “In very high-end perfumeries and vineyards, they put these smells inside the bottle in order to make people addicted and sexually aroused. It’s what makes some people so irresistible. The smell of wet horse and cat urine makes me sexually aroused," I said to her, staring into her big brown eyes.
She wasn’t amused.
Chapter 237 (Infidelity, part 1)
Infidelity: (the action or state of being unfaithful to a spouse or other sexual partner. I.E--"Her infidelity continued after her marriage")
Infidelity…it’s a dirty word. I know. Every society and culture on this planet participates in it. Even society’s that threaten beheadings and execution practice it. It’s been going on since before Biblical times, and it will be going on until the end of time. When two people are not married, it’s simply called “Being Unfaithful.” There’s too many vowels in “Being Unfaithful”, therefore, because I’m extremely lazy, I’ll simply be using the term “Infidelity” here.
Ok, let me get something out of the way right away. I’m not here to judge anyone who is or has been “Unfaithful.” I would judge anyone for the simple reason that I’ve yet to meet anyone who has practiced infidelity more than me then when I worked on cruise ships for 14 years.
Let me start by incriminating myself…this way, everyone will feel like an angel in comparison and hopefully, no one will get offended. From 1985 until 1998/99, I worked on cruise ships. I worked for four different cruise ship companies, on several different ships. For those who have never worked on cruise ships, let me describe it for you: Envision being locked up in prison with 2000 convicts. Alcohol is served freely, food is everywhere and as much as you want. There is no 9-5 schedule. No alarm clocks. Everyone is free to travel from cell to cell, and from floor to floor. And when the prison’s disco closes at 5am, everyone runs around madly like wet rats looking for any free, available space to have sex. Boyfriends and girlfriends are exchanged like baseball cards. On cruise ships, you never lose your girlfriend, you only lose your turn. And because you work with the same 700, 900, or 1200 or more staff, people exchange partners exactly as one would do on Animal Kingdom.
Taking a very rough estimate…say the average cruise ship entertainer (I was part of the entertainment staff despite having absolutely zero talent and possessing zero skills) has sex with an average of two people a week (I worked with some singers who averaged much more). Two sexual encounters a week x 52 weeks in a year = 104 sexual encounters every year—not including whatever cruise staff you sleep with during crazy staff parties, dry dock, and re-location cruises. Multiply that times 14 years (14 x 104 = 1456+ people), and now you got something near Wilt Chamberlain’s or John Holmes titillating record. Thankfully, no one works 14 years straight. Typically, you work 6 to 8 months a year. So, it’s not as sexually dramatic as the numbers suggest, but it’s not too far off either.
Naturally, not everyone is forthcoming or completely honest about themselves when they’re only on a 7 day cruise. Some people are married, some are divorced, some have boyfriends and girlfriends. And some have battery operated toys that they bring onto vacation with them. The shops on cruise ships sell a lot of batteries. A whole lot. True story.
On any given cruise ship, you got religious and non-religious, drinkers and non-drinkers, smokers and non-smokers. You got people who are somewhat sexual and very sexual. You have people who are easily aroused and very aroused. Then you got the rest of humanity…people who are humping every stationary object that stops in their path and accidently bends over.
Most people have already mentally prepared themselves for the opportunity for sex before they’ve even stepped foot on the ship. They have played out different scenarios inside their head before they have even left home.
Nearly all cruise ship officers are married or in a relationship back home. Nearly all officers have sex with passengers. Nearly all wait staff, cleaning staff, deck hands, and entertainment crew are in relationships back home. Does it stop anyone from following their instinct for sex? No, of course not. It never has, and it never will. Me and the rest of the staff have had sex with every religious denomination, every color and build—from brown to yellow, white to purple, green to mauve, from midget to amazon, from skinny to Mama Cass fat. Everyone gets sex on cruise ships. That’s why cruises are so hugely popular with older, single women. More on that later.
The North Coast is basically—for all intent and purposes—a glorified cruise ship. You got your deck hands and ship officers. You got your entertainment crew and your wait staff & bartenders. All you need now to complete the picture is this: tourists from North America, Europe, and the Baltics.
The tourists land on the North Coast on a weekly basis. They come from North America and Europe, from Russia and the Baltic states. They’re no different than any cruise ship passenger who come onto the ship for a one or two week vacation. Everyone knows there is a short, limited window of opportunity to get laid. Therefore, there is a mad dash to go out every single night until you find someone to pair up with.
The men know that if they can hook (sort like fishing for Carp) a female tourist on their first or second night here, that fish will be theirs for the rest of the vacation. This is exactly how it works on cruise ships. The passengers come on the ship for 7 or 14 days, and there is this mad dash for the disco the first few nights of the cruise until everyone has paired up with their potential mate.
This is how it works everywhere:
1.) Mad dash for a potential mate.
2.) Sustained eye contact hooks the fish.
3.) Some delicate ballet moves—often followed by little lies for re-assurance and validation (I.E—no, I’m not married. No, I don’t have chlamydia. Yes, I find you irresistibly attractive, and blah, blah, blah.) The lies are necessary for the validation and re-assurance.
On the North Coast, the first few nights of anyone’s vacation is usually spent cruising the beach—looking for potential suitors. There is nothing wrong with this. This a human instinct. It wouldn’t matter what island you traveled to—it works exactly the same on every island. I’ve been to over 50 different islands and it works in the exact same way on each one. Likewise, it wouldn’t matter which cruise ship you went on anywhere in the world, it works in the exact same way on each one. The first few nights is always the same madness and chaos—there is a lot of maneuvering and positioning, there is a lot of jousting and posturing…as everyone is running around looking for a potential mate to spend the rest of their vacation with.
Back to the north coast. The infidelity down here is astronomical. You would need Einstein’s Theory of Relativity just to measure it at its most basic level. It’s off the charts. It was this way when my father lived here in the 1940’s and 50’s, it was this way when lived here in the 1970’s & 90’s, and will remain this way until the end of time.
To be continued…
Infidelity: (the action or state of being unfaithful to a spouse or other sexual partner. I.E--"Her infidelity continued after her marriage")
Infidelity…it’s a dirty word. I know. Every society and culture on this planet participates in it. Even society’s that threaten beheadings and execution practice it. It’s been going on since before Biblical times, and it will be going on until the end of time. When two people are not married, it’s simply called “Being Unfaithful.” There’s too many vowels in “Being Unfaithful”, therefore, because I’m extremely lazy, I’ll simply be using the term “Infidelity” here.
Ok, let me get something out of the way right away. I’m not here to judge anyone who is or has been “Unfaithful.” I would judge anyone for the simple reason that I’ve yet to meet anyone who has practiced infidelity more than me then when I worked on cruise ships for 14 years.
Let me start by incriminating myself…this way, everyone will feel like an angel in comparison and hopefully, no one will get offended. From 1985 until 1998/99, I worked on cruise ships. I worked for four different cruise ship companies, on several different ships. For those who have never worked on cruise ships, let me describe it for you: Envision being locked up in prison with 2000 convicts. Alcohol is served freely, food is everywhere and as much as you want. There is no 9-5 schedule. No alarm clocks. Everyone is free to travel from cell to cell, and from floor to floor. And when the prison’s disco closes at 5am, everyone runs around madly like wet rats looking for any free, available space to have sex. Boyfriends and girlfriends are exchanged like baseball cards. On cruise ships, you never lose your girlfriend, you only lose your turn. And because you work with the same 700, 900, or 1200 or more staff, people exchange partners exactly as one would do on Animal Kingdom.
Taking a very rough estimate…say the average cruise ship entertainer (I was part of the entertainment staff despite having absolutely zero talent and possessing zero skills) has sex with an average of two people a week (I worked with some singers who averaged much more). Two sexual encounters a week x 52 weeks in a year = 104 sexual encounters every year—not including whatever cruise staff you sleep with during crazy staff parties, dry dock, and re-location cruises. Multiply that times 14 years (14 x 104 = 1456+ people), and now you got something near Wilt Chamberlain’s or John Holmes titillating record. Thankfully, no one works 14 years straight. Typically, you work 6 to 8 months a year. So, it’s not as sexually dramatic as the numbers suggest, but it’s not too far off either.
Naturally, not everyone is forthcoming or completely honest about themselves when they’re only on a 7 day cruise. Some people are married, some are divorced, some have boyfriends and girlfriends. And some have battery operated toys that they bring onto vacation with them. The shops on cruise ships sell a lot of batteries. A whole lot. True story.
On any given cruise ship, you got religious and non-religious, drinkers and non-drinkers, smokers and non-smokers. You got people who are somewhat sexual and very sexual. You have people who are easily aroused and very aroused. Then you got the rest of humanity…people who are humping every stationary object that stops in their path and accidently bends over.
Most people have already mentally prepared themselves for the opportunity for sex before they’ve even stepped foot on the ship. They have played out different scenarios inside their head before they have even left home.
Nearly all cruise ship officers are married or in a relationship back home. Nearly all officers have sex with passengers. Nearly all wait staff, cleaning staff, deck hands, and entertainment crew are in relationships back home. Does it stop anyone from following their instinct for sex? No, of course not. It never has, and it never will. Me and the rest of the staff have had sex with every religious denomination, every color and build—from brown to yellow, white to purple, green to mauve, from midget to amazon, from skinny to Mama Cass fat. Everyone gets sex on cruise ships. That’s why cruises are so hugely popular with older, single women. More on that later.
The North Coast is basically—for all intent and purposes—a glorified cruise ship. You got your deck hands and ship officers. You got your entertainment crew and your wait staff & bartenders. All you need now to complete the picture is this: tourists from North America, Europe, and the Baltics.
The tourists land on the North Coast on a weekly basis. They come from North America and Europe, from Russia and the Baltic states. They’re no different than any cruise ship passenger who come onto the ship for a one or two week vacation. Everyone knows there is a short, limited window of opportunity to get laid. Therefore, there is a mad dash to go out every single night until you find someone to pair up with.
The men know that if they can hook (sort like fishing for Carp) a female tourist on their first or second night here, that fish will be theirs for the rest of the vacation. This is exactly how it works on cruise ships. The passengers come on the ship for 7 or 14 days, and there is this mad dash for the disco the first few nights of the cruise until everyone has paired up with their potential mate.
This is how it works everywhere:
1.) Mad dash for a potential mate.
2.) Sustained eye contact hooks the fish.
3.) Some delicate ballet moves—often followed by little lies for re-assurance and validation (I.E—no, I’m not married. No, I don’t have chlamydia. Yes, I find you irresistibly attractive, and blah, blah, blah.) The lies are necessary for the validation and re-assurance.
On the North Coast, the first few nights of anyone’s vacation is usually spent cruising the beach—looking for potential suitors. There is nothing wrong with this. This a human instinct. It wouldn’t matter what island you traveled to—it works exactly the same on every island. I’ve been to over 50 different islands and it works in the exact same way on each one. Likewise, it wouldn’t matter which cruise ship you went on anywhere in the world, it works in the exact same way on each one. The first few nights is always the same madness and chaos—there is a lot of maneuvering and positioning, there is a lot of jousting and posturing…as everyone is running around looking for a potential mate to spend the rest of their vacation with.
Back to the north coast. The infidelity down here is astronomical. You would need Einstein’s Theory of Relativity just to measure it at its most basic level. It’s off the charts. It was this way when my father lived here in the 1940’s and 50’s, it was this way when lived here in the 1970’s & 90’s, and will remain this way until the end of time.
To be continued…
(The Hallucinogenic Dream)
You don?t come to the DR to make money. You come to the DR to spend money.
This is not the country to come to with dreams of opening a bar, restaurant, or caf? and expect to get rich. The North Coast is completely saturated with bars and restaurants right now. It?s gotten insane. In order to attract enough customers to your restaurant, bar, or cafe, you?d need to offer something so out of the ordinary, so rare, and so outrageous that no one else on this island can duplicate it. Basically, you?d have to offer cold beer, sex, and massages. Wait, there?s already a couple places in Sosua offering this.
I?m sorry, another hamburger or pizza place is not going to cut it here. There?s too many already.
The north coast is so saturated right now with everything from cheap food to fine dining, from cheap brothels to expensive brothels?that you have to wonder why someone would want to put themselves through all of the stress of opening up yet another service catering business.
Most people here are only renting. Almost all the businesses you see for sale is only for the right to rent. That?s right. You are not buying the property, you are only buying the right to rent the location.
1.) ?I had a slow month and can?t pay the rent? ?**** you, pay me my money.?
2.) ?The off-season is slower than I anticipated. ?**** you, pay me my money.?
3.) ?Wow, the electricity bills here is astronomical!? ?**** you, pay me my money or I?ll cut your electricity.?
4.) ?Man, I had no idea I had to pay health insurance for each full-time worker. I had no idea I had to set aside 10% of everyone?s salary (severance pay). I had no idea everyone gets double pay in December. I had no idea I have to pay maternity leave, etc. etc. ?**** you, pay me my money.?
5.) ?Wow, I had no idea people were so poor here?they?re stealing my salt & pepper shakers, my toilet paper, my light bulbs, my food, and my wife.? ?**** you, I?ll pay you to take your wife back.
After owners have worked their asses off in order to build up a clientele base and business, they get burnout from the stress. The only person who makes out is the property owner.
No one realizes that there is only 7 months of money making tourists season?December until April (it ends after Easter), and then another short spurt from the middle of June (when school gets out and parents take their kids on vacations) until the middle of August (everyone has to go back to work and back to school).
The Hallucinogenic Dream.
Everyone goes on vacation during the high season and sees all the businesses busy and hoping, they think??Wow, how hard can this be? I can do this, easy!? No one sees the place during the off season when everyone is sitting around watching the paint dry. No one sees the business when you are starving in the off-season and businesses start going up for sale like weeds sprouting up in a parking lot. The problem is that tourists only come down here for a one or two week vacation. They think, ?This is a piece of cake. I can do this!? Then they go back home and sell, borrow, and steal in order to come back down and fulfill their life-long dream of owning a bar on the beach like Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail.
Every man wants women in bikinis swarming around him. Every woman wants?what exactly? What do women want? Oh yeah?they want Fu-Fu drinks with colorful straws and bamboo umbrellas served inside a fresh pineapple by a shirtless guy ripped with stomach muscles while they bark out orders and directions.
No one sees the electricity outages, the lack of water, the skyrocketing electric bills, the theft, the employee insurance. No one see the 10% severance pay, the double pay in December, the high taxes, the power outages, the generator problems, and all of the other bull****. No, instead, they see the beach, the sand, the sun, the rum, and the buns. Taken together, it all looks like a postcard. In reality, it?s the making of a horror movie if you got your life-savings tied up in the Dream.
You don?t come to the DR to make money. You come to the DR to spend money.
This is not the country to come to with dreams of opening a bar, restaurant, or caf? and expect to get rich. The North Coast is completely saturated with bars and restaurants right now. It?s gotten insane. In order to attract enough customers to your restaurant, bar, or cafe, you?d need to offer something so out of the ordinary, so rare, and so outrageous that no one else on this island can duplicate it. Basically, you?d have to offer cold beer, sex, and massages. Wait, there?s already a couple places in Sosua offering this.
I?m sorry, another hamburger or pizza place is not going to cut it here. There?s too many already.
The north coast is so saturated right now with everything from cheap food to fine dining, from cheap brothels to expensive brothels?that you have to wonder why someone would want to put themselves through all of the stress of opening up yet another service catering business.
Most people here are only renting. Almost all the businesses you see for sale is only for the right to rent. That?s right. You are not buying the property, you are only buying the right to rent the location.
1.) ?I had a slow month and can?t pay the rent? ?**** you, pay me my money.?
2.) ?The off-season is slower than I anticipated. ?**** you, pay me my money.?
3.) ?Wow, the electricity bills here is astronomical!? ?**** you, pay me my money or I?ll cut your electricity.?
4.) ?Man, I had no idea I had to pay health insurance for each full-time worker. I had no idea I had to set aside 10% of everyone?s salary (severance pay). I had no idea everyone gets double pay in December. I had no idea I have to pay maternity leave, etc. etc. ?**** you, pay me my money.?
5.) ?Wow, I had no idea people were so poor here?they?re stealing my salt & pepper shakers, my toilet paper, my light bulbs, my food, and my wife.? ?**** you, I?ll pay you to take your wife back.
After owners have worked their asses off in order to build up a clientele base and business, they get burnout from the stress. The only person who makes out is the property owner.
No one realizes that there is only 7 months of money making tourists season?December until April (it ends after Easter), and then another short spurt from the middle of June (when school gets out and parents take their kids on vacations) until the middle of August (everyone has to go back to work and back to school).
The Hallucinogenic Dream.
Everyone goes on vacation during the high season and sees all the businesses busy and hoping, they think??Wow, how hard can this be? I can do this, easy!? No one sees the place during the off season when everyone is sitting around watching the paint dry. No one sees the business when you are starving in the off-season and businesses start going up for sale like weeds sprouting up in a parking lot. The problem is that tourists only come down here for a one or two week vacation. They think, ?This is a piece of cake. I can do this!? Then they go back home and sell, borrow, and steal in order to come back down and fulfill their life-long dream of owning a bar on the beach like Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail.
Every man wants women in bikinis swarming around him. Every woman wants?what exactly? What do women want? Oh yeah?they want Fu-Fu drinks with colorful straws and bamboo umbrellas served inside a fresh pineapple by a shirtless guy ripped with stomach muscles while they bark out orders and directions.
No one sees the electricity outages, the lack of water, the skyrocketing electric bills, the theft, the employee insurance. No one see the 10% severance pay, the double pay in December, the high taxes, the power outages, the generator problems, and all of the other bull****. No, instead, they see the beach, the sand, the sun, the rum, and the buns. Taken together, it all looks like a postcard. In reality, it?s the making of a horror movie if you got your life-savings tied up in the Dream.
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Being one of the five tourists in town last week was a bit rough. I couldn't walk the 300 feet from Kaoba to O'Shay's without having five motos and four chicas hit on me for rides or massages. The Kite Beach zone seemed to be more populated, but the main drag was a ghost town by sundown. I almost took a photo of a restaurant sign that said in Spanish, "Eat here or we both starve," That's just a bit desperate.
I did get to hang out with Frank and his GF at Mojito's, which was nice(closed Tuesdays, Italian thing) had a couple Papaya milkshakes at the diner near O'Shay's, and had coffee with Frank at the Chocolate shop, but the town had a real "low tide" vibe about it.
On the plus side, taking a walk/swim on Caberete beach during sunrise with only a couple joggers passing by was nice..
I did get to hang out with Frank and his GF at Mojito's, which was nice(closed Tuesdays, Italian thing) had a couple Papaya milkshakes at the diner near O'Shay's, and had coffee with Frank at the Chocolate shop, but the town had a real "low tide" vibe about it.
On the plus side, taking a walk/swim on Caberete beach during sunrise with only a couple joggers passing by was nice..
Frank12, this story is obscene. You should be ashamed of yourself...So what happened next?
Chapter 239 (Women)
Sitting at a bar 120 hours a day, I get to see a lot of things. Crazy things. Weird things. Funny things. Bizarre things. Outrageous and absurd things. I seldom drink, so, I see things from a different perspective than most people. I like to sit back and observe people. I’m a people watcher. I’m also a girl watcher. I take a lot of mental notes about women.
You can tell a lot about someone by the way they walk, talk, and interact with people. For example, if a woman is sitting at the bar topless just in order to get a free drink, it’s probably fair to say that’s she’s either low on cash, lost her top in the surf, or wandered off the grounds of a nudist resort. If a man is sitting at the bar drinking Jack Daniels with four working girls around him, and he is constantly trying to suck on their nipples while hee-hawing in a southern, maniacal laugh, it’s probably fair to say that Alabama Gary is back in town.
But wait...this not what I want to talk about right now. What I really want to talk about is women.
I have made some careful, scientific, and caffeine-induced observations of women. I’m exclusively surrounded by western women. North Americans and European women make up the base of my bar stool scientific studies. Here are some things I’ve noticed while sitting at the bar listening to North American and European women: Women love Bad Boys. No, they love them! Women’s taste in men can be scary, weird, frightening, kinky, and bizarre.
When we look at what women are attracted to, and what they like watching on TV, we see a pattern. Women like things like True Blood, Vampire Diaries, Mad Men, Gossip Girl, Serial Killers, etc. The leading men in all of these TV shows are psychopaths, blood thirsty vampires, and killers. Think about this for a second…bad boys, renegades, psychopaths, and blood drinkers are the men women are most attracted to. What’s this say about women in general?
Men on the other hand, like watching football, scratching their balls, yelling at the TV, and drinking beer. What’s this say about men? Well, for one thing, it says that we’re simple creatures, easy to please if you flash a few cheerleader’s boobs and cleavage at us during the commercial break.
Women love Bad Boys despite these men being essentially non-boyfriend or husband material. Basically, women are attracted to blood thirsty, psychologically damaged, intensely masculine, womanizing, emotionally wounded, mysterious, rebellious, smart, reckless, emotionally twisted, dark, charming and sadistic men…but wait….they must have a funny sense of humor. Women find these type of men irresistible.
That’s fascinating, given that these are the type of men that make terrible boyfriends or husband material, and tend to never stick around very long.
More on women later.
Sitting at a bar 120 hours a day, I get to see a lot of things. Crazy things. Weird things. Funny things. Bizarre things. Outrageous and absurd things. I seldom drink, so, I see things from a different perspective than most people. I like to sit back and observe people. I’m a people watcher. I’m also a girl watcher. I take a lot of mental notes about women.
You can tell a lot about someone by the way they walk, talk, and interact with people. For example, if a woman is sitting at the bar topless just in order to get a free drink, it’s probably fair to say that’s she’s either low on cash, lost her top in the surf, or wandered off the grounds of a nudist resort. If a man is sitting at the bar drinking Jack Daniels with four working girls around him, and he is constantly trying to suck on their nipples while hee-hawing in a southern, maniacal laugh, it’s probably fair to say that Alabama Gary is back in town.
But wait...this not what I want to talk about right now. What I really want to talk about is women.
I have made some careful, scientific, and caffeine-induced observations of women. I’m exclusively surrounded by western women. North Americans and European women make up the base of my bar stool scientific studies. Here are some things I’ve noticed while sitting at the bar listening to North American and European women: Women love Bad Boys. No, they love them! Women’s taste in men can be scary, weird, frightening, kinky, and bizarre.
When we look at what women are attracted to, and what they like watching on TV, we see a pattern. Women like things like True Blood, Vampire Diaries, Mad Men, Gossip Girl, Serial Killers, etc. The leading men in all of these TV shows are psychopaths, blood thirsty vampires, and killers. Think about this for a second…bad boys, renegades, psychopaths, and blood drinkers are the men women are most attracted to. What’s this say about women in general?
Men on the other hand, like watching football, scratching their balls, yelling at the TV, and drinking beer. What’s this say about men? Well, for one thing, it says that we’re simple creatures, easy to please if you flash a few cheerleader’s boobs and cleavage at us during the commercial break.
Women love Bad Boys despite these men being essentially non-boyfriend or husband material. Basically, women are attracted to blood thirsty, psychologically damaged, intensely masculine, womanizing, emotionally wounded, mysterious, rebellious, smart, reckless, emotionally twisted, dark, charming and sadistic men…but wait….they must have a funny sense of humor. Women find these type of men irresistible.
That’s fascinating, given that these are the type of men that make terrible boyfriends or husband material, and tend to never stick around very long.
More on women later.
Chapter 240 (Working for the "Man")
Today has been a strange day. It’s been a weird day. I watched the Formula 1 of motorcycle racing this morning, known as “MotoGP.” For those of you who do not know MotoGP, let me sum it up for you: “Rocketship Time-Bending Insanity on two wheels.” The MotoGP bikes top end are around 350km. When they lean into the corners, they can reach a 65 degrees angle traveling at over 200MPH on a piece of rubber that is less than one inche in width. The bikes only way around 300lbs, and its estimated that they have 250HP (they don’t reveal their true HP to the public). They are the Formula 1 of motorcycles, and nothing even remotely accelerates like them except the Space Shuttle. They can accelerate from 0-100km in 2.6 seconds (they can accelerate much faster, but the physics of the bike can’t keep the front tire down), 0-200km in 4.8 seconds (Formula 1 does it in 5.2 seconds), and 0-300km in 11.8 seconds (Formula 1 does it in 10.6 seconds) They will beat any Formula 1 car off the line and lead for the first 1/4 mile, but after that, the Formula 1 car pulls ahead using 800HP and insane amounts of both torque and aero dynamics.
My friend, David, (a fanatical Valentino Rossi fan) normally would be texting me before, during, and after the race. During some races, I received up to 30 text messages. He got so excited during the race that he sometimes wore his fingerprint out on his phone pad. He had no fingerprint after the race was over. He could wear the keypad letters off his phone pad in less than 45min. No joke. He was that insane. Two weeks ago, I was in Norway watching the MotoGP Czech race, and before the race even started, I received 25 text messages from him. He called the race correctly. He said that Lorenzo would win the race, with Marquez 2nd, and Valentino Rossi 3rd. He was spot on.
Last Saturday, at the age of around 57, he died on his sofa in Sosua. He lived up El Choco (Hacienda El Choco), surrounded by a massive house (They filmed the MTV reality series in this house about 2.5 years ago) and a lot of toys. He had the most massive Jeep I have ever seen in person; actually he had two of the biggest jeeps I have ever seen in person. He also had a nice collection of motorcycles and toys—including a new Yamaha R1 Valentino Rossi signed limited edition, a new 2014 Ducati 1100 Hypermoto, an Italian handmade TM 530 Supermoto, a fuel injected Yamaha BWS 125, and, oh yeah…a 550HP Porsche GT, and who knows what else.
He sat in front of five computer screens for 12 hours a day, 5 days a week, and traded stocks and managed a Hedge Fund. He was up every day around 4am to get ready for the Asian markets to open, and then he worked for 12 or 13 hours until the US markets closed. It seems as though he made a lot of money, but he also lost a lot of money. The stress levels must have been insane. The stress most likely sent him to an early grave. Being in charge of other people’s money and trying to forecast the market requires clairvoyance that only witches, psychics, and Alan Greenspan possess. It’s enough to send anyone into cardiac arrest or chasing monkeys on a broom handle. More on chasing monkey later.
Like a lot of people, my friend worked inside a cage, surrounded by what’s known as the “Rat Race.” Basically, he ran around a Wheel of Fortune Ferris wheel, inside an enclosed cage, in order to line his and his client’s pockets with even more money.
What exactly are we talking about here? Basically, we’re talking about the "Wheel of Fortune" Rat Race. We’re talking carnival wheels and circus acts. This is the Ferris wheel of life that people—like you and I—spin around every single day, chasing money in order to pay our bills. The wheel is spun around a center fixed point, and slowly comes to a stop only after you have worked for 10 or more hours for the “Man.” You know the “Man,” right? The “Man” stands outside the cage and spins the Ferris wheel to make it go faster and faster. All we can do is run faster and faster to try and keep up with the wheel. Some of us fall and get trampled on. Other people exhaust themselves and die running to keep up. A few lose their minds just trying to run around it all day. You can never beat the Ferris wheel, just like you can never beat the “Man” who controls the wheel.
The “Man” likes to watch us run around this wheel all day long while we make him richer and richer. The wheel has these little "flippers" on it that hits pins as they go around, eventually marking the winning slice…what we call a “paycheck”…when the wheel stops. The “Man” likes to sit back and watch us run around the wheel like chipmunks running themselves to death. This ain’t no disco. This is the wheel of life. More on disco’s and life later.
My friend ran around this wheel faster and faster—chasing monkeys and money until he eventually collapsed at 57yrs old. All the money, all the toys, and all the sweat and stress is now meaningless. You can’t take the money with you. You can’t take the toys with you either. In the end, all you leave behind is the memory of the race you ran.
http://www.redbull.com/en/motorspor...ogp-repsol-honda-team-f1-red-bull-racing-2015
Today has been a strange day. It’s been a weird day. I watched the Formula 1 of motorcycle racing this morning, known as “MotoGP.” For those of you who do not know MotoGP, let me sum it up for you: “Rocketship Time-Bending Insanity on two wheels.” The MotoGP bikes top end are around 350km. When they lean into the corners, they can reach a 65 degrees angle traveling at over 200MPH on a piece of rubber that is less than one inche in width. The bikes only way around 300lbs, and its estimated that they have 250HP (they don’t reveal their true HP to the public). They are the Formula 1 of motorcycles, and nothing even remotely accelerates like them except the Space Shuttle. They can accelerate from 0-100km in 2.6 seconds (they can accelerate much faster, but the physics of the bike can’t keep the front tire down), 0-200km in 4.8 seconds (Formula 1 does it in 5.2 seconds), and 0-300km in 11.8 seconds (Formula 1 does it in 10.6 seconds) They will beat any Formula 1 car off the line and lead for the first 1/4 mile, but after that, the Formula 1 car pulls ahead using 800HP and insane amounts of both torque and aero dynamics.
My friend, David, (a fanatical Valentino Rossi fan) normally would be texting me before, during, and after the race. During some races, I received up to 30 text messages. He got so excited during the race that he sometimes wore his fingerprint out on his phone pad. He had no fingerprint after the race was over. He could wear the keypad letters off his phone pad in less than 45min. No joke. He was that insane. Two weeks ago, I was in Norway watching the MotoGP Czech race, and before the race even started, I received 25 text messages from him. He called the race correctly. He said that Lorenzo would win the race, with Marquez 2nd, and Valentino Rossi 3rd. He was spot on.
Last Saturday, at the age of around 57, he died on his sofa in Sosua. He lived up El Choco (Hacienda El Choco), surrounded by a massive house (They filmed the MTV reality series in this house about 2.5 years ago) and a lot of toys. He had the most massive Jeep I have ever seen in person; actually he had two of the biggest jeeps I have ever seen in person. He also had a nice collection of motorcycles and toys—including a new Yamaha R1 Valentino Rossi signed limited edition, a new 2014 Ducati 1100 Hypermoto, an Italian handmade TM 530 Supermoto, a fuel injected Yamaha BWS 125, and, oh yeah…a 550HP Porsche GT, and who knows what else.
He sat in front of five computer screens for 12 hours a day, 5 days a week, and traded stocks and managed a Hedge Fund. He was up every day around 4am to get ready for the Asian markets to open, and then he worked for 12 or 13 hours until the US markets closed. It seems as though he made a lot of money, but he also lost a lot of money. The stress levels must have been insane. The stress most likely sent him to an early grave. Being in charge of other people’s money and trying to forecast the market requires clairvoyance that only witches, psychics, and Alan Greenspan possess. It’s enough to send anyone into cardiac arrest or chasing monkeys on a broom handle. More on chasing monkey later.
Like a lot of people, my friend worked inside a cage, surrounded by what’s known as the “Rat Race.” Basically, he ran around a Wheel of Fortune Ferris wheel, inside an enclosed cage, in order to line his and his client’s pockets with even more money.
What exactly are we talking about here? Basically, we’re talking about the "Wheel of Fortune" Rat Race. We’re talking carnival wheels and circus acts. This is the Ferris wheel of life that people—like you and I—spin around every single day, chasing money in order to pay our bills. The wheel is spun around a center fixed point, and slowly comes to a stop only after you have worked for 10 or more hours for the “Man.” You know the “Man,” right? The “Man” stands outside the cage and spins the Ferris wheel to make it go faster and faster. All we can do is run faster and faster to try and keep up with the wheel. Some of us fall and get trampled on. Other people exhaust themselves and die running to keep up. A few lose their minds just trying to run around it all day. You can never beat the Ferris wheel, just like you can never beat the “Man” who controls the wheel.
The “Man” likes to watch us run around this wheel all day long while we make him richer and richer. The wheel has these little "flippers" on it that hits pins as they go around, eventually marking the winning slice…what we call a “paycheck”…when the wheel stops. The “Man” likes to sit back and watch us run around the wheel like chipmunks running themselves to death. This ain’t no disco. This is the wheel of life. More on disco’s and life later.
My friend ran around this wheel faster and faster—chasing monkeys and money until he eventually collapsed at 57yrs old. All the money, all the toys, and all the sweat and stress is now meaningless. You can’t take the money with you. You can’t take the toys with you either. In the end, all you leave behind is the memory of the race you ran.
http://www.redbull.com/en/motorspor...ogp-repsol-honda-team-f1-red-bull-racing-2015