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Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Chapter 241 (Teen Spirit & Collateral Damage)
Two 17yrs old high school girls from New Jersey came into the bar after wondering outside the perimeter of a private party being held down the beach. The girls were curious and wondered outside the perimeter of their party to investigate where the boys are. They ended up at our bar. Because they are only 17yrs old, they were not supposed to leave their private party. They were not supposed to drink alcohol. They were not supposed to be actively searching out Sanky Panky's. They were 17yrs old high school seniors and part of some Jehovah Witness "Sexual Abstinence" high school program. The program was about as effective as my, "Say No to Chocolate" campaign.
I sat at the bar studying these two girls. I wondered, who lets a 17yr old teenager travel to a third world country full of sexual debauchery, madness, insane driving, drugs, projectile vomiting, and Sankies Panky's? Well, apparently quite a lot of parents sign the release form, because here they are--wondering up and down the beach on some kind of hormonal religious mission.
Large groups of these teenagers pull up in convoys of buses that stretch all the way outside of Cabarete, down highway 5. There are so many high school kids coming down here that a whole industry has sprung up to cater to them. There is a market for everything down here.
I continued studying the girls. These girls were big boned, built low to the ground, and had not missed many meals or chocolate fondue's events. One of the girls resembled a Sumo wrestler, the other a softball or hockey player. They had thunder thighs and could easily squeeze the life out of someone. Basically, for all intent and purposes, these girls were Boa Constrictors. They were drinking alcohol and looking for prey to squeeze. They seemed to be on some kind of Jehovah Witness sex hunt.
The girl that resembled a sumo wrestler, was pawing at me like a cat. She was actually scratching me. I was afraid of catching "Cat Scratch Fever." I took a shot of tequila. You can never be too careful about bacterial infections in the tropics. She was routinely hugging me despite me having terrible gas (I had just eaten beef nachos made from donkey meat). It wasn’t pretty. I had an orange-brown aura surrounding me. It smelled like Napalm. Paint was peeling from the walls around me. If someone were to accidentally light a match around me the whole place could go up in a ball of fire. Not good. I could lose my vacation pay.
I was standing at the bar with Tim Lorenzi. Tim looked both frightened and mildly amused. I was amused. The big girl holding onto me was young. They were both drinking Absolut & Redbulls and reeked of teenage hormones. You know the smell, right? It smells like Teen Spirit. They were stinking up the place. Their teenage hormones acted as a call to the wild. Their hormones were calling out to all Sanky Panky's, shoe shine boys, and stray beach dogs in the vicinity. I didn't want to be any part of this hormonal madness. I’m not even a registered voter.
I went and sat next to Tim. Tim and I were trying to have a witty competition in judging people’s occupation as they walked down the beach in high heels or barefoot. The girls were amused by our juvenile comments as Tim and I tried to outdo each other in cleverness. Tim is more clever then me. He’s an attorney and possesses profound wisdom of which I can only sit back and aspire to. He’s educated. I’m not. Still, we can go on for hours as we search out newer, clever, made-up, nonsensical adjectives in describing non-existent occupations that exist only inside our juvenile heads.
Suddenly, the girls left, and our bartender, Miguelina (beautiful green eyes), yelled out that the girls had not paid for their drinks! One of our waiters, Raffa (short legs and small feet), went running down the beach after them.
Raffa came back with one girl—the 190lbs Samoan girl that looked as if she might have a career in Sumo wrestling or Jello wrestling. She explained that she and her girlfriend thought that the drinks were free. She explained that when her and her girlfriend walked into our bar, they noticed that no one at the bar was paying for any drinks. None. Zero. They were under the impression that we were part of the all-inclusive Jehovah Witness party going on down the beach. When Tim pointed out that everyone at the bar had a “Bar Tab,” she said, “What’s a Bar Tab?”
She acted as if she had never heard of anyone running a “Bar Tab” before. She genuinely seemed shocked. She was 17yrs old.
She explained that she had no money and that she would have to go and get her friend and then go and find an ATM machine. I said, “Sure. No problem. Just leave something behind.” I get people all the time that either forget their money back at their hotel, lost their money, or simply have no more money on them.
We’ve been burnt enough over the years to know to ask for something valuable to ensure that they come back. Even when leaving something valuable behind, they sometimes do not come back. I always wonder...”Did something happen to them on the way back to their hotel—like getting hit by a car or motorcycle—or are they simply too tired or lazy to return back to retrieve their cell phone or wife.” It’s a dilemma for every bar, in every tourist destination, anywhere in the world. People leave all kinds of things behind as collateral. I’ve contemplated starting either a pawn shop or a wife-swap trading post.
“I have nothing to leave behind,” the Sumo wrestler explained, searching her bikini. She wasn’t kidding. She didn’t have anything on her. I mean nothing! She was standing in front of us in a bikini two sizes too small, with no bag, no purse, and no wallet on her. If she had a credit card hidden on her, I hate to think where it was hidden.
Tim, the attorney, said, “Just leave your sandals.” She said, "Ok," took off her sandals, and went sprinting down the beach—all 190lbs of her—never to be seen again. We still have her sandals hanging from the cow bell behind bar if she ever decides to come back to the DR and pay her bar tab.
Two 17yrs old high school girls from New Jersey came into the bar after wondering outside the perimeter of a private party being held down the beach. The girls were curious and wondered outside the perimeter of their party to investigate where the boys are. They ended up at our bar. Because they are only 17yrs old, they were not supposed to leave their private party. They were not supposed to drink alcohol. They were not supposed to be actively searching out Sanky Panky's. They were 17yrs old high school seniors and part of some Jehovah Witness "Sexual Abstinence" high school program. The program was about as effective as my, "Say No to Chocolate" campaign.
I sat at the bar studying these two girls. I wondered, who lets a 17yr old teenager travel to a third world country full of sexual debauchery, madness, insane driving, drugs, projectile vomiting, and Sankies Panky's? Well, apparently quite a lot of parents sign the release form, because here they are--wondering up and down the beach on some kind of hormonal religious mission.
Large groups of these teenagers pull up in convoys of buses that stretch all the way outside of Cabarete, down highway 5. There are so many high school kids coming down here that a whole industry has sprung up to cater to them. There is a market for everything down here.
I continued studying the girls. These girls were big boned, built low to the ground, and had not missed many meals or chocolate fondue's events. One of the girls resembled a Sumo wrestler, the other a softball or hockey player. They had thunder thighs and could easily squeeze the life out of someone. Basically, for all intent and purposes, these girls were Boa Constrictors. They were drinking alcohol and looking for prey to squeeze. They seemed to be on some kind of Jehovah Witness sex hunt.
The girl that resembled a sumo wrestler, was pawing at me like a cat. She was actually scratching me. I was afraid of catching "Cat Scratch Fever." I took a shot of tequila. You can never be too careful about bacterial infections in the tropics. She was routinely hugging me despite me having terrible gas (I had just eaten beef nachos made from donkey meat). It wasn’t pretty. I had an orange-brown aura surrounding me. It smelled like Napalm. Paint was peeling from the walls around me. If someone were to accidentally light a match around me the whole place could go up in a ball of fire. Not good. I could lose my vacation pay.
I was standing at the bar with Tim Lorenzi. Tim looked both frightened and mildly amused. I was amused. The big girl holding onto me was young. They were both drinking Absolut & Redbulls and reeked of teenage hormones. You know the smell, right? It smells like Teen Spirit. They were stinking up the place. Their teenage hormones acted as a call to the wild. Their hormones were calling out to all Sanky Panky's, shoe shine boys, and stray beach dogs in the vicinity. I didn't want to be any part of this hormonal madness. I’m not even a registered voter.
I went and sat next to Tim. Tim and I were trying to have a witty competition in judging people’s occupation as they walked down the beach in high heels or barefoot. The girls were amused by our juvenile comments as Tim and I tried to outdo each other in cleverness. Tim is more clever then me. He’s an attorney and possesses profound wisdom of which I can only sit back and aspire to. He’s educated. I’m not. Still, we can go on for hours as we search out newer, clever, made-up, nonsensical adjectives in describing non-existent occupations that exist only inside our juvenile heads.
Suddenly, the girls left, and our bartender, Miguelina (beautiful green eyes), yelled out that the girls had not paid for their drinks! One of our waiters, Raffa (short legs and small feet), went running down the beach after them.
Raffa came back with one girl—the 190lbs Samoan girl that looked as if she might have a career in Sumo wrestling or Jello wrestling. She explained that she and her girlfriend thought that the drinks were free. She explained that when her and her girlfriend walked into our bar, they noticed that no one at the bar was paying for any drinks. None. Zero. They were under the impression that we were part of the all-inclusive Jehovah Witness party going on down the beach. When Tim pointed out that everyone at the bar had a “Bar Tab,” she said, “What’s a Bar Tab?”
She acted as if she had never heard of anyone running a “Bar Tab” before. She genuinely seemed shocked. She was 17yrs old.
She explained that she had no money and that she would have to go and get her friend and then go and find an ATM machine. I said, “Sure. No problem. Just leave something behind.” I get people all the time that either forget their money back at their hotel, lost their money, or simply have no more money on them.
We’ve been burnt enough over the years to know to ask for something valuable to ensure that they come back. Even when leaving something valuable behind, they sometimes do not come back. I always wonder...”Did something happen to them on the way back to their hotel—like getting hit by a car or motorcycle—or are they simply too tired or lazy to return back to retrieve their cell phone or wife.” It’s a dilemma for every bar, in every tourist destination, anywhere in the world. People leave all kinds of things behind as collateral. I’ve contemplated starting either a pawn shop or a wife-swap trading post.
“I have nothing to leave behind,” the Sumo wrestler explained, searching her bikini. She wasn’t kidding. She didn’t have anything on her. I mean nothing! She was standing in front of us in a bikini two sizes too small, with no bag, no purse, and no wallet on her. If she had a credit card hidden on her, I hate to think where it was hidden.
Tim, the attorney, said, “Just leave your sandals.” She said, "Ok," took off her sandals, and went sprinting down the beach—all 190lbs of her—never to be seen again. We still have her sandals hanging from the cow bell behind bar if she ever decides to come back to the DR and pay her bar tab.
Chapter 242 (Kafkaesque Merry-Go-Round)
Another day in the DR, another Kafkaesque moment. A girl by the name of
Savanah Wade, got stopped by AMET in Cabarete.
They (AMET) asked to see her papers of the scooter she was driving. Savanah showed them the papers. They asked to see the ?Original? Matricula (Title). She explained that the original is at the dealership where she has a loan out for the scooter. They confiscated her scooter until she could show up with the ?Original? Matricula (Title). She then went to Sabaneta where she bought the scooter and explained what happened. The dealership called AMET and explained that they had the original Matricula. The reason they have the original is because?like any vehicle on this island?until you pay off the loan, you do not get to have the original Matricula (Otherwise you could sell or the bike or vehicle and never pay the dealership).
Once AMET spoke to the dealership, everything was ok. Savanah went back to Cabarete to pick up her scooter. Guess what? AMET wanted $1500 to release the scooter. She asked, ?Why do I have to pay you when all you wanted to see was the papers of the scooter? Now you have spoken to the dealership and they have explained to you that they hold onto the ?original? papers. I have the copies of the original of which you have already seen.?
Never try Logic with higher authorities in Third World countries.
Another AMET officer comes over and whispers, ?Just give us $1000 and go on your way.?
She goes on her way and tries to forget about the whole experience. Two days later she is stopped by AMET again. They ask to see her papers. She shows them the copies of the original Matricula (Title). They want to see the ?Original? Matricula. She explains to them, again (At this point, it?s the movie Groundhog Day). They let her go with a ?warning? that she will be stopped again until she has the ?Original? papers on her. she explains there is no way to get the original papers when you have a loan out on vehicle.
If this is not a Third World Kafkaesque example I don?t know what is.
First, no one in their right mind is going to drive around with the Original Matricula (Title) on them.
Secondly, it could get lost and then it would take months to get another Original Matricula.
Thirdly, if your vehicle is stolen with the original Matricula inside it, the thieves can then sell your vehicle or even have the Title transferred to their name by simply forging your name on a Bill of Sale.
Fourthly, everyone knows?especially AMET?that no dealership gives out the Original Matricula of any vehicle until the vehicle is paid off in full. Period.
Around and around the Kafkaesque Merry-go-round goes, and where it stops, nobody knows.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107048/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1
Another day in the DR, another Kafkaesque moment. A girl by the name of
Savanah Wade, got stopped by AMET in Cabarete.
They (AMET) asked to see her papers of the scooter she was driving. Savanah showed them the papers. They asked to see the ?Original? Matricula (Title). She explained that the original is at the dealership where she has a loan out for the scooter. They confiscated her scooter until she could show up with the ?Original? Matricula (Title). She then went to Sabaneta where she bought the scooter and explained what happened. The dealership called AMET and explained that they had the original Matricula. The reason they have the original is because?like any vehicle on this island?until you pay off the loan, you do not get to have the original Matricula (Otherwise you could sell or the bike or vehicle and never pay the dealership).
Once AMET spoke to the dealership, everything was ok. Savanah went back to Cabarete to pick up her scooter. Guess what? AMET wanted $1500 to release the scooter. She asked, ?Why do I have to pay you when all you wanted to see was the papers of the scooter? Now you have spoken to the dealership and they have explained to you that they hold onto the ?original? papers. I have the copies of the original of which you have already seen.?
Never try Logic with higher authorities in Third World countries.
Another AMET officer comes over and whispers, ?Just give us $1000 and go on your way.?
She goes on her way and tries to forget about the whole experience. Two days later she is stopped by AMET again. They ask to see her papers. She shows them the copies of the original Matricula (Title). They want to see the ?Original? Matricula. She explains to them, again (At this point, it?s the movie Groundhog Day). They let her go with a ?warning? that she will be stopped again until she has the ?Original? papers on her. she explains there is no way to get the original papers when you have a loan out on vehicle.
If this is not a Third World Kafkaesque example I don?t know what is.
First, no one in their right mind is going to drive around with the Original Matricula (Title) on them.
Secondly, it could get lost and then it would take months to get another Original Matricula.
Thirdly, if your vehicle is stolen with the original Matricula inside it, the thieves can then sell your vehicle or even have the Title transferred to their name by simply forging your name on a Bill of Sale.
Fourthly, everyone knows?especially AMET?that no dealership gives out the Original Matricula of any vehicle until the vehicle is paid off in full. Period.
Around and around the Kafkaesque Merry-go-round goes, and where it stops, nobody knows.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0107048/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1
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Chapter 244 (Police, Prostitutes & Bribery)
It was around...wait, let me look at the picture on my computer to find out the exact date: it was November 2006. I drove up from Bonao to Puerto Plata on a nearly new 2004 Suzuki GSXR 1000 that I had just bought. I was meeting my Austrian friends that live in Puerto Plata--a father and son team—Gerald (28yrs) & Peter (64yrs). They both drive identical blue & white 2004 Suzuki GSXR 1000’s. Everyone knows them in Puerto Plata. They also have identical 2010 Honda 450X Supermotos that they race. Every motorcyclist in POP knows them; they do wheelies up and down the Malecon together on their motorcycles.
We were planning to go on a long motorcycle trip together to either Samana or Las Terrenas. We all have numerous motorcycles, but on this particular trip, we were going to go on our sports bikes. The plan was simple: meet on the Malecon in Puerto Plata at 11am and then take off to Las Terrenas and try to get there in under 2 hours. We were going to try to travel back in time. But look, I don't want to condone high speeds to anyone here, so please, don't try this at home.
I arrived early—I made it from Bonao to Puerto Plata in record time. I know this because A.) I used 5 gallons of gas when it should have taken no more than 3 gallons, and B.) I was younger when I arrived in Puerto Plata than when I had left Bonao—a concept known as "Stop-Time,” or in layman's terms as "E=mc2."
Since I arrived early, I parked on the malecon and walked across the street to the ocean and started taking pictures of the statue that stands out in the water in Puerto Plata (before thieves stole it in 2009, cut it up, and then sold it as scrap metal. True story)—a statue of a man fishing. I took numerous pictures and then turned back to my bike and noticed three men standing over my motorcycle, inspecting it. I thought nothing of it because, well, here on the island, Dominicans love fast sports bikes. They all want to own one despite being unfamiliar with the physics of accelerating very hard and then at some point needing to brake for either corners or stationary objects. Dominicans do not realize that it requires a lot of space to bring 460lbs of steel and aluminum to a complete stop before reaching the rear end of cars and trees.
I casually walked across the street. When they saw me approach they asked me if this was my bike. I said "Yes, this is my bike." Now at this point, I thought the next question was going to be either A.) “How much does it cost?” or B.) "Can we sit on your bike and take a picture to show our friends"—as it so often happens every day here. People want pictures on sports bikes, but they also want to know the price in order to gage whether or not they can afford one. As usual, I was wrong. Instead, they said, "We're G2 police, we need to see the papers of your bike?"
"Ok. No problem. Can I see your Id, please?" I asked.
They pulled out their G2 Id's, and then they showed me their guns. I recognized them instantly—shiny, and pretty dangerous 9mm automatic handguns—the kind that make loud crackling noises when you pull the trigger—not dissimilar to the sound of firecrackers, only louder…and usually accompanied by red blood spilling out onto asphalt or concrete and turning a beautiful crystalized purple haze color right before it starts coagulating. More on coagulating later.
Was I scared? No. I’ve been in this situation too many times to count. But this occasion was going to prove to be quite different than my normal experiences here. I pulled out my papers, handed it to them. They leafed through them and then asked me for my "Aduana paper."
“Wait...isn't it there?"
"No."
"Hum...I must have left it Bonao."
"Well then, you need to give us your key and we all will go back to the G2 headquarters and find out if it has the Aduana (Custom papers)."
I said no problem, let's go! Chop, Chop."
“No, no, you will get on the back of our scooter (50cc Chinese scooter with no muffler or working lights), and my partner here will drive your bike."
I didn't like the idea, but, I had no choice, so I said ok, "here," and handed them my key and said, 'let's go."
Along the way, I saw the guy come close to wrecking my bike about a half dozen times in an effort to show off to strangers. He kept randomly revving it while stopping in traffic…as if he thought a new 1000cc motorcycle was going to suddenly turn off.
We apparently had taken a detour and now were pulling up to someone's apartment that sits directly across the street from the prison in Puerto Plata. I asked, "What are we doing here?"
"This is our G2 headquarters." he answered.
“A two bedroom apartment?” I asked.
They pushed my 460lbs motorcycle into the kitchen on the first floor of a three story cement building that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since Nixon was in office. I walked in behind the motorcycle and stood in someone's living room, staring at a room full of G2 police who were sitting around on broken plastic outdoor patio chairs with prostitutes and a broken couch. The broken couch had the legs broken on one end of it—it was leaning 60 degrees north.
The apartment looked like an opium den out of the movie The Deer Hunter or Apocalypse Now. I was expecting Colonel Kurtz to come out of his bedroom any minute dressed in a white robe saying, "The horror! The horror!"
The two G2 police introduced me to their captain and handed my papers for my bike to him to inspect. He quickly shuffled through them and looked up at me and asked, "Where is the "Aduana" paper?"
"I must have left it in Bonao, sir."
I should stop here and point out that, not having my Aduana paper with me made me completely and utterly in the wrong. In this situation, one needs to go to “Plan B,” and start initiating bribery ideas and considerations inside ones brain—I quickly glanced around the living room, assessing everyone sitting around. Should I offer Russian prostitutes, transvestites, beer, new patio furniture, midgets? I have access to all of these things with a simple phone call.
Looking around, my situation was looking bleak. The police have the upper hand right now. Right now, it’s important to put on one's best smile and present a very polite, sociable attitude. One must be very, very polite, respectful, and considerate in this situation…because, let’s face it, I was in the wrong here. I lacked an important vehicle paper. I walked around the room and introduced myself to everyone.
The captain handed me back my papers and said, "Listen, I’m sorry, the bike has to stay here until Monday when we can call the Aduana office in Santo Domingo and make sure everything is ok."
"But captain, I have friends waiting for me right now on the malecon. My Aduana papers are in Bonao. Is there no way we can resolve this now so that I can continue on my way and you can go back to your business of…partying?"
"I'm afraid not," he answered. Then said, "There’s nothing we can do until Monday (it was Saturday morning), I want to help you out, but there's nothing I can do until Monday. If the Aduana checks out, you can take your bike."
"I understand, sir." and then I said excuse me, I need to make a phone call. I called my most influential cousin I had: Michael—a Governor and bank owner here—but it was Saturday morning and he was either with his family, a bank meeting, or he is smarter than I thought and simply saw that it was me calling and decided to use better judgment and not answer his phone.
Ok, no problem, I got another cousin, Ricardo—a real estate developer, investor, large company owner, and well known business man. I called him. Guess what, it was Saturday, he was either with his family, at one of his construction sites, in a meeting with investors, or saw that it was me calling, and using better judgment, decided not to answer the phone. The G2 were sitting around staring at me suspiciously. I was frantically dialing numbers, and looking up at them and smiling.
I felt like I was on "Who wants to be a Millionaire." I was getting my one phone call, or in this case, my one "Get motorcycle out of jail (kitchen) free card"—but no one who knows me wanted to answer the ****ing phone. I’m he black sheep of my family. More on that later.
Ok, no problem. I called my other cousin, Miguel Vargas—a well-known and respected doctor in Bonao. I owed him money. He’d been waiting 15 years for it. He answered the phone right away.
"Yes, what is it Frank?" I heard him ask, exasperated, as if I had just caught him in some Saturday afternoon sex romp with one of his mistresses.
I said "Miguel, I'm with some very nice and good looking (I looked up and winked at the police sitting around the room) G2 police, they got my bike. They want to keep it until Monday because I forgot my Aduana papers in Bonao. Can you talk to them, please?"
“Sure.”
I handed the captain my phone and he talked at length with Miguel, nodding his head in agreement, laughing, and then he handed me back the phone and told me my cousin wanted to talk to me.
"Frank, just hand the captain a $500 pesos and get going. Chop, chop."
"Ok."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $500 pesos note and said “Captain, excuse me, but I really need to get going. Here, take this and buy a beer on me and have a good afternoon.”
He laughed and declined my offer. But then he reconsidered and said, you know, the girls look thirsty. Give them some money so that they can buy some beer.
I handed the girls the $500 pesos and off they went giggling. I called my cousin, Miguel back. I told him that the captain refused the money. "What the **** you mean he refused the money? How did you offer it to him?" he asked, surprised.
"I did exactly what you said; I pulled out $500 pesos and offered it him."
"Did you pull the money out in front of everyone in the room?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Are you ****ing crazy, Frank!? No, wait, don’t answer that. Listen idiot, take the captain outside and offer him the money in private. How long you been in this ****ing country? Are you retarded"
"Maybe a little."
To be continued…
It was around...wait, let me look at the picture on my computer to find out the exact date: it was November 2006. I drove up from Bonao to Puerto Plata on a nearly new 2004 Suzuki GSXR 1000 that I had just bought. I was meeting my Austrian friends that live in Puerto Plata--a father and son team—Gerald (28yrs) & Peter (64yrs). They both drive identical blue & white 2004 Suzuki GSXR 1000’s. Everyone knows them in Puerto Plata. They also have identical 2010 Honda 450X Supermotos that they race. Every motorcyclist in POP knows them; they do wheelies up and down the Malecon together on their motorcycles.
We were planning to go on a long motorcycle trip together to either Samana or Las Terrenas. We all have numerous motorcycles, but on this particular trip, we were going to go on our sports bikes. The plan was simple: meet on the Malecon in Puerto Plata at 11am and then take off to Las Terrenas and try to get there in under 2 hours. We were going to try to travel back in time. But look, I don't want to condone high speeds to anyone here, so please, don't try this at home.
I arrived early—I made it from Bonao to Puerto Plata in record time. I know this because A.) I used 5 gallons of gas when it should have taken no more than 3 gallons, and B.) I was younger when I arrived in Puerto Plata than when I had left Bonao—a concept known as "Stop-Time,” or in layman's terms as "E=mc2."
Since I arrived early, I parked on the malecon and walked across the street to the ocean and started taking pictures of the statue that stands out in the water in Puerto Plata (before thieves stole it in 2009, cut it up, and then sold it as scrap metal. True story)—a statue of a man fishing. I took numerous pictures and then turned back to my bike and noticed three men standing over my motorcycle, inspecting it. I thought nothing of it because, well, here on the island, Dominicans love fast sports bikes. They all want to own one despite being unfamiliar with the physics of accelerating very hard and then at some point needing to brake for either corners or stationary objects. Dominicans do not realize that it requires a lot of space to bring 460lbs of steel and aluminum to a complete stop before reaching the rear end of cars and trees.
I casually walked across the street. When they saw me approach they asked me if this was my bike. I said "Yes, this is my bike." Now at this point, I thought the next question was going to be either A.) “How much does it cost?” or B.) "Can we sit on your bike and take a picture to show our friends"—as it so often happens every day here. People want pictures on sports bikes, but they also want to know the price in order to gage whether or not they can afford one. As usual, I was wrong. Instead, they said, "We're G2 police, we need to see the papers of your bike?"
"Ok. No problem. Can I see your Id, please?" I asked.
They pulled out their G2 Id's, and then they showed me their guns. I recognized them instantly—shiny, and pretty dangerous 9mm automatic handguns—the kind that make loud crackling noises when you pull the trigger—not dissimilar to the sound of firecrackers, only louder…and usually accompanied by red blood spilling out onto asphalt or concrete and turning a beautiful crystalized purple haze color right before it starts coagulating. More on coagulating later.
Was I scared? No. I’ve been in this situation too many times to count. But this occasion was going to prove to be quite different than my normal experiences here. I pulled out my papers, handed it to them. They leafed through them and then asked me for my "Aduana paper."
“Wait...isn't it there?"
"No."
"Hum...I must have left it Bonao."
"Well then, you need to give us your key and we all will go back to the G2 headquarters and find out if it has the Aduana (Custom papers)."
I said no problem, let's go! Chop, Chop."
“No, no, you will get on the back of our scooter (50cc Chinese scooter with no muffler or working lights), and my partner here will drive your bike."
I didn't like the idea, but, I had no choice, so I said ok, "here," and handed them my key and said, 'let's go."
Along the way, I saw the guy come close to wrecking my bike about a half dozen times in an effort to show off to strangers. He kept randomly revving it while stopping in traffic…as if he thought a new 1000cc motorcycle was going to suddenly turn off.
We apparently had taken a detour and now were pulling up to someone's apartment that sits directly across the street from the prison in Puerto Plata. I asked, "What are we doing here?"
"This is our G2 headquarters." he answered.
“A two bedroom apartment?” I asked.
They pushed my 460lbs motorcycle into the kitchen on the first floor of a three story cement building that hadn't seen a fresh coat of paint since Nixon was in office. I walked in behind the motorcycle and stood in someone's living room, staring at a room full of G2 police who were sitting around on broken plastic outdoor patio chairs with prostitutes and a broken couch. The broken couch had the legs broken on one end of it—it was leaning 60 degrees north.
The apartment looked like an opium den out of the movie The Deer Hunter or Apocalypse Now. I was expecting Colonel Kurtz to come out of his bedroom any minute dressed in a white robe saying, "The horror! The horror!"
The two G2 police introduced me to their captain and handed my papers for my bike to him to inspect. He quickly shuffled through them and looked up at me and asked, "Where is the "Aduana" paper?"
"I must have left it in Bonao, sir."
I should stop here and point out that, not having my Aduana paper with me made me completely and utterly in the wrong. In this situation, one needs to go to “Plan B,” and start initiating bribery ideas and considerations inside ones brain—I quickly glanced around the living room, assessing everyone sitting around. Should I offer Russian prostitutes, transvestites, beer, new patio furniture, midgets? I have access to all of these things with a simple phone call.
Looking around, my situation was looking bleak. The police have the upper hand right now. Right now, it’s important to put on one's best smile and present a very polite, sociable attitude. One must be very, very polite, respectful, and considerate in this situation…because, let’s face it, I was in the wrong here. I lacked an important vehicle paper. I walked around the room and introduced myself to everyone.
The captain handed me back my papers and said, "Listen, I’m sorry, the bike has to stay here until Monday when we can call the Aduana office in Santo Domingo and make sure everything is ok."
"But captain, I have friends waiting for me right now on the malecon. My Aduana papers are in Bonao. Is there no way we can resolve this now so that I can continue on my way and you can go back to your business of…partying?"
"I'm afraid not," he answered. Then said, "There’s nothing we can do until Monday (it was Saturday morning), I want to help you out, but there's nothing I can do until Monday. If the Aduana checks out, you can take your bike."
"I understand, sir." and then I said excuse me, I need to make a phone call. I called my most influential cousin I had: Michael—a Governor and bank owner here—but it was Saturday morning and he was either with his family, a bank meeting, or he is smarter than I thought and simply saw that it was me calling and decided to use better judgment and not answer his phone.
Ok, no problem, I got another cousin, Ricardo—a real estate developer, investor, large company owner, and well known business man. I called him. Guess what, it was Saturday, he was either with his family, at one of his construction sites, in a meeting with investors, or saw that it was me calling, and using better judgment, decided not to answer the phone. The G2 were sitting around staring at me suspiciously. I was frantically dialing numbers, and looking up at them and smiling.
I felt like I was on "Who wants to be a Millionaire." I was getting my one phone call, or in this case, my one "Get motorcycle out of jail (kitchen) free card"—but no one who knows me wanted to answer the ****ing phone. I’m he black sheep of my family. More on that later.
Ok, no problem. I called my other cousin, Miguel Vargas—a well-known and respected doctor in Bonao. I owed him money. He’d been waiting 15 years for it. He answered the phone right away.
"Yes, what is it Frank?" I heard him ask, exasperated, as if I had just caught him in some Saturday afternoon sex romp with one of his mistresses.
I said "Miguel, I'm with some very nice and good looking (I looked up and winked at the police sitting around the room) G2 police, they got my bike. They want to keep it until Monday because I forgot my Aduana papers in Bonao. Can you talk to them, please?"
“Sure.”
I handed the captain my phone and he talked at length with Miguel, nodding his head in agreement, laughing, and then he handed me back the phone and told me my cousin wanted to talk to me.
"Frank, just hand the captain a $500 pesos and get going. Chop, chop."
"Ok."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a $500 pesos note and said “Captain, excuse me, but I really need to get going. Here, take this and buy a beer on me and have a good afternoon.”
He laughed and declined my offer. But then he reconsidered and said, you know, the girls look thirsty. Give them some money so that they can buy some beer.
I handed the girls the $500 pesos and off they went giggling. I called my cousin, Miguel back. I told him that the captain refused the money. "What the **** you mean he refused the money? How did you offer it to him?" he asked, surprised.
"I did exactly what you said; I pulled out $500 pesos and offered it him."
"Did you pull the money out in front of everyone in the room?" he asked.
"Yep."
"Are you ****ing crazy, Frank!? No, wait, don’t answer that. Listen idiot, take the captain outside and offer him the money in private. How long you been in this ****ing country? Are you retarded"
"Maybe a little."
To be continued…
Chapter 245 (Bats, Prostitutes, & Vampires)
Fu&^cking hell. I'm sweating. Searing. Frying. Baking. Blistering. It's a ****ing sauna here. An oven. You can fry strips of bacon and eggs on my shoulders and back. For the love of god, who can stand this heat? It's ridiculous. Insane. Fantastic. Oh my god, it’s beautiful.
I just biked from Cabarete East to Sosua in 30min on a bicycle with two only two working gears: Low & High. Low gear was for climbing Mount Everest. High gear was for speeds over 120MPH. There was nothing in-between. There were no working middle gears. The salt air saw to that. Everything on this bike is frozen. Every piece of metal on the bike has oxidized and turned into crumbling burnt orange flakes of rust.
Because there are only two functioning gears, I had to either pedal as fast as my legs could move in order to reach 10mph, or I had to get up to the speed of sound in order to maintain a drag coefficient equal to the vehicles passing me. It was absolutely impossible to maintain a speed anything in-between. You would need a ski jump in order to build up enough speed necessary to maintain high gear. Lance Armstrong would not be able to maintain the necessary speed of high gear on this bike unless he was descending down the French Alps at warp drive. The low gear was equally as worthless. It required peddling your feet so fast that you either passed out in your vomit or you wore the bottom of your soles out. I looked like a monkey in a circus peddling when I was in low gear. More on monkeys later.
When I got to Sosua, I was going to pull into CMS hospital in order to get an EKG on my heart. I was dehydrated. It felt as if I was having a coronary. I was also sweating profusely. I was coughing up blood. I had the taste of blood in my mouth before I even left my parking lot of my condo complex back in Cabarete. I hadn’t biked since Nixon was in office. I vaguely remember biking sometime around 1970 or 1971, but that was only because the cops were chasing me. I do not bike. I do not run. I do not do anything that requires profuse sweating and loss of consciousness…unless of course, chocolate or sex is involved. But even then, an A/C or an industrial size fan must be three inches from my face or genital area. More on chocolate & sex later.
When I got to CMS hospital, I decided to pass it. I saw Fresh, Fresh. What I needed right now, more than a doctor or an EKG, was a gallon of ice coffee and a brownie. Oh yeah...I also needed A/C. the heat is so insane outside right now that there should be an Emergency Warning. There should be a State of Emergency declared for the island…at least until the temperature drops below 120F. No one should be allowed outside.
Now, finally, I get “Siesta.” I understand now why everyone closes between 12pm and 6pm. It’s impossible to do anything. It’s impossible to get any work done in this heat. Now I finally understand why Dominican women move only as fast as a turtle. Everything here is about energy conservation.
No wonder the southern hemisphere of the planet is so far behind the northern hemisphere in terms of technology and industrialization…in this heat you cannot think. You cannot move. You cannot eat. You cannot even have sex. All you can do is lay completely still in a coma like state and wait for nightfall. There’s a reason why bats, prostitutes, and vampires do not come out in the daytime…it’s too fu^&cking hot to fly, f^$ck, or drink blood. More on vampires later.
Fu&^cking hell. I'm sweating. Searing. Frying. Baking. Blistering. It's a ****ing sauna here. An oven. You can fry strips of bacon and eggs on my shoulders and back. For the love of god, who can stand this heat? It's ridiculous. Insane. Fantastic. Oh my god, it’s beautiful.
I just biked from Cabarete East to Sosua in 30min on a bicycle with two only two working gears: Low & High. Low gear was for climbing Mount Everest. High gear was for speeds over 120MPH. There was nothing in-between. There were no working middle gears. The salt air saw to that. Everything on this bike is frozen. Every piece of metal on the bike has oxidized and turned into crumbling burnt orange flakes of rust.
Because there are only two functioning gears, I had to either pedal as fast as my legs could move in order to reach 10mph, or I had to get up to the speed of sound in order to maintain a drag coefficient equal to the vehicles passing me. It was absolutely impossible to maintain a speed anything in-between. You would need a ski jump in order to build up enough speed necessary to maintain high gear. Lance Armstrong would not be able to maintain the necessary speed of high gear on this bike unless he was descending down the French Alps at warp drive. The low gear was equally as worthless. It required peddling your feet so fast that you either passed out in your vomit or you wore the bottom of your soles out. I looked like a monkey in a circus peddling when I was in low gear. More on monkeys later.
When I got to Sosua, I was going to pull into CMS hospital in order to get an EKG on my heart. I was dehydrated. It felt as if I was having a coronary. I was also sweating profusely. I was coughing up blood. I had the taste of blood in my mouth before I even left my parking lot of my condo complex back in Cabarete. I hadn’t biked since Nixon was in office. I vaguely remember biking sometime around 1970 or 1971, but that was only because the cops were chasing me. I do not bike. I do not run. I do not do anything that requires profuse sweating and loss of consciousness…unless of course, chocolate or sex is involved. But even then, an A/C or an industrial size fan must be three inches from my face or genital area. More on chocolate & sex later.
When I got to CMS hospital, I decided to pass it. I saw Fresh, Fresh. What I needed right now, more than a doctor or an EKG, was a gallon of ice coffee and a brownie. Oh yeah...I also needed A/C. the heat is so insane outside right now that there should be an Emergency Warning. There should be a State of Emergency declared for the island…at least until the temperature drops below 120F. No one should be allowed outside.
Now, finally, I get “Siesta.” I understand now why everyone closes between 12pm and 6pm. It’s impossible to do anything. It’s impossible to get any work done in this heat. Now I finally understand why Dominican women move only as fast as a turtle. Everything here is about energy conservation.
No wonder the southern hemisphere of the planet is so far behind the northern hemisphere in terms of technology and industrialization…in this heat you cannot think. You cannot move. You cannot eat. You cannot even have sex. All you can do is lay completely still in a coma like state and wait for nightfall. There’s a reason why bats, prostitutes, and vampires do not come out in the daytime…it’s too fu^&cking hot to fly, f^$ck, or drink blood. More on vampires later.
Chapter 248 (Police, Prostitutes, & Bribery) (Continuation from chapter 244)
When I got off the phone with my cousin, the working girls (prostitutes) were back with lots of beer and plastic cups. They were pouring everyone free beer that I bought with my money and saluting me for my generosity.
Now, normally I would never drink in this situation since I was planning on breaking land speed records to Samana with my friends. But, I made an exception this one time and made a toast and drank my glass of beer down in one gulp. Afterwards, I sent a text message to my Austrian friends who were now on the Malecon waiting for me; they had been texting me to find out when I was going to arrive from Bonao? They didn't know I was already here, sitting in a living room full of G2 police and working girls (prostitutes) drinking beer while my motorcycle sat in the kitchen.
After I drank my glass of beer in one gulp, I asked the captain if I could speak to him in private, outside. He said "sure," and we both went outside, with me following him into the front yard of the apartment complex. There was no grass, just broken concrete everywhere. I reiterated how important it was that I get going; "I have friends waiting for me, Captain. Important friends. They?re getting worried." I tried to hand him $500 pesos. He smiled, but he refused it, again. I could see that he was very uncomfortable in this situation. Strange. I didn't understand the refusal. I asked him how much he needed to let me take my bike out and get going. I was thinking to myself, "Ok, this could get very interesting. I'm not willing to pay much more than this because, well, hell, I could always go back to Bonao if he wants too much money and get my papers and come back tomorrow and get the bike. The motorcycle race to Samana could be delayed one more day. Tomorrow we can do our rocket launch and break the speed of sound record with a clearer frame of mind. Now I had a beer buzz going. This is not conducive to setting speed records?nor for traveling back in time.
Still, something was curious inside of me; I wanted to see how much it was going to take to get the bike out. The captain got nervous and said, "Let?s go back inside and drink beer with the girls."
We went back inside and there was no more beer left. One of the other G2 police officers said, "The girls are very thirsty." I took out some more cash, but then it occurred to me...wait, I never got my change back from the previous beer run. Oh well. This is probably not the time to make a fuss about a few dollars. I handed them another $500 peso note and said get us some more beer. Meanwhile, while the girls went to go get the beer, the G2 had a lot of questions for me about Bonao, my family, and ?how could it be possible that I?m Dominican when I don't even look Hispanic.? I offered to pull my pants down and show them that I was uncircumcised. However, inside; I feared they might call my bluff, so I changed the subject altogether.
We all sort of sat around Hee-Hawing out loud, and then the girls came back just in time and started pouring beer for everyone. I was frantically trying to call my other cousins whom I could not get a hold of earlier. No luck. I wished I knew how to block my phone number so that my cousins wouldn?t know that it was me trying to reach them, maybe then they would answer their phones. I started praying, ?For the love of god, answer your F*^%$ing phone!?
I called my cousin, Miguel again. I explained what happened?about how the Captain declined my money and got nervous.
"What you mean he declined the money? He asked, shocked. "How did you offer it to him?" he asked.
"I did exactly what you said, Miguel, and offered him the money without anyone else around. We were outside in the front yard. I tried to hand it to him. He refused. He got visually nervous. He wanted to go back inside and drink free beer and watch prostitutes dance on the tables for us." I answered.
"Frank. Listen to me very carefully right now. I?m going to F&^%ing disown you from being my cousin, you understand me? You cannot possibly be this stupid!? Why didn't you go into a spare bedroom where there are no people who can see you handing him money? You can't just hand money to a police Captain out in the front yard?in public place! You can?t let people see what's going on! Are you ****ing retarded? Wait, don?t answer that."
"Well, maybe a little?"
"Hand your phone back to him right now. Let me talk to him, again!"
?OK.?
I handed my phone back to the Captain and then watched him nod his head up and down and laugh, and then I heard him grunt and agree a couple of times, and then he handed me the phone back and said "Your cousin wants to talk to you.?
?Yes??
?Listen to me, Franky; ask to speak to him again, in private. Go somewhere inside the apartment where no one can see you hand him money. Give him $100 pesos and get going. Chop, chop. You sound drunk!"
"I am drunk."
?OK, get going. Chop, chop!?
I hung up the phone and asked the Captain if I could speak to him again? He said ?ok,? and I followed him into one of the two bedrooms.
The G2 apartment has only two bedrooms with army cots as beds?across from the Puerto Plata prison. There were two army cots with clothes neatly folded below the bed. They had mosquito nets up in the room?over the army cots. The room was pretty sparse. I reached in my pocket for money and looked around the room. I felt like I was in the movie "Midnight Express"?the scene where the American guy is imprisoned in Turkey and he?s trying to buy his way out of prison and one of the prison guards wants a blow job and starts unzipping his pants. Now, here I am, with no Aduana papers, my bike sitting in someone's kitchen, a bunch of prostitutes getting drunk at my expense, and I could see that he was just as uncomfortable as I was standing here in his bedroom. First of all, I?ve never given anyone a Blow Job. I?m not even sure how it?s done. Secondly, I don?t want him to think that I?m gay. However, I am a quick learner. I immediately started looking around the room for a bottle of rum or tequila. If I?m going to be giving blow jobs, I need to be drunk. Real drunk. That?s a given.
To be continued...
When I got off the phone with my cousin, the working girls (prostitutes) were back with lots of beer and plastic cups. They were pouring everyone free beer that I bought with my money and saluting me for my generosity.
Now, normally I would never drink in this situation since I was planning on breaking land speed records to Samana with my friends. But, I made an exception this one time and made a toast and drank my glass of beer down in one gulp. Afterwards, I sent a text message to my Austrian friends who were now on the Malecon waiting for me; they had been texting me to find out when I was going to arrive from Bonao? They didn't know I was already here, sitting in a living room full of G2 police and working girls (prostitutes) drinking beer while my motorcycle sat in the kitchen.
After I drank my glass of beer in one gulp, I asked the captain if I could speak to him in private, outside. He said "sure," and we both went outside, with me following him into the front yard of the apartment complex. There was no grass, just broken concrete everywhere. I reiterated how important it was that I get going; "I have friends waiting for me, Captain. Important friends. They?re getting worried." I tried to hand him $500 pesos. He smiled, but he refused it, again. I could see that he was very uncomfortable in this situation. Strange. I didn't understand the refusal. I asked him how much he needed to let me take my bike out and get going. I was thinking to myself, "Ok, this could get very interesting. I'm not willing to pay much more than this because, well, hell, I could always go back to Bonao if he wants too much money and get my papers and come back tomorrow and get the bike. The motorcycle race to Samana could be delayed one more day. Tomorrow we can do our rocket launch and break the speed of sound record with a clearer frame of mind. Now I had a beer buzz going. This is not conducive to setting speed records?nor for traveling back in time.
Still, something was curious inside of me; I wanted to see how much it was going to take to get the bike out. The captain got nervous and said, "Let?s go back inside and drink beer with the girls."
We went back inside and there was no more beer left. One of the other G2 police officers said, "The girls are very thirsty." I took out some more cash, but then it occurred to me...wait, I never got my change back from the previous beer run. Oh well. This is probably not the time to make a fuss about a few dollars. I handed them another $500 peso note and said get us some more beer. Meanwhile, while the girls went to go get the beer, the G2 had a lot of questions for me about Bonao, my family, and ?how could it be possible that I?m Dominican when I don't even look Hispanic.? I offered to pull my pants down and show them that I was uncircumcised. However, inside; I feared they might call my bluff, so I changed the subject altogether.
We all sort of sat around Hee-Hawing out loud, and then the girls came back just in time and started pouring beer for everyone. I was frantically trying to call my other cousins whom I could not get a hold of earlier. No luck. I wished I knew how to block my phone number so that my cousins wouldn?t know that it was me trying to reach them, maybe then they would answer their phones. I started praying, ?For the love of god, answer your F*^%$ing phone!?
I called my cousin, Miguel again. I explained what happened?about how the Captain declined my money and got nervous.
"What you mean he declined the money? He asked, shocked. "How did you offer it to him?" he asked.
"I did exactly what you said, Miguel, and offered him the money without anyone else around. We were outside in the front yard. I tried to hand it to him. He refused. He got visually nervous. He wanted to go back inside and drink free beer and watch prostitutes dance on the tables for us." I answered.
"Frank. Listen to me very carefully right now. I?m going to F&^%ing disown you from being my cousin, you understand me? You cannot possibly be this stupid!? Why didn't you go into a spare bedroom where there are no people who can see you handing him money? You can't just hand money to a police Captain out in the front yard?in public place! You can?t let people see what's going on! Are you ****ing retarded? Wait, don?t answer that."
"Well, maybe a little?"
"Hand your phone back to him right now. Let me talk to him, again!"
?OK.?
I handed my phone back to the Captain and then watched him nod his head up and down and laugh, and then I heard him grunt and agree a couple of times, and then he handed me the phone back and said "Your cousin wants to talk to you.?
?Yes??
?Listen to me, Franky; ask to speak to him again, in private. Go somewhere inside the apartment where no one can see you hand him money. Give him $100 pesos and get going. Chop, chop. You sound drunk!"
"I am drunk."
?OK, get going. Chop, chop!?
I hung up the phone and asked the Captain if I could speak to him again? He said ?ok,? and I followed him into one of the two bedrooms.
The G2 apartment has only two bedrooms with army cots as beds?across from the Puerto Plata prison. There were two army cots with clothes neatly folded below the bed. They had mosquito nets up in the room?over the army cots. The room was pretty sparse. I reached in my pocket for money and looked around the room. I felt like I was in the movie "Midnight Express"?the scene where the American guy is imprisoned in Turkey and he?s trying to buy his way out of prison and one of the prison guards wants a blow job and starts unzipping his pants. Now, here I am, with no Aduana papers, my bike sitting in someone's kitchen, a bunch of prostitutes getting drunk at my expense, and I could see that he was just as uncomfortable as I was standing here in his bedroom. First of all, I?ve never given anyone a Blow Job. I?m not even sure how it?s done. Secondly, I don?t want him to think that I?m gay. However, I am a quick learner. I immediately started looking around the room for a bottle of rum or tequila. If I?m going to be giving blow jobs, I need to be drunk. Real drunk. That?s a given.
To be continued...
Chapter 251 (NFL Football Star)
We had an NFL star in O'Shay’s last night, Eddie Jenkins Jr. He sat with Fireman Paul, Pittsburgh Al, Big Frank, Alabama Dave & Alabama Gary and watched NFL football all afternoon. He’s a big guy, in great shape for his age, and down to earth. He was approachable and nice. He spoke of his NFL career and how he played with OJ Simpson. Here is a little more about him.
“There comes a time in everyone’s life, says Eddie Jenkins ’72, when you have the opportunity to make a stand in the service of society. Jenkins made such a stand in 1968 when he joined a group of black students to attend Holy Cross. They were not the first African-Americans on the Hill, but as a group, they began breaking down the racial barriers that had separated white students from a handful of blacks on campus.
“You have to recognize that it’s your moment,” says Jenkins, 61, chief diversity and civil rights officer at the Massachusetts Department of Transportation. “Martin Luther King did his part. Students put themselves on the line at Jackson State. It was our chance to stand up for what was right.”
Jenkins, who lives in Boston’s Roxbury neighborhood, was among five black students profiled in Diane Brady’s new book, “Fraternity,” which chronicles their lives at Holy Cross in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The book highlights how the mentorship of Rev. John Brooks, S.J., ’49, who later served as the college’s president, helped them persevere in their undergraduate careers, and beyond.
FOOTBALL SUCCESS
Jenkins’ success running the football for Holy Cross caught the attention of pro scouts, and he was drafted into the National Football League, where he played for three seasons. His prowess in the classroom, meanwhile, led him to law school, and a legal career in both the public and private sector.
In his first NFL season, Jenkins played on the 1972 undefeated Miami Dolphins team and has a Super Bowl ring with 17 diamonds to prove it. Jenkins, who also suited up for the New York Giants, Buffalo Bills and New England Patriots, was in Indianapolis at Super Bowl XLVI, rooting for New England. He and his wife, Linda, are close to Patriots defensive back, Patrick Chung, who is engaged to his wife’s niece. Jenkins says he has taken Chung under his wing, and provides mentoring for the young athlete.
“Patrick has a lot coming at him,” says Jenkins. “I do what I can to help.”
Known for his tackling prowess on kick-offs and punt returns, Jenkins recalls a game between the Dolphins and Cincinnati Bengals. On the game’s kick-off, he raced down field, making a beeline for the fleet-footed Bengals kick-returner. Fielding the kick was none other than Joe Wilson ’73, who was Jenkins’ roommate in what was known as the “black corridor” in Healy Hall, where many African-American students lived.
“Joe fielded the kick-off and I knew he was going to try to run over me,” recalls Jenkins. “But I tackled him and got him down. Then I told him: ‘Welcome to the NFL.””
We had an NFL star in O'Shay’s last night, Eddie Jenkins Jr. He sat with Fireman Paul, Pittsburgh Al, Big Frank, Alabama Dave & Alabama Gary and watched NFL football all afternoon. He’s a big guy, in great shape for his age, and down to earth. He was approachable and nice. He spoke of his NFL career and how he played with OJ Simpson. Here is a little more about him.
“There comes a time in everyone’s life, says Eddie Jenkins ’72, when you have the opportunity to make a stand in the service of society. Jenkins made such a stand in 1968 when he joined a group of black students to attend Holy Cross. They were not the first African-Americans on the Hill, but as a group, they began breaking down the racial barriers that had separated white students from a handful of blacks on campus.
“You have to recognize that it’s your moment,” says Jenkins, 61, chief diversity and civil rights officer at the Massachusetts Department of Transportation. “Martin Luther King did his part. Students put themselves on the line at Jackson State. It was our chance to stand up for what was right.”
Jenkins, who lives in Boston’s Roxbury neighborhood, was among five black students profiled in Diane Brady’s new book, “Fraternity,” which chronicles their lives at Holy Cross in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The book highlights how the mentorship of Rev. John Brooks, S.J., ’49, who later served as the college’s president, helped them persevere in their undergraduate careers, and beyond.
FOOTBALL SUCCESS
Jenkins’ success running the football for Holy Cross caught the attention of pro scouts, and he was drafted into the National Football League, where he played for three seasons. His prowess in the classroom, meanwhile, led him to law school, and a legal career in both the public and private sector.
In his first NFL season, Jenkins played on the 1972 undefeated Miami Dolphins team and has a Super Bowl ring with 17 diamonds to prove it. Jenkins, who also suited up for the New York Giants, Buffalo Bills and New England Patriots, was in Indianapolis at Super Bowl XLVI, rooting for New England. He and his wife, Linda, are close to Patriots defensive back, Patrick Chung, who is engaged to his wife’s niece. Jenkins says he has taken Chung under his wing, and provides mentoring for the young athlete.
“Patrick has a lot coming at him,” says Jenkins. “I do what I can to help.”
Known for his tackling prowess on kick-offs and punt returns, Jenkins recalls a game between the Dolphins and Cincinnati Bengals. On the game’s kick-off, he raced down field, making a beeline for the fleet-footed Bengals kick-returner. Fielding the kick was none other than Joe Wilson ’73, who was Jenkins’ roommate in what was known as the “black corridor” in Healy Hall, where many African-American students lived.
“Joe fielded the kick-off and I knew he was going to try to run over me,” recalls Jenkins. “But I tackled him and got him down. Then I told him: ‘Welcome to the NFL.””
Mike Christiansen passed away this past weekend. This is his story.
Chapter 253 (Millionaire Mike) Part 1
?Tell me a little about yourself, Mike??
?I?ve had a crazy life. Looking back on it, it?s hard to believe some of the things that happened to me. I?m from Morrisburg, Ontario, south of Ottawa, about 45 miles down the St. Lawrence River. The major tourist attraction there is an 18th century village called ?Upper Canada village.? It?s part of a national park. There?s a monument there representing a historic battle??The battle of Crysler Farm.? But I grew up near Black?s lumber yard?they had a big wooden sign out front advertising their business: ?It?s a Black business, but we treat you White!?
?I went to California during college?I wasn?t 21 yet?so I couldn?t drink. In California, I wanted to see Disneyland so I jumped on a bus, went to Anaheim, and looked for a cheap hotel to stay at. On my first day in Anaheim, I wanted to see what it was like to ride on a tram, so I jumped on one. While sitting on the tram, I looked over and found a purse. I looked inside to see if I could find some identification but found $2500 in bills instead. Remember, its 1983, and I was a poor college student at the time. I was dirt poor. No, I was beyond poor; I was starving. So finding $2500 was like stumbling across a million dollars. Suddenly, I was rich. So I decided to treat myself like rich people do: I went out to dinner. No more peanut butter & jelly sandwiches for me.
I went out got and treated myself to a nice meal, a fancy meal. I was going big. I went to Chi-Chi?s Mexican restaurant. I ate all of their tacos on their buffet, and when there wasn't any more tacos left to eat, I ate all of their condiments?the tomatoes, the refried beans, the lettuce, the cheese, and all of their frozen taco shells. I left nothing. An Asian assistant manager came over and asked me to leave. When I asked, ?Why?? he said, ?You eat too much! You eat everything! You even eat paper around taco shells! You scare the customers! You go now!?
I left and found a nice hotel. I wanted something upscale, something fancy; so I checked into a well known chain hotel. The room had a vibrating bed in it but, you had to keep feeding the bed quarters in order to keep the vibration going. I hated the fact that I had to keep getting dressed and going down to Taco Bell in order to purchase more quarters. The bed ate quarters faster than you could feed it.
The next day, I went down the street and bought a Canon AE1 camera because I always dreamed of owning a proper DSL camera. Remember, in those days, people were still using Polaroid and Kodak cameras that used either instant film or these round square slides that you had to load into a projector.
After seeing a TV commercial for Hawaii, I bought a ticket and jumped on the next flight to Waikiki. Why Hawaii? Because Tom Selleck was on TV at the time and he was always pulling the chicks in Hawaii. Logic followed that if it worked for Magnum P.I, why shouldn?t it work for me?
My first day in Hawaii I bought a boogey board and learned how to catch and ride waves. I got up every morning and went down to the beach and caught huge rolling waves and rode them all day long, until the sun set in a huge fireball of orange marmalade. I felt like a superstar. Remember, I?m from Canada; I grew up next to a river that would probably catch fire if you accidently threw a match into it. Now, here I am suddenly, catching huge rolling waves and riding them all day long and watching beautiful, tan, women reeking of coconut suntan lotion sunbathe topless next to me. You think I was going anywhere? No way! It would have taken a nuclear bomb to get me off that beach. Remember, we didn?t have any tropical beaches with topless women sunbathing in Canada. All we had were older divorced women sitting in the pub all day long, missing their front teeth because their boyfriends accidently knocked them out while cleaning their hunting rifles.
But like all good things, it had to come to an end. After riding waves in Waikiki for several weeks, I saw a commercial for Las Vegas. The advertisement had tall, beautiful, topless women dancing at Ceasar?s Palace with long tan legs. I decided to try my luck in Las Vegas. The next day I bought a ticket and flew to Las Vegas?the city that never sleeps, the city of sin and debauchery. I wanted to see it for myself. My first night in Vegas I met a girl from New Mexico at Caesars palace. We hung out and had a really good time. I told her I would come and see her in New Mexico but then, after she left, I met a girl from San Francisco?a real beauty?a Janis Joplin look alike with long blond hair, cut off blue jean shorts, and halter top, walking around the casino braless with her breasts swaying back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently, in San Francisco women don?t wear bras. The climate?s not conducive for them.
When my Janis Joplin look alike walked through the casino?breasts swaying as she walked?people stopped and stared. I stopped and stared. I was in love. I had never seen anything like it in my life. Back in Ontario, all we had were toothless girls hanging around pubs all day with their breasts resting on the bar like a sack of potatoes.
I was no rocket scientist but, I knew enough to recognize a good thing when I saw it. I knew right there that I had to go to San Francisco?the city of beatniks, summer of love, flowers in your hair, and braless beauties walking down the street with their breasts swaying like a pendulum. The next day I flew to San Francisco and spent weeks trying to track down my Janis Joplin look-a-like. Instead, all I found was a bunch of counter-culture hippies and artists who had come during the 60?s?during the Summer of Love?but got too stoned to find their way back home. During my first night in San Francisco, I was hanging out in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, and who do you think I ran into? Yep, Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead. He was fat. Really fat! I told him he should try Slim-Fast. It worked for me.
I loved San Francisco but, I needed to slow down, so I flew down to Los Angles to rest. Unfortunately, my first night there I met JB?a lighting director for Universal Studios. He helped make movies like Tom Sawyer back in the 70?s with Vic Morrow and Buddy Ebsen. I met Buddy Ebsen. He was a super nice guy but, he drank a bottle of scotch every night. I asked him, ?Hey Buddy, if you could go back in time, you know, like in a time machine, and sleep with either Elly May Clampett or Grandma Moses from the Beverly Hillbillies, who would you choose?? He laughed and winked at me, then took another shot of his scotch. He loved his scotch.
Chapter 253 (Millionaire Mike) Part 1
?Tell me a little about yourself, Mike??
?I?ve had a crazy life. Looking back on it, it?s hard to believe some of the things that happened to me. I?m from Morrisburg, Ontario, south of Ottawa, about 45 miles down the St. Lawrence River. The major tourist attraction there is an 18th century village called ?Upper Canada village.? It?s part of a national park. There?s a monument there representing a historic battle??The battle of Crysler Farm.? But I grew up near Black?s lumber yard?they had a big wooden sign out front advertising their business: ?It?s a Black business, but we treat you White!?
?I went to California during college?I wasn?t 21 yet?so I couldn?t drink. In California, I wanted to see Disneyland so I jumped on a bus, went to Anaheim, and looked for a cheap hotel to stay at. On my first day in Anaheim, I wanted to see what it was like to ride on a tram, so I jumped on one. While sitting on the tram, I looked over and found a purse. I looked inside to see if I could find some identification but found $2500 in bills instead. Remember, its 1983, and I was a poor college student at the time. I was dirt poor. No, I was beyond poor; I was starving. So finding $2500 was like stumbling across a million dollars. Suddenly, I was rich. So I decided to treat myself like rich people do: I went out to dinner. No more peanut butter & jelly sandwiches for me.
I went out got and treated myself to a nice meal, a fancy meal. I was going big. I went to Chi-Chi?s Mexican restaurant. I ate all of their tacos on their buffet, and when there wasn't any more tacos left to eat, I ate all of their condiments?the tomatoes, the refried beans, the lettuce, the cheese, and all of their frozen taco shells. I left nothing. An Asian assistant manager came over and asked me to leave. When I asked, ?Why?? he said, ?You eat too much! You eat everything! You even eat paper around taco shells! You scare the customers! You go now!?
I left and found a nice hotel. I wanted something upscale, something fancy; so I checked into a well known chain hotel. The room had a vibrating bed in it but, you had to keep feeding the bed quarters in order to keep the vibration going. I hated the fact that I had to keep getting dressed and going down to Taco Bell in order to purchase more quarters. The bed ate quarters faster than you could feed it.
The next day, I went down the street and bought a Canon AE1 camera because I always dreamed of owning a proper DSL camera. Remember, in those days, people were still using Polaroid and Kodak cameras that used either instant film or these round square slides that you had to load into a projector.
After seeing a TV commercial for Hawaii, I bought a ticket and jumped on the next flight to Waikiki. Why Hawaii? Because Tom Selleck was on TV at the time and he was always pulling the chicks in Hawaii. Logic followed that if it worked for Magnum P.I, why shouldn?t it work for me?
My first day in Hawaii I bought a boogey board and learned how to catch and ride waves. I got up every morning and went down to the beach and caught huge rolling waves and rode them all day long, until the sun set in a huge fireball of orange marmalade. I felt like a superstar. Remember, I?m from Canada; I grew up next to a river that would probably catch fire if you accidently threw a match into it. Now, here I am suddenly, catching huge rolling waves and riding them all day long and watching beautiful, tan, women reeking of coconut suntan lotion sunbathe topless next to me. You think I was going anywhere? No way! It would have taken a nuclear bomb to get me off that beach. Remember, we didn?t have any tropical beaches with topless women sunbathing in Canada. All we had were older divorced women sitting in the pub all day long, missing their front teeth because their boyfriends accidently knocked them out while cleaning their hunting rifles.
But like all good things, it had to come to an end. After riding waves in Waikiki for several weeks, I saw a commercial for Las Vegas. The advertisement had tall, beautiful, topless women dancing at Ceasar?s Palace with long tan legs. I decided to try my luck in Las Vegas. The next day I bought a ticket and flew to Las Vegas?the city that never sleeps, the city of sin and debauchery. I wanted to see it for myself. My first night in Vegas I met a girl from New Mexico at Caesars palace. We hung out and had a really good time. I told her I would come and see her in New Mexico but then, after she left, I met a girl from San Francisco?a real beauty?a Janis Joplin look alike with long blond hair, cut off blue jean shorts, and halter top, walking around the casino braless with her breasts swaying back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently, in San Francisco women don?t wear bras. The climate?s not conducive for them.
When my Janis Joplin look alike walked through the casino?breasts swaying as she walked?people stopped and stared. I stopped and stared. I was in love. I had never seen anything like it in my life. Back in Ontario, all we had were toothless girls hanging around pubs all day with their breasts resting on the bar like a sack of potatoes.
I was no rocket scientist but, I knew enough to recognize a good thing when I saw it. I knew right there that I had to go to San Francisco?the city of beatniks, summer of love, flowers in your hair, and braless beauties walking down the street with their breasts swaying like a pendulum. The next day I flew to San Francisco and spent weeks trying to track down my Janis Joplin look-a-like. Instead, all I found was a bunch of counter-culture hippies and artists who had come during the 60?s?during the Summer of Love?but got too stoned to find their way back home. During my first night in San Francisco, I was hanging out in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, and who do you think I ran into? Yep, Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead. He was fat. Really fat! I told him he should try Slim-Fast. It worked for me.
I loved San Francisco but, I needed to slow down, so I flew down to Los Angles to rest. Unfortunately, my first night there I met JB?a lighting director for Universal Studios. He helped make movies like Tom Sawyer back in the 70?s with Vic Morrow and Buddy Ebsen. I met Buddy Ebsen. He was a super nice guy but, he drank a bottle of scotch every night. I asked him, ?Hey Buddy, if you could go back in time, you know, like in a time machine, and sleep with either Elly May Clampett or Grandma Moses from the Beverly Hillbillies, who would you choose?? He laughed and winked at me, then took another shot of his scotch. He loved his scotch.
Chapter 254 (Millionaire Mike) Part 2
(Europe)
After exhausting my financial windfall of $2500, I went back to Canada rejuvenated. I finished school, graduating in marketing. After graduating, I went to Europe for the summer. First, I went to London, England, and passed by Buckingham Palace to see what all the commotion was about. At Buckingham Palace I saw the largest line of people I?ve ever witnessed in my life. There were thousands of people cued up, waiting to see Princess Diana and Charles wedding gifts. The line was so long that it stretched all the way back to the English Channel. I?m not kidding. I left London and traveled around Europe for 5 months, visiting Amsterdam, France, Italy, Greece, etc. Europe is beautiful and the people are wonderful. I traveled by train and met a lot of people, old people and young people; students just like me. I made lots of friends before coming back full-circle, 5 months later, to London, England where unbelievably, people were still standing in line to see Princess Diana and Charles wedding gifts. 5 months later!
The whole European trip was to figure out what to do with my life. I camped on the beach in the south of France, went to Monte Carlo and split a room with some Americans, then took a train to Rome where, Romanian gypsy kids hit me up for money everywhere I went. I couldn?t escape them. I met a gypsy lady who kept saying, ?Amore! Amore!? every time I walked past her. Then I saw a policeman get into the back of a Ford 150 Econoline conversion van?with a teardrop window in the back and tinted windows all around. This was in the parking lot behind the train station. A few moments later I saw the van rocking back and forth. Right then I figured out she was a prostitute. I?m not so bright.
After witnessing that spectacle, I got on a ferry to Greece. Once in Greece, I got on a train and smoked hash with some people, got caught, and hid in the bathroom to avoid getting kicked off. Everyone got kicked off but me. Everyone was standing outside the train asking, ?What happened to the fat guy?? Little did they know, I was still on the train, waving to them from the window of the bathroom, smoking their black hash that they left behind. I just smiled and waved to them as the train pulled away?blowing smoke to them like a choo-choo train.
At the next stop, the conductors had a shift-change and I was free to come out from hiding. I went to a campsite on the beach. There, I saw the big dipper; it was so close, so huge, that I could almost climb on top of it. Ok, maybe I was little drunk on ouzo at the time, but I was having the time of my life. In Corfu, I met a beautiful girl but got ditched by her. I bought another bottle of ouzo and licked my wounds, and suddenly, I got a revelation: the idea occurred to me to be a sailor on yachts! It was a genius plan. Ok, I owe that revelation to ouzo.
Before leaving to pursue my new revelation, I went to Crete and met some Danish guys. We partied like rock stars. Man those Scandinavians sure can drink! I rented a motorcycle in Crete and nearly killed myself. I took the bike on the beach?big mistake. I got charged extra for what they called ?Beach Damage,? whatever that meant. That night, while out partying with the Danish guys, I got drunk on ouzo and blacked out. I went back to the motorcycle rental shop that over-charged me and stole their donkey that they had tied to the tree in the front of their store. They had this donkey?Dolly the Donkey?she was always tied to a tree outside the rental shop. I borrowed Dolly for the evening and rode her into town, showing her off to everyone, eventually charging people for rides. I loved that donkey and she loved me back. I kept feeding her apples, carrots, ice cream and ouzo. After I got the donkey drunk, I took her back to the campsite where Dolly and I passed out in donkey vomit. I woke up the next morning spooned up against her. People were coming by all morning and taking our pictures. Ok, it was a little embarrassing, but man, I sure do miss that donkey.
The next day I headed to Denmark with my new Danish friends in order to escape donkey theft charges. Some people even accused me of sleeping with Dolly the donkey. That?s crazy. She wasn?t even my type.
In Denmark, I went out every night with my Danish friends and lit Copenhagen on fire. One night, while out in Copenhagen, I met a Dutch girl?a gymnastic teacher from Amsterdam?she was beautiful, and we hit it off. But in order to escape the insanity of the Scandinavians, I went to Amsterdam with my Dutch princess to dry out and sober up. We hung out in Amsterdam and visited the coffee shops and smoked blond hash all day. Man, we smoked so much blond hash that my hair turned blond after only seven days. I?m not kidding. Too much hash will do crazy things to your body. Still, I went back every day just to sample the crazy pot menu they had. The coffee shops in Amsterdam sure do know how to make a menu!
After a week of sampling the menu, however, my Dutch princess had to go to the airport to pick up her boyfriend. I had nothing else to do; I went along for the ride. Yeah, it seemed strange at the time but hell; I stayed with them for another week. I didn?t care, I had my fun with the Dutch Princess but, to tell you the truth, I was still missing the donkey.
The next day I went back to Denmark?to a community inside Copenhagen called, Christiana. I went to a place called Snoopy?s bar inside Christiana and smoked the earth pipe. What is an earth pipe? Well, you drill a hole in the ground with a broom stick make another hole in the ground and put a screen over that hole, then place hash on top of screen and light it up. The smoke fills the hole in the ground up with smoke and you just place your lips over the earth and inhale the smoke, just like the Indians used to do, I think? After a week of smoking the earth pipe, I started coming down with Anthrax like symptoms from all the dirt I inhaled, so I headed back to London, England. Back in London, what do you think I saw? Yep, they were still standing in a line that stretched all the way back to France, trying to get a glimpse of Diana and Charles gifts. The English are absolutely mad.
(Europe)
After exhausting my financial windfall of $2500, I went back to Canada rejuvenated. I finished school, graduating in marketing. After graduating, I went to Europe for the summer. First, I went to London, England, and passed by Buckingham Palace to see what all the commotion was about. At Buckingham Palace I saw the largest line of people I?ve ever witnessed in my life. There were thousands of people cued up, waiting to see Princess Diana and Charles wedding gifts. The line was so long that it stretched all the way back to the English Channel. I?m not kidding. I left London and traveled around Europe for 5 months, visiting Amsterdam, France, Italy, Greece, etc. Europe is beautiful and the people are wonderful. I traveled by train and met a lot of people, old people and young people; students just like me. I made lots of friends before coming back full-circle, 5 months later, to London, England where unbelievably, people were still standing in line to see Princess Diana and Charles wedding gifts. 5 months later!
The whole European trip was to figure out what to do with my life. I camped on the beach in the south of France, went to Monte Carlo and split a room with some Americans, then took a train to Rome where, Romanian gypsy kids hit me up for money everywhere I went. I couldn?t escape them. I met a gypsy lady who kept saying, ?Amore! Amore!? every time I walked past her. Then I saw a policeman get into the back of a Ford 150 Econoline conversion van?with a teardrop window in the back and tinted windows all around. This was in the parking lot behind the train station. A few moments later I saw the van rocking back and forth. Right then I figured out she was a prostitute. I?m not so bright.
After witnessing that spectacle, I got on a ferry to Greece. Once in Greece, I got on a train and smoked hash with some people, got caught, and hid in the bathroom to avoid getting kicked off. Everyone got kicked off but me. Everyone was standing outside the train asking, ?What happened to the fat guy?? Little did they know, I was still on the train, waving to them from the window of the bathroom, smoking their black hash that they left behind. I just smiled and waved to them as the train pulled away?blowing smoke to them like a choo-choo train.
At the next stop, the conductors had a shift-change and I was free to come out from hiding. I went to a campsite on the beach. There, I saw the big dipper; it was so close, so huge, that I could almost climb on top of it. Ok, maybe I was little drunk on ouzo at the time, but I was having the time of my life. In Corfu, I met a beautiful girl but got ditched by her. I bought another bottle of ouzo and licked my wounds, and suddenly, I got a revelation: the idea occurred to me to be a sailor on yachts! It was a genius plan. Ok, I owe that revelation to ouzo.
Before leaving to pursue my new revelation, I went to Crete and met some Danish guys. We partied like rock stars. Man those Scandinavians sure can drink! I rented a motorcycle in Crete and nearly killed myself. I took the bike on the beach?big mistake. I got charged extra for what they called ?Beach Damage,? whatever that meant. That night, while out partying with the Danish guys, I got drunk on ouzo and blacked out. I went back to the motorcycle rental shop that over-charged me and stole their donkey that they had tied to the tree in the front of their store. They had this donkey?Dolly the Donkey?she was always tied to a tree outside the rental shop. I borrowed Dolly for the evening and rode her into town, showing her off to everyone, eventually charging people for rides. I loved that donkey and she loved me back. I kept feeding her apples, carrots, ice cream and ouzo. After I got the donkey drunk, I took her back to the campsite where Dolly and I passed out in donkey vomit. I woke up the next morning spooned up against her. People were coming by all morning and taking our pictures. Ok, it was a little embarrassing, but man, I sure do miss that donkey.
The next day I headed to Denmark with my new Danish friends in order to escape donkey theft charges. Some people even accused me of sleeping with Dolly the donkey. That?s crazy. She wasn?t even my type.
In Denmark, I went out every night with my Danish friends and lit Copenhagen on fire. One night, while out in Copenhagen, I met a Dutch girl?a gymnastic teacher from Amsterdam?she was beautiful, and we hit it off. But in order to escape the insanity of the Scandinavians, I went to Amsterdam with my Dutch princess to dry out and sober up. We hung out in Amsterdam and visited the coffee shops and smoked blond hash all day. Man, we smoked so much blond hash that my hair turned blond after only seven days. I?m not kidding. Too much hash will do crazy things to your body. Still, I went back every day just to sample the crazy pot menu they had. The coffee shops in Amsterdam sure do know how to make a menu!
After a week of sampling the menu, however, my Dutch princess had to go to the airport to pick up her boyfriend. I had nothing else to do; I went along for the ride. Yeah, it seemed strange at the time but hell; I stayed with them for another week. I didn?t care, I had my fun with the Dutch Princess but, to tell you the truth, I was still missing the donkey.
The next day I went back to Denmark?to a community inside Copenhagen called, Christiana. I went to a place called Snoopy?s bar inside Christiana and smoked the earth pipe. What is an earth pipe? Well, you drill a hole in the ground with a broom stick make another hole in the ground and put a screen over that hole, then place hash on top of screen and light it up. The smoke fills the hole in the ground up with smoke and you just place your lips over the earth and inhale the smoke, just like the Indians used to do, I think? After a week of smoking the earth pipe, I started coming down with Anthrax like symptoms from all the dirt I inhaled, so I headed back to London, England. Back in London, what do you think I saw? Yep, they were still standing in a line that stretched all the way back to France, trying to get a glimpse of Diana and Charles gifts. The English are absolutely mad.
Part 3, Chapter 256 (Millionaire Mike)
(Mike just passed away this past weekend....this is his story)
After Europe, I went back home and cashed in my life insurance policy. I was broke. Remember, this was 1983. Things were different back then. For those unfamiliar with how life insurance policies work, it’s simple; it works like this: after paying premiums for so many years you eventually get to the point where the dividends that you’ve been paying will eventually pay the premiums so that you don’t have to make any more payments. Once this is achieved, if you need the money, you can cash them in.
Well, I cashed all mine in for a few thousand dollars in order to go to Seafarer’s school. The catalyst to get me to get out of Canada was simple: Snow.
True story.
I was walking down the street one day and it was snowing outside. Snowflakes were hitting my glasses as I walked through two feet of slush. I watched snowflakes melt on the outside of my glasses and then stream down the front of my glasses until they eventually formed a drop of condensed water on the rim. The condensed water slowly accumulated until it grew larger and larger. I watched this for oh, I don’t know…maybe 5 minutes before it eventually dripped onto my lip. I said, “No more ****ing winters!”
I moved to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida the next day and checked into the “Wish You Were Here Inn” motel. It was recently purchased by an ex-New York City cop, Fred Taylor.
Fred was a nice guy. The manager’s name was Sammy. He let me stay on a sofa the first night for free. After a short time, the manager was fired and I got the manager’s job just before Christmas. The motel was located right on the inter-coastal, right smack in the middle of the spring break parties and all of the chaos that followed them. The motel had mostly prostitutes staying there, but hell, I didn’t care. This was way back before crack was invented, so most of them looked pretty healthy, and some of them even had a full set of teeth!
Yeah, it was strange at first because, well, you know, they’re up all night having sex, but what could I do about it? I just turned the TV up louder and went to sleep watching Hawaii 5-0 re-runs.
I stayed the first winter, just happy to have a job in Ft. Lauderdale. A cleaning lady that was working there, Wanda, got injured pretty badly, so her alcoholic boyfriend took over the maid’s duties for the motel and you know what, he was the best damn maid the motel had ever had. I’m not kidding! That guy cleaned better than anyone women I’d ever known. And we needed him because spring break was so chaotic and busy that every room was full to the point that we had to resort to renting spots in the basement, on lounge chairs next to the pool, even underneath the trees next to the pool. Unfortunately, I got fired. I was sleeping with choice prostitutes, and Fred, the ex-cop, got jealous that I was sleeping with some of the pretty ones that shaved their bush. Again, remember, this was 1983…women didn’t shave their bushes back then. They were like the Heart of Darkness. They were wild and untamed. They were jungles.
I went back to Canada and attended the Seafarers institute in order to become a chef on yachts. After graduating, I went back to Ft. Lauderdale and would you believe, I got my manager’s job back at the “Wish You Were Here Inn.”
Eventually, I met a guy, Steve McCalister, who owned a charter sailboat. One day, he invited me to come along with him for a small cruise; just to see what is was like. It was a wine and cheese cruise. On this particular day, five girls came along and as we sailed passed a US Navy aircraft carrier, five thousand sailors standing on deck got the shock of their life when all five girls took their bikini tops off and jiggled their breasts back and forth. The sailors went crazy, and a few moments later a commander came over the ships loudspeaker and said, “There will be no shore leave if you don’t get back to your posts. Now Chop, chop!”
(The SS Synthesis)
Unfortunately, my job at the “Wish you were here inn” only lasted a month, so I rented a sailboat for $200 a month with the understanding that I had to do repairs in order to keep the rent cheap. The work on the sailboat consisted of waxing, polishing, and just basic boat maintenance. On the side, I did some free-lance work—waxing and polishing other boats in the marina in order to supplement my income.
I joined a yacht crew placement agency. One day I got a call; it was for a temporary position on a 132 foot yacht, worth around 8 million dollars. I was going to be a replacement cook for the main chef that needed to go on vacation. The name of the boat was the SS Synthesis, and the owner of boat was Dr. Smith. The doctor’s wealth had something to do with the birth control pill. After 6 weeks of cooking on the boat, it had a relocation cruise where it headed north to Maryland. During the relocation trip, I got sea sick. I thought I was going to die. After the main chef came back to work, I went back to Canada. In Canada, another snowflake it my glasses, and again, I watched it streak down the outside of my glasses before forming a drop of water on the rim. Well, that’s all I needed to see in order to understand the logic of warm weather. I went back to Florida to catch my next job.
Before leaving Canada, a friend of mine, Crazy Kelly, asked me to come and work with him. Crazy Kelly had a company van for the weekend and he wanted to go out and celebrate. Unfortunately, we got into an accident and I got a bruised kidney and lacerated liver. After I healed, I filed a lawsuit for an insurance claim against Crazy Kelly and won three thousand dollars from the van’s insurance company. I did the right thing…I gave some of the money to Crazy Kelly, and took the rest down to Florida with me.
(The SS Octopussy)
Back down in Florida, I missed the first job, but I got the position for the second job that I interviewed for. It was on the SS Octopussy. The owner of the boat, an Arab named Katava Algonam, owned another larger yacht—166 foot yacht called the “SS Daria.” His wife was the heiress to the Pepsi Cola fortune. Unfortunately, the boat that I was hired for was the SS Octpussy—it was the boat that housed the security guards for the larger yacht—the SS Daria. Basically, all we did on the Octopussy was follow the big boat around wherever it went. I was in Ft. Lauderdale buying provisions for the boat while the SS Daria was conducting its sea trials, but during the tests the engine seized up and that delayed our trip while they rebuilt the engine. After the repairs, we went to the Turks and Cacaos islands. There, I picked up some lobster and conch. After a few days we tried to go to St. Thomas but the weather was so bad and the seas so rough, that instead, we went to Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic.
Remember, this is back when prostitutes were only $5 dollars (1983). Being only 21, I wanted to spend $10, so I got two girls. The two girls ended up being sisters. They got me drunk on Dominican rum and then took me back to their home, which was really just a small wooden shack with a corrugated tin roof and a mismatch of different driftwoods holding the walls together. It was somewhere up in the hills of Puerto Plata. I met their father and mother—very nice people, generous people. Good people. The mother made me coffee in order to try and sober me up. I was too drunk to do anything, so they made a bed for me in their living room and I slept underneath a mosquito net, next to their dog. However, sometime in the middle of the night, I felt I was going to get sick and I didn’t want to get sick in their house because first, they didn’t have a bathroom in their house—they had an outhouse—and secondly, I didn’t want to wake everyone up. So I opened the door and crawled on my hand and knees to a nearby shed, getting sick the whole entire way there.
Remember, I was somewhere up in the mountains and it was cold, very cold, and it was raining as well. I crawled into a nearby shed, and into a stall where I remember there was something warm. I was freezing. Whatever it was felt good. Really good.
The next morning, the younger brother came out to the shed and found me spooned up against their donkey. We were keeping each other warm. He screamed and the father, mother and the sisters all came running out to the shed and found me completely naked and passed out next to their donkey. I don’t know if they ever got over the shock of it. I think they all may have gotten the wrong idea and thought that maybe I tried to make love to their donkey during the night. The father was eyeing me suspiciously. I had a morning erection. It was embarrassing. Very embarrassing. But I don’t think they realize just how ****ing cold and sick I was during the night. I would have crawled into a pit of viper snakes in order to keep warm.
Later, we went to St. Thomas where we all got fired for being late in bringing the SS Octopussy into port. I didn’t care. I got my $10 dollars worth of fun and a night with a donkey to remind of me of the trip. I fell in love with the Dominican Republic. I knew right then and there that this was my kind of place.
To be continued...
(Mike just passed away this past weekend....this is his story)
After Europe, I went back home and cashed in my life insurance policy. I was broke. Remember, this was 1983. Things were different back then. For those unfamiliar with how life insurance policies work, it’s simple; it works like this: after paying premiums for so many years you eventually get to the point where the dividends that you’ve been paying will eventually pay the premiums so that you don’t have to make any more payments. Once this is achieved, if you need the money, you can cash them in.
Well, I cashed all mine in for a few thousand dollars in order to go to Seafarer’s school. The catalyst to get me to get out of Canada was simple: Snow.
True story.
I was walking down the street one day and it was snowing outside. Snowflakes were hitting my glasses as I walked through two feet of slush. I watched snowflakes melt on the outside of my glasses and then stream down the front of my glasses until they eventually formed a drop of condensed water on the rim. The condensed water slowly accumulated until it grew larger and larger. I watched this for oh, I don’t know…maybe 5 minutes before it eventually dripped onto my lip. I said, “No more ****ing winters!”
I moved to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida the next day and checked into the “Wish You Were Here Inn” motel. It was recently purchased by an ex-New York City cop, Fred Taylor.
Fred was a nice guy. The manager’s name was Sammy. He let me stay on a sofa the first night for free. After a short time, the manager was fired and I got the manager’s job just before Christmas. The motel was located right on the inter-coastal, right smack in the middle of the spring break parties and all of the chaos that followed them. The motel had mostly prostitutes staying there, but hell, I didn’t care. This was way back before crack was invented, so most of them looked pretty healthy, and some of them even had a full set of teeth!
Yeah, it was strange at first because, well, you know, they’re up all night having sex, but what could I do about it? I just turned the TV up louder and went to sleep watching Hawaii 5-0 re-runs.
I stayed the first winter, just happy to have a job in Ft. Lauderdale. A cleaning lady that was working there, Wanda, got injured pretty badly, so her alcoholic boyfriend took over the maid’s duties for the motel and you know what, he was the best damn maid the motel had ever had. I’m not kidding! That guy cleaned better than anyone women I’d ever known. And we needed him because spring break was so chaotic and busy that every room was full to the point that we had to resort to renting spots in the basement, on lounge chairs next to the pool, even underneath the trees next to the pool. Unfortunately, I got fired. I was sleeping with choice prostitutes, and Fred, the ex-cop, got jealous that I was sleeping with some of the pretty ones that shaved their bush. Again, remember, this was 1983…women didn’t shave their bushes back then. They were like the Heart of Darkness. They were wild and untamed. They were jungles.
I went back to Canada and attended the Seafarers institute in order to become a chef on yachts. After graduating, I went back to Ft. Lauderdale and would you believe, I got my manager’s job back at the “Wish You Were Here Inn.”
Eventually, I met a guy, Steve McCalister, who owned a charter sailboat. One day, he invited me to come along with him for a small cruise; just to see what is was like. It was a wine and cheese cruise. On this particular day, five girls came along and as we sailed passed a US Navy aircraft carrier, five thousand sailors standing on deck got the shock of their life when all five girls took their bikini tops off and jiggled their breasts back and forth. The sailors went crazy, and a few moments later a commander came over the ships loudspeaker and said, “There will be no shore leave if you don’t get back to your posts. Now Chop, chop!”
(The SS Synthesis)
Unfortunately, my job at the “Wish you were here inn” only lasted a month, so I rented a sailboat for $200 a month with the understanding that I had to do repairs in order to keep the rent cheap. The work on the sailboat consisted of waxing, polishing, and just basic boat maintenance. On the side, I did some free-lance work—waxing and polishing other boats in the marina in order to supplement my income.
I joined a yacht crew placement agency. One day I got a call; it was for a temporary position on a 132 foot yacht, worth around 8 million dollars. I was going to be a replacement cook for the main chef that needed to go on vacation. The name of the boat was the SS Synthesis, and the owner of boat was Dr. Smith. The doctor’s wealth had something to do with the birth control pill. After 6 weeks of cooking on the boat, it had a relocation cruise where it headed north to Maryland. During the relocation trip, I got sea sick. I thought I was going to die. After the main chef came back to work, I went back to Canada. In Canada, another snowflake it my glasses, and again, I watched it streak down the outside of my glasses before forming a drop of water on the rim. Well, that’s all I needed to see in order to understand the logic of warm weather. I went back to Florida to catch my next job.
Before leaving Canada, a friend of mine, Crazy Kelly, asked me to come and work with him. Crazy Kelly had a company van for the weekend and he wanted to go out and celebrate. Unfortunately, we got into an accident and I got a bruised kidney and lacerated liver. After I healed, I filed a lawsuit for an insurance claim against Crazy Kelly and won three thousand dollars from the van’s insurance company. I did the right thing…I gave some of the money to Crazy Kelly, and took the rest down to Florida with me.
(The SS Octopussy)
Back down in Florida, I missed the first job, but I got the position for the second job that I interviewed for. It was on the SS Octopussy. The owner of the boat, an Arab named Katava Algonam, owned another larger yacht—166 foot yacht called the “SS Daria.” His wife was the heiress to the Pepsi Cola fortune. Unfortunately, the boat that I was hired for was the SS Octpussy—it was the boat that housed the security guards for the larger yacht—the SS Daria. Basically, all we did on the Octopussy was follow the big boat around wherever it went. I was in Ft. Lauderdale buying provisions for the boat while the SS Daria was conducting its sea trials, but during the tests the engine seized up and that delayed our trip while they rebuilt the engine. After the repairs, we went to the Turks and Cacaos islands. There, I picked up some lobster and conch. After a few days we tried to go to St. Thomas but the weather was so bad and the seas so rough, that instead, we went to Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic.
Remember, this is back when prostitutes were only $5 dollars (1983). Being only 21, I wanted to spend $10, so I got two girls. The two girls ended up being sisters. They got me drunk on Dominican rum and then took me back to their home, which was really just a small wooden shack with a corrugated tin roof and a mismatch of different driftwoods holding the walls together. It was somewhere up in the hills of Puerto Plata. I met their father and mother—very nice people, generous people. Good people. The mother made me coffee in order to try and sober me up. I was too drunk to do anything, so they made a bed for me in their living room and I slept underneath a mosquito net, next to their dog. However, sometime in the middle of the night, I felt I was going to get sick and I didn’t want to get sick in their house because first, they didn’t have a bathroom in their house—they had an outhouse—and secondly, I didn’t want to wake everyone up. So I opened the door and crawled on my hand and knees to a nearby shed, getting sick the whole entire way there.
Remember, I was somewhere up in the mountains and it was cold, very cold, and it was raining as well. I crawled into a nearby shed, and into a stall where I remember there was something warm. I was freezing. Whatever it was felt good. Really good.
The next morning, the younger brother came out to the shed and found me spooned up against their donkey. We were keeping each other warm. He screamed and the father, mother and the sisters all came running out to the shed and found me completely naked and passed out next to their donkey. I don’t know if they ever got over the shock of it. I think they all may have gotten the wrong idea and thought that maybe I tried to make love to their donkey during the night. The father was eyeing me suspiciously. I had a morning erection. It was embarrassing. Very embarrassing. But I don’t think they realize just how ****ing cold and sick I was during the night. I would have crawled into a pit of viper snakes in order to keep warm.
Later, we went to St. Thomas where we all got fired for being late in bringing the SS Octopussy into port. I didn’t care. I got my $10 dollars worth of fun and a night with a donkey to remind of me of the trip. I fell in love with the Dominican Republic. I knew right then and there that this was my kind of place.
To be continued...
Chapter 272 (Midgets with big dicks)
A midget, Collin—from Colorado, walked into O’Shay’s and up to the bar. O’Shay’s bar stools are quite high off the ground. Too high. They’re so high, in fact, that you feel as if you’re in another time zone when you sit on them. The temperature difference between the ground level vs sitting on the bar stools can be as much as 10c. No joke. Sometimes, if I’ve had too much caffeine, I get dizzy sitting on them and have to climb back down. I’m prone to altitude sickness. I often refer to the bar stools at O'Shay's as sitting in the Widow’s Peak. They’re not just high, they’re an emergency ladder to escape shoe-shine boys, short prostitutes, and beach salesmen.
On the sides of each bar stool are wooden support beams that keep the whole ensemble together. There are eight wooden beams altogether that ring around the stools in two different cross sections—four near the bottom, and four near the top.
Collin, the midget, walked straight up to one of the bar stools and proceeded to use the wooden beams like a step-ladder. He climbed straight to the top of the stool like he was a fireman. He made it look effortless. He made it look easy. Too easy. He climbed up and down the ladder like he was painting a house.
Big Frank greeted Collin when he walked into the bar, and then he made some small talk with him before Collin got distracted by a group of vampires sitting around the bar. While Collin talked to one of the vampires at the bar—a purple hair drag queen looking vampire from the Planet of the Apes, Big Frank went about his usual business of greeting people walking into the bar while chewing on Viagra that he keeps next to his drink on a bar napkin.
After about 30 minutes of sitting at the bar, Collin climbed down his bar stool and wobbled over to Big Frank and said, “Do you know that there is a prostitute sitting at your bar?”
Big Frank lifted his eyebrows, looked over at Alabama Gary, and said, “No! Are you sure?”
“Yes. She is sitting right there at your bar,” Collin said, looking over at her.
Big Frank turned to Alabama Gary, shaking his head back and forth, and said, “Hmm. I wonder where she came from?”
“She says that she is Dominican,” Collin answered.
“How long you been here on the island?” Big Frank asked, chewing on his Viagra.
“I just got here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Colorado.”
“And you never seen a prostitute before?”
“Not in a restaurant!”
“Hmm…sit down. Let me explain something to you,” Big Frank began, “Look around. They’re all over here. The North Coast is completely saturated with them. You cannot escape them. They’re like ants; they’re everywhere.”
“Well, I ain’t never paid for sex, and I ain’t starting now!” Collin answered.
“I guess you’ve never been married or been on a date?” Alabama said, laughing and Hee-Hawing, slapping his knee.
“I got a big dick. I don’t pay for sex,” Collin answered, looking at Alabama Gary.
Big Frank, Alabama Gary and Collin all laughed together, and then Collin went back to the bar and climbed up his bar stool and ordered another Presidente beer.
The next day, Collin came back into the bar. He walked over to Big Frank and Alabama Gary and said, “I can’t believe all the girls here that need money. Everyone is asking me for money. I’ve never been anywhere where everyone asks you for money. It’s crazy. It’s insane!”
“Look around Collin…it’s a third world country.”
“Yeah, but I never expected so many women here would be working as prostitutes. They’re everywhere…and they all need money. A lot of money.”
“So, did you break down and give them any money?” Big Frank asked, raising his eyebrows.
“No. I took home a girl last night and told her, “I don’t pay for sex.””
“Ok. What happened?”
“She wanted US $100 dollars for sex. I told her straight up, “I don’t pay for sex, but I will give you US $50 as a charity gift…towards your education.”
“Ok. Then what happened?”
“I had sex with her.”
“So you paid!?”
“No, I just told you…I gave her US $50 as a charity gift.”
“Of course you did!”
A midget, Collin—from Colorado, walked into O’Shay’s and up to the bar. O’Shay’s bar stools are quite high off the ground. Too high. They’re so high, in fact, that you feel as if you’re in another time zone when you sit on them. The temperature difference between the ground level vs sitting on the bar stools can be as much as 10c. No joke. Sometimes, if I’ve had too much caffeine, I get dizzy sitting on them and have to climb back down. I’m prone to altitude sickness. I often refer to the bar stools at O'Shay's as sitting in the Widow’s Peak. They’re not just high, they’re an emergency ladder to escape shoe-shine boys, short prostitutes, and beach salesmen.
On the sides of each bar stool are wooden support beams that keep the whole ensemble together. There are eight wooden beams altogether that ring around the stools in two different cross sections—four near the bottom, and four near the top.
Collin, the midget, walked straight up to one of the bar stools and proceeded to use the wooden beams like a step-ladder. He climbed straight to the top of the stool like he was a fireman. He made it look effortless. He made it look easy. Too easy. He climbed up and down the ladder like he was painting a house.
Big Frank greeted Collin when he walked into the bar, and then he made some small talk with him before Collin got distracted by a group of vampires sitting around the bar. While Collin talked to one of the vampires at the bar—a purple hair drag queen looking vampire from the Planet of the Apes, Big Frank went about his usual business of greeting people walking into the bar while chewing on Viagra that he keeps next to his drink on a bar napkin.
After about 30 minutes of sitting at the bar, Collin climbed down his bar stool and wobbled over to Big Frank and said, “Do you know that there is a prostitute sitting at your bar?”
Big Frank lifted his eyebrows, looked over at Alabama Gary, and said, “No! Are you sure?”
“Yes. She is sitting right there at your bar,” Collin said, looking over at her.
Big Frank turned to Alabama Gary, shaking his head back and forth, and said, “Hmm. I wonder where she came from?”
“She says that she is Dominican,” Collin answered.
“How long you been here on the island?” Big Frank asked, chewing on his Viagra.
“I just got here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Colorado.”
“And you never seen a prostitute before?”
“Not in a restaurant!”
“Hmm…sit down. Let me explain something to you,” Big Frank began, “Look around. They’re all over here. The North Coast is completely saturated with them. You cannot escape them. They’re like ants; they’re everywhere.”
“Well, I ain’t never paid for sex, and I ain’t starting now!” Collin answered.
“I guess you’ve never been married or been on a date?” Alabama said, laughing and Hee-Hawing, slapping his knee.
“I got a big dick. I don’t pay for sex,” Collin answered, looking at Alabama Gary.
Big Frank, Alabama Gary and Collin all laughed together, and then Collin went back to the bar and climbed up his bar stool and ordered another Presidente beer.
The next day, Collin came back into the bar. He walked over to Big Frank and Alabama Gary and said, “I can’t believe all the girls here that need money. Everyone is asking me for money. I’ve never been anywhere where everyone asks you for money. It’s crazy. It’s insane!”
“Look around Collin…it’s a third world country.”
“Yeah, but I never expected so many women here would be working as prostitutes. They’re everywhere…and they all need money. A lot of money.”
“So, did you break down and give them any money?” Big Frank asked, raising his eyebrows.
“No. I took home a girl last night and told her, “I don’t pay for sex.””
“Ok. What happened?”
“She wanted US $100 dollars for sex. I told her straight up, “I don’t pay for sex, but I will give you US $50 as a charity gift…towards your education.”
“Ok. Then what happened?”
“I had sex with her.”
“So you paid!?”
“No, I just told you…I gave her US $50 as a charity gift.”
“Of course you did!”
I had the pleasure of meeting Rice & Beans (Mike) this past weekend in Cabarete. What a fantastic, funny, gregarious man. He is from Boston and is a fun guy to talk to. He also keeps good company around him...the sexy female sort. He definitely knows how to have fun and is adventurous.
Stop back in Mike next time you're in town. And good luck to your Patriots!
Frank
Last edited by a moderator:
Too kind...too kind...
Bravo..bravo
It was nice to meet you Frank, I'm at JFK right now waiting for a connecting flight..
Tell big Frank I had a great time hanging with him and talking.....
He's a character.....
..
I'll definitely be back for sure.....
..
What a beach....!!!!!
Bravo..bravo
It was nice to meet you Frank, I'm at JFK right now waiting for a connecting flight..
Tell big Frank I had a great time hanging with him and talking.....
He's a character.....
..
I'll definitely be back for sure.....
..
What a beach....!!!!!
Chapter 276 (Talk Radio with Frank & Frank)
Each week, Frank and Frank, Bar fags at Jose O?Shay's, review the week?s news, offering analysis and maybe a joke or two about the most important developments on the North Coast.
Frank 1: Hola, I am back from my vacation with a fabulous tan and a desire to quit my job and move to the Dominican Republic forever. Alas, I still need to work another 25 years slaving for the Man, unless, of course, I can get a disability check from the government--in which case--I?m retiring and returning to live in the DR forever and sipping Pina Colodas out of coconuts on the beach.
Frank 2: Admit it, you couldn?t stand to be away. Our weekly chats about the North Coast are much more fun than work.
Frank 1: Right.
This last week has been mostly bad news. The entire Cabarete has lost electricity. The electricity took a dive, then rebounded and came back to life for, oh?I don?t know?maybe 15 seconds, before dying again.
Suddenly, the electricity rebounded again and came back on for 5 long seconds before finally dying and staying off for about 30 hours, until around 7:50 last night. I have no idea which electrical rebound we?re on right now, but they say the problem is finally fixed! I also have a bridge for sale.
I think we?re still seeing the fallout from the recent theft of the old transformer (Someone stole the old Transformer and sold it for scrap metal), though apparently the thieves were mostly men looking for beer money. They were last seen carrying a massive Transformer on the back of a motoconcho and heading towards La Cienaga. True story.
Oh, and a French Canadian was spotted trying to mate with one of the leprechauns in front of Jose O?Shay?s. Apparently, French Canadians get really horny after the Toronto Blue Jays win. They'll hump anything in an excuse to celebrate. I guess some people just can?t wait until they get home before dry humping something slow.
One thing I do want to talk about this week is some much needed attention the North Coast has been receiving this past month now that the new Cruise Ship Port/Terminal in Puerto Plata is up and running.
It?s a beautiful looking port, built directly inside a bay that they spent months drudging and displacing sediment from one side of the bay to the next?in a system that only true Dominicans can appreciate--basically, moving sediment and trash from one side of the bay to the other side only to watch it slide back down into the water again and stink up the area for months.
But it?s supposed to help obese Midwest Americans from the Ohio Valley?who have never left the comforts of their Lazy Boy chair?experience the "real" Dominican Republic for the first time while the island's beautiful Sankies await to seduce them.
My first reactions to the new cruise ship port/Terminal was A.) Cool, and B.) ugh.
?Cool? because this new port is supposed to bring fat tourists to the North Coast for the first time since the last Jet Blue plane landed and brought 400 obese African Americans from the East Coast with their boxes of Glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms to Sosua.
It is also an interesting use of space ? a closed-in port that pretty much keeps everyone locked inside like a prison unless they are getting on a tour bus for an excursion. Basically, the cruise lines want everyone to stay inside the confines of the port to spend their hard earned money inside the Carnival Cruise shopping center. More on that later.
But I said ?ugh? because this, along with so many other recent start-ups on the north coast, seems like a thing created to satisfy the whims of fat people who are flush with cash and mostly need to worry about so-called first-world problems. If I ever get to the point where my biggest dilemma in life is that it?s too difficult for me to buy over-priced plastic trinkets & Presidente T-Shirts, then you can start playing the world?s tiniest violin for me. Am I being too cynical?
Frank 1: I get worried about the DR focusing on stuff for rich people (I?ve fretted about it before), but from what I can tell, Playa Grande?s new golf course for ?the 1/10 of 1 Percent,? is making playing golf impossible for normal people. Not that I play golf?although I am a professional at slicing balls and driving golf balls into the front windshields of parked cars.
Instead, the ?New? Playa Grande golf course sounds more like a glorified Caddy Shack for the ultra rich who want a Sex Vacation away from their wives but now must spend a fortune pretending to play golf. The sacrifices we men must make. It?s disingenuous and heartless.
When I think of all those extra-curricular sex vacations for the most ubiquitous among us, I think of all of the genital warts we must be missing. Oh well, it?s all in a part of a day?s life in the Caribbean. What?s a vacation without a genital wart here or there? I got a mouth full of them right now.
I bet that when these sexual agents working near the golf course begin to work their magic and throw their legs up to Jesus, the men will be flocking down here from the east & west coasts with enthusiasm?and even more Glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms. More on that later.
Instead of going to Thailand for an illicit sexual romp and agonizing over lots of choices of Soapy-Soapy massages, you will hear people say, ?Hey, book me a weekend on the North Coast of the DR for a golfing vacation.
Religious Missionaries
Religious missionaries have been using the North coast as an excuse to get money from their congregations in order to come down to the north coast and build sidewalks, houses, and other things while making a vacation out of it. Some of them end up at Elvis?s for Happy Hour. How do I know? Because I know Elvis.
Don?t get me wrong, missionaries are doing some really good work here. A lot of the missionaries have made huge sacrifices for the poor, and this deserves an applause and ?Thank you.? No mistake about it, there are some really good ones here who have made deep sacrifices for the Dominican People.
But don?t kid yourself, the religious missionaries are also here for a purpose?to help spread their message and try and convert as many people as possible over to their way of thinking and their denomination. Without new recruits to replace the ones that leave the church, die out, or succumb to madness, the denominations will die out. Just ask the Shakers and Quakers.
Here, we have Mormons, Jehovah Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventist, Four Square, Baptists, Evangelicals?just to name a few. I?ve even met some Scientologists that came down here to recruit people before they gave up and went back to Curacao.
This kind of thing has been going on for years, but now that Evangelism has spread rapidly, this sort of thing has found mainstream appeal for the uninitiated living in the campo. Evangelism has really taken off in certain areas of the island where people lack education, teeth, and something commonly called a "Toilet." Praise Jesus!
Can you tell I?m really excited about glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms and Religious Missionaries? Well, that?s not entirely true, I find the religious missionaries pretty dumb. I hate to say it, but I can?t wait for them to take over the world.
Frank 2: Why the skepticism towards religion?
Frank 1: I watched Exorcist & Deep Throat a lot as a kid. I figure the religious fanatics will kill us all at some point and take over the world.
I sound like a Luddite. Sometimes I can?t believe I?m unemployed.
Frank 2: So let?s get this straight ? in the span of a few paragraphs, you went from worrying about Glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms & Mouth Herpes to Jesus Freaks plans to enslave us all?
Actually, come to think of it, I don?t really have much evidence that you?re wrong.
No, but seriously: I?ve been on the fence about these worries regarding Religious Missionaries and Madness. On the one hand, as you point out, many smart people have expressed real alarm about mouth herpes. On the other hand, glow in the dark condoms can be potentially useful in finding the right hole when the electricity is out and its dark in the room. I can?t help but celebrate any innovation in the field of sex.
What can I say? Some men like to watch the world burn.
Frank 1: I think we ended on an optimistic note? It?s good to be back.
Each week, Frank and Frank, Bar fags at Jose O?Shay's, review the week?s news, offering analysis and maybe a joke or two about the most important developments on the North Coast.
Frank 1: Hola, I am back from my vacation with a fabulous tan and a desire to quit my job and move to the Dominican Republic forever. Alas, I still need to work another 25 years slaving for the Man, unless, of course, I can get a disability check from the government--in which case--I?m retiring and returning to live in the DR forever and sipping Pina Colodas out of coconuts on the beach.
Frank 2: Admit it, you couldn?t stand to be away. Our weekly chats about the North Coast are much more fun than work.
Frank 1: Right.
This last week has been mostly bad news. The entire Cabarete has lost electricity. The electricity took a dive, then rebounded and came back to life for, oh?I don?t know?maybe 15 seconds, before dying again.
Suddenly, the electricity rebounded again and came back on for 5 long seconds before finally dying and staying off for about 30 hours, until around 7:50 last night. I have no idea which electrical rebound we?re on right now, but they say the problem is finally fixed! I also have a bridge for sale.
I think we?re still seeing the fallout from the recent theft of the old transformer (Someone stole the old Transformer and sold it for scrap metal), though apparently the thieves were mostly men looking for beer money. They were last seen carrying a massive Transformer on the back of a motoconcho and heading towards La Cienaga. True story.
Oh, and a French Canadian was spotted trying to mate with one of the leprechauns in front of Jose O?Shay?s. Apparently, French Canadians get really horny after the Toronto Blue Jays win. They'll hump anything in an excuse to celebrate. I guess some people just can?t wait until they get home before dry humping something slow.
One thing I do want to talk about this week is some much needed attention the North Coast has been receiving this past month now that the new Cruise Ship Port/Terminal in Puerto Plata is up and running.
It?s a beautiful looking port, built directly inside a bay that they spent months drudging and displacing sediment from one side of the bay to the next?in a system that only true Dominicans can appreciate--basically, moving sediment and trash from one side of the bay to the other side only to watch it slide back down into the water again and stink up the area for months.
But it?s supposed to help obese Midwest Americans from the Ohio Valley?who have never left the comforts of their Lazy Boy chair?experience the "real" Dominican Republic for the first time while the island's beautiful Sankies await to seduce them.
My first reactions to the new cruise ship port/Terminal was A.) Cool, and B.) ugh.
?Cool? because this new port is supposed to bring fat tourists to the North Coast for the first time since the last Jet Blue plane landed and brought 400 obese African Americans from the East Coast with their boxes of Glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms to Sosua.
It is also an interesting use of space ? a closed-in port that pretty much keeps everyone locked inside like a prison unless they are getting on a tour bus for an excursion. Basically, the cruise lines want everyone to stay inside the confines of the port to spend their hard earned money inside the Carnival Cruise shopping center. More on that later.
But I said ?ugh? because this, along with so many other recent start-ups on the north coast, seems like a thing created to satisfy the whims of fat people who are flush with cash and mostly need to worry about so-called first-world problems. If I ever get to the point where my biggest dilemma in life is that it?s too difficult for me to buy over-priced plastic trinkets & Presidente T-Shirts, then you can start playing the world?s tiniest violin for me. Am I being too cynical?
Frank 1: I get worried about the DR focusing on stuff for rich people (I?ve fretted about it before), but from what I can tell, Playa Grande?s new golf course for ?the 1/10 of 1 Percent,? is making playing golf impossible for normal people. Not that I play golf?although I am a professional at slicing balls and driving golf balls into the front windshields of parked cars.
Instead, the ?New? Playa Grande golf course sounds more like a glorified Caddy Shack for the ultra rich who want a Sex Vacation away from their wives but now must spend a fortune pretending to play golf. The sacrifices we men must make. It?s disingenuous and heartless.
When I think of all those extra-curricular sex vacations for the most ubiquitous among us, I think of all of the genital warts we must be missing. Oh well, it?s all in a part of a day?s life in the Caribbean. What?s a vacation without a genital wart here or there? I got a mouth full of them right now.
I bet that when these sexual agents working near the golf course begin to work their magic and throw their legs up to Jesus, the men will be flocking down here from the east & west coasts with enthusiasm?and even more Glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms. More on that later.
Instead of going to Thailand for an illicit sexual romp and agonizing over lots of choices of Soapy-Soapy massages, you will hear people say, ?Hey, book me a weekend on the North Coast of the DR for a golfing vacation.
Religious Missionaries
Religious missionaries have been using the North coast as an excuse to get money from their congregations in order to come down to the north coast and build sidewalks, houses, and other things while making a vacation out of it. Some of them end up at Elvis?s for Happy Hour. How do I know? Because I know Elvis.
Don?t get me wrong, missionaries are doing some really good work here. A lot of the missionaries have made huge sacrifices for the poor, and this deserves an applause and ?Thank you.? No mistake about it, there are some really good ones here who have made deep sacrifices for the Dominican People.
But don?t kid yourself, the religious missionaries are also here for a purpose?to help spread their message and try and convert as many people as possible over to their way of thinking and their denomination. Without new recruits to replace the ones that leave the church, die out, or succumb to madness, the denominations will die out. Just ask the Shakers and Quakers.
Here, we have Mormons, Jehovah Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventist, Four Square, Baptists, Evangelicals?just to name a few. I?ve even met some Scientologists that came down here to recruit people before they gave up and went back to Curacao.
This kind of thing has been going on for years, but now that Evangelism has spread rapidly, this sort of thing has found mainstream appeal for the uninitiated living in the campo. Evangelism has really taken off in certain areas of the island where people lack education, teeth, and something commonly called a "Toilet." Praise Jesus!
Can you tell I?m really excited about glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms and Religious Missionaries? Well, that?s not entirely true, I find the religious missionaries pretty dumb. I hate to say it, but I can?t wait for them to take over the world.
Frank 2: Why the skepticism towards religion?
Frank 1: I watched Exorcist & Deep Throat a lot as a kid. I figure the religious fanatics will kill us all at some point and take over the world.
I sound like a Luddite. Sometimes I can?t believe I?m unemployed.
Frank 2: So let?s get this straight ? in the span of a few paragraphs, you went from worrying about Glow-in-the-dark ribbed condoms & Mouth Herpes to Jesus Freaks plans to enslave us all?
Actually, come to think of it, I don?t really have much evidence that you?re wrong.
No, but seriously: I?ve been on the fence about these worries regarding Religious Missionaries and Madness. On the one hand, as you point out, many smart people have expressed real alarm about mouth herpes. On the other hand, glow in the dark condoms can be potentially useful in finding the right hole when the electricity is out and its dark in the room. I can?t help but celebrate any innovation in the field of sex.
What can I say? Some men like to watch the world burn.
Frank 1: I think we ended on an optimistic note? It?s good to be back.
Oh Francis - U make me laugh. Sadly the North Coast is not on my list, I head East now. But maybe I can make an exception and mosey over to U at the end of Jan.
I'm breaking my own rules and doing a Sand to the Beach tour....Oh well, rules are meant to be broken.
I'm breaking my own rules and doing a Sand to the Beach tour....Oh well, rules are meant to be broken.
I had the pleasure of meeting Rice & Beans (Mike) this past weekend in Cabarete. What a fantastic, funny, gregarious man. He is from Boston and is a fun guy to talk to. He also keeps good company around him...the sexy female sort. He definitely knows how to have fun and is adventurous.
Stop back in Mike next time you're in town. And good luck to your Patriots!
Frank
Nice pic guys.
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I pictured him as a short skinny, hyper, younger Puerto Rican. I don't know where I got the idea he was Spanish.
Great picture frank12. Thanks for sharing. You two look great together. Double trouble!