Please please.......enough with the Azz kissing,
I think I'm gonna vomit...
Love ya Frank.....
- Thread starter frank12
- Start date
Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Please please.......enough with the Azz kissing,
I think I'm gonna vomit...
Love ya Frank.....
I absolutely 100% can attest to this whole spectacle. I have taken those same Jetair fights from Brussels many times and
also the Arke flights from Amsterdam and the Dominicans always have huge suitcases wrapped in ducktape and are always
overweight and then start complaining loudly about having to pay.
Most then start opening up their suitcases then and there and start taking **** out of it on the floor.
They just cannot comprehend the idea of a luggage limit and that it really does apply to them as well ('pero yo necesito todo eso!!').
My wife once had to take a flight from Madrid to Amsterdam which cost 80 euros and then had to pay 290 euros in overweight
baggage. I was not there and not amused when she told me.
Now we weigh everything prior to leaving for the airport, but I have to watch these suitcases like a hawk because she will start
packing more stuff into it, because somehow the fact that we weighed it already and it was ok makes everything you put in
afterwards not count.
also the Arke flights from Amsterdam and the Dominicans always have huge suitcases wrapped in ducktape and are always
overweight and then start complaining loudly about having to pay.
Most then start opening up their suitcases then and there and start taking **** out of it on the floor.
They just cannot comprehend the idea of a luggage limit and that it really does apply to them as well ('pero yo necesito todo eso!!').
My wife once had to take a flight from Madrid to Amsterdam which cost 80 euros and then had to pay 290 euros in overweight
baggage. I was not there and not amused when she told me.
Now we weigh everything prior to leaving for the airport, but I have to watch these suitcases like a hawk because she will start
packing more stuff into it, because somehow the fact that we weighed it already and it was ok makes everything you put in
afterwards not count.
AND you're not? Puh----leeeeze. We all j'adore Frank and the Cabarete Diaries. We all wish we were living Frank's life!
Why do you think some of us aren't?
I tell all the ladies I'm "Frank from Cabarete Diaries".
They give me a 10% discount.
:laugh:
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Chapter 316 (Shaven Beavers)
Another day in paradise, another Kafkaesque moment.
Just when you think nothing can surprise you in this country, someone comes along and raises the bar of madness and insanity up one notch higher.
So, here I am…driving to the gym, minding my own business. It’s a journey I’ve done a thousand times. No, scratch that. I have not been to any gym a thousand times. Who am I kidding? I have not been to a gym 500 times, nor 100 times. In fact, I have not been to a gym since Ronald Reagan was in office.
Oh well, It’s that time of year where I tell myself, “it’s time to get into ****ing shape even if it kills me!” I tell myself this same thing every year at this time. It’s the holidays, you know!
I got up from a chocolate induced coma, rolled out of bed, and rolled down to the parking lot. I told the Redhead, “I’m going to lose my stomach, even if it kills me.” I told her it just like that. I felt confident. I felt sure of myself. I felt a revelation coming on. “I’m going to get into shape…I can feel it!” I told her before struggling to put the last button into the hole of my shorts. The button would not go. It would not fit. My stomach would not allow it. It was protesting. It wouldn't hear of it. Oh well.
I jumped on my motorcycle and slid sideways out into the street, driving through the mud, the blood, and the beer. I accelerated past two bakeries and held my breath for the entire duration of Cabarete. I was determined not to smell the chocolate croissants and Key Lime Pie calling out my name. No, shouting my name! I was making good time. No, I was making great time. I was on a mission. And nothing was going to make me deviate from this mission. Nothing. Nada.
I’m tired of being a glutton. I’m tired of love handles. My love handles are huge. No, they’re enormous. They’re ****ing emergency brakes. My love handles can be used as handbrakes on an Amtrak train. They can be used as a waterbed. They can be used as shelter for small mammals. I’m tired of being fat. And I’m especially tired of violating every rule ever written about how to lose weight in 50 days or less.
So, there I was, flying through town, on my way to fulfill my mission from the diet god. I was making good time. I made it to the Cayahon de La Loma in 2 minutes. Coconut palms in 6 minutes, Perla Marina in 7 minutes. I was about to pass the old, closed down casino and make it to Lomas Mironas and Sea Horse Ranch in 8.5 minutes when I ran into a police check/block.
You may have seen or experienced these police checks. Basically, it’s 7 or 8 men standing on both sides of highway 5 with President Beer on their minds, orange emergency cones out, and basically stopping anyone who is white or looks like they have money. I normally get a pass on these police checks because I am always wearing a helmet. Not today. Nope. They stood in the middle of the road where I could not drive around them. They stood in the middle of the road defiantly and without any sense of preservation. Normally, i play a game of "Chicken" with them and they move out of the way at the last second. They have no way of chasing anyone. They don't even have bullets or know how to shoot a gun.
“Documents? Papeles?” they asked with a tone of authoritarian confidence.
“Sure,” I got off the bike and showed them my paper work. No one has paper work like mine. For this one motorcycle (Husaberg 550) that I’m driving, I have 3 pages from the Aduana (customs), 2 pages of Bill of Sales from the KTM dealership. 1 page with the Matricula (Title), one page of the Pampelota (police report saying its not stolen), 1 page with copies of my passport & Cedula (Dominican ID), and one last page with photos from a Playboy magazine of a monthly pen-up girl with a shaven beaver. I throw in that last page for good measure.
“Jesus Santisimo!” The policeman said to me. He had never seen so much paper work for one single bike in his life. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. He was over-whelmed. He called over his police Captain to look over all my paper work.
The Captain came over and shuffled through all my paperwork like a deck of cards. When he got to the nude photo, his curiosity peaked. And then he basically, for all intent and purposes, handed me back everything but the nude photo. Then he walked across highway 5, nearly killing himself, and showed the shaven beaver to all of his police buddies. It’s times like these where you would give a limb to have a video camera on you. Every policeman dropped everything that they were doing, and came running over like teenagers and studied the shaven beaver as if they were cramming for a final exam. Apparently, nothing takes precedent over a shaven beaver. Who knew? I could have driven off doing a wheelie and they wouldn’t have known that I had left. Accidents could have been happening all around us, and not one of them would have been the wiser. This is the power a shaven beaver has over the homo sapien male species. And basically, this tells you everything you need to know about the male mind.
Part 2…to be continued…
Another day in paradise, another Kafkaesque moment.
Just when you think nothing can surprise you in this country, someone comes along and raises the bar of madness and insanity up one notch higher.
So, here I am…driving to the gym, minding my own business. It’s a journey I’ve done a thousand times. No, scratch that. I have not been to any gym a thousand times. Who am I kidding? I have not been to a gym 500 times, nor 100 times. In fact, I have not been to a gym since Ronald Reagan was in office.
Oh well, It’s that time of year where I tell myself, “it’s time to get into ****ing shape even if it kills me!” I tell myself this same thing every year at this time. It’s the holidays, you know!
I got up from a chocolate induced coma, rolled out of bed, and rolled down to the parking lot. I told the Redhead, “I’m going to lose my stomach, even if it kills me.” I told her it just like that. I felt confident. I felt sure of myself. I felt a revelation coming on. “I’m going to get into shape…I can feel it!” I told her before struggling to put the last button into the hole of my shorts. The button would not go. It would not fit. My stomach would not allow it. It was protesting. It wouldn't hear of it. Oh well.
I jumped on my motorcycle and slid sideways out into the street, driving through the mud, the blood, and the beer. I accelerated past two bakeries and held my breath for the entire duration of Cabarete. I was determined not to smell the chocolate croissants and Key Lime Pie calling out my name. No, shouting my name! I was making good time. No, I was making great time. I was on a mission. And nothing was going to make me deviate from this mission. Nothing. Nada.
I’m tired of being a glutton. I’m tired of love handles. My love handles are huge. No, they’re enormous. They’re ****ing emergency brakes. My love handles can be used as handbrakes on an Amtrak train. They can be used as a waterbed. They can be used as shelter for small mammals. I’m tired of being fat. And I’m especially tired of violating every rule ever written about how to lose weight in 50 days or less.
So, there I was, flying through town, on my way to fulfill my mission from the diet god. I was making good time. I made it to the Cayahon de La Loma in 2 minutes. Coconut palms in 6 minutes, Perla Marina in 7 minutes. I was about to pass the old, closed down casino and make it to Lomas Mironas and Sea Horse Ranch in 8.5 minutes when I ran into a police check/block.
You may have seen or experienced these police checks. Basically, it’s 7 or 8 men standing on both sides of highway 5 with President Beer on their minds, orange emergency cones out, and basically stopping anyone who is white or looks like they have money. I normally get a pass on these police checks because I am always wearing a helmet. Not today. Nope. They stood in the middle of the road where I could not drive around them. They stood in the middle of the road defiantly and without any sense of preservation. Normally, i play a game of "Chicken" with them and they move out of the way at the last second. They have no way of chasing anyone. They don't even have bullets or know how to shoot a gun.
“Documents? Papeles?” they asked with a tone of authoritarian confidence.
“Sure,” I got off the bike and showed them my paper work. No one has paper work like mine. For this one motorcycle (Husaberg 550) that I’m driving, I have 3 pages from the Aduana (customs), 2 pages of Bill of Sales from the KTM dealership. 1 page with the Matricula (Title), one page of the Pampelota (police report saying its not stolen), 1 page with copies of my passport & Cedula (Dominican ID), and one last page with photos from a Playboy magazine of a monthly pen-up girl with a shaven beaver. I throw in that last page for good measure.
“Jesus Santisimo!” The policeman said to me. He had never seen so much paper work for one single bike in his life. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. He was over-whelmed. He called over his police Captain to look over all my paper work.
The Captain came over and shuffled through all my paperwork like a deck of cards. When he got to the nude photo, his curiosity peaked. And then he basically, for all intent and purposes, handed me back everything but the nude photo. Then he walked across highway 5, nearly killing himself, and showed the shaven beaver to all of his police buddies. It’s times like these where you would give a limb to have a video camera on you. Every policeman dropped everything that they were doing, and came running over like teenagers and studied the shaven beaver as if they were cramming for a final exam. Apparently, nothing takes precedent over a shaven beaver. Who knew? I could have driven off doing a wheelie and they wouldn’t have known that I had left. Accidents could have been happening all around us, and not one of them would have been the wiser. This is the power a shaven beaver has over the homo sapien male species. And basically, this tells you everything you need to know about the male mind.
Part 2…to be continued…
They ignore horns here, I want to replace my horn with a digital recording of a loud screeching car crash!
This could be overkill
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=when3v7NVFk
Would this be ignored in Cabarete?
There is always this possibility, a bit clumsy.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I9KKaj26Lsw
Surprisingly no one mentioned THAT is the reason that they stand in line tugging at their jeans and poking at their crotch and running to the bathroom so frequently. The skin tight jeans with the tight underwear or spanx or girdle or whatever coupled underneath and shaving your pubic hair off every 2-3 days will make them itch as the new hair cuts through the skin.
In the DR it is a small thing because even though they get dressed up they seldom go anywhere. But overseas, they get all dressed up so when they leave the airport and people see them they look like Winners returning home.
I have a new book coming out tomorrow. It's a true story about a well-known character here on the North Coast--fondly known as Big Mike. This is his story of how he became a Millionaire in 18 months. And the catalyst for his rise and fall was a pair of snake skin cowboy boots.
http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u79/ktmfrank/GenaoMillionaireCover_zpsbitdk0fl.jpg
http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u79/ktmfrank/GenaoMillionaireCover_zpsbitdk0fl.jpg
Couldn't have happened without the Redhead. We always make your dreams come true. Gingers UNITE!
Trip of a Lifetime:
In the next few days (provided i get a video camera), i will be embarking on the Mother-of-all-Motorcycle trips. I do this trip every year--rain or snow, hurricanes or cyclones, bad hair or sore butt.
Expect an insane amount of mud, blood, and the beer.
The trip involves slightly more than 900km in 3 days. It involves extreme amount of Butt Fatigue (BF), Big Ass Sores (BAS), Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (CTS) on the right wrist and forearm from holding down the acceleration for 8 hours a day, Sore Back (SB) from sitting on a motorcycle for 7 to 8 hours a day, and quite a few Evil Knievel jumps while cascading over mountain tops and fjords. Oh yeah...the trip also involves thousands of hairpin turns, lots of bad hair, bad breath, dehydration, off-camber turns, and an insane--some would say--a frightening amount of mud and blood.
Possession from the devil helps, but doesn't guarantee any smoother of a ride. It also helps if you make a pact with the devil before we leave.
If this sounds like your kind of trip, explain to me below what kind of riding experience you possess, what kind of previous exorcisms you've had, any Baptisms-by-Fire you've experienced, and your overall motorcycle riding experience.
Also, detail what kind of bike you have in your possession, or what kind of bike you can get in your possession within the next few days (Provided i get a hold of a video camera, otherwise the ride will be delayed until i can get one delivered from Amazon).
Trust me...this is No "Easy Rider" type of motorcycle trip (See Map & Videos). Peter Fonda & Dennis Hopper would never be able to withstand this kind of Dominican motorcycle endurance trip--and the reason why is simple: They're actors. They're also prone to bad make-up, bad hair, and drag-queen type bitching, moaning, & complaining.
The positive aspects of this trip are as follows:
1.) You'll be seeing parts of this island of which 99% of the population here have never seen.
2.) You'll have bragging rights which few people possess, and you'll have the video evidence to prove it.
3.) You'll have graduated to the top of the Dominican Motorcycle Mojo experience (DMM).
4.) You'll be traveling back in time with someone who has done the trip several times (me), knows the route, speaks the language, and knows more about bribery, and possesses more stories than your grandfather or great grandfather combined!
Things required for this trip are as follows:
1.) Balls. Big balls. But a vagina also helps.
2.) Money. You'll need money for fuel, hotel, food, bribes at the border (No, we're not crossing into Haiti, but following the border down the International Highway) with Military check points.
3.) Papers. You'll need the papers, Matricula (Title of bike), insurance for the bike, and ID. Otherwise, its too much hassle dealing with police, the military, and every checkpoint and road block we encounter on the route.
4.) A Camelbak hydration backpack that holds lots of water!
You will need the right kind of tools for the job. A motoconcho type motorcycle could do the trip, but it would take way, way too long, and involve several flat tires, and would beat up one's bodies and shift one's organs around.
What you want for this kind of trip (See map) is this:
1.) Something with lots of suspension...you can never have too much suspension!
2.) Something with knobby tires, or dual adventure tires at the very least.
3.) Attitude. You'll need some attitude, some tenacity, and some sort of cursing vocabulary, and oh yeah...some sort of balls...did i mention that already? But look, if you are not in possession of balls, don't let that discourage you! Some women out there possess bigger balls than my straight friends! Ironically, all my gay friends have bigger balls than all of my straight friends...but that's another story.
4.) You should enjoy Big adventure, enjoy roughing it, understand the system and be able to deal with corrupt police, know how to deal with sore muscles and a sore ass, and generally love seeing the road less traveled.
5.) You should budget around $150 a day for 3 days. So bring money. Bring a lot of money.
Frank
In the next few days (provided i get a video camera), i will be embarking on the Mother-of-all-Motorcycle trips. I do this trip every year--rain or snow, hurricanes or cyclones, bad hair or sore butt.
Expect an insane amount of mud, blood, and the beer.
The trip involves slightly more than 900km in 3 days. It involves extreme amount of Butt Fatigue (BF), Big Ass Sores (BAS), Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (CTS) on the right wrist and forearm from holding down the acceleration for 8 hours a day, Sore Back (SB) from sitting on a motorcycle for 7 to 8 hours a day, and quite a few Evil Knievel jumps while cascading over mountain tops and fjords. Oh yeah...the trip also involves thousands of hairpin turns, lots of bad hair, bad breath, dehydration, off-camber turns, and an insane--some would say--a frightening amount of mud and blood.
Possession from the devil helps, but doesn't guarantee any smoother of a ride. It also helps if you make a pact with the devil before we leave.
If this sounds like your kind of trip, explain to me below what kind of riding experience you possess, what kind of previous exorcisms you've had, any Baptisms-by-Fire you've experienced, and your overall motorcycle riding experience.
Also, detail what kind of bike you have in your possession, or what kind of bike you can get in your possession within the next few days (Provided i get a hold of a video camera, otherwise the ride will be delayed until i can get one delivered from Amazon).
Trust me...this is No "Easy Rider" type of motorcycle trip (See Map & Videos). Peter Fonda & Dennis Hopper would never be able to withstand this kind of Dominican motorcycle endurance trip--and the reason why is simple: They're actors. They're also prone to bad make-up, bad hair, and drag-queen type bitching, moaning, & complaining.
The positive aspects of this trip are as follows:
1.) You'll be seeing parts of this island of which 99% of the population here have never seen.
2.) You'll have bragging rights which few people possess, and you'll have the video evidence to prove it.
3.) You'll have graduated to the top of the Dominican Motorcycle Mojo experience (DMM).
4.) You'll be traveling back in time with someone who has done the trip several times (me), knows the route, speaks the language, and knows more about bribery, and possesses more stories than your grandfather or great grandfather combined!
Things required for this trip are as follows:
1.) Balls. Big balls. But a vagina also helps.
2.) Money. You'll need money for fuel, hotel, food, bribes at the border (No, we're not crossing into Haiti, but following the border down the International Highway) with Military check points.
3.) Papers. You'll need the papers, Matricula (Title of bike), insurance for the bike, and ID. Otherwise, its too much hassle dealing with police, the military, and every checkpoint and road block we encounter on the route.
4.) A Camelbak hydration backpack that holds lots of water!
You will need the right kind of tools for the job. A motoconcho type motorcycle could do the trip, but it would take way, way too long, and involve several flat tires, and would beat up one's bodies and shift one's organs around.
What you want for this kind of trip (See map) is this:
1.) Something with lots of suspension...you can never have too much suspension!
2.) Something with knobby tires, or dual adventure tires at the very least.
3.) Attitude. You'll need some attitude, some tenacity, and some sort of cursing vocabulary, and oh yeah...some sort of balls...did i mention that already? But look, if you are not in possession of balls, don't let that discourage you! Some women out there possess bigger balls than my straight friends! Ironically, all my gay friends have bigger balls than all of my straight friends...but that's another story.
4.) You should enjoy Big adventure, enjoy roughing it, understand the system and be able to deal with corrupt police, know how to deal with sore muscles and a sore ass, and generally love seeing the road less traveled.
5.) You should budget around $150 a day for 3 days. So bring money. Bring a lot of money.
Frank
From sea elevation (Cabarete) to the Continental Divide of the island (No idea of elevation?).
OK---I am so on board with this:
I do not drive motorcycles, but I AM the ultimate passenger. I can read maps; handle change for tolls/bribes; I never complain; and as a Boston Red Sox fan, I am well acquainted with mud, blood, and beards (and beers, I guess, too, after the crash of 2014....). I have in my personal possession a ridiculous amount of hemorrhoid cream, anti-inflammatory drugs, VeeVaPorOo, and assorted pain killers. I also share same. I have no bike nor access to one. I am, however, a fantastic photographer/videographer. My vocabulary is well-documented. I have money. And a helmet. And a leather jacket.
Just sayin.
And think about the collaboration of "Cabarete Diaries, Part. 2/And Now A Few Words From Meemselle......"
And I'm a redhead. Did I mention that?
I do not drive motorcycles, but I AM the ultimate passenger. I can read maps; handle change for tolls/bribes; I never complain; and as a Boston Red Sox fan, I am well acquainted with mud, blood, and beards (and beers, I guess, too, after the crash of 2014....). I have in my personal possession a ridiculous amount of hemorrhoid cream, anti-inflammatory drugs, VeeVaPorOo, and assorted pain killers. I also share same. I have no bike nor access to one. I am, however, a fantastic photographer/videographer. My vocabulary is well-documented. I have money. And a helmet. And a leather jacket.
Just sayin.
And think about the collaboration of "Cabarete Diaries, Part. 2/And Now A Few Words From Meemselle......"
And I'm a redhead. Did I mention that?
Is this a different route from your previous trip? I thought the last time you traveled from Constanza down to San Jos? de Ocoa.
This is simply going down the Haitian border to Barahona, then over to Bani, then to San Jose de Ocoa, then Piedre Blanca, then Bonao, then back to Cabarete. It's about 900km--according to Google maps. I may even go as far as Bahia de Aguillas once i'm in Barahona.
Frank