Cabarete Diaries, part 2

[frank12]

Chapter 261 (Life on the North Coast)

June 1st:
Today I moved into my new condo on the North Coast of the Dominican Republic. What peace – everything is so beautiful here. The ocean and beach is so majestic. I can’t wait to feel the warm breeze and the taste of salt in my mouth. It is so great to have left behind the cold weather, the snow, the rain, the tornadoes, the crime, and the stupid rednecks and hillbillies of North America. This is living!

July1st:
Cabarete is the nicest place I have ever seen in my life. The mangos have begun to ripen and turn a crimson red and bright ochre-yellowish-orange. It is so great having fruit all year around. I took a hike down to the beach today and saw my first shoe shine boy and beach salesmen; how beautiful these people are. They are so street savvy, so smart; they are one of the sharpest sales people I have ever seen. This has to be paradise. I am hoping the sun shines all day long. This is living!

August 1st:
Soon hurricane season will begin. I cannot imagine why a person would want to leave this paradise. Autumn is almost here. I hope it rains soon. My god it’s hotter than hell right now; it's Dante's Inferno outside! But the sun is always shining. This is living!

September 1st:
Last night it rained hard. A torrent of rain saturated everything around. I awoke and found my yard covered in a raging river of livestock, driftwood, plastic bags, infants, and poop. Yes, poop! It looks like “Apocalypse Now” in my parking lot. I had to swim up a river of floating poop--into the Heart of Darkness--to reach my motorcycle. I went out to clean my steps and mop the balcony. I reveled in the fallen mangos. I even had a mango fight with my neighbor (I won!) I blacked both her eyes. Oh well, she’s Russian…they’re tough. She’ll be ok….I think. The scrap metal truck came by with speakers blaring something in Spanish; it passed back and forth in front of my condo all morning. It’s the funniest thing…he had speakers atop of his truck and they were so loud that they rattled my fillings loose in my mouth. I had to pick them up off of the floor (now I must go to the dentist). His vehicle was followed by another truck blaring music so loud that the remaining fillings in my mouth fell out and went tumbling down the sink drain. Now I must call a plumber. The locals are so energetic here; they sell everything from their vehicles. These people are such talented entrepreneurs. What a place. So beautiful.

October 1st:
Last night it rained heavily again. It saturated everything around, leaving puddles of water and thick mud everywhere. I love it. The scrap metal truck came by once again at 6:30am, his speakers were so loud that the plaster on my ceiling came loose and concrete began raining down on me—caking my mouth full of concrete and gluing my eyelids shut. After he left, another dozen motivated entrepreneurs with loud speakers stacked atop of their roofs came driving past, one by one—going back and forth—all ****ing day long. They seem to never sleep these people, but what are you going to do? This is paradise!

November 1st:
Another night of rain. Before I could finish mopping my balcony, the rain started again and saturated everything in 2 feet of water, forcing me to miss work. I am a bit tired from all the rain. Goddamn hurricane season! What a life?

December 1st:
Last night, guess what, it rained again, better yet, it came down sideways. My hands have started to bleed and are full of callouses from all the mopping. I am starting to believe that god is watching over me and waits for me to finish mopping everything before sending another deluge of water down on me, tormenting my life. There is poop floating around outside in my parking lot right now. It’s everywhere. God hates me…that son-of-a-bitch!

December 25th:
It is a rain soaked Christmas. Everything is saturated with water. Everything has taken on a musty, damp smell….like the smell of your grandmother’s bra after she’s sweated all day long and than set it inside your mouth. This is some bull****! If I catch that son-of-a-bitch that drives past every morning at 6:30am, blaring his speakers and repeating the same innate phrase over and over again in bad Spanish, I swear, I will murder him like a dog. I can’t fathom why they don’t use a more subtle way of selling things in the streets of this country?

February 1st:
Last night it rained even more. I am so done with rain. It has rained 3 days straight and I have not been able to leave the house. There is a raging river outside my condo! I only go out to mop the balcony after another dark cloud has dumped another deluge of water on the lake that used to be my front yard. I can’t go anywhere. My motorcycle is buried under 3ft of water. The rain has now overwhelmed the buried septic tank out front and we now have large pieces of people’s poop floating past my balcony like a chocolate river. It’s Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory outside in my front yard. The scrap metal truck has driven past again blaring his speakers alongside other trucks selling platanos, bananas, eggs, avocados, pots & pans, shoes, underwear, and Viagra….everything is for sale here! Everyone has large speakers atop of their vehicles selling everything imaginable. There is no chance for sleep in this country. Goddammit!

March 1st:
The ****ing truck salesman has driven past for like the 100th time today looking for used batteries, old beds, and any scrap metal laying around. Instead of driving past and continuing down the road…he has stopped in front of my condo and put his tape recorded message on repeat and fallen asleep at the wheel. He has been out front for four ****ing hours. That stupid ****!

I would like to sh1t on the mother of whoever invented this place as somewhere to live in peace. If this sh1t continues, I don’t think I will get any sleep before the summer arrives. Guess what? The scrap metal vehicle got a flat tire near my house and the driver came to my condo to borrow a lug nut wrench and spare tire. They have no tools on this island. None! Zero! That son of a bitch!

April 1st:
I was unable to sleep last night. No one is working. The locals all had their SUV’s and car stereos turned up full blast! They sat outside in the parking lot all night long blasting their car speakers as loud as they could. They tried to outdo each other in volume. People’s fillings and teeth were laying all around the parking lot. In the morning, the fruit salesman and the scrap metal vehicles showed up and they blasted their volumes as loud as they could reach. This was followed by a group of Motoconchos (motorcycle taxis) coming past with their mufflers removed. I’ve lost all hearing in my left ear, and my right ear is ringing non-stop. I went to buy food and a goddamn supermarket parking lot was full of kids blaring their speakers as loud as they could. I gave up, and drove to the nearest gas station to purchase some essential stuff like beer, and that too was chalk full of Dominicans with music blaring from their vehicles so loud that is caused the roof of the gas station to bounce up and down like a mattress. I drove through the crowd, running over as many loud speakers as possible. Son-of-a-bitch! The damages to my face and body are going to run me in the thousands of dollars. All these goddamned animals should be poisoned. Every last one of them.

April 14th:
I got released from the hospital last night and came home to recover in bed, another weekend night, and yet another Dominican holiday! How many religious holiday do they have on this god forsaken hedonistic island?! I was in bed and the music started pounding again. I jumped up to close the windows and slipped and fell and broke my leg. After laying on the ground moaning in unimaginable pain, I passed out. The pain was too much to bare. I had a dream that I had a bazooka. I fired the bazooka at all of the loud vehicles and motoconchos driving past. I dreamed that I slept peacefully on a tropical island in the Caribbean. Sadly, I awoke to find my windows cracked and broken in several places from the deep bass emitting from the vehicles out in the parking lot during Samana Santa.

May 1st:
When the cast finally came off, I had to take the motorcycle to the mechanic. AMET (traffic Police) stopped me and told me that I was not wearing my helmet. What the hell? There were police and dozens of people driving past us without any helmets whatsoever. The AMET police did not have any helmets on either! Is there no logic in this country?

June 1st:
I have once again moved back to North America. This is living!
What peace. What tranquility. The autumn, the spring, the four glorious seasons! Even the lowlifes are a welcome site. The truth is that whoever wants to live in the Dominican Republic—which is so loud, corrupt, and without any logic whatsoever--is a bull****er that has to be more insane than the devil himself. This is living. What a great civilized, organized, peaceful society we live in in North America.

 

[chico bill]

Last year I had to leave the house while some work was being done and stayed with a friend in an apartment in Montellano, an interesting but dirty place. It happened to be the birthday weekend of a the son of the Dominican family who lived below, a "young" man of about 30 years (you think he would be too mature for what followed). He arrived mid day in his old Toyota Corolla, and extracted a speaker from the trunk that he had some how shoe-horned in. He set this on the top of the car on a blanket, so as not to scratch this luxury ride.
For the next 12 hours the rinky-tink of Bachata crap was played loud enough to hear on the Malecon in PP with bursts of shouting from Dominicans men, old women, boys & girls, young and old fueled up on the cheapest rum sold in DR.
Only the blessed rain made the miscreant take his speaker down and the torment stopped (or maybe the cheap rum was gone). So I get the noise complaints if you live on or within blocks of a public street, absolutely no respect for others. But what bothers me more is the trash thrown on the streets and the dirty sewerage and the dogs that are not cared for and left to scrounge through the garbage and sewerage on the streets. Paradise ? - No the DR is not really close to a paradise, not like Hawaii or the beaches in Israel where civility has rooted - Maybe someday after Bachata has finally died and Dominican children actually get more than 3 hours of school (including recreo) per day ? No probably not and it has become embarrassing to have friends come visit. They don't ask to come back, except one who is a Mexican single friend and he is used to the trash and he likes the cheap viagra, sex and tostones.

 

[frank12]

How my lovely day was spent on the North Coast.

[video=youtube_share;L_E9kunGHjM]https://youtu.be/L_E9kunGHjM[/video]

 

[frank12]

Chapter 443 (Food Porn)

Before I left Cabarete to come back to Norway this week, I was invited over to Doreen Broderick​ & Kent Broderick​ place for some food porn. I’m not into porn, but sometimes when you’re in Rome, you do as the Roman’s do…you sit back, open your mouth, and enjoy the show.

Not everyone knows about food porn. This is a good time if you are either Christian, under 13yrs old, Jehovah Witness, or born under a bad sign, to turn the page and do not read any further.

Food porn is anything that combines a lot of garlic with slow simmering food, red wine, and women.

Let me back up.

Kent and Doreen are from Alaska. So, right there tells you everything you need to know about them. They love hunting, fishing, cooking, and ****ing in the wilderness. More on procreation and Jesus later.

Kent is a trained Culinary Chef. That means, unlike me, he went to school. He knows how to cook. He knows food. But wait, he also knows how to catch his own food, and in doing so, knows how to prepare it. And so does his wife, Doreen. Both Kent & Doreen are hunters—with the papers to prove it…and fishermen, fisherlady’s, and fisher-Aphrodite’s as well (I just made that up).

Now, I’m sorry, there are a lot of special people out in this world that you want to get close to and make friends with—i.e mechanics, plumbers, electricians, lawyers…no, scratch that. **** lawyers. Reverse that, you need one good lawyer friend to bail you out of jail. I know, I’ve been there. When you got to make that one call from jail, you don’t call your mechanic, do you?

More on mechanics later.

Kent knows food. But he also knows spices & seasonings. He makes his own spices and seasonings for Halibut, Mousse, Elk, and Elf. Yes, Elf, they have Elf up in Alaska, you know. They also have Trolls that migrate from Norway…both Elf's & Trolls are delicious if you know how to slow cook them...preferably in a crock-pot.

Kent invited us over for white beans & pork that he had been slow cooking for 9-hours. Yes, 9-****ing hours of slow cooking pork and white beans to the point where the pork literally tasted like butter. The pork actually walked itself out of the pot, over the kitchen table, and then jumped into my mouth. What can you say about pork that walks…it’s made for lazy people like me.

What exactly is “Slowed cooked pork?” It’s just glorified bacon that walks over and jumps into your mouth.

Kent also brought some Garlic hot sauce that was absolutely delicious. I hope no children are reading this…if so…turn the page now! The Garlic hot sauce was like eating liquid sex. Yes, I know, it’s messy and hard to describe in civil terms, but I’ll try…it literally danced around the inside of your mouth before it lit it up the back of your mouth like hot, scolding semen and then caught your throat on fire.

More on hot, scolding semen later.

Kent also brought his homemade Garlic Paste made from secret ingredients—which if I reveal them here—would involve killing everyone who reads this. But ok, maybe it’s time to thin the herd out a little and kill a few people before they reach in age in which they can procreate. Kent’s garlic paste includes…are you ready…are you sitting down? slow cooked garlic, more garlic, and…ok, I’m sorry, I lied, I can’t tell you the exact ingredients—but see photo for what porn looks like after its been simmering and mashed up.

Back to jail.

If I ever get locked up again for a murder that I did not…and I repeat…did not commit, I want to have Kent in my jail cell with me. Kent is cute, smells like garlic, looks good in an apron, knows how to handle knives, and sashay’s when he walks around the kitchen. Oh yeah, Kent also makes his own homemade beef jerky from Mousse meat, and also has a special oven at home that “Slow Ages Beef.”

If Kent can somehow get that oven in our jail cell---along with an endless supply of white beans, then not only will I be his boyfriend, but yeah, I’ll put his you know what in my mouth and hold it there. No, I’m not joking! I’m not gay…but I’m willing to learn for the right person…but that person needs to know how to cook!

 

[Meemselle]

Oh stop being coy. You ARE SO INTO porn. Food or ..... errrmmm. Otherwise.

You do describe pork in the most sybaritic terms. Just doesn't happen for moi.

Great post. Thank you. Norway's gain is our loss.

 

[GuillermoRamon]

Kent also makes his own homemade beef jerky from Mousse meat

He's gotta be a Grandmaster in the kitchen to make that happen ^

 

[jd426]

He's gotta be a Grandmaster in the kitchen to make that happen ^

I'm wondering how many egg whites or yolks you need to make a proper Mousse jerky. Mine would probably fall flat as soon as I open the oven door ..

 

[cobraboy]

I'm wondering how many egg whites or yolks you need to make a proper Mousse jerky. Mine would probably fall flat as soon as I open the oven door ..

I never knew Mousse had meat. Mainly chocolate or some fruit...

 

[frank12]

Oh stop being coy. You ARE SO INTO porn. Food or ..... errrmmm. Otherwise.

You do describe pork in the most sybaritic terms. Just doesn't happen for moi.

Great post. Thank you. Norway's gain is our loss.

I'll be back in Cabarete in 5-weeks. I'm only in Norway to work a Christmas tour. I do it almost every year. I post photos of it on my Facebook page. some of the churches are 1100 years old. but most are between 300 to 500 years old. 22 villages and towns in 26 days.

frank

 

[jd426]

Frank, For someone who lives such a Wonderful life, you really have no right to be angry ,, like Ever..
lol

 

[bob saunders]

Moose Milk, a Canadian News Years Favorite:

1 gallon vanilla ice cream, softened
1 gallon milk
Milk
4 3/4 cups dark rum
4 3/4 cups coffee-flavored liqueur (such as Kahlua?)
4 3/4 cups vodka 1 pinch ground nutmeg, or to taste (optional)

 

[frank12]

Chapter 445 (Itchy Penis & Vagina)

Do you ever get "Itchy Penis?" I get it throughout the day (always have)--especially when I sweat. I notice that many Dominicans get it as well. You'll notice how they are constantly grabbing and tugging at their penises.

We men love to shift gears from one side to the next--while simultaneously itching it at the same time. It’s an art. It’s a talent. It’s a single motion of shifting gears while simultaneously giving one's penis a quick itch on each side. It’s really hard to detect if its done correctly. In fact, depending on the person, it can be almost undetectable. It’s quick…like drawing a gun from a holster.

Usually, although not always, it’s hard to see someone itching their penis or vagina when they're out in public. I’m a professional at it, and I imagine that most women (except for my one ex-girlfriend from Slovenia) are professionals at it as well. Some people are simply sloppy about it or simply don’t give it a **** who is looking. They stick their whole arm down their pants and begin itching away like they got fleas.

To itch your crotch while simultaneously shifting gears takes a quick sly-of-hand-motion. Magicians utilize this by making you focus your attention somewhere else while they perform a trick with their other hand. It’s called “Shifting Focus.”

We Dominicans are made for the magician trade...well, some of us. There are always a few outstanding exceptions where both men and women will simply stick their entire arm or something sharp--like a machete--down their pants and begin itching like a dog scratching for fleas. I’ve seen my cousins do it, and I’ve seen my grandmother do it. But honestly, those are the exceptions to the rule. There’s unwritten social restraints about this action. It’s simply not acceptable to do it when out in public, or when receiving communion, standing in front of your in-laws, or when you’re in line at the grocery store buying condoms. I do it at the gym and gun store routinely because, it’s necessary.

Most people are very sly about itching their penis or vagina. Most people take a good look around before they start making necessary crotch adjustments. Pubic hair really complicates the whole process, and the bigger the bush or Afro downstairs, the more vulnerable you are to crotch itch.

Unfortunately, I cannot speak in any great detail about itchy vagina, because, well, unfortunately, I’m not a hermaphrodite…yet. But I’m working on it.

 

[rice&beans]

Chapter 445 (Itchy Penis & Vagina)

Do you ever get "Itchy Penis?" I get it throughout the day (always have)--especially when I sweat. I notice that many Dominicans get it as well. You'll notice how they are constantly grabbing and tugging at their penises.

We men love to shift gears from one side to the next--while simultaneously itching it at the same time. It’s an art. It’s a talent. It’s a single motion of shifting gears while simultaneously giving one's penis a quick itch on each side. It’s really hard to detect if its done correctly. In fact, depending on the person, it can be almost undetectable. It’s quick…like drawing a gun from a holster.

Usually, although not always, it’s hard to see someone itching their penis or vagina when they're out in public. I’m a professional at it, and I imagine that most women (except for my one ex-girlfriend from Slovenia) are professionals at it as well. Some people are simply sloppy about it or simply don’t give it a **** who is looking. They stick their whole arm down their pants and begin itching away like they got fleas.

To itch your crotch while simultaneously shifting gears takes a quick sly-of-hand-motion. Magicians utilize this by making you focus your attention somewhere else while they perform a trick with their other hand. It’s called “Shifting Focus.”

We Dominicans are made for the magician trade...well, some of us. There are always a few outstanding exceptions where both men and women will simply stick their entire arm or something sharp--like a machete--down their pants and begin itching like a dog scratching for fleas. I’ve seen my cousins do it, and I’ve seen my grandmother do it. But honestly, those are the exceptions to the rule. There’s unwritten social restraints about this action. It’s simply not acceptable to do it when out in public, or when receiving communion, standing in front of your in-laws, or when you’re in line at the grocery store buying condoms. I do it at the gym and gun store routinely because, it’s necessary.

Most people are very sly about itching their penis or vagina. Most people take a good look around before they start making necessary crotch adjustments. Pubic hair really complicates the whole process, and the bigger the bush or Afro downstairs, the more vulnerable you are to crotch itch.

Unfortunately, I cannot speak in any great detail about itchy vagina, because, well, unfortunately, I’m not a hermaphrodite…yet. But I’m working on it.

Well.......

I guess it's better than writing about nothing.....


Great......

Now that I have that vision in my head, I'll be scratching and adjusting my junk all day.....

Thank you Frank.....

 

[Meemselle]

I'll be back in Cabarete in 5-weeks. I'm only in Norway to work a Christmas tour. I do it almost every year. I post photos of it on my Facebook page. some of the churches are 1100 years old. but most are between 300 to 500 years old. 22 villages and towns in 26 days.

frank

And more research for another installment of "Dasha?"

 

[USA DOC]

Chapter 445 (Itchy Penis & Vagina)

Do you ever get "Itchy Penis?" I get it throughout the day (always have)--especially when I sweat. I notice that many Dominicans get it as well. You'll notice how they are constantly grabbing and tugging at their penises.

We men love to shift gears from one side to the next--while simultaneously itching it at the same time. It’s an art. It’s a talent. It’s a single motion of shifting gears while simultaneously giving one's penis a quick itch on each side. It’s really hard to detect if its done correctly. In fact, depending on the person, it can be almost undetectable. It’s quick…like drawing a gun from a holster.

Usually, although not always, it’s hard to see someone itching their penis or vagina when they're out in public. I’m a professional at it, and I imagine that most women (except for my one ex-girlfriend from Slovenia) are professionals at it as well. Some people are simply sloppy about it or simply don’t give it a **** who is looking. They stick their whole arm down their pants and begin itching away like they got fleas.

To itch your crotch while simultaneously shifting gears takes a quick sly-of-hand-motion. Magicians utilize this by making you focus your attention somewhere else while they perform a trick with their other hand. It’s called “Shifting Focus.”

We Dominicans are made for the magician trade...well, some of us. There are always a few outstanding exceptions where both men and women will simply stick their entire arm or something sharp--like a machete--down their pants and begin itching like a dog scratching for fleas. I’ve seen my cousins do it, and I’ve seen my grandmother do it. But honestly, those are the exceptions to the rule. There’s unwritten social restraints about this action. It’s simply not acceptable to do it when out in public, or when receiving communion, standing in front of your in-laws, or when you’re in line at the grocery store buying condoms. I do it at the gym and gun store routinely because, it’s necessary.

Most people are very sly about itching their penis or vagina. Most people take a good look around before they start making necessary crotch adjustments. Pubic hair really complicates the whole process, and the bigger the bush or Afro downstairs, the more vulnerable you are to crotch itch.

Unfortunately, I cannot speak in any great detail about itchy vagina, because, well, unfortunately, I’m not a hermaphrodite…yet. But I’m working on it.

You can probably streamline the shifting of gears problem, by changing that old out dated 2 speed powerglide, to a 7 speed automatic

 

[RV429]

So Frankie, need some content. All well in Norway?

 

[chico bill]

Do you ever get "Itchy Penis?" I get it throughout the day (always have)--especially when I sweat. I notice that many Dominicans get it as well. You'll notice how they are constantly grabbing and tugging at their penises.

Since this is in Cabarete Diaries I assume this is a unique problem to Caberete, not the rest of the North Coast ?
Will give me a whole new perspective next time I see 'fresh crabs' on a menu....dame el pollo y los platanos por favor.

 

[frank12]

Chapter 447 (San Francisco & Blow Jobs)

I lived in San Francisco from 2000 to 2002. I managed a small caf?/juice bar at 495 Castro street—in-between Market Street & 18th. I worked 45-50 hours a week for an American-Libyan, Chris, who was also an aircraft mechanic for United Airlines.

I met Chris one day while hanging out in his caf?. His caf? faced the west side of the Castro—towards Walgreens. His windows opened completely so that you could get the wind, sun, fog and people’s spit walking past. His caf? sat in the heart of the Castro, next to a major intersection that was populated by banks, restaurants, bars, and a variety of street hustlers and drag queens. It was, by far, the most exciting corner of all of San Francisco.

To say that this corner is entertaining, funny, weird, absurd, and bizarre would be a gross understatement. Not even 42nd street in New York City--during it’s heyday of 70’s porn theaters and hustlers--could touch this corner. This is the Castro neighborhood—the heart of the gay community—a place where street hustlers, poets, and actors fight for poetic street justice. Street hustlers stand on this corner in their underwear hustling and intermingling with bankers, priests, Dotcom millionaires, drag queens and college students. I don’t think any corner in North America could touch this corner in terms of diversity, freakish behavior, nudity, bizarre costumes, and wild hair-do’s.

Over the course of two years, I got to know and befriend a couple dozen street hustlers. To say that this caf? I managed possessed a motley crew of individuals from all walks of life would be an understatement of the wildest proportions. Nothing on this planet can come remotely close to this neighborhood. To compare this neighborhood to a conservative Midwest town would be like comparing two different planets from different galaxies. Sure, you had the occasional Jesus Freak who would show up and stand on his soapbox and preach on one of the four corners, but they never lasted long. They were run out of town just like any Snake Oil salesmen selling bull****. I used to grab a coffee and sit outside at one of our outdoor tables on the sidewalk and watch the show. It usually was a mismatch between some Midwest Jesus Freak vs ****ed off Drag Queens on their way to, or coming back from Happy Hour. It didn’t take long before the Jesus Freaks were running down the street for their lives—being chased by drag queens in high heels. This Castro can be very entertaining

Quite simply, the Castro belonged to the gay community. It possessed such a wonderful rich history and vibe. Not even the most ardent, brainwashed fundamentalist preacher can compete with a potty mouth of a drunk drag queen in high heels. It would be like putting Mohammad Ali in the ring with a loudmouth Archie Bunker bigot. After a few minutes, you just knew how it was going to end. People literally pulled their seats up to nearby bar & cafe windows and sipped martinis and watched the show. It wasn’t just highly entertaining, it was educational.

I love San Francisco. The great thing about San Francisco is that it is welcoming to every known taste in the universe—no matter how bizarre. The city’s attitude is something like this:

“So, you like to wear your underwear in the middle of winter and strut down the street, no problem, we accept you.”
“So, you like to cross-dress while you walk down the street with your woman, we accept you.”
“So, you like walking around in your bra and panties with your belly fat hanging down over your waist, we accept you.”
“So, you like walking down the street barefoot while wearing a $500 linen suit, we accept you.”
“So, you like miss-matching outfits and wearing outrageously huge wigs and feathered boas, we accept you.”

The array of customers I got to know at the caf? would send any conservative Evangelical or Jesus freak into cardiac arrest. I had customers who absolutely refused to wear shoes, bras…sometimes even pants. I got to know several openly gay priests. We had several professional acrobats that kept apartments in the neighborhood while working and traveling for Cirque de Soleil (these people were amazing). We had several known actors living in the neighborhood—some who were out of the closet, and some that were still in the closet. We had ambassadors, political figures, dancers, entertainers, street hustlers, and a lot of Silicon Valley workers. We also had a lot of millionaires and homeless. What big city doesn't? We also had a lot of tourists who come down to the Castro just to gawk at the freak show. And one thing for sure, there was always a freak show.

I should back up a little here. In San Francisco, I lived in a 1999 Ford Econoline 150 conversion van. On my days off, I liked driving up to Napa and Sonoma Valley and going from vineyard to vineyard—sampling different wines. Whenever I felt too drunk to drive, I simply walked out to the parking lot and passed out in my vomit. The conversion van was my lifeline. It saved me numerous times. More on that later.

Of all of the crazy individuals whom I got to know in the Castro, one guy in particular, Dane, stands out as one of the craziest. Dane was from Lincoln, Nebraska and was a street hustler through and through. Street life was the only life he knew. And hustling was his trade. He got kicked out of his house when he was 17yrs old. Dane grew up in a Christian conservative family in Nebraska. His parents did not approve of his homosexuality. So, like a lot of gay Christian conservative teenagers, Dane hitch-hiked out to San Francisco where he landed on the streets in 1985. Dane and I became well acquainted with each other but, like all street hustlers, I kept him at an arm’s length, because, well…let’s face it…what street hustler out there can you really trust when you’re in your underwear and bending over.

Dane eventually became friend’s with my Norwegian girlfriend, Tina. Tina flew over from Norway to live with me in my Ford Econoline conversion van for several months. Tina helped me run the caf?. She was perfect. Being Norwegian, she was very open-minded and tolerant. She had no previous religious experience or background. Tina, a former model in Norway, had spent a lot of time around the gay community, so nothing really fazed her. She’d seen it all. The Castro community became our community, although, to be fair, when we weren’t working at the cafe, we liked hanging out in Haight-Ashbury with even bigger Patchouli oil wearing, bra-less hippy chicks, who, coincidentally, also were runaways from the conservative Midwest.

One day, Dane comes into my cafe and shows me his monthly check for $220 from the city. At the time (pre-Gavin Newsom days), homeless people received checks from the city which they could cash-in for straight cash. This is unheard of in any other city or state. Homeless people don’t normally receive cash, instead, they receive food stamps which they can use to purchase food and provisions. Gavin Newsom changed this when he got elected in 2003.

Dane comes up to me and says,

“Frank, I need some credit for food & coffee. Here, look at this,” he says, holding up his $220 check for me to see, before adding, “This is my check that I plan on cashing as soon as I get enough money together for a state ID.”

“What happened to your State ID, Dane?”

“I lost it.”

“When did you lose it?”

“Does it ****ing matter? I lost it, man. It’s gone. I lose ID’s all of the time.”

“Ok, brother, relax,” I told him.

“Look, Frank, I cannot cash this check without a state ID, you understand. Just do me a favor and give me some credit until I cash this; I will pay you back double, I promise.”

“Dane, I can’t give you credit, brother. You know that. This is not my caf?. I just work here, man.”

“**** it,” he said, storming out of the caf?.

Dane left, but he was back in the next day with his un-cashed check, but he had money. The crazy thing about Dane is that he always had money on him. Sometimes, he had quite a bit of money on him. But he burnt through money faster than a crack whore. Like all street hustlers, the money never lasted long. By the same evening, he was broke and asking for credit again. This went back and forth everyday, all month long. Finally, by the next month, he showed up and shows me two pay checks from the city. Now, suddenly, he has two paychecks that totaled $440 dollars. And yet, here he is, asking for credit again. He needed credit until he could get together $20 for a state ID.

This started to drive me ****ing crazy. Every day was like Groundhogs Day with Dane. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get down to the source of this problem. I pulled him aside and said,

“Dane, I’m going to buy you a sandwich and a coffee, but before I do, I need you to answer some questions, honestly, you understand?”

“Yes. Can I have an avocado sandwich on an Everything Bagel?” he asked.

“Sure, whatever you want, man. We got a deal?”

“Fire away, I’m ready!”

“How much does it cost for a state ID?”

“$20 dollars”

“But I see you come in here every evening with money. Sometimes i see you with a hundred dollars worth of $10 & $20 dollar bills crumpled up in your pocket (homeless people always crumple their money up together). Sometimes, I've seen you with more than $100 on you, man. If you have all this money, why wouldn’t you go downtown and get a State ID for $20 and then cash your checks?

“Why? Because the DMV is only open from like 8:30am until 4pm, and those are the hours that I am broke and sleeping. I hustle at night. I’m up all night. Therefore, I only have money after 8pm. By the morning, I have spent all my money on drugs and partying, and then I’m broke again.”

“What exactly do you do for money, Dane?”

“I give blow jobs.”

“Blow jobs?”

“Yeah.”

“So, how much does a blow job cost these days?”

“It varies, but I usually charge around $20.”

“How many blow jobs do you give a night?”

“That varies, but I usually make around $100 during a 6 shift.”

“Wait! What? Are you saying that you average $100 a night!?”

“That’s nothing! The younger, better looking street hustlers out here can make two to three times that.”

“But Dane, let’s do the math: that’s $3000 dollars a month. Which is $36,000 dollars a year, tax free!”

“That’s not much.”

“Really?”

“Look, when I was younger--I’m 39yrs old now--I could easily pull in $400 to $500 a day. A day! Everyday! But, back then, I was doing more than just giving blow jobs.”

“Fascinating. How much do you think i can make?” I asked him, smiling.

I was half joking. Barely. I really wanted a new motorcycle. He looked at me, studying my me closely, and then he said to me in the most serious manner i had ever heard him speak,

"Frank, your mouth is too small!"

 

[jd426]

You are a sick man Frank.... lmao
but that was really good ...
nicely done..

 

[Meemselle]

Frank12

You can't make this stuff up. Not even J.K. Rowling has this kind of imagination.

Isn't life experience glorious?

J'ADORE! Keep writing! I pant, I sag, I long for more.