I had a lot to say last night when I stumbled home eating street meat... fortunately, the computer had been hidden by my wise roomies.
See, the boat's in the bay and I've got a couch in a cabin in the jungle. It feels like Camp Olson except there are more mice and, thank God, no children.
My roommates are fattening me up with amazing cooking. Banana bread. Creamy pastas. Lots of eggs. I'm a pig in shit.
They go to bed close to dark. They live little and beautifully.
I didn't want to drink. I don't want to drink. I don't drink that much.
BUT...
...when yer sailing students were 70 year old British ex-pats you drink. Hell, they're paying you to drink. Who can blame them? What else is there to do in London?!
Drizzle.
In three days of "lessons" we discussed sailing for about 15 minutes. We spent a few hours learning the GPS and Google Earth... the rest of the time we devoted to their reasonably crazy conspiracy theories and stories. I made $200.
I must have said, "My friend, you're preaching to the choir!" a zillion times just to push the conversation somewhere... ANYWHERE!!... but broken record eco-econo-politico-psycho-bullshit from a contradictory slant I couldn't even pin down.
FRAGMENTED. And who wouldn't be?! INFORMATION OVERLOAD.
And the characters just keep rolling out of the woodwork...
In fact, recently, smilingly, I've found people (yo incluido) so ridiculous I can't even believe we exist.
FLASH.
A red, old, pockmarked nose with twinkling eyes casually explains the ease of setting your enemies' shit alight. We discuss mob tactics and I'm advised to "Keep my pecker up."
FLASH.
A 17 year old Tico who can't swim mysteriously drowns in the river. His sister, an aging drunk whore, confronts the police about it. They beat her up. She looks like a flying leap to faceplant on a gravel road. That night she confides in me at the bar.
I never buy a beer... they materialize... I've got two in my hands and three on the bar so I offer her one... she looks like she needs one. She rewards another beer for my kindness.
I get her laughing for a while with goofiness and drop a few comments she takes like pearls. She offers to dread my hair for free. I decline. Then she gets sour and takes it out on God.
rant rant rant rant to the closer of ...
"DIOS, YOU CAN SUCK MY PUSSY!"
And that comment really sticks in my mind because as she screamed it she spit in my right eye.
It still feels gross... kind of like the ackward tingle you feel if your hand accidentally contacts another guy's wang. I'm a little concerned about contracting some alphabetic variant of HEP.
And if you think about it, that's a heavy statement... especially because this woman IS, despite her drunken whorishness, obviously both spiritual and religious.
FLASH.
One European woman walks topless and everyone can't help but stare and discuss. I couldn't help but stare at the starers.
FLASH.
Costa Rican DJs butcher reggae. A white boy from Minnesota owns the dance floor. He learned to dance from Bahamaians, Jamaicans, and Trinidadians at a Catholic college.
FLASH.
60 people sit in the water watching assault helicopters fly overhead. Some pretend to shoot at the choppers. I take advantage of the distraction to snake a wave.
FLASH.
Walking home coherently plastered, I encounter a Tico my girlfriend bought dope from 5 years prior. He's on the same street corner. He's wearing the same shirt. I remember this shirt because it's the kind old redneck ladies wear: an all black T with two little kittens screenprinted on the front. I'm enthralled by this strange occurence.
I tell him I remember him from 5 years prior... he pretends to remember me... asks me for money... I give him my last 2000 colones, at the moment the last of my money... and continue walking through streets that make no sense to the place I'm welcome to safely rest.
This is going nowhere.
I need to get wet.
I need to eat something.
I need to get moving again.
Max
See, the boat's in the bay and I've got a couch in a cabin in the jungle. It feels like Camp Olson except there are more mice and, thank God, no children.
My roommates are fattening me up with amazing cooking. Banana bread. Creamy pastas. Lots of eggs. I'm a pig in shit.
They go to bed close to dark. They live little and beautifully.
I didn't want to drink. I don't want to drink. I don't drink that much.
BUT...
...when yer sailing students were 70 year old British ex-pats you drink. Hell, they're paying you to drink. Who can blame them? What else is there to do in London?!
Drizzle.
In three days of "lessons" we discussed sailing for about 15 minutes. We spent a few hours learning the GPS and Google Earth... the rest of the time we devoted to their reasonably crazy conspiracy theories and stories. I made $200.
I must have said, "My friend, you're preaching to the choir!" a zillion times just to push the conversation somewhere... ANYWHERE!!... but broken record eco-econo-politico-psycho-bullshit from a contradictory slant I couldn't even pin down.
FRAGMENTED. And who wouldn't be?! INFORMATION OVERLOAD.
And the characters just keep rolling out of the woodwork...
In fact, recently, smilingly, I've found people (yo incluido) so ridiculous I can't even believe we exist.
FLASH.
A red, old, pockmarked nose with twinkling eyes casually explains the ease of setting your enemies' shit alight. We discuss mob tactics and I'm advised to "Keep my pecker up."
FLASH.
A 17 year old Tico who can't swim mysteriously drowns in the river. His sister, an aging drunk whore, confronts the police about it. They beat her up. She looks like a flying leap to faceplant on a gravel road. That night she confides in me at the bar.
I never buy a beer... they materialize... I've got two in my hands and three on the bar so I offer her one... she looks like she needs one. She rewards another beer for my kindness.
I get her laughing for a while with goofiness and drop a few comments she takes like pearls. She offers to dread my hair for free. I decline. Then she gets sour and takes it out on God.
rant rant rant rant to the closer of ...
"DIOS, YOU CAN SUCK MY PUSSY!"
And that comment really sticks in my mind because as she screamed it she spit in my right eye.
It still feels gross... kind of like the ackward tingle you feel if your hand accidentally contacts another guy's wang. I'm a little concerned about contracting some alphabetic variant of HEP.
And if you think about it, that's a heavy statement... especially because this woman IS, despite her drunken whorishness, obviously both spiritual and religious.
FLASH.
One European woman walks topless and everyone can't help but stare and discuss. I couldn't help but stare at the starers.
FLASH.
Costa Rican DJs butcher reggae. A white boy from Minnesota owns the dance floor. He learned to dance from Bahamaians, Jamaicans, and Trinidadians at a Catholic college.
FLASH.
60 people sit in the water watching assault helicopters fly overhead. Some pretend to shoot at the choppers. I take advantage of the distraction to snake a wave.
FLASH.
Walking home coherently plastered, I encounter a Tico my girlfriend bought dope from 5 years prior. He's on the same street corner. He's wearing the same shirt. I remember this shirt because it's the kind old redneck ladies wear: an all black T with two little kittens screenprinted on the front. I'm enthralled by this strange occurence.
I tell him I remember him from 5 years prior... he pretends to remember me... asks me for money... I give him my last 2000 colones, at the moment the last of my money... and continue walking through streets that make no sense to the place I'm welcome to safely rest.
This is going nowhere.
I need to get wet.
I need to eat something.
I need to get moving again.
Max