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Blog Entry 2 of 4 Costa Rica to Boulder, with a side trip to Guilt

You can share my successes (few), failures (more) and misadventures (a bunch) with me as I navigate the complicated straits between a 92-year-old Mom in Florida who's working the Guilt Matrix full-bore, an ill long-term friend in Golden who's suffering mate-mismatch, and my own needs, that seem ephemeral most of the time, but female companiionship and spiritual peace seem to be involved and no, I don't want to hear about oxymoronism. I have my maniacal side but have never been convicted in a meaningful court. The good news is that I'm basically a Southern Gentleman upgraded to the present age (women CAN vote and own property), with a thin veneer of Boulder S.N.A.G (Sensitive New-Aged Guy), coupled with a cynical and wry sense of humor, a voracious reading appetite, and the determination to not suffer fools gladly. F---; at all. 'Nuff said.

Blog Url: http://denver.yourhub.com/~Sevaman

Incontinence vs. El Picocaballo (a tarantula)

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Contributed by: Scott Mock on 9/20/2006

My previous posting attempted to cover a sensitive territory: i.e., inappropriate sleeping mates, and an invitation to travel. I'm pleased to report that a lot of people (who really ought to find something to do with themselves) seemed to enjoy my posting, but almost no one (well, no one at all) seemed inclined to take up my invitation to travel to Costa Rica. Well, f--- them; they made a serious mistake, not taking me seriously.

I went anyway, and had the following adventures that those sissified voyeurs DID NOT share: rescued a fair damsel from a giant tarantula; hired four of the most villanous-seeming peones to pull my truck out of a quagmire that some idiot (me) had put it into; ate one-quarter of a chicharonne without actually ralphing on the spot; slid into a very large boa on a mud-slidden black highway and broke the window crank off my driver's door getting the window up; had extracted from me $40 by a rapacious transito vampire on the way to the last town in Costa Rica going South; met an enterprising young man who sold what was purported to be cocaine that was sealed into an inch or so of a plastic drinking straw by heating knives over a cigarette lighter; visitied Panama for about 4 minutes and $20 for the priviledge; AND discovered that Costa Rica is the birthplace of....the WONDER BRA!

So, there! and furthermore....Pbltttttt!! (A rude noise not given to phonetics)
I first ventured into Costa Rica back in 2000, when I realized that I had a cousin living there for years and who could pick me up from the airport and give me a place to stay. This visit ended badly, as I ran afoul of my redneck cousin's rabid right-wing politics by casually mentioning that perhaps there was some alternative to an organization that included Focus on Your Family, the Klan, the NRPMGA (National Rifle, Pistol, and Machine Gun Association).

My timing was bad, these comments following immediately upon my observation, that, Costa Rica's venemous snake population reputation to the contrary, I hadn't seen a single snake since my arrival. My cousin, often florid, reached new heights of hue and began Talking in Tongues while at the same time slamming the crappy brakes onto his crappy Toyota pickup, which eventually stopped. In the midst of a vast cane field. This verdant vision, shimmering waves of green feathery cane, seemed to take on an ugly hue, something like my cousin's, who, having gathered some air into his lungs, reached across me to slam my door open. "Y-yyyyyyyyyoudon'tthinkthere'snof-----snakesin thatf-----canethen getyourassoutofmytruckandtakeag------hikethroughthere."

Actually, I KNEW there were snakes in the cane. The cane was full of rats and where there are rats there are snakes, and where there are snakes there are the infamous and ill-tempered Terciopelos, AKA the Fer-de-Lance.

We both calmed down but knew from that social debacle that my visit was limited.
I didn't see him much more, partially because I hit suavely upon his delightful and buxom sorta-girlfriend (enter WonderBra) and was from that point and not surprisingly, persona non grata. But I did meet some other friends of mutual friends and found a delightful character in The Captain, who never quite recovered from an extensive Peace Corps tour of Central and South America, and ended up growing nursery cuttings for shipment to Miami on a small finca (farm) in La Guacima, a small community not far from the main airport.

Alas, the Captain's proximity to the airport, known good nature, and possession of a small cabin on his property soon entered into the secret database of the community of Eurotrash Freeloaders. Each of these trafficers, until forcible uploaded onto the streets by the expiration of Captain's goodwill, left behind them a 'few things' that they would 'be back for.' Never. One quarter of the Captain's Cabin eventually ended being devoted to others' priceless artifacts. I won't bore you with the details, but within this treasure trove I found a working 8-track tape player, original Cat Stephens (pre-Muslim) tracks, an 8-inch B&W television, and a stash of condoms that had petrified and could be cracked like a plantain chip.

Thus leading to the Night of the Tarantula, when one of Captain's Wandering Souls wandered onto the farm from Quebec, needing only a few colons to pay for the cab, whose driver stood about anxiously, not used to obvious gringas who were... without funds. The driver made it quite plain that this was not natural.

Captain, skillfully avoiding the gushing assurances and bosomy clutchesfrom Marie France that she would without fail be with funds sometime very soon, paid the driver who exited the steep and stony drive with audible winces and subdued cursing.
Marie-France, welcome assured, prettily assisted us with her five or six bulging cases by negligently waving a tiny penlight at anywhere but our path, and we had her settled into... my cabin. I was evicted onto the couch in Captain's living room. The Captain soon departed into San Jose, wisely choosing some time with his lady friend over the review of some six or seven years since Marie-France's departure, hastened no doubt by her then-boyfriend's developing crack habit which interfered with their mutual cocaine affection.

I settled onto the hellish fold-out couch, and approached something like sleep when a shriek came from...the cabin. Leaping up in my underwear, I grabbed a flashlight and headed outside onto the patio--only to meet Marie-France, who was brandishing a can of hairspray and a heaving bosom.

'Mon dieu!' 'Hijo de Puta!' 'Por Dios!' Marie France exclaimed, covering all her multi-lingual hysterics. 'What's the matter? What did you see?' I asked, stepping carefully through the wet grass with my flashlight-carefully as this was Dating Game time for Tarantulas and Captain's place had plenty of them.

'Un Arana!' Un Tarantula!' 'Un Picocaballo (horse-biter)! Marie-France assured me as we approached the small concrete patio just off the door to the cabin.
'Un Tarantula? Donde?' I asked scanning the empty concrete. (Where?)
'Aqui! Aqui!' Marie-France assured me, pointing at a damp and sticky-looking patch just outside the door of the cabin.

Marie-France, clutching my arm, was at the same time causing her ample breasts to sweep across me. What to do? Concentrate on locating this cheeky spider or enjoy the soft warmth of Marie-France's upper...er....body?

The story was soon outed: Marie France, night-clothed, stepped out the cabin door onto the concrete, ready to step into the toilet-room just there. Looking down in the shadowy light from the cabin, she spotted a suspicious dark thing squatting just next to her bare foot. As she looked, the thing grew hairy legs, doubled in size, and Marie-France, speechless for a few moments, used her weapon at hand, to wit: a large can of industrial strength hair spray. She then leaped across the stunned and innocent (out, after all, only to get laid) and suddenly well-groomed tarantula and emitted a shreik on her way to the main house and her rescuer. Me.

We found no Tarantula, only a greasy spot on the concrete. I announced the vile creature gone; Marie-France announced that she was NOT sleeping in that mierde cabin alone but was moving herself and her bedding to the main house. She would bed down next to me on the floor. I briefly considered telling her that there were FAR more creatures in the Captain's house but wisely held my tongue.

In the morning, the Captain came into the main house at his usual hour-six AM-and this is what he found: Me on the pull-out sofa entangled in the one worn sheet; Marie-France sleeping peacefully on her pallet, mouth open, one full malleable breast slipped from its moorings, nipple naturally engorged.

Captain looked over at me with raised eyebrowsand I turned over, not willing to waste time nor foolishly assert my inncence in the face of that lovely breast.

The Captain had a smile beyond description.

Marie-France began a genteel snore.

Well, enough; it either gets better from here or more ludicrous. But it will, fer shur, be innocent and fun.

Scott

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Submitted By: Michael Rule

posted on 10/20/2007 @ 12:30:02 PM

Rated Blog Entry

Great reading!

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Submitted By: Jeff Thomas

posted on 9/20/2006 @ 11:43:43 PM

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Thanks agin Scott, your friendly neighborhood web host/

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Scott Mock

Boulder , CO

Scott Mock has posted 4 blog entries and 0 comments since joining on 9/14/2005. Scott Mock 's average blog rating is 4.92.

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