AP - “Lagging sales of trucks and larger cars have caught General Motors by surprise.”

The news has been grim of late: GM asleep at the wheel, American corporations lured away like cheap whores, the dollar down on it’s knees, ass in the air, Americans reeling from the hellish drain of high fuel prices, and there’s nary a hybrid on the lot.

If only someone had seen this coming. There are whispers Barack Obama and his followers will slaughter a Hummer with the name “Bush” painted on its side, then dip their fists in motor oil and scream “death to Republicans.” It doesn’t matter if this is just the idle talk of stoned liberals. People say Barack Obama’s Muslim and black. So he’s surely capable of something like this. Read the rest of this entry »

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San Jose Costa Rica - I’m in the middle of another liquid lunch at El Patio when the waiter checks in.

“Listo senor?”

“No, traigame otra cuba libre por favor.” I tell him.

My table’s near the street. An odd assortment of mostly light-skinned people pass by: gringos, ticos, bums, old men hustling Cubans.

I have mixed feelings about San Jose. There’s danger and filth on every street corner. Still, it feels good to be back. The air is cool, the women stunning, and I’ve just found “Ask The Dust,” over at Mora Books.

I caress the worn paper cover as if it was an old lover. It cost me 3000 colones. That’s about $7. Cheap here. But in Nicaragua I could get a bottle of Flor de Cana, and still have enough cash left over to rent Daniel Ortega’s stepdaughter for the night.

As silly as it sounds, I need this book, and all the rum. It’s keeping me from getting angry with the dark-skinned Nica who’s holding up my lunch.

When she finally arrives, Nita’s bristling with energy. She drapes a leather pouch over the chair, takes off her wrap-around stripper shades, sits, and folds her arms across her chest.

“You’ve changed.” she says

She sneers at the book, as if she’s just caught me in bed with a Mexican whore.

I’ve changed? The words swim in my head. No one’s ever accused me of that before.

“All you care about is books. You always read, and write on computer. Ella es tu amante.”

“I like to think rum’s my mistress. The computer’s for work.”

“Talk to me. Why you no talk to me?”

I lean back in my seat, and watch a gecko chase insects on the bamboo ceiling. A shaft of sunlight stabs at me from the street.

“What did you want to talk about?” I finally say.

“There’s no sex. You no want me anymore.”

“We had sex the day before yesterday.”

“Not like before. You don’t want me like before.”

“You mean when you were a stripper?”

I let that hang there while I finish my drink and flag down the waiter. I really don’t want to have this conversation. I just want to read, and enjoy my time here.

“Is it because I’m fat?”

“Fat?”

This is something many men fail to consider when they lure a stripper off the pole. Stripping is very physical, it keeps women lean, and financially independent. I’ve known women who gave up the life, a year later I almost couldn’t recognize them. They were 50 lbs heavier, and broke.

“Other men tell me I’m not fat”

“Then it’s settled. You’re not fat.”

“That’s why I started the gym” she says.

“You’re not fat” I say. And she isn’t. Not even close. She’s just gone from a perfect 95lbs to a healthy 125lbs. Most gringas would kill for that.

But this is not about other women, or weight. It’s the whole deal. The I can’t find a job, stay fit, entertain myself, do anything without the stupid gringo’s help deal. Right now I despise her. I despise myself.

When we first met Nita was poor and just over from Nicaragua. Almost 50% of the population lives in poverty in Nicaragua. Many of them end up in Costa Rica looking for work.

It was a mutual attraction. I asked for nothing Nita didn’t already have. Be yourself I said. I’m easy. You don’t need to clean or cook for me. Just do what makes you happy.

And I was honest. I told her I was a writer. I told her how I was, and what I liked. I never asked her to stop working. In fact, I advised against it.

And now to learn that what I do is not enough. That I need to sex her up 3 times a day like before, instead of 3 times a week, that the time I spend writing, and reading is somehow a betrayal.

It’s too much. A man tells you what’s expected. You say cool, or fuck off. There’s nothing workable in between.

So we go back to our room in Bario Amon and fuck. Outside of a marriage proposal, or tossing her into the street, it’s the only way to shut her up.

When we finish Nita sprawls on the damp sheet and surfs the channels on the TV. She’s happy now that she’s cum. As if an orgasm could really change anything.

I crack open a bottle of cold Imperial from the mini fridge, and go back to my book. I’m happy now that I have something more to write about.

As if my writing could really mean anything.

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