Cosmic Banditos

A few weeks ago I finally got around to picking up Alan Weisbecker's In Search of Captain Zero. I was hooked immediately, the way a good book always gets you, and was finished in a little over a week. I immediately set out to find his follow up book, Can't You Get Along With Anyone?, in which Weisbecker picks up where he left off in Captain Zero and details the rest of his time spent in Central America. I struck out at two major booksellers in Midtown and resigned to the fact that I would have to order the book. I decided that while I was waiting for it to arrive, I would try giving his first book a read, Cosmic Banditos. I hadn't considered this originally because I have rarely been able to get through the first chapter of a work of fiction. It's just not my thing, I'll take boring ass real life stories over fiction nearly every time. With that said, in one day I just about finished reading Cosmic Banditos. I was considering writing a review of the book when I was finished, but there really is no need to wait...

Alan Weisbecker was on some serious shit when he wrote Cosmic Banditos.

That's all I've got.

Mets Playoff Tickets For Sale! Best Offer!

The Boys Are Back In Town!

March 2008; Liberia, Costa Rica. We landed in Liberia, one year later, down a man. OB, now the proud father of little Brooklyn O’Brien, couldn’t make the trip. Congratulations brother.

We opted to forego the rental truck this time around in favor of a cab service. It turned out to be a good move. We climbed into the back of our van and set out for Nosara. Our driver was kind of enough to stop multiple times for us to pick up sixers of Imperial, at one point we even found tall-boys. Having a local Tico behind the wheel shaved about thirty minutes off of our trip. We were happy to find the road to Nosara still remained unpaved.

We arrived at the Harbor Reef and headed straight to the bar. One of our waitress friends was working and was ecstatic to see us. She had kept in touch briefly through email but we had not spoken to her in quite some time. She informed us that her friend, the other waitress we had spent a lot of time with, had moved to San Jose to finish her degree. Good for her.

While at the bar, we overheard a conversation in which the owner’s son was describing our favorite spot in Nosara. It went something like this…

“Blew Dog’s used to be the place to go. Now it’s called Kaya Sol and some yoga dude plays the bongos all night.”

We headed off to our room to unload our shit and immediately noticed a difference. Our room had satellite TV and wireless internet. Nosara was changing.

We woke up the next morning and walked across the street, down the trail, past the graveyard and onto Playa Guiones. The same beach that was deserted the year before was now littered with people. Still vacant compared to Long Island beach standards, but it was apparent that word of Nosara had leaked out to more than just the surf community.

After dinner we decided to go check out Blew Dog’s for ourselves. Sure enough, the conversation we had overheard was true. The crowd was different. There was no smoking allowed inside, despite the fact that there were no walls. Our favorite shot, Man’s Club*, was MIA. A dude playing the bongos certainly had replaced the DJ; in fact, it was our waitress friend’s husband. The badass American fisherman we had met a year earlier was now rocking a weird Mohawk and banging away on his fucking bongos.

Luckily, Wille was still there. We said our hellos and he pretended to remember who we were. We eventually found out that he actually had no idea, until his friend showed up and reminded him that we were the idiots who pissed on her quad 12 months ago. I am pretty sure he loves us for that. A friend of hers or not, everyone must have wanted to piss on her quad at one time or another.

Our late-night bonfire had a strangely different twist to it this time around. Yoga had taken over the beach after sunset. During one nights trek from Blew Dog's down the beach to the Harbor Reef, we stumbled upon one hell of a bonfire. Sprite, walking pretty far ahead of STB and myself, had decided to join the party. As we began to realize what was transpiring in front of us, we almost pissed our pants. There was Sprite, standing around the fire sticking out like an Asian on a Basketball team. Sprite, the Yao Ming of that scene, was the only one with any type of clothing on. Welcome to Yogatown.

In Sprite’s words the rest of the trip went something like this; Surf, Eat, Nap, Bodysurf, Ring Game, Eat, Nap, Surf, Sunset Beers, Eat, Rum, Bonfire Beers, Bed.

Nosara is changing. Yoga is quickly taking over. Larger buildings are under construction. Prices are skyrocketing. The beach is getting dirty. The locals** are becoming douche bags. And who knows what will happen if that road gets paved.

The second time around was our Made, a great movie no doubt, but don't try to compare it to Swingers. It is very likely that in 2007, we caught Playa Guiones in her prime.


* Morgan and the 17-year-olds introduced us to Man’s Club at Blew Dog’s in 2007. Take a bottle of Tequila, pour some out (preferably into your mouth) and fill the remaining space in the bottle with habanero peppers. Then pour shots for your friends (or unsuspecting Americans at a bar in Central America), keep a straight face, and shoot them. Welcome to the Man’s Club. Sprite has a great story about his attempt to make Man’s Club upon our return from Costa Rica. Maybe he will post it on his blog, http://beautifullcontrast.blogspot.com.

** By locals I do not at all mean Ticos, Ticas or Costa Ricans. I am referring to the Americans and Europeans who have lived there for 2 months off of Mommy and Daddy’s money and somehow feel that it is their land.

SHIT IS COMING!

I found these two beauties, SHIT IS COMING! and MITZVAH TANK, on the corner of 43rd and Madison today. One was parked Smart Car style and the other blocking the entire intersection.




So which is it? Moshiach Is Coming Now or Shit Is Coming? I tend to believe the guy sporting the environmentally friendly shopping cart over the guy with the weird little hat driving a global warming machine. Go Green because SHIT IS COMING!

Overheard at Shea

With the final days of Shea Stadium upon us, I received this message via Blackberry Messenger a few days ago.

Frankie B: Overheard at Shea: 2 Huge Men. Guy 1 - "You know one thing I like better about Yankee Stadium than this fucking piece of shit?" Guy 2 - "What?" Guy 1 - "Yankee Stadium has fucking dipping dots." Guy 2 - "Yeah bro, you're right."

All the Sketch Comedy Guido Youtube videos in the world will never compare to the real thing.

Playa Guiones, Nosara, Costa Rica 2007

March 2007; New York City. The car service would be picking up Sprite, OB and myself at good old 79 Clinton and bringing us to Newark International Airport where we would meet up with Steve STB and board our Continental Airlines flight to Liberia, Costa Rica. With the car picking us up at 5:30 am, I figured it might be a good idea to stay sober that night. I snapped out of my rum coma around 5:45am when Sprite called to tell me I was late, fucking Epstein’s. I abandoned my spot in line among the rest of the Lower East Side degenerates waiting for their McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches. I hadn’t packed yet, and would later find out I never really did.

At some point, en route to Central America, breakfast was served. Knocked out with the aid of some sleeping pills, Sprite was somehow able to respond to the flight attendant asking him if he would like a shitty banana and some Cheerios. He responded all right, by taking the tray and dumping the entire thing directly into the seat pouch in front of him. I don’t think he ever woke up.

We arrived in Liberia, picked up our rental truck and headed down the Guanacaste Peninsula towards our destination. We were barely on the road when we ran into the only person we would meet in Costa Rica who didn’t speak a lick of English. After a long conversation about speeding, surfboards, California and underwear (at least that’s what I understood through my limited espanol), we handed Costa Rica’s Finest twenty dollars along with an NYPD PBA card and went on our way. We hit the dirt road headed to Nosara just as the sun was setting.

I have no idea how long we were on that road, but it felt like forever. As we barreled down the narrow strip of dirt, it seemed to close in on us with every passing second. Bridges were no longer as wide as our trucks wheelbase. It began to feel like we were nowhere near, nor headed towards, the Pacific Ocean. We drove deeper and deeper into the jungle and further away from civilization.

We finally arrived in Nosara, where it still felt as if we were miles inland, with no trace of the ocean other than a few surfboards lying around. We were exhausted, but decided we should have a celebratory dinner after our successful jungle excursion. Sprite, STB and I sat down at a table at the Harbor Reef, where we would be staying for the next week. As we chatted up our waitresses, who quickly became our best friends in Nosara, we turned to see OB strutting out from our room, across the pool area towards our table. Shiny silver track pants (think “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems” video), maroon Fred Perry sweater vest and a walk that could only be from New Jersey. The three of us were equally unsuccessful in hiding our amusement as Johnny Drama took a seat at our table, among three giggling idiots.

“Am I missing something?”

“Yeah, your sleeves,” STB somehow managed to respond through the giggling, which quickly erupted into a deafening laughter.

OB took off his sweater vest to reveal his black wife beater. You can take the kid out of the city….


After laughing at OB’s outfit the night before, I began sorting through the useless items I had packed for myself. Three pairs of jeans, a hoodie, a jacket, one flip-flop, every pair of shorts I have ever owned but only 3 t-shirts, no socks, no toiletries and a digital camera with a dead battery and no charger. I also managed to travel to Central America without much cash. I found out later in the week just how hard it is to get cash out of a Costa Rican bank…impossible.

I did somehow manage to pack the important stuff. Video camera, lenses, filters, batteries, charger, microphone, rain cover, tripod and two-dozen Mini DV tapes.

We headed down the narrow jungle trail that opened up into a small cemetery overlooking Playa Guiones. The beach was empty; it’s only inhabitants being a couple of dogs. Everyone else was in the water. I grabbed a spot at the waters edge, ankle deep, and setup shop. I got a little over an hour of film and headed back to The Reef for breakfast.

As we walked back through the winding maze-like walkways of The Harbor Reef we heard a familiar voice come from the bar area.

“Staaaaaave!”

Two of our friends, Scooter and CF, had left for Costa Rica a few days earlier. Flying into San Jose, they were headed south to visit some friends in Mal Pais. We had let them know where we would be staying, but with no form of contact we weren’t sure they would make the 6-hour trip up north. There they were, sitting at the Harbor Reef bar. We were happy to have our friends crash with us, squeezing 6 dudes into 4 beds. CF was definitely the dirtiest of the crew, sleeping in a bed covered in…dirt.

As if your friends finding you in a remote town on the Pacific Coast of Central America isn’t enough, try running into two other friends you had no idea would be there. That’s what happened to STB. Rodney and Mark both trained with STB at his gym, Rodney an NFL tight end who played for the Eagles, Bills and Patriots. You wouldn’t believe that a laidback, longhaired surfer like Rodney could play football, but according to STB he could flip the switch whenever he needed to. Having him around proved dangerous as Sprite and I somehow thought we were on a football field while walking down the beach at 3am. Bruised, possibly broken ribs were the result.

Now that we were 8 deep and growing fast, it seemed like the nightlife in Nosara was growing with us. When we first arrived, we noticed the bars closed at 1o and everyone was up at dawn to get the early swell. By the time we left a week later, we were closing out our favorite bar, Blew Dog's, at 2am and then hitting the beach for a bonfire and beers with half of the town.

There were the young kids from Virginia. Only 17 years old but they could hang. Their parents grounded them one night.

There were the Harbor Reef waitresses who we spent close to 24 hours a day with.

There was a girl I met at…ah fuck, I hate that memory.

There was Willie from Blew Dog's, a hardcore kid from Tampa whose name I forget and a Blonde girl on a quad from Sweden or Switzerland or some shit. At one point, she blamed one of us for pissing on her quad. She chased Sprite a mile down the beach and cracked a zinger about his receding hairline that I wish I could remember. I have no idea why she thought we pissed on her quad. Wait, it was probably because we pissed on her quad.

One of the most interesting dudes we met in Nosara was Nick. Nick had recently graduated high school and was spending a year traveling, alone, before he went off to college. He had an around the world plane ticket and had already been to South Africa, Indonesia, Australia and New Zealand, among other places. Our last night out in Nosara, Nick threw a party at Blew Dog's; his family had come down from Florida to see him. We packed everyone into our truck that night, Nick and his sister’s friend Britney, Morgan and the Virginia kids, Willie, the waitresses from the Harbor Reef. I don’t know how we all fit, but we headed to the grimy, hooker-laden, discotheque 20 minutes outside of town. Unfortunately, we found out after we arrived back in New York, Nick’s house had been robbed that night, losing all kinds of shit including pictures from his trip and his passport.

We spent the next day taking it easy, packing up our shit and saying our goodbyes. We weren’t really ready to leave, and a few people weren’t ready to see us leave yet. One of us may have even seriously considered returning in the very near future…as in a week later.

I had planned on filming a few hours a day and returning home with upwards of 10 hours of raw footage. The camera never left the Harbor Reef after that first morning.

"Don't be retarded...

JUST FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED!"

I am the king of starting things and never following through, as you can see from this blog.  I think it all started with College, which I still haven't finished.