Dear Abby,

OK, so I’m dating this woman kind of seriously. As in we see each other every weekend, either her visiting me at the beach or me meeting her in Manhattan. She has a great place on the Upper West Side—it’s a huge co-op. Way bigger than 99% of the places in Manhattan. Which means only 1% of the people in the world can dream to afford it.

Last week she came down and brought me a Bose iPod/iPhone speaker boombox thing. It is a pristine sound machine. This fucker is block-rocking LOUD.

I went to visit her for the holiday weekend and we had a fantastic time walking from Times Square to Central Park, then spending a couple of hours strolling around said park. We climbed rocks and even saw turtles and hippies.

She came here this weekend with more gifts. Top-of-the-line wok, food processor/smoothie maker, and a rice maker. And an offer to go to Antigua next month.

First class. Gigantic suite. Private outdoor pool. Sugar beaches and salt water.

When will it be cool for me to fart in her presence?

4 Kellys

The next day was spent in the Pacific paddling out and riding until my rash guard had a rash and I decided I had enough with the 9’ fiberglass longboard, which seemed to start weighing about 200 lbs and ending up at about 400 lbs. I opted for an 8’ epoxy with three fins. Much lighter and steerable. Stayed out until my skin was nicely exposed to Vitamin D and glowing with health and vigor.

After this pleasant repetition of dunking my body in ocean water as warm as the 85 degree air, I made my way back to the resort and promptly began drinking a beer. Next thing I knew I was sitting at a table with 8 Canadians eating buffet stuff and drinking free wine. Most of them were making their way back to the north part of North America the next day (including the Judds.) But they introduced me to a couple, Monique and Johan, on a pseudo vacation/2^nd honeymoon. I convinced Johan to take a surfing lesson. He loved it. The weird thing about the eight Canadians is that 4 of them were named Kelly. So, of course, I got names wrong, even with a 50/50 chance. Those Canadians sure can drink, though. Rumor has it one of the Kellys puked in the bushes on the way back to his room.

Score one for the American who surfed, sunned, wandered through Tamarindo, dined, drank, and slept like a baby.

Back to the Costa Rica mom and daughter situation

So there I was doing shots with Kelly and her mom. I had a tough time telling who was the daughter. They were kind of like the Canadian Judds. I decided to play it safe and not pick any favorite, although Kelly, the daughter, was outrageously bosomy. And see-thru-t-shirty. But it was kind of weird seeing her mom’s nipples, too. Kind of too weird. The next day, after hours in the surf, Kelly found me at the bar. She asked if she could prove I was in the ocean all day. I said sure. She licked my neck. I then ate a chicken wing. She said she could taste the salt on my body. I told her I could taste the sauce on the wings. It wasn’t as romantic as it sounds.

words for thought

It is easier to behave your way into a new way of thinking than it is to think your way into a new way of behaving.

American in disguise

(from hand-written journal)

Deplaned onto the tarmac and ran into a cattle line of beautiful humans and flat out ugly Americans. I was in the former category. Why? No socks, flip-flops and an iPhone receiving dictation. But I also had to pee my brains out, so as soon as I cleared customs I made my way to my first Central American rest room and pissed for about 5 minutes. Then I caught my luggage before the weirdest thing happened. As soon as I made my way to the other side of the airport, a driver came up to me and said, “Hello, Mr. Patrick.” How the fuck he knew me, I’ll never know. Fuck him, though he was a nice guy. I asked how he knew me and he said. "Isn't da weter nice today? Perhaps you should let me drive." So I shut up. And he took my private car voucher, put me in his luxury bus, and drove me to the resort. The landscape of Costa Rica is interesting. It was the dry season, so the river and creek beds were dry, the cattle and horses were skinny, and the hitchhiking hookers were kind of bosomy. My driver was nice enough to play Mr. Roboto by Styx 3x. In a row. Got to the resort and found my room to be perfectly placed near the pool and beach and bar. It took me an hour after checking in to decide what to do first. So I went to the beach. High tide soon washed upon me so I moved to the pool. Got some sun, then went to the bar. Met a mother and daughter on vacation together. They were doing shots.

Costa Rica bound: 4/15/10

(from hand-written journal)

It’s my second day here in the beautiful country of Costa Rica and I’m finally settling in.

I took the train from Red Bank, NJ to the airport (Newark) and had to wait there for two hours before the American Airlines desk opened at 3:00 A.M.—kinda boring, but I was glad to be there with plenty of time to spare. For awhile I felt like a homeless person crashing in a big bus station.

Once I checked my bag I breezed through security and waited another hour-and-a-half before my flight to Miami boarded. The flight went by quickly. I was served breakfast (corn flakes, bananas, water, champagne) and watched 30 Rock and The Office on the in-flight tele. So far, not much different than home but for the fact that I was in first class.

We landed in Miami and I bought a surfing magazine to get psyched. After another hour-and-a-half we boarded for Liberia, Costa Rica (upper left corner of map.) Now THAT was a nice flight. Though extremely tired (no sleep for 24 hours) I couldn’t really sleep. I was served a great meal (as far as plane food goes—salad, pork loin, and more champagne) and tried to watch most of the in-flight movie, which was Up in the Air with George Clooney. So far, not much different from an NY to Chicago flight. After soaring over the mountains and bush of Central America, I realized I was finally in a different part of the world. Thank God. And once we landed, that’s when things got interesting.

Starry nights, city lights coming down over me. Skyscrapers and stargazers in my head.

I still get goose bumps when I recall the cast rendition of "We are the Waiting." I knew St. Jimmy was about to make a Judas-like entrance. Then the soon to become infamous pump up the vein, tie it off, burn the spoon, and shoot it up choreography. But St. Jimmy also had a Judas-like exit. Still, though, seeing a couple dancing while connected by a rubber tie off cord hit scarily close to home. At least they didn't sing, "Memories." t.s. elliot is not Green Day. And American Idiot is not the abomination that Cats was.

Time of Your Life

Sorry to once again postpone the not-so-gory details of my vacation in the tropics, but I had one hell of a night last night.

Lynn and I went to see American Idiot on Broadway. We may have had the very best seats in the house—4^th row, dead center. It was a spellbinding mind fuck. Maybe the fact that it’s one of my favorite albums ever had something to do with the chills that are still trilling up my spine, but to see it staged, acted, and sung by such a talented and thrilling cast 10 feet from my eyes absolutely put it over the top for me. I’m still trembling from the bolts of energy zapped into my soul just by making eye contact with so many members of the cast throughout the show.

I wish I could boil down all of the high points right now, but it’s still too fresh in my mind.

Maybe it was the accumulation of the flowing themes of self preservation, self destruction, self sacrifice, and self redemption. That kind of shit hits me deep in the gut.

Maybe it was just that it totally rocked.

Maybe it was just before the last curtain call when the theater was one in joyous ovation and I waved the cast toward us as if to ask for one more song. They saw me! What a fucking rush!

When the curtains reopened, the entire cast were holding guitars and the star who plays Jesus of Suburbia gave me a knowing wink before he started strumming the first few bars of “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life”), an older and wildly popular Green Day ballad. The rest of the cast joined in, making for one of the most apropos curtain calls of all time. People were screaming, weeping, jumping, and hugging when the curtain fell for the last time.

It was windy and unseasonably chilly in Manhattan once we left the theater for dinner and drinks. But we walked the seven blocks to the restaurant through the Times Square throng of humanity on a warm high that I’ve never had and doubt ever will experience again. It was that cool.

I'll have seconds

It was a fun night, then day, in Jamaica last Thursday/Friday. Thanks Jen and Diana. Jen had the gravity-defying breasts, Diana wore the wet t-shirt to the bar and the white shorts that left little to the imagination. Both were very sharing.

I'm baaaaaack....

Costa Rica sunset. On the north west coast. 80 degrees. Sometime in mid-April. Around 5:30 pm Costa Rica time. There were many of us on the beach marveling at the sight. There were many of us at the bar later marveling at the night.