Hey Mon! How's it Going, Bro?
In a strange twist that I'm not even sure that I fully understand (actually, that describes the vast majority of my life), most Bahamians seems to think that I must partake of the ganja.
In Freeport, Harbour Island and of course here in Nassau, I can usually count on a car slowing down as it approaches me, the window rolled down surreptitiously and the occupant asking me out of the darkness- "You looking, Bro?", while mimicking the rolling of a big spliff.
Whether on the street corner, the open road or a bar, I'll be queried about, "smoke", "ganja", "weed" and then be offered the most kind assistance in making sure my every need is taken care of while being at the same assured that the product in question is only of the highest quality...
I can't tell if it is the look of quiet desperation in my eyes, the exhausted slump of my shoulders or simply the clear evidence that I am clearly in need of a good time. My cousin Cecile has even mentioned that the local "girls" have been eyeing me up, though the truth be told I have missed every instance of this.
Tom, with his full body suit of tattoos, his long hair and his air of insousance (sp?)would seem like a natural customer but has not been aproached once. This has bothered Tom immensesly. Me, I've lost track of the times I've been propositioned! Tom has left for Jamaica to try and salvage some kind of winter vaction in the sun, but even he is mystified by my ganja attracting powers.
Of course I haven't shaved since early December, am crushed that I will not be wearing a kilt for Robbie Burns day, or drinking fine whiskey - but maybe my ganja power comes from the red beard liberally striped with white. Calling it grey would just be a lie.
Or maybe it is my collection of vintage tropical shirts and well-worn khaki shorts, or - God, forbid - that I am beginning to look like Jimmy Buffet, or a particularly well-worn member of the Beach Boys. The sad cousin that no one can quite remember the name of....
Anyways, I am sticking to too much wine, cold beers and the demon rum. Bought a bottle yesterday for $6.50 called, "Fire in De Hole" with a naked women in silohette on the bottle label dancing against a background of flames - presumably the flames of Hell. Or a night of spectacular sex that you will always just sort of remember and will remain nothing more than a vague recollection through the gauzy memory of your alcoholic fog...
My father was put on a dialysis machine last night. I am trying to arrange an air ambulance back to Vancouver - best quote so far, $26,900 - where he can get the kind of medical help he really and truly needs. He is in rough, rough shape.
In all honesty, I'm not that sure that I am in that much better shape.
God, maybe I really do need a big, fat spliff...
Hey, Bro!
In Freeport, Harbour Island and of course here in Nassau, I can usually count on a car slowing down as it approaches me, the window rolled down surreptitiously and the occupant asking me out of the darkness- "You looking, Bro?", while mimicking the rolling of a big spliff.
Whether on the street corner, the open road or a bar, I'll be queried about, "smoke", "ganja", "weed" and then be offered the most kind assistance in making sure my every need is taken care of while being at the same assured that the product in question is only of the highest quality...
I can't tell if it is the look of quiet desperation in my eyes, the exhausted slump of my shoulders or simply the clear evidence that I am clearly in need of a good time. My cousin Cecile has even mentioned that the local "girls" have been eyeing me up, though the truth be told I have missed every instance of this.
Tom, with his full body suit of tattoos, his long hair and his air of insousance (sp?)would seem like a natural customer but has not been aproached once. This has bothered Tom immensesly. Me, I've lost track of the times I've been propositioned! Tom has left for Jamaica to try and salvage some kind of winter vaction in the sun, but even he is mystified by my ganja attracting powers.
Of course I haven't shaved since early December, am crushed that I will not be wearing a kilt for Robbie Burns day, or drinking fine whiskey - but maybe my ganja power comes from the red beard liberally striped with white. Calling it grey would just be a lie.
Or maybe it is my collection of vintage tropical shirts and well-worn khaki shorts, or - God, forbid - that I am beginning to look like Jimmy Buffet, or a particularly well-worn member of the Beach Boys. The sad cousin that no one can quite remember the name of....
Anyways, I am sticking to too much wine, cold beers and the demon rum. Bought a bottle yesterday for $6.50 called, "Fire in De Hole" with a naked women in silohette on the bottle label dancing against a background of flames - presumably the flames of Hell. Or a night of spectacular sex that you will always just sort of remember and will remain nothing more than a vague recollection through the gauzy memory of your alcoholic fog...
My father was put on a dialysis machine last night. I am trying to arrange an air ambulance back to Vancouver - best quote so far, $26,900 - where he can get the kind of medical help he really and truly needs. He is in rough, rough shape.
In all honesty, I'm not that sure that I am in that much better shape.
God, maybe I really do need a big, fat spliff...
Hey, Bro!
posted by Vince Hemingson at 5:14 AM
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