This week, I had the opportunity to be a guest disc jockey on Dumaguete’s own 93.7 Energy FM radio station, filling the how usually reserved for Jeff the Solar Guy’s show.
 
Jeff pre-qualified me tediously for the job by checking to see if: 1) I knew what a radio was; 2) Could speak in complete sentences; and 3) Had a pulse. Assured that two out of three wasn’t bad, I was offered the position.
 
The experience was a blast, and thanks to a few entertaining guests and a solid producer, at least my show didn’t embarrass the station.  But I must admit that I had butterflies of anticipation leading up to my 4 PM On-Air time since it’s been a long time since I got behind the mic.
 
My timing was a half click too fast and my transitions were rusty, but I still remembered the three golden rules of radio: 1) Always read the copy advertising, 2) Repeat the station’s call letters and guest names every ten minutes, 2) and don’t swear like a drunken sailor. 

​But it wasn’t my first foray into being a radio DJ…
 
A million years ago (OK, 1992-3) I was a Disc Jockey for my college radio station at the University of Connecticut. 91.7 FM went by the call letters WHUS, with the slogan “Radio for the people.” The only problem was that there weren’t any people listening – at least to my show.
 
As a newbie, I was awarded he worst possible time for a radio show: 2 AM to 5:30 AM on Thursday mornings. My first class, Weightlifting 101, was at 8 AM so it was a challenge just to show up, yet alone bench press with that lack of sleep (and lack of muscle).
 
Manning a professional radio station by myself was also a big responsibility. I had to read public service announcements (PSAs) every 15 minutes, report the weather once an hour, and announce the call letters frequently so the people would know which station they weren’t listening to.
 
There were about 1,000 buttons, dials, and levers in the sizable radio booth, at least nine of which I mastered after six months of practice. Also, I was informed very seriously that if I cursed while I was live on air, the FCC could fine the station $10,000 and could put them out of business. 

​But I had plenty of leeway to make mistakes since the station was empty at that hour. That was fine by me, since I didn’t particularly care for the kind of person who would be a college radio DJ (present company excluded).
 
The other members of WHUS chain smoked, reserved sour lemon looks of scorn for anyone not deemed as “alternative” as them, and obviously spent hours perfecting their disheveled outfits until they’d give off an “I don’t care about my outfit” vibe.
 
But I made the best of it, and I was rarely alone. My roommate, Garnett, always came along with me to listen to the newest hip hop records, and, circa 2:30 AM, Jake the Pizza Delivery Guy would always roll in, red-eyed and carrying a few free pizzas he’d managed to commandeer.
 
Together, to pass the three hours of silent blackness, we turned the radio show it into a big party. 

​“Stormin Norman in the Morning” was born, but this was no cult of personality, as the show was all about the music. At that time, there was no YouTube or iTunes, and people couldn't even listen to music online (Napster came in 1999). So to hear a new song, you had to tune in on the radio, watch MTV, or go to a record store and buy it.
 
But every record label sent early releases to the station to promote their hot new artists and albums, so we got Nirvana, Dr. Dre and Snoop, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Counting Crows, Radiohead, the Wu-Tang Clan, A Tribe Called Quest, and others all six months before the general public. It was heaven for this music lover.
 
We turned the volume way up. We danced. We tried to rap. We laughed. I ranted and raved on-air. We used the station’s phone to make long distance calls. We stole duplicate CDs. We took turns falling asleep on the couch. And we recorded endless mixes as if this music jackpot might suddenly disappear.
 
I gave shout-outs to friends all the time just so they would listen, spread maliciously irresponsible rumors about our teachers, and invited anyone and everyone in as a guest so we could discuss their sexual exploits.
 
By the time the middle aged and well mustached soft jazz DJ showed up at 5 AM to prepare for his morning show, the studio was littered with empty beer bottles, dank clouds of smoke, stacks of vinyl and CD cases, the remains of Hawaiian pizzas, and a snoring Garnett.

​The rest of the college campus was still sleeping, too. My radio show was so desolate that when a blizzard struck one winter night, I didn’t bother showing up. No one seemed to notice that the station was broadcasting dead air until a confused morning jazz guy brought it back to life.
 
It snowed a lot of Thursday mornings that winter, and thus my inglorious DJing career at WHUS soon came to an end.
 
I ended up failing Weightlifting 101, a new low-point in my already low academic career. But Garnett and I were sought out for our new mixes and soon recruited to DJ parties. Jake the Pizza Guy would even stop by.
 
Twenty-five years later (wow!), getting into the booth at ENERGY FM rekindled those memories. Pulling the mic close and shouting out those call letter maybe even created an itch that needs scratching.
 
Perhaps I'll volunteer to guest DJ in Dumaguete again? Or, even better, I can record my own little podcast about traveling, culture, and general musings about this thing we call life.
 
But this time, I think I'll call it “Stormin Norman in the mid-afternoon," and strong coffee will replace all of those cold beers. I can even make a call to see if Garnett and Jake the Pizza Guy are available.

-Norm  :-)

P.S. A version of this story first appeared in the Dumaguete MetroPost newspaper.

​His legacy is still gold-plated in the Kingdom of Siam, where condoms are still sometimes referred to as “mechais,” a tribute to the first name of “Mr. Condom.” More importantly, even as HIV and AIDs spread rampantly in many developing countries around the world in the 1980s and 90s, reaching epidemic proportions in many African and other Southeast Asian countries, Thailand reacted quickly thanks to the tireless work and social progress Viravaidya. Not only were HIV and AIDS levels normalized, but the average number of children in Thai families decreased from 3.7 to 1.5 during his tenure – a testament to education, family planning, and the societal acceptance of condoms.
 
In 2007, Mechai Viravaidya was honored with the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation's Gates Award – including a $1,000,000 check - in recognition of his life’s work of family planning, HIV and AIDS awareness, women’s health, and advocacy for the poor.
 
That explained why there were photos of Viravaidya posing alongside Bill Gates, Bill Clinton, Warren Buffet, and other philanthropists, celebrities, and heads of states adorning the restaurant walls; not at all what you’d expect from a restaurant with the slogan, “Our food is guaranteed not to cause pregnancy.”
 

I caught this beauty through a bar window the other evening in Thailand. I cried myself to sleep that night, and this will forever haunt my dreams.

It makes me ponder life on so many levels and ask so many important questions.

Like, has this ever happened before in the history of the human race? (I'm guessing not.)

Does the love between an Indian tourist and a decapitated polar bear really stand a chance? (I'm guessing not.)

Should I have left in the part where he started playing with his tail inappropriately?

​And why the hell did he feel the need to wear headphones?  

Either way, I'll just leave this right here for your amusement.

You're welcome.

-Norm  :-)

1.    Before sex, she turns the heat up to 105 degrees and hands you a towel.

2.    She says ‘Namaste,’ every time you cough, sneeze, fart, orgasm, or choke on a pizza crust.

3.    Coconut oil is used liberally in the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and garage.

4.    There are items in her shower caddy you never knew existed.

5.    You celebrate Buddha’s birthday.  

6.    When you told her you want to buy a GTO she said she won’t tolerate genetically modified food in her household.

7.    She wants you to humanely capture mosquitos and gently reintroduce them into their natural habitat.

8.    Your condoms are organic.

9.    You have no idea why you own furniture because she always sits on the floor.

10. When you two get in a fight, she says she’s going on a “man detox.”

11. Her favorite planet is Uranus.

12. When you disagree with her, you’re, “Not on the same plane of consciousness.”

13. If you don’t take off your shoes at the door, she’ll get ‘all Warrior One,’ on you. 

14. She refuses to be part of the capitalist industrial structure that perpetuates class inequality and exploits indigenous and non-European populations.  Right after she drinks this one last Starbucks.

15. Speaking of which, her Starbucks order takes 13.5 minutes to recite.  

16. She gets road rage headed to the farmers market on her beach cruiser. 

17. If you substitute the word, ‘masturbate’ every time she says, ‘meditate,” you’ll laugh all day.

18. If she gets fired from her well-paying job, she blames the universe.  

19. If there’s a beach with a sunset or a stand-up-paddle-board within 147 miles, she’ll find it for a photo op.

20. Sriracha sauce is an appropriate gift for any occasion.

21. If she owes someone money, all of a sudden their energy is suddenly out sync.

22. She calls a break-up an, “Intimacy transition ceremony.”

23. She has a guy “friend” who’s in ridiculously good shape, wears ridiculously tight pants, and has a ponytail.

24. Her spirit animal is a baby elephant or a silver dolphin (never a hedgehog.)

25. Her credit score is on a cosmic journey with no beginning and no end.

26. She uses 47 #hashtags after posting each photo on Instagram.

27. She doesn’t like your best friend’s aura when he takes you out drinking.

28. You bury your McDonalds wrappers deep in the trash just to avoid arguments.

29. When she gets drunk she jumps up on the bar and starts doing yoga poses.

30. You know 3 famous sitar players by name.

31. You get a poop report every morning.

32.  She gets jealous if you even look at another girl’s yoga pants.

33. Your pizza has tofu and soy toppings instead of pepperoni and sausage.

34. When she busts out downward dog during the TV commercial breaks, it always turns into passionate lovemaking.

35.  She’s understanding, beautiful, caring, loving, sweet, accepting, and there’s never a dull moment.  Basically, she’s awesome and makes you a better man and you’re lucky to have her.

-Norm  :-)

I just landed in Ho Chi Minh city, Vietnam 48 hours ago, and the barrage to my senses is like a reunion with a beloved old friend; the chaotic blur of sights, the symphony of car horns, the masses of humanity.  But no matter whether I’ve been in Cairo Egypt, Tamarindo, Costa Rica, or Manila in the Philipines, there are some commonalities I’ve noticed in all developing countries (sorry, Third World sounded better in the title.)  For those of you who have traveled abroad – or grew up in another country – these might sound fondly familiar. 

1.      Most of the luggage on the airport conveyor belt is boxes duct taped together and addressed with a Sharpie.

2.     Everyone wears flip flops, even the construction workers, except the police, who wear proper shoes, though they’re the only ones not running around.  

3.      Women have burn scars on the back of their calves from hot motorbike exhaust pipes.

4.     You’re supposed to throw toilet paper in the waste basket, not flush it.

5.    There’s a showerhead right in the tiny bathroom and a drain on the floor, so you could sit on the toilet, brush your teeth in the sink, and take a shower all at the same time if you were so inclined.

6.     The top sports on TV are soccer, beach volleyball, cricket, badminton, and Formula One racing.

7.     The newscasters have English accents and only about 10% of the stories they report concern the United States.

8.     You see a family of 5 on the same moped, including infants and toddlers, and the father is the only one wearing a helmet.

9.     Every afternoon it rains harder than you’ve ever seen every for exactly 2 minutes.

10. Crossing the street is the most dangerous thing you’ll do all day.

11. Travelers are the only ones wearing sunglasses.

12. Poor people are skinny and rich people fat, the opposite of what how it is in the US.

13. Everywhere you look there are plastic lawn chairs.

14. People carry furniture, fishing pots, assorted construction materials, and three of their friends on their bicycles.

15. You have to count out 20,000 of the local currency just to buy a Coke.

16. Kids work in the streets all day and all night right next to their parents.  If they get tired, they curl up and sleep on cardboard boxes right on the sidewalk.

17. Every bar has a gay host with a comb-over, two hot chicks pulling in customers from the street, three salty dog expats drinking beer and sweating all day long, and a little fat kid wearing a skin-tight tank top and a gold chain who has attitude for days.

18. The same street worker will gladly sell you gum, cigarettes, a lighter, bracelets, sunglasses, marijuana, change money, or sign you up for a boat tour.

19. If little kids need to pee (chee chee), their mothers just drop their pants in the middle of the sidewalk and let them go. 

20. Girls hold hands when walking on the street with their girl friends or mom or dad.  When they’re older and they walk with their boyfriend, they always are on the inside, away from the street, so they won’t be mistaken for a prostitute.

21. You check your shoes and bed sheets for scorpions.

22. There is laundry hanging from every available horizontal surface.

23. An amazing meal costs you only $3 on the street.

24. You lose 10 lbs in the first two weeks when that street meal does amazing things to your stomach, confining you to the bathroom for 23 hours a day.  After that you can eat cheeseburgers and drink beer all day and still lose weight.

25. People pass the time smiling, laughing, and talking to each other.  They are happy, and though their lives are hard, they somehow manage to restore your faith in humanity.

Safe travels and be good to each other,

-Norm :-)

How many times a year does the average American have sex?  Take a wild guess.  Yesterday, I saw the cover of a fitness magazine that stated Americans, on average, have sex 118 times per year. 

Wow, that’s a lot of boom-boom.  That number seems ridiculously high to me, and certainly my lack-of-output plummets the national average, so last night I conducted a very scientific poll (on Facebook) asking the same question.  The majority of people said they were under the norm.  Errr…let me rephrase that, since my name is Norm, and “under the norm” may take on a different connotation considering our subject matter.  The majority reported they had sex less than 118 times a year, with only a few outliers saying that number sounded low, and even one girl who claimed she has sex 3 times a day, EVERY day, and who immediately received a slew of new friend requests.  

First off, to treat this subject with empirical impartiality, let’s define what a “time” is.  Certainly a “time,” or “sexual episode,” is viewed differently between men and women.  Studies show that for men, sex has occurred the exact micro-second they orgasm.  But for women, it’s when they receive a compliment about looking thin.  And how do we define “sex,” itself?  There are almost as many definitions of sex as there are people, but for this study, they considered sex to be any sexual encounter, with at least two people (sorry you masters of bating), including intercourse, manual, or oral copulation.  

I think a better definition would be: “any activity that involves removing your clothing, including your socks, that leads you to miss more than two commercials on TV.”

According to these definitions, Americans are having sex approximately once every 3 days.  That still seems like a lot.  Don’t forget, we have to factor in people who are not married, or not actively dating, or are “taking time to work on themselves,” or own more than 3 cats, or wear toupees, have a headache, are sick with the flu, have to wake up early the next morning, still live with their mom, or just have zero game, and you can see that we’re looking at far lower numbers.  Then there is the ultra-religious crowd, who believe that sex should be reserved for procreation, and the abstinence people.  WaitingTilMarraige.com reports that 3% of the US population, almost 10 million people, wait until marriage to have sex, so that skews our screw numbers.  By the way, if you want more information on that organization you can look them up on Facebook, where they have 7 followers.  

I understand if you have sex a whole butt-load of times if you are in a fun relationship or newly married, play NBA basketball or are named Taylor Swift, but this study shows that the rest of us have sex once every 3 days our whole adult lives!

The logistics are astounding.  118 times per year – that’s a LOT of beer and tequila shots, breath mints and over-priced flowers!  And where is all of this sex taking place, anyway?  It's reported there are 132 million housing units in the US, so is that where all of this bump and grind is going down?  Apparently people aren’t just getting amorous in their housing units, but in motel units, and back-seat-of-car units, and on-their-desk-at-work units.  Classy.  

Dubious of this number, I undertook my own research with the help of Google.  Side note – there are some interesting items that come up whenever you use “sex” in any keyword search, and my computer will have to be thoroughly purged this morning.  Surprisingly, there was little clinical research, reinforcing the premise that as a nation we’re fairly closed-minded about sex, at least talking about it when the bedroom doors are open.  But I combed through the handful of existing academic studies, which cited brilliant conclusions like:

“Having sex is linked to positive outcomes.”

Yah think?!  I’d say so!  So I formulated my own list:

 Top 5 Positive Outcomes of Having Sex:

1. You got to have sex

2. You got to have sex

3. You got to have sex 

4. You got to have sex

5. Post-coital snack

Thankfully, I found more legitimate studies about our other national pastime by the Kinsey Institute, an Indiana University research center who has been the “trusted source for investigating and informing the world about critical issues in sex, gender and reproduction,” for over 60 years.

I can only imagine visiting the Kinsey Institute, where they have hot women scientists in white lab coats with nerdy glasses who take me into a testing room and attach microdes to my head, and then she pulls off her glasses and shakes out her hair and pushes me back onto a lab table and rips off her lab coat and…oh, you’re still here?  Sorry, I got carried away.

Here are some statistics about Americans and sex:   

• The average couple spends 20 minutes on foreplay.
• The average sex session lasts for 3-18 minutes.
• 75% of men orgasm every time they have sex.
• 29% of women orgasm every time they have sex. 
• The average age of first sexual encounters is 16.9 for males and 17.4 for women.
• People have sex most infrequently on Tuesdays (because the Voice is on).
• Thursdays are the most popular days to have sex (because The Big Bang Theory is on).
• Only 48% of people are fully satisfied with their sex life.
• 60% of the population engage in oral sex frequently.
• The movie "The Notebook" is reported as the most romantically stimulating film for women, who prefer men to make "their move" during the rain scene.  Men cite "any damn thing" as being most effective to get them in the mood. 
  
• 90% of men and 86% of women have had sex in the past year.
• 27% of men and 19% of women have had oral sex in the past year.
• 10% of men and 9% of women have had anal sex in the past year.
• 20% of Americans have had sex with a coworker.

Here's the in-and-out of the Kinsey Institute's report on frequency of bumping uglies:  18-29 year olds have sex an average of 112 times per year, 30-39 year olds an average of 86 times per year, and 40-49 year olds an average of 69 times per year, bringing the national average to around 85 times per year.  

How does that measure up against the rest of the world?  In contrast, the Greeks have sex an average of 164 times a year, and the Brazilians, 145 times per year.  Sadly, like math and science test scores, America has fallen behind, again.    
  

I’m all for America being competitive with the rest of the world, so what do you say we roll up our sleeves, take off our pants, and show them what good-old-fashioned U.S. ingenuity and hard work is all about.  If you love America, please do your part to have sex more frequently so we can bring that number up.  Copulate for patriotism, like bald eagles, baseball, and fireworks on the 4th of July depended on it, or else the terrorists win - who, by the way, have sex 119 times per year. 

***

Because sometimes you have to offend 1 billion Chinese people, 65 million Frenchmen, Jerry Lewis, midgets, the ASPCA, vegetarians, change your last name to "Beaver," publicly confess to involuntary abstinence, eat some vanilla pudding, make fun of your own penis, and give a pig earrings, just to get through the day.

There was a French lady living in Tamarindo who kept nine terriers and a pig as pets. The pig had its ears pierced for some strange reason. It was the queen of the litter and the terriers circled around her, snarling viciously at anyone who got too close. Those fuzzy brown terriers couldn’t have been more than eight pounds each, but man they were nasty. Every day the French woman walked them on the beach.

I passed them when I jogged on the beach. I tried to make a wide berth but for some reason they hated me. Maybe they could smell fear, or tell that I was American and didn’t think Jerry Lewis was all that funny? Perhaps they could sense that I loved bacon, I’m not sure, but all at once those nine little fuckers charged, showing their teeth and barking.

“Eeeeeyyyyattts!” I screamed, picking up the pace of my run. But they closed in and blocked my escape, snapping at my heels.

“Get back, you evil beasts!” I yelled. But these weren’t your Grandma’s poodles; those little mutated Ewoks were trained killers. I looked over to the woman for help, but she just stood there. How do you say, “Call off your nine psycho terriers, you horribly irresponsible woman!” in French?

“Hey! Little help over here!” I yelled to her, pointing at the carnage unfolding around me. But she just lit up a cigarette and stared off toward the sunset.

So I zigzagged up and down the beach with all nine of them giving chase, jumping around and waving my arms wildly like I was trying to cross a pit of hot coals. One terrier lunged at my testicles but missed. The other Ticos on the beach laughed hysterically, bent over holding their knees, but no one offered to help. So what if the little hairballs had pink collars—didn’t they understand that this was a real emergency?

The leader of the terrier gang growled and took a step toward me. It was fourth and long, and coach was calling for a punt. I lined up...here comes the snap...laces out...I stepped into it and.... pulled back at the last moment because I didn’t have the heart to kick him. I whiffed into bright blue air and went tumbling down. This would end badly, I thought. I was defenseless; surely they would rip me to shreds. Everything went dark.

I had so many questions for the lady. Maybe I could ask her once I was well enough to have visitors at the hospital, after the plastic surgeons pieced together what was left of my face. Of course I’d be in traction and a full body cast, the majority of damage to my man-junk region where the terriers were like little seek-and-destroy missiles. The French lady would visit me and put a box of truffles and an “I’m Sorry My Terriers Ate Your Penis” Hallmark card on my bed stand.

“Iiiiiii cwannnnt eat solwid fwood yet,” I’d say, sipping my vanilla pudding through a straw. It was exhausting to speak. I was tired, so tired, but I had so much to ask her.

I took out my dry erase board and wrote in green marker: “Why earrings on the pig? And why the little fake diamond studs? Why not those Indian feather things that are in style?” And oh, there was one more small thing since we were having a nice pleasant conversation via dry erase board: “WHY THE FUCK DID YOU LET YOUR NINE TERRIERS MAUL ME ON THE BEACH? For the love of all that is holy...WHYYYYYYYYYY???!!!”

The machines that were hooked up to me would start beeping as my body went into convulsions. The nurses would run in. “We’re losing him. Plug in those round things that look like the Perfect Pushup and get ready to jumpstart his heart. And give me 5,000 cc’s of that fancy medical talk shit and prepare him for surgery.”

They’d turn to the French woman. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. Your husband needs emergency surgery for a penis transplant,” they’d tell her. “It’s risky, and there are numerous better options, but it’s up to you.”

“Oh mon dieu pas, this man no is me husband,” she’d say as she lit up a long-filtered cigarette with her white gloves, blowing smoke in the general direction of my breathing tube. “But I will sign zee form, oui oui?”

And she did.

“Mr. Scheeder, can you hear me?” the nurse would ask. “Shhhhweeber,” I’d say, trying to pronounce it right but the facial injuries and vanilla pudding getting in the way.

“What’s that, Shweeber? How’s that?”

“Sbweeber!” I’d moan.

“Fine then, Mr. Beaver, I have a very important medical question for you. The surgeon needs to know, how many times have you been sexually active—with your current penis—in the last six months?”

“With ah feemawle or my swell?”

“Yes, Mr. Beaver, with a female.”

“Inwooding dast weekwend?”

“Yes. Including last weekend.” She took out her chart and her pen and waited patiently. I tried counting on my fingers, but I only had one big nub of a cast, so I tallied the figures in my head, carrying the one, and came up with what I thought was a semi-accurate number.

“Theeeerooowwww.”

“Oh my, Mr. Beaver, did you just say ZERO?”

“Dwelllllll, gib oh thane?”

“Wow, never seen that before. Okay, zero it is,” she said and wrote it down on her chart with raised eyebrows.

“Ighh whas twaking a bwreak end thworking on mythelf!” I said.

“Uh huh, sure you were. Now just calm down.” She put the clipboard aside. “We’ve been trying to match you up with a suitable penis donor for the last two months but haven’t had any luck. We need to match up the size and shape of your member exactly if it has any chance of functioning again. It’s been a long, hard ...errr it’s been a difficult task.”

“Naht many pweople died?” I asked.

“Oh no, Mr. Beaver, we’ve had plenty of potential donors. Tons of them, actually. Just last week we had two Irishmen, a midget who died in a circus accident, and an adolescent Reggaton singer come through here, but they were all too large. But the good news is that we think we found a suitable donor for you!”

“An Iwishman was foo bwig?!! Are u shurre?”

“Yes, yes but we had a miracle last night. A ten-year-old Chinese boy died in a terrible scooter accident. Everything caught on fire. It was nasty business — his violin and his penis were the only things left intact. Congratulations, Mr. Beaver, you are going to have Wu Fat’s penis!”

She opened a cooler next to the bed and there it sat, on ice in the middle of a bunch of vanilla pudding snack packs.

“Ughhhhhhh, whad dud pbuck!” I’d say.

Then it got really weird. The nurse ripped off her blouse and jumped on top me.

“Ohhh, Mr. Beaver, I can’t control myself anymore.” She licked my face. What the hell was going on?

“Oh, mon petit amoureux.” The French lady started licking my face, too. “Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” They both were really going for it. Damn, they had some bad breath...

I came back to consciousness on the beach with a bunch of wagging terriers licking my face. The French lady stood above me, flicking her ashes.

“Monsieur, are you okay?’ she said.

“Phhht phhht!” I spit out the dog saliva and pushed them away. “Whad whappened? I mean, what happened?”

“My doggies wanted to play. You ran and fell down and hit your head,” she said. “Then you kept saying something about a Chinese boy’s penis.”

“Dammit, you horrible frog woman, keep those rotten beasts on a leash! They could really hurt someone!” I got up and brushed the sand off myself and stumbled up the beach. “And leave poor Wu Fat out of this!” I cried. “That poor little bastard has been through enough!”

“C’est la vie.” She shrugged and lit up another cigarette and kept on walking down the beach with her nine terriers and a pig with an earring. I went in the other direction.

-From the chapter "Poor Little Wu Fat" in South of Normal.Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud

     At Christmas time they put a pine tree up by the bar in the Estrella, decorated with ornaments and tinsel. Blinking white lights hung from palm trees and front doors all over town. Someone hung a stocking from the lifeguard tower. The local schoolchildren even put on a Christmas pageant on a stage built by the pool, complete with a Santa Claus, who was sweating his north pole off in that heavy suit.

     They even brought out a local musical act as a special treat, though I think it was more of a treat for him than the audience. He introduced himself as “Tico Hendrix” and sported a jerry-curl and buck teeth. Tico pawed at an electric keyboard and howled out Christmas songs and bad jokes into the microphone.

“It’s so great that they give special needs people a chance to perform in public,” I told my friend, who corrected me that Tico Hendrix was fully functioning, and not even on the spectrum, but just really bad. During the merciful breaks between bad songs, he told bad jokes:

“Thank you ladies and germs, your applause is underwhelming. Excuse me, folks, but my English is not so good. And neither is my Spanish...” 

Crickets. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Tamarindo so quiet. Tamarindo, Costa Rica, surf, ski, snowboard, diving, pura vida, Central America, Nicaragua, San Juan del Sur, Amazon best seller, travel, adventure, backpack, hiking, sharks, Endless Summer, Robert August, memoir, fitness journey, globetrotting, perfect beach, paradise, spring break, expat, live abroad, work abroad, summer reading, around the world, great read, humor, laugh out loud, South of Normal, Pushups in the Prayer Room