Rants

"This latest record has undergone plenty of title changes. And at the moment it still remains nameless. At one point, It was to be called 'From Here To Tamarindo'. Tamarindo, a coastal surfing village in Costa Rica has the world's most beautiful sunsets, and had the near distinction of being the place I almost proposed to my wife. An inkling told me there would be an even more beautiful spot in the Central American country. I was right, but not in the conventional sense. In any event, liner notes for the CD "From Here to Tamarindo" might have included a picture of me waiting for a bus, disheveled, beshorted (my word) and in the gloring aura of my soon to be fiancee, who still glows a million years later. The bus showed up (something of a miracle) and took us away along with farmers, school children, and fishmongers.

From Here to Tamarindo…

Let me start with a thought. The seats are unforgiving, the breathing air chalky and sparse. The diesel-belching bus is packed with silent locals, all overheated and panting. It is only 7am but the sun is delivering hard. Tamarindo, where he is unknown, is a few hours away. He is excited and his shoes are shined. He smacks his gums and considers the old woman to his left, the young women to his right and the hens they clutch in their laps. They all stare straight ahead. Even the goats in the aisle. He tries again, “It is said that where there is one goat there are many” The . proverb makes no sense. The women continue to stare ahead ignoring his idiotic peasant banter. The would-be philosopher then explores a new direction with an expression that translates slightly better: “Where there is one smile, there are many.” The ensuing silence is peculiar to him. Outside the bus, a farmer hacks at scorched dung with his hoe trying to command some respect. “The soil out here is too dry for growth, you know,” he starts in absently. “So I am going to Tamarindo to play music in the streets where the silver coins of appreciating will pelt my skin and bruise me.” Silence. “I’ve written a few short songs about nice ladies like you, their goats and other things too!” The older traveler clears her throat, fancying him a nut. The younger woman appears to simply not give a shit. “Don’t put me in boxes,” he finally mutters, heaving a sigh. “Boxes are for lettuce.” He inspects the grime that has invaded the underside of his fingernails. He then drums his fingers nervously on his guitar case pinched like virginity between his knees as the country rips by. “It is true,” he mutters. “Women see through the prism of our souls.” But again the rumbling bus has the stage. “Hey ladies” he interrupts, “I got lots of songs-- some sad, I can say, and some happy. I got as many songs as you got years, Senora, and I bet as many songs as you, dear Senorita, have goats.