How Sweet it is!

Part One

As I'm hurtling along a 35,000 feet over Bele Horizento, trying to figure out how to start this trip report, suddenly an old Jackie Gleason phrase, "How Sweet It Is," comes to mind. It's appropriate on several levels: first, I just buried my dear friend Sweetmesquite today in Rio. Secondly, there are several parallels between Jackie Gleason and Sweet. Both had huge appetites for wine, women, and song.

To anyone born in the late 1940s or early 1950s, Jackie Gleason was larger than life, so was Sweetmesquite. He had the phenomenally successful "Honeymooners" TV show, he appeared on every late-night show and, more importantly, he extolled the virtues of tobacco and alcohol -- two very important sectors of the post war economy. Almost single-handedly he kept our economy going by just puffing, sipping, and playing golf with US presidents. Sometimes, I think Sweet kept the Brazilian economy going in much the same way.

There was another facet to Sweet that reminded me of the actor Clint Eastwood and the various characters he portrayed. Like many of Clint’s quiet characters such as Dirty Harry Callahan, Josey Wales, Monco and Lt. Morris Schaffer, Sweet was a man of few words; a very few words. Hey wait a second, Monco and Morris? Who the fuck are they? Oh yeah, that’s right, those were parts he played in “A Fistful of Dollars” and “Where Eagles Dare.”

Sorry about that, but sometimes my brain doesn’t keep pace with my mouth and I need to explain things to myself. Shit now I lost my place. Okay, I was talking about how Sweet suffered no fools, wasn’t I? Before I was rudely interrupted by myself, I was explaining that if he liked you, he let you know that immediately. On the other hand, if you acted like an asshole, or in his opinion, did something stupid, he held nothing back. To those of us who knew him well, we would subconsciously refer to this as his “Make My Day Mode.”

Before I go any further, I have to give some of you a little background on what it was like growing up in a post war environment. To those of you kids born in the 60s and 70s, you missed out on an extremely happy time in America. As our economy expanded right after World War II, the perceived communist threat took on enormous proportions. To counteract this threat our government treated us kids to biweekly air raid drills of various types throughout the school year. Conventional bomb drills meant we went into the hallway clasped our hands over our necks and leaned against the wall. The much more dreaded nuclear bomb drill had everyone crawl under their desk, face away from the windows, and cover your eyes. All of us kids were convinced, regardless of whatever bomb the Russians dropped on us, that we were history. Our parents and school teachers, however, believed these paltry measures fully protected us from shrapnel and radiation poisoning.

As a matter of fact, I vividly remember my first air raid drill; it was during the second week of first grade. The announcement came over the loudspeaker that we were going to have a conventional bomb air raid drill and all hell broke loose. Apparently some idiot in our class seized on the word "bomb" and started screaming, "We’re all going to die." The kid was immediately removed from the class and taken to the newly hired female school psychologist for examination.

Later in the day the students learned that this kid was in New York City when one of George Metesky’s( a.k.a. the New York Mad Bomber) bombs went off and was severely traumatized by that event. Everyone felt sorry for him until it was learned that when the bomb exploded in Manhattan, he was in Brooklyn which is ten miles away. That night at our dinner table, my dad bowed his head and said grace, then looked at me and said, “ If you miss one appointment with that school shrink, I’ll kill you.” “ Yes sir,” I replied, “ but daddy, what’s a shrink?” Shit, I was only in first grade so give me a break. Like I said before, it was a happier time in America.

There is an upside to this story and it has to do with the treatment of mental disorders. Each day for the next several months I visited the school psychologist, pouring my guts out to her. If I remember correctly, I was her first patient and undoubtedly her favorite. She was super hot and by our third session, I was madly and deeply in love with her as only a first grader can be. Unfortunately, in the late 60’s, when I was applying to colleges, some of the things she put in my file came back to haunt me. The growing stack of rejection letters was a clear indicator that she had it in for me. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not paranoid, or anything like that despite the fact that she labeled me as such. But more about that later. Where was I? Oh yeah, back in the 1950’s.

This was the environment that molded Sweet and me during our formative years. Now you know that the late 1960s and early 1970s with all its free sex, psychedelic drugs and Vietnam didn't mess us baby boomers up, it was the fucking air raid drills during grammar school that really screwed us up. Although five years separated us (I’m older), we were kindred spirits at heart and he was like a brother to me, and I’m pleased to say, many others.

I remember the first time we really spent any time together. It was 2 1/2 years ago, we were at separate tables in the restaurant "The Office." Sweet and Mack69 came over to our table to say hello. MBL was cuddled up next to me, which I'm sorry to say was somewhat rare. I think she was cold but that's beside the point. Anyway, Sweet walked over to me as I was about to order lunch and said, "What are you going to order?" "I think I'll have a burger," I replied. He said, "Are you nuts or something? Order the crispy lamb chops," as if I didn't have a brain in my head.

Okay, maybe he was right there on both counts, but from that point on Sweet ordered me anything he thought I would eat regardless of whether I liked it or not. Please don’t misunderstand me when I say that Sweet was a bit of a control freak. I mean that in the best possible light. In many that’s a severe character flaw, but in Sweet it was an endearing quality. As many of you know, for many years he owned and operated a very successful restaurant in Houston. In that business, if you’re not a control freak; you’re quickly out of business. Oh, by the way, after one year of Sweet ordering for me, I finally put my foot down.

I wasn't the only one that Sweet liked to order for. I remember one time last year, Bedouin and I went to Terrasco Atlantico for dinner. All day we long talked about having their tournedos Dijonese with Swiss potatoes. This dish consists of two fantastic fillets smothered with a delicious Dijon mustard sauce and accompanied by Swiss potatoes which are very similar to home fries. The very reasonable R$28 meal is huge, which means it's the perfect entrée when you're hungry.

Right after we sat down Sweet strolled by on his way home from one of the various termas he frequented daily. We had just ordered a bottle wine and they were opening it as Sweet spotted us. As he approached he got the attention of our waiter, Edgemont, raised three fingers, and sat down. Within seconds Edgemont returned with the third wine glass which was for Sweet. Whew, both of us thought he was ordering three more bottles of wine for the table. All I can say is Sweet certainly had them well trained at Terrasco Atlantico.

By the time the second bottle of wine was delivered to the table, Bedouin and I were dying of hunger and begging for Edgemont to bring us menus. When the menus came, Sweet swung into action by saying, "I eat lunch at Terrasco every day so that means that I have had over a thousand meals here, I'll tell you what's good." I told him that both of us had our minds set on the tournedos Dijonese. "Are you fucking crazy? That's no good!
If you want something with mustard on it, have the steak with Coleman's mustard," he suggested while giving us one of those looks of his that dared you to contradict him.

Unfortunately, by that time I had too much wine in me and didn't recognize that look, so I stupidly replied, "Thanks Sweet but I'll stick with the tournedos." Bedouin rolled his eyes and gave me an exasperated look that I answered with, "What the fucking did I do wrong?" Bedouin just shrugged his shoulders and resigned himself to the fact that tonight's dinner wasn't going to be quite what he expected. But he never imagined how bad things could get.

When our meals came out of the kitchen, they were placed on a separate table and the waiters went to work. The tournedos are served from a silver casserole dish that’s brimming with a delightful cream Dijon sauce. All three of us watched as several waiters carefully spooned the Dijon sauce over my first, inch and a half thick tournedo and gave me a generous portion of Swiss potatoes. This meal is so fucking huge that you can get two complete meals out of it. That’s why I like it so much. Bedouin watched them serve me as they plopped a plate down in front of him that resembled a pair of broken brown flip flops covered with brown gravy. It looked as if it tasted like old shoe leather.

“What’s that?” I asked. Sweet chimed in with, “It’s steak with Coleman’s mustard; eat up!” “What are you having Sweet? I asked as they put a bowl down in front of him. “Oh, I’m just having the chicken soup like usual,” he replied. As soon as he heard that Bedouin groaned, tasted his steak and almost barfed. It did taste like shoe leather! “What’s the matter?” Sweet asked with genuine concern in his voice. “This tastes like shit,” Bedouin replied. To which Sweet gave a deadpan reply, “Then why the fuck did you order it?”

Bedouin suddenly looks over at my single sauce covered tournedo, then at my silver casserole dish and says, “Your meal comes with two fillets, doesn’t it?” Ah fuck, now he’s got me. Either I give him the other one, or I become a bigger asshole than I already am by not sharing my meal. Remembering my divorce lawyer’s instructions as to how to answer questions in court, I smiled and replied, “I don’t recall.” I think the fucking smile gave me away because he grabbed the silver dish and ate the other half of my meal.

Okay, enough of this nonsense about having dinner and let me get back to my trip report. When I arrived in Rio, my non-pro girlfriend whom I will call Lucy picked me up at the airport. We were staying in the apartment above Sweetmesquite's recently renovated apartment and Sweet had graciously agreed to have the key waiting for us. I called him from the lobby and he met us at his backdoor, quickly waving me through the laundry room and giving Lucy a great big hug. Sweet adored her, which to anyone who knew him well, was quite shocking.

He met her back in January, the day after I had met her. I introduced them when I asked Sweet to join us for dinner at Terrasco Atlantico. Like most things in my life even this simple introduction spun out of control. I said, "Doug, I would like you to meet my new girlfriend, Lucy," and then I whispered to him, "She’s not a professional." He rolled his eyes like everyone else did when I said that and then he sat down next to her and treated her as if she was a princess. I don't know how things got fucked up so quickly but I think Lucy got offended first because every once in awhile I would call him Sweet instead of Doug. Although she's quite fluent in English, I think she completely missed the fact that Sweet was his nickname rather than how I felt about him. I think when I said, "Sweet, pass me the butter," she got a little anxious, if you know what I mean.

After a few minutes of conversation, Sweet had already forgotten her name so he turned to her and said, "What would you like me to call you?" She told him her name and he looked at me and said, "If that's her name then why do you call her Lucy? I said, "Forget it Sweet, you won't like my answer anyway, "as I poured three more glasses of wine. "Try me." "Okay, remember when we were kids back in the 50s and we watched I Love Lucy every week," I said. Sweet nodded in agreement so I knew I had at least won half the battle. Then he interrupted and said, "But she doesn't have red hair like Lucy did." "I know she doesn't, but let me finish," I replied. "Remember how Ricky Ricardo, her Cuban husband, had that strange accent?" I asked. "Yeah." "Well, her accent is almost identical to his -- that's why I decided to call her Lucy," I said as confidently as if I was President George Bush addressing the nation.

"You are crazy! First you tell me that your girlfriend has an accent like Ricky Ricardo, but you decide to call her Lucy instead. I don't follow," Sweet said as he went nearly ballistic. "Relax. It's very simple," I said in a soothing tone and then continued. "Yeah, I'll admit at first blush it seems somewhat strange but when you listen to my explanation, you'll agree with it. Although her accent reminds me of Ricky Ricardo, I can't very well call her "Ricky," can I? You'll also agree that I have enough problems already without compounding them by having a girlfriend named Ricky, right?" Once again he nodded his head in agreement. “Well since Ricky was out of the question, that left me with Lucy and that’s what I chose,” I said as I grinned at him with wine numbed lips. All he said in response to that long explanation was, “Whatever.”

The rest of that evening went reasonably well except when Sweet decided to tell her some of my stories. I sat there dumbfounded as he reeled off story after story from my posts and trip reports. “How the fuck do you know all those stories?” I inquired. “Oh, I read your first report, it was riveting,” he told me. “What about the others?” “They were shitty with too much character development,” was all he cared to comment.

Unfortunately, my confusing explanation about Lucy’s name, coupled with three bottles of Brazil’s finest Chardonnay, Miolo Reserva, had the three of us really fucked up. That’s when Sweet decided to tell her the story about my encounter with the girl who had Tourets Syndrome during my youngest daughter’s Christmas break. Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover from that evening. Anyway, the next morning at 7:42 AM my cell phone rang. It was Sweet. He said only three words, “I like her,” and then he hung up. That was Sweet at his best—short, sweet and to the point.

Shit, I’ve already written six pages and I haven’t even gotten into my apartment. In the interest of speeding things up, I’ll try to stay on track. We’re in Sweet’s apartment, right? Well, Sweet gives me the key, tells me to unpack and come back downstairs because he has something important to discuss with me. Holy shit, Sweet’s going to ask me for some advice rather than giving it—now that’s a real twist, isn’t it? I quickly unpacked my clothes and all the fucking TSA notifications in my bags and hurry downstairs to help Sweet.

I rang the bell and waited for him to come to the backdoor. When he saw me, he smiled and said, “This is important.” I’m all twisted up inside wondering what he’s going to ask me when he ends the suspense with, “You have to start writing again.” “Hey, is this about me? Because I thought it was about you,” I said as I stood there shaking like a leaf. “Sit down,” was his next instruction as he pummeled me with reasons why I had to write my pending trip reports. Ten minutes later he ended with, “And don’t give me any shit about Bob’s death traumatizing you. You’re over that, but you better tell me what’s really stopping you?”

“You really want to know?” I said with renewed strength. “Yeah, tell me the real reason why you haven’t written a report in over a year,” he shouted right back at me. So much for my renewed vigor as I caved in and said, “You’re the reason why I’m not writing?” He got a genuine look of hurt on his face, then figured that I pulling his leg as he narrowed his eyes and said, “Explain.” Thank God he didn’t say “Splain” the same way Ricky Ricardo did, or else I would have started calling him Lucy, too.

“Sweet, remember that my next three trips were spent almost entirely with you after I jettisoned MBL last December. Well, you told me that I couldn’t write about you so I can’t write the reports, can I?” I said as I sat there smiling. “Just write them and leave me out,” was his retort. “That’s like Tom Clancy writing a book and leaving the main character, Jack Ryan, out of it,” I confidently added. “He already did that,” Sweet countered. “He did? No shit?” “Yeah, you should read more.”

Sweet had me over a barrel and he knew it. “Can I give you another example?” I asked. “Yeah,” was his no nonsense reply. “Let me put it to you this way. Trying to write these reports without you in them would be like writing the Bible and leaving out God,” I said as I hit a homerun. Oh boy, I remember thinking that I hope God doesn’t get pissed at me for using that metaphor, but if it works I’m sure He’ll forgive me . Sweet thought for a moment and then said, “I’ll think it over, but start writing anyway.” Si senhor!

He then changed the topic to my flight and if I had any interesting experiences. “Nah Sweet, nothing too exciting except for the fact that I got a metal splinter in my foot walking around the plane in my socks,” I replied. “Wear shoes,” was all he said. Then I casually mentioned that the TSA has me in their sights and that got his attention. “How are they bothering you?” he asked. I explained, “The bastards open ever bag of mine and fill them full of those fucking TSA notifications?” “Huh?” “Yeah, ever since I had that meal going to London, the fucking TSA hates me,” I continued. “Wait a second, you lost me. What meal are you talking about?” he inquired. “Remember when I went to London last November to see my Korean Connection? Well, they changed the equipment at the last minute and the second plane was configured differently.” “So?” “With the change of planes they changed my seat assignment, which didn’t bother me at the time but later…..” “Get to the point,” he admonished me.

“Okay, so now I’m in a different seat and before they bring the drink cart around, they hand me my meal. Shit, this is the first time I got my meal this quickly, so I start eating as they stop the drink cart right next to me. It was a different entree than the usual “Chicken or Beef” they serve, but it was pretty good. Now this is where it gets a little strange.” “Why?” Sweet asked. “Because the same flight attendant who brought me the meal was now asking me if I wanted anything to drink.”

“Go on.” Sweet commanded. “All I can say is that you should have seen the look on her face when I ordered two splits of Chardonnay. She looked at me like I was nuts or something.” “What happened next?” “Well, as she was handing me the wine, she asked, Did you enjoy your meal?” “What did you say?” Sweet said as he continued his cross-examination. “It was delicious but different; what was it? Sweet leaned in and asked, “What did she say?” “Not much, just that it was the special meal I ordered.”

Sweet pressed forward, “Did you order a special meal?” “No, and when I learned that she called it “special” I was pissed because, in my opinion, it wasn’t special at all. Now, if she had given me fillet or lobster, that would have been a “special meal,” but this meal had some funny beans and meat in it.” Also, my whole life people have called me “special” and I’m sick……” “Shut up. Did she happen to say anything else?” he asked. “Yeah, well later on in the fight I got to thinking that special meals are for diabetics. I realized that someone didn’t get the right meal so I went aft and spoke to the flight attendant who served me my meal.” “What did you say to her?” Sweet inquired. “I told her I wasn’t a diabetic.” “What did she say?” “Not much, only that it wasn’t a diabetic Muslim meal.”

Sweet groaned with a pained look on his face as he leaned closer and said, “Did anything odd happen during your trip to London.” “Other than the flight attendants staring at me?” “Yeah, anything else?” he repeated. “Yeah, now that you mention it, they gave me a real hard time at British Immigration and at Customs they went through my all bags with a fine tooth comb.” “What did they find?” “Nothing, except nine TSA notices of inspection in my two suitcases,” I replied.

“Did anything else happen during this trip?” was his next question. “I had a hell of a time getting back into the US.” “What happened?” “Well, when I arrived at Immigrations, the guy behind the counter started asking me all sorts of questions.” “Such as?” “Like why did I go to London and who did I see there?” I replied. “Continue,” was his one word command. “I told them I was visiting a friend of mine and when they asked me her name, I told them.” “Go on,” he said as he inched closer. “Sweet, I know you won’t believe this, but as soon as I said her name and he typed it into his computer, all hell broke loose.” “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” he calmly replied.

“What happened next?” Sweet asked. “They took me into a room for a secondary exam.” Sweet’s next question was more probing, “Did they tell you why they were questioning you?” “Yep, they told me that I had given them the “wrong name” when they asked who I was seeing in London.” Sweet groaned again and said only two words, “Wrong name?” as I continued with my story. “Yeah, apparently my Korean connection has a very common Korean name. Sort of like the name Susan Smith in the states. Except that about 200,000 Korean women have this same name. Unfortunately, one of them is on our government’s terrorist list. Keeping things brief, all he said was, “No shit!”


As soon as he regained his composure, Sweet asked, “By any chance did Brazilian Customs fuck with you on this trip?” “No, not to much but they looked at my food processor real closely,” I replied. “Food processor?” “Yeah, I need it to make my famous spaghetti sauce. One night this week I’ll have you over for dinner, if that’s alright with you?” I smiled as I waited an indeterminate amount of time for a positive response. But all he said was, “food processor,” as he shook his head. “I’ll take that as a “yes”—how about Friday night?” “As I was leaving his apartment, he was still shaking his head as he said, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

The next day Lucy and I stopped in to see Sweet. Once again he quickly waved me through the laundry room and gave Lucy a big kiss and hug. Within minutes he was taking Lucy on a tour of his beautifully renovated apartment. Explaining in minute detail the changes he incorporated in the renovation. He was so proud of what he had accomplished and everyone was happy that he now had a place to call his own. While he was giving the tour, I made the mistake of opening the living room window and gazing at the favela across the street. Sweet yelled, “Shut that window,” as if something bad would happen. “Do you want to get shot?” he asked. “By whom,” I asked. By some favela rat up there on the hill with a rifle,” he screeched at me.

“I’ve been up in the favela and the guys who have rifles don’t know how to use or handle them,” I replied. While I was saying that, I was praying to God that a bullet wouldn’t fly through the window as I was arguing that point. “Why do you think I had the windows tinted so dark?” Without waiting for a response, he said, “So someone up there with a scope can’t pick me off.” “Sweet, those idiots up there couldn’t hit this building if they tried. I know, I’ve watched them closely. Their weapons are poorly maintained, and I doubt if the even know how to sight in a rifle,” I said. “Where did you learn about guns?” was his next question. “Lee Ermey,” I replied. “Lee Ermey—isn’t that the guy from Full Metal Jacket?” “Yeah, I watch his Mail Call show on the History Channel all the time,” I said with a smile. Sweet said something but I couldn’t quite hear what he was mumbling. Lucy told me later that she thought he was suggesting I put my hand in the food processor. Now, why the hell would I do that?

Great read as always. Can't wait for the next installment.

This post was wonderful to read. Thank you for writing it.

I have no idea where this is going, but it is fun to read and I think Sweet would have liked it.

Jag ole buddy

Good to have ya back I was wondering what happened to you. I thought maybe MBL finially caught you looking at some other girls and tossed you out the apartment window on your head which knocked yer eyeballs loose from their sockets then when you tried to gather them off the sidewalk MBL stepped on them & squished them so you didn't have eyes to see the keyboard to type anymore. Thats what I thought, glad its not true but you know how them rumors get started mostly by some bonehead that can't read cause his eyeballs got squished by his girlfriend.

Dear Gcl, Bluestraveller and Blissman,

Like you guys, I don’t have a clue where this is going, but I know the story ends with a bunch of us, including Sweet, in a Rio cemetery.

Some of you may have wondered why I included things that molded our childhood in this piece. I did that because that’s what Sweet and I talked about on the first day of my trip and practically every day thereafter. Oh, I forgot to mention that Sweet was quite sick with the gripe (that’s Portuguese for the flu) when I arrived and he was pretty much home-bound during the entire time I was there. Each day I would visit him and we talked, sometimes for hours. During one conversation we both confided in each other how fucking scared we were during the Cuban Missile Crisis and the agony we felt as children when President Kennedy was assassinated. Those agonies and fears affected us deeply and were magnified in our minds by the damn air raid drills. I don’t know if I was successful or not, but I wanted to give you all little glimpse of it in a humorous way.

Unfortunately, I’m not a novelist and I don’t write fiction, therefore, my stories are confined to what actually happened. Sure I take some liberties with dialogue and timelines, but I don’t have the luxury of creating interesting situations or characters like Nelson DeMille can; I have to work with real people and real events. I have been very fortunate in that many of the people I’ve met in Rio are true characters in their own right. I didn’t invent Felix, MBL, Don or Fernando; they’re real.

The difference between those other people and Sweet is that I was able to gradually introduce each of them over a period of time. You read about them in various parts of trip reports sometimes posted over an extended period of time. In other words, you grew to like them. In Sweet’s case, I don’t have that option and consequently this report might have a decidedly different feel to it.

I can only say that I’m doing my best with what I was given. If any of you are upset that I gave away the ending at the beginning of this post, I apologize.

Jag

Jag don't worry about it you are doing a great job and Doug would have been very pleased. Regardless what is said or not said "You are a stand up guy" and the board appreciates all that you contribute. Thanks for writing about our friend Sweet. - Hemp

Jag, it's like sitting next to Doug reading your anecdotes about Sweet. I am sure that those of us that knew him are nodding their heads and smiling as they read thinking, yea, yea, yea he did that to me too; said that to me, and the eye rolling.....that was the classic! He was serious about letting you know his approval (or not) and when he rolled the eyes one could not help but go from a punishment look to snickering and then try for a quick recovery, usuallytoo late! And of course this brought on further discussion and philosophies. Look forward to what truly could be a story without end.

(Message edited by blissman on April 04, 2007)

am in the same age group and grew up in the atmosphere where the "atomic bomb" was expected to hit at any moment. This fear was constant and every part of life was tainted by it. In my part of the world, the word "communist" was never used by itself; it was always the "godless communists" and they were going to melt me and my family with an atomic bomb. It was not enough to grow up in constant fear, it was necessary to heap limitless guilt with it. It is a wonder that I grew up to be totally normal, no personality or behavioral quirks whatsoever.

Check out this link for a video that I was forced to watch more times than I watched Bugs Bunny.
"Duck and Cover."
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1528313029232126903&q=duck+cover&hl=en -

Jag, had to go to Terraco tonight and have the tournedos Dijonese with Swiss potatoes. You should have been there as you would have really enjoyed the guy beside me trying to interview a GDP. He ended up asking me to help but the interview questions were way beyond me. Instead of the normal interview he used the same tactics he uses for his normal job which is in HR at a hospital. He only deals with "inner people" not outer people. His example to her was if you are on a project and its late do you blame the boss or look inside to ses what you could have done(the look on her face was priceless). You would have loved it. So I asked him, so if the girl is late she should take the blame right? His answer was correct and had to let him know that we were in Brazil and these girls are never on time. He ended up taking her for what I am sure is an interesting time as her English was on the same level as your Portuguese.

Good writing my friend.

Jag
Thanks for the intersting read its a bit more confusing then normal, but I am sure it will sort itself out as the post goes on. Its nice to see that you are writing trip reports again.

isawal,

Yeah, I agree with you. That annoying film "Duck and Cover" is very confusing--I didn't see one fucking duck in it.

Jag

Another great read from one of CH's greatest contributors... Looking forward to the continuation (and some visual aids would be most welcomed)...

Brassilero,

Visual aids? Oh okay, I'll be sure to include a couple more of those 1950's films like "Duck and Cover" in part two. Keep those suggestions coming.

Jag

Okay Jag... you started this report on the fly. It is time for the next installment.

Gcl,

Was working on an outline today and should publish part two early next week.

Jag

Jag

I really missed your wonderful style of writing, it mixes humor and real life expertly, sort of like a modern Mark Twain. I'll be waiting with anticipation towards the next installment, good job.

Scooby

Jag,

Reading your chronicle of those events made me laugh and brought a tear to my eye. It was hard not to love Sweet, no matter how cynical or caustic. I miss him dearly and Rio won't be quite the same for me without him. But you can be sure, I will never order that Coleman steak again. See you in Rio soon my friend. Good job.

Bedouin