How Sweet It Is—Part Four


Before getting into the final installment of this report, I have to apologize to all of you for taking so long writing it, but I have a legitimate medical excuse. Remember that accident several weeks ago in which Wolf killed unborn Bambi and her mother? Well, I suffered an injury that temporarily disabled me. After Wolf calmed down about fucking up his SUV, he finally turned to me and said, “Are you alright?” As a shrink, he should know enough not to ask a hypochondriac like me an open ended question like that, but since he opened the door, I decided to take full advantage of his stupidity.

“I don’t know yet, I’m still in shock,” I said, feigning a concussion. Later that night I insisted he take me over to my Neurologist’s home for a quick check-up. I know this will come as no surprise to any of you, but I’m affectionately called a “neurological nightmare” by the local medical community and if you’ll read on, you’ll see what I mean. Anyway, my neurologist started examining me for any deficits, found none, and declared me normal, in a manner of speaking.

I knew he was avoiding one important issue so I said, “Hey Doc, I was in a fucking auto accident and you never even asked me if I hurt anywhere.” In an exasperated voice, he asked, “Ok James, where do you hurt? Right here, as I took my finger, touched my right ankle and winched in pain. “Where else? he asked. Then I took my finger and pushed my left wrist and screamed in pain. Oddly, when he manipulated each painful joint, I experienced no pain whatsoever. Most doctors would be perplexed by such strange physical findings, but knowing me as well as he did, he just took it all in stride.

He sat there for a minute pondering my examination results and then suggested that I touch my forehead to see if I was experiencing any pain in that region. I shouted at him, “I didn’t hit my head and I don’t have any God damn pain there,” but he continued to insist that I touch my forehead. Guess what? He was a fucking genius because when I touched it, it also hurt like hell. That’s when he leaned forward, grabbed my chin and brought his face right up to mine, and exclaimed in a loud voice, “You fucking idiot, you sprained your finger!” By the way, it was my typing finger, honest.

Once again I’m sorry for digressing and now it’s time for me to get back to where I left off in Part Three. Where was that? Oh yeah, I was still in Vila Mimosa on that “Special Guy Day.” When I got back to Copacabana, I told Sweet the story about the waving retards and the laughing cops. When I was finished, he shook his head, narrowed his eyes, looked at me and said, “What makes you think they were laughing at the retards?” That was the essence of Sweet, always a kind word when needed, especially when it came to dealing with me.

Shortly after I met him, someone, I don’t quite remember who it was, told me never to mention the French when in Sweet’s company because it set him off for some reason. As my luck would have it, the two of us had dinner together that night and I inadvertently ordered French fries with my meal. Nobody told me that French fries also set him off, but they did. Within seconds he embarked on a tirade condemning the French for just about everything in the world except global warming.

He took great delight in pointing out to any Frenchman (or Frogs as he affectionately called them) who was crazy enough to listen that without our (the good old USA) help in WW I and WW II that they would now be speaking German instead of French. He also told everyone from any other country in Europe the same thing, but had particular hatred for the French. This hatred was apparently multiplied ten-fold by their refusal to let our F-111’s enter their airspace when we bombed Colonel Muammar al-Qadhafi in Libya back in 1987. To Sweet, it seemed like yesterday.

After he went on and on for at least forty-five minutes about the French, I decided to give him a little history lesson and finally set him straight. “Did you know that without the help of France we would have lost the Revolutionary War?” I asked. “Continue,” was all he said as I got the distinct feeling that I was getting set up. Confidently, I continued as directed, “Well, without France’s financial assistance and Lafayette’s military intervention, we would still be under British rule.” He then leaned in close to me and asked, “Jag, if we lost that war what language would we be speaking now?” “Uh, English I think.” “That’s right. We won that war, and what language do we now speak?” he hissed at me. “English?” I stated as if I wasn’t too sure. “That’s right, Einstein, nothing changed, absolutely nothing at all!” I wished I had an intelligent comeback, but, after all, he had a valid point there, so I ended the whole conversation by adding, “Yeah, I hate the Fucking French, too!”

Sweet always had a succinct way of putting things. For example, one day I was in termas 65 with him, and after an hour of being together he had enough of babysitting me so he went to get a massage. I remained in the boite with Ropeburn, Knockkneedman, Bedouin, Nellie, Pappasurf and several others, munching on the free peanuts like a starving monkey. Anyway, some guy walked in and looked at everyone in the place and rapidly departed. Two minutes later he returned and went around the room carefully looking at each and every guy. We all figured he was a cop or a private detective when all of a sudden he stopped in front of me, stared into my eyes and said, “Jaguar?” “Yeah, that’s me, but who are you?” I replied. “I’m Diversity. Sweet told me you were in here,” he answered. “But how did you know which guy was me?” I asked. “Oh, after I came in here the first time and couldn’t find you, I located Sweet and he told me to go back in and look for the guy who looks like he doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s going on---that’s Jag. You know what? He was right!” Thanks Sweet!!

One thing that drove Sweet crazy was the fact that I always seemed to wear different college and university T-shirts. Once when I had on a Dartmouth College T-shirt, he said, “I didn’t know you went to an Ivy League school?” “I didn’t,” was all I said. “Then which of your kids went there? he asked next. “None of them.” “Then why the fuck are you wearing it? he wanted to know. “Maybe when I get to know you better, I’ll tell you why,” I promised as we parted company. Each day he would note the shirt and we’d have the same exchange with no resolution. Finally, by my eighth trip he begged me to explain the T-shirts from William & Mary, Duke, Vanderbilt, Villanova, Georgetown, Yale, Williams College, Clemson, Penn, Cornell, UNC, UVA and Penn State.

“Alright Sweet, when I was a kid in elementary school my teacher really hated me, and for some reason she sent me to counseling with the school psychiatrist. Believe it or not, she hated me also and put some nasty stuff in my file. Shit, once she even put me in Special Ed for a few weeks. Despite great grades and SAT scores, I had considerable difficulty getting past the College Admissions Officers because of her obvious bias against me.” “But what about the fucking shirts?” he interjected. “Well, like most kids looking at a lot of different schools, I would ask my dad to buy me a T-shirt at each college we visited.” “Yeah, go on,” was all he said.

“Then as the rejection letters arrived in a steady stream, my dad looked at me and said, “Because of your bizarre behavior I wasted all that time and money visiting those schools. I want you to promise me that you’ll always wear those t-shirts and replace them when they wear out.” “I promise, dad” Actually, I think our conversation went more like, “You’ll wear those fucking T-shirts until they fall apart, then you’ll buy more.” Either way, I still wear them 42 years later. “There you go, Sweet, that’s the whole story.” “Wow, what a great story. Where did you end up going to college?” was his next question. When I told him, he said, “That’s a shitty school.” Thanks again Sweet!!

One night last spring I got a call from Rio—it was Sweet and he was a little drunk. He knew I was flying down in a few days and he had what he termed “a small request.” “What is it Doug?” I asked. With slurred speech, he said, “I need you to bring something down for me.” Using an extremely poor choice of words, I said, “Whatever you need, I’ll bring it.” “Great, bring me a box of white wine—okay?” Stunned, I said, “Sweet, let me understand this. You want me to put a fucking huge box of cheap wine in my small suitcase so you can save $8.00?” His honest answer stunned me even more, “Nah, on second thought bring me two of them. If you take the wine filled plastic liner out of the box, you can fit two of them in your suitcase,” then he hung up.

The next morning my phone rang and it was Sweet again confirming his request. I point blank told him that there was no way in hell that I was putting a plastic bladder filled with wine in my suitcase. I tried to explain that since I have trouble with toothpaste exploding in my suitcase, I certainly didn’t want to take a chance with wine in my luggage. His logical answer to my argument was that the toothpaste stays in your suitcase whereas the wine will drain out—no wine, no problem. I promised that rather than bring some cheap boxed California wine, I would bring him several bottle of fine Chilean Chardonnay. He relented and the first thing I did when I arrived in Rio was to go to the nearest supermarket and buy him two bottles of wine.

Several days after landing in Rio I ran into Lvdocc who had just arrived. He looked terribly agitated and frazzled so I asked him what was troubling him. His story had a familiar ring to it, but with an entirely different ending. He, too, had gotten a late night call from Sweet with the same request—bring boxed wine. But unlike me, he went out and bought a box. Like Sweet suggested, he took the bladder out of the cardboard box and put it in his carry-on bag. Things went smoothly until they X-rayed his carry-on, then he and his bag were taken aside for a secondary inspection. He was told that the volume of liquid in the bladder was too large to be transported in his carry-on without an exemption. “How can I get an exemption?” he innocently inquired. The TSA officer politely responded, “By completing this form,” as she handed him a six page document.

Hoping against hope that he had successfully navigated the TSA to make me look like a pussy in Sweet’s eyes, I breathlessly asked, “What happened? Did you bring the wine?” He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders and sighed as he continued with his story. “I looked over the form and figured it was going to take me over an hour to fill it out….” I couldn’t contain myself as I shouted, “Did you bring Sweet the fucking wine?” He gave me the dirtiest look, then said, “No Jag, I told the TSA that they could keep the wine, but don’t tell Sweet I left it in the states, okay?” “Why?” I asked. His answer was priceless: “Because if he ever finds out that two fat black ladies who work for the TSA are drinking his wine, he’ll kill me!”

As you can surmise, Sweet always had well meaning suggestions for me covering all aspects of life, especially my writing. In December 2005 I brought the first part to Where Dummies Dare with me to Rio on a CD so that I could review it before putting it on the internet. Stupidly, I asked him to read it and when he was finished, I asked, “How do you like it?” Without mincing words he said, “It’s stupid, especially that dumb Oprah dream sequence. If you drop that part it reads better.” “But Sweet, I can’t dump that dream because it really happened,” I added. “You really had a dream like that?” “Yeah, why?” “Man, you are crazy!”

Then as he was closing his computer, he noticed another file on the CD. “What’s this?” he asked. “Oh, that’s a copy of an email I sent to Bob’s daughter after his passing,” I replied. He asked, “Can I look at it?” as he was already opening the file. He stared at the screen for a minute, and then with tears in his eyes, he said, “Do me a favor Jag, when I die take a copy of this email, change it a little, and send it to my sister. This is what I sent to Bob’s daughter:


I had the pleasure of meeting your Dad down in Rio on October 20th, the day that I arrived. I have written several humorous reports on a certain web site that your Dad frequented and he told Don that he wanted to meet me. As a matter of fact, he told me that he had printed out my reports and brought them with him because he liked them so much.

You know how every once and awhile you meet someone who you instantly like; well, that how I felt about Bob. Of all the guys at the table, and there were about eight, he smiled and impressed me the most and because of that I sat next to him for several hours. I can only tell you that he was having a wonderful time and enjoying everyone's good fortune. By that I mean, he was extremely complimentary of my girlfriend, my situation in life and the fact that we were all in Rio together having lunch. He was a true gentleman.

Unfortunately, I didn't get to hang around much with the guys, but I ran into him again on Friday night in Help, one of the local clubs. He was having a great time with his friends and he asked my girlfriend if she could find him a woman just like her. You can’t imagine how happy that made her feel.

I am truly sorry for your deep loss, he was a wonderful man. I'm sure that he would always want you to remember him just as he was, a kind friendly gentleman who loved life to its fullest. God Bless him.

Sincerely,

I could go on for days about Sweet and his unique character, but right now I think it’s more appropriate if I finish my story. If memory serves me correctly, chronologically, I left off having dinner with Doug’s wife and telling stories. The next morning Dula, Doug’s wife, had arranged for a viewing at the Sao Joao Batista cemetery followed by the burial at 1:00 PM. We all planned to arrive around noon time, pay our respects, and go to the burial.

Before I go any further, I have to tell you about Brazilian burial practices which are radically different than in the United States. In Brazil, when you contract a burial with a cemetery, your body is placed in an above ground crypt for a period of three years. The cost of that temporary crypt is included in the original funeral. After the three year period is over, the original crypt is opened and the remains are removed, hopefully, moved to another smaller permanent crypt. I’m told that a smaller permanent crypt, which is about the size of a medium sized safe-deposit box, costs another R$2000, placing this option well outside the reach of most Brazilian households. In the event that the family doesn’t claim the remains, I’m told that the cemetery disposes of them in a communal dump.

Now you have to understand that it’s the end of summer in Rio, stifling hot, humid and we have to walk through the largest cemetery in Rio de Janeiro. There were quite a few members present including Chici99, Catacony and his girlfriend, Scotch, Coffeemaker, Kjtrav, Hilton, Don, Ken and Roberto. As we started our way through the cemetery, which was beautiful, it became readily apparent to all of us that this was a place for the dead, not the living. Don and I quickly lit up cigars to mask the smell. I know you won’t believe this, but this was the first time in my life people actually moved closer to me while I was smoking my cigar. Usually they move further away, but not today. We had to walk about a third of a mile into the cemetery with Sweet’s coffin on a cart, and several of the guys helped carry his body the final two hundred yards. Puffing away Don and I were at the end of the procession surrounded by almost every woman in attendance.

When we reached his crypt several graveyard workers were there to place his casket in its final resting place. As they raised the coffin to put it in the crypt, it soon became apparent that there was some obstruction preventing them from sliding it into the crypt. I assumed the obstruction was a piece of cement and stated, “Bet they’ll get a chisel and fix everything.” I was right but in the wrong way! Instead of chipping away cement, they took the chisel and started to knock off about an inch of Sweet’s casket. At that point I was thankful for Brazil’s high import duties. Could you imagine what they would have done if they had a chainsaw close by? Needless-to-say, we all stood there in stunned silence as they slid his shorten coffin into the crypt, then threw in the pieces of wood they knocked off, and finally sealed the crypt. We all said our own silent prayers and wished Sweet peace.

Casket shortening


Batista Cemetery from Corcovada

View from Doug’s crypt

mini-crypts



As we were leaving, Lucy commented that Sweet’s crypt was in Block twenty-two, a number that means “crazy” in Brazil. Someone, I don’t know who, overheard her, and then shouted out—we’ll bury Jag in Block Twenty-four, referring to that fucking gay number that I’ll never live down. At that point we all laughed and started chatting while the workers left the area. Within a few minutes we realized that we didn’t have a fucking clue how to get back to our cars because no one was smart enough to pay attention as we walked through it the first time. It took us about twenty minutes to wind our way through the crypts and we only had to jump once onto someone’s crypt to get out of there.

We all gathered at the administration building before we got in our cars. Catocony couldn’t resist picking on me as he said, “Why is it that every time you’re in Rio someone dies? Have you thought about staying away?” I looked at him and replied, “But Cat, I already did that. Last year I didn’t come down to Rio for five straight months.” He had the most perplexed look on his face when he said, “What happened during those five months?”’ “Honestly? Nothing, absolutely nothing.” “Well then, why the fuck don’t you stay away permanently,” was his parting comment. Fittingly, most of us left Brazil within the next few days, while our dear friend, Douglas, remained forever in paradise. God rest your soul.



(Message edited by jaguar on May 04, 2007)

Thanks, Jag. Sweet would have gotten a kick out of this. If he could, he'd kick your ass and bitch endlessly, but he would have loved it.

Jaguar !!! you should definetely write a Book.
good memories of Sweet, that you shared with the rest of us.
thanks,,
T.H.M.

I couldn't help my self from enjoying a moment of satire, after Lvdocc announced the journey of the white wine.
" if he ever finds out that two fat black ladies who work for the TSA are drinking his wine, he'll kill me "

Thanks for sharing the memories Jaguar.

Yes...Sweet had strong feelings about the French, I too can testify to hearing his thoughts about the French.

You certainly did a nice job sharing with us a true slice of Sweet's persona.

Solid

Wow, this story is touching. Please give us details about your encounters with Sweet after he passed away. Did you feel or hear something? How did you know it was Sweet visiting? How did Lucy react?

Gentlemen,

I neglected to credit Gcl for allowing me to include the photo of Sweet looking out the window.

Jag

Once again Jag, good job. You captured a lot of Sweet. One minute he would be annoying you like crazy(mainly when drinking to much)and the next minute you are wondering why you could ever be annoyed by him. Always my first call when I would get to Rio. He will truly be misssed.

Jag,
Thanks for writing this. Being on Sweet's official list of "best friends" (sorry chichi, I thought it was just me) your story touched me.

The photo of Sweet looking out the window was taken by Buddha/Howard69stern at the festhina we had in Sweet's honor after he got out of ICU last September. Buddha captured the photo while Sweet looked out the window of Diamond Hotel in Gloria.

Damn. I miss the guy.

I probably mentioned this on the board somewhere, but in a vodka induced haze I cant recall exactly. A couple of weeks ago we had a memorial in Sweet's honor at his restaurant in Houston. Chichi flew in all the way from Los Angeles, and Copperfieldkid (another 'best friend') was there as well. We met a lot of local friends of Sweet's--the banquet area was full. Chichi said some very touching words.

It is true Sweet left the restaurant to his employees and they hung several large photos of him in the banquet area.

If any of you are ever in the south Houston area, check out the Starfire grill and have a toast to our friend. In one of Sweet's emails to me from over a year ago he said the following, "...stick with the grilled items, stay away from the barbeque." Okay, so if you do go to Starfire, you have been given instructions from Sweet himself on how to order.

(Message edited by gcl on May 05, 2007)

Jag, once again you have painstakingly honored Doug most fittingly. I believe that those that did not know Doug now feel as if they have, and would probably feel right at home with him..wine stains and all.I bet Doug would simply say, "Thanks", but what's the big deal? Just his style . You and Chichi have eulogized Doug in a manner allowing everyone the opportunately to see the many faceted sides of the man that few were privileged to observe.

AndresB,

Within two days of Doug's passing both Lucy and I had several disturbing experiences. I actually saw him once in the apartment we were staying in. BTW, Sweet lived in that apartment for over a year before he moved into his own place one floor below.

Another time, I slipped on the wet floor, my feet flew out from under me and I started to plummet to the floor. Althought I was alone at the time, someone grabbed me from behind, stopped my fall, and brought me to an upright position. Boy, did that unnerve me!

One time on the day he died, Lucy was alone in the apartment with her bedroom door closed. From her vantage point she could see under the door and wondered why I was walking back and forth in front of the door because she could see someone's feet passing by. Several times she came out of the room to find the apartment empty except for her. When I arrived home she asked if I had been home in the last hour. She turned ashen white when I told her I had been at Don's office for the last two hours.

I don't want to dwell one these experiences too much, but I was moved so much by them that I told his wife about what happened. She said, "That sounds like Douglas!"

Jag

To add a couple of points:

It's a HUGE cemetary, and in true Brasilian construction custom, you really can't get a coffin easily from the main building to the crypts. I believe that if you look at the photo of the cemetary from Corcavado, the main building isn't even in the photo - it would be up in the right hand corner. They wheeled the casket along the large back wall there, right up until the large chapel mausoleum that's in the upper center of the photo. From that point on, the wide pathway gave out and it was a series of footpaths, narrow and meandering up and down, side to side, with lots of steps and small platforms to navigate. Doug's crypt is well beyond that, and the guys had to carry him the rest of the way. Scotch destroyed an elbow on a crypt while lugging along, and Coffemaker made the comment that if they had to go a hundred yards more the cemetary dudes would have had to chisel out a second hole for him. The casket was really flimsy, which was good because it was lighter but according to Don, it was structurally shaky and really difficult to keep a handle on.

It had been overcast and rainy for the four days prior to the funeral, but on that morning the sun came out and it was hot as hell. In the upper 80s and with the cemetary on the other side of the morros from the ocean, not much of a breeze. The sun was beating down on us and with nothing but stone around, the heat island effect was substantial. On the way back Claudinha had to stop a few times and we all were sucking down bottles of water as soon as we got back to the reception building.

As you see in the first photo, there was no vault - the casket went right into the wall. They closed it up with a couple sheets of stone, and then mortered it up. Not good. The whole time in the cemetary, you smelled the dead litteraly decomposing. We passed by the large mausoleum building and there was some water/liquid flowing by it. Someone asked what it was and there are three possible answers: rain water from the morro, sewage from the favela on the morro, or it was coming from the crypts. Hopefully it was rainwater.

Doug wanted to be cremated, with the remains spread at sea like his parents. The difference here was, instead of spread at sea off of Florida, Doug wanted them right on Copa beach in front of the Terraco. However, he did not specify that in his will, so he had to be buried per Brasilian law.

However, as Jag says, he's in his current spot for only three years. I find it odd that in Brasil you can't be cremated but have to buried, per old Catholic regulations. however, after three years, they dig you out and either rebury you, cremate you or chuck what's left in a big compost heap.

I already have March 20th, 2010 marked on my calendar as a day to be sure to be in Rio, and we can get our friend cremated and his wishes fulfilled. I'll then head over to the Terraco for some soup and a steak sandwich and know that Sweet finally got the sendoff he wanted.

jag, you congrats, you described sweet to the "T". and yes, you really had no clue what to do in 65 except eat the free peanuts.....

thought i would add a few more pics of sweet.....

Admin: Photos removed

Thank you for answering my questions. Based on your experiences, I am sure you now believe people's souls are still alive after their body dies. Based on that please go and dedicate a mass (Catholic) on Sweet's soul so he finds it easier to enter heaven. Guys that might be the biggest favor you could make to him right now!

Diversity,

Thanks for the pictures, but I'm not too sure that's Sweet in the photos. I say that because the guy in the picture has only two pairs of glasses on his shirt. I never saw the real Sweet with less than three pairs!!

Jag

Sounds like a really good guy.

Hey, whys Bianca giving him my drink anyway? I just told them to give em the Hook-em-horns sign. That was one fun night when we took those pics!

Jaguar thank you for a outstanding report as usual (and I truly mean that!). The photo of Doug looking out the window says it all about the city he truly loved. I will miss those weekly phone calls starting with "Hey Hempie" since I have been in the states and the daily ones when I lived in Rio and Doug was in town. Thanks again Jag.

Diversity I want to thank you also for the photos as the few I have I can't locate after my relocation to the states. These will go to a very safe place and bring back the 4 years of menories I shared with "Dougie". Question these were taken at Cancun right?

I have many stories I could share like so many of us but unfortunately I am not the best writer to share them so I will have to just keep the memories to myself.

Man those pictures of Doug sleeping brings back memories. Funny the few I have seemed to lost were of him sleeping also. (1) at a Festa at VIPS (can you believe that) and (2) at my apartment at the Sheraton in Barra sleeping on my balcomy on a big poosh. Oh I forgot one at the pool sleeping in a chair.

RIP Dougie

Hemp

So that's Sweetmesquite. I never meet him but I've seen him many times. Thanks for the pictures.

Jag,

Perfect!

Thanks,

EA

Thanks Jag. Outstanding report! Cat has mentioned Doug's wishes and I'm sure we can make it happen in 3 years. I've also added that date to my calendar.

(Message edited by howard69stern on May 06, 2007)

Sorry if I seem off the mark here, but I'm not certain it's appropriate to post pictures of members, living or deceased, on this site. I have tried to respect Sweet's privacy by not posting pics of him, pics of his gravesite giving his name, or any other identifying information. Maybe I'm being overly sensitive here, but I know that while alive Sweet would have been most upset to see his privacy taken away. I'm not sure he'd have felt any different about it being taken away after his death.

The pic Jag posted was fine, as only those knowing Sweet would be able to look at it and say, "yes, that's the SM I knew and loved."

I concur with Bwana_dik's assessment. Sweet loved his privacy and would not have liked his pictures posted on this web site. He had mentioned this to me and many other mongers.

(Message edited by howard69stern on May 06, 2007)

OK. I can’t match Jags literary acumen but I promised some stories for the board about Sweet.

I can’t really recall when I first met Sweet but I am sure we hit it off well at our first meeting.

As I recall it was at Alcazar and we were talking about some jerk who had ratted out another CH member with photos of his GDP. Then the SOB came walking up and joined us at our table.

This guy was a real asshole who was later bragging at lunch (while I was gone) about snaking my girl behind my back. He had a Luomo GF and was going around showing all these girls their photos on CH. Sweet told me about it and I decided to confront him inside Help that night when he showed.

I had macho muscle man Dino covering my back, a couple of guys covering my sides and there was Sweet saying, “you take him low and I will him high because I can’t bend over that well”. I approached the guy and confronted him with why he had posted the photos (this is all in a trip report) and bragging bout snaking my girl.

He turned into a wet noodle, caved in and was almost in tears. He kept saying he didn’t want any problems, it was a mistake, just leave me alone, I don’t want any problems etc.

Well, I backed off only to hear the wrath of his GDP in my face screaming at me to get the fuck away. I think she had bigger balls than he did.

Sweet looked at me perplexed and said, “I’ll hit her low, you hit her high because you are a tit man and I like her ass”.

I was ROTFLMAO and so were the other guys. It was as if, “well for her I just might make an exception”. It also diffused the situation and we all left in peace but he was scared shitless. (post script-we never saw much of this guy anymore but we knew he was around on occasion.)

Dino and a few of the other guys continued to force the issue further by making their appearances known at the lovely couples upstairs booth inside Help. He cowered and she just kept getting into every body’s faces with threats, shouts of alarm for security and rants about how we were a bunch of degenerates taking advantage of Rio girls. “yeah….sooo?”

From then on, whenever in a confrontational situation (especially with the Pivettes) with anybody, Sweet would look at me and say, “you take em low and I will take em high. It was one of those things that good friends immediately understood and laughed about after the situation passed.

Take em high buddy!

As the months passed, I kind of became Sweets anchor in Rio. Anytime he was coming into town and needed a reservation at the Princess Copacabana my phone would ring. “Get me my room (804 on the backside), have Hilton pick me up at the airport and have a bottle of wine in the car, call (whichever garota of the month) and have her meet me at the hotel. He always asked in a nice way and I was always glad to help out my good friend. Hell, we all knew he couldn’t communicate in Portugues. I would fire right back at him with what I wanted him to bring me in his suitcase. He would hem and haw about how much Mac and Cheese he was already bringing for HEMP and GCL. Peanut butter for SF Hombre and barbecue sauce for Don but he always managed to bring me what I needed. I’ll never know how he got all that shit into his suitcase but he managed.

When Sweet would first arrive, zonked out from Ambien and wine on the plane, I knew it would be a couple of hours before he became a human being again. He usually arrived on the early morning Continental flight and around 1:00PM my phone would ring. I’d go over and meet him at his hotel, get my stuff and we would go back to my place (with a stop by Pao Azucar supermarket for some wine). My live in maid would always cook us a great meal for lunch and we would plan our afternoon. It was either a run to 65 or his GDP of the month was coming to his hotel. He would hand me his cell phone (with seemingly unlimited minutes) and ask me to call her. Sweet also always had R$50 phone cards in his wad of Reais which was always in disarray. He would reach into his pocket and pull out wads of Reais in varying denominations all crumpled and crushed and never in any discernable order.

Throughout the course of his visits, he would call me from the hotel, ask me to call his favorita and set up a time for her to visit. I would find cell phone cards left on my countertop after he left my apartment and Rio. As much as I would protest, Sweet would always wave it off as nothing and thank me for my assistance.

Sweet becomes my Hero;

Sweet called me one day from Houston announcing he has just received his approval for a retirement visa to Brasil. Fuck, I was more retired than he was and after two failed attempts at a student visa through the Miami consulate, I wanted to know how he did it. Sweet in his inimical way gave me his contact for visa assistance. (Turned out to be a lucky draw for him because the guy couldn’t do it twice).

Anyway, Sweet comes to Brasil and needs my maids assistance at the Federal Police to finalize his Retirement visa. I need to go there as well to get my hand slapped and pay a fine for overstaying my visa by 8 days. He is in one line getting fingerprinted and I am in another getting fingerprinted. He looks at me and says, “I am getting fingerprinted to stay her, you are getting fingerprinted to get thrown out” Bastard had that shit eating grin on his face that we all know so well. All I could say was, “you bastard”. We both had to go to Banco do Brasil. He had to pay a visa tax, I had to pay a visa fine. He was smirking from ear to ear while we stood in line together. I even had to help him translate while he paid his fee. He was nowhere to be seen while I paid my fine!

Back to the Fed. Police station and he walks out with a permanent retirement visa. I walk out with an order to leave within 8 days. I still think he is smirking about this wherever he is. He was in heaven and I was in hell and he was enjoying the one-upmanship.

Bastard… but pure sweet!

OK, let’s try someplace new Sweet. Let’s go to Cartagena.

BIG MISTAKE!

In the first place, Sweet likes to be comfortable wherever he goes and prefers a wingman to try new adventures. I could not travel with him but I agreed to meet him at this new, terrifying airport in Ctg. He gets through customs unscathed and immediately announces how un-comfortably fucking hot it is. Hell, he is from Houston but the humidity in CTG is already getting to him. Thank god the taxi had AC or he may have turned around and left immediately. As it was, he was soaking wet in the short ride from the airport to Laugito even though the cab had AC.

He bitched, moaned and groaned from getting out of the taxi to going into the apartment. I even told him to go on inside and I would get his bags in for him. If you knew Sweet very well, you will know that he liked his AC. We were in a nice place but were scheduled to move in two days to one of Juan Ventura’s apartments. Sweet could not get the place cool enough. He had the AC on high and all the fans were running full speed. He bought out the closest grocery store (next door) of white wine and settled into a cool bath.

“Let’s go to the beach and pick up some afternoon action” I said. Now get this, we were less than a block from the beach. Half way there Sweet announces he is exhausted from the heat and decides to turn around and go back to the Apt. I ask if he wants me to walk with him and he says, “no, it is less than ½ block. Just bring something back for me”

I get 50 yards onto the beach and hear “Memo” being screamed at me. Good old Tony never forgets a name or a face. I don’t put up with his bullshit and negotiate a chair and cabana, 1 beer and does he have any hot chicas available. He goes into his cell phone of endless numbers and calls a couple. In the meantime my favorite beach masseuse Emily comes walking up with that “where the fuck have you been” look on her face and we have a real nice reunion. I get a foot massage, manicure, pedicure and most importantly, get into her cell phone of hotties. Tony’s girls show up and they are less than acceptable. Emily is very concerned about stepping into Tony’s turf so we agree to meet her girls off the beach. I tell her (in clear earshot of Tony) that I have a friend in my Apt that would probably like a massage. We go walking off the beach together, run into her “friends” at the designated place and Emilys girls are, well mine was a real looker, Doug’s was ok….LOL). When we got to the Apt. Doug was sleeping, snoring at the top of his lungs (so what else is new). He is delighted with the massage Emily gives him. He is less than enthused with the session the chica gave him. Seems she was not up for the back door, didn’t want to do BBBJ and was kind of a bitch. Oh well, for $20 he still thought she was an OK fuck.

We have a light dinner, well I do anyway and Sweet has two main courses. They don’t serve wine at this place so sweet walks next door gets a “box” of wine and brings it back to the table. Nobody seems to mind. We sit for a couple of hours chatting, watching girls walk by and enjoying the evening. I was at least. He still thought it was hot as hell.

Time to hit LDV. We walked in, grabbed a table and rum and coke is the order of choice for the evening. They bring us a bottle, a bucket of ice, some cokes and limes. It is still kinda early but the chicas are beginning to drift in and the place is filling. Whenever one walked in, she would immediately go to the bathroom to fuss with their hair, makeup and whatever else women do in bathrooms besides take a leak. Our table was in a direct path to the bathroom so we got a pretty good close up look at each girl. I told sweet he had first choice since I had taken first choice that afternoon. As oft times happened with Sweet, he didn’t see anything he liked or wanted to approach. I kept telling him all he had to do was make eye contact, smile and call them over to our table. Not his style. Finally, one girl makes her way to our table and asks for a drink. She starts cooing at sweet, rubbing his leg and making eyes at him. This is more sweets style. He liked to be approached rather than do the approaching. That is when things got interesting.

In walked about 8 military police brandishing semiautomatic weapons, side arms and dressed in camo fatigues.. They line all the Colombians up against the wall, start searching them, checking ID’s and doing the same with the girls. Then they looked at our table. I told Sweet to stand, open the palms of his hands and they would probably just walk past us. Nope, one guy dead eyes us and starts in our direction brandishing his semi automatic weapon. Sweet just murmurs, “oh shit”. Fortunately, one of the other guys put a hand on this guys shoulder and shrugged us off from being searched.

Well, Sweet didn’t like this encounter one little bit. Even after I told him it had happened several times to me and nothing ever came of it, it was clear he was not at all comfortable. I called his girl over, made some quick negotiations and she agreed to go with him. I spied an old friend, called her over and off we went. Sweets girl left in about 30 minutes. I heard the fridge open, a glass clinking and the TV. I went out and asked him how his session was and all he said was “shitty”. The lad was 0 for 2.

Many of you who knew Sweet will probably remember he had some kind of a skin rash around his feet and ankles for a long time. Emily decided she was going to be his doctor in addition to being his daily masseuse and brought all kinds of creams, salves, cleaning liquids, cotton balls etc to our Apt every morning very early. Sweet would get his doctoring then a massage (and fall asleep during both). I would get a daily massage and we would head for the beach (so long as it was before 10:30 and not too hot yet. Also, many of you who knew Sweet realized he was probably the slowest walker on the face of the planet. It actually pained my back to try and walk as slowly as he did so I would walk about 50 yards at my normal pace, stop and let him catch up, see if he needed a breather then start all over again. Everyday when we hit the beach, we would walk straight to one of Tony’s cabanas. Tony was short of cash (as usual) so we made a week long deal of 1 cabana and two chairs for about ½ his normal rate. Paid him ½ in advance and ½ on our last day. He begged for the entire amount in advance but we refused knowing his memory is not all that good. On our second day as we were leaving (had to leave by noon or 12:30 to avoid the heat) we ran into Cubanut and one of his buddies. We chatted for a while but had to leave because we were moving apartments. Our new Apt. (Juans) was much nicer, had better AC’s and a bigger room for Sweet. That afternoon, we got one of Ctg’s infamous gully washers, streets flooded and the steam bath aftermath was too much for him to bear. He stayed in until after dark when we went to have dinner with CN.

His daily routine was; up early for breakfast, Emily for doctoring and massage; walk to the beach, find a chica, back to the apt for a tryst, take a nap, eat dinner, head out to a club, bring a girl home and kick her out when he was finished. I was repeating with a little cutie and she kept begging Sweet to meet her friend.

One day I convinced Sweet that we should take a trip to Isla Rosario, take the girls, have some lunch and make a day of it. Sweet owned a large cabin cruiser in Houston and was kinda used to boating in style. When we were three miles offshore in a little 16 foot open skiff with a captain and mate aboard (who was constantly bailing water out of the leaky craft) I looked at Sweet and said, “Ever think you’d be 3 miles offshore in an open skiff in 3 foot seas with 2 hot Colombianas” He gave me the biggest sneer I think I had ever seen on him and just said, “You mother fucker” I was cackling my ass off. Well we had a good day but on the way home it started raining like a banshee. The rain was cold and it was pelting down in big drops. When we got to the beach, sweet got out of the boat and without a word started walking to the apartment. He left me and the two girls to get our stuff and meet him back at the apartment. When we arrived, he was sitting on a barstool with his box and glass of wine and not saying very much. I was still kidding him about the boat ride and it was apparent he wasn’t too happy about the whole day. He retired with my chicas friend and an hour later was brushing her out the door (I sent mine with her). He just turned and looked at me, gave me a thumbs down gesture and retired to his room. Sweet didn’t need a lot of words to express his dislike of a person, girl or situation. The look said it all.

Within a few minutes, Sweet announced we needed to go to a real grocery store for provisions and more boxed white wine. I told him I would go down the street and get him some more. He told me there was no more white wine at any store in Laguito. Well, at about 5 liters per day I guess he could easily wipe out the little mom and pop tiendas who might only carry 1-2 boxes each.

We hit Carullios and Sweet bought a dozen boxes of wine. We also meticulously picked out some food and munchies for our breakfast, sometimes lunch but never dinner. Sweet insisted we eat out every night and wanted to try different places and did we ever.

I finally got him into the old city one day. Again, hot as hell and he was doing his typical Sweet shuffle but we found enough shade in several parks and frequent stops for water/wine made the day bearable. On a side note, he was very interested in the architecture and history of the city. I wasn’t used to seeing Sweet showing too much interest in anything besides, wine, women, song, food, cars and sleeping so this was a real change. Seems that Sweet had done a little homework before his arrival and was pleased to share his knowledge of the old city with a veteran. I listened quietly and only corrected him once…..!

We agreed to hit some of the old city clubs that night but that bombed quickly as Sweet would not approach. He wanted to be approached. Not going to happen this night so we went to LDV, quickly (and I do mean quickly) grabbed two girls and headed home. I wasn’t hearing much and didn’t hear any doors open or close. To my amazement, she was still there the next morning and stayed the better part of the day. She got a kick out of watching Emily doctor his rash, give him a massage (with him snoring during most of the two events). She was also enjoying watching TV (cartoons) and went berserk when Sweet connected his mini-DVD to the TV and began playing several of his varied collections of concerts and music DVD’s. She particularly liked Journey in concert and played it twice. This brought a big smile to sweets face. I guess a girl who like Journey can’t be all bad? She left but had an invite to return for dinner that night. Sweet finally had a keeper. It took 6-7 to get there but he was finally in his Nirvana.

As the week ended and we were getting ready to leave, Sweet announced he would never return to Ctg. “It was a fun trip and good to see a new place but I prefer Rio. It is just too damn hot here, the women aren’t nearly as sexy as Rio and few will do the back door or give a decent blow job”. Nothing else needed to be said and no amount of arguing was going to change his consternation that Ctg. was off his repeat list.

That was Doug! Mind made up, no further discussion required or expected!

Back to Rio

Sweet was getting tired of the Princess in Rio and started renting an apartment in my building (across the hall actually). We kept our front doors open for easy access between our units. He enjoyed breakfast everyday at my place and we would go to TA for a bowl of soup for lunch. He would always buy a bottle of Miolo Reserva, I would have a glass and he would polish off the rest. About once per week, I would buy the bottle just to keep it even. He floated easily into my apartment when he needed something out of my fridge (and I always kept a bottle of wine there for him as emergency stock). We would watch movies on my overhead projector with our GF’s of the day or week, go out to dinner frequently and spent many a memorable time in termas together. He went daily. I only went 1-2 times per week.

After edging very closely to my annual time limit in Br. I announced I was going to take a journey to SEA. He had always wanted to go but would not do the trip alone for his first time. I suggested he join me and we started making preparations. I went to his home in Houston and stayed there for 2 weeks prior to our impending trip. I got to meet his employees, his local friends, went to his favorite pub almost daily and even managed a lunch at his Yacht club where he kept his boat. I recall going there one Sunday and we were going to have their Sunday Brunch. Not cheap at $25 per person but Sweet was determined to go. Half way through the lunch he announced, “I have a monthly minimum and today is the last day of the month. I gotta pay either way so eat up”

Pure Sweet!

We ate a few times at his restaurant and I could never pay for anything. With Sweet, when you are in his place, it is on the house. He let me use his car on several occasions to meet with the Visa guy. It was a 45 minute ride each way and took about $30 in gas. On the third trip, I filled his car and it actually pissed him off that I would do that. I kept saying, “I used the gas, I’ll pay for it”. He said something like, “if you want to use it again, you will not put anymore gas into it”. Short and Sweet!

Our trip to Pattaya was fun although the flight there was brutal for Sweet. He was in Business using FF miles and I was in coach suffering. Both of us had plenty of ambien to help us sleep and Sweet kept the entire business class section awake all night with his horrendous snoring. The flight attendants woke him up twice to get him to stop but about 2 nano seconds later he was back sawing logs with a chain saw. I think they were happy to see the end of that flight and so were the weary eyed passengers.

The weather was not too bad. He liked the soapies, the BJ bars and the beer bars. He was not fond of the go-go’s or the ladyboys. I thought he was coming to blows one day when he found out a real cutie he wanted to bang was actually a guy. EPI, DM and I had kinda set him up but never told him so (although I always suspected he knew but refused to say anything about it) We just acted dumb about the whole scenario.

We went to BKK for our final night and stayed at a place near the airport. We went into town for dinner and hit Nana. Met Dave the Rave at Angle Witch and ran into a few other mongers. We parted at the airport with him going to Houston and me going back to the states.

On another one of my trips back to the states, I made a quick 3 hour stopover in Houston via Panama to get a Tx drivers license and establish residency (and make another try through the consulate there). Sweet met me at the airport, took me to the drivers license place, drove me to the SS office to get a new card, back to the drivers license place then back to the airport where we had lunch and I left. He lives about an hour away from the airport. That was the kind of friend you had when Sweet considered you a friend!! I am glad he considered me one of his.

Back to Rio where Sweet and I continued our daily ritual. I had fired my maid so breakfast every morning was never quite the same but as many will tell you, I do know how to cook. We still enjoyed our daily lunches at TA, a few festas (which Sweet never really liked but went to just to be with his buds), a few Termas runs and a few evenings at TA for drinks/wine.

I finally got him enrolled in Port. classes with my private tutor. His progress was slow but he maintained a vigil about attending classes. He wasn’t so vigilant about doing his homework. I helped him daily as I was about 3 books ahead of him. I was kicking out a lesson or two per class. He was kicking out about 1 lesson per 3 classes in a week but he stuck with it. He still couldn’t speak it worth a shit but at least he was beginning to understand some things when people spoke to him. His “Taxi Portuguese” was world renowned. He knew how to tell them how to get to 65 and back home and as previously mentioned would instantly be asleep when the taxi pulled away from the curb in either direction and awake as soon as the taxi stopped at it’s destination.

When I decided to leave Br. for an extended period of time, I left many things at Sweets new Apt in our building (the one above the one he bought and renovated and the one Jag was in at the time of Doug’s death). Over the course of time, I would slowly but surely rid him of my belongings and a few friends would bring stuff back to me as well. I made one final swing for a short visit, grabbed most of my things, told him to use anything else that was there (and he happily took care of my multi function printer for me…he he). He did ask me to bring him 2 boxes of white wine one time (out of the box) but they put me overweight on my luggage. I only managed 1 bladder on arrival and he looked so depressed that I bought him a bottle of Miolo Reserva at the store. Afterall, he had brought me so many things so often, I was happy to respond in kind (but not $50 worth of being overweight).

I made another 3 month sojourn in MDE and then 3 months in SEA. Doug and I kept in touch via e-mail (always short and sweet because he wasn’t the greatest typist) and frequently via his Skype phone and my Vonage. He was so excited about his new place. He would frequently call, ask me to translate something to one of his workers then head out to TA for lunch. It was almost like I was there with him!

We all knew Sweet had a drinking problem in addition to his medical difficulties. After his near death experience, I spoke with him and he really downplayed the seriousness of the situation as just being dehydrated. I never really believed him. I was so delighted to hear he had quit drinking and wish I could have seen him after he lost all that weight. I was truly saddened to hear he was drinking to excess again. I was truly shaken to hear of his death.

For all his gruffness, snoring, quirky idiosyncrasies, slow walking, drinking and discriminating viewpoints on many matters (especially the French), I still considered him one of my best friends and always will remember our times together. The daily breakfasts at my apartment, the daily lunches at TA, the frequent runs to Termas, the occasional night at TA (and him almost never going inside Help), him constantly handing me his cell phone to give a message to his garota of the week for a clandestine meeting of some kind, his participation in festas that he didn’t really like (over time, I had the girls trained to approach him because he was not going to approach them), daily stops at the grocery for wine, helping him with his endless problems with his PC, getting him to finally start taking Port. classes, helping him with the planning process of changing his restaurants name and expecting his phone call every morning around 8:00AM with “what cha doin?” And my never changing reply, “fixin breakfast, be here in 10 minutes”……

Rest in peace brother. We will all see you soon.

Tchau

Sandman -- Thanks for the touching words and for filling in some big blanks about Sweet's CTG trip. When I'd ask him how he liked Colombia, he'd only say "Shitty beaches. Too fucking hot. Too many fucking touts. Not enough fucking girls."

Sweet never tried to imitate anybody else, never tried to be funny. Just being himself was more than enough to get him more close friends that most of us will ever have.

The only time he was selfish was when he took himself from us, and I think even he'd agree that was a mistake. I think his heart was just too big to be contained even in that ample body.

Sandman, heck of a post. I only met sweet for a day on Soi 6, but he's a lucky guy to have built the stable of friends and respect that he did when he was amongst us. Hope all is well with yourself amigo.

Dear Sandman,

Your stories about Sweet had me in tears from both laughing and crying. He was truly a unique individual who touched many of us.

When you wrote about his Portuguese lessons, I was at first saddened. Then when I remembered what he did to me once, I started chuckling. What saddened me at first was the fact that when I last spoke to him, he said that he had to complete his homework lesson because he was falling behind. The next morning when we found him, his workbook was open on the table and he had almost finished the lesson. In other words, he was trying his best to learn the language.

What made me laugh was when I recalled the time we got into a taxi after leaving terma 65 in the pouring rain. As we got into a taxi, he spoke to the driver and said something in what I thought was perfect Portuguese. “Sweet, I didn’t know you speak Portuguese?” His reply troubled me, “I don’t! I talk taxi!” But what Sweet said next floored me, “If he makes any wrong turns tell him where we’re going,” and then he fell sound asleep. I didn’t have a fucking clue where we were going and I suspect Sweet was fully aware of that fact. He like to torture me and I enjoyed it. Fortunately for all of us, but especially me, the driver pulled up in front of Modern Sound, which I guess was our destination. Like clockwork Sweet started stirring just before we pulled up to the curb, opened the door, and said, “Jag, you pay him.”

Jag

Jag, one of the things Sweet enjoyed the most (although not as much as in his words when he was going backdoor with his little tool on a girl that did not want it called it his "sneak attack") was messing with you. He would have some ruse setup for you and make me swear not to tell you or go along with it. He truly enjoyed beign with his friends.

KJ,

Although I never knew it for sure, I often suspected that Sweet set me up on numerous occasions. As soon as I would start sweating, Sweet started smiling.

Jag

Although we have never met, I'd like to thank you Jag, for reviving Sweet's persona once again in my mind's eye. Writing is a gift, and one which you have used well for such a noble cause.

As u may know, I had the privelege of rooming w/Sandman for much of his time in Rio, and distinctly remember numerous time waking at the crack of noon only to find Sweet finishing his second bfast shake, which consisted of:

1 1/2 oz vodka
3 oz tomato juice
1 dash lemon juice
1/2 tsp Worcestershire sauce
2 - 3 drops Tabasco® sauce
1 lime wedge

One morning, I remember actually being awake early enuff to see Sweet's entry into our apartment (I think I was just getting in from an evening of righteous living actually). Sweet threw the door open just like Kramer - only slower - as he 'skidded' up to the barstool and greeted us with a gracious 'howsitgoin!'.

Perhaps the thing that cemented our respect for each other the most was our mutual disdain for the French. I still remember fondly the first time he erupted into his tirade about the french. When I countered with an even more bitter diatribe, recounting why their country shouldn't even stain a world map, he looked up - his furry eyebrow raised in delight as he sat back and savored my vitriolic rhetoric. It was then that we knew we'd found common ground.

Rio just wasn't quite the same without Dougie there during my visit last month. . .

Dongringo,

As you well know, Sweet was quick to point out to anyone from Europe that we saved their asses in WW II. One time I watched him backtrack, if only for a moment.

We were on an elevator and a tall guy with blonde hair rushed in as the door closed. I watched Sweet look him over when all of a sudden he blurted out, “Are you German?” I cringed as he started to reply, “No, I’m from Denmark.” Whew, we got past one hurdle but I knew what was coming next as Sweet started saying, “Do you guys know that if wasn’t for……..” “Will you give him a pass Sweet, after all WW II ended sixty years ago,” I blurted out before considering the consequences.

He looked at me as if I farted in church at the Communion rail and then asked me a one word question, “Why?” Trying to come up with a legitimate reason, I remembered that some artist from Denmark had recently started an international incident by drawing a cartoon of Mohammad. Apparently, many Muslims don’t have any sense of humor. When I told Sweet about the cartoon he grinned from ear to ear. Sweet asked if the guy was drawing anymore cartoons, but before he could answer the elevator stopped at his floor. As he got off, Sweet shouted out, “I love Danish,” the guy smiled at us and then the doors shut. “I didn’t know you like the Danish,” I asked. “I don’t, I hate them, but I love the pastry.”

Jag

(Message edited by jaguar on May 07, 2007)

I have as many Sweet stories but anyone, but my last memories of Sweet are the most memorable. Sweet had stopped hitting the t's, and we decided to meet for dinner at my favorite Rio restaurant, Terzetto. For some reason, I was not feeling well, and I told him so. He immediately became quite concerned and asked me a series of medical questions. One of them was "When you pee, do you see bubbles in the water?" He then went on to explain that the reason there are bubbles is because your body is releasing gas when you pee. He also explained that he was once a paramedic or something like that.

So I call it an early night, and I am in my apartment and I pee. Sure enough, I have lots of bubbles, and then the phone rings. It is Sweet and he asks "Did you pee and were there bubbles?" I respond yes, and he is relieved. He also called the next day.

So anyways, every time that I pee, I now notice the little bubbles, and I think of Sweet.

DG-It would never be vodka. It was always a Gin Bloody Mary but well spoken as usual.

To all you gentleman who knew Sweet,

Even though I have never been to Rio and never met Sweet, because of your wonderfuly delightful reminiscing I almost feel my life is incomplete for never meeting him. He sounds like a man who left an indelible impression on everyone he met. From what I gather he was a man who spoke his mind and be danm to anyone who took offence. He passed on doing what and living where he loved. I can only hope that I leave as much of an impression on the world as he did.

Scooby

Just wanted send my condolences to the board and to all who knew sweet, I had the pleasure of meeting sweet one afternoon with Don at the alcazar before a terma run. How fitting is that for Rio.


Peaceman

I too only met Sweet briefly. Nellie let me know he was famous in Rio, but I had no idea until I read all these stories.

Thanks guys.

Thank you Jaguar for a wonderful and moving piece on Doug.

I had the pleasure of meeting him on my Rio trip and although having never met me before he looked after me till Sandman arrived the next day.

I remember him kindly dropping me off at the apartment across from his. I unpacked and we went for a walk to the beach.
I think we had only walked a few minutes before being set upon by those young kids who tried to take sweets phone. His reactions reminded me a little of Yoda when he went from slow to lightning speed and I think even the kids were suprised.

I really enjoyed his company and our discussions on the French, why the British ever wanted to build a tunnel to France, the reason behind the two fingered gesture, the war, the intelligence behind the maginot line etc, thankfully we shared the same opinion, (I'm British).

I loved the way the girls would come into the relax room at Luomo and giggle at him snoring on the deck bed.

I remember his reaction when a girl gave me a covered bj at Luomo and how I had to hold him back ...hehe.

I loved the way he would give me a disapproving look when I did or said something stupid.

It was 10 days of great fun with him and he was a kind and warm individual with an endearing dry wit.

Hugh,

Many thanks for your kind words, Yes, Sweet was one of a kind--actually the word "unforgetable" come to mind when describing him. I'm sure you'll forever remember that disapproving look he gave you; we all do.

Jag

Jag, you are an elloquent man at times. I have several fond memories of Sweet. All the times I sat in a taxi with a running meter while Doug ran into his favorite fast food joint for a Sundae at 2:00 in the morning, the endless litany about the heat, the French, the Garota he was with at the Termas, his constant comments about never going to L again, as we prepared to go there, etc.

I was shocked and saddened to hear of his passing. He was a wonderful guy and I will miss him.

I don't mean to be the party pooper, but do you guys think he is in heaven right now? I don't think so...he is propably in purgatory right now and needs someone to offer him a mass on his name.

Andres,
As far as my beliefs, he died in heaven and remains there. I do miss him.
CG

CG's right. Sweet is not in purgatory (aka Detroit) or hell (aka Houston). He chose to check out and stay in heaven (Rio). While many of us are pissed at him around the timing and manner of his departure, that's mainly because we miss him so much. But no one who knew Sweet could be surprised at the fact that he finagled a way to stay in Rio permanently.

Yes, we all know that "you are SO full of shit" look Sweet would get at times. It was so delicious that we would deliberately try to provoke him into giving it. Given the range of issues Sweet had strong opinions about, it wasn't hard.
BD

Jag,

I rarely read reports, but having been "there" when it all happened, I had to. It's 1:00 AM I am tired as hell on a Sunday night, but I couldn't stop reading about my old friend Sweet. I was back down in August and missed you by a day, but things were definately different without him.

No lunch at the Terraco with him, however I did have a Canja in his honor. I feel a great loss.

The week he passed, I arrived on the Friday before and spent two days visiting with him and hanging out before my roomate, Coffeemaker arrived. I was concerned as you were about him, and I knew where he was headed, unfortunately I didn't realize it would be just days away.

Ironically there was a "French" woman hanging out with him who was a friend of his former landlord I believe, they got along great by the way, she must have been French Canadian.

The last time I saw him was at Lower Case's wedding dinner. He looked like death that night. But he was never too sick to comment on how beautiful the bridesmaids were.

Sweet was one in a million, thanks for painting such an accurate picture of someone I consider to be a dear friend. Sweet is in "Heaven" of that I am certain. I will see him there again someday.