last night miguel and oki

got into it again. miguel weighs about 90 pounds because he subsists on air and alcohol and spends all day in the hammock watching italian sitcoms. he gets excited at around 9 or so every night as he reaches the crossroads of a waning hangover and a good drunk. oki is a large man, always shirtless, huge black beard and dirty dreads lending him the appearance of a filthy pirate. he writes "epic science fiction," a copy of which is supposedly in existence. i can't imagine. he usually crashes in one of the little lanchas on the beach, although there was a memorable moment when he was found passed out in a chair, bottle of unidentified hooch between his legs, a whole sandwich, minus a bite, held gently in his limp hand, and the single bite falling from his lips. the picture was complete when a little dog came over and started eating the sandwich. he was in san jose to see the doctor recently and was told that he basically has no liver left.

i'm really not sure how two men can be so drunk so continuously, but whatever. last night oki stumbled through and they started hollering at each other about who had the first revolution, cuba or costa rica. they both slur so badly when this gets started that i only pick out words, but it's mostly just a string of name calling. it got good and het up until they were both yelling at the top of their lungs and more italian was coming out of miguel's mouth than anything else.

people gather there most nights to play music. there are a lot of really nice drums and a guitar and other things, and there was a pretty big crowd there to witness all of it. to their credit, everyone just kind of kept playing music while this tornado was spinning around them (thanks blake, for keeping the beat throughout while we all died laughing).

anyway, miguel was yelling about how oki was a descendant of fulgencio bautista when one of the americans cracked open a beer. he went over and saw that it was one of the two local beers, a cerveza imperial. that started him off and he started tearing into the americans about being "imperialists," telling oki to get himself an imperial beer, and pointing out his fridge full of (the other local) pilsen beer. it was wild. at one point i heard him say to a group of gringos, "you've done nothing for the world. at least the terrorists have done something!" andy was sitting off to the side, laughing quietly to himself. "i laugh when i hear something new," he confessed. "i hear all this shit so continuously."

it can get mean, turn on other people. i guess he's been known to freak out and throw everyone out of the hotel. "giving oki a bath" is a common theme-- i've seen miguel spray him with windex and douse him with water. one thing they like to do is a three-act play-- "oki wrote the screenplay!" says miguel-- which is called "guantanamo tres" and involves miguel dressing up first as a peasant, with a big straw hat, and then as a terrorist, draped in a turban with a giant toy bazooka. it always goes wrong in the second act-- "oki, you hijo de puta, you said the wrong thing again, imperialist de mierda. vaffanculo"-- and they never make it to the third act. "oki still has to write the third act."

they're best friends, i guess.

"es un abuso, es," said the old ethiopian rasta hanging out one afternoon as he saw me laughing at their antics. "you're looking at a couple of hombres enfermos."

"seria un abuso si no fueran tan hijos de puta cuando les da la gana," i said.