I am the man, I suffered, I was there.
The Philosopher Red is in a foul mood – again. He is nursing a dislocated finger, two contusions on his left cheek, and has a large chunk of his tangled red hair that he bought back from a Tico who ripped it from his head. The Philosopher Red is Irish, or at least he uses that to excuse his habitually belligerent statements and actions.
We walked into a beach front bar last night – or, more accurately, I followed him in. He tried to wedge himself up to the bar crowded with gringos loudly cheering and jeering at a televised American football game. He resorted to that old Irish cliché, “Is this a private fight, or can anyone join in?” The Americans were not amused and closed ranks, forcing the Philosopher Red farther away from his goal of alcoholic reinforcement.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” the Philosopher Red muttered.
“If there is, I don’t want to hear about it,” I replied.
The Philosopher Red located a tipped over bar stool, climbed atop, then leaped over the cheering, jeering Americans and landed on the bar. He grabbed the remote control out of the Tico bartender’s hand and changed the channel to a Spanish language cooking show. The Americans retaliated in force, punching and kicking him repeatedly before carrying him out the bar as he screamed about his rights being violated. He was violently pushing the buttons of the remote control while pointing it at the Americans who were pummeling him, then the Tico bartender grabbed him by the hair before reposessing the device.
“Don’t you ever learn?” I asked the Philosopher Red as I helped him to his feet.
“I already knew that most people are right-handed,” he said, gingerly touching the pulpy red mass on the left side of his face.
“No,” I said, pealing off the 10,000 colones in damp bills it was going to take to buy back his lock of hair. “Didn’t you learn anything to further your philosophical understanding or our world?”
“Why yes, my one and only follower,” he replied, using his torn shirt to wipe the blood away from his cheek. “I learned that universal remotes have nothing to do with controlling my universe…not even remotely.”
The Philosopher Red has begun talking of his stay in Tamarindo as a permanent move, and not a vacation. I’m concerned.
There’s not much else of interest to report from here at the edge of the western word. But, with the Philosopher Red in town, I’m sure times will be livening up some. Later…