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The Beer Pilcher of Granada

The Hotel Alhambra occupies almost a block right in the middle of the Granada, across from Parque Central. The terrace potential here is high even if the service is the slowest in all of Nicaragua. After a day roaming dusty streets, followed by a swim with the sharks along the Las Isletas del Mar Dulce (Lake Nicaragua), a cold Victoria beer sounds like heaven.

The hotel terrace offers shade, well-worn comfort, cheap drinks, great local cuisine and an engaging (May I practice my bad English on you?) staff. It is the ultimate perch from which to observe the nightly neotropical parade in a fascinating city bent on forgetting decades of economic and civil strife, compounded the policies of my country.

The brightly painted walls of yellow and blue are accentuated by hordes of ancient vines, orchids, and vivid hanging flower baskets. The high ceilings, abstract art in chipped paint, create a subtle vertigo while the ceramic acoustics of the tiled palace chime the melodious Guardabarranco and Carlos Mejia Godoy.

The entire patio is one step up from the street and is encompassed by an imposing rail to keep the great unwashed from bothering the paying customers. Expanding the radius are struggling palm trees, the nearby lake, horse and carriage operatives, the aroma of frying fish, loud music, walled stucco houses, skinny dogs, pleasant people and crowded passageways wrapped around 16th Century cathedrals.

Delirious traffic in dilapidated chariots circles around and around the park acting out some mad petroleum mating ritual, horns keeping time with an torrid, indistinguishable beat.  Across the avenue enterprising venders sell anything from hash pipes to baby alligators. They have long ceased daily commerce and have headed home for the night. I have been warned to avoid the park after these hawkers have gone. Already a seedy element has emerged, preparing to propagate business after dark, intent on another crap shoot of drug sales, petty theft, outright robbery, muggings and drunkenness.

 Poverty and tourism have never melded to anyone’s satisfaction.

 But I’m on the proverbial sunny side of the street or so it seems with the combo-neon and florescent patio lights turned up to fine print levels. A world away from the park,  I enjoy another Victoria with a snifter of 12-year-old Flor de Cana  rum, arguably the best rum in the Free World (which of course does not include bad ol’ Cuba). The British couple sitting to my left is much impressed with the pungent black bean and garlic soup (another treat from Cuba) while three local merchants smoke trophy  puros (cigars), offering me one which I accept with a short referendum on my provenance. At the far end of the terrace banister are thee laughing tourists from Managua, who have accumulated at least 15 bottles under their table, an effective method for calculating beer purchases here.

That’s when I spot him. He stands out from the others. This guy looks the rough, crude menace but somehow less threatening from afar. He’s big for a Niacaraguan. He meticulously picks through the treasures in the park’s austere trash bins, discarding pieces then angrily kicking over the can. Underprivileged  garbage, dissipated fruits of the poor displayed in skeletal wire and grungy bins. I saw him sitting on a bench at the plaza talking to himself earlier. On second examination he appears almost harmless compared to some of the other toughs that circulated here. Just another shabby street man eyeballing the hotel porch. I look away yawning, stretching, looking for another beer.

He crosses the street but fades into the shadows only to surface at the far end of the block. Passing slowly by the terrace after several reconnaissance missions he suddenly swoops down like a parched falcon grabbing a glass of beer off the British table and drinking it in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down afterwards. He sets his sights on another beer, from the merchants table this time, and slams it down as well, gently replacing the bottle on their table. He then runs off happily between the alley notels, the abandoned language institute and the designated pickpocket staging zone.

I laugh to myself not wanting to appear entertained by the intrusions. The merchants do not appear particularly perplexed peering over at me with that only in Granada look, sans surprise. They shake their heads. The Brits are at first amused, then irritated, then amused again. Their eyes wander the terrace searching for some logical explanation, finding none. Is he part of the all-inclusive experience?

Moments later I catch his movements back along the rail. This time he grabs a bottle of Victoria off the Managua tourists’ table and drains it. The tipsy table is not quite sure who drank what. They call the waiter who comes running with one of his fellows and they throw the beer thief to the ground with the fury of Volcan Mombacho. Nothing personal…but he is fouling up the sacred serve and volley of gratuity. He escapes and returns to the badlands of the park and looks at us yelling, “Beer belongs to the people!”

I have to admit I am enjoying his antics with every cold Victorian that goes down. The waiters apologize to the victims and replace their beers. They even brought me a free beer after I expressed outrage and threatened to write a bad review on the place in The San Juan Horseshoe en los Estados Unidos. No one seems all that ruffled.

But this beer guerrilla is the real deal. This stalwart boozehound, this dry debunker, this macquerau guzleir may be more than what meets the eye. He’s a force. His clownish persistence cries out to be recognized. The man is a talent. The cat burglar of cold beer. He will not be denied!

He doesn’t try to steal beer from me. Perhaps I could be trouble. Perhaps there are easier marks. Considering my sense of fashion and attention to hygiene that particular evening the man probably figured I stole what I have and was intent on drinking it. I have actually had street people come up to me in South America and offer me their coats on a cold night. Maybe we are kin or at least kindred…

I finish another beer and move to the relative safety of a table next to the kitchen door where I can chronicle the action while avoiding future larceny. The bullish boob won’t get my beer.

“He won’t be back,” a waiter announces brushing his hands of the incident. “He won’t dare pull that stunt again.”

Yes he will.

I watch as the conversation returns and beer disappear down appropriate throats. The table I vacated is now occupied by three Nortes with backpacks. They order Victorias and quesillos (braided Mozzarella cheese served in a warm tortillas swimming in onions and cream) and sit back innocently while noisy hookers come out for a stroll. Hunched behind them is our beer thief himself, who is now spouting on about the glories of Sandino right there in ultra-conservative downtown Granada, trampling on nostalgia, and interrupting the colonial ambience of it all. I order another beer, ignoring his gaze but watchful, digging in for the rest of the performance.

The curtain reopens with the same sly grin, the slithered walk, the thirsty demeanor. He promenades by the terrace once more, the dirty and demented hops high jacker. He grabs a beer off the Norte table and drains it with the refined movements of a jaguar. The backpackers are stunned and in the momentary chaos he takes anarchistic license to drink another, without spilling so much as a drop. Then its the same delicate trademark return of the bottles to the table where they had been.

“Down with capitalism!” he cries as the cook and several bouncers grab him and roughly toss him into the street oblivious to freebooter traffic, jagged cobblestones and road apples. One of the burly men then punches him lightly, exhorting a muffled threat. He is gone.

Stunned, the Brits and one of the local businessmen join me at my redoubt by the kitchen. We are all now completely regaled by the heists. The tourists from Managua call it a night and the backpackers sit clutching their beers. I quietly indulge in my good fortune. I have yet to fall to these pranks. I feel cocky and worldly, bullet-proof and quite sophisticated. We order food, paella, avocado salad and fried plantains. The talk turns to the country’s turbulent past and hopeful future.

The British couple applaud me for my attentive vigil in the face of dangerous beer snatchers. The merchant does too inviting me to her shop the next day.

A traveler such as you who pays attention has nothing to worry about when visiting Nicaragua,” she smiled.

“When I am in unfamiliar terrain I try to remain alert,” I smiled back, showcasing my lunchroom Spanish and my alleged survival instincts.

“You have to appreciate the man’s persistence. There is a man who knows what he wants and how to get it,” I jive.

The conversation stopped upon further commotion in the kitchen. Moments later our beer man was hurled through the swinging doors to the floor chased by the owner and the bouncers. They were sweating and did not appear amused. He had apparently been hiding in the freezer knawing on a side of beef and breaking eggs against the side of the cooler. Despite his near strangling and his bouncing off the concrete floor he was still moving.

He looked up at me pathetically. I didn’t know what to do or think. Here’s this poor thirsty creature about to get his ass kicked who couldn’t give a damn eitherway. Sad. A tragic world…Just another day in the life…

Then with one desperate grasp he laughs and grabs my beer from the table and, despite his unfortunate horizontal posture sucked it dry.

“My beer!” I cried, as our ardent guest of dishonor was then most indignantly escorted out the front to destinations unknown. Smiles emerged as our dinner arrived.

– Kevin Haley






(Montrose) Local cattle interests say that a massive development planned for the Marmot Creek area is potentially destructive to their industry. The 3000-home subdivision is planned for what was once quality agricultural land.

Sources within the Cattlemen’s group content that with the excess building their cows will not be able to lie down/recline in the pasture anymore.

“With the limited acreage set aside for grazing our livestock will be forced to stand up 24-hours per day,” said Barb Warr, a spokesman for the group. “Do you know what that does to the breeding cycle, not to mention calving and the overall attitude of the herd?”

Dairy farmers echoed the same concern.

“Due to this rampant sprawl our animals can barely stretch out now,” said Harvey Milque, of Spring Creek Mesa. “Any more building will do us in. There is a comfort factor here that must be respected. Some of my neighbors south of Montrose barely have room for a decent garden as it is. We have enough American culture now. What we need is a little Rocky Mountain restraint. Do we really want to look like Grand Junction?”

– Mel Toole


(Montrose) Students at Columbine Middle School have discovered the existence of what teachers think is the North Pole during a seasonal field trip on the Uncompahgre Plateau. Participants, collecting rocks for a school terrarium, stumbled across small stones containing an iron ore thought to be magnetite.

“One end of the stone was obviously attracted by the earth’s north pole while the other end was attracted by the earth’s south pole. This is powerful medicine to say the least,” said one teacher.

Up until now most people believed that the North Pole was nothing more than the fictitious home of Santa Claus and that the South Pole was full of worthless penguins hanging out waiting to be eaten by polar bears or sharks. The rest thought magnetic pull was a result of witchcraft.

“Last year all we got out of the annual field trip was a field. This year we may be on our way to developing electromagnets,” said the teacher.

– Laura Borealis

House Thefts Up Nationwide

(New York) The number of houses stolen so far has risen sharply indicating a desperation on the part of the poor and the emergence of more capable thieves. For years burglars were content to break into a home and steal smaller items like jewelry, cash and weapons. Today the high tech crook sees this as small potatoes compared to taking the entire structure.

Gated communities, once thought to keep out negative elements with sticky fingers, have been particularly hard hit with some fourteen second homes ripped off so far this year (3 alone in California).

“Let’s be real here,” said one security guard working near Villa la Basura in Southern California. “If a thief has it on his mind to haul off a house no gate is going to stop him. For what we are paid I can’t see any in the brotherhood of security personnel sticking out his neck to save some rich person’s property.”

One would think that the authorities might have some success catching robbers with an entire house in their possession.

“The police have made some arrests but most of these thefts occur late at night after everyone has gone to bed,” said one police spokesman. “The best advice is to stay home with your rifle handy. These low life types are looking for easy targets and will generally back off when confronted.”

     Some security experts go so far as to propose mining a property so as to deprive the thief of access. Attempts to booby-trap foundations or dredge extensive moats have proved disastrous.

The sad scenario of house theft often follows a basic pattern with thieves hauling it off to a secluded spot where the spoils are then divided up at leisure.

“They take everything,” said one Colorado man whose house disappeared back in December. “All we have left is a lot. They even took the dog.”

– Small Mouth Bess


“Get there first with the most men.”

– Nathan Bedford Forrest, Confederate army general (1821-1877)


(Toronto) The National Hockey League today announced that it would go ahead with plans to sell bulk ice this winter if budget problems continue. While most of the sales would take place in Canada, there would be extensive exports of the frozen water to the United States and Mexico as well.

A spokesman for the league told The Horseshoe that most of the ice now in place in rinks from Los Angeles to Montreal would be either placed on the auctioning block or sold outright as an often temporary  cooling agent. This action, of course, will only be implemented after the Play-offs in June.

“If these ragged players think they’re going to blackmail the NHL they have another think coming, heh?” said Lonnie LaBatt of the league front office. “They have accused us of siding with the owners! Can you believe the gall? Just because the owners created the league, gave us our jobs and write our paychecks…heh…do they think we can be bought?”

Meanwhile a player’s association source said that most of the executives attached to the game ought to show their true colors by cutting back on the talk and providing some action. He suggests that each franchise field a team comprised of owners, PR men, dysfunctional vice presidents and security personnel. This squad would then face actual NHL players in a knock down, drag out winner-take-all hockey game.

“We’d love it,” drooled Red McKoone, a rookie defenseman for the Detroit Redwings who is credited with collecting over 30 ears during minor league matches in and around Saskatoon since 1992.

Getting back to the ice sales, one executive explained that ice is a renewable resource and that it may as well pay its own way.

“If we turn off the cooling systems during a work stoppage we will inherit a pool of water,” he gestured. “If we pay to keep the stuff frozen we lose money. But if we break it up, bag it, and sell it through convenience stores and groceries we could make a killing. Imagine buying genuine NHL ice!” he shouted. “Why would anyone want anything else!”

A Western Colorado test market has reportedly been arranged for the experimental sales of the ice. Outlets in Parlin, Placerville, Colona, Austin, Whitewater, Maybelle, Bedrock, Sargents, Cahone and Rico should be receiving the new product by Wednesday. Smaller market areas should be included in the sales zone by Thanksgiving.

– Manfred Dille

Depressants Hailed as Miracle Drug

(Trenchtown) The ever-vigil pharmaceutical industry has taken aim at counteracting the affects of too often employed anti-depressant drug therapy. A breakthrough pill, dubbed the depressant, has been heralded as the antidote for people who are getting too high, and feeling too good on anti-depressant medications.

Considering the high percentage of people currently ingesting happy pills, the depressant formula should provide a stopgap remedy for false happiness. It also represents major profits for the manufacturer.

A stark black capsule, aimed at neutralizing the effects of the first medication would replace the bright, shiny blue or yellow anti-depressant pill. Experts say the benefits could be seen immediately.

Research on the depressant has been ongoing due to the increase in anti-depressant use and the perceived need to bring the patient back to normal before real therapy can run its course. It has been conducted in secret so as not to alarm the pill popping public.

“In 90% of our test cases we have found that the new drug works great,” said one researcher. “How can we expect people to achieve true happiness when they are popping attitude adjustment bombers every day? After a few weeks they have lost all that is instinctual. They don’t know how to react to the positives and negatives of daily life.”

One source told The Horseshoe that a pill to create temporary normalization had not been approved but was available various different colored markets, including the popular black one.

An industry spokesman said the long-awaited anti-addiction pill, aimed at helping people get off medications, alcohol, television, sugar, tobacco, caffein and government is still in the works.

“We want to develop a daily popper to help our clients come down or go up depending on what drug has been prescribed,” she said. “Then we can begin the entire process again for the next batch of those who suffer from either malady. We have mastered the mood alteration technology. Now it’s just a matter of watching how it stacks up against the ledger sheet.”

– Alfalfa Romero


Malcolm Lowry

Late of the Bowery

His prose was flowery

and often glowery.

He lived nightly, and drank daily

And died playing the ukelele.

                           – Malcolm Lowry, Epitaph