The New Finca: A New Dog, Broken Glasses, Sex Shops, and Rekindled Friendships

Readers.

I am appalled at myself for the delay in communique but work has domineered more of my leisure than it previously had.  That apology aside, let's not shit around and proceed wildly, henceforth:

(1) We've changed location to a finca on the water that has a dog.  While I like the dog a tremendous amount, on the first day whilst at work, he took advantage of my glasses and destroyed them.  Below you'll see Jack's failed attempt to put them back together.  Said dog in question also has fleas, which may or may not aiding Jack's hair to appear so peculiarly.

(2) While I typed away at the office and squinted through contracts, Frankie continued his scout with the team.  Today took him to the police station, where he modeled the following "extras."  Pictures forthcoming.

(3) It's been really amazing to reunite with my Canadian producer friend Ken.  He and I used to play squash in Cuba and partly inspired me to (try to) produce.  Last night we ate street food and drank tequila in plastic chairs on the beach.

(4) We've located the only adult toy store in Santa Marta.  Just saying.....

Hasta manana.

An Open Letter to Chris Smith - Part 2

2 November 2010

Dear Chris-

Despite our recent communique, dated 1 November 2010, I entered our fridge last night after a day of duress to cleanse my frustrations with an ice cold Aguila.  I reached into the box, and removed the first one.  Strategically, your cinematographer obviously dismissed my last missive by wrapping a release around my frosty one.   I can only imagine you that you, a man of ethics and accountability, did not authorize such an action.

Regardless, not cool.

Your genocide against trees must end.

As an aside, I need your help convincing Nora Zehetner to be in the film.  Perhaps we can discuss over that Something Special that is warranted for signature.

Kind regards,


Nicholas Shumaker
cc: Christopher Thompson

An Open Letter to Chris Smith

1 November 2010

Dear Chris,

No matter what you do you will have to personally present me with a release to obtain my signature.  Releases planted underneath my pillow, inside of my shoes, in my jacket pocket, and other clever places including in my drawers and taped to my bedroom door will not be signed and promptly shredded.  Most importantly, obtaining my signature while sleeping, as was attempted last night by your able cinematographer whose braces inflicted flesh wound seems to be mending well, will not happen (see picture below).

Your behavior is committing homicide against trees, an offense sadly not punishable by anyone besides Vice President Al Gore.

Let's save some trees knowing that I will consider signing when you come down to Colombia and we meet again, akin to Berlin, face to face over a Something Special.

Until then, I remain,


Nicholas Shumaker

santa marta--where the weather is divine, the people freindly, and the prostitutes wear braces

Hola Amigos!

We've arrived in Santa Marta.  Majestic doesn't begin to describe the place.  But, with my constrained vocabulary, it's the best jab I can get in.

As a man of few words, last night we had an incident.  The story has many tentacles, but in the interest of time and my own recollection, it'll have to contained.

Frankie, I found quickly, has a new muse.  She works at a great place called the Pink Flamingo, where all the men working wear Real Madrid jerseys and all the women working wear..  well... barely anything.

Concurrently, there's a tiny crew (one person) documenting our adventure, and without naming names said worker opted to see how well Colombians could actually dance.

After approaching a local candidate, it appeared that her prowess was indeed elevated.  After ten minutes of ecstatic gyrations (see below picture) she threw her forehead up in the air, and, purely on accident, struck said worker's on the forehead with her braces.  Yes.  Her braces.

Looking around, it became apparent that the majority of female employees at this fine establishment wore braces.  Jogging my memory more, I remembered all of the women at these places had braces.   What gives?   Some noble soul, please chime in?

Apt at surgery, Jack and I had to repair our wounded solider out in the back of the Flamingo.  Whether this will limit our nocturnal travels remains unclear.  But count this tale as cautionary.