Sincerest Gratitude

Thanks to all of you for your concern and support for me and Othello. You all are outstanding people for having comforted me with your thoughts, prayers and best wishes during this very difficult crisis. I am humbled by the fact that despite everything that is going on in the world lately, you all took the time to offer a don't worry he'll be back, or a we'll be thinking about you and Othello. And when the news came in, you offered your heartfelt condolences and sympathies.
I feel honored and privileged to call you all my friends.

I thank you, and my dog, now staunchly guarding St. Peter's gates, I'm sure thanks you too.

Othello - Chapter 1

When I first started dating my wife, her dog Katy had just had a big litter of pups. Katy had apparently gone outside of the fence one day and hooked up a with a black labrador. (Katy is pure Chow) So the litter was really, umm, mixed, being that Katy is caramel color and most of the pups were black.

My wife was having a heck of a time giving the pups away to good homes so I said "Ok. Bring me the smallest, scrawniest, weakest looking puppy of the litter." I figured she would probably never be able to find a home for the ugly duckling.

At the time I was living in a really beautiful apartment above a two car garage detached from the main house. My pad was great. Wood floors, french doors, central A/C, windows ererywhere. The patio downstairs had chicago brick pavers, a bar with mosaic tile tops, a jacuzzi. It was the ultimate bachelor pad. The only problem with adopting a dog was that my lease didn't allow it and that the landlord (a friend of mine that lived in the main house) had cats. But I told Maggie to bring him anyway, I would work it out.

Luckily, the day she was to bring this puppy over, the landlord was out of town so it wouldnt be such a difficult thing to sneak him in. "Bring him over," I said, "Luis is out of town."

So Maggie brings over this tiny, furry little black ball and hands him to me and the first thing he starts to do is bark. Little puppy yelping barks. Those high pitched yelps that break your heart cause you know what he is saying is "Where's momma?" with each one. He's scrawny and small, a little teetery still, but kinda cute.

"So what are you going to name him?" Maggie asks me.

Hmm. Good question. "How about "frijol" (bean)...Nah, it would have to be "frijol negro" (black bean) and that ain't gonna work. I go thru a littany of names, all appellations having to do with black cause he is so black he is almost blue. But I give up for a moment when Maggie has to leave and I decide to go to the store to buy puppy food and doggie stuff.

I get back home carrying the bags of puppy chow and cans of puppy food and milk and doggie shampoo and flea collars and flea and tick drops and chewies and rubber bones and doggie treats up the stairs, and all I hear is the yelping. Yelping yelping and more yelping. I open the door and he runs and hides under the sofa. Geez. What have I gotten myself into.So I set the bags down and as I am reaching under the sofa to coax him out I get this whiff of something unknown in my apartment. Some strange pungent-ish odor. . .Yep. You guessed it. The little black fur ball has pooped all over my wood floors.

After I clean the puppy poopie and put away all the puppy paraphenalia, I pick up the little black fur ball, drop on the couch and flip on the TV. "What am I gonna call you cabroncito?" I ask. "What do you want me to name you?" No answer.

So I sit there with the pup on my lap and start flipping thru channels on the tube when I finally get to one that's obviously in the beginning credits of a movie and I leave it on. Looks like a good one just from the credits so I ask the little nameless one if he wants me to leave it on and the damn dog looks me right in the eyes, smells me, and licks my nose. Heh. Puppy breath.

Name of the movie?

"Othello." The Moor.

My Dog

Still havent found him. I'm way past worried. Flyers go up tonight.
Here's one of the photos I took of Othello on Sunday:

UPDATE: Thanx to you all for your prayers and support. Hopefully Othello is just sowing his wild oats somewhere and will be back home soon. My other dog, Katy, is Othello's mom, she's 17 years old. Since Othello's been gone, she hasnt eaten and all she does is mope around all day. He is probably the only thing that has been keeping her with us.

UPDATE: Unfortunately, I've been told Othello was in fact hit by a car and that he will no longer be able to bother me with his obnoxious barking. Descansa en paz Papo.

Why I Love the Net, Reason 165a:

Sleazy pictures of hot babes. 'Nuff said.

School Segregation

Michele of A Small Victory hits the nail on the head in regards to the new gay high school in NYC. I thought I was alone in my thinking, but I was wrong.

My Dog

Yesterday when I finished my chores, I sat out back at Man Camp, popped open a cold one and started to drown a few worms. While Im out there fishing, Othello, my dog, was there helping me. Watching the water in case some ominous creature came up through the ripples and attacked me. He looked awesome. A beautiful dog. Proud. Loyal. Super smart. The prototypical Alpha dog.

I'm looking at him and I think Man, I haven't photographed him in a long time. So I go and get the Nikon and sneak back and throughout the afternoon I take a roll and a half of pictures of my dog.

Today, I get a call at the office from my neighbor saying that Othello was out passed 107th Avenue (a very busy street nearby). Apparently, Othello jumped into the canal out back and swam across. (It's a good hundred feet to the other side.) Thru the phone I hear my neighbor calling him and coaxing him to follow. And he does, all the way home and into the yard. Whew! I thought. Thank God.

I get home about an hour later and Othello is nowhere to be found. I've been searching all over for hours and nothing and it's killing me. I pray to God he is alive. I hope he is just hanging out with some dog babe that's in heat and that he will be back soon. Very spent, a little hungry and with a little extra spring in his step.

Come home Othello. Please. Your water bowl is fresh and I have some leftovers for you.

Monday Monday

Kelley's been busy over at Suburban Blight putting together a veritable cornucopia of blogorama. Drop on by and enjoy,

Celebration in Cuba

Here's how it goes:

The comite house in the neighborhood recieves a box of cuban flags and is told to hand them out with a smirk and a wink. So this person knocks on you door, hands you the flag and says:

"Here's your flag for the celebration on Saturday. You must bring it with you to the spectacle. You must wave it. You must chant. You must applaud in approval when cued. . . .Or else."

The Castro regime loves to show to the world it's rallies with seemingly all the Cubans completely enthralled and content. The reality of it is that not everyone at those rallies gives a rat's ass about Castro or the rally. They are simply there so they can continue to get their rations card every month. So they can keep whatever shitty job the regime has allowed them to have. So that the government wont take their lack of revolutionary zeal out on their family.

What a disturbing joke.

The Castro Croaking Contest

Okay, I was going to do this once my blog had a bit more traffic, but something (wishful thinking) tells me I need to do it now.

Since there are many preparations to be made for the incredibly tremendously stupendous BASH that I will throw when this happens, I need to have a date to aim for. There's flags to hang, kegs of beer to order, fireworks shows to set up. I need to order a pig for roasting, my mom needs time to prepare her famous frijoles negros, cases of rum have to be brought in. Time is needed to set up the bandstand and line up the acts, and the dancefloor has to be installed. Candles will need to be lit for los difuntos, those that died without ever seeing a free Cuba. I need to get lots of Kleenex boxes. Tons of Kleenex. Lots and lots and lots of Kleenex as on that day, many many tears will be shed. Tears of pain, tears of joy. Tears, tears and more tears.

So, I want to know, and I need your input here, when will the bearded one kick the bucket? On what day, exactly, do you think Castro will die?

The winner will receive a box of Cuban cigars. Good Cuban cigars. And Kleenex, lots and lots of Kleenex.

UPDATE: The following dates are already taken:

July 4, 2004
2005, The Latin Grammy's (TBA)
May 31, 2004
May 5, 2004
November 21, 2003
April 17, 2004

Won Ton Soup In Cuba

The Cuban and Chinese governments have come to an agreement on how and what Chinese groups will be allowed to travel to Cuba.

Which Chinese citizens do you think will have the benefit of being tourists? The common population? Or will it be the government elite?

Ooops, I forget, everyone is equal in communist China. And, if I recall correctly, everyone is equal in communist Cuba, unless you are a tourist.

Reporters Without Borders

There has been a great deal of backlash at the media lately, with reporters slanting their articles to suit their agenda, or asking completely inane questions in an effort to discredit people. But, as with everything in life, there is another side. In this article by Granma International, Fidel's media outlet, we see the perfect example of this.

This slanted report in Granma deals with the Reporters Without Borders organization that has just lost its accreditation with the UN simply for condeming the appointment of Lybia to chair the UN Human Rights Commision. Note the only three countries named in the article, those bastions of freedom: China, Lybia and Cuba.

Of course, the agenda for the ostracized reporters is to bring to light certain humanitarian issues that no other media outlet seems to take seriously, unless, of course, these outlets can pin the blame on the US. So, basically, if you are a reporter, feel free to slander and demean and discredit the US and her allies, but stay away from the leftists lest your credentials be revoked. Seems the Human Rights Commision is following Castro's guidelines for foreign reporters: Print what we say and not what we do, or, get the hell out.

Luceeee, Chu have some leenking to do...

Tapas from El Blogosphero, so sit back, pour yourself a good vino tinto, and enjoy. Buen provecho.

Kelley takes on the pols, spin doctors and the media in general.

Over at his headquarters, Sgt. Hook gives us his name, rank and serial number.

Da Goddess set us up on an IV of the Vanities over at her BlogHospital. No need for insurance information.

As always, Dean Esmay has provided us with a full course meal of food for thought.

Serenity is a bit teed at the media, and with good reason.

Just when you thought it was fire and brimstone time, David un-sketches the strain and blesses us with the little things.

There's a few Dems going off the deep end over at stars and stripes.

Then there's this interesting dish served over at Too Much to Dream. Tapas sans wingnuts. Yummm.

And you're gonna like the Aussie BBQ cooked up over on the Left Coast.

A Little More to the Right has a good link to a piece that wont pardon its French.

And of course, in a shameless bit of self promotion, i'm giving away a box of good Cuban cigars, if, you can name the day Cuba's future begins.

For dessert, Rachel Lucas serves up the scoop on a scoop of well, I won't say his name lest I ruin your appetite.

Man, I love Tapas...a little bit of everything makes for a good meal.

Cubans love their Chevys

This really speaks for itself. It's amazing what people will do to flee tyranny.

Disturbing email.

I wake up on a Sunday morning and head straight to the computer. I click on the email program and see the folowing message mixed in their with some spam.
To say the least, I am confused I would get this and also a bit mortyfied.

Here is the text of the email:

Islamic Convention
ATTEND THE CONVENTION AND STAY FOR LESS THAN $100 A DAY INCLUDING TAX AND PARKING!

The Ramada Plaza Chicago North Shore Chicago welcomes attendees of the Islamic Convention

August 29-Sep 1, 2003

· Rate of $99.64 including tax, FREE shuttle and FREE full American breakfast buffet!* The Ramada Chicago North Shore is located 5 minutes from Chicago’s most famous Muslim Restaurants on Devon Avenue. Featuring Zabiha Meat, International Market Place Grocery, Jewelry and Clothing Stores. The Heart of Chicago’s Muslim Community!

· FREE Parking

· Indoor Pool, Jacuzzi, Sauna and Fitness Room

· Press Box Sports bar and Seagars Cigar bar on premises

· TJ’s Steak and Seafood House

· Free Hi-Speed Internet Access for Laptops

· Rated #3 Radisson for Customer Service

To Make your reservations call 847-677-1234 and ask for Reservations. For further information ask for Donald Bae at ext. 6880

Ramada Plaza Chicago North Shore
4500 W. Touhy, Lincolnwood IL 60712

*Limit of two free breakfast coupons per room. If you received this message in error we apologize. Please reply with “Remove” in the subject line.

Celia de la Caridad

As I write this, tens of thousands of people from all over Miami are in line under the blazing sun to pay their last respects to Celia Cruz. Flags are waving from all over the world. Cuba, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, Mexico, the US. Everywhere.

What an incredible tribute to an incredible woman. She touched so many lives with her music.

Celia, si me oyes, llevate a el barbudo en camino.

Update: Over 150, 000 people stood in line for as long as 6 hours for a brief glimpse of La Reina de la Salsa. Celia was and shall be an Icon of the Cuban and Latin American community. Never before has anything the likes of her service been seen in Miami. And Celia, para ti:

AZUCAR!!!!

Update: Check the story out here.

Our Armed Forces KICK ASS

Wanna know why the United States Armed Forces are by far the best in the world? Drop by sgt hook's HQ and read this.

Want freedom? It's gonna cost you.

Say you live on an island where you have nothing, can't say anything, aren't allowed to read what you want, aren't allowed direct contact with the outside world, aren't allowed to go everywhere and anywhere in your own country, are persecuted for having religious beliefs, etc.. What would you do? Would you try to get the hell out of there by whatever means possible?
Well then, you may get to leave the island, but not necessarily how you thought.

What? Don't like the stew?

If the Cuban Dichotomy stew over at Dean's World isn't tasty enough for you, then why don't you try the Communisn Cigars we're smoking over there.

Cooking with Dean

Dean of Dean's World is cooking up an interesting stew with the dichotomy that is Cuba. Come on over and bring your spoon, the stirring is fine.

Che Guevara on Cambell's Soup Cans????

Right Thinking from the Left Coast has this interesting tidbit about the left's poster boy Che Guevara. Seems the famous photo of his face is selling, selling, selling.

I love capitalism. Moreover, I love IRONY in capitalism.

FUCK FIDEL!!!!

Just feels so damn good to say that.

Also:

Fidel, me cago en el recontracoño de tu madre.

Please feel free add your two cents.

La Sonora Matancera

Celia Cruz is dead. I can't write as I am too emotional. Cuba and the world has lost one of our brightest stars.

Descansa en paz Celia. Te adoramos siempre.

Update: Celia is dead and all she wanted in her life was to be able to sing in a free Cuba.
And the bearded bastard is still alive, still grinding his people down.

FUCK YOU FIDEL.

Update: Here she is.

La Cubanita

I wrote the following piece of fiction a few years back. It's a bit on the long side, but a quick read, albeit with a slangy voice. Don't worry about the bits of spanish, they're only there for spice, and, read it as fast as you can.

"La Cubanita", by Valentin Prieto

David, the bartender, slides forward my Black-with-a-splash and Rick's Absolut-and-orange and swipes my twenty from the bar. "Thanks, Dave." I wave him off. "Keep it."

"Oye, por fin y el bote que?" Rick's voice barely penetrates the thumping from the speakers when he asks about my boat.

I hand Rick his drink. "Purring like a kitten. I took it to this guy in . . .ѯ! Wow! . . Incoming. . . Lime green dress . . . Your seven."

Rick takes a sip, steps back small with his left foot and slow and casual turns his head. He looks back at me, eyes opened wide, eyebrows raised. The girl in the lime green dress strolls right by us, coquetona, as if she doesn't know we're looking at her and doesn't know we know she's ignoring us.

She passes us and Rick gets the better view. "Saw her some place on Ocean Drive not too long ago," he says. "Con un viejo verde. Un sugar daddy."

"Forget about that then. In half an hour you won't even be able to walk around in this place." I sip my Black, "Last week I swore I?d never come back."

"Ay no jodas." Rick is stirring his drink and giving me his yeah-right face when his eyes turn into golf balls again, "Two-o'clock quick."

"Yours or mine?"

"Mine."

I spin on my heels, the girl's looking right at me. I smile at Rick, "Snagged."

"She smiled. Why'd you swear you weren't coming back here? Se te pego algun chicle? Another Fatal Attraction?"

"I'm just tired of . . ." Rick's cellphone interrupts me. The music's too loud for him to take his call so he goes outside. I was about to tell him that I'm sick of this scene. That I've never found anything worthwhile here. It's the same thing week in, week out. People parading their wares. It's a little sad really.

Rick comes back, takes a swig of the Absolut he left me guarding. "So, what were we talking about? You were saying something."

"I was trying to tell you that this shit's getting old, you know?"

"You're getting old."

"Seriously. What do we get from all of this, a piece of ass? Is that what we come here for every week?"

"What's wrong with you, man?" Rick nudges me and points to the door. "That's what we come here for every week."

A girl in a white dress comes in. She looks a little lost. Timid. Definitely doesn't belong here. I'm thinking she's going to get devoured. If I were into it I?d do my knight-in-shining-armor routine and rescue the fair maiden. But not today. I get close to Rick?s ear: "Besides, man, I spend a lot of money here." Not a lie but not the real reason.

"Tell me about it. I met this chick here a couple of weeks ago, ended up spending almost four beans." He raises his glass at me in question.

I nod, "Black con agua."

Rick and I have been doing this for years. Friday Happy Hour at The-In-Place-To-Be-This-Week. We have a pretty good time usually. We do OK with the ladies. He goes his way, I go mine. Sometimes we meet up, two or three A.M., table for four at La Carreta. We usually let the girls introduce themselves, it's better to be rude and stay quiet if you don't recall their names.

Rick comes back with two fresh drinks, taps me on the arm with his elbow and hands me my Black.

"Listen, don't even turn around," I tell him. "They're checking you out."

"Esta buena? Is she hot?"

"Let's just say she doesn't miss many meals. Tiene buen apetito. A really good appetite." Rick winces.

"I bet she's got a plate in front of her," he says. It's true, happy hour cheese.

There's a moment of silence between Rick and I. Radar time. Our opportunity to scan the place, make eye contact with some girl we'll forget about sooner or later. I don't. I really don't want to be here. But then, where else is there to go? If I stayed home I?d be climbing walls. I used to like this scene, but lately it seems that everywhere I go it's the same shit. Same faces, different places. It dulls.

Guys always walk in, make their way to the bar trolling with self-importance as bait, order a drink, make small talk and wait for a bite. The conversations go from business to women to football to women to fishing to women to whatever to women. It's always the same. Anything that's worth saying is said before walking in. Women do the same, I presume.

"What ever happened to that girl you met at South Beach that night? . . . What was her name?"

"Evelyn?"

"Yeah, Evelyn. What happened with her? Co񯦬t;, bro. That was incredible."

"High maintenance," I tell him, "champagne taste was too much for my Budweiser wallet." He tells me I should have gotten a 'par-taine', says she was worth getting a second job for. I ask myself how far I'm actually willing to go for a nice piece. I've traveled a lot. It's time for me to make my way back home. I want to feel the way you feel after getting home from vacation. Relaxed. Spent. Ready for the routine again.

But this is routine Miami. I go from club-of-the-week to club-of-the-week, bouncing from girl to girl like one of those little rubber balls you'd buy for a quarter from a machine at the supermarket when you were a kid. My uncle calls me the Love Tourist, says I've been to Colombia on Thursday, Ecuador on Friday and spent Saturday in Argentina without ever leaving the city. And it's true. They're all wonderful girls, too. Attractive. Sexy. Passionate. But I never wanted to leave Cuba. It's where I've always wanted to be. The problem is most of these Miami Cuban girls have a self-imposed bloqueo. A social embargo.

"Oye, broder, look at what you're missing." Rick points out a trio wiggling by the steps to the dancefloor.

"Cuidado," I say. "Spandex causes road rash."

He gives them the cool eye while drinking from his glass with a chic pinky. "What I need now," he says, "is some Chirino. . .Lo que esta pa' ti; . . ." He tries to do a little salsa step but it's hard to keep Chirino's beat when you're up to your ears in merengue.

"Where do you think they're from?"

"Who cares, bro." He points at them again with his eyebrows, "Look at those pipes."

He's right, they're nice but I'm out of alcohol. I ask Rick if he wants another one.

"Con cranberri esta vez."

I go back to David who's super busy but sees me with dollar sign irises. He holds up two fingers, I nod, "Make the Absolut with cranberry this time." By now David's always getting barraged with orders so I light a cigarette and reach behind a white dress for an ashtray from the bar. My forearm topples the girl's fluted drink. She steps back, looks for yellow on her dress. There's none.

"I'm sorry,? I say. ?Let me get you a new one." She looks up. It's the timid fair maiden.

She says nothing and looks pissed. Cubana, I think, it's in the eyes. "You should be more careful," she says. Attitude. Definitely Cuban.

I tell her I'm not having a good day. David puts my drinks on the bar and wipes up the one I spilled with his trusty towel. I catch his eye and tilt my head towards the girl. Mimosa? he asks me. I nod.

I turn back to the girl, "Dave's getting you another one. I'm really sorry I did that." She apologizes for giving me the attitude. It's a new dress. Asks me if I'm leaving. I answer by showing her both drinks.

"You're not even going to toast?" She smiles. "It's the least you can do."

I put my Black down and tell her I'll be right back. "My friend gets ugly without his Absolut." She blinks approval at me.

Rick is practically drooling over the Spandex and I'm wondering if this girl I just met is going to be another one of those bloqueo Cuban girls that are more concerned with status than with meaning. Another one of my magnets. The kind that ask for the time to get a 'Rolex-check.' She's pretty. Well dressed. Primped hands. Probably is.

I hand Rick his drink, give him the signal. He OK's. "No te pierdas." He tells me he might be needing some help soon. Don't get lost.

On my way back to la Cubanita I hope she doesn't ask me what I drive. I'll just act real smug, say Pardon me?, then give her a little smirk and say a car. I should just leave now, go back over to Rick and take off to Puerto Rico or Santo Domingo or wherever it is that he's going tonight with the Spandex cruise directors. You can't get disappointed if you know what you're getting.

When I come back to the fair maiden she hands me my drink, raises her own, smiles, says "To better days." I acknowledge and wait for the usual So what do you do?

"I'm Sandra," she poses her hand, infects me with her smile. I smile back and tell her my name. Her handshake is silk.

"I hate this place," she says. "The last time I came I swore I'd never come back."

"So why are you here then?"

"It's my friend's last day at work. We're meeting here for a couple of drinks." She looks around, "I'm the first one here, I guess. I really hate this place. Mucha chusmeria. . Too many macho low lifes."

I tell her I was just telling my friend the same thing. "I'm not even sure why I'm here now." I'm starting to like this girl. Not just because I think she's Cuban and she's attractive but because she says she hates this place and I can tell she's uncomfortable here. Maybe this won?t be routine.

"It's always full of these leeches, you know? And plasticas. I'm not used to this kind of place. I wanted to go somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. The kind of place that I could just throw on a pair of jeans and go to without worrying about sharks. I feel like a piece of meat here."

Oh-oh. Where did this girl come from? She's definitely no piece of meat. "I only came because of my hormonal friend over there." I point to Rick who by now is laying it on thick.

"He looks like he's enjoying himself. Where are you from? Are you Cuban?"

"Yes," I say in perfect English. "How'd you know? Are you?"

"Ches, ain cubana." She taunts.

"Born here?"

"La Habana. And you?"

"Santiago."

"Oriente. The land of martyrs," she says, "y de los calientes."

Land of the hot blooded? Coño. I think I could fall for this one. Witty. Friendly. Down-to-earth. Sharp. Not a little Cuban girl but a Cuban woman. For some reason I picture her hanging clothes en una tendedera, with her hair in a ponytail and a clothespin in her mouth. Simple, unassuming beauty.

She sips from her Mimosa and comes closer to me, pinches a piece of string off my suit and pats the wrinkled shoulder down. I look at her hand then lock on to her eyes. She smiles, fingers my left arm down to my hand, lifts it by my pinky and says, "Do you have the time?"

Carnival of the Vanities

Carnival of the Vanities is over at Jeff's place this week: caerdroia. Lot's of good stuff this week.

Our Armed Forces

Little Green Footballs posted this picture to our armed forces.

There is nothing in the world like a US Soldier. Nothing.

What it's like to be Cuban-American - Part 1

I will post these little "insights" from time to time, so, here, without further ado, is the first:

It's the weekend. A beautiful Saturday morning, skies are blue, no clouds, and it's pretty hot. You decide to take advantage of the fact you live in Miami and you pack your cooler, grab some big, colorful towels, folding chairs and umbrella. You stop somewhere on the way for suntan lotion and sunblock. You are going to the beach!

So you get there, park your car, fill the parking meter with enough change for the day, grab all your stuff and head straight for the shore. The sand is already hot but it doesn't bother you as in a minute or two you will be frollicking in the Atlantic Ocean.

You stab your umbrella into the sand, set up the folding chairs and pause, for a second, to take in that delicious sea air. There's little kids everywhere, playing ball, making sand castles, jumping in and out of the beautiful blue-green wet stuff. All the while the waves hitting the shore is a constant song.

You open your cooler, grab a cold one, pop it open and drop into your beach chair, ready to relax.

You see a couple of kids pulling something out of the water. It's hard to tell at first what it is because of the waves. They're struggling with it even though you're pretty sure it floats. When they finally manage to get it out of the water you see that it's a piece of wood. It looks like a two-by-ten, a piece of lumber about 5 feet long. It has some ropes tied to it.

So what's your first thought when you see this?

"Geez. What if that's a piece of someone's raft?"

Compay

"Compay." My dad says that all the time. Compay. In Cuban it means friend.
"Oye, compay, como estas?"
At 95, Cuba's Compay Segundo, of the Buena Vista Social Club fame, died yesterday. Not only have we lost a brilliant musician, but a buen Compay.

If you've never heard his music, drop me a line, I'll gladly send you a tune or two.

I will gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today..

Wanna lift the embargo?..OK fine...
Want to peddle your wares over in Havana?...OK fine...
What? You have FOOD you can sell in Cuba?...OK fine...
Here's my IOU...I'll pay you back....promise.

WHY WE ARE AT WAR

Please check this post out at Serenity's Journal.

It really speaks for itself.

"Bring 'em on."

Castro, Glover, etal star in Oliver Stone's latest: Real Cubans Don't Eat Quiche

I have been asked numerous times why I think there is such an affinity towards Castro by the Hollywood crowd. To which I always want to respond "Because they are complete fucking assholes with no fucking idea of what is happening outside the lens of the camera." But, I don't, mainly because I have no friggin idea why these people would support a tyrant like Castro.

I mean, most of the Hollywood Castro supporters are leftists which supposedly stand for things such as:

Human rights
Freedom of Speech
Civil Rights

etcetera.

Why then, would an actor like, say, Danny Glover, an African-American who, no doubt, is a follower of the teachings of Martin Luther King support a regime where MLK's words aren't even allowed to be read. It makes no sense at all to me.

Could it be that these Hollywood types are so anti-Bush that they would hop into bed with anyone who has stated a disgerard and general disdain for our President? The enemy of my enemy is my ally type of thing?

I really have no answer, but would like to know what you all think.

Separated Families

Castro's recent crackdown on dissidents has been the subject of quite a few articles and news stories lately. One reads of their plight and thinks "How sad," or "those poor people," yet, even though we understand what a terribly depressing situation these political prisoners are in, sometimes it's difficult to truly take to heart as we see only their names in print. It's not easy imagining them as real people.

The Center for a Free Cuba has a very touching photo exhibit depicting not only those encarcerated, but their loved ones on the outside, which, being Cuba, is just a bigger cell. Those faces speak volumes.

I fought a losing battle against tears while seeing this for the first time because, well, any one of those solemn people could be my mother, or father, or wife or brother.

WMD Google fun...

I'm not one to play google site search fun but, this one I thought was pretty cool.

Google search : weapons of mass destruction

click I'm feeling Lucky

enjoy...or not...

(Hat tip Nestor)

Revolutionary Oil Lamps

I was having some family and friends over for a get together the other day and went to a dollar store nearby to get some miscellaneous crap and found these really cool looking, cheapo, Made In China oil lamps for two bucks each. They look like the old railroad lamps the conductors use in all those old movies. I bought a bunch of them because I thought they would look great in Man Camp (more on Man Camp at a later date). So I set them up all over, filled them and basically waited for it to get dark to light'em up.

At the get together every one loved them. I kept patting myself on the back as I had gotten them for 2 bucks each. When it finally started to get dark, the party started thining out. Only a few people remained, including my parents. So I take my dad with me to Man Camp and help me light the lamps.

"Do you know why I was imprisoned in Cuba?" He asks me.

"Si papi, for being a counter-revolutionary, no?"

"That's what they called it," he says, "but in reality I was making oil lamps."

"Making oil lamps?"

"Si, oil lamps, Like these..well not like these shits but yes, oil lamps."

I wanted to know how in the heck he could have been imprisoned in Cuba for making oil lamps. How the heck could that be considered counter-revolutionary activity?

So, he pulled up a chair, I got him a beer and he explained it.

In the first few years of the revolution, everything was run amok. What food there was was meted out. Everyone got a little of whatever there was. Electricity worked intermittently as the utilities were taken over by Castro and the people who knew what they were doing there were either imprisoned, left the island, or were shot.

Now, my dad has been a welder since he was 13, when his older brother got an apprenticeship from a welder in town and my dad climbed up on the roof and learned by watching him learn from a skylight.

Realizing the food shortages were only going to get worse, and that the power outages were to become more frequent, my dad decided to use his skills to make things people would need and then barter them for things our family would need. He made oil lamps and gas burners.

It was not easy. First, he needed the raw materials, which he got by working for the supplier or trading food stuffs for them. Then he had to hide the materials, oil and acetylene welding tanks by burying them in the yard. All the work was done at night, and, to the dismay of my mother, in the house.

With those oil lamps he had leverage to trade for such things as eggs, milk, flour, rice... basic staples. Sometimes, he managed to get other things he didn't need, but in turn would be able to trade those for meat or poultry.

After about a year of this, a woman down the block from him who had a bunch of kids and had already gotten a few lamps from my dad for free, begged him to make her a gas burner so she could cook when there was no power. So my dad made her the burner and sent word to her that it was ready. She in turn, sent Fidel's goons which promptly took his materials, his tools and everything else and threw him in jail.

He spent almost two years in prison or cutting cane in the cane fields.

So, now, my little cheapo, Made in China, oil lamps take on a whole new meaning. And I use them all the time here in my Man Camp, in the back yard of my home here in Miami, and think, maybe, someone somewhere over there in Bayamo, Oriente, Cuba, still has one of those lamps my dad made and still depends on it to light their way.

Letter to Iran

AN OPEN LETTER IN SUPPORT OF THE PEOPLE OF IRAN FROM THE WEBLOGGING COMMUNITY

We are not politicians, nor are we generals. We hold no power to dispatch diplomats to negotiate; we can send no troops to defend those who choose to risk their lives in the cause of freedom.

What power we have is in our words, and in our thoughts. It is that strength which we offer to the people of Iran today.

Across the diverse and often contentious world of weblogs, each of us has chosen to put aside our differences and come together to declare our unanimity on the following simple principles:

- That the people of Iran are allies of free men and women everywhere in the world, and deserve to live under a government of their own choosing, which respects their own personal liberties.

- That the current Iranian regime has failed to create a free and prosperous society, and attempts to mask its own failures by repression and tyranny.

We do not presume to know what is best for the people of Iran; but we are firm in our conviction that the policies of the current government stand in the way of the Iranian people's ability to make those choices for themselves.

And so we urge our own governments to turn their attention to Iran. The leaders and diplomats of the world's democracies must be clear in their opposition to the repressive actions of the current Iranian regime, but even more importantly, must be clear in their support for the aspirations of the Iranian people.

And to the people of Iran, we say: You are not alone. We see your demonstrations in the streets; we hear of your newspapers falling to censorship; and we watch with anticipation as you join the community of the Internet in greater and greater numbers. Our hopes are with you in your struggle for freedom. We cannot and will not presume to tell you the correct path to freedom; that is for you to choose. But we look forward to the day when we can welcome your nation into the community of free societies of the world, for we know with deepest certainty that such a day will come.

We should show support for those being stifled by a repressive government every chance we get. Then maybe, just maybe, the rest of the world will begin to understand how important things like freedom of speech and expression are.

(Via Dean Esmay)