TRICK OR TREAT!

Happy Halloween from Miami's cutest Trick or Treater!
Amanda

Creature Features

Michele wants to hear everyone's brush with the eerie and paranormal. Being that Halloween is her favorite holiday, go on over and tell her your scariest moment.

Update: Kelley's got one of her own. And it's scary....

Piedra y Rueda (Rock & Roll)

The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book of Marx
The quartet practiced in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died

American Pie - Don McLean

HAVANA, October (www.cubanet.org) - When Gorki Águila's rock band became too uncomfortable for Cuban cultural authorities, Águila found himself accused of drug trafficking and the band in need of a new leader.

That the band may have been seen as an inconvenience by the Communist Party's powers-that-be should have come as no surprise. First, there is its name: Porno for Ricardo, usually Porno for short among its young fans.

And that's problem number two: a growing following among the young in spite of its irreverent lyrics, provocative behavior, and lack of promotional support. The band's first recording went begging for a year before finding a label, in Mexico. One of the tracks tells of "a man sitting on a throne, who perpetuates himself as an executioner, promising everyone a future full of happiness."

In early April this year, cultural authorities called them to account: they had to toe the line. They would have to change the name of the band, tame down the lyrics, and their behavior at concerts.

After which, Gorki and his sidemen figured, not much would remain that anyone would want to call a rock band.

So they decided to stay the course, or maybe they didn't have time to decide. Their next gig was a concert a few days later at a rock festival in Pinar del Río, a provincial capital west of Havana. The band did its thing. Police came up with a fan who would testify Gorki had sold her "a pill."

Next stop for Gorki, the Provincial Pinar del Río Prison, maximum security, no bail. Four months later, on August 6, a quick trial. No evidence presented, none needed. Gorki will not see another stage for at least four years.

His present experience is limited to an eight-by-five-foot cell and a cellmate. He can take the sun two hours per week. No phone, no papers, no running water. His closest relatives can visit him once every three months.

Porno itself is foundering. Gorki was its composer, its arranger, its brains, its soul.

(Directly from www.cubanet.org)

You Know You're a Commie Pinko When...

..Granma International, Fidel's Party Rag, refers to you as a "distinguished U.S. political scientist" and "eminent U.S. academic."
Here we see Fidel listening intently to Noam Chomsky's "master conference entitled "Dilemmas of domination"at the 25th Assembly of the Latin American Social Science Council (CLACSO)."

PA.THE.TIC.

Some People Just Don't Get It

As I'm leaving a job site at the University of Miami this morning, there's a brand new, shiny black Mercedes in front of me with a bumper sticker that reads:

"Have you seen my Constitutional Rights?"

I didn't know whether to laugh or tell the guy I had his constitutional rights RITE HEAH!

A Letter from Fidel's Gulag

Everyone with even a modicum of interest in Cuba should read this letter from Dr. Oscar E. Biscet González, a political prisoner in Cuba.

Scott from Burton Terrace brought it to my attention the other day and I haven't posted any commentary on it because, while I agree with Biscet almost wholeheartedly, I have trouble with the last line of the letter.

Please give it a read and let me know your opinion. Seriously folks, I really do want you to comment on this.

Sacrifice

Sgt. Hook reminds us that it is not only the soldier that sacrifices his or her all for us, but their families as well.

Our thanks and condolences can never be enough to replace the love of a father or mother lost so that we may live our lives freely. It's important to teach our children just what price has been paid by so many so that our kids may snuggle, tucked under this blanket of freedom they have afforded us.

The Parade

Marlins capped little kids taking it all in from atop their Father's shoulders; three generations of women donning Marlins apparel; flags from all over Latin and South America; people from all different walks of life; from different cultures; babies in their strollers with Marlins t-shirts; endless cacophonies of "Let's Go Marlins!"; kids playing I'm Beckett and you are Pudge; it was a loud, roaring sea of white, black and teal.

That's just some of the scenes at yesterday's rally for the Marlins. It was an incredible show of support for this Florida Marlins team that at the beginning of the season was on the verge of extinction. South Florida came out and wowed the already awestruck Marlins. Tens of thousands of people taking days off or calling in sick just to be a part of the party and of their World Champion baseball team.

What a beautiful day.

Victory Parade Blogging

I will be at the Marlins Victory Parade in downtown Miami this morning. Gonna go and support my team by screaming and hollering with what's left of my voice. Hopefully, I'll have some photos for you all.

Hit the Sac Early....

...because even if it's Standard time again, there is way tooo much excellent reading to be found at Kelley's famous and unmatched link orgy, The Cul-de-Sac.

Para Mi Abuelo

The Marlins are the World Champions and I am reliving my youth, remembering every baseball game I've ever been to. Remembering my grandfather because he taught me the game. He taught me the love for the game. He taught me that baseball is alot like life.

When the Marlins won the World Series back in 1997, I was so wrought with emotion that the next morning, amid streams of tears and covered in goosebumps, with a massive celebration hangover, I wrote a piece that came word for word, word after word, straight from the heart. I am posting it here now, for him, for that incredible grandfather of mine, whom I know is smiling right now, wishing he could tell me "See, I told you so."

A Dream of Fields

I open my eyes and for a moment I don't know where I am. But then the hangover haze starts to clear and things start to fall into place. My jeans are on the floor, exactly where I tossed them last night at three a.m., my t-shirt drapes over my computer and there's a pack of cigarettes crushed under one of my shoes. My head is pounding. There's Budweiser and cheap champagne soaked cotton in my mouth and I don't know what stings more, my eyes or my throat. My alarm clock reads ten thirty-seven but I know it's actually nine twenty-five because I forgot to fall back to standard time on Saturday. None of that matters now, though, because right next to the LCD is my Marlins cap. My eyes well up again. We won the World Series.

I ooze out of bed, stumble into a pair of shorts and as I hobble out of my bedroom I pick up the Marlins cap and put it on, adjusting it like a pro, like a pitcher does before each throw, as if I'm on the mound, ready, bathed in stadium lights, on the verge of hurling the game winning strike on a full count. I pinch the bill of the cap like I've done a million times for luck. It worked because my Marlins won it all last night. They took the Show. They danced at the Dance.

Amid last night's revelry and celebration I cried like a baby. When Renteria singled up the middle in the eleventh to bring in the winning run and the bar exploded into one huge, unified, high-fiving cheer all I heard was Algun dia . . . yo posiblemente no lo llegare a ver, pero tu si. (One of these days....I might not live to see it, but you will.)

I wish I was ten again. I wish I hadn't quit little league because of the wild pitch that broke my thumb. I wish I hadn't learned so much about life or about death and had been able to learn more about baseball. I wish I knew every play, every stat, every subtle little nuance. I wish my grandfather were still here. I wish he could have seen it. I wish I could have said last night after eleven gruelling innings "See, Abuelo, you lived to see your dream."

The Herald's headline reads "CHAMPIONS!" and as I soak up every single baseball word I'm reliving my youth, my adolescence, my maturity. I have to read some things twice because my eyes are full of tears and I can't concentrate on the words in print. Peripherally I can see the bill of my cap, faded and tattered as it is, and remember the exact moment I bought it. As I read I'm a little kid at his first ballgame with his grandfather, at the inaugural Marlins game with my girlfriend years later and in Sunday night's Moet soaked locker room at the same time.

I bought my Marlins cap at the first Marlins game ever, continuing a tradition that was instilled in me by my grandfather when I was a kid, and which had left me when he died, but was resuscitated the minute the name-plated guy took his half of my Inaugural Season ticket at the turnstiles that day. Stop at the booth and buy a little something. A baseball, a pennant, a hat, a program. Hook your glove onto your belt so you don't lose it and so your hands are free to carry the hot-dog, the peanuts and the Coke with the fuzzy little things swirling around in it. The minute I emerged from the tunnel and saw the field-- serene green with the combed clay diamond and four square, white freckles spread apart like islands --I was a kid again. Ten years old and awestruck. How wonderful it is to have the wonder of a child, and to not know, to have and ask questions and wait for the responses without doubts from someone whose eyes have seen it all and hug you every time you look into them.

At that inaugural game where I bought the cap that now crowns me with pride I regressed and grew up. It felt as if Abuelo was with me, holding my hand, answering my barrage of adult-little boy questions with patience and always finding a way to teach me about life with baseball terms. Stand and hold your hand up to your heart during the National Anthem. Sing it if you know the words. It doesn't matter that you're not American. Respect is mutual. In his absence I learned to appreciate what I have and what I've had. Loss is what you make of it.

Standing in line at the concession stand that day, missing a part of the game because I like beer as much as baseball, I had a white-haired man with a belted glove boy in front of me. It was like standing in front of a temporal mirror.

"Can I get a Cherry Coke, Grandpa?"

"Of course you can."

"And a pretzel?"

"Maybe. After you eat your hot-dog."

"Do you think we're gonna win, Grandpa?"

"We got a good shot. Good line-up. Ole Charlie Hough's on the mound. He's a good knuckleballer."

"I want Conine to hit a homer. He's the best."

"He's got good eye. If he gets one in his wheelhouse it'll be a screamer."

The old man paid for their hot-dogs, the Cokes, the peanuts and the pretzels and turned to leave. Tears rivered down my cheeks. I couldn't swallow. He let the boy walk in front of him, caught my eye and asked "Are you alright, son?"

I apologized. "I haven't been to a ballgame since I was about his age," I said, my breath bouncing. "With my grandfather."

The old man smiled, patted me on the shoulder. "Baseball," he said, placing his hand atop the teal cap on the boy's head and nodding with pride, "Don't you just love it?"

My grandfather always said we'd have a major league team someday. And if he were still alive I probably wouldn't have been able to watch many Marlins games with him this season. But I know we would have shared every pitch, every strike, every call of the post season just like we used to. Abuelo the calm statistician, hardly showing any emotion, waiting for whatever call was just made to come through in Spanish from the transistor radio held up to his ear so he could log it into his blue denim baseball stat binder. Me the screamer, the hot head, superstitious to the point of turning the bill of my cap to the back when we're fielding. I'd do just like I did in the last few games I ever saw with him: buy a six-pack on my way to their apartment and split it the usual way-- one beer for him from a cup, which he'd stretch until the third or fourth inning and five beers for me before the fifth.

But it's not the beer drinking that would be important (although having a cold one with your grandfather is a pretty cool thing), it's the experience, the togetherness of rooting for the same team. It's the fact that I always came away with something after watching a baseball game with my grandfather. Baseball was his blackboard and wisdom was his chalk.

Watching a game with my grandfather when I was a kid meant lessons. Not only did I learn when and why you go to a left handed reliever or when it's the right time to steal second, but he and baseball taught me things I'll carry with me for the rest of my life. I went through Abuelo's world of baseball and learned about the world around me.

The slow tempo of the game and Abuelo's patience for it taught me patience. Mucho ojo y espera la tuya. (Good eye and wait for your pitch). I learned that sometimes in life you have to take chances. If you know the pitcher's stuff and feel you can hit it, swing at the first pitch. And how to deal with disappointment. If you swing at the first pitch and pop it up, you got no one to blame but yourself. When he told me that you should never take too much of a lead off of a base, I was too young to know that he meant for me to be prudent, to take what I can get and not push it too far.

With baseball he taught me that sometimes life is about sacrifices. There's no outs with a man on first, pop one up deep in the corner to get the runner to second. Pisa y corre. (Hit and run.) And how some things are a team effort. Bunt!

"If you win," he told me once, "shake the loser's hand. Y si pierdes, dale la mano al que te gano." (And if you lose, give the winner your hand.)

I can imagine what my conversations with Abuelo about Livan Hernandez would have been like.

"Que lastima que no le han dejado salir a la madre." (It's a shame they didn't let his mother come.)

"La vida a veces es asi, mijo. Pero despreocupate que el orgullo es algo que no conoce distancias." (Life is like that son. But don't worry, pride is something that doesn't recognize distance.)

"Abuelo, tu te imaginas como se debe sentir ese muchacho en estos momentos? Pichando en la Serie Mundial con el estadio repleto y tantas banderas cubanas?" (Can you imagine how he must feel right now? Pitching in the World Series with so many Cuban flags waving?"

"Esta muy emocionado. Tiene que tranquilizarce un poco." (He's too emotional. He needs to calm down.)

"Yo no pudiera." (I Couldn't)

"Muchacho, el que realmente debe de estar nervioso ahora es Fidelito. . .Mira pa eso, ya le ha tirado tres bolas seguidas a el tipo este que es una croqueta. Si Livan no empieza a tirar estraik lo van a sacar." ( Son, the one that should be nervous now is Fidelito... Look at that, he's pitched three staight balls to this guy thats a croqueta. If he doesn't start pitching strikes they are gonna take him out.)

"Yo no creo que lo iran a sacar ahora. Se forma el alboroto." (I don't think they could take him out now. The fans will go nuts.)

"Acuerdate que la politica es una cosa y la pelota es otra. . ." (Remember, politics is one thing and baseball is another...)

Livan pitched two winning games in the World Series without knowing that with each throw he was bringing me a little closer to my grandfather. I can imagine the pride Abuelo would have felt. Un cubanito MVP. Maybe this pride I feel is partly his.

I sat at the bar that I call home in Coral Gables and watched every single postseason game with my fellow bar flies. They know the story of my grandfather and told me similar ones of their own. Maybe they're emotionally stronger than I am for they consoled me when the Marlins lost, or when I lost it because they won and Abuelo wasn't there to see it with me. He's here with you, they said. And they were right, he's always with me. But just to make sure that he didn't miss a single play, I took his picture with me. Placed it upright on the bar facing the television. He's here for luck, I said.

And when the Marlins were down by a couple of runs or in a jam, my friends would come over and talk to his picture. Vamos viejo, we need your help here. That's what happened in the eleventh inning of game seven. And that's just like my grandfather, too, anything for his team.

And he was here again last night, six years later, in a new century, and rallied his team.

Congratulations, Marlins! (Amanda)

Amazing, simply amazing!

The city won't be sleeping tonight. Once the game was over, and we were done jumping up and down and high-fiving everyone in the house about 10 times, we all headed out onto the streets, to go to La Carreta (Cuban restaurant, very popular here in Miami). It took us an hour and a half to advance 15 blocks, but we didn't care!! We just keeped inching our way along, honking at all the cars around us, waving our Marlins paraphernalia, hanging out of windows and sunroofs. We couldn't reach the restaurant, some of the streets were being blocked off, so we decided to turn around and head home. There were now double the cars looking for a spot to celebrate.

Brandon had been sleeping since the 8th inning. He woke up during the city's impromptu tail gate, looked around, looked strangely at Eric and I, and went right back to sleep. He has no idea what just happened, but someday he will hear the story of how the Marlins won their second World Series during his ninth month of life, and know that he was a small, yet very important part of the celebration.

Congratulations, Marlins, we knew you could do it. To Josh, Jeff, Pudge, Alex, Luis, Miguel, Juan P., Juan E., Mike, Derrek, and Jack, thank you for lighting up our city tonight. Come home safely.

And thank you, Abuelo, for making it happen.

Gracias Primo!

GANAMOS!!!!!!!

I wish I would have been at the Marlins game...

..not only to see my favorite team play against the almighty Yankees. But to have the opportunity to verbally educate Mr. Danny "I Love Castro" Glover, who was in the stands, on the reality of Cuba's situation. What a complete and total fucking asshole he is. Not only for signing a letter backing Castro, but for having the non-chalance and gall to actually come to Miami and be seen in public.

Had my seats been anywhere near him, I'm afraid I'd probably be blogging from jail.

Fuck Fidel and Fuck Glover and Fuck Belafonte and Fuck every single one of those self-serving idiots that signed that letter.

Finally, A quiz Close to Heart

Which beer are you?

Guinness. My goodness my guinness. You are dark and
mysterious. There is something people just
can't describe about you, besides that you love
head. You are a good one, but can only be
handled by a small percentage of the population
(unless you're in Ireland).


Which Beer are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

I am Dieter! (Amanda)

Which SNL character are you?

The Other Fish - Part V

I haven't mentioned that the Florida Marlins are one game away from winning the World Series because I don't want to jinx it, so I won't.

It's time for Bush to whip out the Veto pen

I'm am sorry to all of those that believe you have the right, as Americans, to travel to Cuba. Because, of course, as Americans, you do have the right to travel freely. But, how do you think a Cuban would feel, having you come to their country and stay in a hotel or go to a beach that he himself isn't allowed to go to?

And when you pay for that hotel, how much do you think goes into the pockets, in dollars, of the Cubans employed there? Wouldn't travelling to Cuba, given the fact that it's people are not only poor, but oppressed, devoid of freedom and voices, be a totally Old European thing to do?

Seems Congress wants to lift the travel to Cuba ban, and the only way it won't be lifted is through the veto powers of the presidency. Heh.

Well, If Bush wants to carry Florida, there better be ink in the pen.

Non-Fiction: "Old News Is Good News"

I've been thinking about my grandparents alot lately and I thought I'd post this piece I wrote a few years back because it deals with one of the times in my life where I saw them everyday. I realized, after they had passed, what an incredible gift that was.

"Old News Is Good News"

I delivered yesterday's news in tomorrow's newspaper, at least, that's what they mockingly called the Diario de las Americas. It was a morning newspaper printed in the afternoon which meant that the newspaper was predated and its contents outdated. It was my first steady, paying job. I was sixteen, skinny and pimple faced, and had just finished a three year stint at Citrus Grove Junior High. I was now ready for the big-time, high school, and needed money, my ten-dollar-a-week allowance was not going to cut it.

I had applied for various jobs before landing the delivery boy position. There was the ice cream shop where I was told I was too young and inexperienced, "Scooping," the manager said, "is a science." I also applied at a record store but was told my rock-and-roll was a thing of the past, that Disco was king. Well, I was macho enough to refuse to peddle the Village People. And the guy that interviewed me at the lumber yard grinned, asked me if my bony arms could actually pick up a two-by-four. I was certainly not going to work with my father, I grew up going to his machine shop, being a go-for; go for this; go for that; go for beer; and never got paid. No, I was now starting high school and I required a certain independence.

Delivering the Diario was a pretty cool job; I was outdoors, the hours were good and best of all I didn't have to worry about any bosses looking over my shoulder. Unlike my best friend Frank, who delivered the Miami News, I didn't have to get up at 5:30 in the morning, rain or shine, to fold newspapers, stuff them in plastic bags, load up my bike and pedal around my neighborhood while the sun was coming up. No. That was not for me. I landed a job in the upper echelon of newspaper delivery, I dispensed bundles to stores, by car.

That was the only problem. I had to drive from store to store but I didn't have a license, not even a restricted one. How that little bit of information got past the guy that hired me was beyond me. I was just happy that I had my first minimum wage employment. Plus, they paid for gas. As far as the car was concerned, I had the 'Blue Ghost', a 1970 Blue Chevy Malibu that my dad had gotten as payment for a job.

My father had told me the Blue Ghost was mine, "You can use it to go to school." I thanked him but neglected to tell him that I would not be caught dead in that car. Not that it wasn't fast, with the 8 cylinder 305 it peeled out for half a block every time I floored it from stop. But apart from the fact that it was old and the paint was chalking, thus the term 'Ghost', it was a four-door. Now, being scrawny, acne-ridden and driving a four door in high school was almost the equivalent of wearing plaid highwaters, a white perma-press, short-sleeved shirt buttoned to the top complete with pocket protector, assortment of pens and slide rule, plus Coke-bottle-bottom glasses taped in the middle. I was nerdy enough without the old jalopy. I even had a contingency plan worked out to park three blocks away if I got to high school and hadn't been able to buy that '73 VW convertible I wanted. But to deliver newspapers, especially in the neighborhood that I had to deliver them, the Blue Ghost was perfect.

My delivery area was Overtown and Liberty City. They were not the best of neighborhoods. The guy whose route I inherited was a toothpick-chewing, stained t-shirt wearing porcine mammal named Carlos. The hair from his armpits was long and stuck to the fat bulging out from where he'd cut the sleeves off his shirt. I rode with him in his rusting, litter and stale french-fry laden Pacer my first two weeks on the job. On my first day, I don't know what worried me more, the fact that I was going into Overtown, or the fact that I actually had to sit in his car. But if you dismissed the fact that Carlos was a rotund, wheezing chain smoker with the IQ of lint, he was an OK guy. Those first two weeks I felt pretty safe in those neighborhoods because nobody in their right mind would get anywhere near this guy, unless it was a life or death situation and even then it was something to think about.

The job consisted of lining up at the newspaper's printing and distribution warehouse, waiting for the stacks to come out, then loading up and embarking on another wondrous and sometimes perilous journey in the world of newspaper delivery. My route was sinuous and took me through areas that I had never been exposed to except on TV shows like Starsky and Hutch or Hill Street Blues. There were tenements, abandoned buildings, vacant lots with stripped down cars, places that were often scary and sometimes sad. I got dirty looks or was looked upon with a kind of bewilderment because here was this skinny white boy, driving around in a beat-up car by himself in predominantly black neighborhoods. I wondered if some of the stores I delivered to actually sold any of my newspapers.

Some streets were lined with failed, boarded-up businesses, their signs fading or covered with graffiti. And everyday I drove past the shell of the tire store that had been set ablaze during a riot, scorched block walls was all that remained. It still smelled of burnt rubber. At the end of this one street cutting through project housing there was always a group of four or five young black guys, hanging out, drinking beer and selling nickel bags. One time one of those guys came up to me and asked me how much I wanted. I told him I didn't want anything, "I'm just delivering newspapers."

"Well, gimme your money!" he pulled out a knife. Trembling, and whiter than ever before I showed him my empty wallet. I was afraid to even look at his face.

"Aww, man...Then gimme that Snickers bar," he pointed to a Snickers bar on my dashboard that Carmen from the previous store had given me. I gave it to him. From then on I gave him my Snickers bar everyday. After a while he told me his name was Clisby Darby, and he became like my guardian, always told everyone to leave me alone, to let me go about my business. Every once in a while I bought him some Wise Barbecue chips, the ones he liked, for when he got the munchies.

Clisby Darby unknowingly taught me to take people for how they treat you. To not worry about the color of their skin or the neighborhood they live in or the amount of money they have. And even though he might have been selling drugs or mugging people, the fact that Clisby watched out for me and became a kind of friend showed me that there is some good in all people, even the ones you don't expect it from. Those were things I'd never thought about before. Most of the people I met while delivering the Diario were much nicer than I'd imagined.

At my second to last stop, the Liberty Point supermarket, there was always an old black man sitting by the front door on one of those late sixties era dining room table chairs with a starburst pattern. The chair, like the old man was worn and rickety from the years. He had one gold tooth and no others. He never told me his name but he was always smiling, showing off probably what he considered his only valuable possession.

"What newspaper is that?" he asked one day.

"Diario las Americas," I said, "yesterday's news in tomorrow's newspaper."

"Spanish, huh?"

I nodded.

"How you say what you just say in Spanish?"

"El periodico de mañana con las noticias de ayer." He tried to repeat it and I laughed, told him that he needed to work on his Spanish.

Every day after that when he saw me coming he tried to say it as he held the door open for me and my bundles. Some days he did better than others. When he finally got it right, "El pearyodeco de mañana con la noeteeceeaz day ayair," I shook his hand, congratulated him and bought him a Shlitz Malt Liquor Bull. Sat next to him for a while drinking my Coke. He had a pretty hard life he told me, "..but you ain't never see me frownin'." He said frowning and complaining never did anyone any good. He was a nice man, called me Dario Boy. I'd say "Deeario" and he'd say "That's what I said, Dario."

I was also able to see my grandparents everyday. I had rearranged my route so the last stop was a pharmacy five minutes from their apartment. I always sneaked a paper from one of the bundles for them. My grandfather loved the Diario, even though it was yesterday's news and he'd probably been watching all the latest news on TV. Still, he boasted to his friends or the check-out girls he always flirted with or anyone else that would listen that he would get his Diario delivered personally, hot off the presses, by his grandson.

Before I got to their apartment, I removed the Society section for my grandmother. She didn't like to wait for grandfather to finish and was always unhappy with the condition he left the paper in. If I had time, I'd peruse the crossword and fill in one or two answers incorrectly to rattle my grandfather, it was his favorite feature. I hid his Sports section in my back pocket a couple of times, but he caught on and kissed me hello then peeked at my pocket with his trademark smirk.

Best of all, when I arrived at their apartment, no matter how my day had been, whether I'd gotten a flat or been chased by dogs or mugged at knife point, I knew that here was a constant in my life. That my grandfather would always have on his Guayabera, smelling of English Leather and that my grandmother would be sitting in her rocker fiddling with a paper towel or a napkin in her fingers listening to her soap operas on the radio. Their smiles were always welcoming. Here I would always have a home.

And when I knocked on their door everyday, whether it was two o'clock or five, I was sure to hear my grandfather's muffled voice saying "Who is it? You or your brother?"

I always laughingly said "My brother."

He always let me in with a proud grin and a nod. And to this day I don't know how they did it, but my café con leche was always ready for me, fresh and hot.

What a game! (Amanda)

Eric (my husband) and I were lucky enough to get tickets on Tuesday afternoon for last night's game, and what a game it was!! I can't find the words to describe the energy in that stadium. 65,934 baseball fans were there, not Marlins and Yankees fans, Baseball Fans. When Roger Clemens pitched that last strike, it was magic. The entire stadium lit up from camera flashes. And everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, stood up to see him off. We witnessed history, and it is a game that no one who was there will ever forget.

It was a tough game. I will be honest, things looked a litttle grim during the ninth inning when the Yankees tied the game with two runs, but when Alex Gonzalez hit that homer in the bottom of the 12th, the stadium roared. We still believe, Marlins, and we'll keep on believing.
GO FISH!

Operation Give PSA

We interrupt this blog to bring you a Public Service Announcement. Please visit Operation Give and give us a hand at sending toys and school supplies to the children of Iraq.

The Iraqi children have lived under a repressive regime their entire lives, perhaps maybe even taught that we Americans are the devil incarnate. So, if you have any used toys in good condition stuffed in an attic, or baby clothes, or childrens clothes or want to send new toys or perhaps looking to do your part in helping the Iraqi people, here's the perfect answer. Let's show them that we really do care.

If you can't send cash and have no toys to send, maybe you can spare a few hours volunteering or starting a collection. Every little bit helps.

National League Champs Part. 2

This and this is for all you non-believers.
GO FISH!

Dave Barry

Dave Barry has a blog.
I had no idea.

The National League Champs

With the outcome of the World Series still up for grabs, I just want to state that, whether the Marlins win or lose, I am extremely proud to be one of their fans. This Marlins team has shown the courage and determination of champions and are deserving of much praise.

This is not to say that, with the series at 2-1 Yankees, I have given up hope. Quite the contrary, I will hang on every pitch, every swing, every crack of the bat until the last out is played. The Marlins have come back from adversity many a time this season and I truly believe they are capable of taking it all.

GO MARLINS!!!!!!!!

Five Hundred Comments

Just a quick note to thank all of you that have read and commented on Babalu Blog. I just reached the 500 comment mark, a small milestone yes, but a milestone nonetheless. Thanx guys!

El Papa

I was surprised when Patty, a frequent reader and commentor, emailed me with this link on the choices for the next Pope. Now, given the reports on the Pope's flailing health lately, I didn't think it was appropriate to post such a story, but I found 2 things that made it interesting. First, it's from Slate, which I hate because they are, in my opinion, the epitomy of lefty media. Second, there's a Cuban on the list of possibles.

Jaime Lucas Ortega y Alamino
Country: Cuba
Age: 66
Assets: Communist country. Hispanic.
Liabilities: Communism no longer a problem.

Picking a pope from a Communist country worked well last time, so why not try again? Alamino has the advantages of being a bastion of faith in a godless land and being Hispanic.

As Patty mentioned to me, the "assets" listed for this person, as well as all the others, are kind of interesting. Why would being a communist be an asset when being chosen as the new Pope?

The whole article takes a rather tongue-in-cheeck approach to the possibility of the Pope's passing and his replacement.

But, as I stated earlier, it is from Slate. So go ahead, read it, come up with your own conclusions.

HitchHiker's Guide to Cuba

Financial Times reporter Richard Lapper goes on a cross country tour of Cuba and picks up hitchhikers along the way, where he learns about daily life in Cuba.

It's a pretty good read.

Cuban Healthcare

Some people quickly tout Cuba's Healthcare System as one of the wonders of Castro's Revolution. They have a 100 percent literacy rate and free healthcare is a favorite line for Castro supporters. Of course, these people don't have family in Cuba, and they don't receive monthly letters asking for everything from aspirin to tampons to antibiotics.
Well, it seems the healthcare issue is getting worse. Now Castro is trading doctors for, get this, oil. Yes, it's all about the oil. Venezuelan oil. And Chavez, Castro's favorite groupie/prodigy, is more than happy to comply.

HAVANA, October 17 (www.cubanet.org) - Two family medicine offices in Alamar, east of Havana, have been closed because the attending doctors are to be sent to Venezuela as part of Cuba's program of aid to that country.

An Alamar resident said that the Popular Power (local government) delegate told neighbors on Tuesday that they would have to make do with the one remaining family medicine office. "Now we will have to come up with a better gift for the doctor," said the man.

The two doctors are being sent to Venezuela to participate in the Inside the Neighborhoods program put in motion by the Chávez government with Cuban doctors.

Today's Cubanism....

I've got a doozy for today's Cubanism. I have no idea where this saying originated, but it is perhaps the most widely used Cubanism. Everybody and their mothers use it.

"Por si las moscas."

Literally translated:

"In case of flies."

I won't make you guess what it mean because, well, I'm hungover.

Usage:

"Let's get an extra 12 pack, por si las moscas." Just in case.

Hangover

I. Am. Hungover. Too. Many. Sports. Yesterday. Friends. With. Beers.

UPDATE: It's 2 in the afternoon and I am still hungover and the day is oozing by. My head is pounding. I am sweating from parts of my body I didnt even know existed and my mouth tastes like beer soaked tube socks. And to make matters worse, not only did I have too many beers yesterday, but none of my friggin teams won.

One down...

Three to go.

Canes Win Again

University of Miami Hurricanes add another win to their impeccable season.
They spanked the Temple Owls 52-14.
Watch out Virginia Tech. This UM super-fan is ready to rumble.

Not only am I, and have always been, a Canes fan (thanks to my football freak of an uncle), but I have a personal interest in this team. I've worked for the UM for the last nine years, and will be graduating from the University in about two years, so I'm doubly (triply?) proud of anything orange and green.

Brandon

boo boo boo

ma ma ma ma ma

da da

ba ba ba ba ba

*rolls tongue*

ma ma

ba da

rra rra

Translation:
"Hi, everybody. Thank you for reading my mommy and my uncle Val's blog. I'm here in my playpen, playing with my Ocean Wonders aquarium. I like it's music, and these little balls are fun to roll and hit against each other"

Paragraph For Sale

This paragraph is for sale. It comes complete with nouns, verbs and sentences. All punctuation is included. All elements are interchangeable for hours of reading fun. If you act now, I will throw in some stupendous and incredibly vivid adjectives and adverbs. For added pleasure, this paragraph also comes with prepositions and prepositional phrases in it. Why wouldn't anyone want to buy this paragraph? It even comes with a question. So go ahead, make me an offer and get this paragraph dirt cheap. It will be yours exclusively. But please, serious inquiries only.

My first Blog

View image

I can think of no better way to introduce myself than by showing you the best part of myself. This is my 9-month-old son Brandon. He is my inspiration, my conscience, my spirit. His smile can melt your heart, and his laughter is as contagious as chicken pox. My husband and I are blessed with this gorgeous, intelligent little man (and I'm not just saying that because I'm his mommy).
Enjoy this picture while I figure out this blogging thing.
Amanda

The Ramifiblogcations of a Honey-Do List

Some of you that frequent this blog - yes, the both of you - may have noticed that I'm on a blogging diet on weekends. That is, I post very little, if at all, on weekends. This is not because I don't want to blog, but because I have domestic duties to perform. (Please remove those visions of me in a French Maid outfit and heels puttering around the house, I don't have such an outfit - black is not my color). No, weekends are alotted for two things in my household: The Honey-Do list and Dolphins games.

Since we purchased our home about a year ago, there are still massive amounts of stuff that needs (read:wife wants) to be done. I am in charge of Special Projects, Landscaping, Handymanning, Toilet Repair, Ceiling Fan Hanging, Roof Leak Checking, Seasonal Flag Changing, Home Depot Shopping, Pool Cleaning, Jacuzzi Temperature Checking, New Faucet Installation, Painting and Re-Painting When the Color Isn't Liked, Car Washing and Repairs, and 24 hour Bug Patrol.

As you can imagine these responsibilities take an enormous amount of time. Time which I could be blogging, bringing to you, faithful readers - yes, the both of you - highly informative, intuitive and indispensible commentary on my informative, intuitive and indispensible opinions. But, seeing that all of these domestic chores must be complete before the 1 p.m. kickoff time of Sundays' Dolphins games, I have had to compromise my blogging art. Alas, sad but true.

But fret not faithful readers - yes, the both of you - because I have a solution to the dearth of Babalu Blogging on weekends. I have requested that my blogging duties be relieved on weekends by my most wonderful and truly awesome Goddaughter. You may find that she is a younger, smarter, stabler, female version of me. Her name is Amanda and she is better than chocolate.

Babalu Blog and it's contents will definitely be new and improved on weekends. Plus, there will be plenty of El Brandon's™ baby pictures. What more could you ask?

Now you, faithful readers - yes, the both of you - make sure you all give her a big welcome and are especially nice. 'Cause I might not kick your ass, but she will.

The Show

For all you Yankees fans out there, and you know who you are, that think the upcoming World Series will be anti-climatic, I just want to remind you that the Marlins weren't supposed to make it to the playoffs. They also weren't supposed to beat the Giants in the first round. They surely weren't expected to get passed those oh so lovable Cubs. The Marlins have proven themselves time and again that they are a very good baseball team.

The World Series will be a battle of the best team money can buy against a team that just doesn't give up. So, if you Yankistas care to make a small wager on the outcome, I'm all ears.

Oh, and, once upon a time, the Yankees were Fidel Castro's favorite team. I'm sure he'll be rooting for you all.

I Feel Special...

The months of anticipation. The special vocabulary diet. The waiting and waiting and baiting. Months of blogging Lamas classes. I feel like a brand new daddy. I'm swelling with pride. Yes! It's true!

I've had my first and very own troll! I'll name him gvant2000. His measurements at birth were 64.12.96.42. I can't wait until he becomes literate so I can make Spanish his first language.

I will not, however, be breastfeeding.

UPDATE: My widdle trolly wolly has now been added to the banned IP crib along with the penis enlargement and other spam. He is now in company befitting his stature.

More on the "Latino" Topic

As I stated in this post the other day, I am a bit wary of the term "latino." It seems a contrived word to me. Of course, it's only my opinion, and my fellow latino over at latinopundit does make some excellent points and observations. Still, I am stubborn, and have yet to be convinced otherwise.

The Other Fish Part IV

I haven't mentioned that the Florida Marlins are headed to the World Series because I don't want to jinx it, so I won't.

What it's like to be Cuban...

I'm sitting at home watching the Yankees-Sox game yesterday when I happen to glance out the front window. There's a black car stopped on the street right where my driveway is. So I stand up for a better view. A girl is standing by the open trunk, early twenties, with a little kid about 7 or 8 next to her.

Damn. She probably has a flat, I say to myself. Now I'm gonna have to help her and miss the rest of the game.

I go outside, sure enough, flat tire. There's a guy kneeling down by the passenger front tire, struggling. He looks about mid-twenties, kinda buff. He's strong enough to change a tire, I say to myself again. Now I can finish watching the game. I go inside, pop open a beer and sit down in front of the TV.

Twenty minutes goes by, I look outside again and the guy is still there. Damn.

I go back outside ask the guy if he needs any help in English. He tries to respond in broken, very broken, English. I get to the car and I realize the guy doesn't know what the heck he's doing.

"Oye," I say in Cuban. "You put the jack upside down."

He looks a little ashamed. "I've never changed a tire before," he says.

The girl chimes in,"He just came from Cuba 3 months ago."

"I've never had to change a tire before," he says. "I'm from Marianao, not many cars there."

I go to my truck, get the cross iron and try to help the guy take the lug nuts off but some idiot mechanic has used regular nuts to hold the aluminum rims. They were fused. So I go to my shed, turn on the compressor, run air hose to the car, and start to fill his tire. It starts hissing. Damn.

I call and borrow a flat kit from my neighbor. The kind that has a waxed chordlike thing that you insert into this big needle that then gets inserted into the hole in the tire and quickly pulled, thus leaving the wax patch in. I set it up and the guy tells me that I've done too much already, that he'll stab it into the hole in the tire. No problem, I think, as this guy is about twice my size, and fit.

He tries punching the thing in for 5 minutes and nada.

I tell him to take a break, that I was gonna try it figuring I could give him a rest while I futily try to poke the tire. I grab the thing and give it a push and it goes right in.

The guy gives out a little laugh and says "Eso es porque tu te criastes con carne de res. (That's because you were raised eating beef.)"

Huh?

"We never got any beef in Marianao," he says, "I've only been eating meat for three months."

Gracias Primo!

Uno mas hoy y despues nos quedan cuatro.

"Latino"

I hate the word "latino." I am not sure where this connotation originated exactly, but whenever I hear it, I feel stereotyped. This term takes every Spanish speaking culture and lumps them together as one. The problem lies in the fact that all of us "latinos" do not speak the same dialect. There are dialectical terms in, for example, Mexico that a Cuban would not know, and vice versa. Our cultures aren't the same, so why should we all be classified as such?

Of What If's

I happened to be at my parent's house when President Bush gave his speech on Cuba from the Rose Garden. I'd just turned on the afternoon news and they were running a segment on the upcoming speech. Dad said Bush was about to talk about Cuba and the embargo.

"No way, dad," I said. "Its too soon still, maybe closer to the election." I thought he was hoping the president would talk about Cuba. I mean, I'm a blogger, I'm supposed to know what's going on. Especially when it comes to Cuba and the politics.

Turns out dad was right.

So we sat there and listened to the speech in English. I didn't put the Spanish language station on as it's hard for me to follow in two languages. I could see dad staring intently at the TV, listening to the words in his second language, trying to understand, to translate everything the president of his country was saying.

Then it struck me: What is going through his mind at this very moment? What is he thinking?

Was he remembering Cuba? In his mind, was he a little kid again, running around el Puerto where he grew up? Was he fishing with his dad? Maybe he was recalling the day he met my mother? And how he would go around town with mom on the handlebars of his bike?

Could it have been the day my sister was born, the first baby of the family? Or maybe it was my first birthday? Or a day at the beach with the entire family?
Maybe he was remembering everything he left behind. His mother. His sister which he'd promised he'd see again.

Could he have been experiencing once again that brief glimmer of hope, now in his 70's, that he had lived through so many times before? That "maybe now is the time" prevalent when you are a Cuban exile?

Somewhere in his mind, was there the memory precise moment he arrived here? A man in the middle of his life, arriving in a new country with only the clothes on his back and his terrified wife and daughter clinging to his arms? His young son crying at the top of his lungs?

Maybe he was thinking about what his life could have been without there ever being a Fidel Castro.

I won't ever know. But maybe I am just like him. I too wonder what my life would have been like growing up in a free Cuba. Who would I be?

All I really know is that I want to know the place where I was born. I want to see the place where my dad and mom came into this world. I want to breathe it, smell it, taste it. I wanna see where they met, where they married. Where I lived. I want to climb the same trees my dad climbed when he was a boy. I want to fish where he fished, drink where he drank, walk where he walked.

But most of all I want him to stop feeling that pain of what if's. I want him to live long enough to see that day when his son can go freely to that little town in Cuba. I want him here long enough to hear me tell him the story of my experience. I want him to know how I felt that day, the one where I went to meet my grandfather for the first time, and laid a flower at his grave.

Cuba Sera Pronto Libre

President George W. Bush has just spoken from El Jardin De las Rosas on the Castro/Cuba issue and I am elated. Before an audience of invited guests and Cuban-Americans, the President ensured that he will do everything to not only maintain the embargo, but to police it.

My favorite line?

The enemy of every dictator is truth.

NO MORE MONEY TO CUBA.

NO MORE TRAVEL TO CUBA ON VACATIONS.

NO MORE ILLICIT ECONOMIC GAINS FROM AMERICANS THROUGH THIRD PARTY COUNTRIES DEALING WITH CUBA.

I fucking LOVE IT.

I kept waiting for him to to say Fuck Fidel.

The Dems should definitely just not even bother trying to carry Florida next year.

Blogger's Block

I had a writing teacher tell me once there's no such thing as writer's block. Said it was just an excuse for lazy writers.

Well, I've been sitting in front of this damn pc with the MT page up and ready for input and I can't find a friggin thing in this brain of mine to blog.

I am experiencing Blogger's Block™.

Theres a shitload of things I want to say. Tons of topics out there that need to be addressed, commented on and brought to light. But. I. Just. Can't. Find. The. Damn. Words.

Arrrrgggg. How unbelievably frustrating. Please, someone, come to my rescue. Im drowning in unposted commentary.

Bored Games

Got nothing to do this weekend? Raining outside? Cable is out? Well then, why not pop in your favorite RAP cd, pump up the volume and bust out the latest board game Ghettopoly. Call some friends, up to four playas can play. But make sure you close the drapes, cause, you know, it ain't funny.

I myself am partial to Cubanopoly, problem is, the game comes with no money and all the hotels are owned by Europeans.

Some People Just Don't Get It....

Every time I hear of some inane idiot making disparaging remarks about the men and women serving in our armed forces, I just want to grab fucker and beat some fucking common sense into him.

Thank heavens we have Sgt. Hook, who, while having the training and dexterity to actually do the ass kicking, prefers to honorably shred the moron to pieces using the most lethal weapon in his arsenal: words.

We Need Another

...Worry-Free Weekend™. At least I do. Server problems all day today and have lost one day's worth of posts and comments and whatnot.

Perhaps last weeks meme can be carried over to this weekend.

The Other Fish - Part III

I haven't mentioned the Florida Marlins winning and going on to the next round of the playoffs because I don't want to jinx it, so I won't.

Worry-Free Weekend™ Woes

Well, the Worry-Free Weekend™ began with my server going down and intermittent, if any, service. But, being that it's the Worry-Free Weekend™ I'm not worried. I am going to continue to enjoy my Worry-Free Weekend™ even if it kills me.

New Meme

Dave of Interrobang?! provided this weekends meme in the comments section of this post from A Small Victory.

This weekend is going to be blog-free, news-free, and worry-free. In fact, let's start a meme. Worry-free weekend.

I now officially declare the start of Worry-Free Weekend™

So kick back, crack open a good book, make yourself your cocktail of choice and chill the hell out.

Blog-Lite

Sorry for the minimal amount of blogging of late, but I have been touring the blogoshpere lately and, to be honest, am quite exhausted. Not to mention disappointed, angry, frustrated and sad.

Both sides on any issue howling at the moon. Straying from civil discourse. Baiting each other, ad hominem attacks. Man, what the fuck is going on?

One would think that blogdom would be a place to actually discuss issues instead of flaming them. A place to take people on the merits of their opinion and not slander them on the basis of their ideologies.

For crying out loud people, not everyone is the same. Not every one who believes certain things on the right or the left believes in everything the right or left believes in. Why must everyone be lumped in one pile simply because they hold an opinion different than someone else's?

Cant we fucking agree to fucking disagree fucking agreeably?

See? Even Michele and Kelley agree.

Sudden Reminder

Just a little reminder to those who are interested in submitting your short stories for Sudden Fiction: Short Stories by Bloggers. Entries can be sent to either David of Sketches of Strain or myself by Oct. 20th.

Check out the links for pertinent submission info.

Front Line Voices

Frank J.'s excellent site Front Line Voices is up and running. It's really important that we all get behind this project and help however we can. Drop on by and check it out.

Here's a good place to start. Hat tip for this letter: Inoperable Terran.

Drips

Sorry for yesterday's lack of posting. I had a little problem over at the homestead that needed my immediate attention.

When I arrived home from work on Tuesday I find Babalu soaking wet in his crate (he is still crate training). I figured he had gone for a dip in his water bowl again. I take him out, towel dry him and see that his bowl is still full of water but the crate liner has about 1/4" of standing water. What the... The floor area around the crate is also soaking wet. Ohoh. So, I, being that I am in the construction industry, immediately know its a roof leak. It's directly above Babalu's crate. The plaster is flaking off the ceiling and it's still dripping.

To make a long and pain in the ass story short, I had to get up in the attic, crawl on trusses all the way from one end of the house where the access is and search for the leak. Nada. I couldnt find it. So, yesterday was a day of leak detection, ceiling removal, debris cleaning, etc...

I finally found the leak, but I couldnt get it fixed in time. It is now at the top of this weekend's Honey-do list. Damn. There goes my Saturday.