RAMBLING...

It's 1 in the afternoon. Brandon is down for a nap. I should be finishing a paper for school due tomorrow, but I don't feel up to it right now.
Brandon's third tooth came in last week, and the fourth is visible too. He'll be a year old in less than seven weeks. He's growing much too fast!
UM won yesterday. Looks like we'll be playing at home, the Orange Bowl, come January. Yippee!!!
My birthday is next Sunday (I'll be 27) and we're going to Disney World to celebrate. Brandon's first trip...I'm so excited! My hubby and I are Disney freaks, and haven't gone since before I got pregnant. We were going through Disney withdrawal. Got.to.see.the.Mouse.
It was cold (for Miami) yesterday. It was 56 degrees when we got up around 8.
It felt much colder though, major wind factor. Today it's better, it's 70. I know, I know, some of you would kill for 70-degree weather in late November!! =)

Spoke too soon...SOMEBODY woke up! Gotta go.
More blogging to follow...

POST-THANKSGIVING

This is us.
This is Babalu.
Hasta mañana!

Happy Sangeevers!!!

Just a quick note to say Happy Thanksgiving to all! I hope this holiday finds you all well and united with your loved ones. Let us not forget we all have much to be thankful for.

Don't forget to give thanks for those men and women of our armed foces who are away from thier loved ones so that we may be together with ours.

Hook, once again thanx for being one of the guys out there watching our backs, and for the link.

We Cubans are Everywhere

It's true, we are all over the place. Just last night we were watching a Law & Order and there was a Cuban. Any mention on any JFK conspiracy has us Cubans sprinkled throughout. We are in movies, books, TV shows...everywhere.

Here in blogdom, I was under the impression that I was basically the only Cubano, but, I was wrong. And I am glad, for I found a fellow also from the Island here in this realm of the internet. His blogs name is Mire and while I dont know much about him, I will be hanging over at his place as often as possible.

Life's Little Gems

A while back I was at my Mom's house helping her clean out one of her closets when we came across a shoebox full of old pictures. I remember feeling as if we had struck gold. Old family photographs are a real treasure as they are brief little glimpses of better days and simpler times.

It amazes me how you can find an old picture you have never seen and just then you remember the exact moment it was taken. They are like little memory enzymes that set a nostalgic trip in motion. Look at me in that rumbero outfit. Man was I skinny. That's from when I danced Eneida's Fifteens....I had the biggest crush on her....

In the shoebox were photographs of family get-togethers, vacation pictures from when we all went on a cruise, pictures of Mom and Dad in their youth, sitting at some big table in a ballroom somewhere and dressed to the nines. Mom and I sat there for at least an hour going through tose pictures, telling a story with each one. It was really a special moment, for the both of us, as we shared memories of the lives we have shared.

There was one set of pictures that I remember really blew me away. Black and white photographs I had taken back when I had photography as a hobby, albeit a brief one. The pictures were mostly of my Mom and my youngest nice Maura, taken on sunny day when she was about two or three in my mom's back yard. We had both completely forgotten about those black and whites but the minute we saw them we both remembered the day so vividly. Mom fought back the tears and once I saw her well up I began to well up too.

The pictures were taken in my mom's garden, on a day were she was baby sitting Maura and I wasnt out messing around with friends or working or studying. They were beautiful too. Maura dancing in the yard with my mom's flower garden in the background, or the picture of my mom holding her granddaughter, both profoundly happy in the eyes.

But there was one picture in particular that struck me so beautiful, so pure that I told mom I was gonna keep to get it enlarged. It was of Maura lying on the grass, holding her head up with her little arm with a huge Hibiscus flower in her ear. She looks so damn adorable in that photograph, in her eyes nothing but the love of a child, untainted and untouched by the realities of life.

Once I had the photo enlarged I had to find the perfect frame for it. I was not going to put that perfect photograph in a cheap Kmart frame. I also didn have the money at the time to have it framed so the search for the perfect frame began.

I remember I went everywhere looking for that frame. Stores, malls, frame shops, art supply stores, garage sales. No frame seem to fit the photograph perfectly and the very few that did were way too expensive. The frame search went on for weeks, until, one day, I pulled the envelope with the photograph in it out of my briefcase and set it on a shelf. At the time I was working full time and attending classes at the University simultaneously and had little if any time to continue the search. So the photograph stood there on my shelf, in it's envelope, between a first edition of Robert Frost's West Running Brook and an old English Lit anthology book for months.

While I was having lunch one day at the office, my mom called and asked, out of the blue, about the photograph and the frame. I told her I had had to give up on finding the frame as I didnt have the time and that I had then completely forgotten about it. I could tell Mom was disappointed, so I promised her I would try to find a frame for it as soon as possible.

That same day I went outside of the office to have my mid-afternoon cigarette, it must have been about 2:30 as the kids from the elementary school across from the office were getting picked up. One of the cars parked across the street had a flat tire and I remember thinking Poor mom! Comes to pick up her kid and now has to change a flat. I decided to wait in case I could give her a hand.

A few minutes later, after most of the other cars had gone with their children safely tucked in their back seats, there's this little white haired old man with a little girl in tow, both walking slowly towards the car. He opened the passenger rear door, set her into the kid seat and then started to walk around the back of the car towards the driver side until he saw the flat.

The old man walked back to the trunk, opened it, and started taking out boxes and other things until he managed to pull out the big jack. By then I was already undoing my tie and unbottoning my shirt because I knew I wasn't going to let that old man change the tire by himself.

I walked up to him, introduced myself and told him I worked across the street and that I would be happy to change the tire for him. He looked up at me both happy and a little sad, I guess, because maybe he knew he was at the point in his life where he couldnt change a tire.

I changed his tire for him in about 3 minutes and hardly broke a sweat. I put the old tire in the trunk along with the jack and the boxes he had taken out. I told him to drive carefully and reminded him to make sure he had his tire fixed. We shook hands and I started back to the office. Right when I was in the middle of the street, I heard him call out "Muchachon! Come here."

I turned around just in time to see him take out his wallet and fumble through it. "No no. Señor," I told him. "I can't take your money." He insisted, I insisted more.

"Ok," he said. "Wait a minute." He walked back to the trunk and opened it then called me over.

I was reluctant and as I neared the trunk I realized he wanted to give me something for my troubles and right when I was about to tell him that I wasn't going to accept anything, from one of the boxes he pulled out the perfect picture frame.

Life gives us little gems, we just have to know how to appreciate them.

Beer Buddies

One day seven or eight years ago I made it to the Hofbrau, my local watering hole in Coral Gables, earlier than usual. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, whereas I showed up every day at about 5:30. There was no one there which was weird as the Hofbrau was a Miami icon. Some said it was the second oldest bar in all of Miami.

I sat at my regular stool in the corner of the bar and before I had even opened my mouth, the bartender was already setting down my beer. I remember telling him it was kinda quiet that day, it was just me, him and the short order cook in the back. He told me it was always like that at that time of day. I thought it odd because no matter what day of the week it was, nor what time of day it was, I had always seen people at the bar.

I chugged the beer and ordered another one (I like to get a good start). The bartender brought me another one, set it down and as he's taking my money from the counter I heard the front door creak open.

In walked this almost heavy set guy in a shirt and tie. I had never seen him before. I gave him customary nod hello, he said something like "heya."

The guy sat right next to. I was a little miffed as there was absolutely noone in the place. Why the hell would he sit right next to me with the rest of the damn bar completely empty.

He ordered a beer and began looking around at all the memorabilia on the walls. Pictures from the 20's when the Biltmore Hotel was being built, old Coral Gables photographs, sports memorabilia. The bartender set the guys beer down, hit picked it up, looked at me, said cheers and chugged it down.

Then he set the empty glass down, looked over at me and said You ever hear the one about the priest, the rabbi and the bartender...

He went on ahead and finished the joke and continued telling jokes until it was after midnight. The funniest guy I had ever met. He was from New York, had just moved to Coral Gables and it was his first time in the Hofbrau. When he spoke, he kinda reminded me of Rodney Dangerfield. He had the same genuflections, the same delivery.

Well, that guy and I became best friends. We would meet at the Hofbrau everyday and drink our asses off, sometimes closing the place. I could eat up all my bandwidth on stories from stuff we did, suffice it to say that he even borrowed my dad's beat up Ford work truck and drove his wife to another bar with it, on their wedding day.

A few years ago he landed the grandaddy of all awesome jobs and has been travelling the world ever since. You name the place, he's been there and back. He even raced in the Americas Cup for crissakes. That lucky bastard.

The reason Im posting this is because he and his wife will be in town this weekend. They are are coming for Thanksgiving dinner and then staying at our house until Monday.

So you know what that means don't you? I will either be too drunk to blog or too hungover for 4 days. Perhaps we'll even take some pictures of our inebriations and post them. I can't wait.

OOOPS!! I also forgot to mention that I met my wife thru my buddy. She lived in his apartment building, but that's a whole other story.

BlogCuba is Coming!

What's that you say? Never heard of BlogCuba? Well, stayed tuned here for further info on this blog bonanza!

Dissident Reporters

Thanks to Scott of Burton Terrace for this link from Reporters Without Borders.

While I am not a big fan of Reporters Without Borders, they are one of the few organizations engaged in the struggle for free press in Cuba.

REALITY

Last Friday right after lunch, a co-worker found a lady on the floor in the bathroom across the hall. Three of us ran in there to check her out. She was twitching and foaming at the mouth, but still breathing. My friend called 911 and the dispatcher guided us as to what to look for, to check her breathing, her pulse, etc. Her breathing was slow and abnormal, and her pulse was faint. My friend was in our office, yelling the instructions from the dispatcher down the hall to the bathroom, which I was relaying to another friend, standing over the woman checking for everything we were told.
By the time the paramedics got there, she had stopped breathing, and we could not feel a pulse. They shocked her several times, but I don't know what happened after that, we all went back in our office so that they could do their job. Last we heard, they had gotten a light pulse on her.

This morning, we heard she had passed away. I don't know if it was in the building, in the ambulance or at the hospital. Either way, she's gone. We found out she was a patient being seen down the hall at another office on our floor, about 40, with two children.

I had a million and one things to do this weekend, but decided instead to spend it with my family and friends, doing things like shopping, watching the football games, hanging out with my son and nephew (thus the lack of posts, I wasn't home all weekend but to sleep). We can all go any day, at any time, so live each minute as if it's your last...it just might be.

Bicycles

Since Thanksgiving is at my house this year, and both my parents and the in-laws are coming over, my wife has had me on perpetual honey-do-this since last weekend. The honey-do list is open ended. No matter how much stuff I do, there's still something on the list that needs to be scratched off.

Yesterday was the last full day I had available to finish off as much as I could without having to haul ass after work and do whatever before it gets dark. I mowed the lawn, cleaned the pool, spread 20 bags of mulch at Man Camp™, spread 10 bags of gravel throughout the landscaping, weed whacked, installed christmas lights around the pool area, gave the dogs baths, cleaned the chairs and cushions, hosed down the sisal rugs for the pool area...well you get the picture.

At about 3:30 or so I'm already beat, exhausted, and I still have to pick up all the tools and take all the Christmas stuff out which is stacked at the very back of the shed, meaning I have to basically empty the damn thing out. So I decide to take a break and catch the last few minutes of whatever football game is on at the time.

I drag myself to Man Camp™, open a beer and plop down on a chair in front of the TV. No sooner had I done this when I hear "Honeeee....Valllllll....." Damn. No rest for the weary. "Honeeee....Your parents are here."

I get up and drag myself again across the yard and inside to greet them. I look aweful mind you, tired, sweaty, dirt all over my shirt and shorts. I smell baaaad.

I say hi to my mom first, as usual and expected, and then dad. "Don't worry," he says to me as I peck him on the cheek, "we're only going to be here a few minutes." We all walk outside as the Mrs. is cleaning the house and I am basically so dirty that I leave grass or dirt wherever I go.

Dad heads straight for Man Camp because he loves it out there. It's shady, has a nice view of the canal and there's always a great breeze. Mom hangs out by the pool area with my wife. Asks me what I want her to make for Thanksgiving. I tell her we have everything covered but she insists. "Ok Mom," I say, "por que no hace un flan?" "A flan it is then," she says.

The dessert issue already resolved, I go back out to Man Camp where I find my dad leaning against a table, hands in his pockets ans staring out over the canal.

"Tired aren't you?" He asks me.

"Muerto," I say.

Then he says something to me that makes me do a mental double take. "You should take it easy," he says. "Don't try to do too much."

I think what the f..... Dont try to do too much? This coming from a man in his 70's that still works his ass off welding 6 days a week? I mean, they call my dad "Coso" which is basically the Cuban equivalent to Hauss from Bonanza. He's that kind of man. Big and strong with a soft heart.

Everything I had done to that point yesterday he would have done faster, better and with enough energy remaining to complete the days chores. I am halfway done and am dead tired. My dad is the quinessential work horse. The man works with steel. That is no easy job.

"I've been meaning to ask you," he pauses for a second, "do you use that bicycle over there at all?" He points to my rusting bike that hanst been ridden in months.

The question kind of confuses me. What the hell does he want a bike for? "Why?" I ask, "Who are you gonna give it to?" I thought maybe he knew of someone that needed it.

"It's for me. I need to do some exercize for my legs." He is totally serious while Im thinking he's got to be nuts. "It's the new diet," he says. "I feel like I'm withering away. I've lost almost 40 lbs."

"But Dad," I'm holding back a chuckle. "What do you think, you're back in Cuba still able to pedal Mom around on bike like you used to?"

"Look at this." He undoes his belt, opens his pants and drops trough right there in the middle of Man Camp. "Look at these legs, when have you ever seen my legs like this?" His legsdo look thinner than I had ever seen them and a bit wrinkled. "I was only going to ride a little bike around the front of the house. On the sidewalk...to get my legs in a little shape."

It hit me right then and there. Our relationship had just done a 180. Now it's my father asking me to allow him to ride bike and it's me that's worrying about him riding a bike on the street. "Dad," I speak as delicately as possible, "I am not going to give you my bike for you to ride around on the streets. Not just because I think you would have to ride more than just in front of the house to get into shape, but because I would be worried shitless...And Mom would kill me."

"Ay," he says, "what have you got to worry about? You think I'm too old for..." He stopped in mid sentence, as if he had just realized exactly what he was saying is true. "Well, I dont know what else I could do."

"Don't worry Dad," I tell him as I pat him on the back. "You're still strong as an ox. Stronger than me so stop worrying about it."

I know that he knows that I know he won't stop worrying about it. So, he's getting a exercycle for Christmas.

On Traditions

Thanksgiving when I was young was different. I struggle with that fact every year around this time when I start to make the phone calls to aunt and uncles and cousins. And every year the task becomes even more difficult.

Back when my grandparents were still alive, every Thanksgiving, every holiday, was a cause for the whole family to unite. And by whole family I mean everyone. My grandfather was one of 16 and he and my grandmother had seven daughters. Now, not all of my Abuelo's siblings were here to join us, but some did, along with their sons and daughters. And while not all of my aunts were here to join us either- Tia Amanda, the youngest had died in Cuba at the age of seventeen and another aunt lived in Jersey - it was always a day where those that could would get together and take part in this new tradition, this American tradition, and give thanks for everything in our lives.

Of course, my grandparents loved this. They loved the fact that they had raised such a beautiful and united family. They revelled in it. Abuelo was always beaming with pride around his daughters and his sons-in-law. And we, the grandchildren, having us all together there in a group, pleased him to no end. Everyone tried their best to please Los Primos (the grandparents). We were all, aunts and uncles, moms and dads, on our best behavior.

Every year Thanksgiving was held at one of my aunts house (our house was always reserved for Noche Buena, the traditional Cuban Christmas eve celebration). The gathering always started early even though dinner would not be served until my grandfather was hungry. My Tia Lulu would cook the turkey and each aunt would bring a different dish. Yuca, congris, ensalada de pollo. They each had their specialty. Every once in a while one would try to "Americanize" the dinner fare, but, my grandfather wouldn't hear of it. Not that he wasn't receptive to it, but just because he liked his Cuban food.

The men all had their highballs before dinner. We would watch this sport called Football on TV, talk about work or politics or "did you hear who just came from Cuba?" They would tallk about their courting days. Imagine six men courting six sisters all at the same time. The stories were wonderful. Beautiful glimpses of a simpler life where everything seemed to be a bit slower, where everyone had time to appreciate the moments they were living. I would hear these recollections and try to picture them in my mind, their homes, the town, the long table at my grandparents house on weekends where everyone from their town came by and sat for a formal dinner, and it all seemed foreign to me. So intangible. As if I knew that I would never see that town or see my parents house or sit at my grandparents long formal table.

At some point before dinner, my grandmother would ask for some music. Musica cubana, from the old days. And while my grandmother could not dance - she had phlebitis on one leg most of her life - she would enjoy watching my grandfather dance with each of his daughters. Un paso doble, a slow tempo'd cuban dance. I can still picture my grandfather dancing with my tias, his chest out, back straight, hands in perfect position to lead, feet moving in perfect unison. Nothing but pride on his face.

When Abuelo said it was time for dinner, we would divide the sit downs in tandas, groupings, as there were always to many of us to sit at the table at the same time. Once the table was set with all of those delicious dishes and the primera tanda had all sat down, the rest of us waiting for the second tanda would gather around the table and Abuelo would give thanks.

Here was the beauty of it. With all of the day's reminiscing about Cuba, with all of the talk of where they had lived and how they had courted and married and how they left the country where they were all born, and with this unspoken understanding that their culture had forever been changed, my grandfather always thanked God for being here. For having kept his family together and for having been able to bring a little bit of Cuba with him to this country that had accepted him and his family with open arms.

And here is where my yearly Thanksgiving struggle stems from. Since my grandparent's passing over a decade ago, our Thanksgiving traditions have been diluted. The attendance began getting smaller and smaller, year after year. Now, each Tia has her own family to unite with. My cousins have grown, married, and had children of their own and now have new responsibilities. I make all the calls, ask the "what are you doing for thanksgivings questions," tell them they are all welcome to come to my house and I try to get everyone to gather in one place, like we used to, but I know that's not possible anymore. Yet, regardless of the fact that we are not all gathered together in one place, I know my grandparents still give thanks that we are here and that we are family.

Konspiracy

I've been kaught in the k konspiracy because I'm Kuban.

I know you're out there

...I can see the numbers on my site meter. Why wont you all talk to me? I dont bite, promise. Spanish is a second language around here. Dont be afraid, go ahead, make some noise people.

Today's Cubanism

Again I have no idea where this particular Cubanism originated, but it is also very widely used. I also don't really understand the corollation of the metaphor, but, then again, it's a Cubanism, it ain't supposed to make sense.

Cubanism:

No tener pelo en la lengua.

Literal translation:

Not having hair on one's tongue.

Meaning:

If someone doesnt have hair on their tongue, it means that they are a person that says it like it is.

Usage:

Michele, a lo igual que Kelley son dos que no tienen pelo en la lengua. (Michele and Kelley are two that don't have hair on their tongues.)

Socialized Healthcare - Ain't It A Gas?

Imagine you are prepped for a surgery, lying there on the table, half naked. You're life is on the line. Your doctor comes in, says a little something to calm you down as bedside manner dictates. He turns around, walks over and washes his hands and just then realizes, there's no rubber gloves. Looks around some more and sees theres no sterilized instruments.

So your doctor loses it becuase this isnt the first time this has happened and how the hell is he supposed to take care of his patient without any of the proper instruments?

This is the case of one doctor working in the lauded medical system of the island of Cuba.

What do you think happened to him?

HAVANA, November 18 (www.cubanet.org) - Hospital administrators fired a doctor and suspended his medical license for nine months after he loudly expressed his frustration with widespread inefficiency in Fidel Castro's government.

Mario Ariosta, a gynecologist, rushed into an operating room at National hospital in Havana to perform an emergency Cesarean section and found there were no gloves or sterilized instruments available. In his frustration, Ariosta loudly excoriated the government's inefficiency.

Ariosta is off the job, but he has appealed the suspension of his medical license to a labor court.

Just In Time For The Holidays

*Lovely* collectibles being sold by street vendors just in time for the holidays.

And some people still just refuse to get it.

Link Via Inoperable Terran.

NEWS FLASH

What Dean said.

The Left Sees the Cuban Light

Kevin of Wizbang has an excellent and interesting post on a letter written and signed by numerous writers of the "democratic left" to the New York Review of Books.

Seems the "left" has finally realized that they shouldn't be associated with a regime such as Castro's. Here's the kicker:

By its actions, the Cuban state declares that it is not a government of the left, despite its claims of social progress in education and health care, but just one more dictatorship, concerned with maintaining its monopoly of power above all else.

Umm...mmkay. So one of the only surviving communist countries in the world is now not to be considered "leftist." Doesn't this seem ridiculous?

Scott of Burton Terrace also chimes in.

Reverend Val

Val, this one's for you.
Link via Electric Venom.

Why I Abhor the Term LATINO

Because I get bunched up with all the leftist, make the US a welfare state opportunists that publish stuff like this:

Don't like George Bush? Fine, everyone is entitled to their opinion, however myopic.
But to compare Bush to Castro is beyond insult, not just to Americans that appreciate their president, but to Cubans that have lived under the tyranical rule of the Castro regime and truly know who is at fault for their plight.

Lalo, here's a clue, stick to Mexican stuff man, you obviously don't know squat about Cuba.

The Croaking Contest Revisited

I posted the Castro Croaking Contest a few months ago when Babablu Blog was but a wee blogbaby and thought I might remind everyone that there still is a contest going on.

The prize is a box of good, authentic cuban cigars.

The rules are quite simple, whoever picks the date closest to the day that Castro croaks, wins. The following dates are already taken:

July 4, 2004
2005, the Latin Grammies Show date
May 31, 2004
May 5, 2004
November 21, 2003 (my personal favorite)
April 17, 2004
March 13, 2007
October 9, 2003
December 23, 2005
March 23, 2006

The First Black President

Little Tiny Lies is talking a whole heckovalot of truth about a former president, whom shall not be mentioned here, and his affinity for his "people."

I just don't understand how some people don't know when they are being railroaded.

Beep, beep

Eric and I took Brandon to an appointment yesterday morning. I had to drop them off at home before I could go to work. So we're on our way towards the highway on a two-lane street, approaching an intersection at which the traffic light is red, but the right turn signal is green. There is an older model pick-up truck in front of us at that thick line at the crosswalk right before the intersection, at a standstill waiting to make a right, not aware that they have the right of way. Eric honks at the car, not a "get out of our way" honk, but a quick little honk, just to let them know they can make their turn.
Guess who the driver was?
My grandfather.
Eric and I both realized it at the same time and we laughed about it, but a part of me is saying, "I can't believe I honked at my grandfather". Suffice it to say, I won't say a word about it to him.

PayPal Virus

There's yet another new email virus out there that isn't out to ruin your computer, it's out to get your money. This virus is an email that looks like one sent from PayPal saying your account is about to expire. Don't open it or the attachements, else kiss your cash goodbye

The Blog Collective

Seen your blogroll today? Seems we have all been absorbed. We are all now the Laura's Blog Collective.

Hurry Up and Wait

Michele pretty much sums up exactly what I've been thinking the past couple of days. I'm glad she wrote it, because I could not have been as eloquent and to the point.

Goodbye, Mr. Ferguson (Amanda)

Sorry for the lack of entry this weekend, everyone. I had a very hectic Saturday and Sunday, and then I come home, log on for a couple of minutes before going to bed on this Sunday night, and I find that my new friend David has decided to end his blog. Sometimes we all need to make a change, whether big or small, to stay sane.
David, I wish you all the luck in the world, and please check in with all of us and let us know that you are well, that your career is taking off, and that we all have tickets to your first sold out show!!
With lots of love,
Amanda

Deeper and Deeper

The Democratic Party of the Minorities™ keep digging themselves deeper and deeper into the hole. Rita pretty much sums it with this:

Yep. One of the reasons for the Dems blocking Mr. Estrada's nomination was because of his ethnicity. Party for minorities my ass. (Emphasis mine)

Terrible News

This is certainly not the way I wanted to start the weekend. We will all be at a loss.

The Boonies

I have a lunchtime ritual that I have held for many years. Everyday, while I have lunch, I do the crossword in the local paper. It may sound silly, to play a word game, but I find it helps me relax and also gives me a brief respite from the tribulations of work and the sometimes overwhelming diatribe of the blogosphere. Sometimes I finish the puzzle in five minutes, sometimes I dont finish at all.

On the days that I finish the puzzle with time to spare I must confess, I read the comics. Yes, I like to know whats going on with Dilbert and Hagar. Dennis the Menace reminds me of me when I was a kid and Sally Forth always makes light of everyday situations. But, unfortunately, there are two comic strips run in my local paper (apart from Kathy who drives me absolutely insane cause she's so anal) that sometimes cut short my afternoon sojourn.

First, there's Trudeau's Doonesbury which, for all intents and purposes, should be run in the editorial pages of the paper. I certainly wouldn't want my kid, as kids are the target audience for most strips, to be barraged with Trudeau's incessant rambling's about the current administration. Much has been said and blogged about his slant to the left by better bloggers that merits reading and commentary, so I will leave Trudeau alone.

The other comic strip that completely rattles me is Boondocks by Aaron McGruder. To read this strip is a to take a trip into the labyrinths of discontent. McGruder criticIzes everything from his own race to politicians to pop culture to the elderly. There is nothing sacred. There is no respect. And this is where the key to this issue is, respect.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Recently, McGruder appeared on the tv show "America's Black Forum" and called Condoleesa Rice a murderer. Now, I don't know much about Rice's life, and I wont go into a bio about it here, but it seems to me that, being an African-American woman, she must have at some point in her life or another been subjected to stereotyping and racism and despite that still managed to be a success. Her having gotten where she is professionally and having achieved what she has merits utmost respect.

I don't like Condoleezza Rice because she's part of this oil cabal that's now in the White House," McGruder said, as ABF hosts Armstrong Williams and Juan Williams looked on.

"I don't like her because she's a murderer," the cartoonist announced.

The charged drew immediate condemnation from Armstrong Williams, who complained, "That is totally out of line to say she's a murderer."

Unfazed, McGruder repeated the accusation, stretching out his words, "S-h-e'-s a m-u-r-d-e-r-e-r."

McGruder is of the "this war is illegal" crowd and thus, by her association with the Bush administration, in his myopic opinion, she is a murderer. There is no room for anything positive Ms. Rice may have done in her life. Simply put, she is evil because she is part of the Bush administration. There is no admiration for her accomplishments, no pause to think about what price she must have paid to achieve her goals. No, she is a murderer and that is all.

The NAACP agrees:

"I generally agree with his politics 100 percent and I think he explained himself well," the NAACP chief said.

The second A in NAACP stands for "advancement," and I fear, that by accepting McGruder's politics as gospel, that "A" now stands for anything but.

(Quotes found via All Facts and Opinions.")

On Immigrants

I found the most lucid comment I have ever read regarding immigrants and politics yesterday at Right Thinking from the Left Coast. Lee put it out of the ballpark with this one:

It's amazing, isn't it, that when an immigrant believes in self-reliance and making your own way they become Republicans, and when they believe in being beholden to the welfare state they become Democrats. I wonder why that is.

Of course, it is a generalization, but I venture to say he is absolutely correct.

Troll Spanking

Our esteemed Sgt Hook takes his first troll over his knee and spanks the bejeebus out of him.

Ahh, I remember my first troll.....I just wish I would have given him a spanking like Hooks. I would have even used the buckle end.

Your Flight is Delayed

Imagine having to make a connecting flight somewhere and the weather basically wreaks havoc on all flights with delays, cancellations and such. You have been, along with a whole bunch of other travellers, waiting for hours and hours at the airport to get to your destination. Tempers flare, hostility sets in, major pacing back and forth as you are in travel limbo.

On the other side of the waiting area you see a bunch of soldiers in their desert camo also waiting. Poor guys, you think, probably waiting to get home after serving their tour.

You hear the crackle of the intercom and listen intently for the upcoming message.

"Folks, as you can see, there are a lot of soldiers in the waiting area. They only have 14 days of leave and we're trying to get them where they need to go without spending any more time in an airport than they have to."

There is silence in the terminal.

"We sold them all tickets knowing we would oversell the flight. If we can, we want to get them all on this flight. We want all the soldiers to know … we respect what you're doing, we are here for you and we love you."

Every single one of those soldiers got on the flight.

I have goosebumps.

All is well in Blogdom again

I woke up this morning to find I couldnt log into my Movable Type. Of course, I went into a panic. First I thought I had screwed something up in the settings when I last posted. Then I thought maybe since I hadnt had my cafe cubano that I had forgotten my password. I tried the recover password thing and nada. Maybe I didnt know where I was born? After that I was absolutely certain I'd been hacked. Someone had gotten into my MT and changed the users!

I began a barrage of emails to fellow bloggers that have helped me with these applications before. No response (It's early yet, I thought).

I went to the MT page and after travelling thru a maze of FAQ's I found the support forum and posted a frantic call for help. Seems this had happened to other bloggers as well.

Apparently, it was not an MT problem and I was told to contact my host. I did. They responded quickly. I told them the problem. Yes, some changes were made, they said, but you should be able still to log in to MT. I tried again and nada. Back to host support, I tell them "Nada." Be right back, they said. Then they came back, "try it again." I try again and *poof*, Im in!

Apparently, it was only a matter of adding the "www" to some string somewhere.

Heh.

Do you ever feel like....

...a country music song waiting to happen?

The World is Full of Assholes

I just visited a blog, which I will niether name nor link to, that had a button stating:

IRAQ BODY COUNT
(with a minimum and maximum quantity below it)

What is the purpose of a button like this? What does it solve? And why doesn't it take into account the over 300, 000 Iraqis killed by the Hussein regime? Are they saying, Lets only count the deaths caused by the United States?

Concerned about the civilian casualties? Fine. Want to put up a counter/button on your site to show your concern? Fine. But show them ALL. Show the numbers for ALL the deaths caused by ALL the governments in ALL the world.

Too daunting a task, I'm afraid, for such a feeble mind.

Comment Spamming

Tired of spam comments? I certainly am. And so is Adam Kalsey, who has just penned the Comment Spam Manifesto. So, for those of you that are comfortable with the size of your privates, don't need viagra and prefer to get all your prescriptions at a drug store, drop on by Kalsey's place and sign the manifesto.

I just saw a water moc in my backyard and...

...I just have to say, I hate snakes. Slimy critters the lot of them.

Things That Piss Me Off

Right after I finish my Cholesterol Killer sub (steak and onion with bacon and cheese) at the office just now, I go outside for my after lunch cigarette. It's sprinkling rain and a little breezy so I walk toward the front of the building where there's an overhang. I see this little old lady, whom I see everyday at about the same time, trying to cross the main street with traffic flying by. I know she's trying to get to the other side to catch the Metrobus that she rides every day.

She finally gets to the median and I see her frantically start waving. The bus is coming. Mind you, its taken her about 3 minutes just to cross half the street. She waits for some cars to pass, then, while still waving, starts across the other lanes. She gets passed two of the three lanes and, still waving down the bus mind you, I hear the bus coming. I breathe a sigh of relief for her as I think that, despite her old age, the traffic and the rain, she made the bus.

No. The bus driver just zoomed right by her. There is no way that he didnt see her. She was almost right on the line on the left side of his lane. What an asshole that bus driver. I wanted to get in my car and chase the bastard down and, after telling him what a complete and total fuckhead he is, make him go back to pick up the old lady.

So I gave her a ride to the stop where she was connecting buses.

What is it with people that just don't give a shit?

YOU ARE AN IDIOT

Yes, you, the one reading this. You're an idiot. A dumbass. Too stoopid to even realize it.

What? Don't believe me? Well, go here and read what some of our brilliant American celebrities are calling you.

They may be right, too. As long as we keep watching their movies and TV shows and buying their cd's, we are complete and total dumbfucks.

Link via LGF.

Veteran's Day Links

Michele has a heartfelt thanks as well as good a compilation of links to blogs with homages for Veteran's Day. And, if you want to send thanks to our men and women serving overseas, click here.

Dean also has a touching cartoon up by Cox and Forkum that needs to be seen.

This from Random Nuclear Strikes pretty much says it all.

Also, let's not forget Chief Wiggles and Operation Give today. Here's a serviceman who proves that our armed forces are much much more than firepower.

The Good Guys And Gals

When I was a kid my favorite toys were GI Joes and plastic soldiers. I had hundreds of toy soldiers and their plastic battle accuetrement. Tanks, big guns, jeeps. There was something about the classic good versus evil of playing war that appealled to me. I would play battlefield for hours on end and of course, the good guys, the Americans, would always win.

I also loved the old war movies. The Fighting Seabees, The Longest Day, In Harms Way...all of those old black and whites that depicted the dedication and perseverance of the men in our armed forces in their fight against tyranny. To this day, if I am flipping through channels and I catch a glimpse of one of those flicks I have to watch it. It doesn't matter if I've seen the movie a hundred times and already know the dialogue. I just have to watch it.

As a kid, I would watch these movies and think Man, I wanna be one of those guys. I wanna be one of those men with the courage to face the enemy without a second thought. I would risk my life to save a buddy stuck in the trenches or being pinned down by machine gun fire. These guys were my heroes.

Of course, when I got older I realized that these heroes in those war movies were just actors, and while some of them like Jimmy Stewart and others joined the armed forces and did their part for the war effort, these stars were just acting out what some men had done in real life. Those men and women whose names were unknown to most were the real heroes. The ones that left their families and loved ones, went halfway around the world, lived under sometimes gruelling conditions, and faced the enemy, sometimes paying the ultimate price.

And now, on days like today, I see some of these men and women, the ones that survived the battlefield and the years, some already white haired and wrinkled, donning full dress and medals, proudly marching in parades, saluting at ceremonies while Taps is played for their fallen brothers, and I have to stop for a moment and ask myself What are they thinking right now? What must these men who went through the fray be feeling at this moment? How many of their buddies died for us, in their youth, the primes of their lives? How could they have lived full lives while having left a piece of themselves on some battlefield somewhere so far away from here?

These men and women I speak of, these Veterans, are our true heroes. And today, on their day, I salute them and their fallen brethren, I salute their families and thank them all for such a sacrifice made on my behalf.

AHA!!!! I Think I Got It!!!!

I think I may very well have come up with the answer to the latino/hipanic conundrum! No more being referred to as a latino, no more living on the hyphen (CubanhyphenAmerican), no more checking the "other" box when filling out forms. From now on, you can all refer to me as either of the following:

Spanglican (Spanish speaker living in an anglo world)
Spanamerican (Spanish speaker living in America)
Cubamerican(Cuban in America)
Americuban(An American Cuban)
Miamericuban(A Cuban living in Miami)

Choose the one you like best guys.

Or, you can just call me Val.

UPDATE: Miguel of Ciao! came up with the true response. I am an americano. Brilliant Miguel, just brilliant.

I need a new laptop screen..

I have a Gateway laptop whose screen is history. I've searched the net for a replacement but the ones I've found cost too much. I could almost buy a new laptop for the prices they are asking. If anyone out there has, or knows of somewhere I can get, a screen for this laptop that wont cost an arm or a leg, please drop me a line. It would be greatly appreciated.

Matrix (Amanda)

The hubby and I went with a few friends to see "Matrix Revolutions" on Friday night. The first Matrix was great, we've seen it half a dozen times, but we didn't see Reloaded. Is it me, or did we not miss much? I mean, the only thing it seems we missed is how Nayobi comes into the picture, how there are so many citizens in Zion (I remember in the first Matrix, there were just a few of them, not thousands!), and the Machine City thing. Did we miss anything of real importance?

Bring on the steak!!

Brandon now has his second tooth. He's ready for some real food, not that baby food jar crap.
Who's cookin'?

Las Cinco del Viernes

Today is Viernes and it's time for the Friday Five:

1. What food do you like that most people hate?

I love Liver. Higado a la Italiana the way mom, and my wife, make.

2. What food do you hate that most people love?

Easy. I HATE SUSHI. Raw fish should only be used for bait.

3. What famous person, whom many people may find attractive, is most unappealing to you?

I have no idea how some people find Cristina Aguilera attractive. She's a booger. Oh, and the skinny bones Calista Flockhart. Nasssty.

4. What famous person, whom many people may find unappealing, do you find attractive?

Annie Lenox. There's just something about her that I find attractive.

5. What popular trend baffles you?

I don't understand tattoos. There are all these attractive women around with tattoos. I don't get it. I think the female form is a work of art, and tattooing them...well, it's like graffitti.

Anagram Leenkaso

Ok, since I liked the anagram site so much and have been playing around with it for the past hour or so, I decided to put together an Anagram Leenkaso for your reading pleasure. I will use each blog name as a search string in the anagram site and then find a result that I like to create a link.

-CALL OVARY MIST has a call for mother nature lovers.
-DARNED OWLS is having a religious discussion.
-A BARE LENIN REPORT has trouble rolling the r's.
-BANGER NITRO found something to do when he retires.
-CRACKPOT REST TIP says beware of the SuperSizing.
-HELLO YE SALAMI finds the ugliness.
-ERECTING SON SOURS talks about a major seller-outer.
-FLINGER KIM THRIFT THONG is worried about Dixie conceptions.
-BLABBING HURT US is worried about certain photos....
-EARNER IS JUSTLY ON talks about an affirmative disclaimer.
-OK GHOST has a great joke.
-A SCENT HES OF SKIRT wants to know if you are clean.
-CRISP WILES takes the mission.
-ADJACENT CHILE TIDE had a birthday.
-WANG BIZ worries about students.
-A WORMY GIRL has nude lawyers.

Disclaimer: All anagrams are posted in jest. No offense was intended or implied. They just look damn funny.

Anagrams

My lovely wife just turned me on to this site for creating anagrams. You type in a string and it gives you hundreds of words using only those letters.

I did a Val Prieto and got, among many many others, A viler pot.

Another Cubanism....

Today's Cubanism is automotive in nature and one that I think you'll find rather interesting.

Pisicorre

Literally: Pisi (from pisa) = step; corre = run. Thus, step-and-run.

Translation: Pisicorre means station wagon.

"What the..." I hear you say. Yes, it's true, in Cubanese step-and-run means station wagon. How can that be you may ask?

Well, in Cuba, the first cars imported with automatic transmissions were station wagons. And, given our penchant for speaking really really fast, we didn't want to trip over trying to pronounce station wagon (estaychon guagon). So, given that with the new automatic transmissions all you needed to do was step down on the accelerator and the car would run, it was decided. Pisicorre, station wagon.

Trade with Cuba

If you owned a business, say it's a food exporter, or a frozen foods manufacturer/exporter, would you do business with Cuba knowing that most if not all of the foods you are selling the island would wind up on the plates of tourists, and not the Cuban population?

Would you consider that you are doing nothing wrong by just selling your products?

It's November in Miami....

....and that means it's time for the Miami Book Fair International. Lauded as the "literary mecca of the Western world" by Tom Wolfe, the Miami Book Fair is one huge book lover's bash.

First called Books by the Bay in 1984, the two-day street fair has evolved into the largest and finest book fair in America. Attendance grew steadily and, by the late 1990s, hundreds of thousands of book lovers were eagerly participating in the annual literary festival. Since then, the Fair has blossomed to encompass numerous special programs.

Dozens of writers will be lecturing and reading from their works, both in English and in Spanish, all through this week and this coming weekend. The culmination is the StreetFair, a three day farmer's market of book vendors, kid's shows, music, readings...a veritable cornucopia of book related fun.

You can check out the calendar here .

Finally....

The Smarter Cop sent this great short fiction for Sudden Fiction weeks ago, and here I am posting it 3 days late. But, I must say, it's well worth the wait.

EARLY EXIT
By Pietro

When Jim decided to leave the party early, he had meant to escape the approaching nasty weather. Unfortunately, he still got stuck in the middle of the raging torrent of blinding rain, gusty wind, and brilliant flashes of lightning. Switching the wipers to maximum intensity, he pressed onward, turning right at the final light before the long stretch of rural road leading toward home.

The rain wasn’t the only reason for his early exit from Don’s house. He realized, though he was trying his best to keep somewhat temperate, that the room was beginning to spin around him, and if he downed another drink prodded on him by one of his giddy friends, there was no way he was going to make it home. He had a long day of work in front of him, thanks to his tyrannical boss, and unfortunately he was the most sober individual in the house that evening.
So here he was, guiding his pickup through a wall of wind-driven water, leaning forward, closer to the windshield, as if that was going to help penetrate the silvery darkness. A couple of times the truck hydroplaned, nearly sending Jim’s head into the windshield and compressing his heart like a sponge with fright; and on top of all this, he wasn’t even sure if he was sober enough to tell if he was actually on the right side of the road. It made for a very harrowing ride, and the indentations in the lining of his steering wheel showed an incredible tension that made him want to turn back, now -- screw work.
The rain continued to fall in steady, rippling sheets, chattering on the glass of the windshield like millions of tiny marbles, subduing Jim’s attempt to focus solely on the road ahead. Continuous vivid flashes of lightning seared his vision, leaving slowly fading imprints on his retinal walls which never really had a chance to disappear before the next blinding flash. Thunder shook the road under him as the lightning sought targets in the trees nearby.

CRACK!

Just ahead of Jim’s truck, lightning managed to hit a power pole, causing a loud popping sound and spraying sparks in every direction. Still unsure of exactly what happened, Jim swerved left into the other lane, trying to avoid the flying pinpoints of light shooting out from the transformer…. And then he felt and heard his worst nightmare, a loud “thud” and a vigorous tremble from his truck, as the tires ran over something.
He had run over something back there.
His nerves iced with fright, he slammed on the brakes, pitching himself forward, spinning the truck around, momentum pushing it into the grass , pitching gravel and turf, very nearly tipping into a roll, seatbelt pushed to its limit…. Until the vehicle finally came to rest facing the road, about three inches away from a large tree. Jim struggled momentarily to regain his breath; it was difficult getting the thought processes working again.. odd how in these situations, pissing one’s pants nearly became more reflexive than breathing.
Other than a mild ache in the back of his head, Jim pondered, he didn’t seem to be hurt. He wearily clicked open his seatbelt, pulled the door latch, and leaned outward, nearly spilling out of the truck in a somersault. He nearly fainted from the sudden wave of dizziness and nausea that came upon him as he exited his truck onto the cold, damp grass. The rain had settled down into nothing more than a drizzle. If I had waited just a few minutes more, he thought. Now I nearly killed myself, and God knows if I killed somebody back there.
Yes, in his panicked reaction to the lightning strike, Jim had definitely hit something of substance, and he had to find out what. Trying to contain his spinning environment, he slowly ambled forward along the road to where the truck had begun to spin out, and further still, taking his time, until he saw what he had hit. He couldn’t see it very clearly through the steam rising from the road and the soft raindrops trickling into his eyes. It looked like something small, like maybe a raccoon, or a cat. Shuffling ever closer, he squinted at the object resting in the emergency lane, until he could get a make on what it was exactly. Then he could go home and not –
Ohmygod
It was a human arm.
Retching, Jim collapsed to his knees, emptying whatever hors d’ouvres he had eaten with his Jack and Coke earlier. God, he had killed somebody!
He quickly came to his senses and began stumbling around, looking for the rest of the person he had hit, but it was so hard to see, and he could barely keep himself upright without tumbling to the ground.
God, what do I do? If anyone finds out about this, I’m toast… they’ll know I was drinking. I’m a murderer. What can I do now? Nobody can find out about this.. it was just an accident…
In what seemed to be pure instinctive reflex, at least to him, he kicked the arm, sending it flying into the overgrowth beside the road. At least they won’t find the guy until I’m well away from here, he thought, and walked as hurriedly as his weakened legs could carry him toward the truck. He climbed back inside, clapped the door shut, and started it up. It came back to life with a throbbing rumble, further heightening his nausea. He slowly put weight on the gas. The pickup’s rear tires coughed up mud and pebbles briefly, whining as the truck struggled out of the muck on to the highway, until finally he was back on the road again, fleeing whatever carnage he may have caused in his drunken hysteria.
About fifteen minutes into his flight, his conscience had grabbed hold of him. He was certainly wary that he had probably done the wrong thing, that it was an accident; that the alcohol would probably be gone from his system by the time the cops arrived. He eased off the gas as he considered going back and doing the right thing. Yes, the rain was easing up a lot now, and visibility was much better….
Wha-
A figure appeared in front of him in the road, waving frantically. For the second time in an evening, Jim had to step on the brakes, screeching the tires and nearly skidding out of control. Fortunately, the truck managed to stop well in front of the person outside, who was now running toward Jim’s side of the truck.
It was a young man, in drenched jeans and a dripping rain poncho, He was clean-shaven, with long black hair. There was a large cut on his cheek that appeared fresh.
There was apparent confusion in the man’s eyes as he approached Jim’s window and knocked on it. Hesitantly, Jim rolled it down.
“Hey, could you give me a ride? I about hit a tree over there and left my cell at home,” the man quickly said.
Jim looked around nervously. No suspicions need be awakened. “Uh, sure. There’s a gas station about five miles up the road. Hop in.”
As the man walked to the passenger side, Jim noticed that he was wincing in pain with every step he took. The man opened the passenger door and eased in delicately.
“Hey, are you ok?” Jim inquired. “You look hurt.”
The man looked back at Jim, and replied, “Yeah, I guess. I hit the tree pretty hard, as you can see. Big mess. I’ll be alright, just need to find a phone and a tow. By the way, name’s Mike.”
“Jim. Alright, then,” Jim said, and resumed down the country highway. Driving forward, he could see the car more easily, its crumpled hood emitting wisps of steam and smoke. The windshield had been shattered, the steering wheel pushed back against the driver’s seat. The guy, indeed, was lucky to be alive.
“Boy, am I glad you came around when you did,” Mike offered. “I was beginning to think that nobody travels this road at night… been waiting for hours for someone to show. What brings you this way?”
“Uh, had to leave a friend’s house early. Work tomorrow. This is the shortest way home.”
No mention of a party, or drinks. Good. Nobody needed to know. All this crap was enough to sober up the sottiest drunk.Glowing warmly just ahead was the tall Citgo sign and the bright security lamps around the service station’s pumps. Jim eased the truck into the parking space beside a pay phone in the shadows beside the gas station. Both Jim and his passenger got out, and Jim caught Mike’s eye and motioned to the store. “I’m going to pick up something with loads of caffeine while you do what you need to do. Want anything?”
“No thanks,” replied Mike, who began flipping through the yellow pages as Jim entered the store. Looking back, Jim saw Mike pick up the phone, begin dialing, and Mike waved at him. Jim helped himself to a large cup filled with ice and a generous amount of Mountain Dew, picked up a pack of mints to erase whatever scent of alcohol remained on his breath, paid the cashier, and left.
Mike was still on the phone, now hunched over and focused on his conversation, maybe with the insurance company, or the wrecker, or the police, or –
The police?
Jim picked up his pace, stepping it up to a sprint, determined to find out who Mike was talking to. At first, he didn’t notice the large figure rising from the bed of his truck, from under one of the tarps he kept there, but as he drew closer to the truck, he spotted the large man climbing out, favoring his left side, apparently not seeing Jim, but moving menacingly toward Mike, who was still absorbed in his phone conversation. The hefty man sneaked closer and closer to mike, still clutching his left side
No! it can’t be!
- With his right hand, which also seemed to be holding something long and shiny, like a knife –
He’s missing his left arm!
Taking advantage of the situation, seeing that the man was still unaware of his presence, Jim quickly circled the truck and reached into the bed, praying that what he was looking for was still there. His hand sought, and found, a large two by four that he had been saving to repair his fence.. thank God it was still