GOOOOO 'CANES!!!!! For Scott

It was just weeks after Hurricane Andrew had devastated South Florida. Life had just begun to get back to normal for most Miamians. I had spent a little over a month with the reconstruction of my parent's home and other post-hurricane work. It was the first Saturday that I had nothing to do, no work, no chores, no fixing roofs, no inspections...nada. I was looking forward to one thing and one thing only that saturday afternoon: the granddaddy of Florida college football games. The Florida State Seminoles against the University of Miami Hurricanes.

It was, and still is, the rivalry of rivalries in Florida sports and there I was at my little apartment in the Gables with a refrigerator full of beer and the TV on to the pregame shows. I usually go to that game every year but in 1992 I was too busy with all the post hurricane work. I popped open a beer and sat down in front of the television waiting for the game of games to begin in two hours.

The phone rang and I figured it was one of my buddies that needed beer and a TV to watch the game, calling to ask if he could come over.

"Hurricane Football Headquarters," I answered.

"Hi Val. What are you doing for the game?" It was my high school friend Nancy's voice on the line.

"Beer and TV," I said.

"I have an extra ticket, wanna go?"

I was dressed and ready to rock in two minutes. If you have ever been to college football games you know how rowdy and emotional they can be. But this game, this Seminole/Hurricane game, is by far the most hyped, anticipated, rowdy, emotional and downright crazy game you could ever go to in the state of Florida. I donned my Hurricanes shirt and hat, downed a few beers and waited for my ride.

Now, my friend Nancy didnt know squat about football until her brother started college at Florida State. She had gone to a game the year before and had instantly become a football and Seminole fanatic. I knew we were going to be ribbing each other the rest of the day, but it was OK. I was going to the FSU-Miami game and that's all that mattered.

We got to the Orange Bowl with enough time to do a little tailgating. We hung out with some Miami fans despite the fact that Nancy and her brother were both donning the enemies uniforms. We drank, we ate, threw the pigskin around. It was a beautiful football Saturday afternoon.

A few minutes before game time, Ray, Nancy's brother, hands me my ticket and smiles. I take the ticket from his hand, thank him, and look to see where it is that I'm going to be sitting.

Endzone seats, first row. Not the best seats but not bad seats either. But then this little disturbing thought pops into head. No. Please tell me it's not in.... I look at the ticket once again and my fears were confirmed. Here I was in full Miami Hurricane dress and regalia and I would be sitting in the Seminole student section.

We made it to our seats and from that moment on I was the object of scorn and ridicule. I was the only Hurricane fan seated at that section. Orange in a sea of burgundy. I got booed. I got yelled at. I became the target of football rivalry hazing. I was heckled and heckled and heckled.

I fought back, of course. I mean, regardless of the fact that I was in the Seminole section, this was still Miami, and there were a good 50,000 or 60,000 Hurricane fans there to back me up. I remember I kept pointing to the goalposts and shouting WIDE RIGHT!!! WIDE RIGHT!!! in reference to the previous year's field goal miss by the Seminoles. In 1991 the Seminoles had missed a field in the last few seconds of the game to give the Hurricanes a victory by the score of 17 to 16. I surely wasnt going to let these rowdy Seminole fans forget about that.

Then both teams came out onto the field and the stadium held their breath for the kickoff. There on the field was my favorite college football team, lined up at the 20, ready to kickoff from our end of the stadium. Kickoffs at the Orange Bowl start with a low hum from the crowd and then the noise and the stomping on the metal floors increases as the kicker approaches the ball and turns into a roar once the ball is kicked.

It was a beauty of a kick too. The Seminole kick returner caught the ball inside his own 5 yard line. The Hurricane crowd went absolutely wild. The stadium shook it was so loud. But there was a problem. The roar from the kickoff didnt die down. It kept going and going and going. There was still alot of movement on the other end of the field. Something was wrong.

The Seminoles ran the ball back 94 yards for a touchdown. Had I been in any other section of the stadium, I would have heard a pin drop. But, alas, I was not. I was getting hammered by screams and hooting and yelling. Cups were flying at me, peanuts, ice, anything anyone up in my section of the stands could find to hurl at me. It was going to be a long game.

The next four quarters of football was one of the best I have ever seen. It was one of those football games that was a grueling back and forth. It was true footyball. And while the Hurricanes prevented the Seminoles from getting into the endzone the rest of the game, the Seminole's defense squashed the almighty Hurricane's offense. We ran the gammut of emotions. It almost came to blows a few times between me and some of the Seminoles fans throughout the course of that game. Beer and football induced courage.

In the fourth quater, with minutes to go, Miami scored a touchdown to bring the score to 17-16 Miami. Reminiscent of the previous year's contest. The Canes kicked off and drove the Seminoles deep in their own territory. Then an illegal forward pass in the endzone gave the Canes a 19-16 lead with 2 minutes left to play.

The Seminoles then drove the ball down field into Hurricane territory determined to score. But, the Miami defense hadnt allowed atouchdown all day and with seconds left in the game, the Seminoles decided on a field goal attempt for the tie. The Seminoles would be kicking right at me. Both teams lined up. The Orange Bowl was loud. Really loud. I have never been at a game with so much noise and tension. The suspense was palpable as I felt the stadium rumble under my feet.

The Seminoles hiked the ball, the holder held it and then the kick went up. The ball was coming right at me. It seemed like that ball floated up there forever. Everyone around me followed its arc. The din of the stadium grew quiet.

Going...going... and then...the kick missed by inches. WIDE RIGHT!!!!! WIDE RIGHT!!! WIDE RIGHT!!! The Orange Bowl exploded as the Seminole fans around me just completely deflated. I turned around to face them, raised my arms in victory, and did a happy dance at their expense.

Man, what a game. I dont think I'll ever witness one like that again..

This year's 'Canes-'Noles game is Monday September 6th, live from the Orange Bowl. I can't wait.

Scott, my happy dance is coming, but don't worry, there's always next year. Or the year after that. Or the one after. Or after that. Or...Maybe some day.

GOOOOOOO CANES!!!!!!!!

October 3, 1992

#2 Miami 19, #3 Florida State 16
Miami, Florida

The Miami-Florida State games defined college football during the 1990's and it seemed the contest was played with a higher intensity and at a higher level than any game in the sport each season. The intensity of the game became a trademark of it. The 1992 meeting between the Hurricanes and the Seminoles may have been the most intense of the decade. The Hurricanes entered as defending national champions riding a 20-game winning streak. The Seminoles were determined to vanquish their nemesis and take their place atop the college football world. Something would have to give. The similarities were there again. Miami had what it took to survive another hard-fought battle. The Seminoles again would fall victim to a shortcoming in the kicking game. "Wide Right II" would be perhaps the most emotionally draining game of the series to date. FSU started the game with a 94-yard touchdown on the opening kickoff by Tamarick Vanover for a 7-0 lead. Miami responded, seemingly taking control in the second period with a 24-yard field goal by Dane Prewitt and a 29-yard pass from Gino Torretta to Coleman Bell for a 10-7 lead. FSU battled back to tie it at the half on a 22-yard field goal by Dan Mowrey. FSU forged ahead, 16-10, on a 34-yard field goal by Mowrey in the third quarter and a 41-yarder by Mowrey with 9:05 remaining. Torretta put Miami back in front with 6:50 to go, engineering a 58-yard drive that he ended with a 33-yard pass to Lamar Thomas for a 17-16 lead. After a safety to give Miami a 19-16 lead, the Seminoles took over with 1:35 remaining and drove 59 yards to set up a 39-yard field goal attempt with eight seconds remaining. Kicking into the east end zone of the Orange Bowl, Mowrey's kick sailed wide right.

Scoring Summary
(3)Florida State 7 3 3 3 - 16
(2)Miami 0 10 0 9 - 19

Florida State - Vanover 94-yard kickoff return (Mowrey kick)
Miami - Prewitt 24-yard field goal
Miami - Bell 29-yard pass from Torretta (Prewitt kick)
Florida State - Mowrey 22-yard field goal
Florida State - Mowrey 38-yard field goal
Florida State - Mowrey 41-yard field goal
Miami - Thomas 33-yard pass from Torretta (Prewitt kick)
Miami - Safety, illegal forward pass in end zone
Attendance: 77,338

McCain, Giuliani Rock

Last night, former NYC major Rudy Giuliani and Senator John McCain gave barnburner speeches at the RNC. It was impressive. Best part about it was that Vietnam was not mentioned even once.

I've been following the goings on at the RNC over at RNCbloggers. Excellent posts by excellent bloggers all in one place, all from the convention. Those guys are doing an excellent job.

Ouzolympics

You know there must have been a bunch of athletes walking around that field last night at the closing ceremonies with flasks filled with ouzo. Im sure there was some major multinational athletic hanky panky going on in Athens last night. Lots and lots of horizontal diplomacy happenin' over there for sure.

Lucky bastards.

Grab the Sex Wax!

Surf's up!!!

Malaise ala Jimmuh

I've been sitting here with the MT editor open for about a half hour now trying to blog something worthwhile, something important. I've started writing on Kerry's flip-flop over Helmes-Burton. I started writing on the RNC. I've started writing about the dumbass protesters in NYC. I've started writing about the Olympics. About the Miami Dolphins. About the damn freaken hurricane that seems to be coming my freaken way.

Nothing has stuck. I'm in a pissy mood. So consider this my malaise speech ala Jimmy Carter.

Fact of the matter is that it seems pretty obvious to me that John Kerry isnt fit to be the CiC. And noone can prove otherwise. Fact of the matter is that I dont really give a shit about Kerry's stance on Cuba. Kerry is like a freaken hemorrhoid that I know wont go away til November. And there aint no Preparation H that I can swab liberally on it to make the pain go away.

And about the convention. I've been wanting to write something about the convention and NYC and all the loony protesters and such, but it's been done. It's being done. And by much better bloggers than me. Truth be told, how much can one say about the anti-establishment types causing a ruckus? Who gives a shit about what they fucking want anyway? Wanna protest? Fine. Wanna burn cars on the streets of NYC? Fine. Wanna throw rocks and sticks and whatever to voice your displeasure with your own life? More power to you. Doesn't make you less of an asshole.

And I dont even want to get started on the Dolphins and their piece of shit team. Usually this time of year Im ready for the Superbowl. But, from this weekend's preseason game, my football season is going to feel like one long third and long.

Of course, adding to this malaise is the fact that there's another freaken hurricane heading pretty much STRAIGHT FOR ME. This week is preparation week. Buy water. Buy canned goods. Fill coolers with ice. Make sure I have batteries. Make sure flashlights work. Trim trees. Tie down the freaken shed. Fill the boat with water. Make sure I have plenty of gas for the lawn tools which I will need post-hurricane. Make sure the propane tanks are filled for the grilles. Get charcoal just in case. Get lighter fluid. Get candles. Make sure I have plenty of dog food. Fill the cars' tanks up. Remove all lawn furniture and shit from yard. Put up damn storm shutters. Make sure I have photographs and records of all the stuff in the freaken house. Make sure all documents are in waterproof container and in safe location. Then repeat all of the above at my parent's house.

I just ain't in a good mood today. Not in a good mood at all.

Florida's Cuban-American Vote

Recent polls show the Cuban-American support for President Bush is waning. Down from an overwhelming 81% in 2000 to around 66% in this election cycle. The drop is blamed on the new remittance and travel restrictions against Cuba imposed earlier this year.

The polls may be correct. Many Cuban-Americans see the new restrictions as the US government further separating their families. Some noted Cubans, including Jose Basulto of Brothers to the Rescue and Ramon Raul Sanchez, head of the anti-Castro Democracy Movement have come out against the new policy stating that more contact with Cuban on the island is a necessary step in building bridges of communications once Castro is gone.

They may be right. But what if they are wrong? What if Cuban-Americans were allowed to travel freely to the island as before? Sure, they would be happy to see their family members still on the island. Sure, these family members could use the monetary help their exiled Cuban-Americans give them. Sure, they could use bars of soap and medicines and feminine napkins these people would bring them. But this help only serves the short run. What happens in the long run?

Every single cent that enters the island of Cuba ends up in the regimes hand in one way or another. Castro's government owns everything. The hotels, the restaurants, the resorts, the dollar stores. Everything.

Cuba is an island where everything is for sale and it's owned by a single proprietor.

You want to open a hotel in Cuba? Sure, no problem, you build it on my land with your own materials and once complete you manage it. I will supply the workforce to build it and charge you top dollar for the labor, whom, I will in turn pay out of my pocket in peanuts. You can manage the hotel once it's built also, and I will supply the labor as well. For a doorman I'll charge you $20 an hour and I will in turn pay him $20 a month. Ill do the same with the rest of the hotel staff, who will be more than happy to work there as it may get them the coveted dolares in tips.

The new restrictions are meant to lessen the flow of cash to the island. A flow of one billion dollars a year since the Clinton administration. One billion dollars a year. Thats one billion dollars more that Castro has to export his revolution - read:Venezuela, etal - throughout the Americas. That's one billion dollars a year for propaganda. One bllion dollars a year to decry the evils of the imperialist yanquis. That's one billion dollars a year Castro can use to build state of the art medical facilities for the purpose of treating foreigners with dollars. Cubans will still only get their polyclinics that open 4 hours a week.

Unfortunately, most of the Cuban-Americans that are against the new restrictions didn't come here solely for political reasons. They came here to do precisely what the restrictions are now stopping: to work and send money to relatives. It's hard to blame them of course. Who wants to be party to hurting someone's family?

What the anti-restrictions folks fail to understand is that the restrictions are not meant to be permanent. They are meant to cause irreparable damage to Castro's economy. To keep him from exporting communism. To keep him from further exploiting is people. To break down the two tier system of the island. To make Castro open up the market system in Cuba to allow Cubans to be individuals and create private enterprise.

As I have said before, for Cubans and Cuban-Americans, it's all about sacrifice.

Cuban-Americans against Bush and his restrictions need to understand that it is not about them, but about us. About we as a people who have endured Castro's hell for over 40 years. It's not about a single Cuban but every single Cuban. The majority of Cubans do not have family abroad.

There's no making deals with Fidel Castro because there's no way to come out winning. History proves that. If he is still the culprit of his people's oppression despite a bad economy, imagine the fate of the Cuban people, moreover, the fate of the Americas, with Castro at the helm of a strong and bulging economic state.

Think Fidel Castro is bad? Imagine him with money.

(Crossposted at The Command Post)

Voices of Reason

Please, drop by ResurrectionSong and read this post and this post. Both are entries from Zombyboy's comments section made by vets and both are incredibly insightful.

Cockatiel Birthday.

One of my favorite pure bloggers - his blog is my first stop every morning in blogdom - is having a birthday today. Now, Im not talking about puppies or blenders or puppy blenders, Im talking Cockatiels.

Drop by Inoperable Terran and wish Ian a happy birthday.

Two months at sea.

Six Cubans made it to shore after two months at sea. Ordinarily, this is a relatively common ocurrence. There are reports of Cubans making it to the Florida shores almost weekly. What sets this story apart from all the others is that these freedom seekers were taken off course by Tropical Storm Bonnie and Huricane Charley and after 2 months in the Gulf of Mexico, arrived in Texas.

Cubans wash ashore near Port A

The six had meant to land in Mexico; hurricanes left them at sea 2 months

By Mike Baird and Icess Fernandez Caller-Times
August 27, 2004

After two months at sea in a 30-foot boat that finally ended when they washed up on Mustang Island late Wednesday, five of six Cuban nationals were released Thursday, federal officials said.

Two of the Cubans were released to family members from Dallas, and three were placed on a bus to see relatives in Miami.

The sixth, Magali Arojo, a 58-year-old woman, was listed in stable condition at Christus Spohn Hospital Memorial on Thursday.

"Originally the Cubans were to be transferred to the U.S. Customs facility in Port Isabel," Felix Cantu, a Corpus Christi Border Patrol agent, said. "Initially, we were going to process them to go to camp, but we received a late note that they were not able to fit. So we redid the paperwork and they were released."

The Cuban are due for their immigration hearing in Harlingen in a couple of months, Cantu said. Although Cubans who make it to the sand of Florida usually are assured of asylum, the rule has never been tested in Texas.

The trip started June 25 from Manzanillo, a small coastal town in southern Cuba, Cantu said. He said they left Cuba in a raft and purchased the boat, two 55-gallon drums of fuel and one of water in the Cayman Islands five days later.

Their destination was Isla Cozumel, Mexico, but they probably were blown off course by Tropical Storm Bonnie and Hurricane Charley in mid-August, Cantu said. He said they were planning to get from Cozumel to the mainland, then walk all the way through Mexico and into the U.S.

Clothing, hygiene products, dried fish, and two of the 55-gallon drums were found on the boat after it came ashore about 10:30 p.m. Wednesday, said police Sgt. John C. Hooper.

A life raft, a phone book and an Aug. 14 issue of the Caller-Times also were found on the boat. Police said they suspected those items came from an oil rig.

Arojo and Miguel Diaz, age unknown, were found parched and exhausted Wednesday night near the boat at mile marker 74, near the Mayan Princess Condominium.

The other four Cubans were walking along the beach toward Port Aransas, said Capt. John Moseley, executive officer in charge of Corpus Christi police investigations.

The Border Patrol was notified when Arojo and Diaz, along with Rolando Perez, 38, Beidel Perez, 27, Orlando Pupo, 37, and Aldo Diaz, 35, were taken to Christus Spohn Memorial, Moseley said.

Police initially said the group had been at sea for 11 days, but border patrol agents learned after interviewing them that they had been at sea for two months.

There was confusion at first about who should take custody of the Cuban nationals, and police said Border Patrol agents initially would not take them.

"They refused to take custody of the people, saying they didn't know if they were from Cuba or Mexico," Moseley said. Border Patrol is responsible for Mexican immigrants and U.S. Customs is responsible for Cuban refugees, he said.

Cantu said Border Patrol officials told police if the people needed medical treatment, agents would interview them afterward. However, the Border Patrol wasn't informed when the five men were discharged from the hospital early Thursday, he said, so agents then went looking for them.

"Usually the hospital gives us a courtesy call when releasing people," Cantu said, "but in this case they didn't. The hospital cuts them loose, and they're free to go. We found them at the bus station."

Hospital officials were notified to contact border agents when Arojo is released.

Border Patrol agents are checking databases to see whether the Cuban nationals have criminal histories or terrorist ties, Cantu said. Paperwork is being processed and they were taken to a U.S. Customs detention center in Port Isabel, where they will go before an immigration judge, he said.

"They're real nice people," Cantu said. "They're just hungry and tired."

Thanks to Ruth for the heads up.

Food for. . . thought.

We all saw the devastation that hurricane Charley caused in Florida. We all saw the destroyed homes and buildings and all the people who were left homeless. Our government immediately declared it a disaster and federal aide started to pour in.

Things are a little different in Cuba.

In Cuba, the government aided the victims by releasing food stocks to the population. Food stocks that required refrigeration. Food stocks that were reserved for sale to the tourism industry. Food stocks that the average Cuban never has a chance to consume. Food stocks that were already rotting.

The Castro regime sold rotting food - food reserved for tourists - to the Cuban people. Sold. Not donated. Not given away. Not meted to those in need, but sold.

PINAR DEL RÍO, August 25 (Rafael Ferro Salas, UPECI / www.cubanet.org) - Authorities in charge of food rationing in Pinar del Río province released for sale food stocks that need refrigeration after hurricane Charley knocked out the power, but by the time they reached market, consumers complained, they were decomposing or worse.

"They never sold us these products before. At first, we were happy, but then we realized that they were selling them outside the rationing system because they were rotten and only good to throw away. In spite of that, the prices were high, as if the products were good. To top it all, some people with money were buying rotting meat to resell in other cities," said one resident of the Rancho Grande subdivision, who refused to be identified.

The hurricane cut across the island through Havana province east of here, but knocked down the power lines that bring in the electricity. Most of the province has been off the national grid since.

Stolen Honor

John Kerry lied - POW's died.

How anyone can even contemplate voting for such a dishonorable and undiginified man as John Kerry is beyond me.

Run away, Ricky Williams. Run away.

For what seems like forever, the Miami Dolphins were lacking a quality running back. In the days of Dan the Man Marino as Dolfans we would pray each off season for the football gods to bring us a decent back. A guy who could compliment the greatest passer the game had ever known. Each season began with high hopes and always ended in running back hell. Dan never got his quality back and Dan never got the ring he gave his body up for.

But then, two years ago, the Dolphins brought in this guy called Ricky Williams from the New Orleans Saints. There was a lot of hoopla over the trade. this ricky character was supposed to be one hell of a running back. The answer to the Dolphin's offensive woes. Ricky would run. Ricky would open up the passing game. Ricky would spread the defense. Ricky would exploit the hole and ram the ball down their throats.

For two seasons, despite having a crappy quarter back and no offensive line, we Dolfans were optimistic. We had a running game! We had a guy in the backfield that ran 1000 yard seasons. For the first time since the Perfect Season Dolphins, we were a threat on the ground. We were Superbowl bound!

But, alas, it all ended a few days before this season's training camps began. Ricky Williams, our savior, our goto guy, our man on the ground who could pound, up and quit. Just like that.

He gave no thought to his team. He gave no thought to his teammates. He gave no thought to his coaches. He gave no thought to the fans that loved him.

He left his team high and dry and without options. He could have quit before the draft. He could have given the coaches a heads up so that they could replace him. But he didnt.

Ricky Williams preferred to smoke pot and travel the world and find himself. After failing 3 drugs test with marijuana, he just decided that reefer is what he wanted. Forget the millions the Dolphins had just payed him. Forget his contractual obligations. Forget responsibility. Forget the guys on the field that were his brothers in battle. It's all about Ricky Williams.

The Miami Dolphins sent Ricky a letter demanding the return of some $8Mil by Monday. Ricky then immediately called Coach Wannstedt as a token of "good will" so the Dolphins would not press for the money.

I hope the Miami Dolphins force him to return every single cent of the 8 million.

Time to grow up and pay up, Ricky. Welcome to the world of being an adult, you self serving pothead.

But the Healthcare! The HEALTHCARE!!!!

HAVANA, August 24 (Adrián Leiva, Grupo Decoro / www.cubanet.org) - Most medical dispensaries in the area served by the Antonio Maceo polyclinic in El Cerro are closed or operate only a few hours a week due to the shortage of doctors.

Observers attributed the shortage to the recent mass shipment of as many as 10,000 Cuban physicians to Venezuela, now compounded by the traditional summer vacation period.

The Antonio Maceo polyclinic serves an area where approximately 15,000 people live. The areas known as Palatino, Casino Deportivo, Martí, and Santa Catalina, are included in its service area.

The available doctors are reportedly rotating between dispensaries, managing to keep them open four hours a week.

Then something went SNAP!!

Twisted. Just twisted.

Biting the hand that feeds you.

I still have the flu so please bear with me on this post. I wanted to comment on it when Scott first emailed me this link to Matthew Yglesias but I was on meds and feeling crappy.

Now, I don't usually read Matt because I think he is what we here in the Miami Mafia call un Cubano arrepentido. Reminds me of those Cuban kids in school who would beat you up if you called them Cuban. For them, being Cuban was a bad thing. Now, I'm not criticizing Matt, he is entitled to his opinion and his views and for all I know he is down with his Cuban roots.

But this comment from his entry really touched a nerve:

Check out The Washington Post's account of how and why George W. Bush decided to impoverish hundreds of Cuban families in an ultimately failed attempt to boost his support among Cuban-Americans in Florida.

Because, of course, we all know that the people in Cuba are poor because of George W. Bush. It is, after all, George Bush's fault. Everything is. And Matt certainly doesnt let something like facts get in the way of a good jab at the POTUS.

Matt goes on to say:

How is preventing a Cuban-American from sending deodorant to her relatives in Cuba supposed to bring the Castro regime to its knees? Or is the worry that Castro will intercept the deodorant at the border and use it make weaponizable nuclear fuel? Why are we ruled by these idiots?

Quite simplistic, Matt. You obviously know very little, if anything at all, about how the Cuban economy works, but, since you are an arrepentido, Ill let that slide. Whatever curdles you cream.

But, just one last thing. We are not "ruled" by George W. Bush and his administration, we are led by them. See, they are "elected" representatives of the people. "Rulers" are people like Fidel Castro, who dont give a damn about their own people, much less the oppressed people of another country.

Thanks

Thanks to all who have wished me a happy recovery from this nasty bug. Im still feeling like shit despite major amounts of pharmaceuticals, not to mention soup.

I'd been feeling crappy for a few days now but it just seemed to hit me this weekend full force. Hopefully, being that my blood is now about 90% Tylenol flu medication, Ill be feeling better soon.

Have flu

Cant blog. Will someone email me some chicken soup?

Amen, Dean. Amen.

Dean's got it right on the Kerry/Swift Vets issue.

Abuelos

A dear freind sent me the following article last night about the passing of a friend's Abuelo. It was published in Sunday's Chicago Tribune. It brought back a ton of emotions for me.

`We buried him on a sweltering Thursday afternoon, with temps ramping up to 96 degrees. Even the priest wept.'

By Rick Jervis
Tribune staff reporter

August 15, 2004

Toward the end, abuelo wasn't abuelo.
A stroke five years ago had shriveled my grandfather's brain and body.
Once a conversationalist who relished talking to anyone about anything, lately he would sit quietly on his recliner, watching hours of whatever was put on TV for him. He walked in tiny shuffles. He needed help shaving. He barely spoke.
The abuelo I knew, the one who helped raised my brother and me, was a different person.
My grandfather, Dionisio Rossie, was born in Matanzas, Cuba, took over his father's sugar-packing company in Havana and built a small home to raise his family in Cojimar (later made famous as the home of the grizzled fisherman in Ernest Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea").
When the "Viva Fidel" signs started popping up in his neighborhood, he came to the United States. I knew him as the old man with boundless energy who never left his bedroom in our Miami home if not dressed in slacks, shirt and tie.
He was the one who drove to Cochinito Supermarket on Bird Road first thing every morning so we would have hot pan cubano before school. He was the man who worked 12-hour shifts as shoe manager of Zayre department store every night for 17 years, but always had enough left when he got home to toss around a baseball.
So his recent death, in some ways, was merciful.
He had slipped in his living room and broken his right femur. A successful 20-minute surgery bolted the bone together, but he had a small heart attack wading out of the anesthesia, which in turn filled his lungs with fluid and collapsed his kidneys. He died quietly four days later.
He was 88.
We buried him on a sweltering Thursday afternoon, with temperatures ramping up to 96 degrees.
Even the priest wept.
My grandfather's passing affected my family more than I imagined. He was the patriarch, the leader who planned the family's departure from Castro's Cuba. He resettled the family from a beach town in Cuba to the suburbs of Miami. Like thousands of others, he thought he would return someday, but he died waiting.
Around 400,000 "historic exiles"--the early wave of Cubans who fled the island mostly for political reasons--left Cuba between 1959, the year Fidel Castro took power, and 1980. About 300,000 remain alive today.
The Cuban exile community, still bunched predominantly in South Florida, has accordingly been changing as the older generation ages and dies and the newer one turns 30. Its members are younger, less extremist, more open-minded. The majority still would like to see a Castro-less Cuba, but their interests expand beyond Cuba: schools, jobs, the Florida Marlins.
With the presidential election looming, the press has begun focusing on the changing face of Florida's Cuban exile voter. Recent polls show historic exiles continue to vote Republican, Cuban-Americans tend to be Democratic, and everyone wants Castro to go.
But the legacy passed on from one generation to the next in Miami runs deeper than politics.
"What's being passed on is not so much the politics, it's the culture," said Joe Garcia, executive director of the Cuban American National Foundation, an exile organization run by its founder's son.
"It's that sense that you don't have to re-create yourself, your self is fine. That's what our fathers left us."
My grandfather taught me to speak Spanish.
I learned how to steer a car sitting on his lap in his old Dodge and, when I was tall enough, he taught me the pedals, too.
In my 30 years of memory, I never once heard him raise his voice. In that same period, I only saw him drink one cup of beer at a Thanksgiving party. He didn't smoke. And he never broke the speed limit, frustrating me and my brother on car trips to Disney World.
Once, when I was expelled for getting into a fistfight with a high school nemesis, abuelo was called in to take me home. When the student I had just fought couldn't get home because his mother couldn't leave work, he offered to take him home, too. It took me months to explain my way out of why I was seen getting into the same car with my grandfather and the nemesis.
When I was old enough to care, I peppered him with questions about Cuba.
His eyes would ignite as he recounted stories of taking my grandmother to see 20-piece orchestra sets at Cabaret Sans Souci outside Havana or watch "Casablanca" at Teatro Payret. Every outing ended with a late-night breakfast of cafe con leche and tostadas cubanas at the "12 y 23" cafe in old town Havana.
And through the timbre of his voice, I could close my eyes and see him, pleated slacks, white shirt rolled up to the elbows, walking those warm streets.
I still imagine him that way, slim, suave and tackling the world.
When I got the phone call that he was dying, I took the first flight from Chicago to Miami.
On the ride over, my panicked mind found peace in all that he was leaving me: the memories, the values, the indescribable love for an island I don't really know, and the unique ability to be as much as him as possible. I resolved to do just that.
The night he died, my grandmother chased all the relatives out of his hospital room and called in me, my brother and my cousin's husband--the men in the family.
Still holding his tiny, lifeless wrist, her voice quivering with sobs, she made us promise, there in front of him, that we would do our best to emulate him, to live our lives according to his example.
It was a clear, powerful moment amid the chaos of our sorrow.
But I was way ahead of her.

Rick, my deepest condolences on the passing of your Abuelo. All I can say is he may be gone, but he'll never leave you.

Cuba: It's All About the Healthcare

Fidel Castro, in his magnanimity and after making a public welcome, gave Diego Maradona - the former soccer star - full access to Cuba's healthcare system and allowed him to enter rehab in one of the island's lauded clinics.

But....

A Mexican newspaper published photos Thursday of Argentine soccer great Diego Maradona allegedly snorting cocaine in a drug rehabilitation clinic in Cuba..

Chavez Thugs Shoot Innocents

That's how it begins. Quell all opposition, divide the people, and mute those whose voice might be heard.

Just like Castro did in Cuba, Chavez and his thugs are now working their supporters into a frenzy of hate. My family was pelted by rocks and bottles and slurs for being anti-Castro in Cuba. My father was detained and beaten a slew of times. A mere twist of fate saved his live. There will be many many men like my father in Venezuela now.

On Monday, several of Chavez' men shot into a crowd of protesters while his supporters pelted them with rocks and stones and bottles. One woman, a 61 year old grandmother, was shot and later bled to death in hospital.

The recall election was rigged. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind about that fact. Dictator's do whatever it takes to stay in power. My heart goes out to the freedom loving people of Venezuela. They have no idea what's in store for them.

No idea.

Thanks to Michele for the heads up.

UPDATE: Yoan put it quite succinctly:

People keep talking about democracy for Cuba and for Venezuela. But what we need in those places is liberty - in the American tradition - first and foremost. Democracy is often the tyranny of the majority, which is why a demagogue and tyrant like Chávez or Castro can get up and lecture the world about "participative democracy" just after he's committed a megafraud. Democracy is good, liberty is better.

John "Blame Bush" Kerry

Mr. Kerry, being that you have no platform other than Blame Bush, being that you have a non-existent Senate record, being that you have used your Vietnam service and three self-awarded purple hearts as the cornerstone of your campaign, being that not only did you call yourself and all other military serving in Vietnam murderes, being that you lied about being in Cambodia, being that you are questioning the patriotism of the SWift Vets for Truth and being that you are stating, in no uncertain terms that the President of the United States - the office which you seek and are now debasing - is behind the SWFT ads, please, do us all a favor and prove to us that you are the patriotic warrior you purport to be.RELEASE ALL OF YOUR MILITARY SERVICE RECORDS.

FRAUD IN VENEZUELA

Looks like Little Hugo learned well from Big Fidel:

At first people scratched their heads in disbelief, including many Chávez supporters, but accepted these figures after César Gaviria, secretary general of the Organization of American States, and former President Jimmy Carter said their own quick counts coincided with the electoral council's figures. Two days after the referendum, however, evidence is growing that the software of the touch-screen voting machines had been tampered with. The opposition has requested that the votes be recounted manually and that the boxes holding the voting papers, currently stored in army garrisons, be put under the custody of international observers.

<...>

Evidence of foul play has surfaced. In the town of Valle de la Pascua, where papers were counted at the initiative of those manning the voting center, the Yes vote had been cut by more than 75 percent, and the entire voting material was seized by the national guard shortly after the difference was established.

<...>

Three machines in a voting center in the state of Bolivar that has generally voted against Chávez all showed the same 133 votes for the Yes option, and higher numbers for the No option. Two other machines registered 126 Yes votes and much higher votes for the No. The opposition alleges that these machines, which can both send and receive information, were reprogrammed to start adjudicating all votes to the No option after a given number of Yes votes has been registered.

Three machines in a voting center in the state of Bolivar that has generally voted against Chávez all showed the same 133 votes for the Yes option, and higher numbers for the No option. Two other machines registered 126 Yes votes and much higher votes for the No. The opposition alleges that these machines, which can both send and receive information, were reprogrammed to start adjudicating all votes to the No option after a given number of Yes votes has been registered

Posted by Val Prieto at 08:00 AM | Permanent Link to this Post | Habla (3)

Communism for Dummies

Step one: Centralize government.

Step two: Take control of the courts.

Step three (and probably most important): Take control of the media.

Looks like it's check, check and check now in Venezuela.

As Scott put it over at Burton Terrace: So much for participatory democracy.

Looks like Castro's plan of exporting the communist revolution has succeeded. This time in a country with rich oil reserves. The Venezuelan people are screwed.

Oh, Sweet Democracy

From Iraq the Model:

Over the past few weeks a group of wonderful people have been working on a website, press release, and other campaign material to prepare for our announcement that two of us, me (Ali) and Mohammed, will be officially announcing our candidacy for the Iraqi National Assembly. <...> I must say that we thought about this soon after the end of the war and we started a small party as some of you probably remember me saying that, but things didn't go well at that time and we couldn't continue. After starting our blog however, your support, encouragement and the wonderful things we learned from you, made us believe that we can do it again. This time we won't quit, because even if we don't win we know that we'll achieve something and something that we believe important; taking active part in the democratic process in our country.

For sometime we thought that we can help by doing our jobs and by posting our opinions here on the blog, and while we still think it does help, the battle against tyranny and fanaticism in our country demands more than that. It demands that each one of us put all the effort he/she can make and take an active stand regardless of how difficult or dangerous it may seem. We simply cannot just stand and watch and we hope that we will encourage others also to do their best in order to achieve our freedom and establish democracy in a country that suffered more than enough from wars, dictators, terrorists and fanatics.

We believe that democracy is the only cure to all those diseases and the only answers to all threats. As hard the battle seems now and as far victory may look, we believe in our people and we believe in our friends and we know we will win.

This is what it's all about, folks. Democracy.

If you want to help, click here.

Heh!

Or maybe it should read Doh!

With Fidel, trust is the issue

Posted August 16 2004 in The Sun-Sentinel.

No less an authority than the Simpsons TV series surfaced at a recent scholarly conference to describe what's happening with foreign investment in Cuba.

Turns out in a classic episode that Mr. Burns and Homer arrive on the island in hopes of investing a trillion dollars they have.

They meet with Fidel Castro, who asks to see the trillion-dollar bill. Homer reassures Burns: "I think we can trust the president of Cuba."

Castro pockets the cash, and when Burns asks for it back, Fidel replies: "Give what back?"

Next, the men are seen floating on a crudely made raft in the ocean -- apparently on their way back home.

Attorney Pedro Freyre, who sits on the Free Cuba committee of the Greater Miami Chamber of Commerce, invoked the episode to show problems foreign investors face doing business with Cuba's communist regime. Castro authorized limited foreign investment after the end of Soviet subsidies to Havana.

"Clearly, the Cuban government doesn't like foreign investment," Freyre said. "They tolerate it. But they don't like it."

-- Doreen Hemlock

A Day at the Beach

HAVANA, August (www.cubanet.org) - The children almost demand a Sunday outing to the beach, so Jacinto, a school teacher enjoying summer vacation, decided to take them, transportation crisis or not.

Residents of the outlying districts of Havana prefer the beaches east of the city, and Jacinto chose one of them, Guanabo, about ten miles east of the city.

Preparations started on Saturday, with Jacinto's wife securing food and drink for them all. The children took care of their things; Jacinto just carried his billfold, for whatever may come up.

Up at five, they walked to the bus stop only to find a crowd was already there ahead of them. After a while, Jacinto gave up and walked around to where the people with cars are trying to cash in. One man was calling for passengers for a trip to the beach and the four of them got in. The ride to the beach cost him 100 pesos, and they got there early enough to enjoy the water before it got too hot.

The day went well. The children found some friends from school; Jacinto and wife reminisced about the time before they were married. They even managed a nap in the shade.

At about 3 p.m., Jacinto thought if they got an early start, they might even be able to find a seat on the bus. Evidently others thought the same; the line of people waiting for the bus was impossibly long and rain clouds in the distance threatened.

Jacinto caressed his billfold and stood by the road with his brood until a driver agreed to take the four of them to a point near enough to their home for 120 pesos.

Jacinto says the Sunday outing cost him 220 pesos in transportation, close to 50 in ice cream and soft drinks. Not including the food they took from home, that's already about the average monthly salary in Cuba.

Fidel, I wipe my ass with you.

No, seriously, I do.

On sale here.

Hat tip Soundfury and Yoan.

Work, work and more work

Busy day ahead of me today, so posting will be light.

Make sure you drop by Winds of Change for Randy Paul's Latin American Briefing for this week.

Also, Sgt. Hook has a tribute to a fallen soldier/hero.

Bill is running his Best of series over at In DC Journal.

Michele says she's the Cheese.

Steve takes on the Sports World and the Olympics.

Zombyboy to the UN: I got your global taxing RITE HEAH!.

And of course, a truly wonderful post at Sheila's called "74 Facts and One Lie."

Ill be back on regular schedule as soon as I get this pile of work off my desk. Enjoy the linked posts, lots of good reading there.

It's called a bitchslap, Fidel.

Birthday wishes from House Majority Leader Tom DeLay to Fidel Castro:

DeLay: Castro's 78th Not So Happy for Cubans; Another Year of Thugocracy, Kleptocracy

SUGAR LAND, Texas, Aug. 13 /U.S. Newswire/ -- House Majority Leader Tom DeLay (R-Texas) today marked Cuban Dictator Fidel Castro's 78th birthday by encouraging the Cuban people to continue in their hopes for a future of liberty and urged the tyrant himself to offer his people his resignation as a birthday present.

"Today, Fidel Castro will celebrate his 78th birthday, but it will be anything but happy for the Cuban people," DeLay said. "Castro is a murderer, a terrorist, a thief, a coward, and a founding member of the axis of evil. He is responsible for the rape, murder, torture, imprisonment, and disappearance of tens of thousands of innocent Cubans."

"His thugocracy in Havana is a criminal regime, corrupted beyond recognition from any virtue it once pretended to serve. The only happiness Fidel's celebration brings is that it brings his people and the whole human race one day closer to being rid of him and his murderous kleptocracy once and for all."

"The people of Cuba have suffered long enough," DeLay added. "The only birthday present they want is Castro's immediate resignation and departure from that island forever."

Via Cubanet.

Venezuela in Crisis.

The AP is reporting that Hugo Chavez survived the recall vote in Venezuela yesterday. However, the opposition does not accept the results citing, among other inconsistencies, fraud.

The next few days are critical to the freedom of the Venezuelan people.

My '92 Isuzu Pick-Up

Back in 1992 I was working with a friend who started a property maintenance business. He had a good connection with a commerical park here that has dozens of separate buildings. We basically did anything and everything, from painting to landscaping to prepapring spaces for leasing. My buddy Sergio, had just bought a 1992 Isuzu pick-up specifically for the business.

Then Andrew came and South Florida was changed forever. It was anarchy in the streets the first few days post-hurricane. No power, no running water, debris everywhere. A curfew. The August heat and humidity. They were hard days.

I was living In Coral Gables at the time and the hurricane did not do much damage in my neighborhood. My buddy's house, and our parents' homes were in relatively good shape. A few shingles and roof tiles missing, a couple of downed tress. Not much damage at all. We were able to get things straightened out at our homes and our families' homes in a day.

Three days after Andrew Segio calls me and asks if I want to go down to Homestead and see if we could help out. Homestead, as you know, had basically been razed.

We loaded the truck with supplies: water, roofing material donated by a hardware store, tools, flashlights, can goods and headed south. We'd been watching the news and devastation on portable TV's the past day and figured we and the new truck could be useful. We weren't the only ones.

On the way there, on the hghway, it felt as if we were going to some kind of trucking convention. There were literally hundreds of trucks of all sizes and vans and buses heading in the same direction. Heading to help the people affected by Andrew.

It was a solemn trip. We were completely amazed by the destruction. On the highway where we were once not able to see for the lush landscaping and huge trees, we were then able to see for miles. It felt as if God's hand had come down to the earth and swatted everything away. No television images can convey the actual destruction you see when you are in it. It's eerily calm and quiet with all that chaos scattered about.

We ventured into Homestead and got lost. There were no street signs or traffic lights. No discernible landmarks. It was just one bif pile of deleterious material. After a few hours we found some homes were no one had been to. They were the shacks where the farmworkers lived. They had nothing. No water, no food, no shelter. They had been living under trees with a canvas attached to them. We gave them everything we had and promised those folks we would come back with more the next day.

We were never able to find their place again.

On the fourth day after Andrew we headed out early. We had heard about donations from across the country being flown in to Tamiami Airport - an small airport down south - and decided to go there and see what we could do.

After about an hour trying to find it, we came across a line of trucks and vans waiting to enter someplace. It was a small entrance cut into debris and fallen trees. It was the airport we were looking for.

We stood waiting in line for what seemed like hours, C130 military planes were landing and dropping the back flap and handing out tons of supplies - supplies donated by people across the country - to every truck, van and bus in line to take to the affected people of Homestead. It was impressive.

The whole thing was very orderly, few words were spoken. Everyone was working together as if choreographed. People of all backgrounds, race and status were there busting their humps for a common cause. To this day, I get goosebumps when I remember that scene. It was the human race at its absolute best. Here we were in a small Isuzu pickup in the sweltering August heat among people doing their all to help people. I will never forget that moment.

After we loaded up the truck we headed out to find the farmworkers we had helped the day before. We drove through, around and over debris scattered on the roads. We had to get out and move trees and construction materials at times just to be able to keep going.

After two hours of driving through the mazes that used to be neighborhoods, we saw a building relatively undamaged off in the distance and decided to head there to see if we could help anyone there with our youth and our supplies. I had never been in the area where we were. It was deep south, deep in a rural, out of the way area.

As we got closer to the building - it took us about 20 minutes to travel 100 feet - I saw a small figure coming out of the building and start to head towards us. I dropped the branches that I was clearing from the road and scrambled towards the person.

It was an old woman, probably in her eighties. She was frail and could barely amble through alll the debris. She was crying, raising her hands up over he head, towards the sky and then bring them back donw together. She was thanking God. The second I came up to her she threw her arms around my waist and started sobbing. She squeezed me and held on tight as she let out these long, loud, uncontrollabe sobs. Her knees gave out on her and I had to hold her up. I started to cry.

I held this woman, this old, frail perfect stranger in my arms for some time. We cried together, I consoled her. Told her everything would be alright as I ran my fingers through her thin, grey hair. She would look at me amid sobs and then dig her head back into my stomach and squeeze me tighter. She had the deepest blue eyes I have ever seen.

As we stood there holding each other, more people began to come out of the building. They were all old. They all look a little frazzled, dazed. Some of them stood out side applauding and yelling.

My buddy and I, amid all the devastation and destruction, amid the debris and utter chaos after hurricane Andrew, had come upon a small retirement home. An out of the way home for seniors. A home that no one had been to since the storm. We were the first ones to get there. The first help these folks had gotten after their world had been turned upside down.

Me, my buddy Sergio and the '92 Isuzu Pickup that now sits in my driveway. I will never sell that truck.

Folks, the people of Charlotte and Lee counties in Florida have been hit with a major hurricane and their lives now are in shambles. They need our help. If there is a local charity or church or organization having a drive for the people affected by Charley, please give 'til it hurts. It will be a good pain.

They will need the following:

- Water - the most important item on this list.
- Canned goods - not just veggies but Spam and Chef Boyardee and the like
- Can openers
- Baby food and formula.
- Diapers and baby whipes
- Charcoal and lighter fluid
- Blankets
- Insect repellant - almost as important as water.
- Tarps
- Flashlights and batteries
- Portable radios
- Soaps and other hygeine items
- Sterno cans
- Paper plates and cups

I'm sure there will be 2 other young guys and an Isuzu pickup over there ready to load up whatever you send them and take it to those in need.

The Command Post is ready to help with Strengthen the Good. And the Red Cross is already there.

SI!!!!!!

To my Venezuelan brothers, take a good look at Cuba and see where Castro wants you to be. I pray the Venezuelan people learn from the mistake that is Cuba.

Your vote decides the fate of two countries.

(More on the Venezuelan recall electionhere, here, here, here, and here.)

Birthday Wishes

Die, you bearded, murderous, communist bastard.
Just. Die.

One last BlogCuba

'Cause it's a BlogCuba piece. A little baseball over at Fine? WhyFine?

BlogCuba - Sgt Hook

I saved this post for last not only because it's an excellent story and is brilliantly written, but because this whole BlogCuba thing is about one thing: freedom. And right now, Sgt Hook is sacrificing his so that we may enjoy ours.

Serving in Afghanistan, away from his family and friends, collecting shoes and clothing for the children of Afghanistan, leading his men and in harm's way, you have to admire and respect Sgt Hook. I wasn't sure if I should have even asked the Sgt for a BlogCuba entry given how full his plate is. But good friends come through for you in the clutch. Not only was I touched by the fact that Sgt Hook sent me the following entry, but I was moved by the beauty of this wonderfully written story. Gracias Hook, Ill shave my head for you any day, man. Any Day.

Pedro Martin

Private First Class Peter Martin lay on his cot made of an aluminum frame and green nylon, dressed only in his desert camouflage trousers and a brown t-shirt and tan suede combat boots. His blouse hung on a hook fashioned out of 550 cord and an expended 7.62 shell casing tied to a section of the tent’s metal frame. He lay on his back, with his hands behind his head, staring at the canvas ceiling, tiny rays of sunlight piercing the many holes in the tent, waiting. He’s been there waiting for three days now while his platoon was on patrol in the village to the east of their forward operating base. The tent flapped violently in the wind and dust settled on everything. Pete Martin tired of waiting and tired of the heartache he felt within.

He had joined the Army just less than two years ago, shortly after the events of September 11, 2001. He signed on to be an infantryman, he loved being an infantryman. The day that he raised his right hand taking an oath to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies was one of the proudest moments in his life, he was twenty-one years old at the time. He had trained hard after enlisting, first at Fort Benning’s school for boys during the Army’s basic training, then with his unit at Fort Campbell, Kentucky before coming to Afghanistan two months ago.

It was quiet at the FOB, save the occasional helicopter landing to bring supplies, more beans and bullets. With the sound of each aircraft coming in, he found himself hoping that one might be carrying his lawyer. He was told to wait in his tent for his lawyer and that he was only allowed to leave his tent to eat or use the latrine. He was not allowed to make any phone calls, but he didn’t have anyone to call anyway. He hadn’t felt this heartsick since the day he left home.

Pedro Martin had been working in his native Havana driving a bicitaxi for peanuts barely making enough money each day to buy bread for the evening meal, the only meal he and his family really ate each day. He would have coffee and whatever leftovers he could find for breakfast and lunch was usually a fantasy. His sister would make dinner before going to her job each evening, she was a waitress at one of the ritzy establishments catering to foreigners, Europeans mostly, visiting Havana. At least that’s what she told the family, her brothers and mother.

Pedro’s heart broke the night he found out she was doing more than waiting tables for the wealthy foreigners, Europeans mostly, who came to his country because everything was exotic and cheap, even the women, even his sister. He was so sick to his stomach when he saw Gabriela enter the hotel with the tall, blonde, German tourist, his hand on her rump. He wanted to shout to her, to attack him, to die. Instead he found the courage to do what he’d been dreaming of doing each day pedaling his three-wheeled rickshaw in the hot Havana sun.

Pedro Martin ran to the beach grabbing a pack of bread and water he had stashed weeks before and slipped into a row boat that had been moored in the same location since he first started struggling with the idea of leaving. But now he had to leave, he couldn’t face his sister or his mother, he was sick. He fled.

Lying on his cot, listening to the wind beat the canvas incessantly, he longed to be home again. He longed for stale bread, rice and beans. He felt that sickness again, scared to death that he’d spend the rest of his life in jail. They think him a spy. They think of him in the same regard as they think of their enemies. He wanted to explain, but the officer who read him his rights, including the right to remain silent, did not want to hear his story, so he waits. He waits for a lawyer to come to this Godforsaken place in the desert while his friends put it all on the line our there, all the while thinking him a spy. But how did they find out his real identity?

He had excellent documents, a driver’s license, high school diploma, birth certificate, even a library card as Peter Martin of Tampa, Florida. If you looked in the phone book you’d find him listed. The Army had never questioned his identity before and surely they couldn’t question his patriotism, his loyalty. He loved his new country, he swore an oath to defend it. In his heart, his soul he was Peter Martin.

Pete Martin’s daydreaming was interrupted by the whoosh of an incoming rocket followed by an explosion that rocked his world throwing him from his cot which landed on top of him, he spit dirt from his mouth. His ears ringing, Private First Class Martin reacted instinctively as his training had taught him, running from the tent and tripping over the private who had been assigned to guard him. He was dead. The sound of AK47s firing kept him from dwelling on the dead Soldier at his feet, he grabbed his guard’s M4 and magazines and ran to the HESCO wall of the FOB. A 240B machine gun began returning fire from the observation tower twenty meters to his left. Another rocket hit inside the compound, this time taking out their ammunition supply point throwing dirt and shrapnel everywhere. Pete felt his flesh burn as pieces of hot metal pierced his back. The enemy fire increased on the other side of the wall. The FOB was devoid of people, where the hell were all the Soldiers?

Pete saw SGT Williams running across the open compound shouting something but Pete’s ears were still ringing, he couldn’t make out the words, but he understood that SGT Williams was trying to organize a defense force so he ran to him. The squatted at the base of the observation tower that was frantically firing the machine gun, Pete thought that they would melt the barrel if they didn’t take it easy, five to seven round bursts he thought to himself. SGT Williams told him to run to the chow hall and grab anyone he could find, even the gottdamned cooks, and get them out here on the wall. He did.

Returning with three cooks and an Afghan worker they linked up with SGT Williams and the four Soldiers he was able to find, two looked pretty shook up, probably from that last blast. An RPG landed ten feet away from the group but didn’t explode. It was enough to get them moving though. Pete Martin began returning fire, deliberately taking aim and picking off one attacker at a time. After killing two aggressors, the attacking force quickly took cover, their assault stalling momentarily. They hadn’t expected much resistance. Pete saw a man dressed in black stand up with a rocket launcher on his shoulder, he shot him, dead. As the man dressed in black fell to the ground a hail of AK47 fire erupted nearly taking Peter Marin out of the fight before he ducked back behind the thick, sand filled HESCO wall. SGT Williams was yelling at the cooks to start firing, only the Afghan dish washer was engaging targets in a fight for his life. SGT Williams suddenly fell to the ground, grabbing his shoulder and screaming in agony. Pete grabbed one of the cooks and threatened to kill him if he didn’t render first aid to SGT Williams immediately. Then he took the remaining Soldiers and placed them, firmly, into position shoving a weapon in their hands again threatening them with bodily harm and even death if they failed to shoot the enemy. He told the Afghan dishwasher to keep an eye on the rag tag defense force and to cover him, he was going to try and flank their attackers. The machine gun in the observation tower went silent. Another rocket took out Pete Martin’s tent as he ran to the far end of the FOB, climbing over the wall unseen by the assault force.

Crouching behind a large rock to the left of the attackers, Pete was about to make his assault when he noticed movement from up the valley to the East. He was unable to make out if more enemy soldiers were joining the fight or his platoon had heard the attack and returned to help. He decided that he had to make his attack now for if it was his platoon he would distract the attackers away from their approach, and if it wasn’t, well he was dead anyway. Slamming a fresh thirty-round magazine into his M4, Pete jumped to his feet. Taking notice, the Afghan dishwasher opened fire, inspiring several of the cooks to do the same laying down a covering fire for Pete.

Lieutenant Marks watched in amazement from atop the slope above the Al Qaeda bastards attacking the FOB as Private First Class Martin ran shouting and firing at the attackers wearing only his trousers and a tattered, blood stained brown t-shirt. The young officer quickly signaled for his men to join the fight as he watched Pete kill six of the enemy before finally falling to his knees, and then on his back laying with his head down slope towards the FOB. Seeing their brother in arms go valiantly fall, the Soldiers of 2nd Platoon yelled a collective war cry and annihilated the group of attackers dressed in black.

The body of Peter Martin, draped with the flag of the United States of America was carried to an awaiting UH60 Blackhawk helicopter for transport to the rear, and ultimately home to Arlington Cemetery. The men of 2nd Platoon rendered honors to their fallen comrade as did an Afghan dishwasher. Lieutenant Marks reported to his superiors that he was unaware of any file on a Pedro Martin and that just about all the records in the FOB had been destroyed by a rocket blast. He then wrote a letter to Corporal Martin’s family in Havana, Cuba, getting the address from the file of which its existence he was unaware, describing Pedro’s heroic actions under fire and how he had saved the lives of his platoon and the Soldiers trapped inside the FOB. SGT Williams also sent a letter to Cuba, and with the Lieutenant’s help, put CPL Martin in for a Silver Star.

BlogCuba - Almost Done

I have one entry left to post for this BlogCuba project. But before I post it, I want to thank once again each and every blogger that participated and each and every person that dropped by or commented or sent some link love our way.

As I write this I am doing my best to hold back tears. When I started this blog, I wanted to help reach people that otherwise would not have given Cuba much thought. I wanted to do my part - however small in the grand scheme of things -to help give the Cuban plight a voice. I wanted Babalu to be a place where people could come not just to read and learn about Cuban politics and happenings, but a place to showcase the Cuban soul. I wanted to show our love of family, of our countries, of our friends and of libertad, freedom. All of these BlogCuba posts show just that.

These entries I have posted today from such excellent bloggers and friends all show not only solidarity, but a genuine and heartfelt yearning for freedom in Cuba. I am incredibly grateful and honored to call you all friends.

Gracias a todos. Algun dia, BlogCuba vendra de la isla.

BlogCuba - Operation Enduring Service

WB of Operation Enduring Service just sent me an email apologizing for not having much time to put together a BlogCuba post. Accompanying the note was the following, which despite its brevity, really hit home because reaching people and helping them understand a bit more about Cuba is why this Babalu Blog exists. Gracias WB. Es un placer y un honor.

Castro eres un espanol cubano grande gordo pantalones estupido.

I sit here at my desk, cup of coffee in hand, reading my latest exciting report: GAO Findings: Combating Terrorism: DOD Efforts to Improve Installation Preparedness Can Be Enhanced with Clarified Responsibilities and Comprehensive Planning. I told Val that I would try to write something for his BlogCuba, but time and pressures of emergency response work pushed it aside…until now. I thought about it again and wanted to take a minute and reflect on Cuba and on what Val has been doing…

Cuba, 21.30 N, 80. 00 W. A Caribbean, island between the Caribbean Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean, 150 km south of Key West, Florida. Discovered by Christopher COLUMBUS in 1492 and was a Spanish colony during the next several hundred years. The USS Maine sank in the harbor at Havana February15, 1898. Teddy Roosevelt and his rough riders fought the Spanish there. This lead to the Treaty of Paris which established Cuban independence, which was granted in 1902 after a three-year transition period. Was once a big resort island…Castro nullified all of that in 1959 when he led a rebel army to overthrow Cuba’s government and set up a communist dictatorship. Later, the Bay of Pigs invasion was a half-hearted US attempt to oust Castro. It failed for a number of reasons, all of which are the United States’ fault—many Cubans were betrayed by the US in that ill-fated attempt. Then there was the Cuban Missile Crisis which brought the world to the brink of nuclear war…the closest it has ever come since WWII. Now most US tourists to Cuba are Marines stationed at Guantánamo Bay or “Gitmo” as it is often called. Terrorists go there to be interrogated. Cuba makes great cigars that are illegal to import.

That about summed up my knowledge of Cuba (or Cubans for that matter) until I began reading Babalu Blog earlier this year. Even though I’m not like many Americans (I read about and study history endlessly and research political issues so that I know what I believe before I open my mouth), I must admit that for whatever reason, Cuba was not very high on my radar screen.

The loss, I’m afraid, was mine. I have begun to see over the last few months the true damages done to Cuba by Castro. The wholesale rape and pillage of a country, a people, and a culture. The trials and issues of the Cuban community here in the US…of their counterparts in Cuba…is not something that can ever be understood from media sound bites and talking heads. What faces Cubans each day is more than just a political dogma or clash of ideals. It is about the return of a nation to its people—a people that are indelibly tied to the United States. It is about a people that struggle to maintain their identity and their dignity. And I have begun to truly hear and understand the cries for justice against a dictator that is responsible for the death and injury of so many people…and so very close to US shores. So many lives lost…so much suffering—all from a madman that has inexcusably remained in power for almost 50 years. An evil serpent who has beyond all reason become a Hollywood and media darling. It defies all logic and understanding. But I see more clearly now, and the veil is lifting.

Thanks, Val. I’ve learned a lot from you and others over the last few months. I plan on learning a lot more before it’s over with.

Castro eres un espanol cubano grande gordo pantalones estupido.

Ok, so I have a lot more to learn about the Cuban language….

BlogCuba - Hog On Ice

All this BlogCuba-ing is making me hungry. So it's a good thing Steve of Hog On Ice sent me the following food related BlogCuba entry. If you've never had Steve's cooking, all I can say is, my heart goes out to you. I've had the pleasure of trying many of the recipes from his book "Eat What You want and Die Like a Man" and trust me, the man can cook. For BlogCuba he submits the recipe for a Cuban staple, Masitas de Puerco. Yummm.

Masitas de Puerco ala Hog

Cubans eat pork lumps. They even call them "pork lumps." In Spanish. They call them "masitas" or "masas de puerco." Makes you want to take your hat off and hold it over your heart.

Here's my recipe:

3-5 lbs. pork roast or shoulder, cut in cubes around 2" on a side
naranja agria or orange juice mixed with enough lime juice to make it sour
2 huge onions cut in thin slices

Salt the pork lumps down and let them sit for half an hour. Throw them in a pressure cooker. Add 3/4 cup naranja agria with a little salt added. Pepper the resulting mess generously and toss until everything is mixed.

Cook at 16 psi for 45 minutes, measured from the time pressure develops. No longer.

If you have a deep fryer, great. If not, put 1/4" of lard (only if it's good lard with no smell) in a deep pot and get it hot. Add the pork (drained) and fry on medium-high heat until browned. Remove and drain on paper towels.

Put a little bit of the lard or oil in a skillet, get it hot, and throw in the onions. Fry until they start to get clear. Slosh in a bit of naranja agria and at least one clove of minced garlic. Cook until most of the naranja agria boils away.

Serve the hot pork lumps with lime slices. Dump the onions over the top of it.

What you want is moist pork that's very tender, with a crusty fried outer layer.

I would put this up against any pork lumps currently available in Little Havana.

BlogCuba - Resurrection Song

Zombyboy, refreshed from a nice vacation, and now back at the helm at Resurrection Song, has a thing or two to say about US-Cuba relations in his BlogCuba entry. Read on, and see if you agree. Gracias Z! Cervezas are on me.

The Question of Cuba

"No tyrant can stand forever against the power of liberty, because the hope of freedom is found in every heart. So today we are confident that no matter what the dictator intends or plans, Cuba sera pronto libre."
-President George W. Bush

When Cuba was a willing lily pad for the Russians, it was reasonable to consider the island a threat. When Cuba acted as a proxy for the Soviets—exporting military advisors throughout the world, and, in essence, exporting “the revolution”--it was re