Why Everything is Screwed Up and We’re Up the Creek Without a Paddle in One Sentence, Part 3

So, let’s for one second imagine that you are a naturalized American citizen. That you’re “Hispanic”, as invented by Nixon in 1973.

Let’s imagine that you think that the immigration reform bill, as it appears to be shaping up, is simply a terrible idea.

What does that make you?

An employee of Grover Norquist’s Americans for Tax Reform (ATR), together with a political ally of “Gang of Eight” member Sen. Marco Rubio (R-FL), will argue Friday that groups opposed to the immigration bill pending in the U.S. Senate are “nativists,” Breitbart News has learned.

It’s obvious dear reader, and I am SHOCKED that you can’t figure it out on your own!

It makes you a non-native nativist!

You should know this already!

Let’s go through the drill, shall we?

If you don’t think that the result of a bad choice should be ripped out of a womb to avoid the inconvenience of having to live with the results of said bad choice, you’re anti-choice.

If you believe that marriage is a sacred union between a man and a woman, you’re a homophobe.

If you believe that Islamic terrorism is a problem based on the fact that Islamic groups have the annoying habit of publicly stating that they want to kill us all, you’re an Islamophobe.

If you oppose any of Barack Obama’s policies, question his intentions and/or his political ideology, or even whether or not he is really a White Sox fan, you’re racist.

If you think that the correct way to treat an open wound is to stop the bleeding first THEN begin the antibiotic treatment, you’re a nativist.

See the pattern here?

You demonize and marginalize the opposition into silence to make it appear that your side has no opposition, and what opposition there may be, are wing-nuts and extremists, and THAT is what these liberals are trying to do right here!

Oh wait…


Non-native nativists… somewhere, a Mohican is laughing.

Why Everything is Screwed Up and We’re Up the Creek Without a Paddle in One Paragraph – Part 2

Fun Fact Of The Day: Mosque’s Are Off-Limits To Obama’s Snooping, Missed Boston Bombers…

(Investors Business Daily) — The White House assures that tracking our every phone call and keystroke is to stop terrorists, and yet it won’t snoop in mosques, where the terrorists are.

That’s right, the government’s sweeping surveillance of our most private communications excludes the jihad factories where homegrown terrorists are radicalized.

Since October 2011, mosques have been off-limits to FBI agents. No more surveillance or undercover string operations without high-level approval from a special oversight body at the Justice Department dubbed the Sensitive Operations Review Committee.


So, the US government is protecting the civil rights of Muslims, but violating the privacy and Constitutional rights of millions of Americans in the name of National Security.

Yeah… we know what THAT’S all about.

Obama flipping us the bird

Why Everything is Screwed Up and We’re Up the Creek Without a Paddle in One Paragraph

God bless Sultan Knish.

The liberal Republican prescription is still to Outleft the left, adopting some of its more popular ideas and social policies in a more sensible fashion. And they have never understood that the strategy, even when it succeeds in the short term, is doomed. You don’t win by making your enemy stronger. The left understands that. That is why it’s strategies once in power involve deepening and expanding its institutional power while destroying those of the right.


Pray for Oklahoma

We cannot pray to You, O God,
to banish war,
for You have filled the world
with paths to peace,
if only we would take them.

We cannot pray to You
to end starvation,
for there is food enough for all,
if only we would share it.

We cannot merely pray
for prejudice to cease,
for we might see
the good in all
that lies before our eyes,
if only we would use them.

We cannot merely pray
“Root out despair,”
for the spark of hope
already waits within the human heart,
for us to fan it into flame.

We must not ask of You, O God,
to take the task that You
have given us.
We cannot shirk,
we cannot flee away,
Avoiding obligation for ever.

Therefore we pray, O God,
for wisdom and will, for courage
to do and to become,
not only to look on
with helpless yearning
as though we had no strength.

For Your sake and ours
speedily and soon, let it be:
that our land may be safe,
that our lives may be blessed.

They Know You’re Reading This

Have the news reports of the excesses of power that our government has been engaging in bothered you?

Read on.

Twenty-five miles due south of Salt Lake City, a massive construction project is nearing completion. The heavily secured site belongs to the National Security Agency.

“The spy center” — that’s what some of the locals like Jasmine Widmer, who works at Bluffdale’s sandwich shop, told our Fox News team as part of an eight month investigation into data collection and privacy rights that will be broadcast Sunday at 9 p.m. ET called “Fox News Reporting: Your Secrets Out.”

The NSA says the Utah Data Center is a facility for the intelligence community that will have a major focus on cyber security. The agency will neither confirm nor deny specifics. Some published reports suggest it could hold 5 zettabytes of data. (Just one zettabyte is the equivalent of about 62 billion stacked iPhones 5’s– that stretches past the moon.

One man we hoped would answer our questions, the current director of the NSA General Keith Alexander, declined Fox News’s requests to sit down for an interview, so we stopped by the offices of a Washington think tank, where Alexander was speaking at a cyber security event last year.

Asked if the Utah Data Center would hold the data of American citizens, Alexander said, “No…we don’t hold data on U.S. citizens,” adding that the NSA staff “take protecting your civil liberties and privacy as the most important thing that they do, and securing this nation.”

I don’t for a minute believe that anyone in our government is overtly concerned about our “civil liberties and privacy”, and I believe that they can excuse gathering information on us based on a simple equation… if we’ve done nothing wrong then we have nothing to worry about.

Then again, there are enough laws written where we can all be found guilty of breaking one, or several laws, on any given day, so they can always excuse surveillance on anyone on any given day.

One last thing…

The FOX News article closes on a chilling note:

Because the Utah Data Center is a “secure facility” and you cannot go inside without the needed security clearances, Fox News rented a helicopter and took to the skies, where the depth and breadth of the Utah Center were stunning.

The aerial video footage is exclusive to the Fox News investigation and posted here. Two weeks after our filming, the helicopter pilot reported to our Fox News team that he had been visited by the FBI on a “national security matter.”

The pilot said, according to the FBI agents, that the NSA had taken photos of the helicopter once it made several flyovers. These photos allowed the NSA to identify the make and manufacturer of the helicopter in California who, in turn, told the NSA who operates it in the Salt Lake City area.

The FBI wanted to know if we had the proper air space clearances to flyover the site, which the Fox News team did. Satisfied that the pilot was not flying “terrorists” over the site, the questioning concluded. While the pilot passed along the Fox News contact information, there was no further inquiries.

Binney said the helicopter incident “showed the capability of the U.S. government to use information to trace people, their relationship to others and to raise suspicions about their activities and intentions.”


They will soon be able to record the fact that you read this.

Come to think of it, they probably know I’m writing it.

Holder Goes Full Rodney Witherspoon

Q; What do you get when you cross Rodney Dangerfield and Reese Witherspoon?

A: Attorney General Eric Holder!

Do you know I am the AG?

I get no respect!

Apparently, being asked direct questions about the discharge of his duties while an elected public servant is an affront to Holder’s idea that he, and the members of this administration, are entitled to their sense of entitlement.

The Art of the Proper Arroz con Pollo – A Mother’s Day Story

The very best Calle Ocho eatery, in the heart of Little Havana, places an asterisk next to the menu listing of their world-renowned Arroz con Pollo*.

*Our Arroz con Pollo is prepared to order, please allow our Chef the proper amount of time to create your selection. Feel free to inquire about the progress of your order, but expect a wait of approximately 45 minutes.

The place is somewhat stern looking. Heavy Spanish wood and leather furniture, red velvet wall hangings, no windows, large portraits of regal looking, ancient Spaniards in Court dress, and lots of very, very busy tuxedo-clad waiters—not a waitress anywhere in sigh—help to create an ambiance of timelessness and Old Country dignity.

Battalions of black-vested, scurrying busboys, who seemingly have mastered the concept of perpetual motion, move through the dignified hum of the dining room carrying large metal pitchers wrapped in red dinner napkins, pitchers that in spite of their linen sarong, manage to land a drop or two of ice-cold water on your lap as the busboy pours the water into your goblet over their side, rather than through the spout.

I take clients and out of town visitors for dinner there all the time, they rant and rave at the fare but I’m not very impressed with the place.

You see, I know where you can find the best Arroz con Pollo in Miami, or anywhere else for that matter. The place doesn’t have any asterisks on their menus, as a matter of fact there are no menus at all, just some pictures of my kids, covered from forehead to chin in black beans, stuck to the door of an aging refrigerator in a magnetic frame that reads “Grandma’s Biggest Fans”, and a Chef who can “create” something from nothing, in no time at all.

If you know Arroz Con Pollo, you know that there are as many recipes as there are kitchens and cooks, and that these recipes are all like signatures, or fingerprints even. No two are exactly alike.

I remember the smells of the apartment on a hill by the bay where I grew up. I could tell what was being prepared in the kitchen behind the last door on the right as soon as I began running down the hall, and it didn’t matter I how many other kitchens were active, or how many other pots brewing and stewing, I knew the smell of my mother’s kitchen like I knew the sound of her voice, or the soft feel of her hands on my cheek.

Arroz con Pollo was the dish she prepared for special occasions, for celebrations, or for what little company we would have for dinner in a country where food was rationed, and company for dinner recorded by the block chivato, the person in charge of reporting “suspicious activities” to the secret police; “suspicious activity” that included friends or family over for dinner.

The dish then, as I remember it, was a masterpiece of simplicity.

Mounds of steaming, bright yellow rice, colored by bijol—my mother’s most treasured season—a small canister of it always hiding in the deepest recesses of my her cupboards, glistened under a light coating of olive oil. The chicken pieces, spent after having given their essence to make el caldo (the carefully seasoned and pungent broth that would give life to the rice, and become the soul of the flavor), were mixed in with the rice, then the whole thing was topped off with a sprinkling of petit pois, negotiated from a neighbor in exchange for a plate of the finished product.

Mother would bring the pot out of the kitchen and place it on the dining room table were it was met by a veritable chorus of compliments, and then the only sounds heard for quite sometime were the sounds forks make when they strike china.

Mom doesn’t cook like that these days; she says that los viejos need to eat healthier, and that since retirement, Dad and her have developed high blood pressure, and a taste for bland food.

I have learned to curtail my culinary requests too. I used to call the day before coming for dinner with the family, and ask for one or another favorite dish, more often than not a good, Cuban Arroz con Pollo, with petit pois and everything; but lately it seems that I’ve become a bit more aware of how much slower she moves, and a bit less concerned with my antojos (cravings). So we go out for dinner, or just eat a lot of bland food, and give thanks for the meal.

But I miss her Arroz con Pollo, and try as I have, I can’t seem to find a restaurant that can make one to equal hers, or to even reproduce the recipe in my own kitchen.

I have sat many a time, and scoured the Internet for recipes. I’ve tried the ones that call for the very best chicken soup base to make el caldo, the ones that include sweet Spanish sausage, sliced and cooked in with the rice, the ones that call for alcaparras (capers), green and red bell peppers, and even a bottle of beer, and not one of them can satisfy my craving. I miss her Arroz con Pollo.

So I decided to ask for it just one more time, and to be there from start to end to take careful notes.

I told her that I wanted to make the dish and invite some people over, and I think she believed me; mothers are so good at ignoring our little white lies and making us feel like we are getting away with them.

When I got there, Dad was outside tending to his mango and avocado trees, and carefully maintaining the berm around a small lime tree that had been cut down once, but whose strong roots survived, and thrived in the good soil of their backyard. The kids said hello to Nana, and ran out to “help” Papa; mother was where I’ve always remembered her… in our kitchen.

We chatted a bit, and then I showed her the kid’s new school pictures. We wasted our first half-hour digging around her picture boxes for a snapshot of me at four years old—dressed in the very best Elvis outfit that she could find in Cuba just after the fall—to compare with the picture of my youngest, also four; even I was amazed at the resemblance…blond hair and all. She called the old man in from the yard to show them to him, and told him that she would need to go buy frames the next day.

Then we got down to business.

Her hands seemed to take on a life of their own as they moved over the familiar tools and ingredients, and the age seemed to drop off of them.

She talked as she worked, and I took careful notes.

She cut the chicken and remembered that in Cuba, we used hens instead of chickens, and that her mother, my abuela was never satisfied with an Arroz con Pollo made without the fattier, richer meat of a hen.

“Tu abuela tenía un sazón muy bueno.” – That roughly translates into ‘your grandmother had seasoning game’. “People would compliment her all the time. I learned by watching her cook.”

I knew that. I loved that old woman’s cooking nearly as much as I loved her; but I loved my mother’s Arroz con Pollo above all.

She worked and talked, and I took notes.

She browned the chicken to a golden perfection (she had already made the caldo), and talked about the way she had to stretch the recipe in Cuba during the hard times. I remembered how she used to crush fine egg noodles to add to the rice by rolling an old Coca Cola bottle like a rolling pin over them. Then she made the sofrito.

I watched the mixture of fresh crushed garlic, tiny-diced onions, and bell peppers soften in the smoking hot olive oil as we reminisced and I took notes. We laughed at the stories of Dad smuggling things from the countryside into Havana; roared when she remembered the time when Grandfather, carrying a contraband pound of coffee on his lap in the bus to Havana, answered “café!” when asked for the time by a man dressed in an Army uniform.

“Compañero, could you tell me what time you have?”


“No compañero, I want to know what time it is, not what you have in the bag.”

She returned the chicken to the pot with the garlic/onion/pepper mixture, and added cumin and crushed tomatoes while I tried to remember the names of all the people who lived in our apartment building in Havana…she remembered them all.

Her hands moved with an economical efficiency that I can only compare to that of an Executive Chef, and I have seen some of the very best in action, as she added rice, el caldo, a bay leaf, and a pinch of bijol from a tiny, beat up canister she retrieved from a dark corner in her pantry, to the pot.

I took more notes, and we reminisced some more.

We discussed all the other recipes I had tried, and she reminded me of all the things she began to add to the pot after we arrived from Cuba, the abundance of ingredients available fascinated her, but she would always return to the old recipe.

Then she covered the pot, and reduced the heat.

Dinner was every bit what I had expected it to be. The smells coming from the kitchen even sparked the interest of my four year-old “macaroni and cheese monster”, who ate Nana’s Arroz con Pollo with a gusto seldom seen in him.

Mission accomplished, belly full, and antojo satisfied, I carefully folded my notes, stuck them in my pocket, said our hasta luegos (roughly translates into “see you later”—Cubans are notorious for not saying goodbye) for the night, and headed home.

I chatted with the kids so they would stay awake until we got home, they’re getting a bit heavy to carry upstairs to their beds, and complimented both of them on how well they had eaten Nana’s Arroz con Pollo. I told them that I had learned the recipe, and that I had written all the ingredients down so that I could make it for them at home.

“But Daddy… I won’t like it.” — My youngest child, the problem eater, making his favorite dinnertime prediction.

“But honey, you liked it tonight.” – Reasoning with a four year-old with the blonde hair his Daddy had at four. “How can you say you won’t like it? It’s going to taste just the same.”

“No it won’t Daddy. I’m only going to like it when Nana makes it.”

I let them sleep after that, my mind lost in the past.

That’s when I realized that I would never find the most important ingredient of them all, and that my four year-old macaroni and cheese monster was right.

I’ll never get it right, because I can never duplicate the most important ingredient, and like my little blonde-headed boy, I only like it when Nana makes it too, and after that’s no longer possible, I want to miss it forever.

So, if you want a truly magnificent recipe for a proper Arroz con Pollo, with nearly all the proper ingredients, and using all the proper cooking utensils, you may want to look for a tear-stained, crumpled up sheet of paper bouncing about on the north-bound lane of the Palmetto Causeway, somewhere between exit #16, and the most sacred and precious memories of my life.


Happy Mother’s Day Mami, I love you.

And a Happy Mother’s Day to all Moms.

Tragedy of Biblical Proportions

First Castro and the diaspora, then Elián and the raid, and now this.

Fire Quickly Extinguished at Enriqueta’s

Crews quickly put out a fire at Enriqueta’s Sandwich Shop at 186 NE 29th St. Wednesday night, Miami Fire-Rescue said. Investigators said the fire appeared to have started in the kitchen of the iconic Cuban eatery, but the exact cause is being investigated. There were no reported injuries.

Dear God, how much pain and hardship must my people endure?


Eric’s on the Job

Eric Holder

Eric Holder, the man who brought us Fast and Furious and the continuing Benghazi cover-up, issues a stern warning to Americans in the aftermath of the Boston Massacre:

“Attorney General Eric Holder declared Monday that the Justice Department is on the lookout for acts of violence or discrimination that signal a backlash to the Boston Marathon bombings earlier this month in which three people were killed and scores wounded.”

Holder’s on the job!

“In the dozen years since 9/11, this commitment has led the department to investigate more than 800 incidents involving threats, assaults, and acts of vandalism and violence targeting Muslims, Arabs, Sikhs, South Asians, and others who are perceived to be members of these groups,”

Mr. Holder’s “800 incidents” seem mild when compared to what transpired on 9/11, and certainly when compared to the continuing attacks by radical Muslims on US citizens, on US soil that have left more than sixty dead since.

Perhaps the Office of the United States attorney should warn Muslims in the United States that their continued reign of terror must come to an immediate end, rather that spend his time trying to paint Americans as anything but victims of Islamofascism.

Radical Islamists have slaughtered over 3,000 Americans on U.S. soil in the last twelve years.

I think that, contrary to Holder’s portrayal, Americans have exhibited a superhuman amount of restraint toward Muslims in the US.

April 22, 2000

Luis sent me this essay on the Elian kidnapping and subsequent march on Calle Ocho. It was so perfect and heartfelt for the sad anniversary of that black day thirteen years ago that I asked for his permission to publish it. I think you will cry and feel a little pride in who and why we are. “Unlikely Patriots” was originally published right before the 2000 presidential election. –Pitbull

* * *

April 22, 2000 at 6:45 AM

Remember Elian.

Remember the miracle that brought him alive to the shores of Liberty on the most revered of American holidays. Remember Freedom.

That was the thought on everyone’s mind that day, one week after the raid.

Seven days before, on Holy Saturday, the trust between a government and the people that it served was shattered in the streets of Little Havana. Brute force and assault weapons were used to violate not only the day, but the Constitution and the dreams of millions as well. I was violated that day, even if I wasn’t present at the humble neighborhood where Lazaro Gonzalez fought the massive assault on the right of a little boy to live Free, I felt every blow. And though my tears were caused by rage, the rage was brought about by the sight of the exploding canisters, and the terrified face of a child being ripped from the home and the family he’d come to love.

How do you feel when your world comes crashing down around you? How do you express the incredible pain of betrayal? How do you rage against a behemoth?

I knew there was something terribly wrong as soon as I heard the telephone, it was too early on a Saturday and everyone knew not to wake the children.

The message was short and the voice strained, I don’t remember exactly who called, it may have been my brother, it may have been my father, but I remember the message.
“They took him, they took Elian.” It was a matter of fact statement delivered in a passionless voice.

I ran downstairs and turned on the television, and the images there are ones I know I will never forget. It made me nauseous to watch the endless loop of tape, but I watched it through eyes swollen with tears. I screamed silent screams and with clenched fists threw punches at nothing, I wanted to hurt the morning like the morning had hurt me.

Then I heard the news reporter say the words that brought me to the streets of Little Havana on April 29. I heard him talk about the “defeat” of the Cuban exile community in Miami, there was a hint of a smile on his face and the pain and rage took on a new form. They became a fire.

What went on in the streets of Little Havana the Saturday after the raid went largely unreported. There was no live coverage.

The same media that a week before had stood on twenty-four hour alert reporting the most minute development on one of the most controversial news stories of the year, was conspicuous in its absence. It didn’t really matter, it was expected.

Two hundred thousand citizens walked Calle Ocho to make a statement. Young and old together like never before.

My family walked that street with me, and so did men, women and children from all walks of life, from every step in the social ladder and of every age. What had been thought to have destroyed our morale had served to make it stronger and to unite it, and it brought our young people back.

I came to America on a similar day thirty-two years before, a child of eleven. I was instantly at home here. Forget the struggle of language, eleven-year olds find ways to communicate and they are fast learners. I practiced hard at sounding like I belonged.

I was in love with the idea of America long before our arrival, a place where the fear didn’t exist. The fears that only those who have lived it can fully explain or understand. End even as a child I had felt it. I heard whispered things about people in trouble, and in jail. I knew not to speak out and I knew not to say the kinds of things that could bring unwanted attention.

I knew not to listen to the things taught at school. I knew of the shortages in everything a family needs to live, I knew of the risks my parents took to support us. I knew of the Committees, the neighborhood snitches who gained status by turning in people like us on trumped-up charges.

I knew they watched us with special interest, we could be a prize and a promotion, and we were “worms”.

I longed for America even then, my whole life revolved around going there and I was anxious to leave, ready to start a new life in the wonderful place my parents would detail to me each night. I was ready to stop being a “worm”. Even a boy of eleven can dream of Freedom.

Four generations of us stand firmly planted on this soil now, many are buried here and this is home to us, and it will remain that way even after the inevitable change in Cuba comes. That change will come from within, an explosion of Freedom that no one will be able to stop, because Freedom is a gift from our Creator which will not be denied forever. When that day arrives we will be ready to lend whatever assistance may be necessary, but this family stays here and it stands ready to defend this country and the ideals under which it was founded.

And so we came to find ourselves on a Little Havana street; two hundred thousand unlikely patriots in an unusual setting. An event organized in less than a week by a solitary radio station. They called it a “March for Dignity”, but it was a rally for Justice and an answer to the reports of our demise. It was an indictment of the illegal and unconstitutional actions of the Clinton administration, and a call to arms.

I was awfully proud of my people that day, as I was throughout the entire Elian Gonzalez saga. We brothers, we parents and grandparents. We sons and daughters of the people who gave it all up in the name of Freedom, honored them that day. We marched for the tens of thousands who chose to brave the treacherous straits, and died rather than living without Freedom. We marched for the millions still behind. We marched for the ones buried here and there who will never witness a Cuba free from oppression, the ones who didn’t witness the shame brought to America by the Clinton administration. We marched for the right of even the youngest among us to live free.

And a little child lead the way.

History may pay little attention to the rally on April 29th. As little attention as the dominant media but, if they failed to notice they both will have failed in their duty to report. They will fail to see one of the defining moment in the History of my people; the day we walked the path of Freedom on a road traveled by Americans before us.

We stood, two hundred thousand strong, under a clear blue American sky. On that day we drew a line in the sands of History. We stand behind that line today. We are poised and ready for our moment to seize the day, waiting for our opportunity to answer the unjust charges brought against us by the administration and the media.

Ready to show the world who we are.

Next Tuesday, in the first Presidential election of the Millennium my community will rally, and in numbers that will surprise even the best informed pollsters. We will make our voices heard in this, our new home, and like the Americans we are we will make our choice known. Our choice will be the answer to those forces who labeled us as zealots. In the name of America and Freedom we welcome that label.

On election day, as the sun sweeps across our nation, look for us on the front lines. We stand ready, and we will not falter. We welcome that opportunity.

And we will, overwhelmingly, vote for George W. Bush.

A boy of eleven once loved the dream of America in a land where everything America stood for was officially hated. Today, the man who once was that boy loves the realization of the dream.

On election day, my thoughts will be the same as they were the day I walked with unlikely patriots on a street in Little Havana.

Remember Elian and Let Freedom Ring.

En el Tronco de un Árbol

Forty-five years ago.

April 3rd.

A young family boarded a plane in Varadero. Tired, hungry, scared, they walked the tarmac in a huddle.

Tears fell, but no one looked back.

Forty-five years ago.

April 3rd.

A lifetime, and then some.

The Gonzalez family has grown, but we’ve never lost hope that our feet will once again walk on Cuban soil.

I was almost twelve when I left, and it would be twenty years before I ever saw the island again… albeit from thirty thousand feet in the air.

This is my account of that day.

Viva Cuba libre…

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