Updated: Repression in Cuba Continues: Gorki Arrested

Update: Gorki's predicament has received attention from the mainstream media, from AP, AFP, to Drudge. Let's see if it has any effect.

For some of you, this is old news. But for others, there is this CNN report. Cuban Punk Rocker Gorki Aguila, lead singer of Porno Para Ricardo and known for his profane anti-government lyrics, was arrested Monday at his home. Word is that he will be tried on Thursday when he faces 1-4 years on the charge of "dangerousness." I'd like to see Charlie Rangel justify this one.
You can go to the band's website here where there is a link to the info in Spanish.

H/T Babalublog

Post Olympics Buyers Remorse

Reflective by nature, I was fairly ambivalent about the Olympics in China. I rationalized into temporary abeyance my loathing for their fairly atrocious human rights record by thinking that it was an opportunity for the Chinese people to feel proud of their achievements, to celebrate their advances. And in the economic realm, China has achieved much, as anyone who has studied Chinese history or even read The Good Earth can attest. (By the bye you can forget the Cuba parallels here. In Cuba, infant was never on the menu due to famine. Cuba has been brought into the third world not out of it.)

I watched the opening ceremonies which were impressive and quaint, shocked at the co-ordination of thousands of performers. But maybe that's just it. Where other countries would have used the magic of hydraulics, they used people. With the drums pounding, it was reminiscent of the Sherwood Anderson story about the belt. People as machines. But that thought came later, later as I found out that the actual young singer had been deemed too "ugly" to perform. Later, when the single-minded pursuit of Olympic medals was apparent, when remarkably youthful gymnasts, some of whom had not seen their parents in a year, skirted legality, when table tennis was not a game. Later when two elderly ladies filed for a protest permit and were arrested, when others engaging in the same faux pas were sent to labor camps.

It was then that I realized that the Olympic face of China was just the face of the caged tiger. I, too, had been guilty of relativism. It was an impression heightened by Edwin Cody's fine piece in the Washington Post on how the Olympics may have strengthened the hand of the totalitarian State. One has to wonder. It is a consideration those who choose Olympic venues would do well to keep in mind.

Answer Me This: Dem Convention Questions

If you were a national party, and you really wanted to win the presidential election, would you have as speakers at your present convention the last candidate you ran for the office who was defeated, the one before him who was defeated, and a past President essentially booted out of office, Messrs. Kerry, Gore, and Carter?

And while we're on the subject of speakers, what was all the folderol about Michelle Obama? Did I miss something? Is she running for office? Not only is she a keynote speaker, but I channel surf right into her biography, lovingly narrated by her mother. What's with that? Are we going to get a night of Cindy McCain, too, at the RNC convention? Who cares? Please spare me spouses.

Telling It Like It Is

Cuba's nomenklatura does not believe that there is an inherent human right to political liberty and self-government. Raúl Castro and his inner circle are not closet democrats waiting for an opportune moment to express their Jeffersonian ideals
-José Azel in "Cuba's future: Democratic reforms key to real change" here.

Sunday at the Polls

Leadership. Now Ted Nugent is not usually my look to guy for political insight. I turn to him when I feel like asserting my rugged individualism. But this piece, posted on Townhall, ostensibly about "whiners" is spot on. His take: McCain is more "presidential." Besides the man has a point about whining.

Canvas. The incomparable Peggy Noonan weighs in with her take on why the election has turned into a horse race: the American people are paying attention. Particularly amusing is the anecdote she recounts about McCain's speech at the 2004 Republican convention. While sometimes unfortunate, Mr. McCain's sense of humor is part of his charm. Read it here.

Folly. Here's two to lighten up the morning. Seems the Obama camp couldn't resist a little payback. According to this, the 3AM Veep choice text message was taken as a dig at Hillary Clinton. Talk about adding insult to injury. You decide. And I've decided that this is the political cartoon of the week.

Character. Cuba's Angel Matos earned himself a lifetime ban from the Olympics by kicking the referee when disqualified at his Taekwondo match. Wonder what he earned himself back home? Oh well, at least he didn't defect. Read about it and watch it here.

Libations. I'm heartened to see one of the beers of my youth making a comeback. Pabst is making Schlitz again. Speaking of which, do they still sell Pabst Blue Ribbon? I can still hear the sibilations of my Dad saying, Scheeltssss.

Literary Interlude: from Walden

All this talk of wealth and houses brings us to Henry David Thoreau's Walden this fine summer eve. Did you know he once spent time on Staten Island as tutor to Emerson's brother's children? Have at it.

However mean your life is, meet it and live it; do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults even in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the almshouse as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. The town's poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any. Maybe they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving. Most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it oftener happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends. Turn the old; return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts. God will see that you do not want society. If I were confined to a corner of a garret all my days, like a spider, the world would be just as large to me while I had my thoughts about me. The philosopher said: "From an army of three divisions one can take away its general, and put it in disorder; from the man the most abject and vulgar one cannot take away his thought." Do not seek so anxiously to be developed, to subject yourself to many influences to be played on; it is all dissipation. Humility like darkness reveals the heavenly lights. The shadows of poverty and meanness gather around us, "and lo! creation widens to our view." We are often reminded that if there were bestowed on us the wealth of Croesus, our aims must still be the same, and our means essentially the same. Moreover, if you are restricted in your range by poverty, if you cannot buy books and newspapers, for instance, you are but confined to the most significant and vital experiences; you are compelled to deal with the material which yields the most sugar and the most starch. It is life near the bone where it is sweetest. You are defended from being a trifler. No man loses ever on a lower level by magnanimity on a higher. Superfluous wealth can buy superfluities only. Money is not required to buy one necessary of the soul.

Meanderings: How Rich Are You?

The latest hullabaloo on the campaign trail revolves around which candidate lives more opulently or some such. To wit, Mr. McCain couldn't say how many houses he has. I think to myself, there goes a rich man and a wealthy one, too. I learned a long time ago that rich and wealthy are not necessarily synonymous. Obviously, having that much real estate would indicate that someone is wealthy. The notion of rich, however, is something altogether different.

Although I've been more fortunate than many for most of my life, I have never, ever, been wealthy. And as a single mother for a while, I've occasionally strayed into strapped territory. That's the place where every single dollar coming in- none from the government- is allotted to a necessary expense and where replacing a shower curtain requires "saving up" for the Kmart luxe version ($16). It's where you measure increasing success by buying your child an Oriental fan she will never use again for her upcoming role in The Mikado, and she looks at you in wonder, stricken by your easy agreement.

Now, rich is when you could easily replace that same shower curtain at Bed, Bath, and Beyond, although by now bargain hunting is an ingrained habit. It is walking through Walgreens and picking up toiletries without thinking about the cost. There's the crux, not thinking about it.

Rich people don't think about money; wealthy people might. Think Scrooge- wealthy, but not rich. Now, Mr. McCain is obviously rich. Once you cross that "I don't know how many houses I have my name on" line, you are one lucky, rich, sob. Mr. Obama, on the other hand, made 4 million dollars last year, an amount which easily classifies him as wealthy. The question then is "but is he rich?"

Quip of the Day

This week, Barack Obama's challenge is to select a running mate who's young, hip, and whose accomplishments in life don't overshadow Obama's. Allow me to suggest Kevin Federline.
-Anne Coulter in this week's column.

Told You So

I know, I know, nobody likes a know it all. Seems the Washington Post, actually more like the Commodities Futures Trading Commission has discovered the Mediterranean, or at least that (gasp) there has been speculation going on in the oil markets. One of the prime movers: a private Swiss energy conglomerate. Welcome the the world of the global economy. Read it here and weep.

NOBAMA here

A must have for those suffering from the early onset of Obama derangement syndrome. For about $35 dollars you, too, can get your very own lawn sign and bumper sticker set, as well as 12 issues of Townhall here.

Waiting...

"I have the ability to do it," Nunez says, "and I think opportunities should come. We have to be patient. I have bet on Cuba and on the future of Cuba, and that's why I'm here. We are simply waiting."
-from this NPR report

Given the upbeat nature of the headline, one would think the waiting was over. However, despite the glowing description of the few substantive changes in agriculture, even the article makes clear there are miles to go.

And while you're reading the article, don't miss the slide show of Cuban political posters. Reality, it ain't.

Paco Noir

For obvious reasons, Michael Moore is perhaps the most universally reviled celebrity in Cuban American circles. He is up there on the anathema scale with politician Charlie Rangel, although not quite. His tenure might be brief, a sort of 15 minutes of shame, while Rangel's long career as apologist renders him a lifetime member. So we'll enjoy An American Carol, whatever the quality of the movie. And today I'll enjoy a bit of humor at his expense over at Paco's. Cute.

Updated: Barometer Falling

Update: Looks like we dodged another one. While we're expecting tropical storm weather, it looks like it will hit further South. The last tropical storm around here was Gabrielle which hit the Friday of the week of the September 11th attacks. I remember because the electricity and subsequently the television went off in the middle of the national remembrance. Gabrielle created a block long pond in the back that almost made it to the house. Some very old trees in the neighborhood were toppled. In short, it was a mess. Mess, however, is something we can deal with.


At least, I think it should be. If you look to the east of about 8:30 PM on Tues in this NOAA graphic, you'll see my hometown of Sarasota. We Sarasotans are, like Miamians, a bit jaded (See George's post) if for a different reason. In Miami, they have seen it all. To them, this is routine. They all have shutters, generators, etc. After all, they went through Andrew. In Sarasota, we are routinely threatened with hurricanes, but they never seem to materialize. So although we go through the motions sometimes and gerryrig some plywood, we are like the villagers who have heard the cries of "wolf" a few too many times. Even Charley, the worst, took that right hook about 15 minutes before it would have hit us.



In those days, we were new at this approaching storm business, sitting in the darkness of our boarded up homes, glued to SNN where David Karnes was doing a yeoman's job and was more accurate than the national channels, when suddenly the angel of death bypassed our door. Such escapes lead to a rather cavalier attitude. There are some who say that this was Indian holy ground or some such, others that we are in some sort of magnetic vortex. I suspect we have been lucky.



A meteorologist on TV likened this storm to Charley, which was unsettling. This one seems to be heading up to Tampa, just as Charley was heading to Sarasota. Who's to say it won't take a quick right turn roundabout Sarasota way? Just in case, we have tin homemade shutters that once graced someone's roof, we can press into quick service. And we bought some clips we can use with plywood for the money pit next door. We're bound to have plywood around the house somewhere. Kerosene lamps? Check. Gallons of water? Check. Transistor radio? Batteries? Check. Candles? Check. Charcoal? Flashlights? Somewhere. Gasoline for the generator we inherited from someone who moved up North and have never started? Ouch. The gas station was out tonight. And you need to have those gas tanks filled avant le deluge. Oh, well, guess I know what I'm doing tomorrow. I'm not gonna kid you, folks, it's still scary.

(Blogger is not cooperating)

Sunday/Monday Double Bill

Did he, or didn't he? Republican congressional candidate Mike Erickson got caught with his metaphorical pants down. He took a little junket cum humanitarian mission down to Cuba during Cigar Week. According to the candidate, he took supplies to a medical center, the existence of which is in doubt. According to others on his tour, they picked up a couple of cases of supplies in Cancun to observe the legalities. Guy looks like a sanaco anyway.

Appearance versus reality. Here's yet another article/interview with Rachel Kushner about her Telex from Cuba. Raised in Haight Ashbury, graduate of Berkley and Columbia, Kushner seems stuck on the possibilities of the Revolution. Interesting, that. What almost all reviewers miss is that the novel may be set in Cuba, but it is not about Cuba.

Poet and prophet. At Townhall, Dinesh D'Souza marks the passing of Solzhenitsyn by highlighting not his opposition to Soviet oppression, a timely topic, but rather the criticism of Western society to be found in a 1978 address at Harvard. Thought provoking. Read it here. Speaking of appearances, there's something of the Tolstoy in that photo.

To be or not to be. Another interesting duo is to be found in Ben Shapiro's column about Obama vs. McCain. His point: Americans like their Presidents tough, ergo McCain's boots trump Obama's suits. From your computer to God's ears?

You say potato; I say potato. The Times (Brit) informs us that octopi do not have eight arms as was the general thought. No, the wily octopods have six arms and two legs.

Literary Interlude: Dead Animal Poems

Death of a Toad

A toad the power mower caught,
Chewed and clipped of a leg, with a hobbling hop has got
To the garden verge, and sanctuaried him
Under the cineraria leaves, in the shade
Of the ashen and heartshaped leaves, in a dim,
Low, and a final glade.

The rare original heartsbleed goes,
Spends in the earthen hide, in the folds and wizenings, flows
In the gutters of the banked and staring eyes. He lies
As still as if he would return to stone,
And soundlessly attending, dies
Toward some deep monotone,

Toward misted and ebullient seas

And cooling shores, toward lost Amphibia's emperies.

Day dwindles, drowning and at length is gone

In the wide and antique eyes, which still appear

To watch, across the castrate lawn,

The haggard daylight steer.

-Richard Wilbur

View of a Pig

The pig lay on a barrow dead.
It weighed, they said, as much as three men.
Its eyes closed, pink white eyelashes.
Its trotters stuck straight out.

Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in death seemed not just dead.
It was less than lifeless, further off.
It was like a sack of wheat.

I thumped it without feeling remorse.
One feels guilty insulting the dead,
Walking on graves. But this pig
Did not seem able to accuse.

It was too dead. Just so much
A poundage of lard and pork.
Its last dignity had entirely gone.
It was not a figure of fun.

Too dead now to pity.
To remember its life, din, stronghold
Of earthly pleasure as it had been,
Seemed a false start, and off the point.

Too deadly factual. Its weight
Oppressed me---how could it be moved?
And the trouble of cutting it up!
The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.

Once I ran a fair in the noise
To catch a greased piglet
That was faster and nimbler than a cat,
Its squeal was the rending of metal.

Pigs must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.
Their bite is worse than a horse's---
They chop a half-moon clean out.
They eat cinders, dead cats.

Distinctions and admirations such
As this one was long finished with.
I stared at it a long time. They were going to scald it,
Scald it and scour it like a doorstep.

-Ted Hughes

Meanderings: A Mutable Frog

For the past 3 days, I've been watching a frog, deceased. It could be a toad, but the underside looks a bit too green. Our toads are generally dirt brown. The whole thing started because I'm always on the alert for stinging insects while in the vicinity of inanimate objects. We have many wasps in Florida who persist in building their nests on posts, railings, gazebos, even mail boxes, in short, anything that doesn't move and to which the unsuspecting human is likely to come into proximity. The size and striped markings of some are truly intimidating. I've learned, though, that it is the smaller, foul-tempered kind that are more likely to sting. On the bright side, at least we don't have yellow jackets circling our barbeques. Of course, the flies render them superfluous. A more aggressive and prolific class of fly I have never seen, except that unlike those in much of the South, they don't bite. For that we have the no-see-ums, mosquitos, and fire ants. Of these, the no-see-ums are the worst. They are teeny; they are impervious to bug spray; and they have the itchiest bite, a bite that returns to torment for days.

Anyway, on the first day, the cohort of flies alerted me to something by the storm drain. I looked, only to see them dive bombing an upside down frog. The frog looked pretty normal, and there were no signs of trauma on his underbelly. I wondered what had caused his death. Did he just suddenly croak, there by the safety of the drain pipe? He couldn't have dried out; it's been raining daily. And they like that. After a rain, his slimy and off key brethren come out and create a cacophony that would put the Budweiser commercial to shame. Perhaps, a bird had gotten him, and he rolled over. But he looked too intact. I mulled the evidence but stopped short of grabbing a stick to inquire. Curiosity and all, there is the cootie factor.

And so I forgot about him, until the next day. There he was, a little further down the incline and a bit puffier. The flies were gone, and on some level I realized his abdomen was distended by gas, but the thought of what else lay in there made me turn away.

Still, I've become fascinated by this process. Today, I went over to find him unmoved, deflated, whatever having escaped through a hole in his upper thoracic region. Overnight, he had developed a whole host of colors, the effect of which resembled those purples and yellows of a healing black and blue. There was a hideous beauty to it.

I slapped myself- mentally. What was I doing? Why was I drawn to this horrible, beautiful thing? Suddenly, a whole host of poems came to mind. There was DH Lawrence's experience with a snake, or the dead toad one, even the pig. Perhaps, this experience of death would lead me to a great insight about life. Naw. Just a dead frog/toad by the storm drain.

I'll save the insights for others.

Sometimes a Turnip is a Mailbox

I bet you thought, like I did that the late Julia Child was just a magnificent chef with a cheerful demeanor and a husky voice. Well, think again. Julia Child was a...a...spy. At least according to this report which outs such notables as Julia, John Ford, Arthur Schlesinger, etc. The good news- they were on our side.

Highways and Byways in Hidden Florida

It seems unbelievable, but there are still parts of the Florida that have not been overrun by mega-storied condos, McMansions or motels. If you'd like to see it, take a ride on Route 19 through the Ocala National Forest, as we did on our way to St Augustine Beach. I had stumbled on the beach years ago and decided to head there, hoping against hope that it had not been spoiled. I remembered it as a place frozen in time with huge swathes of dunes in between small motels and beach bungalows. It was the kind of place that had a laundromat on the seaward side of the beach strip.

Well, the laundromat was gone. I think my hotel was built partially on the site. And there were new hotels, but I'm happy to report that it has retained much of its character, perhaps because there isn't a building taller than 3 stories, perhaps because there is room to breathe there, despite the jumble of older cottages on the beach streets. The beach is magnificent, the sunrises breathtaking. The water, however, is chilly for this Gulf bather, and rip currents are common. But I loved it then, and I loved it now. There is no pretension, just a relaxing beachside resort, the kind we enjoyed as children.

Major development has taken place on the town side. Still development is to be expected and is not necessarily a bad thing. Now if you ride down the A1A along the coast and you will see much that development has missed. As you pass lonely outposts of condo developments or the occasional town, you run into surprising, unspoiled stretches.

***

Not too far south of St. Augustine Beach is Fort Matanzas, site of a Federal park. It's an easy on and easy off, none of this driving into the dark unknown. Here whiting jump, and the water is all shades of azure against a landscape of sand and native scrub, and you can hear yourself breathe in the solitude. For an interesting stretch veer onto the old A1A where the road straddles the beach. Further down, you'll run into Marineland, a park that has remade itself, amidst various research outposts. In between, there are strata of development. Witness the 20's, 30's, 50's and other assorted decades up to the present. Of the greatest interest, however, are the innumerable parks that lead off the highway, each an adventure awaiting the motorist. The photo above came from just one of those off shoots. Incredible. I am left wondering about all those roads not taken. What did we miss?

***

What I didn't miss was Daytona Beach with its gargantuan hostelries that dwarf the mere human being. Yet, even here there were vestiges of fifties kitsch. Just not my cup of tea, which reminds me...I've shared some secret places, but don't let anyone else in on them, lest they fall victim to what has happened to much of the rest of the state.

One Toke Over the Political Line

Obama's latest radio ad in Florida uses the phrase-after having a President "in the pocket" of big oil companies for 8 years- the implication being that McCain will also be beholden to big Oil. At first I assumed it to be from one of those loony lefty organizations, but, no, there comes the "I'm Barack Obama and I approved this message." Most unseemly to state baldly that the President has "been in the pocket" of anyone as it carries with it the implication of bribery. And unless such venality can be proven, it does little good to fling such an accusation loosely.

On to another situation some would question. Just got a solicitation for money to help the NBRA put up their billboards in Denver. The one in the picture is in South Carolina. They are up in FL, too. Don't know enough about MLK's political predilections, but you gotta love it.

The Cuban Heritage Trail

Years ago, I went on the Irish Pub tour of Europe. Did you know there is an Irish Pub in Heidelburg or another pres de la Madaleine (at least that's what I told the Iranian cab driver in Paris in my just good enough French-that is just good enough for the Iranian cab driver to find it)? Well, this little jaunt started out as a trip to St. Augustine. Please note the landmark at left, complete with pigeon.

Anyway, we stumble upon not one, not two, but three Cuban cigar shops, not where they sell Cuban cigars because that would be illegal and immoral, although they are Cuban cigars because the shop where we end up buying has a young Cuban man rolling them before your very eyes. Behind the counter is a black and white picture of a young boy rolling cigars in Cuba. It is according to the caption the young man's father at age twelve. I found the leaf a little harsh, but I'm no connoisseur. It did, however, smell marvelous. This I know because the hubster, not Cuban, went native on me.

Nothing would do but that we eat at the Cuban cafe we also found in St. Augustine. I suspect that the abundance of food for a reasonable price might have played a large part in his sudden affinity for my heritage. The food was quite good, although as I pointed out to the South American waiter that my rather tasty Cuban sandwich would have been greatly improved by the addition of at least one slice of pork, as that is one of the defining ingredients in the above named sandwich.

So now we're driving down the A1A. He's puffing on the stogie. We're both admiring forgotten Florida (more on that later). We continue the Cuban Heritage trail with a side trip to the Museum of Arts and Sciences in Daytona which has an absolutely fabulous exhibit of the Ramos Collection, entitled "Great Masters of Cuban Art: 1800 to 1958." If you have the opportunity to see it, do it. I don't know that much about art, but I am something of a museum maven. Take my word for it. It is open until September 1, having been extended.

Mind-boggling. Hubby asks of one painting, "If you didn't know, how could you tell it was Cuban? It looks like the stuff from Europe." Bingo. The exhibit gives the lie to that fallacy that we were third world natives. Not to mention, there is a moment of immense satisfaction that this is a portion of our heritage the s.o.b.s will not be able to steal or erase, as they have erased all the accomplishments BC in the Western mind. I am so moved by the whole experience, I purchase the book for $24.95.

So as we leave the museum, I'm just about Cubaned out. I'm thinking we'll stop somewhere I can get some turkey or roast beef, when we pull into this strip mall in Cocoa Beach where there just happens to be a Cuban cafe called "La Tinaja" with a roguish young Venezuelan waiter named Josue. After a tasty and affordable meal of masitas de puerco frita with arroz and frijoles negros and platanos maduros, I say "enough."

By the way, did you know that Siesta Key in Sarasota started out as a Cuban fishing camp? Scout's honor.