Literary Interlude: "A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London"

Never until the mankind making
Bird beast and flower
Fathering and all humbling darkness
Tells with silence the last light breaking
And the still hour
Is come of the sea tumbling in harness

And I must enter again the round
Zion of the water bead
And the synagogue of the ear of corn
Shall I let pray the shadow of a sound
Or sow my salt seed
In the least valley of sackcloth to mourn

The majesty and burning of the child's death.
I shall not murder
The mankind of her going with a grave truth
Nor blaspheme down the stations of the breath
With any further Elegy of innocence and youth.

Deep with the first dead lies London's daughter,
Robed in the long friends,
The grains beyond age, the dark veins of her mother,
Secret by the unmourning water
Of the riding Thames.
After the first death, there is no other.

-Dylan Thomas

Meanderings: That Final Tear

My mother died this Monday. She was gravely ill, but the speed of her passing took us by surprise. My brother was on a plane here at the moment of her death. I, however, was by her side. She went gently. Her death spared her a considerable amount of suffering. You will not find my family weeping and gnashing teeth by the funeral bier. There will be no ripping of cloth. It is our custom not to mourn death but rather to celebrate life. And she had led a full and passionate one.

I could deal with it all, as that river flows on carrying our griefs and joys, our suffering and our elation, if it were not for that tear. Just before she began leaving in earnest, a big, fat droplet escaped the corner of her eye and began running down her cheek. It is that tear that haunts me. Earlier that morning when it looked like she was going, I had whispered to her unresponsive form that my brother was on the way. I had asked that she hold on just a little while longer...if she could. Her breathing became more regular, and it looked like she would make it. But by afternoon, she could wait no more. I embraced her still warm body fiercely, as if a daughter's love could reach her where she had gone.

Was she saddened that he would not be at her side? Or was that tear because she would be leaving me alone to face the world? She had always been my ally and my comfort, as well as my friend. Saddest of all is the thought that it was a final pang of sadness at leaving "the confines of the day." I'd like to think that it was a tear of joy, that those shrouded eyes were gazing on my father and her parents as she took her first steps toward paradise. But there were no indications of the supernatural. Just mortality.

I've found comfort in the thought that it was probably a purely physiological response. I suspect she was long gone by then. I've researched it on the net where I found that it is called Lacrima Mortis and occurs in about 14 percent of dying patients. So as I wonder whether I did enough, realize in hindsight that I should have taken the whole week off last week and not just part, even as I know I was by her side through it all, I will consign that last effluent to the emotional neutrality of science. In the meantime, I will discover what it is to live without my mother by my side.

I picture her now the way she was when she and my father danced at the Club in Vertientes, with luxuriant raven hair, ruby lips and movie star eyes. Clad in spangled evening dress, she looks over the shoulder of my father, her rock, in his white linen suit with his hair already thinning and smiles as they dance to the strains of Beny's orchestra. Who am I to begrudge her that?

Legacy of Loss

I recently came across this heartwarming human interest story which appeared in the Sacramento Bee. Maria Celia Garcia is making a movie of her parents' life before and after the revolution, including the trials of attempting to flee the regime. Now, I have no idea how old she is. But not two days later in a conversation with a young student filmmaker who is trying to make a movie loosely based on the Anguilla Cay incident, we agreed that when pundits, politicians, and the press talk about a "generational shift" among young Cuban Americans, they misread their tea leaves.

Whatever their everyday concerns, their political predilections, I'll guarantee that just about each and every child of a Cuban parent has inherited the awful sense of loss, of the wrong done. It is something my generation, the first born or brought up in the United States, picked up directly from our parents and grandparents, and which we in turn have passed on to our children. Perhaps it does not manifest itself in protests on Calle Ocho; but here and there, it surfaces, whether in a movie or a review, a book or even a school project. There is a need to say, "This happened."

So while some celebrate the passing of the "hard-liners," the first exiles, they underestimate the upcoming generations, who- standing on the shoulders of their wronged forbears- are making their way up the ladder of American society in every field of endeavor in even larger numbers. They are our own fifth column in the propaganda wars, this generation of Americans who carry the exile in their hearts. We will not forget, and I suspect they will not let them forget either.

Cross-posted at Babalublog

A Sunday, A Monday, A Tuesday

String Beans. Reading this one about Bush's last press conference by Ted Anthony had me checking to make sure I wasn't on the Huffington Post and not Townhall. I know Bush disappointed a lot of people, but there's something wrong when we sound like MSNBC. See what you think here.

Spaghetti. On a lighter note, in the life imitating art category. A 10 year old Indiana young man found his tongue firmly attached to pole after rising to a dare. No word on whether he'd ever seen A Christmas Story. Story at Fox News here.

Soup. Seems there is or was life on Mars after all. The Sun informs that plumes of methane gas on the planet indicate the presence of microorganisms at some point. Check out the NASA video here. Also from the same source, an outbreak of plague struck down an Al Queda training camp in Algeria. How positively medieval. Read it here.

Roast Beef. Can it be, Obama and Chavez already engaged in verbal fisticuffs? You, betcha. In a Univision interview, Obama characterized Chavez as a hindrance to Latin America, while in reply Chavez maintained that Obama smelled. I kid you not.

Some Disturbing Images

An Assortment of Reads

Since I've been spending my time in the kinds of places without much to do, I've managed to read a book here and there. First was Prince of Fire, followed by The Messenger by Daniel Silva. In both Silva puts a different spin on the standard spy suspense genre. His main character is a fine art restorer/Israeli operative named Gabriel Allon. A reluctant assassin, Allon provides a vehicle to explore the corrosive effects of the Israeli/Arab conflict on those who wage it. Torn by what he has done in the name of duty, yet fully committed to fighting the evil of terrorism, haunted by the family he has lost, while reaching out tentatively at a new life, he is a fascinating character. Silva keeps up the pace throughout. I'm looking forward to the latest installment, Moscow Rules.

So I manage to sneak a half hour to go to the library when I spot a title in the stacks, Fresh Kills.
Now for the uninitiated, Fresh Kills is a wetland area in Staten Island, NY which in a supreme twist of irony became home to a landfill so large that it rivaled the Great Wall of China in visibility from outer space. My interest aroused, I pick up the volume and note the author, Bill Loehfelm. Wow, who'da thunk it? Billy Loehfelm published by Putnam. Of course, I turn it over only to find the grown up, head shaven and goateed young man who was once a student and later a teacher at my old stomping grounds. That the cover mentioned "gritty, blue collar Staten Island" just sealed the deal.

I don't know what I expected...I mean he was a smart kid, but.... Anyway, it starts out as a something of a modern noir but as his wise-cracking main character comes to terms with the death of an abusive father, it becomes something larger, harder, and better still, leaving it neither in one camp or the other. This novel tackles the kind of emotional contradictions those in dysfunctional families know well. I enjoyed it, if enjoyed is the word.

On a related note, he captures the essence of the Staten Island in which I grew up, much of it Irish and unostentatious, bordered by bohemian flair of the Northern fringe, and infused with the small town ethos just a hop, skip and jump away from the Big Apple. Those whose perception of the island is limited to Working Girl or MTV won't recognize the place. It is a place and time rapidly disappearing, which lingers in pockets if at all.

Inaugural Ball Invite

Got an invitation to "The Civil Rights Presidential Inaugural Ball” today, not from the party I have supported for decades obviously. No, this one came from the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. What I have done to merit such a distinction, I don't know. Tell you the truth, I'm tempted. What better place to dance the night away and mark the historic occasion?

I'm actually quite touched, but I must send my regrets, not for the reasons you might believe. As a minority myself, I can begin to appreciate what the swearing in of an African-American president means to many, many Americans. In fact, it is the only saving grace of the moment.

No, I must demur because not too far away, there are many, many human beings of African descent who live under conditions that would make the Jim Crow South seem idyllic. Yet I have never ever heard a single African-American Civil Rights organization voice even the slightest protest at the treatment of their brethren in Cuba. As a matter of record, with the exception of Al Sharpton, many of the most strident voices for civil rights in this country, many who denounced Apartheid in South Africa, have served as apologists and/or willing stooges for a regime that oppresses its brothers and sisters.

When the NAACP launches a campaign to publicize the plight of Cuban political prisoners, and the SCLC expresses its solidarity with Elias Biscet, stands in support of Antuñez, Coco Fariñas and others, then I will gladly celebrate their moment of triumph. Until then, I must regretfully decline their gracious invite.

What if?

What if instead of “Bush Takes Parting Swipe at Communist Cuba,” this headline read “Departing President Affirms Support for a Free Cuba.” Then, what if the first paragraph read

not

President George W. Bush took a parting swipe at communist Cuba on Tuesday, saying it was a cruel dictatorship that had responded to U.S. appeals for democratic reform with more repression of its people.

but

President George W. Bush reaffirmed his support for a free Cuba on Tuesday. Referring to a long history of human rights abuses in the island nation, he described the present regime as a cruel dictatorship that has responded to U.S. appeals for democratic reform with more repression of its people.

Later on,

Obama, a Democrat, has pledged to soften restrictions on family travel and remittances but said he would keep the embargo as leverage to influence changes in the one-party state.

He has said he would be ready to pursue diplomacy with Cuba's leaders if conditions were right, something Bush has resisted doing.

could become

He has said he would be ready to pursue diplomacy with Cuba’s leaders if conditions were right, a position maintained by a number or U.S. administrations and repulsed by the regime in Havana.

What a difference a few words can make in this Reuters article by Matt Spetalnick, edited by Eric Beech.

(Corrections and additions in boldface mine.)

A Questionable Monday Turn of Phrase

Ponzi Scheme? Using the Madoff swindle as a starting point, John Stossel gives us a scary glimpse into the future when the largest of the Ponzi schemes is yet to unravel: Social Security and Medicare. To wit, according to the article, the government is simply passing along our current contributions to present retirees. What happens when the boomers retire? Hint: make your own provisions. Read it at Townhall here.

Unintended Consequences? Michael J McFadden, author of Dissecting Antismokers' Brains, writes a letter to the FT which presents a novel response to banning smoking in British pubs, as in banning smoking can be harmful to workers' health. Sounds like a stretch, but here it is.

Pottery Barn Rule? From the New York Times comes an interesting look at the history and perils of the Wedgwood company. The grande old dame of the tabletop world has stumbled financially. For those of us with a sentimental attachment to the company, it's kinda sad. Wish them luck.

Salutary Fare? Also from the Times comes a group of less popular healthful foods. I'll skip the prunes and beets, thank you.

Vague Rumblings? Two items here. First is a follow up to the Yellowstone story here. Then in a truly sad development is the news that one of my heroes is ailing. Jack Kemp is reportedly suffering from cancer. Little more news than that. Read it here.

Meanderings: The Nature of CyberScum

I'm checking my email days ago, when a message from my antivirus pops up. Oh, oh, a trojan is invading one of my files. It is unable to quarantine it. They tell me to do it. Quickly, I turn to get the name of the file. What is the name of the file? What? They give me an eighteenth of the file name followed by an ellipsis. Okay, okay, I highlight it. There it is. I'll just copy it and do a search, then figure out how to quarantine it. No, no, no, it won't copy. Can't do it by hand, the friggin' thing looks like pi. Time is of the essence. I feel it. That little f----er is replicating like f---n' tribbles. I know it.

I try looking it up using half the name. Alas, I have zillions of files with that half, none of which is the infected one. I call my friend, the self-proclaimed computer guru. "Help," I cry. He spends a half hour telling me how hackers dream these things up for fun, because they can. Then he launches into a rumination on the meaning of life, all the time the infection is turning into an outbreak. Finally, he launches into this expedient that has me checking what files are running. He's gotta be kidding. I'm looking at scads of files, some with an exe affixed. I'm not touching those suckers. The real answer he says is to wipe out the computer and reload it all again. Not a chance.

So now I'm contemplating Amicide, or some such (what is the term for the killing of a friend) and speculating on the justice I would like to visit upon the misbegotten offspring of a camp follower and mule train driver who invented the shit. I go to the Help center. God know how many screens later, they send me to the Encyclopedia of Viruses. What are they going to tell me, like "the virus that is killing your computer was first created in Mesopotamia and is credited with wiping out the economy of a small Asian country"? In any case, I don't have the time. I Google the particular variation and find that most of the entries are in French, Italian, and German. Great, I caught a European virus.

Eventually, after much travail and a bit of help, I figure it out and get it contained and cleaned up. But time and again, I'm left to ponder how in the world the computer industry gets away with the type of customer service it provides. If any other industry....

The Che Fallacy: Telling it Like it Is

Because the worlds of journalism, academia and entertainment have failed us, it is left to Cubans and the children of Cubans to tell the world the truth. Today's entry in the "no me lo paso" file comes from Big Hollywood where Joe Lima sets the record straight. Among the more salient passages:

But “Che” fails on a much deeper level. It attempts to depict actual historical events, the effects of which still play out today and affect millions of people. Does the movie tell the truth? It barely even tries. It is in this failure to connect with historic truth that the film sinks from being a mere failure to being an ugly lie.

and

Pre-Revolutionary Cuba is predictably presented in this film as a screamingly poor, fifth-world country. It seems that every other character is illiterate. People who were there remember it differently, and United Nations statistics from the period tell a different story: Cuba was in fact the fourth most literate country in Latin America. “A people that don’t know how to read and write are an easy people to fool,” scolds Del Toro, index finger in the air. Ironic, that, considering how the Castros have always used the written word to fool people in Cuba and all over the world, via surrogates like Anderson, who blandly parrot the official version of Cuban history. Furthermore, the 100% literacy rate that the Cuban government claims to have accomplished is accompanied by 100% censorship of what Cubans are allowed to read, and of what they are allowed to write. Another digression: statistics say that 28 percent of the State of Louisiana is functionally illiterate today. I’d like to ask Steven Soderbergh, whose father was once Dean of the College of Education at Louisiana State University, if the scandal of illiteracy in Louisiana would justify turning Louisiana into a communist dictatorship, shooting all the cops, and compelling teachers to teach the dictatorship’s version of history. Of course, it wouldn’t. But this is precisely the twisted rationale that the Cuban government uses to justify its now fifty-year stranglehold on power.

Read the whole review here.

Must See, Read, and Feel: A Bit of Levity

Cubans in the generic sense, geography be damned, are united in our perhaps unfortunate ability to see humor in even the most awful of situations. So as I sit down to link some good stuff I haven't been able to write about, here's a quartet on the lighter side.

Start with the cartoon posted over at Ms. Calabazas'. Then mosey on over to Babalu for the latest entry in the "People to People" series by Henry Gomez. Round it off by reading the latest "lost episode" of Che's Bolivian diary over at Paco's. And finish up with a course in tourist myopia by Melek over at Cubanology.

Hemingway in Cuba

Yesterday Cuba opened up its Heminway archives, hitherto having been languishing in the basement of his house. Read the article. Over at Babalu Henry reminds us that not too long ago, you, too, could purchase one of Hemingway's possessions for the less than princely sum of $200 dollars. Anyway, recently Humberto Fontova ran across another bit of Hemingway lore, one you are not likely to hear about and which presents...something. In this piece, James Scott Linville is reminscing about an incident with his boss at the Paris Review, George Plimpton. Enthusiastic, Mr. Linville wanted to make use of the recently published Motorcycle Diaries. To his surprise, Mr. Plimpton, noticeably stricken, demurred. He then told the author of an experience he had with Mr. Hemingway in Cuba:

A sad look came over him, and he said, "Years ago, after we'd done the
interview, Papa invited me down again to Cuba." George had done a justifiably famous interview with Ernest Hemingway for the magazine, and usually referred to him as "Papa", as Hemingway had encouraged him to do.

"It was right after the revolution," George continued. One afternoon, Hemingway told him, "There's something you should see." The nature of the expedition was a mystery; Hemingway made a shaker of drinks, daiquiris or whatever. They got in the car with a few others and drove some way out of town. They got out, set up chairs and took out the drinks, as if they were going to watch the sunset. Soon, a truck arrived. This, explained George, was what they'd been waiting for. It came, as Hemingway knew, the same time each day. It stopped and some men with guns got out of it. In the back were a couple of dozen others who were tied up. Prisoners.

The men with guns hustled the others out of the back of the truck, and lined them up. Then they shot them. They put the bodies back into the truck. I said to George something to the effect of "Oh my God."

Meaning, who knows? Article about the Che movie here.

Somewhat Frankly Monday

It was a very bad year. At least that's what this Bloomberg piece informs us, noting that it is probably the worst economy in 70 years. I include it only for recap purposes, as little appears new. In the same vein, on Townhall Bill O'Reilly runs down the list of some of what he learned in 2008. I include this one, because he definitively makes the point that fact-based reporting seems gone.

Not my way. In a variant of the bank, insurance conglomerate, automaker bailout, with municipalities lined up hats in hand, according to this report one Connecticut politician would like to extend a helping hand to local newspapers. Speculation is that the print organs may be next in the queue of mendicants. Not in my name, I say. When they ceased being somewhat fair brokers of information, they lost any right to tax payer support. Perhaps they should petition the Democrats.

I get a kick out of this. In the bibliobriefs department, we have this welcome news that approximately 5 0f the 11 library branches in Philly slated to close have been given a reprieve of sorts. Don't celebrate yet, though. A follow up article in the Inquirer indicates that they will become "learning centers" run by community groups, etc.... Two questions: what were they as libraries and why do they always immediately hit libraries when budgets tighten? I defy anyone to read the comments of parents in the these articles and not realize the incredible value of libraries to at risk youth. Speaking of books, Karl Rove lets us in on a secret, namely, Bush is an avid reader.

Luck is no lady. As politicians, pundits, and the public debate who's to blame, Jim Sollisch over at the WSJ presents a novel villain. Blame it on the home programs, he cries. It's a light-hearted romp with an underlying kernel of truth. All those fix it and flip it programs on HGTV and other channels may have fed into the frenzy. Me, I only redecorated.

The Lady is a character. I like to leave you with an interesting prediction, courtesy of MSNBC, of which comic characters to watch this year. Personally, I never liked the Marvel/DC variety because they never ended a storyline. They make cool movies, though.

(cute, huh; or is that too cute.)

In Which I Take the Media to the Woodshed, Again

Unease has been my companion in the weeks leading to January this year. I knew that it was as inevitable as the night following the day that the 50th anniversary of the Revolution would unleash paeans to the totalitarian regime in the international media. True to form, the resident shills in Havana have pumped out screeds to the “Robolution,” as many Cubans have characterized it, blending the Spanish word for theft into the original. It’s hard to say whether the less than light-hearted word play is intended to convey the betrayal of purported ideals of the revolution as the Cuban populace understood them in 1959- the restoration of democracy chief among them- as in “Que robo,” or “What a beat”; or whether the reference is to the theft of every single scintilla of real property belonging to every single human being on the island and off, as in “I’ve been robbed.”

Whatever the case, even the veteran journalist apologists in Havana have had to tamp down their praise, as the regime has had to tamp down their “celebrations,” ostensibly because of the straitened circumstances as the result of the trio of hurricanes the island has endured. It is interesting to note that the major official celebration in Santiago was closed to ordinary Cubans, those upon whose backs and hopes and freedom the revolution has managed to maintain itself in power in an unending cycle of poverty and repression. Instead, the festivities were limited to 3,000 party apparatchiks. The event, aside from serving as a delicious metaphor for the present state of Cuba, for the gross inequality between the party and the population, lends itself the suggestion that perhaps there is not the will, political or popular, to celebrate the occasion. It seems probable that yet another factor is the hesitancy of the junta to bring together thousands of screaming Cubans to “celebrate” the unconscionable, perhaps more of a wild card to the powers that be than one would suspect.

Because true to form, the message was that there would be yet more struggle to come. There are those that posit that the embargo has maintained the regime, as opposed to Stalinist repression, say. However, it’s all semantics. Revolutions have a beginning and ending. The word revolution is a noun, not a verb. But this revolution is unending, ever exhorting more from its captive population, always on the brink of becoming. As long as it presents itself in this manner, a seemingly eternal struggle, it is not forced to acknowledge reality, namely that this cadre of leaders has dragged the island nation, once the Pearl of the Antilles, into the third world.

You will not pick up on this, the “greatest” achievement of the Castros, reading any of the media reports and editorials. Ignorance, compounded by bigotry, leads to the bruiting of the talking points of the revolution, namely literacy and healthcare. Never a mention that the regime inherited a population with a 70 percent literacy rate and more doctors per capita than in Britain, that Cubans were forced to trade in their freedom, their rights to self-determination, due process and a host of other civil liberties for a ration book. Comparisons are made to Haiti, as if Haiti would ever have been deemed a fit parallel in the 1950’s. Over and over, we are told that the Castroite regime has outlasted 10 US Presidents, as if it were an occasion for praise, instead of the result of lessons learned at the knee of Papa Stalin with pointers from the East German Stasi.

So here’s a little primer for those who pretend to inform the rest of us. There is no Cuban Revolution. It is over, done, finito. It died in 1960, or thereabouts, when Cubans awoke to the nightmare of a half century hangover. What is left is just one more tin pot dictatorship with an attitude and a very good public relations department. So spare me the historical milestone. It should occasion articles on the half century of misery, squalor and repression visited on the Cuban people and nothing else.

Updated: The Regime at 50

Since it is snowing all over the net, as in the mass of media outlets has taken their script for covering the anniversary of the 50 years of dictatorship from Anita Snow, I think it is only fair to highlight some more coverage of the same, coverage that is at once more accurate and a bit different.

On Babalu Dr. Carlos Eire writes:

The ultimate legacy of the Revolution may very well be its utter contempt for Cubans. For half a century now, Cuba’s leaders have strangled all political discourse, poisoning whatever common future all of us Cubans could have hoped for. The Castro regime has not only expelled twenty percent of the population and ripped apart millions of families, but also fanned hatred and intolerance. In the process, the Revolution turned us all into beggars of one sort or another, either in our own homeland or in exile, and bequeathed to us a destitute island prison, part brothel, part work camp, part freak show, where the only way to escape despair –short of suicide-- is to flee, or to become an agent of repression.

Over at Cubanology Jose Reyes makes an interesting point as to what "Cuba" means:

Cuba only stands for Fidel and “his” revolucion, the Cuban people do not really exist, how could they? The average Cuban in Cuba has no opinion at all, that right is not in the vocabulary. Neither are they allowed to leave the country, no visa. They cannot demonstrate against the Castro regime, long prison terms. So it goes without saying, the Castro regime has done nothing for the Cuban people in the last 50 years that would justify and be considered as positive progress.

From Gusano over at La Contra Revolucion, we get a poignant glimpse into the sense of loss that permeates the exile experience.

So I imagined that New Year’s Eve in 1958 and all the hard partying, dancing Cubans sipping Cidra and chomping on grapes totally unaware that the island they were floating on was about to be swallowed up in a whirlpool of change.And little did those that knew what was about to happen imagine that 50 years later the island would still be sinking into that swirling, bottomless abyss.

And in the only media coverage to get it right, this from the Washington Times.

Fifty years ago, on Jan. 1, 1959, Fidel Castro and his guerrilla band took over Cuba, a day after its dictator president, Fulgencio Batista, fled the country when the United States withdrew its support. At the time, Mr. Castro, then 32, painted himself as a sort of Jeffersonian democrat, and he was given a ticker-tape parade in New York and spoke at Harvard. It was not until June 6, 1961, when the liberals' darling acknowledged that he had been a Communist since he was 17 years old.

Update:

RightVoices.com asks the question:

Are the Cubans in this country just a bunch of dumbassess that didn’t realize how good they had it? Andy Garcia must really be an idiot for these statements, I mean hell, he lived it but GMA saw it on TV:

More to come....

Auld Lang Syne

As the closing minutes of 2008 tick down, I'd hazard to guess that decades from now, no one will be singing, "It was 2008. It was a very good year." At least, I know I won't. And yet, there is so much for which to be grateful, or "greatful." Interesting thought, that.

In that spirit, I'd like to wish you all a very happy New Year, ever "grateful" that you have stopped by. So tonight, after you throw out the water and eat your 12 grapes, try this for a fitting coda. I use coda, because if we are all very lucky, we will all be here next year. L'Chaim!

(Please note the politically correct multiculturalism here. Ain't that America?)

Bon Mot of the Day

The story is told that when Emperor Nero became infatuated with a young man, he had the young man castrated so he could later celebrate a "wedding" with the youth, now a eunuch. One of the invitees to the event commented that Rome would have been better served if [Nero's father] had attended his own nuptials in like fashion. Looking around me, I have to think similarly about a certain Spaniard who came to this land...

(Oswaldo Yañez in Havana from this post. In Spanish)

Monday Spaghetti: Of Time and Place

Livin' on the edge. Finally, I don't have to claim boomership. I am officially a cusper like our illustrious soon-to-be president and the potential next senator from Massachusetts. Talk about your trashtalking. Here's a boomer indictment for ya'll. I'm a boomer trasher from way back, myself.

Not quite ready for primetime. Here are not one but two positive Palin stories. First is an interview in which she sounds not stupid but actually well-versed. Second is a pretty incisive piece by Ruben Navarette. He makes the distinction that her appeal was not so much about small town America, as it was about small town American values. Don't know if I'd trust her with the codes quite yet, but she's real people.

Pair of docs. Problem: here's a mixed bag from the Wall Street Journal about the "myths" of Cuba. On the one hand, they acknowledge much of what is wrong, but their solution is not quite what the doctor ordered, methinks. Closer to the crux of the problem is this essay from former Mexican foreign minister Jorge Castañeda, not necessarily one of my favorite people.

Slice of life. Meet the new rules: the same as the old rules. Girls, never ever say "I love you" to a man first. At least that's what this how to on CNN informs us. And Townhall heralds the return of Snowzilla to his Anchorage home. The giant snowman apparently causes much havoc in the neighborhood and the municipal Scrooges have banned him.

My prescient self. Remember the animal Ebola in the Phillipines? Well, the dread disease has broken out in the human population in the Congo once again. Death toll was 11 on the 28th. Its spread is limited by its virulence, as in it liquefies its victims so quickly that outbreaks tend to be more localized. Truly scary. More here. Also in the ticking bomb department comes this report that there have been earthquakes in Yellowstone. As any watcher of disaster movies knows, that is potentially not good. Map here.

Cuba: the End of Enchantment

One of the things that struck me the first time I visited Cuba Nostalgia was the complete mock-up of the facade of the El Encanto at the fete. I was further surprised to find that there was an alumni club of sorts composed of onetime employees of the famous Havana department store. It's as if there were a fraternal order of ex-employees of Macys. I was reminded of this when I stumbled on this Miami Herald article which posits the burning of El Encanto as symbolic of the end of an era. Reading it, a light bulb when on over my head. Suppose someone read it but substituted "Macys" for the original. See how the substitution would change your perception of the following:

[John Smith] said that soon after [the new administration], the store gave the impression of operating normally. But gradually some employees embraced the revolution and some even showed up for work wearing guerrilla fatigues. ["Purification"] or ''ideological cleansing'' committees were set up to weed out employees who were not enthusiastic about the revolution, said [a former employee].

Victims of ["Purification"] committees such as [John Smith] often got additional scrutiny by colleagues and supervisers.

These were just the beginnings of the Big Brother state. I guess that's what amazes me when Americans, particularly artists, applaud a system they would find abhorrent if inflicted on them.