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Damn, I hate it when I forget my Ipod. It’s SO boring to run without musical accompaniment…
[several minutes of running in silence]
I don’t think you ready…for this jelly…I don’t think you ready…for this jelly…
Nope. Just not the same without Beyonce.
Ooh! That guy’s got a nice ass, lemme go run behind him.
[slowly but surely change lanes to the innermost lane behind Beautiful Butt Boy]
Crap. He runs too fast.
Before I know it, he’ll come up from behind me and be looking at MY ass.
Which would NOT be good.
As I’m fairly certain there’s a good amount of jiggling going on back there.
Which is WHY I’m running in the first place.
God, why did you have to make cheese so delicious?
So sinfully delicious??? You put crack in it, didn’t you?
[slowly but surely change lanes to the outer lane where I started out]
Mmmm. Cheese.
Ok. We’re here to focus.
Think about running….R-U-N-N-I-N-G.
Not smoked gouda.
Running.
Your pear apple smoked gouda butt is depending on it.
I don’t think you ready…for this jelly…
God, running is soooooooo boring.
Maybe if I pretend there’s a piece of cheese at the end of lap 5, I’ll get there fast--
OUCH! Diaphragm cramp!!
Friggin’ smoked gouda.
Dear Editors of the Fine Publication that recently published the article "Was Castro Good for Cuba?" -
I sincerely thank you for publishing this piece, as it raises a number of important issues. These issues, for reasons personal to me, my Cuban parents and my Cuban grandparents, will always be a topic of discussion around our dinner table. I am privileged to be among the first generation of our family born in the United States, and thus was able to approach the article with a bit more of an objective stance than the older members of my family. Even still, however, there were elements to the article which were difficult, if not absurdly impossible, to swallow.
Most glaringly, having a Spaniard defend the argument for "yes" introduced perhaps the single most damaging inaccuracy in the entire piece. While I can appreciate that a well-seasoned, widely read journalist and writer such as Ignacio Ramonet might be able to craft some intelligent reasons for such an argument after a few visits and so many hours of interviewing Castro, the argument for "yes" would have been far more powerful had it been made by a native Cuban who lives in Castro's Cuba today. At first I was puzzled by the choice of a non-Cuban author because, though freedom of speech and of the press are not amongst the liberties that the citizens of Cuba currently enjoy, I would imagine that Castro might make an exception for a press document that would eulogize him. I wasn't puzzled for long, though, as I realized that one would be hard-pressed to find a Cuban citizen, living among the economically and politically cachectic people of Cuba, who would sing the praises of a man who has allowed a once glorious country to crumble into heaps of rubble. Indeed, it is much easier to find someone who enjoys the liberties of a country in which he does not need to give up simple pleasures like toilet paper, steak, or the right to accumulate wealth. It is much easier to find someone who enjoys a medical system in which he does not need to keep the equivalent of $6 USD (which amounts to anywhere from 1/3 to 1/2 of one month's salary) stashed away for cab fair in the event of a medical emergency because one cannot depend on an ambulance. Yes, much easier to bring in Ignacio Ramonet…a Spanish author who does not even see the irony in the question that he, himself, posed in reference to all of the pro bono cataract surgery that Cuban surgeons are offering to the poor of other Latin American countries: Is seeing one's children and the landscape of one's homeland not a fundamental human right?? Yes, Mr. Ramonet, it is. However, Cubans don't get to enjoy that right as they do not have a functional, much less a comfortable, transportation system in which to tour around their homeland. And even if they did, they couldn't afford to use it. And even if they could afford it, they're not allowed to stay in their own country's hotels, eat in their own country's restaurants, or bathe in some of their own country's beaches. So, while Cuban infants may indeed benefit from a lower infant mortality rate, the trade-off is surviving to live a restricted, albeit educated, life on an inescapable prison island. To support this political and economic system, and furthermore, to argue that Castro has the support of the majority, requires all the intention and focused energy of a toddler who, in the throws of a temper tantrum, has his eyes clenched shut and his fingers jammed snugly into each external ear while humming loudly. Only then can the reality be sufficiently drowned out. It is frankly disappointing that an intelligent man like Mr. Ramonet subscribed to such techniques to arrive at his conclusions.
Despite the fact that the harsh realities of life in Cuba precluded the ability to find a Cuban author for the "yes" argument, the discussion did not suffer from a lack of impassioned opinions. It was a lively discussion, each author having facts and statistics of questionable validity to support his argument. As a physician who knows full well that one can scour the medical literature to find data and statistical evidence to back directly opposing treatment options for the very same medical malady, it is with a grain of salt that I take in each side's supporting arguments. However, no matter how many political prisoners and extrajudicial murders there have been or have not been, no matter how many uprisings have occurred or not occurred, no matter how much Cuba's average annual gross domestic product has grown or not grown…there are at least a few simple truths, all of which rise above the distraction created by the data-wielding on each side of the argument, to suggest that when all is said and done, Castro has NOT been good for Cuba.
And those simple truths are as follows:
Castro assumed power four decades ago by means of violence, and has since never offered the people of Cuba an alternative option for leadership by any other party or any other leader.
The people of Cuba want change. They want change so desperately, that thousands and thousands have risked, and continue to risk, their lives to escape to a better place.
This is hardly a legacy to be proud of.
And so we wait. Here in the States and, surely, in Cuba, we wait and we hope for a truly "Cuba Libre.”
Sincerely,
LCG
For the five of you who follow along here semi-regularly, you know by now that I love a good laugh. And, considering that I don’t mind when that laugh comes at even my own expense, it certainly doesn’t bother me when an appropriate opportunity presents itself to laugh at the expense of someone else. Especially when that someone else is our country’s fearless fearful leader.
So, with that, I give you this:
George Bush slips and breaks his neck, back, leg…
It went around via the email circuit last year some time (it's also a very popular screen saver, apparently), but I dug it up after his most recent impromptu press conference to have a go at him. I’ve wasted spent so much time enjoying this…mostly because when he gets stuck, you can use your cursor to pick him up and fling him around or drag him through impossible crevices…it’s just gool ol’ fashioned fun! Enjoy, if you haven’t already. (And even if you have, it’s just as fun the second, third, fourth… time around.)
I went with Dochechka to pick her Mamichki up from the airport last night. Afterwards, the three of us went to dinner. What ensued is not at all atypical of an evening out with Mamichki. She’s like a second mother to me, so I mean this in a very loving way: Mamichki can be a royal pain. And if Dochechka ever gets a bit grumpy or indecisive, I just remember that she got half her chromosomal matter and all of her mitochondrial matter from this woman…
Mamichki looked fleetingly at the menu and then tossed it over by Dochechka, “You peek for me. I dun’t know vhat I vant.”
“Ok. Well, what do you feel like?”
“I dun’t know. You peek.”
“Ok. You want the duck?”
“No.”
“You want the Ahi Tuna?”
“No. I don’t vant ze fish.”
“Okaayyyy. The Shrimp?”
“NO! I don’t vant ze FISH! I had big fish vhen I was in ze Spain…you cean’t even imagine how big! No fish!”
“Well, shrimp isn’t really fish, but ok. How about the chicken?”
“Fine. I vill have ze shrimp.”
“Are you sure? Is that what you want?”
“No. I dun't know.”
“Well, Mamichki, why don’t you look at the menu and pick something out for yourself.”
Without looking at the menu, “Fine. I vill have ze chicken.”
“Good. Ok.”
Mumbling under her breath, “But I dun’t really vant ze chicken…”
“Mamichki, just look at the menu!”
“No! You peek for me!! Why you don’t order me same sing as vhat you get?”
“Because I’m having the tuna.”
“I don’t VANT FISH!”
“I KNOW!”
Blissfully unaware the potential peril of entering the conversation, the waiter arrived, “Are you all just about ready for me to take your order?”
“Yes," I said. "She’ll have the duck."
If you’d have told me back in high school that one of the best dates I’d ever go on would involve a protractor and the actual exercise of measuring out precise angles, I’d have peered at you from underneath my near unibrow, rolled my eyes at you (which you might have missed…my eyebrows were that unruly), and then said something classically indecipherable in a way that was, like, sooo totally pubescent. Something along the lines of: “Pffft.” This is Teenagerspeak for: “Not only are you out of your friggin’ mind, but you’ve probably never heard of Color Me Badd, both of which mean you have no idea what cool is. Take your protractor and shove it.”
And yet. This is exactly true. The Brit, in a way that is so endearingly engineering-y, gathered a moon chart, a protractor, and a google map of the city of SF and figured out the exact path that the full moon would take when it rose the other night. This explains the sunset drive over the Golden Gate Bridge…the ascent through the gorgeous hills of the Marin Headlands nestled just behind the bridge…the staking out of The Perfect Spot to set up the camera and tripod…the waiting, waiting, waiting for twilight…the last minute scramble a little further up the hill to reposition the camera (our math had been a little off) …and last but not least…
This…
Suck on THAT, teenage version of me! (And for the record, you really should have done something about those brows back then.) Who’s cool now, eh? (Hint: It's NOT Color Me Badd)
*Many thanks to The Brit for letting me display his lovely pictures!
The lovely, superbly extraordinary Catherine…who wreaks the best kind of written havoc that can be wreaked over On the Banks of the Rio Grande…the kind that makes you feel like you should go out and wreak some actual havoc of your own…has awarded me a Thinking Blogger Award. Wow!!! Thanks Catherine! Truly, I’m flattered and honored! Woo hoo!
Wait. I think I am!?! It occurred to me, upon receipt of this award, that I had no idea what I’d just been awarded. This got me thinking…Does it mean I make my 5 readers think as I blog? Or does it actually signify a subtle hint that I should think before I blog? God, I hope it’s not the latter, because I rather enjoy posting about depthless, hollow things like clitoral stimulation during childbirth or like how my boyfriend is slowly trying to kill me with lethal auditory doses of movie scores and soundtracks. I’m thinking Catherine probably meant more of the former…mostly because I know that deep down, she truly enjoys my content. And by “content”, I mean “boobs.” (Which I’d like to go on the record and say that I am A-OKAY with. Stare all you like, folks. That’s what they’re there for.)
Regardless of what it really all means, I’ll happily make a list of five bloggers who I like and who make me think (or, alternatively, who make laugh so hard that I sometimes momentarily lose urethral sphincter control and wet myself just a little). (Both are equally admirable accomplishments in my mind.) So, here goes:
Nicki in Positano – Her brother, who is one of The Brit’s oldest pals, sent me the link to her blog late last year. Through her candid tails of love, loss, motherhood, and life in Positano…she invited me in, not only to her world, but to the world of blogging. I have yet to meet her, but judging by her blog and her brother (who is an absolute riot), she’s got to be a real scream!
Waspgoddess in England– This sassy lassy is the first official blog-amiga I made. I like to think we’re homies that go way back now. She’s one of my blog-peeps. She’s funny, witty, and thoughtful. Her writing spans from the whimsical and silly to the tear-jerking and philosophical. She’s been a real gem to get to know!
Mr. Poopie in DC – Now THIS guy is one of my actual peeps with whom I really do go waaaaaaaay back…back to the pimply, bushy eye-browed days of high school. He’s probably one of the funniest guys I know, and perhaps one of the ONLY people I know who is decidedly more obnoxious than me. Be sure to do some Kegel exercises to strengthen your urethral sphincter (or at least get yourself some Depends) before you head on over to this guy’s blog. He’ll surely make you wee.
Mist in the Dirty South – Another blog-amiga made via the series of tubes that is the internet as we know it. I first stumbled upon her blog when she’d just written "Indoor kids" on March 8th of this year (do you not have permalinks woman??), which JUST about killed me. No seriously. I was drinking really hot coffee when she made me snort with laughter. (Ouch, by the way.) After my 2nd degree nasal mucosal burns healed, I was left with the scars of deep, devoted blog-love. She’s frank, she’s vulgar, she’s divine.
Jay in Canada – I happen to know she’s already received one of these, but there’s nothing in any made-up rule book that says I can’t give her one all over again. I found this gem of a goat killer because she was one of the privileged few to get nominated for this prestigious award. She’s fantastically witty, highly entertaining, and full of goaty goodness. (Which, incidentally, is an essential part of a well-balanced breakfast.)
So there are my favorite thinkers and jokers. (I’ll leave it up to y’all whether to pass on the award or not.) Thanks again, Catherine…I’m so happy to count you amongst my few new blog-world friends!! And thanks to all of you who share your world with me!
The Brit and I had a weekend getaway this past weekend. In celebration of the fact that this was the first time we’d both be in the same place for two consecutive weekend days since we were in Japan together, we decided to head down the coast four hours to the town of San Simeon. It’s a small coastal town just north of Cambria (which is, incidentally, a waaaay cuter coastal town), just west of Paso Robles (where there is wine tasting that rivals that of Napa & Sonoma), and just minutes away from Hearst Castle (where I’d never been). Yep. We had BIG plans. Plans involving sleeping for shameful amounts of time and then hanging around in bed until we absolutely had to go out (probably when one of us got hungry). With the exception of one to two hours which we’d planned to relegate to eating and wine tasting, the goal was basically to see how much we could accomplish in our underwear. (And if wine tasting were an experience that could be delivered via room service, I daresay we’d have ordered it. That’s how serious we were about this goal.)
We set out for the four-hour drive a bit later than planned on Friday evening. And nearly the entire drive down, The Brit tortured me with his “most frequently played” list on his Ipod (for which his car “conveniently” has a plug-in). Now, if you know this much about The Brit, then you know what I mean by torture.
What actually transpired is still a bit hazy, but I believe that after about two solid hours of movie score after movie soundtrack (most of which was John Williams’ ET, Star Wars, Indiana Jones…) I finally had a grand mal seizure and then remained in a dazed post-ictal state for the rest of the trip down. When we finally got to the hotel in San Simeon, it was almost midnight and some good, solid sleep (sans Ipod) was much needed.
We hit the sack and a few brief, blissfully silent moments later, our next-door neighbors turned on their TV (to a volume of 11 on a scale of 10) and then proceeded to go at it like a couple of sweaty baboons in heat…
“Grunt!! Grunt!! GRUNNNNNNNT!!!!!!!!!” he’d grunt.
“Shriek!! Shriek!! SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!!!!!!!” she’d shriek.
“Blare!! Blare!! BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!!!” the TV would blare.
“GRUNT!”
“SHRIEK!!”
“BLARE!!!”
“GRUNT!!!!”
“SHRIEEEEEEEEK!!!!! Shriek! Shrie—”
“BLARE!!!!!”
“Grunt!!!! GODDAMMIT, GRUUUUUUUNNNNNNNTTT!!”
“Shriek!!!! OHMYGOD, SHRIEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!”
“BLAAAAAAAAAAAARE!!!!!”
This went on. And on. And on. But it only took a few minutes of listening to this pornographic symphony to put my finger on exactly what we were listening to. I was sure of it.
“Hey, Brit, isn’t that The Last of the Mohicans they’re watching?”
