Hoy Pensé en Vos

Decimos vicisitudes, sin perder el ritmo de las agujas. Apagamos secretos, de esos que escaldan la garganta. Pero vos, no sos de esas, que juegan con situaciones peligrosas. Seguro titubearías en la intimidad palpable. Aunque nunca lo hagas en tenues ensueños. Ensueños pecadores, insidiosos que borras con el agua matutina. Para que nadie vea las huellas, los vestigios.

Hoy pensé en vos al deambular las malparidas calles de este pueblo. Ya sabrás que los manzanales florearon y al árbol de Júpiter le brotaron vástagos, y el aire… La brisa, huele a vendimia. Hoy pensé, lo bonito que seria encontrarme con vos, así, de golpe. Caminar, haciéndonos camino entre la gente. Confesarnos sentires encontrados, sin escatimar palabras; decirnos frases livianas, sin regatear desenlaces de piel o escrúpulo.

Sé que no tiene sentido darle manija a nada de esto. Pues somos caminos encontrados, caudales opuestos, ligados por corrientes de un rio turbulento, esteros que buscan ansiosos la mar. Y hoy estas aquí, pero mañana seguro te buscas otro pedestal. Tal golondrina, escudriñando los mejores aleros u holgados veranos.

Y a pesar de lo dicho, el deseo es porfiado. Brebajes, fatigas, y el sentido común le amainan poco. Este jodido deseo que quisiera entretejer nuestras manos. Para andar calles aglomeradas por gente que jamás deja pasar.

Hoy, cuando pensaba en vos, se extendió el sol sobre un pinar. Resaltando tus detalles, tu manera de fintar las palabras. Tu mirada larga. Esa mirada de color indefinido. Esa que no deja leer si la luz reflejada es añoranza, desconsuelo o tempestad. Ensimismada, en tus tramites, haciendo marionetas con la melena.

Sos un mapa, parco, complicado que sondeo con timidez, buscando una rúbrica anticuada, una luz verde, entre tus ademanes. Una puñetera palabra, ese ariete Aqueo que desmorone, este seto, esta muralla en horas hábiles. Que más que seto, es un remedio, una purga que paladea a formalidades y protocolos, un puto cocido de ruibarbo.

Cuando termine de pensar en vos, tanteé la dimensión del lio y me sentí compungido. Pero vos nada que ver en esto. Es todo culpa de la plétora en mi cuerpo, este amor que se desborda, que en su exceso marchita. Sentimiento que no tiene confín, que tropieza con las fronteras y el tiempo.

A orillas de la bahía, no estaban las nubes en el firmamento, quemaba el sol. Y erguida una solitaria palmera en la colina de San Carlos me miraba. Aun seguías vos en mi cavilar. Plantada entre la llanura más vistosa… Que bonito seria, verte avanzar, sacudiendo tu vestido de sol… Pero vos no sos de esas que juegan con situaciones peligrosas. Y te quedaste a medias, tibia, indecisa, jugando con el tiempo. Como un disparo en la oscuridad!

From Pianos to Organs

Amnesia happens to you as you get old. You forget little things like keys, where you parked, that person’s name, a birthday here, a birthday there and so and so on; yet sometimes things become indelible in our brains. Quite often I find myself recalling a thing that occurred 5,000 days ago and forgotten lunch. But, for some mysterious reason I remember very vividly January the 26th, 2012.

Thursday is just another day for me. A day with a name, a name I think honors Jupiter. During the early hours of that Thursday weather had been very menopausal, it was cloudy and sunny, then cold and hot, then cloudy and cold again.

The way to Umbellularia was the usually crater afflicted highway with its traffic moving sluggish near the Ravenswood exit. The air inside the car became stagnant. I opened the window and switched the radio to on. Collin’s piano and lyrics crochet, took me back to infancy and my desire to play the piano.

I could still remember passing Steinway Street on the R-train and thinking of pianos, fading-away.
Then the years passed, my brother Julian and I were busy trying to pay rent, buffing floors near Nepperhan Ave. So I resigned myself to drinking beer and dragging cigarette smoke around my lungs.
And it happened that one day. I must have been nineteen or twenty but that year’s winter surely made me feel 57. “It” sat inside an elegant office, it was a Steinway & Sons: of a glossy burgundy armor, with 88 keys and three silver pedals. Lured by its beauty I tried playing two chords (Dm 7 and G) before a big stout black security-guard shouted to me “to fuck-off.”

The clouds were on the verge of pissing upon the city when I exited Umbellularia. And on my way home I gave deep thought to the idea of getting a used piano and fulfilling one of these truncated and sour childhood dreams.

So, I called Yaneth Chavez. She said, pausing here and there to chew on her chicharron, that it was a bad idea. Because, those fucking pianos weight-tons and are complicated. And that’s why none of the 150 members inside the Mejican-bandas ever used shit, maricon, pling-pling, ding-dong… pianos. Instead they played macho-men instruments, instruments that required testicular-hernias to play. Manly instruments like the accordion.

In any case, she would have Brother Ralonsinho Dasousa, sex partner and evangelical-pastor, call me; assuring, with confidence in her voice, that Dasousa knew a Mejican man who exclusively black-marketed organs as a profession.

I got a voice-mail around 3PM. Armed with the heaviest Brazilian accent he skipped all formalities and said something like “Vouse shiene kay compraishe un Orgaño. Vouse sha mame a Yesus al…” And all I understood was that I had to call Jesus.

I called Jesus and explained, in a very universal Spanish, that I wanted to purchase the cheapest used instrument he had. Color did not matter. And price would be set then. Jesus arranged a meeting at 6:15PM, at El Gruyero Taqueria in Palo Alto.

As I drove, irony crossed my mind. I knew so little about Pianos and even less about organs. Yet, I was certain that organs were instruments of the Baroque period. So whenever I thought of them I pictured churches in Netherlands, Austria, Germany but Mejico? Ok!

Inside El Gruyero the smell of burned lard and Axe was almost horrendous. The clock on my phone read 6:10PM. At around 6:20 he walked-in: a photocopy of Jose and not Jesus. Amazing! This man was the perfect replica of Jose Manuel Zamacona (Aka Memecona). I kept my composure, restraining laughter as I approached him. The secret password was Patita de Angel. He nodded, and then order 25 tacos made of pork intestines with green-sauce and a gallon of horchata (no ice) to go.

We walked into the parking-lot. My cloth reeking of burned lard as we headed towards a brand-new land-rover. The car had monstrous golden rims. And before I could say the word piano, someone put a gun (on the left side of my neck) and whispered charros o melu kebru. So I kept quiet. We drove for about 8-10 minutes. Instinct told me we were still in Palo Alto.

When they took the blindfold off I found myself inside a mansion, very exclusive, upscale area. The silent was very distinct and the palm trees too tall and well-kept. In the darkness I stumbled upon a limestone statues of Rigo Tovar and Chalin.

I was escorted by several Mejicos, carrying assault rifles, to an elevator. We must have descended a good 500 feet. The doors opened and I saw: prostitutes everywhere, cages filled with Hondurans and Nicaraguans pleading to be released. Groups of Elguatemalos and Pueblan-pygmies loaded tons of Medical-Cannabis into delivery trucks. They had beheaded all the Salvadoran due to their Epaminondic/Epaminondas natures and were barbequing their flesh.

Jesus asked me to sit in very nice leather-chair. Opened a box of cigars and offered me one saying they were Cuban. Politely I accepted it for various reasons: to be courteous and verify their origin. Sure enough, they were Corona Maduro. My father, rest in peace, always said that these people were compulsive liars, it was an inherited characteristic.

As he lit up his cigar, I related to him my childhood story. My dreams and my desire to learn how to play the piano; he laughed, farted and blew a thick cloud of smoke in my face. And in a very angry tone, warned me that if I valued my life I better start talking business because he knew jack-shit about pianos… I have he said, with a great big smile upon his oleaginous face, the best Kidneys in the market.

I said that it had all been a gigantic misunderstanding because I had neither the money, nor the need for any kidney. So I stood-up and headed for the door. Within seconds I found myself unconscious and shackled inside a Laundromat, right next to the cages. And it was ironic how they kept this Laundromat nice and clean but made a shit-holes of the few nice ones in San Mateo.

While I rubbed the bump on my head, I noticed how Los Patrones of this, that, and that other supermarket meticulously washed money. They were extra nice to some guy they called Dr. Count Mohamas Da-Moenee. The count took my pulse, etc. He had an icepick and used it to stab me near the ribs (without damaging any organs) to take a blood sample. Much like some African tribes do with cattle when thirsty.

And there I was in my Argentina blue boxers, thousands of miles away from home. Waiting to have my organs removed, parts of my body charbroil Sinaloan style and my head shrunk and crazy-glued on to the dashboard of some Ford-Trokona. So I damned Yaneth Chavez and all of her polliwog ancestors.

Suddenly and like whoa, a crew stepped-in, they were 5 veterans from Magila’s cohort. They were making a long-distance Maizena delivery: Absolut, Juniol Borinquen, Cucuta, Gunhill and Mofongo. Cucuta had me out in a New York minute.

The Jose Manuel Zamacona lookalike made all sorts of apologies and gave me a bottle of his finest tequila, as gesture of “so sorry”. But I don’t like fucking tequila. Gunhill drove me back, in his Lexington roaring through green-lights. It was close to 1AM. We laughed about the whole thing and parted our ways. They left on a private flight, cavas in hand already toasting to NYC triumph over the 49ers.

Friday morning I was getting stitched-up at the emergency room. The icepick had chipped part of my rib so I had to wear all these bandages.

But all in all, life had taught me several beautiful lessons:
1. Never ask Yaneth Chavez for advice;
2. Never fuck with pianos. These things are for richy-rich white, blond, beautiful people;
3. If you are on dialysis and need a quick transplant come to Cali or go to Mejico;
4. Organs and Organs are two different matters.

Sure enough as I am pulling out of the emergency room and turn on radio…

So might as well... Phil talk to em!

Ramdom Thoughts

The clock reads 12:25AM and I’m sitting here, reading, highlighting words and phrases from a book published 22 years ago. The paragraphs are pragmatic, obscure, and almost mechanical. What a contrast to the pleasing colloquialism of the Post and Newsday.

Clock now reads 1:05AM, the soft lights makes reading challenging. But I can’t have too much light because the girls are sleeping soundly. The night distilled a very refined storm; traces of wet soil and cypress keep me company. And I wonder why the asshole upstairs vacuums after midnight?

Wish I could take the elevator down, walk two blocks-up, order a cheeseburger-deluxe, fries, pickles on the side. Maybe get the early morning edition of the Post washed down with coffee. Impossible I’m light years away from The City. It is 1:35 AM, and I am still figuring out how the fuck Anaphora (or the lack of) influences the “overly compact” style of the Legal English.

1:45AM, I stand to stretch and check up on the girls, still sleeping peacefully. I envy their sleep; wish I could sleep like that.

Beyond the windows the street shimmers with rain and wind. Very curious socio-linguistics finds subcultural variations (phonetics, mannerisms, etc.). But I find that even the trees have a tone, a colorful sound of their own. Roman-pines moan, strong gusts will make eucalyptus howl and sacred olive groves murmur with the slightest caress.

Page #137: Intersection of Testimony. Fuck! 2 AM, my back is killing me, goddam chair feels like concrete. Need to pause, eyes are tearing, think I need glasses. Tired, so tired but “time enough for the earth in the grave.” My notes scatter: linguistics, pragmatic, certiorari, nuncupative, parallel structure. And permeates, chilly draft permeating the room, wish I had some coke, some rum. Have to get a sweater.

It eases me, this old station, can’t believe the DJ still alive, he says that “it’s 5 AM.” The sun is rising in The City, or maybe not, because it’s winter. But fresh bagels that’s for sure, from “the little” bakery on Amsterdam near 83rd. This song is killing me, DJ got skills: but i gotta tell you, this, all right whenever your near me, i dont need to hide i'm feeling helpless, i, i dont need it i feel like im in love least that's the way i see it...

The beginning of Chapter #9 is pure bullshit. 3 AM, you keep crossing my mind. Why? You come and go with the breeze, lights from the candles shivering. And how can all of you fit into one song. How is this possible? I have been avoiding you for the past 2 hours and 35 minutes. Inevitably I must give in.

Nostalgia

Y si dicen, dicen tan poco
Extensas murallas verde-azulinas
Que casi son tus ojos
Parasol en cordillera

Disgregando a la mar que nos aúno

De cuando en cuando
Secretos prófugos encamina la ventisca
Ocasos y siluetas, centinelas encorvados
Sollozo de un día más, la flamante alborada

Siete millas, San Mateo y un puente entre nosotros

Semblante crepuscular
La noche adosándose en la pared
Arropando con luto astral los pueblos
Una nostalgia mas, el no saber de vos

Siete millas, un frío alzado, insurrecto y cabron

Asombrosa tiniebla
Lenta, abstraída en su rotación
Que apreso tu voz en algún lugar recóndito
Y dejome, extraordinarios, montes en ristra

Mi lucidez, saco gastado, repleto de recuerdos

Nostalgia, inmutable
Como piedra de acantilado
Donde el oleaje casi dice tu nombre
Pero le amordaza el farallón

Prescindir de vos… Memorias tan plomizas y pesadas

Te ensueño, suelto palabras, lloriqueo
Inconciente balbuceo tu nombre
De esas cosas que dice el alma
Y que despierto aun no descifro

Y vos, donde estas?

The Day Pedro Bucio Fell (Draft 2)

Pricilla Cleave was a happy widow, surviving on Randy’s eight million dollar life insurance. She was content living out in her Oakville farm. Napa’s striking compendium of flora/fauna made all of her grief surrender to serenity. Endless days spent walking and watching procyon families quench their thirsts in the timid waters of her creek consoled her.

Before dying her husband Randy had been a prominent zoologist. But he died an unfortunate and inexplicable death. Ironically, the same creatures he cared for discovered the body. Buzzards and jackals found him rotting away, near a dark alley under dark clouds, next to a putrid puddle, in the Central African Republic. But none of his buddies from the San Francisco Sue-Society could accurately identify him, as he was indeed in a terrible state of putrefaction.

Dong Yonson was the only close friend who could finally identify Randy; by noting a brownish beauty mark under his testicles. Yonson called Pricilla and gave her the subita morte extingui news. And 72 hours and 9,000 miles later she found herself wishing and touching ground at M’Poko airport. She wished nothing but to give Randy’s vestiges proper burial in his native Manteca, California.

Before her departure she met with Bangui’s chief prosecutor who presented to her several photos of the supposed killers. These were all notable members of a local poacher gang, known as Kachit Sellit Moafoken Koontakintees.

Scrupulously, Pricilla examined 25 pictures and noticed that: 20 resembled Akon, 2 Brent Jennings, 3 Wesley Snipes; all had red-eyes but none a guilty look. The prosecutor was convinced the murder was: the dreadful outcome of a ransom deal to free a pair of strikingly blond lion cubs.

Pricilla adored the smell of lion-cages! Something about lion-cages odor provoked total sexual ecstasy in her. So, she made it a Thursday’s treat to accompany her late-husband to his job so she could be near the cages and of course the felines.

But now it was all a thing of the past. She was happy in her farm raising her cows, horses, fowls and that one Black Mule. The latter was a gift from Juan Willoughby Primitivo a former undocumented worker. She named the beast Sorry Mrs. Jackson I’m For Real in memory of her beloved hubby.

One dawn Pedro El Violador Bucio arrived at Mrs. Cleave’s farm. Greased-up and ready to build a chicken-coop that would resemble Schloss Schonbrunn. But El Negro Jim was late. So, Pedro and his nephews Lennon Ponete Holister, Ringo Yausa Holister, and Agustin Veever Primitivo, set about hunting possums for breakfast.

Cloee-Chayito Kompraholister, a concubine of all, was designated Tortilla Maker. They caught 8.5 robust possums and Chayito roasted, over magma colored charcoals, each one.

With each clap she laid 5 tortillas on a circular clay-pan. And following the Michoacanan protocol whispered into each screeching animal’s ears the phrase Echele Ganas Mijo over and over and over again.

Noise and stench awoke Pricilla from her slumber. She headed for the kitchen, boiled water and made her English breakfast. For about an hour she digested idiotorials from various San Francisco’s newspapers and emerged un-bathed and looking much like a well-aged Elizabeth Perkins.

Calmly she approached Jim, a tall-overweight, black man and handed him $8,000. The check was watermarked with her favorite local baseball team: The Midgets. The memo read: chicken-coop/landscaping services.

Around mid-day, as the sun showered the fields with a dazzling warming light, Pricilla asked Jim to saddle Mi Pueblo her favorite horse and feed the black mule. But Jim was preoccupied getting his medical Blockhead ready. So instead he asked Pedro.

She watched Pedro attached the breast collars with skillfulness. He had a way with Mi Pueblo, whispering into the animal’s ear from time to time the phrase Echele Ganas Mijo! As he worked, his pores exhaled aromas. Aromas, perfumes of: caged beasts, of felines trapped in small spaces, of lions dens in the heat of Tanzanian summers.

Lightheaded, aroused and startled she mounted Mi Pueblo and rode-off towards the prairies. Uncountable and abundant climaxes made her body tremble. Until she finally fainted upon the mount and awoke to the sound of her horse’s trot.

El Negro Jim or Jim El Negro watched Pricilla’s badonkadonk bounce away. He puffed on his medication, as if his entire being depended on it. Inhaling deep puffs but exhaling dawdling breaths. He stood near Pedro, speaking a song in a deep-voice. Pedro listened and poured oats and barely for the mule. “Temptations in the whirlwind, we both bad at it, told myself no mo hittin niggas girlfriends…”

Tendency made Jim share a few puffs of his medication with Pedro. But New York’s Finest proved too much for his now feeble TB-positive lungs. He sat on the wooden fence overwhelmed by the drug. He observed Sorry Ms. Jackson I’m For Real. Her strut was very curious, sexy, and almost blasphemous. She swung her hips from side to side in a very erotic way.

Perhaps the black mule intuited Pedro El Violador Bucio’s lasciviousness; deliberately positioned her backside facing Pedro. Who now devoured her purplish genitalia with a look charged by inconceivable desires. Sorry Ms. Jackson… accepted Pedro’s caresses. Persuaded the beast laid on the dusty ground.

Jim both amused and terrified, called upon the nephews for aid. They began to clap and cheer. Shouting in unison Echele Ganas Mijo, as it was the Michoacanan custom, as Pedro furiously penetrated the mule. Astonished and muddled by the brutality of these men Jim stood petrified.

Terrible thoughts of shame pesteredJim in the hours to come. And he felt the need to confess the deed to Pricilla. His tale was less grotesque and more factual. Never the less, it broke her heart and infuriated the living shit out of her. Pricilla terminated all contracts with Jim and order all the men to evacuate her property immediately. Her finger trembled as she tapped the trigger on her shotgun.

It took Pedro El Violador Bucio 7 days and 25 minutes to realize that he had fallen... In Love! And he was no stranger to falling. He had fallen, as a child inside a septic-tank. Years later he slipped on a used condom near 18th and Mission, but never had he... in Love. He had no recollection of having experience anything like it.

So he sought advice from whom his clan regarded as the highest authority. A man barely inches from being a God: Don Brandon Yager Bucio Primitivo & Viva-Cristo-Redentor. Don Brandon was sitting in his throne made out of 100% Central American homosapien femurs.

Julionsote his bodyguard handed him the Iphone. He listened attentively to Pedro and adviced him to: watch all of Mario Almada’s movies, el muletas al 100 Sense and Sensibility. Finally he suggested Pedro to get a laptop and a facebook account so he could chat with the black mule. Don Brandon’s advice was followed with such austerity that Pedro epitomized or rather hyperbolized time.

His final fall must have fallen on a Tuesday. After he drove hours to a redneck town near Oregon to get a Vayo-laptop for $250 and found a bunch of Spanish-tiles ducked taped inside a brand-new-box instead. With a note attached that read: Echele Ganas Mijo, Ire-ve, Ire-ve, Ire-ve..!

Note: The Pueblan Pigmeos overran all 5 boroughs! Spearheaded by their leaders Yupayme Kesh and Hiam Bestia Vurden. They are pushing Norht towards Mt. Vernon and beyond.

Miraculous Lights

And if the roads lead to you
Is it an act of ethereal vengeance?
Or compensation for the gash and the longing to be home
Is the warmth and tranquility I feel when I lay next to you
Life’s reimbursement for nearly forty years of languishing

Remember the midnight and the moon
The feline in heat roaming the frosty coast
Our mirth
The sorrow we split, half and half
And the ogres besetting the walls of our… brittle world

My ways, my life story written:
In blind, obscure, misinterpreted, and mutilated words
Became brilliant braille for your fair fingers
And almost cured my obsession with chronemics
Sowing in my pen-station heart's rythm... Patience

Here and there, not a wasted minute
We have churches of our own
Selfish patios to find the sun
And thousands of hoary limited manuscripts
A dialect of our own

Love is too common a word
We live under other terms beyond
We need not say what we have
It irradiates miraculous lights
Down the road to you

A Fable of Mine

And this is how it all started:

One day Mexican-Jabba the Hut phoned me. Libertine as usual, she mentioned being inside a tub, massaging her genitals with a... Contraption so powerful it had already blown 50,000 fuses around the neighborhood. She praised the gadget! Screaming its Cantonese name "TING SOADAM GHOOU". My eardrum also vibrated with pain.

I had not much to add to Jabba's weekly Quidnunc. Aside of my Fountain of Youth secret: 3000 mcg of folic acid, washed down with a liter of coconut-water. But my remark passed incognizant, as she was deeply entrenched in her calumniating of management. Referring to these women as a "bunch of dumb, up in their high-horses, bitches..." And on, and on.

So I said what any Newyorker says when there is really nothing to say about a situation we can do nothing about "yeaaa, well... Wha-ree-ya gonna do!" She insisted, persisted, stubborn like a mule. But I could not say what she wanted me to say because I held no grudges. Besides, it made me uncomfortable hearing my voice echoing in her speaker-phone.

My inner, most honest thoughts about our boss were good. Her commitment to the company astonished me. Her motherly love and humbleness were to be admired and praised. There was a vestige of the Floretine women in her features.

But Jabba the Hut proved a hard woman to divert. I knew what she wanted. Good-old nasty, fried, spicy morsels of inter-office gossip. But I had so few. Fed up with her mongering I made-up some bullshit. I gave her my version of Max Weber (on bureaucracy) for dummies/ghetto style. And she disseminated it as follow:

Mexican Jabba the Hut called Black Jabba the Hut and she called Sandwichspread (Spanish Pepinesa). Sandwichspread texted Simpson Lisa. Lisa sent a runner with a message to Bleached Mexican Granny. Via book-face Hermelinda-linda told Lolalatrailera who told Paquita Separece, who told Isheindia-Oupakistan. Via-sticky-note, news reached Mexican Big-Pun, Virginia Hillbilly Slims and Heavy-D Marry. Finally, from the top of Mt. Shasta, Alley Oop-1 and Alley Oop-2 sent smoke signals to Joeyana Fuemucama (better known as Joey).

Terribly misinterpreted and upset, the next morning I explained to Sandwichspread what I had actually said. She then burped loudly stinking-up the room with pre-digested radish and "like", left work early with the excuse of feeling "way too sleepy." But in reality she "like" headed to Lekrispy-krem to meet all of the above and "like" have some laughs, eat, and "like" rant about getting the short end of "like" the stick.

The days passed like clouds on the horizon. One morning, a very desperate lady came to the trailer park. Out loud she called my name and handed me a poorly written note. Poor, both in content and calligraphy. The content, entrusted her case to me. The note signed by Joeyana Fuemucama, made me feel like the captain of her BUNCO team.

Calmly and assertive, I clarify to the lady our criteria and policies. The Must procedures and Ethics, as agents of change we conformed to. Stressing, as I escorted her to the door, that her case would be handled with solidarity, equanimity and utmost licit manner.

When I called Joeyana Fuemucama (Joey), I did so with the pretension of getting a better understanding of her work-style. But as I had anticipated, Joey took it the wrong way!

She became infuriated and called me all kinds of foul things. Saying I was bitter, angry, hungry, because I made so little money and had tons of work, drove a piece shit car. Angry because my wife was an ugly, short, chubby bitch and that's why I was always cheating on her.

Furthermore, she thought that I thought, I was "hot-shit sexy" But in reality my mouth was all fucked-up. Plus she had heard from someone I had a small cock and whenever I talked I spit. That everyone was saying that the other asshole that was at that office before me was "hella-cool" and almost looked like a very dark, midget size, Jorge Clooney. Plus, she added I was an idiot for having dudes punch me in the lip so that I could look "hella cool" like Jay Z.

I pondered how Joeyana knew all these lies about me. Did we meet after work at a bar and had drinks? Perhaps she knew my family? Or a close relative or friend of mine? Who knew? But none of the above comments cut through me. Except one, the one about God is watching me. It bothered me to think God watched as I urinated or defecated, etc. It made me nervous not to know the origin of this God she spoke of.

Over the weekend, plagued by nightmares about housekeepers flying in brooms around my head and of Jabba the Huts chasing me in their thongs. I woke-up very somnolent. And slowly fed my cock Blue Seal Feed, so he could grow thicker and longer.

That Sunday we had Vietnam's best coffee at a place overlooking the Bay waters. Very serene and beautiful. Taciturn I admired the waters... My wife picked-up the call, it was my Indian friend Kapilavastu:
You sound Angry Fidel and that is ok. It shows that you are alive and if there is anger it cannot exist inside you without Love. Much like Fire cannot be without Oxygen. You have as much Love as you have anger. God is not watching you Fidel. He is not the Police when Sting was in the band.

Kapilavastu's words filled my eyes with languid tears, restoring happiness in me. And I forgave Joeyana Fuemucama and her gang of greasy-seadonkeys. The experience I had gained was golden. No amount of money would pay for knowing what I knew now! That was the beauty of all, the ride uphill... And so filled with goodness I was, I wanted to call Joey and tell her "Joey I am not angry anymore."

Napolitano talk to them!