No tiene nombre

Tapas from El Blogosphero, so sit back, pour yourself a good vino tinto, and enjoy. Buen provecho.

Kelley takes on the pols, spin doctors and the media in general.

Over at his headquarters, Sgt. Hook gives us his name, rank and serial number.

Da Goddess set us up on an IV of the Vanities over at her BlogHospital. No need for insurance information.

As always, Dean Esmay has provided us with a full course meal of food for thought.

Serenity is a bit teed at the media, and with good reason.

Just when you thought it was fire and brimstone time, David un-sketches the strain and blesses us with the little things.

There’s a few Dems going off the deep end over at stars and stripes.

Then there’s this interesting dish served over at Too Much to Dream. Tapas sans wingnuts. Yummm.

And you’re gonna like the Aussie BBQ cooked up over on the Left Coast.

A Little More to the Right has a good link to a piece that wont pardon its French.

And of course, in a shameless bit of self promotion, i’m giving away a box of good Cuban cigars, if, you can name the day Cuba’s future begins.

For dessert, Rachel Lucas serves up the scoop on a scoop of well, I won’t say his name lest I ruin your appetite.

Man, I love Tapas…a little bit of everything makes for a good meal.

This really speaks for itself. It’s amazing what people will do to flee tyranny.

I wake up on a Sunday morning and head straight to the computer. I click on the email program and see the folowing message mixed in their with some spam.
To say the least, I am confused I would get this and also a bit mortyfied.

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As I write this, tens of thousands of people from all over Miami are in line under the blazing sun to pay their last respects to Celia Cruz. Flags are waving from all over the world. Cuba, Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, Mexico, the US. Everywhere.

What an incredible tribute to an incredible woman. She touched so many lives with her music.

Celia, si me oyes, llevate a el barbudo en camino.

Update: Over 150, 000 people stood in line for as long as 6 hours for a brief glimpse of La Reina de la Salsa. Celia was and shall be an Icon of the Cuban and Latin American community. Never before has anything the likes of her service been seen in Miami. And Celia, para ti:

AZUCAR!!!!

Update: Check the story out here.

Wanna know why the United States Armed Forces are by far the best in the world? Drop by sgt hook’s HQ and read this.

Say you live on an island where you have nothing, can’t say anything, aren’t allowed to read what you want, aren’t allowed direct contact with the outside world, aren’t allowed to go everywhere and anywhere in your own country, are persecuted for having religious beliefs, etc.. What would you do? Would you try to get the hell out of there by whatever means possible?
Well then, you may get to leave the island, but not necessarily how you thought.

If the Cuban Dichotomy stew over at Dean’s World isn’t tasty enough for you, then why don’t you try the Communisn Cigars we’re smoking over there.

Dean of Dean’s World is cooking up an interesting stew with the dichotomy that is Cuba. Come on over and bring your spoon, the stirring is fine.

Right Thinking from the Left Coast has this interesting tidbit about the left’s poster boy Che Guevara. Seems the famous photo of his face is selling, selling, selling.

I love capitalism. Moreover, I love IRONY in capitalism.

Just feels so damn good to say that.

Also:

Fidel, me cago en el recontraco?o de tu madre.

Please feel free add your two cents.

Celia Cruz is dead. I can’t write as I am too emotional. Cuba and the world has lost one of our brightest stars.

Descansa en paz Celia. Te adoramos siempre.

Update: Celia is dead and all she wanted in her life was to be able to sing in a free Cuba.
And the bearded bastard is still alive, still grinding his people down.

FUCK YOU FIDEL.

Update: Here she is.

I wrote the following piece of fiction a few years back. It’s a bit on the long side, but a quick read, albeit with a slangy voice. Don’t worry about the bits of spanish, they’re only there for spice, and, read it as fast as you can.

“La Cubanita“, by Valentin Prieto

David, the bartender, slides forward my Black-with-a-splash and Rick’s Absolut-and-orange and swipes my twenty from the bar. “Thanks, Dave.” I wave him off. “Keep it.”

“Oye, por fin y el bote que?” Rick’s voice barely penetrates the thumping from the speakers when he asks about my boat.

I hand Rick his drink. “Purring like a kitten. I took it to this guy in . . .?! Wow! . . Incoming. . . Lime green dress . . . Your seven.”

Rick takes a sip, steps back small with his left foot and slow and casual turns his head. He looks back at me, eyes opened wide, eyebrows raised. The girl in the lime green dress strolls right by us, coquetona, as if she doesn’t know we’re looking at her and doesn’t know we know she’s ignoring us.

She passes us and Rick gets the better view. “Saw her some place on Ocean Drive not too long ago,” he says. “Con un viejo verde. Un sugar daddy.”

“Forget about that then. In half an hour you won’t even be able to walk around in this place.” I sip my Black, “Last week I swore I?d never come back.”

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