Everyone’s Cuba Curious

I went to Cuba about 20 years ago, and stayed for a week.

My welcome to Cuba was a threat from an armed guard that they would send us back home. I almost believed, at that moment, it would be for the best, but I persisted in convincing him that someone important was waiting for us beyond the wall. Later we found out they were excited by the packs of crayons that the x-ray machines picked up in our luggage– school supplies for our guests– that looked too much like ammo to eyes not accustomed to seeing neat boxes of crayons. The medicines we brought with us were most likely the deal closer.

I went out into the small villages, I visited their clinics, spoke with their doctors, walked newly-paved streets with bright curbs that merely delineated one parcel of hovels from another. Once, I slept in the only bed in the house of my guests. I have no idea where they slept that night. I washed myself from a basin on a pile of bricks in a cement block pile enclosure. I met hundreds of Cubans, spoke with them, ate with them, sang for them, prayed with them.

It’s been around 20 years since I left, weeping bitterly that I had to, so hard had I fallen in love with Cuba. The land is so fertile that the fence posts bloom, but there was no food to eat. The despair is as thick as the wafting smoke from their marijuana, and drowned in their rum. There is nothing to do so people marry, divorce, bed-hop, play dominoes, watch television in black and white, smoke, argue, and tell jokes. They told the best jokes about Castro, all of which escape me since I had to translate for others the entire trip. It makes for such a blur of memories that only impressions or singular moments stand out: a glass of agua ardiente with the local clinic’s doctor who seemed hopeful for more visits such as ours, a stroll through a garden, a mentally disabled child in a battered metal crib in a dank concrete room– a “home” for such; singing hymns for a crowd of people crammed into a small house in La Havana, filling the porch, spilling out into the street and other porches; an old woman with tears in her eyes, grabbing my arm, thanking me, thanking God for me, for my small gift of my voice opening up the big Gift of God’s love for Cuba.

How my heart breaks for them, knowing what full-on freedom would do to these children– for they are, in effect, all children now– if that day ever comes. Six generations of poverty, malnutrition, stunted education and isolation are not overcome in a moment of release. To think for oneself is a privilege never allowed them. They might still need a father-dictator, unfortunately, just a better one than Castro. But that was twenty-odd years ago, in far-flung villages. Havana’s elites and streets are still a wild mixture of anger, hope, and caution. The gulags are not yet full.

Righteous Wrath Has Its Place. Will The GOP and MSM Discover The Coordinates?

I’ve been spewing on Twitter and it hasn’t been pretty, either. But first, I give you John Bolton’s latest comments:

And don’t call it, “-gate.” That’s the Left’s gambit and it’s a disservice to Ty Woods and Glen Doherty, BIG DAMN HEROES, one of whom was found slumped over his gun after 7 hours of gunbattle. Obama’s cold-blooded decision to not act is a politically gutless and self-serving sin of outrageous neglect. Someone suggested Benghaziquiddick.

I suggest we call it treason.

[Update: forgot this link to BlackFive’s astute observation about “target painting.”]

So what was it, really? A lack of will to engage and bear the political consequences of being proved wrong about al Qaida? Perhaps it was a scheme. A murder-by-proxy with unfortunate collateral; Obama never figured that some heroes would show up. And when they did, they found themselves to be “not optimal” bumps in the road under Obama’s ever-widening bus. Even if it was a cock-up of unimaginable proportions, Obama was at the helm of our Ship of State and under the stress of authority chose instead to go to Vegas, baby! for some much-needed sucking up to by high-rollers to affirm his manhood. Obama’s self-medicating on adulation now, instead of choom.

And Hillary!? She’s got lawyers and folks who are trying to spin her way out of it, but nothing, NOTHING will change the fact that she stood next to the caskets of our honored and heroic dead and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth as she LIED her ass off. I need the inimitable Gut Rumbler to weigh in with his signature epithet for such a woman: bloodless c*nt. Somewhere, Vince Foster is mustering a grim smirk.

Meanwhile, call for protests at local media outlets are being tepidly put forth amongst the dextrosphere. It’s about time, dammit.

Stupid Comment Of The Next Generation

In response to calls for punishment against the monsters who killed 4 people at US Embassy:

“Chill. r u going to war for some stupid pastor and some film maker?”

We’ve lost them to infantilism and entitlement. It’s pretty deeply ingrained at this point and exacerbated by the loss of logic. It’s all heart nowadays. No thinking allowed.


The Gods Of The Copybook Headlines*

(*With apologies to Kipling.)

I read the daily headlines and then I have  a little dialogue I carry on in the grand tradition of “my old man” and other generations before him. One rarely needs to read beyond the setup to know how the game will play out in the ensuing paragraphs. So, I read, judge and mock each header in their turn. Because Obama is not our problem. Congress is not our problem. First and foremost, the Mainstream Marxists posing as “objective reporters” of our days and dramas are much our source of trouble. They hide well behind the sickly conceit of their self-importance, apportioning the lots of fact and opinion according to the dictates of their perverted schemes.

Do you remember how they shepherded us and shielded us from the horrors of 9/11 lest we be inflamed with passion and meet like with like? Bless them, may they live forever! How brutish we mere mortals must have seemed to them, demanding vengeance and a show of proper retort for the blow we were dealt. Have you hugged your journalist today and thanked them for their sagacious intervention in our national bereavement? Yes, they moved us along quickly after the fact, and now have the temerity to drag us back to it yearly and force us to kneel and beg forgiveness for our sins.

I’m sick to death of it. The Marxist Media, ensconced in their small opinion labs,  study the populace as a great Experiment. They observe, but cannot resist the urge to meddle. They profess their purity of heart and yet project onto their subjects all manner of racism and debauchery even when they don’t actually see it. They assume it is an occult blood factor, sins that we hide, horrors that they want so desperately to see. Their voyeurism knows no satiation, and so they proclaim to see what is not there.  Not finding all the debauchery and sin they imagine means work for them, and they are supremely lazy.  So they drop the casual lie and it is picked up often enough and degraded through so many iterations that when it finally arrives back at them, it sounds like an inscribed truth: Americans are racist at heart, xenophobic, backwater hicks. Rubes to be ruled by their betters.

Tomorrow the Marxist Media will do its level best to find itself in our graces. They will deign to enter the house of mourning, seeking to bring some gift of gravitas that they imagine the little people will appreciate.  And I will mock their mawkishness, their dumb show, their pretense to understanding the enormity of what cannot be imagined and yet happened.

The world of men is full of much more unimaginable horrors and our godlings will never whisper of it. Women will be mutilated, men will be eviscerated in unutterably offensive ways. The Media godlings will never let us know. They will shield and protect us and tell us for whom to cast our votes. They will never willingly give up their place as the magic mirror of our society, assuring us of our own ugliness and complicity in the horror. They will assure us that 9/11 was our own fault. They will do it over and over and over for years and decades to come until we become, at the last, as ugly as the gods of the headlines would have us be.  With angry fangs and tongues hanging out. Chocmul-like thralls awaiting another beating heart to be tossed  their way that the sun may come up in our dull lives one more day.

All those 3,000 lives lost 10 years ago just keep on sacrificing themselves to these insatiable media cretins.  They will churn out thousands more hours of afflictions for you to observe until you beg for mercy and agree with your tormentors that you and you alone are to blame.  Just please make it stop!

Even so, you will likely read every word and watch every clip and listen to every anguished soul captured in the digital resin of emergency calls, voice mails on loved ones’ phones, and stories of miraculous escape or miserable suffering.  But not because the godlings command you to.

No. Because your heart is not like theirs at all. You want to preserve and revere, truly honor their death and reflect on such lives cut short; lives ended before they had that vacation, that connection, that revelation of love, that  completion of wisdom and that joy of figuring the whole puzzle out.  It haunts you in your quiet meditations, out of the glare of the outside observers. No. We’re nothing like our MSM overlords at all. Our heart would tear out the eyes of our attackers and  run them through with sorrowful steel and righteous wrath.  Our hearts know better how to handle their own griefs and sorrows.

We reject the writs of the Gods of the Headlines.  We ignore them while they talk down to our suffering, seeking,  like some flat avatar, to usher us into a place of peace and calm acceptance.

Oh Hell no.

Update: Wretchard speaks for me:

The story of September 11 must for all time become the story of how a certain date became unspeakable to al-Qaeda and its followers; a tale of how this day of all others,  became the blackest day in the history of Islam. It should forever be a date that can never be mentioned without arousing a deep sense of shame throughout the Middle East so that in generations hence, people should still come up to strangers unbidden and say, “I’m sorry for September 11. “  Until then it is unfinished business.

We have no right to forgive. We have no right to forget. We have no right to move on until this final condition is met. That in the holy of holies of our civilization’s enemies, in the innermost recesses of their sanctum sanctorum they should say with heartfelt ardor: never again. Never again. Never, ever again.

40 Years of Media Manipulation Is Not Undone By A Cynical Quip

John Nolte uses a whole bunch of words to finally get to the point of, “hope it’s gonna last.”  He thinks Jake Tapper has had a “Spartacus” moment. Allow me to unpack my feelings about it, as I did at the link:

Sorry if I don’t get giddy as a paid MSMer spouts a cynical jibe or two. It’s going to take a dedicated lifetime to undo Cronkite, Rather, Wallace, et al.

Tapper just tried to walk it back some this a.m on Twitter. In an attempt “to be fair,” lamenting the old “Bush press corps” was allowing Bush to get away with murder 12 years ago.  I was around 12 years ago, and I’m not sure what his profession’s epistemic closure was experiencing, but it sure wasn’t what the rest of us saw.

In the torrent of today’s information stream, 12 years ago isn’t worth his notice. New is  now and it has to be TRUE, not a lame attempt at “fair.”

And Tapper will be “Spartacus” when he gives up his paycheck in defense of the Truth.

If unpaid bloggers and Breitbarts weren’t putting the pressure on the MSM, Tapper’s conscience might have remained quite comfy in his esteemed role.

WE are Spartacus.

Good first efforts that I applaud, but the MSMrs, by virtue of their paychecks, have a long row to hoe to regain trust. I don’t say this to discourage their attempts, but to make sure they bring forth real effort to undo the damage done to this country by their inattention and outright manipulation.

Not gonna forgive that easily.

And that goes double for Peggy Noonan.

[Update because I’m still pissed.] NOW that we’re at the abyss, some of these prissy boys and sissy girls get alarmed? Like they never gave a second thought to the ends of their fun little games? Oh, well done! Now get busy and stop pussyfooting with the Truth. You OWE your country something and I’m not gonna get all misty-eyed at your “bravery.” Come January another million people will be directly unemployed by the military. Another million in a secondary wave of penury for the camp-followers of the military. How many times did Bush try to amend and fix Fannie Mae? Where WERE you? At the trough of the race-mongers, that’s where. Feh.

[More]  Paul Ryan has to qualify his remarks about unemployment with the word, “real.”  As though it was some sort of dark art (waii-cisstt!) to divine a discoverable fact. Whose handiwork is that? We just sort of accept that we have to mentally and vocally correct everything put forth by the MSM. How did we get to this place? And why should we let the lords of this lie off so easily with a tingle up our leg when they say something true? And hey, if I’ve painted over some people of integrity with this rant, then they can know how every.single.Conservative feels when they watch the execrable secretions of the MSM on the nightly news. They can forgive it with understanding or ask themselves why they take a paycheck from their lying overlords.