Oh to be a fly on the wall behind the scenes of one of Rick Perry's catastrophic debate performances. I actually was. Well, metaphorically speaking. I was working for a catering company serving the staffs of the various presidential candidates during the Fox News Google debate on September 22 in Orlando, Florida. I saw Rick Perry's campaign manager during the candidate's famous flip flop flub.
Rick Perry: "I think Americans just don't know sometimes which Mitt Romney they're dealing with. Is it the Mitt Romney that was on the side of against the Second Amendment before he was for the Second Amendment? Was it, was before he was before the social programs, from the standpoint of he was for standing up for Roe vs. Wade before he was against vs. Roe vs. Wade? He was for Race to the Top, he's for ObamaCare, and now he's against it. I mean, we'll wait until tomorrow and, and, and see which Mitt Romney we're really talking to tonight."
In a back room, after that monologue, Rick Perry's campaign manager raised his head, pumped his fist, and exclaimed, "Nailed it! Yee Haw!"
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Bills are 5-2
The Bills won 23-0 over the Racistskins today. The game was played in Toronto for no good reason. The Bills actually struggled, committing uncharacteristic turnovers and failing to score TDs when in the redzone far too often.
The Skins are just a terrible team and the Bills have enough firepower to overcome the poor performance. Fred Jackson was Mr. Everything. He ran on the ground effectively and also enhanced the passing game as a receiver. But the Bills have a bad habit of stalling in the second half when they have a big halftime lead. They become conservative on both sides of the ball. The Skins just didn't have anything in order to take advantage.
The Skins are just a terrible team and the Bills have enough firepower to overcome the poor performance. Fred Jackson was Mr. Everything. He ran on the ground effectively and also enhanced the passing game as a receiver. But the Bills have a bad habit of stalling in the second half when they have a big halftime lead. They become conservative on both sides of the ball. The Skins just didn't have anything in order to take advantage.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Camila Vallejo Speaks
Obviously, I've been writing a lot about the beautiful Chilean leader Camila Vallejo. Well, I received a letter from her recently that I would like to share with you.
Dear Proprietor of the H-Quack Times,
I respectfully request that you cease and desist in referring to any supposed interactions regarding the two of us. As far as I know, we have never met. You are clearly a fan of mine, and I appreciate the support, but I kindly ask you to choose other topics to write about. I am afraid that, judging from the recent work on your site, you have an obsession. Your constant posts imagining the two of us as some sort of romantic couple are very creepy and make me quite uncomfortable. Please stop. I sincerely appreciate your understanding.
Regards,
Camila
I'm going to have to get more creative in coming up with excuses to post pictures of her.
Dear Proprietor of the H-Quack Times,
I respectfully request that you cease and desist in referring to any supposed interactions regarding the two of us. As far as I know, we have never met. You are clearly a fan of mine, and I appreciate the support, but I kindly ask you to choose other topics to write about. I am afraid that, judging from the recent work on your site, you have an obsession. Your constant posts imagining the two of us as some sort of romantic couple are very creepy and make me quite uncomfortable. Please stop. I sincerely appreciate your understanding.
Regards,
Camila
I'm going to have to get more creative in coming up with excuses to post pictures of her.Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The End
Sitting outside of the Air and Space Museum, we were surrounded by a boisterous group protesting Obama's use of drones as a means of assassination. Despite the chaos around us, in our eyes, Camila and I were the only two people in the world. She, a Chilean communist leader with light angelic eyes and a round face that combined the cuteness of a three month old baby with the sexiness of an inmate's first nude woman in 26 years.
What attracted her to me, I cannot say. I can only presume. It could have been my leftist beard. It could have been my outrage at all injustice, no matter how slight. It could have been my sense of decency. It could have been my unapologetic bluntness. It could have been a physical attraction. Whatever it was, I was more concerned that it existed than why it existed.
We sat on a bench turned towards each other Her bent left leg on top of my my bent right leg, which was resting on the bench. Her right hand was in my left as a stroked her palm with my middle finger. My right hand continuously brushed her hair out of her face with the sole purpose of stroking her cheek. He left index finger and thumb fiddled with my right earlobe. Our eyes gorged on each other as if coming out of a three-week Gandhian fast.
I didn't dream of the future. I spent too much energy enjoying the present. There was none available to waste on analyzing our relationship. A week and half later, we were sitting across from each other at a restaurant, both seemingly ecstatic to be with the other. The bubbling of something more made its first appearance.
"Camila, you have the most beautiful eyes." Her cheeks grew pink. She titled her head and batted her eyelashes. "David, don't."
I was knocked off balance. 'Don't? Why not?' I thought. The conversation continued at such a pace that silence couldn't get in a word edgewise. We laughed, discussed serious topics, our families, our hopes. Everything seemed to be going wonderfully. At the end of the meal, we hugged passionately, our cheeks kissing each other before our lips took over. We vowed to meet again as soon as possible.
Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. "Hi Camila. I had a wonderful time with you the other night. Let's go out again this week. How about Wednesday? Give me a call when you get a chance." Two days later, I received a text. "Sure. 6:30 good?"
I had spent the previous two days slightly concerned. But all doubts melted away with that text. I could not contain my anticipation. At 4:30 on Wednesday, another text came. "Have to cancel. Sorry." Disappointment filled the gap in my heart where excitement had made its home.
I told myself that it was ok. Don't get too emotional with every interaction. Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. I left another message. Two days later, nothing. I waited a week and called again. No answer. Two days later, nothing. I texted. No response.
What had happened? I was confounded, dumbfounded, and brokenhearted. I thought she liked me. We had good chemistry. We enjoyed each other's company. We had a lot in common. Things seemed to be going well. Why all of the sudden? I didn't get it.
Over the next couple of months, I tried again here and there and either got a rejection or was ignored and finally decided to give up for good. I suppose the combination of not understanding what had happened and my imagination of what could have been forced me to try so much.
Stories tend to have happy endings or at least closure. But life cannot always be packaged neatly into a story. Life poses questions that will never be answered. We must accept that reality, learn what we can from our experiences, and move forward.
What attracted her to me, I cannot say. I can only presume. It could have been my leftist beard. It could have been my outrage at all injustice, no matter how slight. It could have been my sense of decency. It could have been my unapologetic bluntness. It could have been a physical attraction. Whatever it was, I was more concerned that it existed than why it existed.
We sat on a bench turned towards each other Her bent left leg on top of my my bent right leg, which was resting on the bench. Her right hand was in my left as a stroked her palm with my middle finger. My right hand continuously brushed her hair out of her face with the sole purpose of stroking her cheek. He left index finger and thumb fiddled with my right earlobe. Our eyes gorged on each other as if coming out of a three-week Gandhian fast.
I didn't dream of the future. I spent too much energy enjoying the present. There was none available to waste on analyzing our relationship. A week and half later, we were sitting across from each other at a restaurant, both seemingly ecstatic to be with the other. The bubbling of something more made its first appearance.
"Camila, you have the most beautiful eyes." Her cheeks grew pink. She titled her head and batted her eyelashes. "David, don't."
I was knocked off balance. 'Don't? Why not?' I thought. The conversation continued at such a pace that silence couldn't get in a word edgewise. We laughed, discussed serious topics, our families, our hopes. Everything seemed to be going wonderfully. At the end of the meal, we hugged passionately, our cheeks kissing each other before our lips took over. We vowed to meet again as soon as possible.Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. "Hi Camila. I had a wonderful time with you the other night. Let's go out again this week. How about Wednesday? Give me a call when you get a chance." Two days later, I received a text. "Sure. 6:30 good?"
I had spent the previous two days slightly concerned. But all doubts melted away with that text. I could not contain my anticipation. At 4:30 on Wednesday, another text came. "Have to cancel. Sorry." Disappointment filled the gap in my heart where excitement had made its home.
I told myself that it was ok. Don't get too emotional with every interaction. Two days later, I called Camila. No answer. I left another message. Two days later, nothing. I waited a week and called again. No answer. Two days later, nothing. I texted. No response.
What had happened? I was confounded, dumbfounded, and brokenhearted. I thought she liked me. We had good chemistry. We enjoyed each other's company. We had a lot in common. Things seemed to be going well. Why all of the sudden? I didn't get it.
Over the next couple of months, I tried again here and there and either got a rejection or was ignored and finally decided to give up for good. I suppose the combination of not understanding what had happened and my imagination of what could have been forced me to try so much.
Stories tend to have happy endings or at least closure. But life cannot always be packaged neatly into a story. Life poses questions that will never be answered. We must accept that reality, learn what we can from our experiences, and move forward.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The World Series So Far
Ron Washington has been out-managed by Tony La Russa so far. Twice, La Russa forced Washington's hand and both time the Cardinals came away with the lead.
Washington normally doesn't have to worry about what either team will do with the pitcher's spot, because for some inexplicable reason, the American League has a DH (longevity does not make it legitimate or logical).
In Game 1, La Russa bluffed by putting Carpenter in the on deck circle. As a result, Washington had his starter, Wilson, pitch around Punto. Wilson lost his control as a result. La Russa pulled Carpenter back and put up Craig. Washington felt he had to make a pitching move and Craig got the go-ahead RBI.
In Game 2, La Russa made the first move and sent up Craig for Garcia, who had pitched 7 scoreless innings. But the was St. Louis's only real chance to score. Despite the fact that Lewis had given up zero runs and four hits, Washington pulled him and brought in Ogando, who had given up the hit to Craig in Game 1. Pulling Lewis just because La Russa put in a pinch hitter made no sense. Bringing in the same guy who gave up the winning hit to the same hitter was stupid.
But Washington got away with it because his guys got a couple hits in the ninth and Pujols made that error. I don't think Washington is a bad manager. His ability to make decisions surrounding the pitcher's spot has atrophied because he doesn't normally have to do it. American League managers are by definition less capable than NL managers.
Washington normally doesn't have to worry about what either team will do with the pitcher's spot, because for some inexplicable reason, the American League has a DH (longevity does not make it legitimate or logical).
In Game 1, La Russa bluffed by putting Carpenter in the on deck circle. As a result, Washington had his starter, Wilson, pitch around Punto. Wilson lost his control as a result. La Russa pulled Carpenter back and put up Craig. Washington felt he had to make a pitching move and Craig got the go-ahead RBI.
In Game 2, La Russa made the first move and sent up Craig for Garcia, who had pitched 7 scoreless innings. But the was St. Louis's only real chance to score. Despite the fact that Lewis had given up zero runs and four hits, Washington pulled him and brought in Ogando, who had given up the hit to Craig in Game 1. Pulling Lewis just because La Russa put in a pinch hitter made no sense. Bringing in the same guy who gave up the winning hit to the same hitter was stupid.
But Washington got away with it because his guys got a couple hits in the ninth and Pujols made that error. I don't think Washington is a bad manager. His ability to make decisions surrounding the pitcher's spot has atrophied because he doesn't normally have to do it. American League managers are by definition less capable than NL managers.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 4, Part 2)
Read Episode 4, Part 1 here.
At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila Vallejo. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
The romance poured out of my pen as I dreamed of a world where the beautiful Chilean communist leader and myself were forever joined as one. Herman Cain, who was helping me write a romantic poem to my beloved Camila in order to enhance our relationship, read my poem off of the pizza box. He smirked and winked at me. "This is it."
Camila
Before the sun rose, I wandered the desert weak
Until a refreshing wind brushed against my cheek
At dawn, we reveled in each other's pleasure
As the day rolls on, we cement our future together
And if we find despair when our pale springs a leak
Remember, there will be valleys before we reach the peak
The desert is limited only by man's ability to measure
But a sip after a hard day in the heat is the greatest treasure
Should our water ever run dry one night and we are forced to part
I won't die of thirst, for every drop of you is stored in my heart.
"This poem would do the trick if she primarily speaks English. But remember David, Camila speaks Spanish. There is a wall separating Camila from your expression of love. So, we must tear down that wall by using Google translate to turn it into Spanish." My delight in having crafted a poem that I felt accurately expressed my love for Camila diminished. I fretted this confrontation. "But Mr. Cain, using Google translate might not give us the best translation."
"Do you have a better suggestion, niggahead? Do you want to ask one of your Spanish-speaking friends to translate this poem for Camila."
"No," I answered meekly. I showcased a defeated look.
"That is what I thought. Since no one else has a plan, I propose we implement my plan of using Google translate in order to turn your poem into Spanish and share it will Camila Vallejo." We left my room and found a computer in order to google "Google translate."
I wrote down the Spanish translation on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and mailed it to Camila. Three days later, she received the poem. She opened the envelope and began to read.
Camila
Antes de la salida del sol, recorrí el desierto débil
Hasta que un viento refrescante rozó mi mejilla
Al amanecer, nos deleitaba con los demás el placer
Como el día avanza, que el cemento nuestro futuro juntos
Y si nos encontramos con la desesperación cuando nuestros pálidos comienza a gotear
Recuerde, habrá valles antes de llegar a la mirada
El desierto está limitado sólo por la capacidad del hombre para medir
Pero un trago después de un día duro en el calor es el mayor tesoro
En caso de nuestras aguas vez se ha quedado una noche seca y nos vemos obligados a participar
No voy a morir de sed, por cada gota de que se almacena en mi corazón.
Camila came over that night. I opened the door covered in anticipation and there was Camila. "David, I got this poem from you. It makes no sense. Are you insulting the Spanish language with this?" My heart and stomach traded places. "No, well, Herman Cain, but, I didn't think, I mean, I know it is..." Camila glided closer to me and kissed me on my left cheek leaving it with a hint of moisture. "Say no more my love. Where is the English version of the poem?"
I fetched the English version and handed it to her. She eyed it and then clutched it to her chest. She pressed her lips gently against mine. We then made love in the foyer.
I called Herman Cain and told him what happened. He was on a bus tour of Tennessee for some reason. "Excellent," was all he had time to say.
I woke up. Sweat congregated around my forehead. Herman Cain had gained legitimacy in his run for the White House. Camila Vallejo was in Chile and had no inkling of my existence. I decided to return to my slumber and clutched my pillow. Underneath it was a piece of paper. The paper wore a poem written in beautiful foreign cursive. I read its title in bewilderment. The title read David.
At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila Vallejo. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
The romance poured out of my pen as I dreamed of a world where the beautiful Chilean communist leader and myself were forever joined as one. Herman Cain, who was helping me write a romantic poem to my beloved Camila in order to enhance our relationship, read my poem off of the pizza box. He smirked and winked at me. "This is it."
Camila
Before the sun rose, I wandered the desert weak
Until a refreshing wind brushed against my cheek
At dawn, we reveled in each other's pleasure
As the day rolls on, we cement our future together
And if we find despair when our pale springs a leak
Remember, there will be valleys before we reach the peak
The desert is limited only by man's ability to measure
But a sip after a hard day in the heat is the greatest treasure
Should our water ever run dry one night and we are forced to part
I won't die of thirst, for every drop of you is stored in my heart.
"This poem would do the trick if she primarily speaks English. But remember David, Camila speaks Spanish. There is a wall separating Camila from your expression of love. So, we must tear down that wall by using Google translate to turn it into Spanish." My delight in having crafted a poem that I felt accurately expressed my love for Camila diminished. I fretted this confrontation. "But Mr. Cain, using Google translate might not give us the best translation.""Do you have a better suggestion, niggahead? Do you want to ask one of your Spanish-speaking friends to translate this poem for Camila."
"No," I answered meekly. I showcased a defeated look.
"That is what I thought. Since no one else has a plan, I propose we implement my plan of using Google translate in order to turn your poem into Spanish and share it will Camila Vallejo." We left my room and found a computer in order to google "Google translate."
I wrote down the Spanish translation on a piece of paper, put it in an envelope, and mailed it to Camila. Three days later, she received the poem. She opened the envelope and began to read.
Camila
Antes de la salida del sol, recorrí el desierto débil
Hasta que un viento refrescante rozó mi mejilla
Al amanecer, nos deleitaba con los demás el placer
Como el día avanza, que el cemento nuestro futuro juntos
Y si nos encontramos con la desesperación cuando nuestros pálidos comienza a gotear
Recuerde, habrá valles antes de llegar a la mirada
El desierto está limitado sólo por la capacidad del hombre para medir
Pero un trago después de un día duro en el calor es el mayor tesoro
En caso de nuestras aguas vez se ha quedado una noche seca y nos vemos obligados a participar
No voy a morir de sed, por cada gota de que se almacena en mi corazón.
Camila came over that night. I opened the door covered in anticipation and there was Camila. "David, I got this poem from you. It makes no sense. Are you insulting the Spanish language with this?" My heart and stomach traded places. "No, well, Herman Cain, but, I didn't think, I mean, I know it is..." Camila glided closer to me and kissed me on my left cheek leaving it with a hint of moisture. "Say no more my love. Where is the English version of the poem?"
I fetched the English version and handed it to her. She eyed it and then clutched it to her chest. She pressed her lips gently against mine. We then made love in the foyer.
I called Herman Cain and told him what happened. He was on a bus tour of Tennessee for some reason. "Excellent," was all he had time to say.
I woke up. Sweat congregated around my forehead. Herman Cain had gained legitimacy in his run for the White House. Camila Vallejo was in Chile and had no inkling of my existence. I decided to return to my slumber and clutched my pillow. Underneath it was a piece of paper. The paper wore a poem written in beautiful foreign cursive. I read its title in bewilderment. The title read David.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 4, Part 1)
Here are Episode 1; Episode 2, Part 1 and Part 2; Episode 3, Part 1 and Part 2.
"Wake up, David." That familiar voice. It was Herman Cain, surely here to ask me to go on another mission with him. "What is it?" I mumbled without opening my eyes. "David, we must do something romantic in order to enhance your relationship with the Chilean communist, Camila Vallejo." I slowly opened my eyes and rubbed them, hoping that would bring me clarity. "But that was just a dream. Even if the relationship with the woman is just a dream, you still have to work on it?"
"Yes. You must work on all relationships with women, regardless of the circumstance. I propose that we write her a romantic poem. We must first write in English. But English is not her first language. So we must then use Google translate to turn it into Spanish so that she can get the full impact."
I realized there was no sense in arguing with Herman Cain. Plus, if it could help my relationship with the lovely Camila, all the better. Herman Cain took out a used pizza box from his briefcase and a pen. He began scribbling notes on the pizza box.
I was anxious to finish this latest mission and go back to sleep where being with Camila was far easier. "Mr. Cain, maybe we can write a Haiku. Here's one:
Since we became one,
My life has greater meaning.
I love you always.
Bam! Done." A smug satisfaction assumed control of my face.
Herman Cain frowned and shook his head as if to free his mustache from stubborn pizza crumbs. "No! Terrible." He leaned forward. "I only use one type of poetry. It is my 9-9-9 poetic form." The corners of my mouth succumbed to gravity. This wasn't going to be easy.
The 9-9-9 poetic form featured three lines of nine words each with the last word of each line rhyming.
"First, we need to get a picture of your beloved." That was easy enough as I slept with a picture of Camila every night. "Focus on what attracts you to her. Not just her physical beauty, but how you feel with her. How would you feel without her." I began writing on the pizza box,
You mean everything to me, a world without you
Would find me all alone. I feel electricity through
Me when we touch. Everyday with you is new.
Herman Cain examined the poem. "That is not good. It is too cliche." Frustration slapped me in the face. "This form is so stupid. You just made it up. It's too limiting. Sure it's simple, but simple is not always better. I mean, I'm not a poet to begin with. This was a bad idea from the start."
Herman Cain lent a disappointed smirk. "The problem with that analysis is that it is incorrect. But maybe my 9-9-9 poetic form is not for you. I am not attached to those numbers. We can try something else." I tried to keep my shock from exploding onto the surface but failed. Those numbers seemed to be the essence of his being. He was so willing to give in once he found the slightest push back.
He ripped up the canvas that held our notes and took out another used pizza box from his briefcase. "We need to set the mood." At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
Join us tomorrow as the poem for Camila is unveiled.
"Wake up, David." That familiar voice. It was Herman Cain, surely here to ask me to go on another mission with him. "What is it?" I mumbled without opening my eyes. "David, we must do something romantic in order to enhance your relationship with the Chilean communist, Camila Vallejo." I slowly opened my eyes and rubbed them, hoping that would bring me clarity. "But that was just a dream. Even if the relationship with the woman is just a dream, you still have to work on it?"
"Yes. You must work on all relationships with women, regardless of the circumstance. I propose that we write her a romantic poem. We must first write in English. But English is not her first language. So we must then use Google translate to turn it into Spanish so that she can get the full impact."
I realized there was no sense in arguing with Herman Cain. Plus, if it could help my relationship with the lovely Camila, all the better. Herman Cain took out a used pizza box from his briefcase and a pen. He began scribbling notes on the pizza box.
I was anxious to finish this latest mission and go back to sleep where being with Camila was far easier. "Mr. Cain, maybe we can write a Haiku. Here's one:
Since we became one,
My life has greater meaning.
I love you always.
Bam! Done." A smug satisfaction assumed control of my face.
Herman Cain frowned and shook his head as if to free his mustache from stubborn pizza crumbs. "No! Terrible." He leaned forward. "I only use one type of poetry. It is my 9-9-9 poetic form." The corners of my mouth succumbed to gravity. This wasn't going to be easy.
The 9-9-9 poetic form featured three lines of nine words each with the last word of each line rhyming.
"First, we need to get a picture of your beloved." That was easy enough as I slept with a picture of Camila every night. "Focus on what attracts you to her. Not just her physical beauty, but how you feel with her. How would you feel without her." I began writing on the pizza box,
You mean everything to me, a world without you
Would find me all alone. I feel electricity through
Me when we touch. Everyday with you is new.
Herman Cain examined the poem. "That is not good. It is too cliche." Frustration slapped me in the face. "This form is so stupid. You just made it up. It's too limiting. Sure it's simple, but simple is not always better. I mean, I'm not a poet to begin with. This was a bad idea from the start."Herman Cain lent a disappointed smirk. "The problem with that analysis is that it is incorrect. But maybe my 9-9-9 poetic form is not for you. I am not attached to those numbers. We can try something else." I tried to keep my shock from exploding onto the surface but failed. Those numbers seemed to be the essence of his being. He was so willing to give in once he found the slightest push back.
He ripped up the canvas that held our notes and took out another used pizza box from his briefcase. "We need to set the mood." At that point, Herman Cain began to sing a baritone version of "Let's Get It On." Each of Herman Cain's notes tickled my libido as I stared at the photo of Camila. Inspiration bit me like an African mosquito. I became woozy and began to write.
Join us tomorrow as the poem for Camila is unveiled.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Dreams of Herman Cain (Episode 3, Part 2)
Read Episode 3 Part 1 here.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
"The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
We waited for Camila Vallejo to finish her meeting with Islam Karimov, the president of Uzbekistan. We had traveled to Chile in the heat of the presidential campaign because Herman Cain wanted to hook me up with my not-so-secret love, Camila, a famous Chilean student leader. Seconds turned to excruciating minutes. The more time rolled, the more anxiety rose inside of me.
Herman Cain could sense my uneasiness. "Listen niggahead, put your faith in Jesus. Everything will work out then." I looked at him cockeyed, "Mr. Cain, I'm Jewish. And you know that." Herman Cain shrugged. "Ah well. Things will probably work out anyway."
After nearly two hours of waiting, President Karimov left Camila's office. He gave both Herman Cain and I the stink eye in mid-stride and walked out of the building. Three minutes and 23 seconds later, she floated out of her office surrounded by an orange glow. Suddenly, the rest of the world disappeared and only Camila and I remained. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
I stood up, awkwardly, and attempted to speak. "Um. Cam, I mean um, Ms. Vallejo. I'm..." But she was preoccupied and paid me no mind. She asked her assistant a question, grabbed a black leather jacket, and turned. Then, our hazel eyes met for a fraction of a second. I froze. I was overcome by the moment. I lost sight of her as she walked out the door. I had missed my chance; I cursed myself.
I showed Herman Cain a frown. "I guess that's it. I blew it. Sorry to have wasted your time Mr. Cain. I really appreciate you..."
"Nonsense!" Cain stood up straight, his voice slow and booming. "You will win her yet. If you are truly meant to be together, love does not vanish after one missed chance. Come. We must plan."
Back at the hotel, Herman Cain and I were thinking of a way to set up a chance meeting with Camila Vallejo. He called his adviser, Rich Lowrie. Though an accountant by trade, Cain took his advice on everything, from economic policy to love. Lowrie promised he would think of something and call Cain back.
In a quiet moment in the hotel, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, I'm wondering about one thing. Why are you helping me fall in love with a communist? I thought you were a diehard capitalist through and through." Herman Cain gave the question some thought. "That woman is a communist? Hmm. Well, at least that's better than being a socialist." I decided not to follow up.
In some ways, being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is like being in a prison. Your thoughts are confined to that person. As much as you try, you can't break free and think about something else. You are trapped. Every minute away from the person is a minute wasted. And those minutes crawl as if they had no arms or legs. I was so close to Camila and yet, that closeness seemed only to intensify the heartache exponentially. I was about to give up hope and ask Herman Cain to take us back to America when the phone rang.
It was Rick Lowrie. Herman Cain answered. Apparently, he had recruited Sarah Palin to the cause and handed her the phone. Palin yelled into the phone loud enough for me to hear. "Herb, she's a communist. The only way to attract a communist is to shave your mustache like Hitler's because those communists are Nazis." My head sank. That was a terrible idea. I would soon be headed back to America and seemingly lasting loneliness.
A knock on the door startled me out of my sad stupor. Head down, I walked to the door and turned the knob. "Hola. Me llamo Camila." My jaw fell off. My eyes drifted upwards like a balloon. Stuttering soon supplanted my speechlessness. She smiled sheepishly, cocked her head to the side, and batted her eyes.
Perhaps 45 seconds later, I managed to spit out, "I... I... don't speak Spanish. I'm sorry." And my head fell. A hand brushed my left cheek. "It's ok." I lifted my head and our eyes met again. She grabbed both of my earlobes gently between her thumb and forefinger and tugged me closer. Then, our lips introduced themselves. They fit perfectly as if both sets had originally been crafted as one, like two parts of a broken charm reunited.
Our lips reluctantly parted and we were locked in each other's eyes. Finally, I managed to ask, "What just happened? How do you even..." Camila put her left index finger on my lips softly, lovingly. "When our eyes met. I couldn't forget your eyes. I have spent the past few days tracking you down. In that quest, I learned so much about you. My dream guy has always been a hirsute neurotic Jewish leftist who loves Rocky, Slurpees, and basketball." A smile covered my face like Obama's hand over the Mongolian president in a recent UN picture.
I looked over to Herman Cain, who was standing on the balcony still debating the merits of the Hitler mustache plan with Sarah Palin on the phone. I walked over and tapped the glass with Camila's hand in my own. I threw up my free thumb. Herman Cain winked and smiled.
I woke up in my bed alone, my only company a picture of Camila Vallejo printed out from the internet. Herman Cain was leading the national polls in the primary race. It appeared as if he had a real shot at becoming the Republican nominee for President of the United States.
We arrived and Camila's assistant stopped us. "How can I help you?" Herman Cain thought a moment and said, "Uh, we need to speak to the president. It's urgent." The assistant looked suspicious. "Who?" Herman Cain moved his feet like a little boy who needed to use the bathroom. "The president, you know, the president in there."
"What is the name of the person you are looking for?"
"The president of You-beki-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan. I don't know his name."
"Well, you will have to wait here."
We waited for Camila Vallejo to finish her meeting with Islam Karimov, the president of Uzbekistan. We had traveled to Chile in the heat of the presidential campaign because Herman Cain wanted to hook me up with my not-so-secret love, Camila, a famous Chilean student leader. Seconds turned to excruciating minutes. The more time rolled, the more anxiety rose inside of me.
Herman Cain could sense my uneasiness. "Listen niggahead, put your faith in Jesus. Everything will work out then." I looked at him cockeyed, "Mr. Cain, I'm Jewish. And you know that." Herman Cain shrugged. "Ah well. Things will probably work out anyway."
After nearly two hours of waiting, President Karimov left Camila's office. He gave both Herman Cain and I the stink eye in mid-stride and walked out of the building. Three minutes and 23 seconds later, she floated out of her office surrounded by an orange glow. Suddenly, the rest of the world disappeared and only Camila and I remained. Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
I stood up, awkwardly, and attempted to speak. "Um. Cam, I mean um, Ms. Vallejo. I'm..." But she was preoccupied and paid me no mind. She asked her assistant a question, grabbed a black leather jacket, and turned. Then, our hazel eyes met for a fraction of a second. I froze. I was overcome by the moment. I lost sight of her as she walked out the door. I had missed my chance; I cursed myself.I showed Herman Cain a frown. "I guess that's it. I blew it. Sorry to have wasted your time Mr. Cain. I really appreciate you..."
"Nonsense!" Cain stood up straight, his voice slow and booming. "You will win her yet. If you are truly meant to be together, love does not vanish after one missed chance. Come. We must plan."
Back at the hotel, Herman Cain and I were thinking of a way to set up a chance meeting with Camila Vallejo. He called his adviser, Rich Lowrie. Though an accountant by trade, Cain took his advice on everything, from economic policy to love. Lowrie promised he would think of something and call Cain back.
In a quiet moment in the hotel, I asked Herman Cain, "Mr. Cain, I'm wondering about one thing. Why are you helping me fall in love with a communist? I thought you were a diehard capitalist through and through." Herman Cain gave the question some thought. "That woman is a communist? Hmm. Well, at least that's better than being a socialist." I decided not to follow up.
In some ways, being in love with someone who doesn't love you back is like being in a prison. Your thoughts are confined to that person. As much as you try, you can't break free and think about something else. You are trapped. Every minute away from the person is a minute wasted. And those minutes crawl as if they had no arms or legs. I was so close to Camila and yet, that closeness seemed only to intensify the heartache exponentially. I was about to give up hope and ask Herman Cain to take us back to America when the phone rang.
It was Rick Lowrie. Herman Cain answered. Apparently, he had recruited Sarah Palin to the cause and handed her the phone. Palin yelled into the phone loud enough for me to hear. "Herb, she's a communist. The only way to attract a communist is to shave your mustache like Hitler's because those communists are Nazis." My head sank. That was a terrible idea. I would soon be headed back to America and seemingly lasting loneliness.
A knock on the door startled me out of my sad stupor. Head down, I walked to the door and turned the knob. "Hola. Me llamo Camila." My jaw fell off. My eyes drifted upwards like a balloon. Stuttering soon supplanted my speechlessness. She smiled sheepishly, cocked her head to the side, and batted her eyes.
Perhaps 45 seconds later, I managed to spit out, "I... I... don't speak Spanish. I'm sorry." And my head fell. A hand brushed my left cheek. "It's ok." I lifted my head and our eyes met again. She grabbed both of my earlobes gently between her thumb and forefinger and tugged me closer. Then, our lips introduced themselves. They fit perfectly as if both sets had originally been crafted as one, like two parts of a broken charm reunited.
Our lips reluctantly parted and we were locked in each other's eyes. Finally, I managed to ask, "What just happened? How do you even..." Camila put her left index finger on my lips softly, lovingly. "When our eyes met. I couldn't forget your eyes. I have spent the past few days tracking you down. In that quest, I learned so much about you. My dream guy has always been a hirsute neurotic Jewish leftist who loves Rocky, Slurpees, and basketball." A smile covered my face like Obama's hand over the Mongolian president in a recent UN picture.
I looked over to Herman Cain, who was standing on the balcony still debating the merits of the Hitler mustache plan with Sarah Palin on the phone. I walked over and tapped the glass with Camila's hand in my own. I threw up my free thumb. Herman Cain winked and smiled.
I woke up in my bed alone, my only company a picture of Camila Vallejo printed out from the internet. Herman Cain was leading the national polls in the primary race. It appeared as if he had a real shot at becoming the Republican nominee for President of the United States.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Bills are 4-2
The Bills suffered their second loss of the season today. Both losses have been by three points with time running down in the game. Fred Jackson had a great game, by Fitzpatrick had his first subpar performance of the season.
The real problem again has been the defense's inability to come up with the big stop. Frankly, even in the Bills wins, it's been a late TD or FG that has been the difference most of the time. The defense has been able to force turnovers, which is generally more important than the number of yards given up. But the failure to stop opposing offenses in the fourth is a major problem, whcih likely speaks to a lack of depth. The Bills have a bye next week.
The real problem again has been the defense's inability to come up with the big stop. Frankly, even in the Bills wins, it's been a late TD or FG that has been the difference most of the time. The defense has been able to force turnovers, which is generally more important than the number of yards given up. But the failure to stop opposing offenses in the fourth is a major problem, whcih likely speaks to a lack of depth. The Bills have a bye next week.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Poor Larry Hopkins
Dewey Bozella is 52 years old. He spent 26 years in jail, convicted of a murder he did not commit. He is set to make his professional boxing debut in a matter of hours. No one is rooting against the cruiserweight, a victim of a horrific spell of injustice.
Bozella faces Larry Hopkins, who is from Houston and will turn 31 years old next month. Hopkins is 0-3, being KOed in all three of his pro bouts.
You couldn't imagine anyone rooting for Hopkins to do anything but hit the canvas for the ten count. Larry Hopkins hasn't done anything wrong but he could be Adolph Hitler and he'd still have the same number of fans tonight. Bozella's story is that transformative. He is a hero simply for moving on with his life despite what this country has done to him. He could wallow in self-pity; instead he fights.
But the real victim is Hopkins. He is a villain through no fault of his own. Even his own mother is rooting for Dewey Bozella tonight. She'll root for her son Larry on another night. This night belongs to Dewey Bozella.
Bozella faces Larry Hopkins, who is from Houston and will turn 31 years old next month. Hopkins is 0-3, being KOed in all three of his pro bouts.
You couldn't imagine anyone rooting for Hopkins to do anything but hit the canvas for the ten count. Larry Hopkins hasn't done anything wrong but he could be Adolph Hitler and he'd still have the same number of fans tonight. Bozella's story is that transformative. He is a hero simply for moving on with his life despite what this country has done to him. He could wallow in self-pity; instead he fights.
But the real victim is Hopkins. He is a villain through no fault of his own. Even his own mother is rooting for Dewey Bozella tonight. She'll root for her son Larry on another night. This night belongs to Dewey Bozella.
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