Speaking of which, here's another entry:
The Unposted Blogpost
The next we saw Reynaldo, he was half a bottle of whiskey and half a beer on the top of the Cuban Caribbean Association, at a thatched rood bar, long lost of politics and conversing uniquely of his drink, with the occasional interjection of money. ?5 million dollars to find Osama,? he says, with a correction: ?no, five Billion...?
no, i say, 50 million
oh yeah, that's right, 50 million.
They make me eat pork. I make the mistake of saying it smells good, even though i don't eat it. My entire theory of ?theoretical vegetarianism? is put to test. I agree, it smells good, especially if you mistake it for roasting portabellos, and if forced, if your hosts have treated you, if it's lying there on the table with fried platanos and rice, it tastes good.
I held up a forkful and offered it to God, Orula, Ma'he'o, Allah, whoever is listen and will forgive me.
They made me eat pork.
I downed it with a second beer, then a third, mixed liberally with whiskey.
Anthony Bourdain the semi-famed traveling cook absconds vegetarians whenever possible, saying it's an affront to culture appreciation. I want to take my fork of pork and stick it in his eye.
After dinner, we descend to the dance hall. Before my eyes is something I've never witnessed before. The dance hall is busy, buzzing and alive. Everybody's dancing salsa. The average age is well passed 50, maybe even 60, my parent's age, whom I've never once seen dance to save their lives.
Among the crowd is a woman with humongous tits held within a tight orange tank top. Though her breasts are large, they barely protrude further than her bloated belly. If i strain my eyes, I can see her nipples outlined by sweat underneath a white bra. She is pacing between partners, unsatisfied with either. I notice her not only for her breasts, but also because she is amongst the youngest in the bunch, but still easily older that I.
Amongst her would-be suitors is a shrunken man hunched and making the rounds with the aid of a cane. Freya and I speculate his age. ?80?, she says. ?Really? I say 90? i say. Her stops the large-breasted orange bloused woman and for a moment they engage in lurid variations of salsa and obviously, he's reliving 70 year old fantasies. The woman, her back to him, his eyes transfixed on her derriere, looks at me and rolls her eyes.
Next to me is another woman, extremely tiny, much less than 5 foot and i imagine 85 pounds. She eyes me slyly while fending off a suitor -a tall, skinny man with a white cap who's pretending to be Ibrahim Ferrer. As I look around, I see half the men are tall and skinny and wearing white caps, wanting to be Ibrahimi Ferrer, Lord rest his soul. They dance, and flirt, before finally exchanging phone numbers. Ibrahim sees this as an opportunity, and the dance becomes hotter, heavier, with more gyrating. He spreads his legs and wiggles them with rapid fluctuation of his pelvis. I looks like a cross between a rabbit humping and a chicken walking. The woman blushes but she's unimpressed and from afar, i can read her lips: ?No, no, chico! I'm not into that!?
The salsa is replaced by Bob Marley, No woman no cry remixed with an industrial yet disco beat. To my dismay, the crowd lines up in formation and begins the macarana.
The large breasted, tight tank topped woman has friends, one with frizzy hair.
Her breasts extend out almost as far as her stomach.
Her frizzy haired friend eyes me from afar.
For once, I'm not eyed for a being a foreigner with money, but because I'm the youngest one in the lot. By far.
She eyes me and i play shy. I am a shy boy, and i loathe being lusted for being a foreigner, or for being young.
Freya grabs me to dance. ?I'll teach you the congo? she says. It's fast paced and involved switching the hips. Most American salsa aficionados move the hips back and forth in a humping motion, a motion the Cubans find vulgar, if not amusing.
Congo is fast.
Frizzy hair continues eying me.
The song ends and we head to the bar.
Looking back, Frizzy Hair catches me looking for her. She gives me that international ?call me? signal, holding an imaginary phone to her head. I wave goodbye and she disappears.
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Matt Dente [mailto:firstname.lastname@example.org]
> Sent: Monday, July 23, 2007 04:11 PM
> To: email@example.com
> Subject: Blog
> Hey Chris, just wanted to let you know I'm enjoying the blogging, keep it
> Have fun...
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