GYM

One thing that all this loneliness and lack of friends/girlfriend/job/adventure has brought to my life, is long hours at the gym. Is not that now I look like Arnold, uh-uh, far from that, but I can affirm that putting aside the time when I was in the army, this is the time of my life when I've been the fittest.

And I never thought I was going to say this, but I'm starting to like it.

Oscars

Is it really news, right now in the 21st century, to have a black actor wining an Oscar? Aren't we over it? -I mean, races in the movies?

What would the news would say if I win one? "The first red-haired guy who grew up in South America but is part European and that lived in Asia for quite a while has won an Oscar!"

You figure it out!

My Friend Stephan

I just hung up with my good-old friend Stephan from Chicago. We went to school together here in Charlotte where we both got our MBAs.

The last time I spoke to him was maybe like two months ago or so; long time, my friends, long fucking time without a word from me. I got a couple of e-mails from him, but somehow the reply button in my hotmail account was broken or was just missing.

I thought about him and his wife and thought about calling him, but my cell phone was fucking gone, there was no service inside this bunker where I live and not even radio signals can penetrate this thick walls, and beside after the first atomic bomb felt on North Carolina all the communications went belly-up and Jean-Francois couldn't even send smoke signals to his loved ones.

I sometimes complain that my cell phone doesn't ring, not even a wrong number "Is this Shanikoa?". Sometimes when it rings, I don't pick it up, I just say to myself "If it's important they'll call again or they'll leave a message." Even with e-mails I do the same: I would not open my hotmail account for a couple of days just to let the spam accumulate in my inbox and then I'll just select all and press "delete"; and surprisingly that button is always there, no matter if it is raining, snowing or sunny, that delete button is always fucking visible -and working.

While talking to him he just said exactly what I had in my mind: you call and write when there's shit going on, but when there isn't, what the fuck are you going to talk about? Something happen everyday, that's for sure, but not something worth talking about and mentioning and stuff. The old saying goes "no news is good news", however when there's no news is because the shit is not moving and is stuck, and that ain't fucking good news.

He told me that he'll be starting a blog, but I didn't mention the Stranger in Strange Land to him. And I am not going to; this blog, just like my life this last months, has been in a downward spiral not worth mention it.

That Thing (1)

I just hang up with my friend Alx. She told that a friend of hers knows someone who could possibly help me.

What is going to happen? Only time and the Big Guy up there knows.

Put Up With

During a long period of my life, I used to get involved and to call "friends" people who were far from that. Maybe being the middle child, never good enough in my parent's daily judgments, pushed me to find love and acceptance outside my nuclear family. And in doing so I had to put up with a lot of bullshit during a long period of time.

As time goes by and we are able to look back at our life, we realize how some relationships asked for a lot from us giving nothing; and on the other side of the coin, how some people gave a lot to us.

Today, being a Stranger in Strange Land here in America, my phone book doesn't have many entries, and the few that I have I know that are far from what I'm looking for. Loneliness is a fucking hard thing to cope with in everyday life, but I prefer it to have to put up with bullshit on regular basis.

Someone that I know and that I don't like, just called me today and I'm going to see her today. Thirty seconds into our phone conversation, I was ready to hang up, but the thing is that I'm going to see her. In other words, she's going to see me at my job; therefore there's no escape for me.

It's a pitty that I can't be rude with people and just tell them to fuck off; but at some point I'll have to make that point clear. With her, it will be today.

Plants

I just think is amazing that a plant will grow and develop only with water. From a little seed, this organism will grow, develop, produce fruits and more seeds to perpetuate their specie. Only with water.

Some will get the occasional urine from a dog or a drunkard; the tree right outside "Varsovia", one of the bars that I use to frequent when I was young and wild, got a lot, plenty of puke as well. A palm tree in my parent's house in the country side, got a lot of injuries in the form of "ninja stars" and pocket knifes. This was when I was just a kid and wanted to become a silent killer of bad people dress all in black. The palm tree didn't make it all the way to adulthood though.

A tree outside one of my girlfriend's house saw a lot of kisses; some touching of private parts, stored a lot of love letters vowing to love her 4-ever, saw a lot of tears when things went down hill both from her and me, and got a lot of angry kicks from me when she got a new boyfriend and refused to answer my calls. Maybe that's why it stopped all of a sudden growing those roots under the side walk. Or maybe was the effective mutilation of it by a bastard with a chainsaw that even dare to flirt with her.

Those yellow flowers that I gave to my best girlfriend -and lover for few weeks-, die when our lust was hitting the fan. Maybe was too much water; perhaps too little sun as we just stayed locked in my room loving each other; or maybe was just a glimpse of what was going to happen between us. Love dies, my friends.

The only plant that I have right now and that appears in the top picture, has been with me for almost six months now. It has seen water once a week; it has witnessed how much pasta and chicken I eat on regular basis; has gotten plenty of sun, or at least enough to survive; it has seen me drinking coffee, blogging, talking on the phone, reading books and flirting with girls. It has also being part of the last months of my life and has witnessed the downward spiral where I'm at right now.

The three plants that I got from a friend of mine and that I left outside my condo, saw me pretty much getting home and leaving again. They saw a lot of sun, plenty of it, and not much water. So much of one and so little of the other that they just passed away; and went straight to the heaven of plants, because life with me was hell for them. Hell in the sense of my complete indifference. "Whether you flourish or die, I don't care" was my message to them, the same that that old girlfriend said to me without words.

Only water, and perhaps some sun is all they need. I wonder when a plant gets to the heaven of plants, what would they say about their owners?

"That bloody red haired guy, can you believe the bastard? He water me only once a week, while he ate three and even four times a day!"

"Tell us about it" -the other three plants would reply. "That sun-a-ba-bitch! He dumped us in a corner of his little balcony and never even dare to look at us for months. But when he did, was just to throw our half death bodies in the dumster! Oh I bet you all my chlorophyll that he's heading straight for the flames!"

"My little plants" -I would reply with plenty of confidence. "Hell, as well as heaven, is a place on earth".

Capturing the Friedmans

I watch this film a couple weeks ago in a class on Film and Society that I'm taking at one of the local universities. In the class we usually watch a film and then discuss it, both from the point of view of how the film reflects society or a part of it; and how the film was made. If we consider it was accurate, how the light, shoots, interviews, etc. were used; and overall if we liked or not.

The first film that we watched was "Capturing the Friedmans", and I got mixed feelings about it.

This documentary has a lot of topics, several characters and many stories in the 90 minutes or so that it lasts. We couldn't really agree in one single topic for the film, but many stories overlapping each other with different characters each, that at the end leaves you with many questions and different feelings about the whole thing.

The background of the film is a case in 1987 of a retired professor, Arnold Friedman, that was accused of pedophilia. The police tracked down with the help of postal workers, some magazines containing child pornography to his house. The case grew in attention as the media got involved and the charges against Mr. Friedman also escalated to child molestation and even Mr. Friedmans younger son, Jesse, got accused of being part of it. Making a long story short, Mr. Friedman pleads guilty and is sentence to 30 years in jail; and Jesse, who was nineteen years old at the time, also pleads guilty and was sentence to thirteen years behind bars.

Up to here, believe me, I haven't ruin the movie for you. Because it is so much more than just a trial and the evidence that each side presented and the lawyers, jury and judge. I would say that less than 5% of the film actually takes place in a court room. Even more so, the movie is not about who's guilty of what.

The fascinating thing about this documentary is that the Friedman family (Dad, Mom and three sons) taped everything on camera. When I say everything is not just the birthday and new year celebrations, like any other family; they taped themselves talking about the charges, discussing what happened and what they should do; arguing if Mr. Friedman should plead guilty or not, fighting and questioning their support for each other while the shit was hitting the fan, taking sides and accusing each other of whatever, and most of all: having fun in front of the camera as their whole world was collapsing around them.

I don't want to give you much of the film, but some topics that show up throughout the film include the American legal system; the role of the media in criminal cases; the sense of community, of belonging to a community; and of course the family as an institution from where everything emanates.

On the side of the legal system, the documentary shows how the policy investigators did such a poor job. From the very beginning, they started making assumptions and taking decisions based on circumstantial evidence. One thing that I've seen, is that once some sexual conduct is involved in a case, it just escalates to magnify the most terrible conditions of human beings; making assumptions where each one is more outrageous than the other. The police spoke of mass rapes in the basement of the house, and sexual games that included at least ten children at a time where there was no hard evidence to support it. Not a single drop of blood or semen on the floor, just the interviews of some of the kids, taken by the police in ways that some times seems like if they were pushing them to say what the police wanted to say.

Then is the role of the media in the case. Cameras where all over the family and the alleged victims even before all the facts, interviews and evidence was recollected. Some people saw the news of Mr. Friedman being accused and days later the police knocks on the door to ask for a declaration of their children. Once a person is accused in front of the cameras, the odds that the perception of that person being innocent falls like a brick on a sunny day; specially if the charges are related to sexual misconduct, pedophilia and child pornography.

All this together was putted on the shoulders of the children that were suposelly abused by Mr. Friedman and his son Jesse. Once word start to spread, and after some of the interrogations by the police with some positive responses on such allegations, other families came together to support and at the same time to pressure their children to say that it really happen, even though they where even confused when asked if Mr. Friedman "had touched them".

And of course the most important part of the film is all the discussions that take place inside the family, right in front of the cameras. And even though this is the most important part of the movie, I really don't want to ruin the documentary to anyone. Those tapes take you inside a regular American family and how you can find power struggles, comedy, drama, tragic comedy, and how people tend to see each other and prefer one over other inside the family. Only when a family is putted under such stress, is that all this topics coming afloat and the discussions are very interesting. Questions of loyalty, support and love show up that really makes you turn around and look at your parents, wife and children and wonder if you really get to know someone during your life time.

I would say that at the end, I was expecting to see if Mr. Friedman was guilty or not; but the truth is that the film is not about that. It's not about being guilty of one or all the charges, it is true that he had some pretty bad porn in the basement, but from there to systematically abuse children, that's quite a leap. Not ot mention the defense lawyer that acts more like Dracula, sucking blood where he sees fits better for him.

Have you met the Friedmans? I say you should. They might be living down the street from where you live; or perhaps they live under your very own roof.

Hope

Today once again I drove all the way to South Carolina in order to buy a lottery ticket. I know it sounds pathetic, but hope is the last thing that we human beings loss. And specially when you're broke, you just have to hold on to that hope for as long as possible.

Once again I'll have to write my usual disclaimer: If you don't see any more posts here, that's because I won, and won BIG! Therefore I can afford myself a psychiatric who can prescribe me some happy pills and I don't have to use this blog to air my daily frustrations and stories.

And, of course, I'll move the hell out of the "Queen City"!

Cheers, and cross you're fingers please!

PLAN OF ATTACK

Few days ago I finished reading Plan of Attack, by Bob Woodward, and I would say that is a "good" book. And please notice that I put good between quotes because I have mix feelings about it. I do enjoy reading non-fiction a lot, and even though I enjoyed reading this one, the truth is that I also putted it down several times thinking "what a piece of shit".

First of all I would say that the book is very well written. Even for me, a foreigner whose english is a second language, all the vocabulary and the way the book is developed is certainly very easy to read and comprehend. And as the topic is so fresh and still in everybody's mind, it is a pleasure to read a historical book where you can actually remember what was going on throughout the book; you can even say "oh, I was doing laundry when that happen!", so that's really cool.

The way this book works is that the author uses three sources: speeches and presentations done by the "war cabinet"; news, events, reactions and so on around the world as they were happening; and interviews with the "war cabinet" about the connection between speeches, actions and reactions. The author tries to give a hint of how policy making works, and also deeps his toes into some of the discussions and arguments that took place inside the White House since pretty much August 2002, until the Mission Accomplish speech.

But the book fails miserably in really explaining simple questions as Why, When, and How. For example, the author never mentions Kuwait and when and how the US got permission to use it as a beach head in the attack. He doesn't mention either when, how and why Saudi Arabia opted not to participate in the war, even though the Saudi ambassador appears in the oval office every other page.

I would say this is the official story of the war, and as every official version, it doesn't say much. And what it says is rhetoric. The interviews with George W. Bush are filled with cliches and speech phrases like "I wanted America to be secure", and "Iraq is a threat to the world", without going much into details and of course, without answering direct questions.

What I wanted to know when reading the book, was basically when and how and who took the decision to go to war. Not the actual green light to start dropping bombs, but at the very early stages, like when they decided that they were going to go to war. According to the book it all started in late 2001 when Bush asked Rumsfeld to update the war plan for Iraq, and from there on it all went downhill. The preparation of a plan, moved on to the physical expansion of air fields in the region, building of facilities, insertion of CIA operatives and troops movement even before an actual decision was made. My impression is that one day they realized that the buildup of forces was too advanced to back down and the military preparations went faster than the diplomatic actions. By the time the US went to the UN, the military was already frothing at their mouth with preparations to use all their weaponry. Diplomacy just got few weeks while the military had almost year and a half to prepare.

Then is the question of why did we go to Iraq? What was the reason or reasons to wage a full scale war. From the very beginning everybody wanted to get rid of Saddam because he was a bad guy, period. When 9/11 happen, the White House took all that fear that something like that could happen again, and used it to go to war. From there onwards, reasons and explanations of links with terrorist groups, with threats to America, to allies, etc. just kept piling up. I'm not going to go further in this topic, just to add that they were victims of their own "collective thinking" and their own propaganda efforts concerning the real risks that America faces.

It surprised me the little or almost no planning for the post war period. Only when the military buildup was peaking, the White House started asking what were they going to do once the dust had settle, and they had to start running a whole country. Even at that point, their "collective thinking", was like once they're "free", every thing will just fall in place and we will spread democracy throughout the world. Planning, planning, planning gentleman, that's the difference between success and a quagmire. There was a lot of planning for the "war", that took few weeks, but no planning at all for the occupation, which is in its second year.

At the end the military noise was just too loud for the diplomatic effort to be able to work. Powell was isolated little by little by a group of people that wanted, at all costs, to use the military no matter what. A group of people that were surfing on a wave of invencibility and mental clarity of what was good for the world that brought to my mind a resemblance to extremists. And by labeling things based on good and evil, mental clarity becomes an utopia. It's scary that people make decisions based on circumstantial evidence that put lives at risk; even more so that they just got one more term in their pocket to bomb the hell out of whoever seems to be "evil".

As the book was written while some of this stories were developing, it falls short of getting some insight and specially on getting the perspective of history. Is just the official story of what happened.

As I said at the beginning, the book is very well written in its form; the content however is skin deep.

Spills

I was suppose to wake up at 7:30AM in order to have my shit going on today and to perhaps go to the gym but the truth is that I overslept.

I woke up at 8:22AM, took a pee, brew my coffee and read some of the news like I do every morning. I also checked my internet downloads because I do download shit like crazy; so much that my hard drive has filled up many times and some files have spilled outside my laptop on the desk and onto the carpet.

That big spot in the corner was one time that I left home and the laptop just kept downloading stuff all day long and when I came back home, late at night, I had to get on my hands and knees in order to clean all that mess.

Another day the files overflow into my cell phone, so everytime someone called, the traditional Nokia tune was replace by some porn actress having an orgasm -fake orgasm of course, which is louder, much louder than a real one.

Today the files spilled onto my Spanish/English/French dictionary and words like motherfucker, that had previously been omitted, had appear as "chinga tu madre", and Dude is translated as "compadre" and even the word "fuck" means "the act of fucking with or fucking up or fucking over or just get fucked by/with someone".

I should get a hard drive with larger capacity before those spills find their way to my seventy year old neighbor's condo on the first floor, and she may knock on my door wanting "some", if you know what I mean.

Two Conversations

I had two conversations today, and the first one when pretty much like "hi", and then this guy with low rise jeans said "hi" and I asked him if they take debit cards to pay for two items at the Dollar Tree and he said like "yeah, no problem" and I handed it to him and he swap it and it went through and I use my debit card for $2.15 or so and left the place not before saying "thanx, bye" because I'm such a well educated red haired guy and he reply "bye" and that was the end of the first conversation that I had today Sunday well into the afternoon like around 4:30 PM.

The Second conversation that I had today took place in a different venue and with a whole different person, well, not that different because it was a guy and this guy didn't have low rise jeans, but now that I think about it I don't really remember because I'm not really into guys, I'm into blondes and brunettes and girls with dark hair and red hair girls like me drive me crazy as well, and this guy also said "hi" and I, being the well educated and handsome human being that I am also said "hi" and right there I said with the best accent that could possible come out of my mouth that I wanted a "small cafe au lait" because still today I refuse to say tall or grande or venti or that shit I'm a guy who like to say small, medium and large and that's it, you understand even better that way than if I would have said all those fancy names just for a damn cup of coffee so I said "small" and he understood and then he said that it was $1,95 and I paid in cash because before going to Barnes&Nobles to read magazines for free I went to the ATM and withdraw $40 that I normally do on Sundays in order to spend in parking lots and coffee and milk and cereal and perhaps pasta throughout the week but it doesn't include liquor because that is more expensive and if I get drunk I just spend money like if that shit will grow on the tree right outside my window but the truth is that it doesn't and my bank account is getting dangerously close to the red ink and I don't know what I'm going to do other than keep drinking coffee and having these small conversations day in day out and then maybe I'll hit the jack pot and I'll retire to Paris or London or Wyoming and one day down the road I'll see Dick Cheney and I'll show him my finger but because I'm rich and I can afford a very good lawyer I'll get away with it.

Then I came back home and read my book because I'm trying to learn and understand more about China and how Kissinger and Nixon went all the way to China and hold meetings with Zhou En Lai and Mao and what they said and how they said it and when and why such statements still have so much importance in the relations between the two countries and also how they were able to keep it secret because in Washington is impossible to keep a secret and not even the name of an uncover agent can be kept secret and it came down that it is all politics at the end and the truth is that you become an slave of the things you say but you're the master of your own thoughts so that's why I don't say shit and I don't even tell her how pretty I think she is even though I've been dreaming of her all this days and even though I haven't seeing her I know when I'll see her maybe I won't say a word but anyway I'm a master of all the crap that goes up and down my mind and not even in Room 101 they can take that away from me.

And no I'm not high or drunk or anything like that is just that I wanted to say something and I said it and that's it and once I'm done I'll read another chapter of my book and then I'll go to bed to fall sleep and think about her and the life that I've left behind in order to be here and to think what the fuck should I do tomorrow with my life if should I jump outside the window or just chill and have a cup of coffee and think that everything will be all right even though things are not that all right but I'm still healthy and good looking and I'm thankful for that and my internet connection is working pretty good and this blogger kicks ass and I'm just going to shut up and let the words in these pages do all the talking because that's it with me.

Lack of Sleep

I woke up at three in the morning unable to go back to sleep. The fucking stress, what else. I remember back in the days, back when I was part of HR, the same happen to me for a period of time.

Around six I went back to bed and slept until around noon. What a difference when it happens on a weekend than when it happens during the week. Back in those days I'll get at the office around seven thirty, and while everybody was just waking up, I had been awake for almost five hours. And then I'll have to start thinking, making decisions, calling people, answering phone calls and endless questions. Putting up with a lot of bullshit in other words.

Today I didn't have to put up with any bullshit; other than the one pouring out of my mind, of course. And I was able to go back to sleep without any major worries.

Mouth Full

I've realized that one of the things that I hate the most is when people talk with their mouths full; when they stuff their mouths all the way to the red light that says "full" and then, start talking.

That shit can ruin my lunch.

If I had the power, real power, I'll put them in the electric chair.

Dilema

Even though I'm not hungry, I know I'll be in a couple of hours. Should I eat right now, or should I not?

I'm going to cook, and once I'm done I'll make a decision.

Which anyways I know I'm gona end up eating as soon as my pasta is done; but there's nothing better to boost your self steem than making well informed decisions.

I Like to Write

. . . well yeah, I guess that's obvious; I also like to bite.

Running (in and out)

Time is running out, and the only thing I've been doing is running on the treadmill all these months. When would the cold water will come down upon me to wake me up from this life of day dreaming?

I wonder what I would be writing about sixty days from now, on April 19th. Because by that time, whether I wanted or not, is decision time.

Farewell

Alfred is taken off tomorrow; going to L.A. for good. All the best for him, no doubt about it. I may go and visit him in few months time, whenever he is all settle down and shit, with hot girlfriends and stuff.

I've just came back from his place, and I just have a couple words to say. I'm saying this to myself, so that I can remember the picture and what I saw and what I spoke about tonight. You all millions of people who read this blog on regular basis (insert sarcasm here), may not know wass up, but I do. This group of people are rotten, all the way to the bones. And that shit is contagious, perhaps more than I would like to realize. Even though I'm living my very own reality and my own personal shit, what I saw is more widespread than I originally thought. Even Pam, the good old Pam, the one who goes three times a week to church and all that shit, is also in it. I was fucking surprised, to be honest. And that shit is not good.

What worries me is that when you sleep with babies, you wake up the next morning with pee all over you; whether you want it or not; whether that pee is yours or not. And one thing that I don't want is to get in that black hole, where the bottom is kind of soft.

Creative Writing

I'm enrolled in a Creative Writing class in one of the local universities, and even though I thought it was a good idea, the truth is that I'm kind of disappointed.

The group is small, maybe just 9 people all together and they're nice. But the group is too homogeneous to really write whatever the hell you want, I mean, there's only women, most of them middle age, 99% of them married and the only thing they write about is married life, children, the garden and that kind of stuff. Ther writings are boring, some are good, no doubt about it, but clearly boring. Beside I being the only "young male" in the group, well, I have to put up with all this "girl talk" that eats up more than half the class (I mean, they talk about their children and how great they are, and their shoes, and how nice earrings you have and where you found them ans o on which is cool, but we're in a class, with limited time, we're not having a cup of coffee with cookies on a Sunday afternoon where we have all the time in the world to talk. I want to have fun, but most of all I want to accomplish things).

Few months back I took another class on creative writing at the local community college and it was much better. The group was very diverse, young as well as grown ups and there was more freedom to write about whatever the hell you wanted to. You could use words like fuck and shit and no one would rise their eyebrows.

Yesterday I read out loud "Pink Shirt, Pink Earrings" and the comments that I got where pathetic; judgmental most of them on why men put so much emphasis on the physical part of a woman, and even one of this "ladies" told me that "man look better than what they think". And even though what we try to do is to make sure that our writings are clear in the sense of the message you want to communicate, or the sittings, descriptions, dialogs and so on, last night they try to re-write my piece on how they would've written it. In other words, that piece was about a young man describing a beautiful young girl, and they wanted me to sanitize it to a point that it looked more like if it was written by middle age woman, to other middle age woman.

I didn't say anything about even though I found it extremely rude, specially the comment about man. And I didn't say anything because once I open my mouth, my sarcastic self will hit the roof and wouldn't stop until I start hearing I'm sorrys, seeing red faces and perhaps a tear. So I just kept it cool, and pretended I was taking notes.

As I just said, what I wanted to communicate with that piece is that I've just met a beautiful girl, and that it was beautiful to my eyes. They saw from the point of view that man are shallow and look only and the physical part. I do believe the physical part is very important, and being a man I also know that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and you cannot have exterior beauty without inner beauty -and viceversa.

I guess next time I'll just have to write about family, the weather, and perhaps children in general so that they would feel fine; or I might just write a very steamy piece, like this one or this one and read it aloud to really stir the pot and to really give them reasons to complain about my writings. One thing that I love to do is to stir the pot, and God knows it, but when my sarcastic self gets that wooden spoon and starts stirring things, one thing is for sure: the shit will it the fan and I won't spare no body.

Pink Shirt, Pink Earrings

I saw her today; earlier today; saw her a couple of times, perhaps more, I don't really know. We sat near each other, well, at least theoretically: she was actually seated when I got late to class, as I always do, and I sat few chairs behind her. So it was kind of close, but not really that close.

She was wearing a pink shirt with matching pink earrings. Cute, very cute indeed.

She had jeans, very nice jeans, or should I say, that the shape of those jeans wrapping the bottom half of her body make them look like a really-really nice pair of jeans? Either way, she was wearing nice jeans, I do have to say it. She was also wearing some very trendy shoes, tennis shoes. All white, like with white shoe laces, white on the sides, white sole, all white. The kind of tennis shoes that you don't use to go the gym or to go and play a tennis match; but more the type of shoes that you'll use to look cool. She was wearing those shoes, trendy ones, all white; and she looked cool, very cool and trendy.

Her hair was tied back and looked very nit. She looked like if she had taken the time to look nice, very nice, very-very nice indeed. For me to think about matching my pink shirt with my pink earrings would have taken a generation to figure it out; but for her, it kind of looked very natural. And talking about pink, even that little bit of make up that she was wearing had a little pink in it, on her eyes and her lips. Pink lips, just the way I like them.

I think you'll have to be a rock lying on the ground or an ashtray on a table not to notice her. I would think that guys and girls alike will be starring at her; some will be frothing at their mouths, while the others will rise their eyebrows thinking why the hell are there such a beautiful creatures from their same specie walking around unpunished. Even dogs, retirees, grandchildren and little birds singing will have to notice her. I would think.

But the fact is that she flies under the radar, she doesn't attract many looks from warm blood organisms around her; maybe is because she doesn't overexpose her very well balance 5'5; maybe is because her long blonde hair is not bleach-blonde; maybe is because she doesn't chew gum with her mouth open; or maybe is because she takes a lot of notes in class and doesn't check her cell phone every 30 seconds. But I really don't know.

What I do know, is that it takes a guy who can notice a pink shirt matching pink earrings to point out how beautiful she really is.

A Matter of Time

Don't you love when people use the phrase "a matter of time"? Like when faced with a problem they say "Oh well, that's just a matter of time".

But when the director of the CIA says it, that shit gets scary. And not scary on what he says, because he doesn't say anything, and that's what is scary. Is like if they were just warning us, like "is just a matter of time" for people to blow up an atomic bomb in the downtown of your city; just a matter of time to have rockets that can reach the US; is just a matter of time for car bombs to start exploding around us; is just a matter of time for you to find a job; is just a matter of time for Jean-Francois to get a girlfriend and get married and start having kids; and then is just a matter of time to have grandchildren and is just a matter of time to get old and retire and get sick and forget how to pee and who your family members are; yeah, is just a matter of time for all this shit to happen.

And now that I'm in the topic, let's just say that is just a matter of time to get the economy back on its feet; is just a matter of time for the economy to go belly up again; is just a matter of time for the stock market to go sky high and then just a matter of time to dive right into the concrete. Just a matter of time.

When people talk about "just a matter of time", it means that they don't know shit of what is really going to happen, or how or when. Is just a matter of time for a earthquake to hit somewhere and kill thousands of people, just a matter of time for an airplane somewhere in the world to malfunction and crash and kill scores of passengers, and maybe some cows on the ground, who knows? Is just a matter of time after all.

The thing is that is just a matter of time for people in America to realize the kind of idiot that we have running this country and how much damage he has done, and by the same token just a matter of time to open our eyes and see that if people have jobs and can feed their families and educate their children, they will start putting guns down and will start getting those jobs and living productives lives. Is just a matter of time for the people in the government to find out that is just not possible to bomb the hell out of all your "enemies" and then expect from the survivors to be thankful to you.

Yeah, is just a matter of time for Jean-Francois to shut the fuck up and stop typing this post. Just a matter of time. . . But I'm not the head of the CIA and lives don't depend on my decisions based on "is just a matter of time" type of bullshit.

Cravings (2)

The second best thing for those cravings that I have is to go to the gym -the best scenario of course would be to have my girlfriend with me and just enjoy being young and healthy. But, as I don't have a love one these days, I'll have to say "thanks God for the gym".

I just came back from there and I'm dead. I run like crazy, did some push ups, dips, pull ups, sit ups and worked my shoulders and now I can barely type this post. Even though it helped, the thing is that there's just too many beautiful women out there! And I've just realized that I like'em all! I did burn the energy that I had, but I got some new energy now, damn!

But I was cool though; I wasn't looking around like someone who hasn't had some in quite a while (Jean-Francois), frothing at my mouth every time a beautiful and sweaty girl walked pass me, oh no. I was cool as a cucumber; doing my own thing, acting like if everything was under control and not trying to really go and talk to anyone -I would have expose my self, I'm sure. But the thing is that I wear glasses and I don't like to wear them when I go to the gym, so the truth is that I don't see very well. I can recognize a hot girl from one that is not hot, of course; but I can't distinguish faces, and if the girls are too far away I really don't know wass up.

Maybe that's a good thing, I believe that if I could really see what was going on around me, those cravings would have been going through the roof by now, unable to even type a single character in this blog. In other words, the trip to the gym would have had some kind of boomerang effect on my poor rotten soul.

Cravings

I do have cravings; and God knows that I need to get rid of this load soon, hell yeah, the sooner the better. And I just can't take things in my own hands if you know what I'm saying; I need to get rid of this in a place other than the restroom. To put it straight: I need a girl for Christ's sake!

This cravings are eating me alive. I've been in a fucking bad mode for the last several days -or I should say weeks or perhaps months, even though I'm ashamed to say it out loud. But if I don't say it here, where else?!

The fucking thing is that I don't see any major change in my life in that direction. In the horizon I only see bills and nothing else. Shit!, to be honest I don't really know if I would ever get some of that shit again. I'm desperate, I'm a desperate man, and desperate men don't come to talk, they come to kill as the drug dealer told Sean in Nip Tuck.

I know that it is never so dark like right before dawn; but that shit has been getting darker and darker and the worst thing is that I believe it can still get fucking darker. God forbid my friends, God forbid.

My friends: tonight, right before you go to bed, take some time and please pray for Jean-Francois, and among other things ask the big boss to please send him a fine young lady. That all I want, that's all I ask for.

Real Power

If I had the power, I'll send them to fucking jail, I swear I would. But power, I mean, like real fucking power, like those Emperors back in the days, or those dictators that live in East Asia or the middle east, you know, real power. Power to do whatever the fuck you want, to write and twist the laws according to your convenience and according to the weather forecast if you wish to.

Not power like the president or the prime minister of a developed country, they look like pawns compared to the type of power that I'm talking about. Real fucking power to rule people the way you want to.

If I had that kind of power, unlimited power, I'll send to the torture chambers all the people that just can't shut up. Those people that talk and talk and talk and say nothing but just crap and that listen to no reasons other than their own words and who just like to talk and talk and fucking talk. They will be the perfect candidates to my law, Jean-Francoi's law, the law of one man, the rule of Jean-Fran, not the rule of law. Well, yes, the rule of law, and I'm the law!

Those very talkative people, they'll be locked down in jail. Those people that talk shit day in day out they better get big muscles, because I'll give them one way ticket to a forced labor camp, and if they try to talk their way out, I'll just send them straight to "Room 101" and will turn the dial all the way to 100, will close the door behind me and will come back at some point in the future to check on them.

If I only had the power. . . real power. Too bad for me I'm only a pawn these days.

Cocaine

Last night was a night of girls, alcohol, loud music, dance, sweat, and. . . Cocaine.

My friend Alfred is moving to L.A. next week, so we went to hit the night scene with some more friends (like 10 all together) in order to wish him a farewell, and also just to have another reason to get drunk like hell.

My friend is one of the craziest guys I've ever met. He does and has done every single possible thing that you don't suppose to do according both to the written laws and to the "moral" rules that this rotten society goes by. He has even been in jail for stealing credit card numbers; and has stolen from bottles of wine to microwaves to maybe a car here and there; has done, and still does, all kinds of drugs from illegal ones, to prescription drugs; he even hit his ex wife once. Yeah, that is one bad apple that Alfred is, but a cool guy nevertheless.

But he's someone who still manages to have a stable job and do quite good as a matter of fact, so much that he's been transferred to L.A. to run an even larger operation over there in his line of business.

So, as last night was pretty much his last Saturday night in town, he of course wanted to party like a champion and got his little bag with Cocaine in order to have as much fun as he could possible have. That's him, crazy as a goat.

I've never tried cocaine before, never really wanted to. Who knows what is in that white powder that has been cut and mixed so many times since it first came from the jungles of South America. And even though I smoked weed when I was in college I've always considered myself a "liquor" type of guy. For me some vodka with Redbull is enough to have as much fun as a kid in a circus. Drugs don't appeal to me, even more so after I quite smoking cigarette and how fucking difficult that shit was.

But last night was a night of party and it was time for me to try some Cocaine.

First we went to a bar, and while there he gave me a little bag and told me that there was a little bit of the white stuff, that I just had to deep my car keys in it and sniff it. I went to the rest room downstairs, locked myself up and once I opened the little bag there was fucking nothing. With the key I was able to get just some "dust", because believe me, there was nothing in it. I sniffed it anyway but felt nothing at all. I complained to Alfred and he said that even that little bit was enough, I just laughed and said: "Are you back on coke, dude?". We both laughed.

Then, another friend of his produced another little bag with more Cocaine in it and I went back to the rest room to see if there was any. There was indeed more in this little tiny bag and I deep my car key in it and sniffed just a little bit on both nostrils. I could taste it in my throat and it tasted it like shit. I couldn't smell it or anything, but I felt it in my throat. Gross.

When I went back upstairs I felt, to be honest with you, back to square one. At that point I've had a vodka and Redbull and 3 beers, and I was quite happy, very talkative and having a lot of fun. After sniffing that shit I felt like new again, meaning, like if I haven't had a single drink, just like if I had just left my place after taking a shower. I told my friend and he was like "Yes, that's the feeling, that dizziness from the alcohol disappears!". And I was like "Dude, I want to get drunk and feel drunk!". We just laughed about. To pay such a fucking lot of money to feel that shit, well, why don't you better just don't drink?!

After that bar we went to a club, and I asked for a Redbull -no vodka- and man I hit the roof. That shit is a real drug, that Redbull. I danced with a girl that was with us, I think Carmen was her name and she was so hot: a petite girl yet full of everything. At that point it was like 3 AM and everybody wanted to leave but I was having a blast, dancing, talking to people, laughing but all my friends were like "Jean-Fran, you comin' or not?" and I was like yes Dude I'm coming but let me just finish dancing and laughing plus where the fuck are we gona go, every thing is closing down, let's just fucking stay here! But maybe it was that some of them had so much Cocaine in their brains that couldn't think straight, others were so drunk that didn't know what the fuck, one girl -the ugliest one- was threatening everybody that it was the last time she was going out with us, "that's fine" I said; others didn't know what the fuck, they were just in the middle saying or doing nothing, and Carmen and Jean-Fran were performing those exotic dance moves so fine that they didn't wanted to leave. Shit, I was entering the zone were Jean-Francois becomes and irresistible hot Latino guy with red hair, irresistible to all females out there, but my friends cut me short.

We left the club and there was drunk people all over the place. Even when we took the elevator back at the parking lot that shit was so much fun. But, all the rush was to take one of the girls home 'cause she was tired; and that was it, that was the end of the night. We went to my friends place to have some more drinks but at that time everybody was in a "good night" mood. I was full of energy still, for sure it was the mix of Cocaine, Redbull, Coke Cola and Vodka. So, Jean-Francois had to go to bed full of energy by himself - humph!

I believe Cocaine is like weed, or sex. The first time you try it, you don't really see what is that about. The first time I fucked a girl, back in the days, the only thing that I wanted was to make a "whole in one" if you know what I'm saying. Later on I discovered all those different positions and games and the foreplay and all that shit that makes sex so great, and I discovered that sex is not really about finishing, is not about the destination but about the ride, yeah, that's what matters. With weed was the same. The first couple of times I tried it, I didn't really saw what was all that about. But after few tries I started understanding the music, the colors and the different sensations that comes with it. I also learnt when to use and for what occasions; and I also learnt that as much as I like it, I also don't like it, and I don't use it anymore.

With Cocaine I'm sure if I try it again, at different times and in different situations I'll grow to understand it and enjoy it. I'll know when to use it, for what reasons and will cultivate the test for what is good and what is not.

But I ain't 20 years old anymore and seeing its addiction first hand in my friend has left a bitter taste about it. There's so many things to be addicted to these days that getting hooked into Cocaine is the last in my list. I'm currently seriously addicted to coffee, the gym, blogging and of course my life-time-addiction: Sex!

Last night was a night of Cocaine; a night of drinks, dance, hot girls and farewells.

Last night I said farewell to a good friend of mine and at the same time I say -hello and- farewell to Cocaine. A short lived relationship with the "Devil's dandruff" as my friend calls it; a farewell indeed.

Misleading

This post is not about George W. Bush and all his lies and misleading; not even about Dick Cheney and his misleading story about people with flowers waiting down the street for soldiers full of ammo in his pockets. In other words this story is not about politics, but about a mislead -well, yes politics after all.

I went to the post office today to mail a little package with a birthday card for a friend of mine that lives overseas. In the package there's also 3 Hershey's chocolate bars that I know she's going to love and perhaps will eat them all at once.

I asked the lady behind the counter about the different prices and speeds for my little package. My friend's birthday is the 15th of this month, and I was hoping she will get it on that date, or perhaps within 2 days or so; but that would have cost me twenty bucks that I don't have. I settle for the regular rate that according to this lady would take "10 days to get there".

Now, when you say "10 days", that means that each day goes from dawn to dusk, and you count from one to ten and that's it, the letter is delivered, right?. Well no. And she didn't say shit about it. She just said 10 days with a poker face that for one second made me believe it was actually 10 fucking days.

Does everybody has to know that it is "ten working days", which run from Monday to right before lunch on Fridays because at that time all these unionized people are just looking forward to head home, turn on their TVs and stuff junk food in their mouths for the rest of the weekend.

I pointed out to her that it was "ten working days", and she looked at me with that distrust in her eyes where I could read her thinking that even though this red haired guy has a weird accent, he knows how shit works around here; better don't mess with him. And right after that I told her that it was like about two weeks, "15 days at least, right?".

"Yes", she said, "at least".

There's a big difference between 10 and fifteen days; just like there's a big-O-difference between having weapons of mass destruction, and having programs to eventually build a weapon.

Just because I have a weird accent don't think that Jean-Francois is that stupid.

Letters (2)

The last letter I wrote was about a year ago, in early March last year. A time that today seems so far away, that sometimes I feel like if it never really happen. A period of my life so different, in the sense of the feelings going through my heart and mind, that today is hard to believe it was merely a year ago.

A letter sent to someone with all the passion, sentiment, love and tenderness that any human being could ever put into words. There was not a single "I love you" or shit like that, but a text so powerful that it spelled "I love you" in so many different ways that prompted her to call me in tears.

Tears of emotion, love, surprise and happiness. Tears of anger due to our physical separation; tears of lust, passion and cravings for me. Tears that also had those words that neither of us dare to spoke, words that spelled a very clear "it's over". Tears for what it was, but could never be; of what could have been -and was-, but will never be. Tears that mirror our hearts, our past, but also our future: a future where there's no "us".

Tears that were sweep away with a Kleenex and tossed away.

A letter putted, later that night, in a little box of memories; putted on top of the other memories, but once closed and stored deep inside her desk, it remained unopen. Later on it got caught in the middle of past memories and present ones; a letter pushed slowly towards the bottom of the box, becoming a past in itself, a distant memory. If it prompted tears in its hey day, it would just bring a cute smile these days, if fully remembered.

Once that box is closed and the drawer shut, I wonder what goes on inside it; what's going on inside that little box with all those letters and memories . . . Would they talk about, would they share their own particular stories and feelings? Would they end up arguing about who's more right and whose sentiments were more pure? Would they have fist fights in the darkness of the closed drawer, different letters taking sides as they see it fits their own interest?

What I do believe is that my letter, that last letter that I wrote, has been involved in a lot of arguments and fights with the other letters in the box; not just fist fights, as mine will use its chain, hose, knife, steel bar, broken glass bottle, baseball bat, ear biting and whatever it takes to make its point . . .

. . . and to become the undefeated holder of the unified Heavy Weight Championship Tittle inside that box filled with letters!

html

I don't know shit about HTML! Nothing, fucking NADA at all!

I know you all internet geeks must be laughing, but I tried to change a couple of things in my blog, you know, just to make it look a bit cool and I screw it up. And of course, I didn't save shit before getting my hands dirty.

This book that I got on HTML certainly makes shit look easy, but once I started moving, deleting, adding, correcting and changing things, this fucking page just went belly up. Uuups!

Oh well, I'm back at square one.

Letters (1)

In the age of the internet and all these fancy ways to communicate, I've been thinking about the letters I used to write back in the days. Letters that have been overtake by hundreds if not thousands of e-mail messages and faxes over the years. Letters that have also been replaced by the ever lower cost of phone calls from and to any part of the world.

I do remember very very well the last letter that I wrote though. It has been perhaps the letter with the most sentiment and most love I've ever written, and that prove to me that today, with all those ways to communicate with someone, a letter has perhaps become even more powerful and important that I ever thought.

Even though I remember my last letter, I can't recall my first letter ever. I do remember writing letters to Santa Claus when I was just a little child, or writhing to the tooth fairy -I was a very demanding kid-, but I can't place in my my mind the moment when I wrote a letter to someone that I knew, or didn't know. The time when I considered I had something to tell someone who was not around me. That moment in time and space when I wanted to bring someone close to me, and bring to that person some memories of this red haired.

I lived in the same city where I was born for 17 years, attending always the same school and with the same group of friends. Well, not really. I used to hang out with some people that I considered my friends, but somehow they "back stab" me at some point, and then I moved away from them -even though we were in the same class. That's a whole different story that I may write about in the future. My point is that I never had someone to whom I was close to and that went away for a long period of time; a time long enough that made necessary to write a letter.

I had a uncle who lived -and still does- in a country different than the one I grew up in, but I always wrote my name on the yearly Christmas cards that my parents used to send him. Even though we spoke on the phone with him once in a while, I never felt the need to write him a letter telling him something about me or my surroundings.

I would say the first letter I ever wrote was to the president of my country. No, I ain't no genius or anything like that, but I did wrote him a letter and got a reply from him as a matter of fact.

Back in those days the country where I grew up in was at war with itself. There was this guerrilla groups that were trying to overthrow the government and the federal forces were fighting them back. I didn't quite understand much what was going on those days, I was perhaps 11 years old, but I do remember that while watching TV with my Dad, I saw that the president went abroad to some meeting with other presidents to try to end another war that was going on in the neighborhood. There was a lot of fighting back then in my original country and others around. So as he went to this conference, I asked my Dad: "Why doesn't he first make peace here in the country, and then goes abroad?". My Dad said he had no fucking idea, that I should ask the president himself, and trying to shoo me away to leave him alone he said "go write a letter, go!".

I end up writing a letter and my Mom took it to the post office. Few weeks later the president replied to me through a telegram, well at least it was signed by him. He didn't answer my question though, his telegram which was just few lines long said pretty much that peace was very important for his government and that he'll keep working towards it in our country and abroad. Five presidents later, the fighting in my original country has intensified, there's more weapons on both sides, therefore more deaths and the current president is scalating all the bombing and shit with no end in sight. Peace in the other countries around mine was either reached or imposed but not thanks to that president I wrote to. He retired once his 4 years were over, didn't write his memories or anything like that and never went to any conference about peace in the region.

Too much for a question of a 11-years old.

Now that I think a little more about letters, perhaps the second one I ever wrote was when I was 14 years old -and no, it wasn't to the president.

I was attending my freshmen year in high school and one of my teachers came with this idea of a pen-pal.

Let's write to someone who lives in the US so that we can practice our english and know about their whereabouts. By the same token they can learn about us and our country and all that bullshit that teachers always come up with. I got a letter from my pen pal, a girl, in no time and with the help of my mom I wrote her back. It's funny, she wrote to me in english even though I grew up in a country that has a different native language and she didn't even mention anything about "I hope you understand this". I included a picture in my letter, Jean-Francois in all its glory, smiling, his hair combed and wearing his best t-shirt.

I never got a reply from her; maybe got scared of my "good looks" and that was the end of our "pen-pal" friendship.

Those were my first letters, the first letters ever written. Short lived relationships but that can be classified as letters nevertheless.

Throughout my life I haven't written many letters, even though I've lived for extended periods of time in Asia and the US twice. One of the reasons is that early in my travels I found the internet, that killed any desire to sit down with a piece of paper and write. Other reason is that I've never been too close to my family, and I don't like to tell them much about me and my whereabouts. Early in my life by trying to be honest with them I got myself in a lot of trouble, so the lesser they know about me, the better. That's also a whole different story though.

When talking about letters one thing that does comes to my mind is the last letter I wrote, and as I said before, perhaps the most successful story of words putted into a sheet of paper in my whole life. It showed me the power that letters have today in our internet society; a power that once unleashed upon someone . . .

. . . may just die down, because due to time and phisical separation love dies no matter how many and how awesome hand-written letters you put in the mail.

But as a letter, it was a success.

My Right Leg Hurts

My right leg is hurting me; it has hurt me all day today and yesterday. It hurts from the hip all the way to the knee, and then the pain stops. Even though my knee hurts, that's not the epicenter of the pain, it is distributed throughout my whole leg.

On Saturday I had a terrible dream where some people were chasing me. The images are blur, shadowy, unconnected pictures here and there with only one clear image: I was running for my life. I remember a car chasing me while I was on foot. I also remember a yellow bull -no, this is no bullshit-, who was also chasing me but somehow passed just inches from me at full speed a couple of times.

I woke up and both my legs hurt. Maybe I was trying to run while lying on the bed; kind of difficult I know. Both my legs hurt then, but now is only my right leg.

I'm sure it has nothing to do with the beers that I had yesterday night while watching the Superbowl, nor with the three quesadillas that I ate. The porn that I downloaded from the internet on Saturday has nothing to do with it either, as I've been scanning the internet for free porn ever since I have memory and the pain in my leg appeared only on Saturday.

Even though on Sunday I went driving around town, just to try to clear my mind, I don't think it affected my right leg. It is true that I use it to step on the gas and to push the stop pedal, but it was an easy drive and it wasn't anything traumatic.

I know that when your left arm hurts, that is a sign that your heart might stop pumping blood soon so you better chill out and go see a real murderer -I mean, a doctor.

What does it mean when your right leg hurts for more than 3 days? Is it maybe that my Anaconda, my prime muscle which has been performing so well all these years, is going to go belly up being good only to pee?

If that happens I really prefer my left harm to start hurting -really, really bad!

Tequila!

If you people are planning to go drinking Tequila one of these days, don't drink it the way I did it last night. I mean, don't drink it responsible.

And by responsible, I mean that you'll not use salt and lime to help ease down those shots in order to avoid acid reflux the next day. Also you'll avoid drinking some beers with your shoots, because the mix may worsen your hangover; you'll drink water in order to "hidrate" your rotten body. And even though you'll drink until you end up huging the toilet, once you've thrown up the first time, you'll head home to rest, not wanting to make things worse.

If you're gona drink Tequila, don't drink it responsible. Drink like if it was the end of the world; drink like if you wanted to die; drink like if you don't wanted to wake up ever again. Drink like if the death herself is after you, and if she's gona get you, she better get you with that bottle in your hand. Drink until you throw up your eyes off. Get drunk like a champion; believing that you'll wake up in heaven surrounded by 500 virgins with honey coming out of their breasts.

Becasue if you don't, then you'll be beging to be dead due to the hangover.

Good Fun!

I was thinking what to do for fun this weekend; you know, trying to break with the good-old routine of bars, alcohol, dancing, sex, watching TV, readings blogs and so on. I wanted to do something different this weekend, something that would really give me a shot of fun in the arm.

Going to church on Sunday morning is absolutely out of the question, not even to the singles group that they have there. What could be fun however would be to go to the Bible Study group that they have and you know, just air my questions followed by my own comments. Men that could be fun as hell -at least for me-, the only thing is that I know I'll taken aside by the priest and asked in a very polite way to please Jean-Francois, "don't you ever fucking come back again you fucking scum bag, and go now before I call the police you little bastard!". And I believe him, if they call the police here in the South, and is something related to church, boy you better have your lawyer handy, because you're going down!

Other thing that I could do is to go and take pictures around town, not that there's many things to take pictures at around here other than shopping malls and restaurants, but I could go to Downtown and take pictures of the buildings. That reminds me of this guy who was taken pictures there and the police stop him. He was portrayed as being a potential terrorist who was taken pictures of the "FBI Building" -a little building in one corner where 20 floors belong to Wachovia and 2 to the FBI- and that once his house was searched they found more pictures of Downtown. He was later deported due to some "Immigration status violation", but the police had said that he was a terrorist. If he was such a terrorist threat, why didn't you send him to Guantanamo?

Maybe that's not a good idea either. As I'm a foreigner as well I really don't want to be portrayed as a threat -well I am, but not a terrorist threat, just a "Stupid Threat": your contact with me could make you (more) stupid.

How about washing my car, or better yet, volunteering to wash my 76-year old neighbor's car. That would certainly give me some kudos with God, but we all know that I'm heading straight to the flames once my heart stops beating, so let's not push the envelope on that one.

I know exactly what I'm going to do. On one hand I am not going to engage in any type of sexual relationship because that is bad; even to look at a nipple straight in the eye is double-bad. Janeth Jackson's nipple (or was that big-O-piercing maybe) cost the networks half million greens, so that I could be fine maybe triple if they know how much I like to kiss'em, touch'em, lick'em, bite'em and overall just play with 'em. But on the other hand what I'm going to do is all righty: It has been showed in TV, posted on the internet, commented by several 'experts' and everybody agree that is not that bad after all.

I'm gona go around "shooting people". Hell yeah, just like that top general (James Mattis is his name) who said it in plain-O-words:

"It's fun to shoot some people. I'll be right up there with you. I like brawling."

Hey, if this guy said that and doesn't even gets a slap on the back of his hand, what's the difference if this red-haired guy who writes every now and then in his blog does it as well? If everybody is doing it, why can't I? Besides he got actually praised by his comments and maybe he's going to be promoted and I think I heard that he was going to get a medal due to his remarks. Someone told me that he was going to head the Human Rights division of the Pentagon, not a bad idea after all, right?

Even the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff said it very clear:

"The last three times that that general has been in combat . . . his actions and those of his troops clearly show that he understands the value of proper leadership and the value of human life."

Furthermore, as we have this great Constitution that gives everybody the right to buy and carry a gun -even Walmart sells guns- I'll get me my very own gun, plenty of ammo and let's enjoy this great and sunny weekend. Oh boy I just can't wait to start having fun; who knows maybe I could make it all the way to become a General, is clear that they are having a lot of fun these days.

And I can also show to everybody out there that I "clearly understand the value of human life", just like Marine General James Mattis does.

I just wonder . . . who did he shoot for fun? And was it fun to the people being shoot at as well?

"Hey General James Mattis, thanks for shooting my little sister in the back, I bet that was a lot of fun. Keep up the good job!"

State of the Union

What I picked up from the president's speech is that there's going to be war, a never ending war against an ever growing enemy; the more we fight and the more weapons we pile up, the more vulnerable we become. After decades of America being the number one spender on all kinds and types of military weapons, the mainland got hit by people who's headquarter is in a cave -and are still at large.

After decades where America overspent the the next 15 countries all together buying weapons, they proved to be useless. After hearing for years that phrase that America is the number one super power in military terms, well, there you go, after 18 months of a full scale war, the results are very poor.

Imagine for a second investing two hundred billions dollars, the current cost of the Iraqi war, or the whole four hundred and fifty BILLION dollars, the budget of the Pentagon, in something other than destruction. Instead of buying bombs and missiles and guns and hand grenades, imagine paving roads, lending money in order to start your own small company, putting part of that money trying to find a cure for cancer or AIDS, imagine paying more to teachers in schools, imagine for a moment funding programs to keep a 14 year old kid from NYC out of the street and out of the reach of guns so that he could've never shot Nicole duFresne.

How about using that money in those very same countries that we're bombing in economic progress, in schools, roads, parks, businesses, newspapers, office buildings, apartment complex, power plants, TV shows, food for their hungry people. Imagine using that money to create and to build, not to destroy.

Now imagine using that money to go and wage war to find those inexistent weapons of mass destruction that were threaten us. Blood, death and misery is what that has brought.

Imagine George W. Bush telling you to trust him, that he knows what he's doing, that he knows what is going on. How about trusting him with your retirement money . . .

One thing that I picked up from his State of the Union is that even though things are fucked up, he says things are all-right. Oh, and there's more "preemptive war" looming in the horizon, if not already being planned and schedule.

What?! Don't you love this country Jean-Francois?

ANSWER: To be honest, what I really love is blonde hair girls, and there's plenty of those around here . . .

Fan

The shit hit the fan on Wednesday, right before noon.

More to come.

Over-Consumption

One thing that has caught my attention ever since I lay foot in the US, is how much Americans over-consume. And no, this post is not about food, that leads to obesity, it's about buying shit all the time.

Take for instance my boss. He has 4 coffee makers. One is the good old Mr. Coffee he got when he got married and that had used for 15 years; then he got a more fancy one with espresso maker, milk steamer, and the whole nine years that has been used only to make drip coffee; then he got one that makes coffee in cold (you put the coffee, aad cold water, let it sit for 12 hours, filter it, and the resulting syrup is stored in the fridge and when you want a coffee you put a little bit of it with hot water and voila); and now he got a new one that uses overpriced coffee in a fancy wrap and that takes just seconds for your daily drip. Four coffee makers Dude!

Take then one of my co-workers and a pretty cool guy: he has 5 drills, yeah, five; like in the "Jackson Five". He got his first drill back in the days "when they first came out"; then he got another one that was faster and with two speeds; then he got one that is 'wireless'; he got then a little Black and Decker that is only for screws; and finally he saw one that has like 200 different bits and screws and got it. Five drills man!

Last week the three of us had a conversation and my boss was talking about his uncle who lived in Florida and that somehow got the chance to visit the "Summer Village" of movie director Dino deLaurentis. My boss recalls that his uncle saw that this guy had around "200 Italian suits and 50 pairs of shoes, all the same" in that house that was used only few weeks a year. I would say we can cut that in half, and then cut in half again: you know, the power of exaggeration is tremendous. But the thing is that they were saying that how come he has so many suits, that he could barely use them, plus all that money that he has spent in those suits. Their conclusion is that when you have too much money you just waste it in things you don't need.

That was a very clever conclusion and I reached the same conclusion . . . having in mind my boss and my co-worker.

The amount of money that a famous Hollywood director makes and that allows him to buy "200 Italian suits" for his summer village, is directly proportional to the money my boss makes and that allows him to own 4 coffee makers, likewise allowing my co-worker to have 5 drills. In other words, comparing the income of a famous Hollywood director to that of my boss, the amount spent buying 200 Italian suits is directly proportional to my boss buying 4 coffee makers, or my co-worker's 5 drills.

I hope I made myself understood in this one.

So, people from America, why do you over-consume? But first think: do you over-consume shit like my boss and my co-worker? Am I somehow right when think that people here in the US spend money because it grows on trees?