Dinner with anyone.

I would like to have dinner with my favorite writer, nobel prize winner Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  His stories are adorned with strong memorable characters of few words and stubborn actions. He has the ability to write the tale of a castaway that remains unintentionally silent for weeks at sea. Noting happens, no major events take place, but his eloquent and expert use of prose engages you intensely.  What otherwise would have been a menial struggle with a fish, he is able to translate into sheer suspense and something worthy of a commissioned painting. He also wrote the most beautiful love story I’ve ever heard of; the story of lovers who waited until their golden years to seal their love out of deep respect for customs and family ties.

Gabriel’s stories are enlaced with passion and elegant machismo. You can even appreciate this strength in his female characters;  by the confident clicking of their heels, by the quiet rancor they harbor, or by the way they defy machismo with a look or a gesture.

Gabriel has been a long time friend of Fidel Castro, who would be the second person I would like to have dinner with. A little known fact of Fidel is that he also is an exceptional writer. Ideally, I’d like to sit down with both of them in the company of a bottle of rum caña and converse for hours. But for the sake of argument, I will settle for a dinner with Gabriel and at some point ask him about his friend.


These girls

Fashion is perhaps the most useless art form there is. I could argue, its a hindsight art, in which it is irrelevant until years later you look back at old movies and pictures.

Every time I hear a girl say she lives for fashion or the term fashionista, I cringe. Don’t get me wrong, I like clothes. I like dressing the part. I like projecting who I am and or how I feel that day by the clothes I wear.

I guess what I like about fashion could be expressed in every thing else. I like things that are a reflection of me or what I want to be. Whether this is a color, a shape, a drink, a music genre, shit even a boyfriend.

I wear heels because my legs look more muscular with them, and I look taller. I like the prominence that tallness gives you. I like the sound they make when you walk, and I walk heavy, like I mean it, like I know where I am going.

The cleavage and the short skirts, that’s just bait. I like men, and men like that. I’ll wear a circus tent if that’s what brought boys to my doorstep.

I am certain I am not alone on this one. Fucking dumb bimbos. At times I feel sorry for  men who have to engage these narrow-minded, uncultured, egotistical, demented princesas just because they are hot in the hopes they will put out, or bear them children.But then again, plenty of male idiots out there… so not too sorry.

I am fortunate that I grew up with my father. If I ever say “these shoes are to die for” my father will jump from the bushes and give me an uppercut. No, not really- it’ll be worse. He would tense his lower facial and neck muscles, press his lips as if trying to contain an expletive. He would swiftly glance at me and return his eyes into the horizon, seeing nothing in the distance but pretending he is. That’s how my father insults me, by giving me his signature “your embarrassing my last name” look .
I did play with Barbies. I took their clothes off and made them fuck.

Here and There.

Debris flew from the incoming lane. A car crashed into the divisor barrier of the highway. I slam on the brakes and lower the volume on my radio. I am unsure of what I am seeing. But, as simple as that, there it laid. What it was, and no longer is. We do not know the exact point where life begins. Is it the heart beat? Where is the conscience? When do we begin to be humans and cease to be just a conglomerate of cells multiplying? But we sure as fuck now when it ends.

I’d never seen a dead body before. I’ve only seen people die in movies. But this was not a movie, there was nothing graceful nor climatic about his expiration. It took less than a second for the humanity to escape him. I watched it transform from man, to a clothed bag of meat. It was no longer one of us.

As people frantically called 911, I approached it. It laid on its left side, right arm over its head covering his mangled face. Its torso laid exposed.  Its innards laid on the ground- they didn’t belong to him anymore. I didn’t have to touch it to know it was still warm.

Can it hear us? Is it still clinging to hope? Of course not. He is no longer one of us. But those seconds prior to he exit, I bet he envied us. I smile. I am here, understanding death for the first time. Knowing one day it will be my turn and I wont be caught by surprise because I had this day. The day I saw a man crash through his windshield into the pavement at 90 mph. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt.

Strangers are crying.

I walk back to my car and continue my journey. I forgot what I was listening to on the radio.