Post Groundhog

What really happens in January, anyway? Maybe if you're lucky, like me, you spend the last part of the holiday vacation season in a tropical island (more on that later). MLK day. Recovering from whatever bug you got during the holidays (practically all month). Watching the Knicks lose 30 straight games. And of course the Snake of the Union Address.
It's amazing the way Bush pronounces the You-notted shtaysh and noo-cyoo-luhr. How did he get out of the 11th grade, you wonder. You sit there watching this ridiculous display of bad lying and mindlessness, then the congresspeople all stand up and applaud, or sometimes get sarcastic (as when dubya brought up the failed soash sehcuritee reforms from last year). And then they stand up again with one of those awful cheers that sound like janitors at a strip club.
They cheer when Bush says things like this:

A sudden withdrawal of our forces from Iraq would abandon our Iraqi allies to death and prison, would put men like bin Laden and Zarqawi in charge of a strategic country and show that a pledge from America means little.

Now what does that mean, "men like bin Laden and Zarqawi"? Does it mean actually those two, which is absurd, actually stating that bin Laden would be welcomed in to be in charge of Iraq if the U.S. withdrew, or does it mean men who are similar to bin Laden and Zarqawi? How would they be similar? Would they maybe, look like this?

I admit this scenario looks pretty grim, and no doubt worth the billions of dollars in taxpayer money to prevent it. Of course, no one seems to notice the recurring media reports on corruption
in the distribution of funds in Iraq. But who cares, there's bigger fish to fry. It's time to turn our attention to Iran, which must be held accountable for their noo-cyoo-luhr pretentious at least until they stop protesting those harmless cartoons about Mohammed that ran in Danish newspapers.

The war on Terr is a long-term thing, yo.

Global Not Really Warming

It's too late to put in the hyperlink about the scientist who says the government wants to shut him up about global warming. Or maybe it's not. The real problem, of course, is that we're addicted to oil. I go outside now and it's 50, 60 degrees on the cusp of February and notice that the 4 warmest years of all time have occurred in the last six years and I'm thinking, this is just really good luck. And we're addicted to oil, so it's our fault really that we're in Iraq in the first place because the government is just compassionate about our addiction and is trying desperately to make sure we don't suffer withdrawl symptoms. Then, to protect us in our vulnerability to maybe suicidal impulses, the goverment is silencing a scientist about the probability that the ecosystem is spinning out of control. That's what they call compassionate conservatism, I guess.

What do you say, Dick?










Postmodern Groundhog
I guess I would say I didn't see the Groundhog's shadow. I did watch the end of the movie on the day in question. Couldn't get more postmodern than Bill Murray waking up to Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe" over and over again. We are forced into repetition because modernism's comforting lies have been suspended indefinitely. We don't really have the right to be individuals anymore in the First World, nor fall in love. Anybody who manages to do those things is strictly on the subversive tip. This is how you wind up thinking if you read 1984 at an impressionable age.
I did have a strange dream (nightmare?) last night where Chinatown had been transformed into the place all the Williamsburg hipsters went to have children/families. All the storefronts kept their Cantonese inscriptions and dingy black market feel, but inside are streaming hordes of tattoed mommies and daddies drinking organic milk and eating cage free chicken in cafes with the paper tablecloths and crayons in a cup. There were also several clothing stores with apparel for both the children and the parents. The Chinese were now all living in East New York.

La Tierra del Eden
I did go to La Isla and had a Reyes celebration for the first time. Went to a funky party in Trujillo Alto where La PVC played and Tito and Mariana and everything and they actually played Calle 13 in between sets and everyone knew all the words!


Cambia esa cara de seria/Esa cara de intelectual/De enciclopedia/Que te voy a inyectar con la bacteria/Pa que des vueltas como machina de feria/Que va a explotar/Como fiesta patronal
No importa si eres rapera o eres hippie/Si eres de Bayamón o de Guaynabo City!/Conmigo no te pongas picky/Que importa si te gusta Green Day?/Que importa si te gusta Coldplay?/Esto es directo sin parar one way/Yo te lo juro de que por ley/Aqui to'as las boricuas saben karate/Ellas cocinan con salsa de tomate/Mojan el arroz con un poco de aguacate/Pa' cosechar nalgas de 14 kilates

Then we went to Guanica and saw this:
If you look at the land mass to the left, you can see where the Copamarina resort is right now. They have lovely cabanas and free high-speed wireless internet. You can also walk the tranquil nature trails that are part of the Bosque Seca ("dry forest"). Then there's this hideous Ochoa Fertilizer Company plant, and finally the malecon, which is what you're looking at right now. The malecon is beautiful but no one is there in the daytime. There is a plaque commemorating the landing of the Marines but it's spray-painted over with NO! The town itself is kind of weary and the streets are all torn up. Over at Ensenada, a village outside of Guanica, it's a little more upbeat, but la gente todavia te miren como si fuera un norteamericano o algo asi. Well bully for them. We needed to get a neverita but it would be too tempting to stock with Medallas and lose ourselves in the afternoon tide. There were long stretches without alcapurrias. Settled for a sober splaying of our bodies on the beaches Combate and Boqueron. Squeezed the sunlight through our skin as if it were jugo de china. Yeah, I know, La Laura hates the itals.
It must have been the full moon twilight at El Faro, or maybe the lobster tail in salsa guayaba at La Pared. By the time we got to the sloping colonial paradise of San German, we were far away from the frantic consumi-ton of la area metropolitana. Turn up the coquis and let the evening breeze blow, I say. I'm in the mood for chuletas. I want to have that salty taste in my mouth even up in the Santa Marta mountains, miles from la bahia de Guanica. Church bells ring, and the closest place to rent a video is probably Mayaguez. If I could choose an endless repeating Groundhog Day, maybe it would be here, long after the Marines left Guanica behind.