BURNING TOAST: central america

Showing posts with label central america. Show all posts

I Hope You Know. . .

>> Thursday, July 9, 2009 – Barack Obama, central america, Hillary Clinton, honduras, liberal idiot

. . .this means war!

Wouldn't an all out attack on the critical computer systems of the United States government by foreign entities be tantamount to a declaration of war?

Yes? No?

Or does the mandate of "smart diplomacy" not allow for such minor trivialities?

Can't you see that Obama is busy trying to control the temperature of the planet? Leave the poor man alone and forget nuclear winter. 2 degrees celsius is where it be at, yo!

While our dear leader fumbles the ball in Russia, smart diplomat Shillary Clinton meets with ousted Honduran egomaniac/socialist Manuel Zelaya, and Obama's off-limits daughter sports political fashion propaganda at a global warming/climate change/highway robbery meeting, there are evil forces at work in the world who would like to see America crumble.

In my unfortunate opinion, I believe America has already begun to crumble and it has started at the top with Obama's neophyte administration. It's all down hill from here folks. And for those Bush haters who continue to pile on the man, I have several choice words for you nutsacks, but I'll keep it between the lines by saying only this:

It's all Obama's problem now. The crazies of the world sense weakness and there is nothing more that stark-raving-mad lunatics who operate closed-door, totalitarian, cultist societies love more than weakness. And Obama has certainly played his limp-wristed and weak hand to the world. Over and over again.

So, any bad turds that come down the pipe are surely to lay at the feet of Obama.

If you clicked through all of the links, you will see that I connected you, ever-so unfortunately to the Daily Kos. I don't normally do that because it is a festering pusbucket filled with left-wing baby killers, but on occasion it's nice to stop by and see how the amoral "other side" is living.

At the end of that dissertation of the Honduran situation, the author couldn't stand not throwing in some racism charges against the Honduran Foreign Minister who referred to Obama as a "negrito."

Let me 'splain something to you lily-white sacks of shit who hide in your mother's basement and only take your red-rubbed peewee out of your hand long enough to chalk everything up to racism in feeble attempts to protect our illegitimate president.

When I lived in Central America, I was initially taken aback by comments such as that, the cutting nature of the sound and the way in which it was used. But, after time, I realized that it was simply a way of life and an accepted way of speaking.

If you were fat, they called you fat. ¡Hola gordo!

If you were skinny, like I was (and I stress was) I heard, ¡Que pasa Flaco!

On occasion when the local horndogs in a bar would spy a particularly attractive, but darker than the average brown woman, they would call out, "¡Oiga, Negra!"

Or perhaps it was about the black man who worked at the local ferretería (hardware store) who was an expert flooring specialist. "No, no usted tiene que hablar con Guillermo. ¿Guillermo, el viejo? No, Guillermo, el negro."

William the old man? No, William the black man.

Everyone was fair game and there were no hangups about calling someone what they were in jest, in reality or with a vicious swipe to hurt. That was their human nature and they don't know how lucky they are to not be suffering under the weight of extreme political correctness as we are here in the USA.

Although, I did feel a pang of guilt when one local guy with a slightly deformed face would come into our hangout and the crowd would cheer with a welcoming, "¡Hola feo!"

Hello ugly.

But through a sly, toothless grin he would reply, "¡Hola carepichas!"

Hello dickfaces!

This is the real world and even you monkey-spanking, basement-dwelling dweebs need to toughen up. That goes for you too, Obama. The clock is ticking.

Arugula. . .

>> Tuesday, October 28, 2008 – arugula, central america, chef, cooking, Melvin, socialism

Recently, I had a visitor here on the blog, someone from outside the close-knit circle of friends, and acquaintances thereof, who pass by for a laugh or a blood pressure increase or for whatever reason there may be. They come here for a tidbit, an oddity, a piece of fat to chew for the day, or simply to see what I'm doing, where I've been, and the latest in a long procession of strange happenings in my life. And for them, their presence, for the ones I know and the great unknowns whom inquire, I am grateful.

But a day or two ago, some poor soul came and left a foul, acid taste in my sazonado brain. This individual came by, directed here by an odd search about Obama and toast, poked about the place for 15 minutes or so and decided, for whatever reason, to leave a comment. I guess my politics don't agree with said person and in America we are afforded our right to speak, so there is nothing wrong with dissension, but let me tell you something pal-o-mine, I KNOW ARUGULA.

For the better part of my life, I've been cooking. I've sliced and diced, minced and winced, twisted and turned, sauteed and tourneed, braised and burned, scorched and scalded, chopped and slopped, and on occasion, put out a good plate or two. I've worked in 5-star, 4-star, 1-star and no-star places. I've washed dishes, scrubbed pots, mopped floors, set tables, mucked out grease traps bare-bodied, chased wild animals out of a restaurant and scrambled to the local grocery store during Friday night service to satisfy a guest.

I've shown up for work drunk, stone-cold sober and in-the-zone, fucked up, inert, focused. I've slammed white liquor during service, weeped in the walk-in, blasted big rails of premium, first-cut cocaine off dinner plates after service, cooked on no sleep, some sleep, worked while bleeding profusely, burnt, delirious, exhausted, 36 days in a row on top of 16 months, 6 days a week with no vacation in a no air-conditioned kitchen 8 degrees above the equator. Yes sir. I know arugula.

I've served the poor through charity, the weak, the important, the self-important, the rich and the ultra-rich. I have competed for last, first and third place in various competitions and I've seen a plethora of friends sink or swim in the same. I've served movie stars, rock stars, heads of state, heiresses, the kind, the mean, the gluttonous, the picky, the insatiable and the downright evil. I don't need to name names because it makes me no more important than the next culinarian.

No matter who I know or what I know, I've stooped. I've made turkey sausage omelets at three in the morning for a very rich businessman who lived in the hotel where I once worked. I've worried over menus for groups of vegetarians even though my rational mind is screaming, "EAT MEAT!" I've cooked double bacon cheeseburgers in the middle of the night for scandalous Jewish people during Passover celebrations in the same hotel. And once, without shame, I served bacon in a salad to a nice Jewish woman during Hanukkah in my own restaurant. Ooops, my mistake.

Yes, I know arugula.

I used my money along with the wealth of my friends to renovate an old beach hotel/restaurant in Central America and gave life, opportunity, and invaluable life-experience to a dozen or so locals. I paid extreme payroll and social taxes similar to what this Obama character desires for our new, "equalized" America and it was a constant struggle for us collectively. Our wealth, and the wealth of our employees, was taxed for a complex, convoluted and archaic social welfare system that was sadly dysfunctional and blatantly outdated. But we marched on. All of us, together.

I was a minority rich, spreading my wealth with the majority poor. A trickle sideways economy at best. For a time, eyed with a glint of curious suspicion.

My employees were my life blood, my life and my dear friends. I taught them all that I could, built them up and broke them down a thousand times over, only to rebuild them better than they were before. I shared what I had in knowledge, in my heart, and in my soul.

They saw me as a strong leader, somtimes weak, ill-humored, happy, sad, and worried, occasionally debilitated, out-of-control, over-controlling and distraught. But as me, a person. An equal. Imperfect and incomplete.

And therefore, because of the respect of my persona and my ability to accept every person an equal, working hard for nothing like the person I was raised and taught to be, they were there. For me. Always.

I left a mark with them. An indelible reminder of the strong-willed entrepreneurship and will for freedom that we Americans have. And what I saw in them, in their hearts and mind, was awe. They didn't understand my drive, obviously perplexed by my marathon hours, but they respected it, no matter how confused they were by my behavior.

The few who lasted in my kitchen, eventually, got it. It hit them hard and cold, they understood. The skill, the blood, the sweat, the weep. Nothing in life is free. If you wanted something in life, set that goal and work hard for it. It's as simple as that and they knew it then. They know it now.

I never asked for help, but they gave it to me. Forcing me out of the kitchen on a busy night with the faith within themselves that they could handle the busiest night of the week. They took a part of me, absorbed it, the distilled experiences of my life, which are still there and lives on within the people I touched. They learned, strived, excelled!

Yes, I know arugula.

I had a friend, my best friend there, his name was Melvin.

Melvin was a man, a caballero in the sense of the cowboy and the gentleman, and Melvin worked for me. Melvin began as our jardinero, but as I stated before in a post about his life, he had the desire and the higher function to strive for more. He wanted it. He eventually began working in the restaurant and within several months, tragically, he was dead. I've told this story before. But, let me remind those who lament their lives and those who have no appreciation for what they have about the last conversation I had with Melvin before his surgery:

Melvin's last regret and concern was of his job and the support of his children.

In the end, it wasn't about him with his hand out, a man facing surgery on his brain, it was about him worried for his family and their well-being, alone.

18 hours later, Mel was gone. And they brought him home in a shag-carpet box.

Age?

Too fucking young. Younger than me.

Kids?

Three and a wife.

A family, gone.

And he was worried about his job. His $1.1o per hour job.

I know arugula. And it ain't you, Mr. Seamus.

It's Melvin.

Yes, I know arugula. It's Melvin, me and everyone else that tried in vain to do the right thing, right down to the bitter end.

Arugula.