Bloggombia

Curse your little heart! Devotchka : BAND OF THE FORENIGHT

2006-08-29T17:46:00.000-04:00

You ever come out of the theatre, after a watching a movie, wishing you were the hero on the story? No. Well, then go pay your bills, you grown up. My friend L. went to see “Little miss sunshine”, a new movie directed by Jonathan Dayton And Valerie Faris, responsible for all those videos that included adolescents on the verge of rawness and the first time we saw Billy Corgan bald. She was so impress with the movie and the soundtrack, the way it’s all interwoven, and how Dayton and Faris capture the essence of American weariness as the only light at the end of the tunnel, that she keeps urging me everyday to go and see it – I will, in three years, when it finally arrives here. Distribution is not so top notch when the product isn’t a blockbuster or an award sweeper.

But just to get a taste of what I’m missing, L. sent me to Devotchka’s MySpace, where I sampled their EP, naughtily but deliciously titled “Curse your little heart”. Then I headed to their homepage, as you should as soon as you hear “how it ends”. If you are not into bleeding hearts anthems, then forget it, check out the video for “Se vale to’” from the act of the summer, Calle 13. Is a nice way to wave goodbye to all those warm moments you lived trough the heat wave, and pack some memories for the coldest winter and the hurricane seasons. Los dejo con Residente, que siempre cierra con broche… de Oro.

He is not kidding: The presidential race is on in Venezuela

2006-08-29T17:10:00.000-04:00

23 candidates -! – are hoping to beat president/messiah Hugo Chavez. Talk about wide range of options: from the opposition’s contender Manuel Rosales – governor of the Zulia state, proposing an “even distribution” of petrol dividends – to Benjamin Rauseo, the popular “Conde del Guacharo” – Venezuela’s illest comedian. Now, the Count (Conde in Spanish means Count) is no pompous ornament of a monarchy, but an acrid critic of politicians since 1986.

Of course he doesn’t stand a chance against the Hugo Giant and his eager oppositors, but here at Bloggombia, we have an inveterate tradition of sponsoring lost causes. I mean, The Count is not a far fetched option – he still doesn’t have a plan, but his coalition named PIEDRA –stone in Spanish, and linked to the Venezuelan slang “throwing stones” - wields a considerable 6.5% of vote intentions, along with some catchy campaign jingles, and witty comebacks. The videos speak for themselves.

We – still just me. Hi - at Bloggombia will keep you posted on this candidate’s development. I mean, think of the historical precedent this move sets. It opens the possibilities for lucid critics like Stephen Colbert in the States – I was thinking more along the lines of George Carlin, but who would run with him? The guy is a loner and a stoner – or Eddie Izzard in England – wouldn’t you love to see your Prime Sinister in drag? – to get their money where their yappers yak, and actually make a difference outside the club circuit and prime time. The Count just did. And he lives in Venezuela.

By the way, those thinking that the communist party is panicking with Castro’s situation, stop chewing your lower lip: You think 45 years in power don’t get you ready for this sort of mishaps? Remember the Ayatollah? Yeah, whatever happened to him? He died. Did the revolution die with him? I think you better ask to all those chador-wearing mamas. Bureaucracy is hard to eradicate malady. Naming your brother as head of state has a whole different connotation that prompts yet another debate: Nepotism. Go ahead: speak amongst yourselves.

Freeze!

2006-08-04T19:05:00.000-04:00

Man, this job hunt just stepped into a whole new level: theater of the ridicule.

A friend of mine, deeply concerned about my status, presented me with a contact. This was a friend of his, a rich girl with a shop in a posh area of town. We settle for a three o’clock meeting. I arrived at a quarter to, with a C.V and a killing smile.

Sandra – the posh shop owner – was wearing miu miu jeans, a pair of LV loafers – tiny but gaudy- and a tight tank top encrusted with Swarovskis. Her lips were caramel and her abs shiny with glittered lotion. She smelled like... I don’t know, but it’s around – like the fragrance of the month.

We sat for an hour, and she crossed examined me. She determined that, I was charming enough to be part of her sales team. So she sent me to her headquarters. It turned out, her family owned a chain of Levi’s retailers, and she was the weakest link. In order for her to contract me, I had to take a Psychological test.

I told her, Listen: I think you’re fooling yourself with these tests. You can Google into any company, and beat them at their own game. I can take your test, but it will only prove that I can tell you what you want to hear.

She felt like I was being extra honest, but she had a four o’clock appointment: another clerk hopeful.

It took me an hour to find the address – in Bogotá, you can get lost in certain areas where the whole streets and avenues scheme (inspired by Manhattan’s) perverts into Diagonals and transverses. I found the place, and it was empty. Just two high schoolers, wishful shopping, and an executive hopeful, probably on a rest window between interviews. Other than them, there was the custom service team, and the cashier, yapping about some personal matters I couldn't care to overhear.

When the four o’clock clerk hopeful arrived, i recognised him from when we crossed ways at Sandra’s shop. He was not European- he was queer. Loud and clear. We shared the taste in watches – broad wristband, rock and Roll-ish. His hair was a disgrace.

The cashier said to him the same thing he had said previously to me: you’ll have to wait until Vivian – the psychologist – returns from running errands. We did. I browsed the classic cut section. These pants were assembled in Medellín(I knew this, because I read it somewhere), and cost the same as what I paid for a month’s rent. The shirts were all Copenhagen blue and of poor taste – cowboys don’t dress as bleak as those mannequins.

Then something weird happened. The executive pulled out a gun, while a brown, tall man harangued his way into the shop, screaming, Freeze! Everybody behind the counter!. Then, one of the high schoolers poked me with a .38 and coaxed me towards some boxes piled near the register. We were kindly asked to shut the fuck up, to bow our heads, and remove any earthly possessions we might treasure, like a Mobile or a fancy watch. Since i look like a bum, I could easily said i had nothing to share. My fellow assaulted team showed signs of fear. The perpetrators, like dogs, got aroused by the smelled, and harassed the cashier.

-You, fucking asshole, open the register!!!.

The guy declined, so the gunman pistol whipped the cashier till he reconsidered. The cashier handed the keys, the perpetrators ransacked the place while we only listened, and the cashier moaned.

-All of you, shut up! Or I’ll get mental!

I took the cashier’s hand, gently and stealthy, and placed it on my rushing heart. I said, we are all as scared as you. You need to relax. And with that he breath easier, until the robbery was over. Then the cashier got up, and finally hits the panic button. The police arrived half an hour later. In the meantime, we the hostages became close friends, and shared our every emotion throughout our collective experience. I lend my Mobile to everybody, so that they could block their SIMs. They reported their beloved phones as stolen. C115. V3, L6 – status symbols they didn’t posses anymore. We talked about important numbers, and plans so cheap, you could text message the world for a small monthly fee.

The cops came and took our statements. The cashier felt relieve – he was so scared that he had to pay for all of the stolen goods. The cops explained to him that there was an insurance for these matters. The cashier was positive about the fact that said matter was never discuss on his contract. He feared some kind of reprisal. I became a suspect, because I was too calm during the process. The cashier said that I was the only one keeping a cool, and with all his possessions on him. I gave the cops all the assistance they needed, even gave them a detailed account of my possible whereabouts.

This weekend is inauguration day. I was planning to go on a protest, but things are getting so repressive in my neighbourhood, it wouldn't be prudent. I don’t think I’m going to go to the psychological interview, I consider this turn of events a bad omen. The police await for my deposition on Tuesday.

Have a cold one for Anne.

2006-08-04T17:09:00.000-04:00

On a day like today, August the third, back in 44, Anne Frank was captured by the Gestapo. She paved the way for us bloggers, by giving a natural and unobstructed account of her enviroment.

This coordinated endevour enabled bloggers like Riverbend, and us in the blogosphere with a powerful referent - and remember: all is justified and ratified by referents. Web 2.0 should open a crate of bubbly and celebrate the life of the extraordinaire Anne Frank.

Back in business

2006-07-31T22:11:00.000-04:00

Ok, first of all, check the EARCANDY section: Animal Collective is the band of the fortnight. They are a wild bunch from Brooklyn (seems like all the cool acts come from Brooklyn lately. sounds like a nice place to visit). To me they are a blend between Weezer and Gwar!. Also, there’s the link for Jesca Hoop’s Myspace. Jesca is from California, and the only thing you’ll ask yourself is, where did this girl’s I’s went to? She is freakalicious!

Also on the EARCANDY section, Alan Lomax. Now, I am afraid of Americans – that’s why I have never work up a nerve to ask for a tourist visa: Embassy officials are vicious when it comes to saying no to people. But Alan Lomax, as Mark twain, has made me desire once again to visit the vast and borderless country (Ha!): I read that there are tapes upon tapes of Lomax’s compilation of folk music from all over the world and from all over the States. So I plead to any of my readers: if anybody has access to that material, or know of any digital resource center where I can taste said material, please let me know. If not, can you tell me if having to go to the congressional library is reason enough to get a visitor’s visa.

What else? Right! I’m doing a comparative study on folk tales (a ghost writing gig), so I have been collecting tales of regular people encountering the devil and beating him with their talents. So far, I have the story of a German hunter that gets bullets that never miss, the story of Robert Johnson (which has a Colombian variation; the name of the hero: Francisco El Hombre), the telling of Charlie Daniels in “The Devil went down to Georgia”, and some stories from the Balkans, about a Romas having sex with Satan (ew!) . So if you are expert on any form of folkloric literature, or simply know about an urban legend that involves the devil, please let me know.

That’s that.

Life is sweet

2006-07-31T21:24:00.000-04:00

Meet my family. The guy in the yellow turtleneck is Joe, my resident scholar, and bibliographic source. Joe is currently working on his thesis, which he will present next week. His paper is on a forgotten writer and the importance of comedy in literature. He recently broke up with his girlfriend.

The girl that looks like something out of a Tim Burton’s fantasy is Tania. She is a designer, and is currently working on a clothing line that includes gloves and custom made shoes. She is limber with the brush and the oils, and thinks that chaos is better than order – when it comes to designs. Her son, Sebastian – the one making the peace sign – is currently on his “I rule” stage (he is a seven year older). Both of them are quite excited because they are going to Germany in two weeks. Tania will meet her boyfriend, Markus, and together, they will travel around Europe. They will visit my mother on the famous small town of Amal, in Sweden.

The rogue on the striped hat is Lucho, Tania’s Brother. Lucho is 25, just like me, but he has the recount of a regular Odysseus: he had a healthy daughter at the age of 20, with the hottest girl of his neighborhood, married at a shotgun wedding, and then divorced. Marianna – his daughter - is now five, and she is a mouthful. Gingerliness is not on her list of attributes, and she definitely has a wild imagination – even though I just met her, she kept blaming me for the death of her pet chick, and for other mishaps of her fresh past. She gave me a cute moniker: “Hideous”. Lucho is the life of his neighborhood back in Barranquilla, and people have many stories about him that include “… we were drunk” at some stance. He is currently in training for a logistic team. His activities included being soaked with a fire hose, and hanging on the edge of a fake building. Even though he is a trainee, he is not getting paid.

We all live in a colonial house, in the historical center of Bogotá, known as Candelaria. Down the street, is the original town square, were Bogotá was declared a Villa. Around the street, is Calle Sola, which connects with Calle de las Mandolinas (Mandolin’ street), famous because there, the only shop in the world that manufactures mandolins in the world is establish (they count amongst their clientele one Eric Clapton). We avoid all contacts with hippies, but it is always me who brings in the weirdos, foreigners – My friend Lilly, from England, has described us like the third world version of “Friends”.

So yes, I have been slacking over this magnificent experience that is blogging, but can you blame me? I started this project to give some meaning to my random mind, and lost the path of calmness on the process, but found a fun voice that I’m planning to keep. Then life knocked on my door, and I couldn’t resist it. It was then I made acquaintances with a freelancer from the States. His name is Mike Ceaser - he reports for The Chronicle of higher education and Catholic News, and working with him has made me realize that I am a PR wiz kid, not a story hound. My writing is going nowhere in terms of keeping a readers informed. Au contraire: I enjoy mesmerizing audiences with nonsensical, yet very deep thoughts. My storytelling has improved over this course of action, and I have found seminal works that have enable me with the proper tools to make sense while fooling around with argumentation. Mike has paved the way for me to get more gigs as a local fixer, and these new chops have strengthened an ancient desired: to represent bands. I’m negotiating with this pop act.

I have been in several selection processes: one for an English teaching center, where they made me state what I was all about in a drawing. Then I went to three advertisement agencies, where I was told that advertisement was business of award winning minds. Then they asked me, how many times had I been published, or what awards had I been granted with. I thought I was witty when I said that I consider myself smart enough to serve coffee, and receive a chiding from a middle aged wizard. They never called back.

But the winner was Avianca, the national airline. I applied there to be a Flight attendant, and was quite confident about, being that I have served tables in oh so many restaurants (being a flight attendant must be the executive position for waiters). I aced the English language test, aced the psycho-tech test (a five hundred question formulary design to prove you wrong which I have taken 60 times), did great on the Psychological double examination (where a chipper girl made us sell ourselves in thirty seconds, and then divided us into flyers and attendants for some role play. I was a trouble flyer: the drunk). But chocked on the polygraph test (no matter how much the conductor prepares you, no matter how well you organize the questions with her, is hard to be yourself when you are strap to a truth meter, while you are unable to move or even swallow saliva).

Anyway, living is delicious. And I have made enough to keep me up float for three months. Three months without any payments to be made. Three months to write – this blog, a screenplay, that novel I been penning since forever, a collection of short stories – three more months to cook delicious meals for my family, and to show them how sweet they make me feel, how much I appreciate them putting up with my nasty habits and my uneasiness. Thank you for curing my anxiety.

And thank YOU for reading. No, really: i'm not good with sarcasm.

Oh, the humanity!

2006-07-31T19:40:00.000-04:00

David’s real name was Deiby Soler. He looked smaller than I remembered him, enclosed on the casket. His mother wasn’t as desolated as his brother was. I searched my archive, and I had no photos of him, although I am anally positive about having one.

The service was humble and small as the casket. There was a pastor bitching about life after death. About judgment day (he asked all of us if we died at that moment, would we go to heaven? I had my doubts about the deceased and myself).

When we die, what gives other people the right to speak for us? The pastor kumbayaed his way into the hearts of family members, playing a dreadful guitar tune. Nothing like the reggueton that use to warm Deiby’s heart.

Another concern was Deiby’s brother: Andrés. He kept weeping over his brother’s face, kissing the glass that kept the attending members from touching the cold body. Andrés kept making crosses with his fingers, sealing silent pacts with the departed. When he raised his face, I saw that his left eye was missing – remember the mess with the police? Turns out, he was stabbed in the eye. Andrés is only 16.

Deiby died at 22, from a single stab to the heart. He tried to fight off the attack, so he bared a scar on his wrist. He was playing soccer, but was last seen begging for help on the streets of Yomasa, his neighborhood on the heights.

Deiby was buried at three in the afternoon last Friday, the 17^th. The cemetery he was buried on was brand new, but still, all the vaults were already taken. Most of the graves were fresh. Those that had a tombstone marked a sinister countdown to the end of July. There were times when I saw two stones with the same date of death.

The crypt keeper shoved the casket on the vault, and bricked it. Pum! Another oone in the hole, he said. I imagined how he would get home, and bitch about how all these kids give him extra work.

Andrés wrote Deiby`s name and his crypt number with a rose on the fresh cement. He then wrote Deiby’s street moniker – Meshudo – on gothic type. Then he wrote the moniker Deiby gave him – Rata – And something I could not make out.

I then joined a few of our common friends, and we went to a truckers bar to have some Aguardiente, and listen to murder ballads, Corridos norteños, and all kinds of depressing music. We poured a few for the lost hommie. I commented on the fact that one of the owner’s of the restaurant I used to tend tables at approached me and thanked me for being there, like it was their gig, or like Deiby was a precious part of their little emporium. I didn’t show any feelings whatsoever.

A stab to the heart. Is that poetic or what? He was incarcerated, he was boss of his gang, he went astray from the pack, he was a lousy speller (like me), had a foul mouth, and was full of attitude, yet he could interact with anybody willing. He would go to preposterous lengths to defend friendship. My kind of guy.

This Doggy had personality.

2006-07-27T20:13:00.000-04:00

Looks like laundry day will have to be postponed: David, the pizza guy at the establishment I used to tend tables at was killed yesterday, July 26, 2006.

He was one of the few personalities I’ve met in Bogotá – a city filled with characters, but with actually a few worth a chat. David was born in Neiva, a small town, popular for its saint patron, and the parties they celebrate there. His mother moved the whole family to Bogotá. They lived on the heights of the southwest, where people grow mean and bitter in single houses that host up to three families. Children are deprived from childhood, and sent to correctional centers at fresh ages, for all kind of misdemeanors and even some first degree. David had spiral down the penal system at the tender age of twelve for possession and vagrancy.

From the juvenile facility to the UPJ- were small time crooks, and down and outs are taken by the police; a nest of intrigues were the rule is protect your neck- , and then to the Picota correction facility, for armed robbery. He did six months.

- All I need is to do time at the Modelo, and I’ll graduate. But to get there, you have to kill somebody, or be a full scale robber.

When I met David, He was cleaning his act, going to night school. He moved away from the heights to the Tolerance zone, were he befriended hookers and regular street hustlers who respected him because he had a tough look. Worked his ass off for an ungrateful boss, whom he wanted to punch in the face for being such a pain in the ass – that boss was the same reason I leaved that job. Everybody had a pot going at the restaurant: Who was going to finally blow Jerry’s – that’s not his real name – candle at the end of the day.

It was David who finally did two weeks ago. He was so fired. It didn’t matter that his brother was the chef at the restaurant – and to be clear, the main reason why Jerry was still on business.

So he went back to the heights, to live with his mum and his four brothers – three weeks ago he told me how his brother had irritated a Policeman with attitude (the boy is all grown now! He sighted). Apparently he had some nasty skeletons on that closet. No one really told me how many times he was stabbed. His mother is gutted.

I heard that he had it coming, that WE all expected THAT outcome. But the last time I met him, he was about to start a Bakery workshop, and wanted to… What does it matter now? That was three weeks ago. Today, he is another statistic. Welcome to the cipher, David. The photo accompanying this posting was taken in Venezuela. That dog reminded me of David. When I showed him the shot, and told him it resembled him, he called me a son of a bitch, and smiled. He used to call me Dog. I liked that. It gave an air of… aloofness.

I’d like to express a frothing loath for marked fates and all other forms of behaviorist research.

Getting a job is hard work.

2006-05-30T13:45:00.000-04:00

Hey pips. Is been a while since my last post. Much has happen, but mainly, the guy was re-elected. Bummer. It was an exciting campaigning week, and I left my hometown of Barranquilla for the meaner streets of Bogotá, and I got to say, is good to be back home. Carlos Gaviria – head of the left - had a massive following, but it wasn’t enough to crush the inevitable. I was aware of the imminence of re-election, and instead of becoming bitter; I took the opportunity to approach the opposition with some ideas. None were effective, and they ended as paperwork on the good intentions cabinet.

So I’m back in Bogotá, with my friends, who are ready to resist. Actually, they are on the verge of depression, and most of the ones that are already working fear the worst. There is a thick tension surrounding the political atmosphere in Colombia, and a massive exile is on the works. Nobody wants to be in our beloved country when – as the French say – le merde hits the fan.

As for me, I am on the bukowskian cycle of job interviews. So far, I lost an editing position on a website sponsored by a Spanish banking conglomerate, are still negotiating with an advertisement agency, and on the verge of becoming either a flight attendant or an English teacher. Gotta pay the bills…

I will comeback soon with more recipes, and even more whining. And coming soon, a photoblog with artful images. Till then, let’s stay in touch. And may all your searches be as fruitful and fun as mine.

BOOM! Walk free, Egyptian! A Googlebomb

2006-05-10T17:07:00.000-04:00

Googlebombing is a method to highlight issues on the popular search engine. Explosions have Egypt nothing to do with this powerful tool Egypt, and no passersby are sprayed with Egypt debris. Instead, you’d get Egypt some autocrats uneasy, and forced them to look good for the public eye – you can even make them do a few Egypt tricks, like releasing Alaa Abd El-Fatah, Egyptian blogger. Egypt.

By the way: Egypt Egypt Egypt Egypt Egypt Egypt.

And the chorus says:

Foreign typed their stern demands saying
Ay oh whey oh, Let Alaa out the cell block
Walk like a regular Egyptian

(Had to quote the Bangles on this)

Pet my llama, please.

2006-05-07T17:41:00.000-04:00

As part of my preventing treatment against Outrage Fatigue, I have been taking yoga, consulted the I Ching and read Roberto Bolaño's 2666, and abstained from imposing my political beliefs on others. Plus, I have a new pet.

You guys probably think that I am a lavisher, being that most of my blontries deal with holiday like experiences. But if one wants to stay mentally fit in my country, one needs to a) constantly express anger in a healthy way, b) keep a journal, or c) reinvent holidays as a state of mind. I do d) all of the above. But that just means I do get wind up. As often as I write about having fun. Sometimes I get so worked up over political matters, that I criss-cross that thin line dividing left and right wing thinking. Recently, upon reading an article titled “What ails us” that runs on a digital magazine I can’t quote here – but you can Google it up- alarms went off in my head. Maybe I am tackling this the wrong way.

I mean, I’m glad I did my homework, and now know about foul political practices. But it is a monumental task, one I rather shun, to convince my peers that my theory is right, and theirs are not so right. I mean, I could argument my way into it, but what’s the point? If individuals do not take their own time to fathom these notions, and comprehend them in a holistic manner, democracy will be the government of parrots, repeating torpidly what they read on columns or other political blogs. So from now on, my political comments will be succinct – as will all my blontries – in the tradition of oriental literature. I will refrain from making snide remarks, because they are actually taking a toll on me – as is my new stigma of paranoid bloger, propelled by myself through my posts.

What can I do? I mean, is enough that I know our country is fucked up. But I can’t be rubbing it on my peers – apparently, is the shortest way to social rejection, and I'm tired of being the warm beer of this land. Besides, not everyone in Colombia is locked in the bukowskian cycle of informal labor, or poverty. Those that aren’t, actually want to forget the fact that they had to drown someone else, in order to swim the extra mile, in the endless pool of success – and I am cool with success, people; the thing is, I am actually ready to face the consequences, or the cold face in the drowned pioneer I left behind.

So the bottom line is, to each its own. If you like Uribe, fine with me. If you don’t, fine with me too. My point from now on will be: is democracy actually the government of the people, for the people, and by the people, if only 42% of the electorate votes? That’s the gist. It is a far more effective debate than pointing out all of the candidates flaws – albeit they come by the ton – because, lets face it: that would mean prolonging voodoo politicking, and who wants that? Not me.

So people: Vote! That is my only plead. If you are Colombian, and live overseas, and think that everything is alright, you might want to check my angry posts. Or some of the news agencies I linked to. Then vote, because it is a fact that you guys decided the outcome of our elections (there are 6 millions of you out there). So vote, but keep in mind a lot of facts. And if you live in Colombia, te voy escribir este mensaje en español para que entiendas: Vota. No importa si no te gusta Uribe, o si no te gustan los otros candidatos. Sólo vota. Así sabremos realmente en donde está nuestra democracia, y si realmente es la voz de las mayorías. ¿Qué has perdido la fe en los políticos? ¡Bienvenido al club! ¿Qué no crees en candidatos? Yo tampoco. Pero sé que la única forma de hacer parte de una democracia es eligiendo.

But before you vote, please pet my new virtual pet, deleuzious. It is a purple llama, and is so therapeutic. You can pet it by clicking on it – it loves when one pets its limbs -. You can also feed it by clicking the MORE button. Delezious is named after the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze.

So, I won’t talk about politicians sending their families away as a political tool, or the Candidate/President calling opposition members “disguised communists”. Ok, ok: I will mention it. But no more snide. Is bad for my bile. And the I Ching recommended me to take it easy.

...and the paranoid was wrong

2006-05-05T15:49:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, upon checking my webstats, I noticed a visit from the good people of THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE. I thought it was triggered by my linking to the CIA, on the “Illustrative joke…” post. So, encouraged by a friend, I did the same today, and guess what happened?

Nothing.

Not a single new visit from any of the linked agencies on the prior posting. But minutes after, I had a visitor from Guatemala. Hi Guatemala! And hello to all my pips in the DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE (a division of Nabisco – according to WILL and GRACE)

This is just a test

2006-05-05T14:01:00.000-04:00

Bear with me, I’d like to make a point – see if the paranoid is right.

CIA, FBI, NSA, FEMA, DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE, DEA, PENTAGON, ATF.

Correction

2006-05-04T15:00:00.000-04:00

Ok, now I got the full story: Alvaro Uribe chatted with two US senators (Arlene Specter and Jeff Sessions), on April 7. He made the Orwellian suggestion of “having Colombian workers have microchips implanted into their bodies before they are permitted to enter the United States to work on a seasonal basis,”. The senators thought it would be inappropriate, because what would prevent seasonal workers from removing the chips.

The official press release from the presidency confirms that the meeting took place, but denies allegations on the implant proposal.

I am the rabbit (An illustrative popular joke)

2006-05-04T12:05:00.000-04:00

There was an international contest: best secret police in the world. All top levels agencies were there – Interpol, Mossad sent members, CIA did too(their members kept saying they were Canadian). The organizers decided to invite a third world organization. Colombia’s DAS was the choice drawn from the bag.

All agencies sent their nimblest representatives. The competition was easy: a rabbit was to be let loose in some place around the globe. The fastest agency bringing the bunny back to Zurich would win. Agents were free to use any methods they’d consider necessary.

Interpol activated its law enforcement network, paid bribes to club owners, put undercover agents on the streets of three pinpointed major cities, and captured the rabbit in Kuala Lumpur after 18 hours.

Mossad agents were replaced with new and untraceable agents, that used government funding to bribe a terrorist that had information on the rabbit. But it turn out the information was a decoy to use Mossad as a contract killer for the Fedayins. They never retrieved the rabbit, and instead, were re-appointed to Argentina.

CIA members produced the rabbit within the first 8 hours, and classified the files so that no one would gain access to the information.

Memebers of DAS left Zurich in the morning. Came back three hours latter with a five foot long crocodile handcuffed. When they were asked about the mishap, the DAS operatives said, with a puzzle look, Mishap? No, no, we got him. Then turned to the crocodile, who was visible bruised. The crocodile then said, with an Aussie accent: Yeah, mate: I am the rabbit. But please, don’t let them hurt me!

GPS for your IA

2006-05-04T11:22:00.000-04:00

Up to this minute, I haven’t found a link to support this posting. Either way... President/Candidate Alvaro Uribe Velez said, on the City TV morning talk show “Arriba Bogotá”, that he did not mean that “temporary Colombians workers were to be implanted with a global positioning device in the form of a chip”. All he meant was, that it was amazing that a country famous for it’s Global Positioning technology had issues with immigrants violating their temporary visa terms.

So the president went on TV. And, again, lost control live, answering only the questions he wanted to, and shunning queries regarding controversial topics, like the recent killings of Liliana Gaviria, the assassination of eleven departamental Counselors in the midlands, and the scandals regarding the D.A.S. ( Department of Administrative Security, the Colombian National Security Agency, with secret service faculties)

Great. Now he is giving advice on how to keep immigrants in check. I’ll post links to this story as it develops.

Bang bang! Debate (hole in our heads)

2006-04-30T16:49:00.000-04:00

We, in Colombia, are ready to party like is 1985, when killing people was a popular political tool. I hate to be another one of those pesters that keeps pointing out that the assassination of Liliana Gaviria, sister of ex-president and current head of the PARTIDO LIBERAL (an oposition party)Cesar Gaviria, it’s just another political maneuver to silence the oposition.

Let’s review the facts.

Liliana was gunned down in a region controlled by paramilitary. The last time I was on the Coffee axis of Colombia, I felt like big brother had some major interests there. By the time me and my journalist friend, Lutz Kleveman, arrived in Medellín, I suggested that he should write a whole chapter of the book as if it was a paramilitary brief, on our whereabouts and contacts. Then, as we interviewed key players on the paramilitary structure of Medellin, I realized that my hunches were right on the money: assassinations in the coffee axis always go trough the regular conducts. And if the mark is the sister of a prominent politician, that order probably came from Santa Fe de Ralito, heartland of the peace talks with paramilitary, and sanctuary for high rank bosses.

Maybe the president didn’t give the order, but what with paramilitary operatives – Paras, from here on – infiltrated in politics, and every major aspect of the nation’s power structure, it's not a far fetched hypothesis. The quoted article on the Paras link says it: “there was a war with guerrillas, and Paras; but the Paras won”. So guerrillas have an alibi.

Then there’s one of my many concerns about Alvaro Uribe’s government: he seems to fix everything with ransoms. Ever since he is been in charge, he has given ransoms to members of his Informants Network – funny thing: this people receive the ransom inside a cubicle, that gives them confidentiality in a public event that is always attended by the media. Week after week, president Uribe paid sums that started at 100 million pesos (42,069.8359 USD) and escalated to the latest 1.000 million (420,698.3593 USD )pesos he’s offering for any leads on the Liliana Gaviria killing. (more headlines of this story)

This subject raises question for me because it’s been confirmed that, many of the members of said Informants Networks are former member of paramilitary groups reintegrated to society, and journalist investigations in the country have determined that the main source of funding is this ransoms program; besides, the fact that the information they provide the government with, is biased, so instead of serving the community with a service, they just settle ancient vendettas with government aid.

Plus, the Informant Network is been linked to another political scandal: the collecting of signatures to promote Alvaro Uribe’s candidacy was all done by members of said network.

This whole thing raises so many questions… Maybe my despondency issue would be solved if I rat on my drug selling neighbor, right? Maybe the killing of Liliana Gaviria has nothing to do with my theories, and she was actually gunned down by delinquents. But scandals keep piling up, and Alvaro a still declares himself victorious.

handwriting meme

2006-04-28T12:08:00.000-04:00

This is part of a Global voices experiment, promoted by Logtar’s Blog

Street tanka#1

2006-04-27T21:40:00.000-04:00

Sight burned

Tonight

The ‘hood buzzes

While we mutate

Yellow lit

Hell

Early celebration

2006-04-27T21:10:00.000-04:00

©semana.com

So I’m happy this week.

My reason to be happy? President/Candidate Alvaro Uribe Velez is plunging on the polls, at an amazing rate of one point per day (two points if he makes a speech or confronts the media).

Carlos Gaviria and Antanas Mokus are fetching those points, and adding some spice to the competition. May is stepping on the candidate’s heels, and the real battle of politicking starts now – a month away from election day (May 28). Stay tuned, because the real debate begins.

I been doing some thinking, and I keep my plead to vote Carlos Gaviria. My reasons? He is the only candidate with total support from a powerful political coalition, the PDA (Polo Democrático Independiente), and is actually capable of confronting Alvaro and his politicking machinery, that has sorted out all the uproar contenders and detractors have thrown his way – lets face it: all this scandals, so close to elections: Where was this information before?

It worries me that the Gaviria's economical proposals are feeble, in terms of globalization, but that has to do with Colombia’s developing nature – a big plus, on that subject, is that He plans to start a social upgrading, and equality awareness that is much needed. He is an academic that taught Uribe – on the Universidad de Antioquia- about States of social laws and due process (the lesson was then unlearned at Harvard, the educational machine). Hebeen on a political contend before for the senate, and won with the second highest vote count in the country. He was part of Colombia´s new constitution, and then was its major defender on the constitutional court.

Also, He looks like Santa – which to me is much better than a priest. Imagine that? Santa ruling Colombia. Oh, and not to mention that he has a mild prospective on drug consumption: while Uribe wants to prosecute consumers, he is willing to let them off the hook, and treat them as medical cases instead of crowding our hirsute Legal system. Sounds like baby steps toward an open debate on legalization. A nice way to compete in the global race on a long term.

For more input on the candidates, go to semana.com. Check out the “¿Quiénes son los candidatos?” icon (like the one heading this post), and get the full salsa on these tamales.

P.S. As I post, the sister of Cesar Gaviria ( head of the Liberal Party, and ex-president), is been gunned down; Alvaro offers money to find the responsible. The heat is on! (which reminds me, head over to Ankelohe Conversations, and check out this year’s subject)

Bittersweets.

2006-04-26T22:05:00.000-04:00

Head over to 101 cookbooks for a desert that will spice up any dinner party. Forget the diet: springtime is all about burning calories, so go and chew on some.

The invisible debater

2006-04-25T13:03:00.000-04:00

Candidate/President Alvaro Uribe Velez (a creation of Politicorps Colombia) is still not debating. Last Sunday, the real candidates discussed strategies and programs on a forum conceived by the CASA EDITORIAL EL TIEMPO (an information conglomerate that controls 75% of the printed and electronic media in Colombia). It was a lovely setting, black, with scarce lighting and mahogany desks, four of them, because the debate was intended for the candidates with a numerical option – statistically speaking –the unstoppable, inexpugnable President/Candidate was a miss. One of the desks was empty – such symbolism.

But Alvaro was present: if not in a substantial and argumentative way, in the form of a sponsoring. You see, the event was sponsored by Banco AV Villas, one of the brands from the biggest Banking group in Colombia, the GRUPO AVAL - property of Luis Carlos Sarmiento, one of the President/Candidate personal supporters.

The add consists of a couple house shopping, and then the announcer shows how the AV VILLAS bank gives the best interest rates on a house down-payment, even if you have no idea about bank products.

Low interests rates, for the common people.

Is a disgrace that the same political tricks that used to work for our forefathers, are still working with the yuppie elite. The low interest rates for house down payment came a month prior to the senate elections, and was a major influence on the reduced electorate (remember, there was 67% abstention). So now, because the working force has the chance to buy a nest, the president is suddenly great. It sound like one of those campaigns in 1886, when my uncle build his house on what used to be a condemned area, after he agreed to coax every member of his community, to vote for Virgilio Barco. Twenty years later, that house that politicking built is no longer standing. The terrain where my uncle built wasn’t suited for a two stories house. First there were fissures, but one day, just after the house was sold, it collapsed.

I am feeling so figurative today, that I won’t say anything else about that.

So while candidates rally to present their proposals, Alvaro and his cronies deploy the seasonal offers. Housing for all? On election season? I smell a rat.

War Wounds – Or How to peel a coconut and not loose a thumb.

2006-04-20T22:15:00.000-04:00

Long story short: A recipe, a black comedy with blood, and an analysis on health an labor politics.

This would have been such a sexy tale if it involved a scantly cladded mama and a tropical view. But no; this silly fluke occurred while I was at my mother’s kitchen, trying to perfect my Shrimp and coconut milk soup – is really simple: just stir fry your shrimps in peanut oil, add some lemon herb trunk, a whole tooth of garlic (or whatever you use to add aroma to your food), and some Jalapeños in slices – careful with the seeds. Then you add your season’s vegetable (whatever is trendy in your community right now. Vegetable should be a free choice, there’s just so many of them). Stir fry; add a cup of coconut milk, and then some fish consommé, that you had prepared in anticipation. Put a lid on it, and give it a stir every now and then. Delicious. Serve with some basil leaves.

Well, it was 10 in the evening, and all I wanted was to be ahead of the game, by breaking the coconut out of it shell, and grinding it, so that I could extract the milk out of it (tip: use the coconut water to get a sweeter milk; if you can’t find coconuts, then get the generic packed space product), then the first rule in kitchen work slipped my mind: always keep the knife away from you. The knife slipped while I was peeling the coconut out of its crusty shell, and swoosh!!! In it went, deep in the base of my thumb. There was blood everywhere. Me screaming. My mum screaming, my grandmother screaming, and the consommé… Fuck the consommé! I need to get to the hospital, quick.

I hopped in a cab, my mum was there, worried, because her only son was good for nothing, and this is the way he was spending his days, chopping things idly – you know: mother talk.

On top of that, I have no insurance. At the university were I act as a freelance researcher, I asked about medical and they said “get your own”, with my 316 dollars a month salary, is either food or health. But the taxi driver didn’t know that, so he took us to a top notch institution (that is third world top notch).

We got there, I parodied a bit, and flaunted into an emergency room filled with unforgettable long faces, a legless man in need of a harmonica and a curb, and some girl with bloody hair. My fear of loosing mobility on my thumb was impolite – I once had micro-surgery on my right index and middle extensor tendons, on a six month visit to Australia, due to a miscalculation and a cheesecake. No more about that -. I didn’t see the security guards, keeping the uninsured away from medical attention. My mother did a shocking routine, because at the front desk, some nurse demanded 75 dollars upfront to grant me attention – that’s a lot of pesos!

So yeah, I was a bit insensitive to the girl with the bloody hair and legless Juan Perez (that’s Spanish for John Doe), but this was not Australia, and my ability to open doors was at stake. So I entered an examination room, paled faced, and holding my bloody hand.

When Dr H. told me that a few stitches would suffice, I breathed easily. Then I sat back, and examined the emergency room. It was in shambles. The floor looked sticky. The roof was low, and the lights trembled. Instead of antiseptic, the place looked dingy. I chatted a bit with the Doc, while my hemorrhage stopped. There was no pain, and my nerves were in check. I asked the doctor what was his fair, and he said, Well, the clinic charges 40 dollars for consulting, but we gets minimum wage, and a few extras.

Minimum wage? The good doctor is actually earning less than me. I mean, I am a shove away from minimum wage, but, a doctor? He is supposed to be driving a Honda, like my uncle in Australia, after that hard internship on a rural hell controlled – as most rural areas in Colombia- by paramilitary. He has a wife, no kids, and lives in a sublet on a lower middle class district. He said that this is the best gig he can get, because now days, people are willing to lower their wages – and their standards, and their moral- in order to find a position.

If I did not take this job, someone else would have taken it. For less than they were offering me, Dr. H confide.

And is true: yesterday, there was a debate on TV: the Unions (what’s left of them) Vs the Conglomerates - tried to find links, but it seems theres no input. Will keep looking-. When the Conglomerates were faced with the fact that all benefits for laborers were stripped by the 2003 Labor Reform, the conglomerate’s representative said “But what are we going to do? Get back to paying fat salaries? That would thwart our productivity. Besides, people come to us saying, Give us a job. Pay us later, but give us a job”

Maybe we do deserve this treatment. Everywhere Colombians go around the world, we are willing to do substandard jobs, for lower wages. We deserve these cheap fares, because we are ethically decayed. We decide to “patiently” wait and wait for the master to notice our efforts, and we end up earning it, when is too late to enjoy it; then we expect to save our children from such toiling by giving them everything we never had, but we end up spoiling them, and the little earned, is quickly spent on a perennial search for wholesomeness. A mystical search for the ultimate joy, the everlasting bliss that our parents never enjoyed.

Well guess what? It doesn’t exist. It’s right there, next to the Eastern Bunny® and Santa™, rolling another splif: chilling in its inexistency.

Parents in Colombia always tell their children too late such truths. It is up to them to find out, and when they do, they loose the joy, and turn bitter – just like their parents did. It would be easier if a simple chat would take place; the chat where you say: son, if you open up a trust fund now, you’ll have enough to bum a round a few years without me meddling. But no: Colombia is popular for its “I TOLD YOU SO”s. You want proof?

After stabbing myself in the base of my thumb, and while the doctor was stitching me, my mum appeared, letting out a hearty “I TOLD YOU SO”, and then – and only then- revealing the secret to peel a coconut out of it’s shell. So pay attention, because if you’re still thinking about that nice Shrimp soup (best served with white rice), and if you can get your hands on some fresh coconuts, this will come in handy: After breaking the coconut, you have to flame the shell, so that the nut pops off it. Doesn’t that make perfect sense?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! With a growl

2006-04-20T20:46:00.000-04:00

Before this day ends, head over solanasaurus (is a link on the sidebar) and wish our cyber friend a happy, happy birthday, and a stress free rest of the week. And if you’re attending her party, try not to make a mess, or come over the next day and help her clean up. And give her a plastic dinosaur on my behalf. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, IDA!!!
From the whole BLOGGOMBIA staff (which is just me).

Band of the fortnight, and new addition to EARCANDY.

2006-04-19T12:32:00.000-04:00

I love Africa. Colombia is a big chunk of unclaimed African territory, to me. You go out, and girls are working it like is Mozambique or Senegal. Is so hot, you can’t help but growl, because your hair tangles up like a lion’s mane.

That’s why, this fortnight, I decided to lead all my sexy readers to West Africa by means of sounds. And to do so, I added The Benn loxo community to the EARCANDY section, with top notch tracks by Mahmoud Ahmed, Zainaba, Samba Mapangala, among others, to rattle your eardrum, and, Bang! Make you shake those pom-poms like a cheerleader tryout came to town.

In addition, I have chosen the Band of the Fortnight. On this occasion, they come from Australia, but are as eclectic as a ceviche on a Madison Av. Restaurant (talk about Fusion). If you loved the Arcade fire, or Brazilian Chicks, you’ll go Pop! With Architecture from Helsinki”. They are crunk-a-doodle-do-licious. So eclectic, picking up their background would be as a Holy Grail adventure. They are so mainstream, but, come on: Not many bands embrace the African virus of ass shaking.