the worst unworstable!
I'd only like to take this opportunism to bemoan the passing out of my dear crazy Uncle, Fidel.
Fidel - or as the world knew him, "Caster Oil," - was a blessed plague upon our extended family get-togethers. Many were the time he would laugh, "pull my cigar!" And we wee kiddies would giggle at his grossness, as foretold by our parents. "Don't cavort with that madman!" they would chide... "Or you will contract for malaria!" But we paid no never mind, and sometimes invited him into our tentative basement tents, where he exposed the tantalising tentacles of exuprative* imperialism, as expressed by the nasties of nonsense control-peddlers we have learnt to all know and love. Like Aunt Sadie. Or Uncle Bob. Or aging, aching, angling, Aunt Bonnie Bones!
Ah, yes, Uncle Fidel! How he careened in irrepressible disgustion, on anti-capitalism, and anti-anti-anti-capitalism, which was so distilled, it applied only to salamanders. But, he was happy in his heart, and who were we to smart the unsmartable? The world, I say, is a big fart. Fidel knew this before anyone else, save Sartre. He was a hurricane and a shark and an indomitable earthquake in the dark, peddling his wares in Leningrad Park. By flirting with Russia, he brought the world to its needs, and helped secure the legitimacy of American anti-Communist Neo-Liberal, Neo-Congame, for the next 1/2 century - of blithe fear - despite the fact that a silent coup was occurring in America over all these decades.
I remember how he used to send us sugar-cubes, covertly wrapped in tightly-rolled and packed newspapers from our beloved Havana. We then sold these for multiple dinero on the streets, which was better than drugs, because the price of sugar was jacked so frickin sky-high by our benevolent anti-commie GOP/DNC leaders, the only alternative was profit-by-crime.
And, when I said I liked this crazy uncle, and was coughed down upon, then the only alternative left to me was to rebel, for reasons superlative. Because - you try to separate me from all of what all is humanity - then you only ask for revolution. You try to control the fuck out of me, and I will see you fall, through every agency available to me. If, and when, I have the time, because, most of the time, in my strife and in my poverty, I live a life of lonely happiness.
Which was all he was about.
* - Not even a word.
Fidel - or as the world knew him, "Caster Oil," - was a blessed plague upon our extended family get-togethers. Many were the time he would laugh, "pull my cigar!" And we wee kiddies would giggle at his grossness, as foretold by our parents. "Don't cavort with that madman!" they would chide... "Or you will contract for malaria!" But we paid no never mind, and sometimes invited him into our tentative basement tents, where he exposed the tantalising tentacles of exuprative* imperialism, as expressed by the nasties of nonsense control-peddlers we have learnt to all know and love. Like Aunt Sadie. Or Uncle Bob. Or aging, aching, angling, Aunt Bonnie Bones!
Ah, yes, Uncle Fidel! How he careened in irrepressible disgustion, on anti-capitalism, and anti-anti-anti-capitalism, which was so distilled, it applied only to salamanders. But, he was happy in his heart, and who were we to smart the unsmartable? The world, I say, is a big fart. Fidel knew this before anyone else, save Sartre. He was a hurricane and a shark and an indomitable earthquake in the dark, peddling his wares in Leningrad Park. By flirting with Russia, he brought the world to its needs, and helped secure the legitimacy of American anti-Communist Neo-Liberal, Neo-Congame, for the next 1/2 century - of blithe fear - despite the fact that a silent coup was occurring in America over all these decades.
I remember how he used to send us sugar-cubes, covertly wrapped in tightly-rolled and packed newspapers from our beloved Havana. We then sold these for multiple dinero on the streets, which was better than drugs, because the price of sugar was jacked so frickin sky-high by our benevolent anti-commie GOP/DNC leaders, the only alternative was profit-by-crime.
And, when I said I liked this crazy uncle, and was coughed down upon, then the only alternative left to me was to rebel, for reasons superlative. Because - you try to separate me from all of what all is humanity - then you only ask for revolution. You try to control the fuck out of me, and I will see you fall, through every agency available to me. If, and when, I have the time, because, most of the time, in my strife and in my poverty, I live a life of lonely happiness.
Which was all he was about.
* - Not even a word.