Unmitigated Anger

A barrage of vile bile pours forth from my keyboard in my letters to the editor, whether taking out some climate denier,  castigating drivers speeding to pass me and cut me off as the lane narrows in a construction zone.  Taking all to task and eviscerating them all for their indiscretions, impositions and plain rudeness , afflicting the quality of my life.  And then, after finishing my vicious invectives, placing them in an envelope,  thinking about them and my reactions...  then throwing them all  into the trash?

Oh Hell no,no, NO- I pound on upside down flag stamps and get those suckers into the mail pronto, in my maelstrom of vented anger.

One of the grand rewards in creeping curmedgeonism is the release from throttles and safeguards of propriety and constraint .  It is but small compensation for having to get up to pee every two hours in the night.   No longer shackled by the bonds of “political correctness,” I am freed to gambol freely in fields of outrage, indignation, and  vented anger.

A barrage of cabbage induced flatulence clouding toward the damned kid who will not stop kicking the back of my seat on a seven hour flight to London.  Take that, you little rug rat !

To the woman with a Las Vegas buffet piled cart,  in the 15 items or less grocery line, flipping thru her double cross- indexed partitioned portfolio of coupons delaying further  the long line (in which I take up the rear) growing behind her dalliance, I loudly inquire - “I guess you pretty much slept thru remedial math in your school, huh?”

Reserved for the jock oaf who pushes past me in my actuated handicapped door entrance- the new knowledge that I have become very adept at my cane insertion between rapidly moving past me ankles.

That vexing child who was a endearing precious precocious darling at 4 and now has become a snotty loudmouth tedium at eight, insinuated by doting parents into ADULT gatherings, will surely enjoy the hades hot capsaicin-laced treats especially destined by me for her Halloween basket.

For the troll who flashes me in the restroom of the convention I am attending, the flip comeuppance, “Yes, it has a cute resemblance to a penis, only smaller.”

And to the “augmented” eye candy offending an entire Wal Mart in her straining top and barely confining pair of fushia spandex leggings (forever staining my gay fashion sensibilities) - “ I must compliment you on your outfit dear, it’s too bad they didn’t have it in your size.

Yes, the freedom of being able to direct all this bad energy into the ether is soothingly cathartic.

But, surely you do realize I am not capable of any of this at all, don’t you?  I’m w-a-y too much a wuss.  Condemned to my stifled  life of “grin and bear it.”

And this is what  REALLY pisses me off !

  Old Man Wendt 470 words

Best Weddings

# 1 Best Wedding- I forget her name but she was the daughter of a privately held Fortune 500 Company . Dad had died and Mother was heir and arranged her wedding to a Greek shipping Company President’s son.  My Company VP knew her but I was tasked with her honeymoon so I got a wedding invite.  Honeymoon was Concorde to Paris , then private jet to Nice a week at  Hotel Du Cap, Private jet to Rome, boarding a Silversea cruise of the Med 14 days.  On the cruise two things that were hard.- One Mom wanted 4 dozen hot pink roses at every port.  Europe has red roses, white roses, yellow roses, white roses and even pink roses, but NOT hot pink roses which are a US product.  So I had to arrange a foreign expediter to work with the florist I found .  Besides the customs issues, I had to arrange fresh timed for arrival at each destination port and make sure the flowers were in a refrigerated truck.  Each port shipment was thousands of dollars . O.K. second problem the Greek groom was 6'7" and didn’t fit in the standard king cruise bedding which is usually two queens together.  Not only did I have to find a custom mattress maker but regulations are strict about a marine certified mattress by the Europe Maritime commission.  So I had to find a custom ship EU Maritime certified  mattress maker that had experience helping to get it shipped to the boat and coordiate the whole thing with the Cruise Line and get it taken off the ship after ( Mom thankfully didn’t want it shipped back to the Us, so I had to get it off loaded by a salvage company) .  That cost her a pretty coin.

The actual wedding.Mom is based in Atlanta but chose Chicago for the reception. Ritz Carlton Ballroom .Respectable enough but “Mom” didn’t like the drapery fabric and the banquet chair upholstery, so she had designer fabric made for all the ballroom floor to ceiling windows .  I forget who but I think it was Ralph Lauren.  She also had the cahir upholstered in matching fabric.  Thank God that all was done by the wedding planner ( Who had totake it all down and put back the original fabrics

It went off well .  I heard she offered a big tip but Jeff said “no”  

Ritz Carlton Chicago Ballroom

# 2 best wedding.  My bosses daughter wedding at the Intercontinental Hotel Michigan Avenue.  Marriage in the ballroom and then out to an ante room for appetizers and Hors d'oeuvres.  It was set up with different stations .  There was a
“Homestyle” which had burgers, Mac n Cheese, Chicago style hot dogs, fries .  A frensh station with braised scallops, escargot, lamb lollipops, stuffed mushrooms, and asparagus stuffed puff pastries. An Italian station with mini pizzas, prosciutto wrapped melon, Salami and fig crostini, and Caprese salad cups.  And finally a Chinese table with egg rolls, cocunut shrimp, won ton and plum sauce, and potstickers.  

Then back into the rearranged ballroom lit on two levels with candles, an orchestra on stage with two vocalists and three gorgeous women violinists.  A multi course dinner was served with breaks for the talent and dancing.   At the end a sumptious Jewish dessert table laden with unimaginable treats.  It all was black tie and I heard that ll the Michigan Avenue boutiques were sold out of designer gowns

Fame

I only learned about “Street Fare Journal “ after the fact.  It wasn’t as much a “publication,   like a book,  but rather 102 11x28" typeset posters/placards of opaque black with translucent white lettering, that were placed in the above seat advertising slots on elevated trains and busses.  It started in 1984 and ran to 1997 in major US Cities,"arguably the largest and most successful public art program in U.S. history, delivering striking combinations of literature and visual art to an estimated 15 million riders daily in 16 major cities.  This story involves one of the first ever put up.

In 1984 , travelling on a Chicago Transit bus on a cold morning, I saw this poem slotted in on the lighted advertising banner on my #56 bus.  I was immediately drawn to the message.  It was a poem entitled “Fame” by Evanston (Chicago collar city) poet John Dickson 1916- 2009.  I immediately knew I could not live without this poem in my life.  It was right by the rear exit door.  Upon leaving the bus, I purloined the placard slipping it out of the retaining slots and putting inside my coat by my chest like a protected treasure.  

That poem resided in my home bathroom translucent paneled ceiling for almost 25 years, until I moved. I only had to look up to read it.  Now, it is in the kitchen window of my farm home , where it catches the light right in front of me as I stand at the sink.  Getting a bit scratched in the 35 years I have had it, it still provides inspiration to me and remains my favorite poem ever.
Every fall I am even more reminded of its meaningful message.  I have included the original here along with a more attractive readable version from Dickson's (now out of print) volume

So , here is the full powerful little poem that I have lived with for so many years- "Fame"

Daniela Mercury

CLARÍN  The New York Times International Weekly
Brazil

Daniela Mercury, a hurricane of music and ideas
In addition to experimenting with new rhythms, the singer has emerged as one of President Jair Bolsonaro's most visible opponents

The Afro-Brazilian traditions of Salvador de Bahia are the root of the music of Daniela Mercury (Nathaniel Wood for The New York Times).

By JAMES GAVIN

Watching a show by singer and dancer Daniela Mercury, one of Brazil's top stars for almost 30 years, is to immerse yourself in a hyper energetic fantasy of her hometown, Salvador de Bahia, possibly the most African city outside of Africa. The stage is filled with dancers dressed in Afro-Brazilian costumes; the drummers sound the axé rhythms, the native percussive pop of Salvador that Mercury made famous.
Almost all the letters have messages against discrimination, tolerance, women's rights, maintaining internal strength. These feelings resonate more deeply than ever now that Brazil is going through one of the most divided times in its history in political matters.
"Brazilian society is fighting for democracy, fighting authoritarianism and fighting
 for education," said Mercury, 54. “We have to fight to defend nature, indigenous people, minorities. Human rights. It's very important".
To that end, Mercury is a Goodwill Ambassador of the United Nations Children's Fund and a UN Equality Champion. In 2018, he helped lead a social media campaign, #EleNao (# ÉlNo), before the election of Brazil's far-right president, Jair Bolsonaro. Many of his followers boycotted her with her own hashtag, #ElaNao (#EllaNo).
Five years earlier, Mercury, who has an ex-husband and two children, declared herself a lesbian and married Malu Verçosa, a journalist. This year, the couple spoke in favor of gay rights at the National Congress in Brasilia. They finished their speech with a kiss.
Mercury retains tremendous support; Last year, about 1.5 million people saw her at the San Pablo Carnival and toured the United States this summer.
When I was a child in Salvador, Mercury was immersed in dance. He learned it from local black students, from candomblé practitioners, Afro-Brazilian ritualistic religion, and in dance classes.
Mercury was fascinated with the Afro blocos, drummers from the neighborhoods of Salvador with a social mindset. From them arose the axé, that fused the samba, the reggae and other African, Brazilian and Caribbean rhythms.
After directing his own band, he became a soloist. His second album, "O Canto da Cidade" ("The Song of the City") released in 1992, produced four number 1 Brazilian singles and presented the axé to a national audience.
Mercury is experimenting with purer musical forms. Its electropop sound has practically disappeared. On a tour in 2016, he performed his hits only with voice and acoustic guitar.
Meanwhile, it continues to cause controversy, sometimes unintentionally. Last December he released a video, "Black Panther Deusa" ("Black Panther Goddess"). Mercury sings about "The only race / the human race," and adds: "Brazil is black / And white is black / And the Indian is black." Then he sings: "The beauty and sounds of infinity are from Africa."
Weeks later, Larissa Luz, a young singer and black actress from Salvador, made accusations of cultural appropriation, announcing to her fans: “Who is black is black. Who is not, is not. This music is ours! ” People on the Internet labeled Mercury as the target of those statements, which Luz denied.
In all these conflicts, Mercury said, she strives to remain calm. "The problem is never just government, it's society," he said. "But we need to talk about this in an educated way, fight in a civilized way, anything else is brutality."

TWISTED

Such a darling thing. Wrapped in this precious softness of pastels- pink, yellow and white duckies and encircling blue background, blissfully asleep, unaware of ensuing salvation.  Oblivious to uncaring wretched parents who care not for their spawn.  Undeserving custodians.  Leaving this  pinked cheek, moist lipped, curling eyelash, wispy golden haired child, to stinking bake, left in locked car, in scorching summer sun, while the driver shops.   I walk away to the sounds of people coming and going in titanium tubes roaring away in blissful ignorance of the coming of angels down below them.  His will be done.

How dare they, He or she, these shit stained mongrels from Hell, think that their luck in making this beautiful thing is the end of responsibility.  They are damned and should be regarded as scabs on society.  There is no justice in their creating this small blessing , only to let it languish to death.  They should be punished for this travesty.  The reward of a child so carelessly left like this, when so many spend sleepless nights mourning the inability to have such wishes for a child unfulfilled can be called reckless. Something needs to be done.  The needs to be some atoning action. I feel the very Voice of God telling me there needs to be retribution.  These parents must be accounted for to set the scales even again.  I am directed. It is my commanded destiny.

I  jacked the car door open and took this sweet smelling thing of rosy cheeks and silent slumber from the SUV  in the Orchard Mall parking lot , and I drove away,  motion lulling the child to further sleep.  To O’Hare Airport. Long term parking.  I looked upon the designated altar of the Lord,  a 2011 Corvette.  Red.  Large rear window through which my parcel of divine intervention could lay in display to Heaven,  reflecting the baking sun amidst automotive congregation in this asphalt sea .  Through jacked open door, I laid my offering into the hands of God in that Corvette. The child  began to feel discomfort that I knew would grow, so that the coroner would report resounding torture before there was a eternal peace.  A torture that the biologics would feel  ten-fold as aghast grief for their dammed offense.  Karma. They would know the consequences of affront to God.  The wages of sin is death.  ‘Inevitable’ I thought as I drove home.

Presently, I am happy  knowing things have been put right.  The scales are balanced. There is Justice.  I know this as I see her now; her name is Nancy Cardwell, damned bitch; on my TV; all crocodile tears and phony remorse, reporters asking how she feels and how horrific it all is.  I remain content to know in time she will feel real pain. It will haunt her as it should.  As I watch in fascination, "breaking news,” it pleases me that I have done this in the Lord’s name.  Justifiable destiny-  Every channel repeatedly extolls that I am but penitent servant.  They use the term “twisted.”  “Hah, little do they understand what has transpired.”  I am calm .  Divine intervention .  His will has been done   Amen.

Breaking news

Police discovered an unattended child left in a SUV in the Orchard Mall parking lot Tuesday afternoon at 2pm.  The temperature outside was 92°, but inside the vehicle it was 115°.  Sargent Tyler Tribe reported freeing the infant was a fortunate circumstance as the child would have soon perished.  Mother Nancy Cardwell, in tears, reported to police she had just gone to pick up a few things and her mind was diverted in forgetting to take her child .  Tribe stated that Cardwell will be charged with child endangerment and neglect.  A bystander who had called the police reported that she saw a man intently looking into the car, but that he rapidly moved on when she asked what he was doing.  As the SUV was discovered by police to be locked when they arrived, no further action in this regard will be taken .  This makes the fourth incident of leaving a young child in a car in hot sun this summer.  Police caution drivers must take care that their vehicle be vacated totally, including pets, before leaving it parked and locked on a hot day because the temperature in a closed car rises rapidly with lethal consequences

Early  Tuesday evening, Ted Morgan and Ulysses Jefferson were in the O’Hare Airport Security Office’s lockeroom relating to other workers an amusing (to them) story of getting a call to investigate a complaint made by a Jerome McGinty, who, upon returning from a 2 week business seminar in Denver on Tuesday discovered a dead cat on the parcel shelf behind the seats and under the window of his red 2011 Corvette Stingray.  Morgan related that the car was locked , and nothing had been stolen or otherwise vandalized. They said McGinty old them he had never owned a cat and would have seen if one had entered his car either at home when he left, or when he got put at the Airport two weeks ago, so he had no idea how it got there.  When asked if he wanted to file a report, McGinty told them “no,” being anxious to get home.  Ted and Ulysses were also at shifts end and didn’t want to stay over filling out what they knew would be loads of copious paperwork, so they took out and disposed of the cat and let McGinty go on his way.  They laughed that it had to be a long ride home for McGinty with the windows open to rid his car of that awful stench !  The entire matter was forgotten in a few days

Thursday morning residents of the 3000 block of Old Glenview Road in Wilmette found the utility poles and trees in their neighborhood plastered with small posters offering reward for information or sighting of a (pictured) cat “Snuggles,” a mottled tan Abyssinian cat owned by Saundra Stein who lived on that street. The animal had disappeared sometime after Late Tuesday afternoon. Miss Stein was perplexed as Snuggles rarely left his repose on her front porch enjoying a sunny spot.  She didn’t realize that she would never again see Snuggles.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Talia's (Jerry) Greek Salad

Talia’s Greek Salad
Ingredients:
Large Finocchio (fennel) bulb with reserved fronds, thin sliced to crescents
large red onion thin sliced to crescents
10 oz jar pitted Castelvetrano olives whole
10 oz jar pitted Greek Kalamata olives whole
2- 14 oz cans baby artichoke hearts
2-  6 oz tubs crumbled feta cheese
1 ½ lounds 80-90 count salad shrimp
4 oz large capers
2 large carrots , peeled, sliced into discs and steamed semi soft
1 yellow bell pepper, diced
1 orange bell pepper, diced
1 large English cucumber, peeled and sliced 1/4 inch slices
2 cups cherry tomatoes ( I used a rainbow menage)

½ cup snipped fennel fronds 

Mix all together in large bowl

serve with dressing below and Braided Challah bread with sesame seeds

My signature Isoelectric dressing
( originated from winemaker Martin Ray via his enologist Dr Edward Wawkiewicz, who swore me to non disclosure until after his death which was 2011) ingredients may be doubled or tripled

12 oz (can) Carnation Evaporated Milk ( NOT sweetened condensed)
12 OZ KRAFT Mayonnaise ( MUST be KRAFT as it alone has proper PH)
1/4 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice
fresh ground pepper (I used Pohnpei peppercorns  from Micronesia)
With mixer on high, mix together milk and Mayo

grind pepper over top to cover surface densely

Mix in well

second pepper grind over top

Mix again

third pepper grind over top

Mix again

With mixer on, drizzle in lemon juice until dressing congeals to creamy consistency
Place in fridge overnight


This dressing is versatile .  It becomes creamy and can be served hot or cold.  It can be infused with herbs (like tarragon, thyme, dill, or cilantro) and can be finished off with Paprika.  It is superb over asparagus , fish or crab and even summer melon. 

-Jerry Wendt July 2019

Recipe is called "Talia's Dressing" as Talia was part of the story I wrote and dedicated to Doris Stanek reading it  July 28th 2019.Talia made the salad in he story and so as she is my dramatic creation ,the salad was actually my real assemblage.

The Fabulous Wallendas

My Fabulous Wallendas

Being much too tired to clean up after my dinner party; I arose the next day to complete the necessary housekeeping chores. On the kitchen tabletop, I noticed the candy dish I always keep full was completely empty.  “They must really have a sweet tooth,” I thought, and went on to dishwashing.  When next I saw the previously invited friends, I jokingly asked them if I was remiss in not feeding them enough at dinner because, after all my food, they still had to raid the candy dish.  One demurred, saying they hadn’t eaten any candy. One admitted to one piece and the third accused the fourth of being the glutton.  I forgot the incident.

One week later; another dinner party.  Several of the same crowd.  Same scenario.  The candy dish was again empty the next day.  This was bothering me.  The next time we gathered I made a point of asking who was hitting my candy dish so hard.  This time one guest was miffed and said she hadn’t eaten any, “but if I didn’t want it eaten, why did I put it out?”  Another denied any indulgence and said maybe I had mice.

“Silly, silly, silly,” I thought, “The table sits in the center of the kitchen. No mouse could reach it from the side countertops. It is on a pedestal, so even if a mouse could climb the leg, it would be unable to climb upside down on the table bottom to get to the top where the dish was. And there were no candy wrappers in evidence.  Only a wrought iron chandelier is situated above the table and there would be no access from that unless the mice were trapeze artists.”  This was a dilemma.
The following week I had no social events at all.  Yet, the candy dish again appeared empty after one night.  “Was I sleep eating?” I questioned myself, “this is really strange.”

In preparation for my next dinner, I pulled the pan drawer under the range open to get out a sauté pan.  I saw a glint as I pulled out the pan and shards of gold were revealed to me.  “What the...,” I exclaimed, immediately recognizing candy wrappers. As I remove more pans and covers, I see the drawer is full of candy wrappers, all torn and shredded.

I have mice!  Not much of a revelation living in an old farm house. They come seeking warmth.  But how are they getting onto the table and then getting the candy out of the dish and dragged across the floor, under the stove, and into that drawer?

I decide that I must have the Wallenda family of mice. The troupe must be swinging on a spider silk rigged trapeze across the table top, swiping up candy and handing it off to another grounded partner.  A veritable nighttime circus.  Of course, spoiler friends reveal mice are capable of climbing upon the side chairs and jumping three feet across to the table.  It’s still a major feat to get that candy out of the dish and down on the floor and quite a distance to drag each piece across the floor to hide it in their under-stove banquet hall. Not to mention they have to do this numerous times to empty that dish. 
I choose instead to regale myself with the visions of my graceful mice in little sequined leotards, swinging and swooping netless in a nighttime extravaganza of circus acrobatics.  My very own Wallenda mice.  However, I am very protective of my candy. The family has had to sacrifice members of the team to my own peanut butter temptation devices. The Wallendas are a big family.  The count stands at 10 and my candy dish remains full.

©Jerry Wendt 2011

Visiting Mona

I was determined but very much fearing the unknown.  It was April 1972, and my first ever trip abroad. Alone.  I had a very ambitious itinerary and much wide eyed anticipation, but, like going off to college years before, there were nagging worries about coping with a very big world out there all by myself. 

I boarded TWA 770 at O’Hare nonstop to London.  This was an auspicious beginning, coddled in first class with Chateaubriand , ice cream sundaes , and alcohol to mollify any trepidations ...until we landed early morning. Then into the hubbub of Heathrow, taxi downtown, and getting situated at the Grosvenor Hotel in Mayfair. Getting my clock reset to a 6 hour time difference, I went to bed, setting off the next morning on my grand adventure.  London Tower, Westminster, St Paul's, Harrods; all had my neck aching from all the gawking, but it  went exceedingly well  exploring the captivating city.

Onward on BEA ( aspic of quail eggs inflight breakfast- UGH ) to Amsterdam where I guested at the famous Amstel Hotel and was guided about the area by Dutch friends of my back home co-worker, Anita.  Spring blooming Keukenhof gardens and Volendam, Rijksmuseum, Chinese food downtown, and making new friends made for another grand adventure there.

Next was Dusseldorf to visit Werner, a friend who was earlier exchange student back  in high school.  Werner was an activist/artist living in the old bombed out district of  town.  It was an artists garret he shared with a Lufthansa stewardess who was also a mountain climber ( Like Mt Everest kind of climber) .  We did a street protest, watched the Apollo 16  lunar landing at a tavern ( where, as American, I was the center of attention to an awed crowd.) Poetry slams in German, new wave music and beers were part of this segment; but mostly it was about a hamster.  Werner had no gas service in this old part of town.  He had a old stove but it was nonoperational and they used it as domicile for girlfriend’s pet hamster.  The hamster was let out to play in the morning and it evidently shat upon my toast when I was distracted. By the next day I was caught in the throes of stomach distress.  But I pushed onward on a short flight to Paris. 

I have no idea how I managed to get myself to the noted Hotel Meurice on Avenue George V, overlooking the Gardens Tuileries.  This 5 star landmark immediately responded to my distress, dispatching the house physician to my suite.  He give me some meds and proscribed two days of bed rest and fluids.  So, my first spring visit to glorious Paris in a grand suite with a balcony overlooking the Louvre and Gardens, was spent lying in a sweat reeking couche and spending a lot of time in the salle de bains. By the third day I was queasy, but much better, ordering some toast and tea.  Being a five star hotel, each floor had a room service kitchen that produced a feast served by two liveried waiters while sitting in my stinking bedclothes.  As sumptuous as it was, my delicate stomach allowed only for the toast and tea.  But I showered , dressed and set out determined to see what I could of this “City of Light” in full springtime bloom in my remaining few days. 

Being so close, I set forth to the Louvre.  A period structure more like a labyrinth than museum, I strolled and marveled- so much beauty, that I had almost become numbed after awhile.  I was about to leave when I turned a corner, and, all alone in a gallery was one painting, inside a bulletproof plastic box with humidity control and surrounded by roped stanchions preventing closer inspection.  Here was “Mona.”  There were surprisingly few people there along with me. 

I was saddened.  This famous icon had but a solitary sentinel in her dark room, alone, with this glorious blossoming city outside.  Yet, she smiled in knowing enigma.  Much, much smaller than I had imagined , her simple countenance was overtaken by this huge ornate frame unbefitting her simple purity.   Maybe it was overwhelming awe, but my memory of that moment recalls thinking of pity; that this famous woman was imprisoned for eternity , unable to let her smile escape to fullness , captured for all time as a frozen object of adoration .  I was transfixed in remorse.  I stood for some moments, until a German tour group boisterously destroyed my mood.  Having no further use for roaming the Louvre (That would wait until my next visit years later,)  I went outside and taxied over to the Eiffel Tower area to roam in the spring color of Champs-de-Mars gardens before a lovely early dinner and show at the Lido de Paris .

Next morning up and hotel limo to DeGaulle for TWA 707  Ambassador service  back to the US. I was still trying to sort out my feelings of  Mona Lisa.  She was not at all what I expected, but she sure  had left a lasting impression.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Living

We are born to an imperfect world 

with a mind attuned to it.
Age and experience provide tools
to best accommodate    
our allotted time.   

   
Sometimes We arranges flowers in a vase,
placing together blossoms
of varied color and shape
into groupings of aesthetic
disincarnate pleasures.

We also build, combining nuts and bolts,
and steel pounded to shapes of function,
manufactures that are planned
to better facilitate
negotiations with life.

Our experience provides 
envisioning a whole,
trying to fit pieces
placed with minimum effort
and without forcing.

Age gives Us comfort
accepting leftover pieces,
knowing there will always
be better possibilities tomorrow,
with rational hope there will be that tomorrow.

Sometimes We form a poem
Sometimes construct instructional manual.
Sometimes neither.
and, every so often, both.
It is this striving in whatever moment, 
that gives treasured meaning to birth,
and Our  Life beyond existence.

-Jerry Wendt 2019

Humen Online June 2019 Andres Interview

I was celebrating my thirtieth birthday in April, and I was giving myself a Cuban holiday for this beautiful anniversary. There was no escort on the way, so I gave myself to pay for some organized programs. As a good homosexual, one of these events was a hurricane show at Havana. It is usually difficult for me to impress anything, but our guide, Andrés Yunior Gomez - artist Yunitón - succeeded. Not only was his knowledge of the past and present of the Cuban LGBTQ community, but I was also able to get to know a very talented artist. Because Cuba in Hungary is rarely reported in any kind of news, and most people know that they are building communism uninterruptedly in the 21st century, I thought it would be interesting and instructive for us all to learn a little more about this Caribbean country. And of course, after that, if it wasn't Andrés for this help.
(ONE)

How would you describe your homeland to someone who has never been there?

Cuba is a hot, bohemian, snob, eclectic, rich history and culture country that is often underestimated or beloved by socialist tourist paradise. The country is changing, and while the government would direct society in one direction, it would go in the opposite direction.
Cuba stands for joy, music, cocktails, sex, dancing, sweat, knowledge, but most importantly, with happy people. In our blood, we are friendly and cheerful despite all the crises we had to go through. There is always a time for a cup of coffee, an excuse for partying, but at the same time we work hard - even if not the most accurate.
Our sense of humor is the ship that has helped us through so many difficulties. In Cuba, people love, hug and kiss each other, show their emotions. Perhaps the weather may have to do with this.
The future is a big question mark. Cuba is a guest, more and more open, and not cheap. A country where the homeless can read, but sometimes it does not feel like it is in the 21st century, and it is normal if you are not online. Shyness is an unknown concept: people are staring at, asking for unwanted questions. Rum, cocktails, cigars, and the constant music, and dance, is what's going on everywhere.
Man in Cuba is learning patience. Not only the arrivals here, but also the locals. One of our most common sayings is to "calm down and work together."
Cuba, less known to tourists, lives modestly, almost poorly. Gray and green. The poorest Cubans are those who share their last breadcrumbs and even smile even in the toughest times because they believe "hope is the last thing we can lose."
Cuba is bittersweet, interesting, beautiful and deliciously complex. Something else.

(2)

What is the opinion of the Cubans about the LGBTQ community?

Social public opinion has had a major impact on tourism.
Since the Soviet Union collapsed in the early nineties and US sanctions have been tightened, forced prostitution has increasingly proliferated with the onset of a severe crisis. The government, of course, tried to stop it, but it was an impossible business. It was the sexturism that opened many eyes. Hot men, who had been rejected and despised earlier, suddenly became the main keepers of their families for their income. With the flourishing of prostitution, the number of people who have been bisexual has also increased.
Foreign films and sequences that carry the message of acceptance and tolerance have also shaped our thinking. Despite all its contradictions, mainly due to the fact that it is run by a member of the Castro family, the National Center for Sexual Education (El Centro Nacional de Educación Sexual - CENESEX) has done a great deal for LGBTQ rights and overcoming homophobia. The Cuban film industry is also taking part in the same way, although media, especially Cuban television, still lacks a gay presenter or protagonist whose presence would help the community to accept.
Gay men and gay couples who adapt to heteronormatic expectations are more easily accepted and respected. Feminine gays and trans women are more attached to nightlife, but that does not mean that a trans woman who dresses nicely and does not make a makeup will not be accepted in the world of work or in an educational institution or kindergarten - of course there is a chance to lift his head on transphobia.
The media is practically silent about it, the laughing objects of gay characters in television programs - free from sexuality, and if kisses clash between two of the same sex, it is just for the viewer to have fun with it. As a person dealing with communication and writing, I believe that a warm hero would help. Most recently, when gay men appeared on television, it was one of the country's most popular soap operas, where one gay guy ruined a "happy, heterosexual marriage" and infected the husband with HIV. Another was a lesbian woman who came out of the prison freshly. Where are the depictions of those who save lives, help families, live normally and happily in the same way as anyone else?
However, the sight of gay people on the street in everyday life is accepted. Seeing hands-walking couples who even kiss each other without any atrocity, but most of them try to get into the crowd, of course.
This little anecdote might help you better understand how most people think of the LGBTQ community. A few days ago, a taxi driver, with whom I regularly traveled, said: "I have no problem with the gays, but I do not agree to get married. That much transvestite on the street at night is not normal. ”So does the acceptance of gays in Cuba:“ I have nothing to do with them, but… ”
n what spirit did you grow up? Was it difficult to accept and accept yourself by others?
I grew up as a bisexual. It was a decision that I knew was false, but society believed it was difficult to be warm and dangerous because of rejection and sexual infections. So I tried to suppress the gay boy, but as I understand it, I became more and more attracted, even if I forced myself to get to know the girls. It was terribly tiring. It was part of this hiding that I wanted to prove my own masculinity that I was not afraid to surround myself with gay friends. One day, then, I ran to my older and openly warm friend whose words were etched into my memories forever: “You must be sure you really want it. In this country, no matter how good you are in your work, you will always be warm. If you become a doctor, they will not say that you are a good doctor, but that you are warm, but a good doctor. ”
He helped a lot when I found love. I became confident who I dared to stand before and argue with my own righteousness.
When I came to my mother, her first request - which I found terribly funny - was not to dress in women's clothes. Transphobia is very much present in Cuba, even within the warm community. There is a kind of hierarchy in which the transvestites are at the bottom. Their situation is even worse if they are black and poor. Sounds cruel, but racism and elitism mixed with transphobia are a very existing thing.
Although I have never suffered from any of them, I worked in bars and restaurants, walk the streets and see how people live. During the short time I worked at the National Center for Sexual Education, I also experienced a lot, but I also learned, so now I have the right reason to argue with someone. I believe that you can change the image of the LGBTQ community with determination.
My friends were at the age of 19, my first couple at the age of 20. Most of my friends are still heterosexuals today because I believe in the power of integration. I am a proud, openly gay man, but I do not consider myself a classical activist, nor a warm-up - or, as we call here, a warm Congo. But I think I do it in a discreet way for the community. I talk to people, listen to their opinions, fix them, use their language.

(3)

What do you think the next steps for the Cuban LGBTQ community are?

Our community has recently been particularly angry about what is happening recently. Despite the occasional homophobia, the general acceptance of gays has improved a lot, but the government has withdrawn many of its promises. For example, it was promised that same-sex marriage would be included in the new constitution. There is propaganda everywhere to vote for it, and then this part of the text has been removed from the draft text, saying that the Methodist Church insists on a "traditional family" and it would be wrong for the government to accept same-sex marriage, that the majority of citizens are not yet ready for it.
I don't think this is the case. The most popular Cuban films of recent years have been about transvestites and trans people (Viva and Vestido de novia), and one of the most popular films of all time is about the friendship of a gay and a heterosexual guy from 1992 (Fresa y chocolate). In the warm Congo, year after year it can be seen that the masses of heterosexuals stand for equal rights. Of course there will always be people who do not like it, but why not initiate dialogue and strive for peaceful coexistence?
Mariela Castro, Director of CENESEX, did this for the rights of the gays, but the matter is too much politicized when it comes to people. I don't know how much the world knows about how homophobic the Cuban revolution was from the sixties to the nineties. But it seems that every time a member of the Castro family stands up to defend our rights, it is a good opportunity to clean the judgment of the revolution in this direction.
On May 11th, there was an unauthorized pride parade that received a great deal of response in the international press. What is the reason why they had to be organized illegally?
Yes, there was indeed an alternative procession in downtown Havana. It was the reaction of the people that CENESEX, at the request of the Ministry of Health, withdrew the annual gay congress, referring to the political situation. Our politicians fear - or at least say - that an escalating embargo against the Venezuelan government would have counter-revolutionized the original event and used it to propagate their own goals and messages.
Despite all this, the LGBTQ community decided to go for peace. However, a lot of police officers have fled the streets and arrests have been started, as it is forbidden to organize such an event without official permission. Then he was drowned in chaos and violence, which is not surprising because our community is fed up with repression. It is no coincidence that several international media reported the procession as a Cuban Stonewall rebellion.
Unfortunately, I couldn't go to the event because I was accompanied by a tourist group and my employer was very strict, but I was ashamed of the barbaric behavior of the authorities. A friend of mine wrote an SMS in the evening before me so I wouldn't go out anyway, because there will be a parade in the downtown, where there are many tourists who will see how cruel the police treat people. But not only his publicity, but his retribution will be tougher for him. So, thinking back and seeing the entries on Facebook, I feel like a coward for not going, but I just had to work.
Since then, everything is moving in the usual order, but this process has definitely drawn a line in the history of our community. The retaliation was tough, but the state power is proud of it, which only highlights how homophobic it really is. They prove that they "successfully" defended the revolution.
It is set as a counter-revolutionary event on all existing communication channels and in the public media, but it is a joke, as they cannot prove that enemies of socialism have been organized. The truth is that the parade of our parade was an elementary demand for self-expression and the equal demands of our peaceful demands without even a politician falling into his nose. And all this was so long as the police did not exhaust it all into violence.

(4)

Let's run a little more cheerful waters. You mentioned that there are many tourists in the downtown of Havana. What are the places you would definitely recommend to warm guests?

There are some hot bars in the city, but for some business reasons, most other nightclubs also hold a so-called hot day. You have to know that the parties are starting out late after 11 pm. In some places, there is a drag queen show around midnight, which can take up to an hour and then the music and dance start.
If I had to pick up some places, one of them is definitely the Las Vegas bar, one of the few hot bars that are open every day of the week with popular drag shows. It is important to note that they are not allowed in a t-shirt or short-sleeved shirt. Regular vendors are also available to lend to long-sleeved shirts and t-shirts for unprepared visitors. Not exactly the coolest bar, there are a lot of male prostitutes, but if you let go of yourself and grasp enough humor, it can be a very good party.
On Saturday evening, after 11 pm, the National Theater will host El Divino parties. There is also a show here and a much larger dance floor, and the more expensive the entry, the more local people keep it. In fact, there is almost no difference between the two already mentioned places.
Then there are other places like the XY bar or El Mixto, which are also open every day. The King Bar gay friendly, La Esencia on Monday nights, Pazilla Wednesday will hold themed hot parties in the evenings.
It is worth mentioning Mi Cayito in Havana, which is the local hot beach - sometimes there are some interesting things going on in the bushes.

  (5)

How does HIV work with prostitution? What is the current Cuban HIV situation?

In Cuba, if you do not live in a monogamous relationship, your family and friends will regularly warn you: "be careful, the streets are bad." That means that if you are careless and irresponsible, you can catch some sexually transmitted disease very easily. But this, I think, is everywhere in the world.
In my country, HIV is still a huge stigma to this day. Some of my friends, friends who live with HIV, and many of them dare to tell someone they're getting used to, rather than using them to get infected. Some people do not dare to do so because of their relationship, and this also affects their behavior. However, it has to be said that health care is free and that the government is trying to help people living with HIV, in line with its strength. Recently, I read that PreP will soon become available, which is a fantastic thing and we hope that this will reduce the number of newly infected people. Of course, the situation is complicated by the embargo, but we have wonderful doctors we can trust. In this respect, I think we can be exemplary for the whole world.

  (6)

Andrés, please close, tell me a little bit about yourself. What do you do with guided tours, how do you spend your everyday life?

I graduated from community communication. I worked for a while at the Information Center and then at CENESEX, and then, as so many infinitely underpaid graduates, I left the public sector behind myself, and first I was a waiter. Then I cooked at an airbnb hotel and now I work as a full-time tour guide. I've been doing it for four years and I love it. But I also write, paint, and try to put my creations into galleries, which is not easy if you are not at an art school. But I'm patient and I believe it happens for every reason. With my written and painted works, I try to share stories, thoughts about my country, my life and the people I meet. And last but not least, there are things you can't say out loud, but the magic of art can do it.
My story is similar. He is also a career loser, and he was also a waiter, otherwise he would not be able to live anything, so the salaries were so bad. And this is perfectly normal in Cuba. That's why there are so many psychologists, engineers, doctors, journalists, historians who work today as taxi drivers, cooks, waiters, or even security guards.
Sometimes I think about trying life in another country, but only in the short term. I would not be able to leave Cuba permanently behind me. Here my friends live, my parents, my mother is my only son. For the sake of money alone, so that I would function as a cash dispenser for the Hungarians, I would not be willing to go.
Of course, we have our social and economic difficulties, but I feel lucky and have a happy life here. I love and love being surrounded by wonderful and supportive people, I have many reasons to smile. As I mentioned earlier, "Hope is the last thing we can lose."

(7)
Daniel Waliduda

Aunt Freida and The Gulpa Tree

Freida was a despot, a  demon from Hell incarnate. 
She was my aunt, but one we hid from after her cheek
squeezing greetings that left permanent indentation on our faces. After passing her “hrumphing muster,” we would hide until after her swaggering walk in dismissive adieu.

About town Aunt Freida was feared.  She appalled grocery owners, squeezin fruit beyond marketability, calling for the manager whatever she thought things improper, and crashing her cart gleefully into slower moving shoppers , giving them painful rear knee joint contusions.

Freida would take two parking places in handicapped slots. If a parking attendant tried to ticket her, she gave them such a tirade they shrunk from going near her car ever again.
Girl scouts despised Freida.  She called their cookies hockey pucks.  Trick or Treaters hated Freida, with lights off she would’t answer her door even while she was easily seen staring out her window.  The Town Council reviled Freida- Every meeting brought yet another ill-founded  complaint.  Even Freida’s neighbors considered her the most cantankerous argumentative person they had ever known.

For all her encompassing bile, Freida had one love-  Gardening.  Her yard was a splendor of beauty .  Lush flowering plants, exotic trees and manicured shrubs.  Freida kowtowed the Garden Club into awarding her best Gardener every single year.  Her passion for things  horticultural was as unbridled as her vicious personality.  Family rarely visited Freida’s splendor, because she relemtlesly lectured to never stray from narrow path nor touch nothing.  Visits ended with Frieda  serving stale crackers and insipid tea from reused tea bags.

One season, at the big Botannical Garden Show, Freida encountered a booth advertising unique and exotic seeds.  It was fronted by an older Chinese woman.  The wise old woman knew Freida’s  type, and when an intrigued Freida demanded her most precious and scarce item, the woman brought out a carved Cypress box, opening to reveal a single, large, withered-looking seed.  Freida demanded, “And just WHAT is this?” The proprietor told her this was a “most unique” tree called a “Gulpa,” and there were precious few known to the entire world.  Freida just HAD to have that seed, and forthwith paid the exorbitant price asked.  She hurried home  and planted her seed center garden, waiting with great expectations.

Throughout the summer the Gulpa tree grew surprisingly fast.  Strange,  with  gnarly trunk and only two branches with few leaves, it looked prehistoric.  One could not say it was attractive , but then, Freida only saw its singularity.  About August, the tree began to form a very large crowning pod.  Was it a bloom?  A seed pod?  No one knew.  People walking by saw the monstrosity and wondered what Freida was growing.   The pod enlarged to ridiculous proportions, almost causing the tree to lean toward the ground on one side.  Freida could barely wait.  This pod smelled as nasty as rotting garbage.  Freida was insensitive to comments that her “baby” stunk up the neighborhood, but the neighborhood felt that the smell was no worse than having Freida harangue them, and rarely said anything.

Late in the month the pod appeared as though it about to open.  Freida was ecstatic.  She invited everyone to a rare garden party to witness her Gulpa open its mysterious pod.  The curious came.  Hell, the whole town came, vexing Freida almost beyond tolerance as they trampled her Begonias and Delphiniums

Then, the tree pod leaned downward.  The throng Ooohed and ahed.  The opening pod almost pulled the tree over as it neared the ground.  Freida was beside hereself,  sidling up to the straining pod, to assure her prominence in all  pictures.  She placed her hand on the Gulpa pod.  With a sound and smell that all could only characterize as a humungous fart, the pod opened. 

It engulfed Freida, and in one loud glorious and obnoxious “GULP,” swallowed her whole.  Just like that.  Devoured the old bitch.  Silence ensued as the crowd couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry or applaud.  The fire Department was called, and not even the “Jaws of Life” could pry open that pod, Freida was sealed as though in a tomb.  The State Agriculture Department could find no evidence that any Gulpa Tree existed anywhere, ever . 

A week after the incident, with failed efforts to chainsaw down the resistant tree, its color paled and it began to wilt.  After a monthof  pungent rotting smells permeating the town, finally, the tree fell and began to decompose into the lawn. 
Today, Freida lies in an unmarked grave and the entire town is mute about the incident concerning the Gulpa Tree .              
                                                                                                       - Jerry Wendt 2019

The Gulpa Tree ( From the Chinese  Tūnyàn ) is a composite of The Venus Fly Trap, The Century Plant, The prehistoric  tree Williamsonia, and “Audrey,” beloved lead in the movie “The Little Shop of Horrors.”  While entirely a fictional creation, the current state of genetic engineering makes it an entirely  reasonable, feasible, and fascinating possibility.  If you attend any future botanical events, you would do well  to look at specimen labels from a distance.

Wholly Images from an Edge

 Images from an Edge- Kefalonia
 

Pen in hand, trying to distill images,
diverted from across stone wall,
all encompassing Cerulean ocean,
demarcated by cloudless azure Ionian skies.
Blues  broken by one solitary pale green potted cactus
brought to housewarming three years ago.
Who brings a cactus as housewarming?
Dear Carlos did, transporting himself
and cactus from Portugal on a lark.
Or, better, on a wayward Kittiwake.

Carlos sits oblique to me at a cumbersome old hewn wood table,
molasses poured onto and soaking into a sunbleached canvas chair.
Canopied over dark sunglasses shadowing bushy brows and vamping eyes,
a frayed straw hat cools less than the Moschofilero quaffed all day
ameliorating the blistering Greek sun.
I  surreptitiously spy Carlo’s dick peeking out from the loose leg hole
of his stretched faded pink short shorts.  Studied?
Probably not, given his impetuous nature,
but enigma is reason enough why he, like the cactus , stay welcome-
permanent transplants here to Kefalonia.

Coming from a history of fine Duoro vines, Carlos is also appreciated
for never complaining about our copious Moschofilero.
I must not weave a withholden story
without disclosing Carlos often causes darkened azure skies
to populate with non celestial stars
additions to actual ones I see in furtive glances up
between his shoulders and bushy brows.
Even noctural sea breezes cannot quell that blaze.

Then, there is Talia.  She came with the villa,
lords over our gaggle of straw hats and ubiquitous  sunblock,
and takes prisoners with her ambrosial calamari salad
brought to frequent picnics at Myrtos Beach.
We rhapsodize over her salt baked sea bass that often
punctuates glorious sunsets soaked with still more Moschofilero.
Talia is lore of many island stories.  Her casual beauty and zaftig curves hide any
lines of life’s distress in her face.  Her smile comes easy but veils staunch empowerment.  Talia tempers her timbre with solemn pronouncement,
“There is no ‘why’! It’s because I said so.”

She endears with her ferociously focused Xeri game play
morphing composed woman to a “rape and pillage” 
martinet of startling animation and vocal range
when she is losing, suspects irregularity,
or has suckled without throttle on the Tsipouro Brandy.
Many nights Talia engages the table with her embellished
telling of younger times with randy Greek mariners.
Ears are scorched with her ribald tales.  Lobes are fastened to her tellings
She is my anchor and protector with her gentle love and stern hand.

Talia’s Mother Hyperia still keeps house on the island.
This  independent woman infrequently deigns to visit,
dressed entirely in black in her 17th year in mourning  her late fisherman husband Stavos.
Her visits are eagerly anticipated as she comes attached
to basket filled with Bobota and Dolmakadia.
 Hyperia eschews drinking alcohol, but in finding a full tumbler of Moschofilero
appearing at arms reach, she can orchestrate a stealthy disappearance from her glass.
Up to 9 times !

This sturdy woman is,  for unknown reason, taken to me.  I am greeted with lung exorcizing hugs, and big, nearly toothless smiles.  Carlos, however, gets just a stink eye.  Hyperia sits and stares at him and his every action as  though he was about to steal the flatware. Something akin to her Moschofilero disappearances, this affectation resides in the woman herself.  When happening a visit to the old woman’s cottage, there is nary ever an appearance of a single purloined fork or spoon, so we are at loss as to where the pieces go.  Talia figures she melts them down to spearheads for when Turks ever attack the island.

Hyperia and Talia mostly get caught up talking  in Greek , but quietly.
Her very thunderous operatic tenor voice is reserved to responses in our discussions of religion.
The word “Turkish” seems to elicit a particularly saliva laden response.
But we adjust to Hyperia,  and she is a fixture much as a comfortable sofa ,
noting that sofas have no aptitude for baskets of goodies.

This daily core cadre is sporadically seasoned with mainland friends.
They come and shatter idyll with their chatter on worldly matters,
matters that often bring fanciful evenings to a halt in resolute silence,
a sobriety in gratitude for the  monotony of bliss we marinate in.
We shy from loading up with too many outworldly parcels so difficult to hold and balance.

The resident three disdain feeling threatened.
Salvation is in not existing a time that Carlos nor Talia, nor the Moschofilero and Calamari salad, even dear Mána,  or our immigrant cactus, allows me to sink into a slough of despond.  Nary a regret that I lounge linger here, isolated
and disconnected in Ionian revel, and the comfort of continuity .
Leaving no undarned holes to fall through- this pen leaves you images why.
While Carlos and Talia bid you, Γεια σας από τον παράδεισο
(Hello from paradise)

- Dedicated to Doris "Magnolia" Stanek with love, on her being a cancer survivor at a gathering of our clan July 28,2019

Images from the Edge Inkhole, PinkHole, & Sinkhole

Images from the Edge
  Inkhole, PinkHole, & Sinkhole

Pen in hand, trying to distill images,
diverted from across stone wall,
all encompassing Cerulean ocean,
demarcated by cloudless azure Ionian skies.
Blues  broken by one solitary pale green potted cactus
brought to housewarming three years ago.

Who brings a cactus as housewarming?
Dear Carlos did, transporting himself
and cactus from Portugal on a lark.
Or, better, on a wayward Kittiwake.

Carlos sits oblique to me at a cumbersome old hewn wood table,
molasses poured onto and soaking into a sunbleached canvas chair.
Canopied over dark sunglasses shadowing bushy brows and vamping eyes,
his frayed straw hat cools less than the Moschofilero quaffed all day
ameliorate the blistering Greek sun.

I  surreptitiously spy Carlo’s dick peeking out from the loose leg hole
of his stretched faded pink short shorts.  Studied?
Probably not, given his impetuous nature,
but enigma is reason enough why he, like the cactus ,stay welcome-
permanent transplants here to Kefalonia.

Coming from a history of Duoro vines, Carlos is also appreciated
for never complaining about our copious Moschofilero.
I must not weave a withholden story
without disclosing Carlos often causes darkened azure skies
to populate with non celestial stars added to actual ones
 I see  as furtive glances up between his shoulders and bushy brows.
Even noctural sea breezes cannot quell that blaze.

Then, there is Talia.  She came with the villa,
lords over our gaggle of straw hats and ubiquitous  sunblock
and takes prisoners with her ambrosial calamari salad
brought to frequent picnics at Myrtos Beach.
We rhapsodize over her salt baked sea bass that often
punctuates glorious sunsets soaked with still more Moschofilero.

Talia is lore of many island stories.  Her casual beauty and zaftig curves hide any
lines of life’s distress in her face.  Her smile comes easy but veils  staunch empowerment.  Talia tempers her timbre with solemn pronouncement,
“There is no ‘why’! It’s because I said so.”

She endears with her ferociously focused Xeri game play
morphing composed woman to a “rape and pillage” 
martinet of startling animation and vocal range
when she is losing, suspects irregularity,
or has suckled without throttle on the Tsipouro Brandy.

Many nights Talia engages the table with her embellished
telling of younger times with randy Greek mariners.
Ears are scorched with her ribald tales.
She is my anchor and protector with her gentle love and stern hand.

This daily core cadre is oft seasoned with mainland friends.
They come and shatter idyll with their worldly matters,
matters that often bring fanciful evenings to resolute silence,
our sobriety in gratitude for the  monotony of bliss we marinate in.
We shy from loading up with too many outworldly parcels to hold and balance.
The resident three eschew feeling threatened.

But, there is not a time that Carlos nor Talia, nor the Moschofilero and Calamari salad, or even the immigrant cactus, allow me to sink into a slough of despond.
Nary a regret that I lounge linger here, isolated
and disconnected in Ionian revel, and the comfort of continuity .
Leaving no undarned holes to fall through- this pen leaves you images why.
While Carlos and Talia bid you, Γεια σας από τον παράδεισο
(Hello from paradise)