HABLA MIERDA

Slapping Charlie Crist’s… um… Partner

As soon as my friend forwarded Danny Brody’s article, I knew no good could come from being enveloped in an uncontrollable rib frenzy; little did I know that Fat Man’s BBQ would send me on a four-day criminal odyssey spanning the state.

The article was forwarded to me by a friend who’s stationed in Austin, but has been going through artillery training in Godforesaken, Oklahoma; he was able to get some leave time before his move to Austin and nothing seemed better than coming back home, especially with the prospect of ribs so good that they would send you into a frenzy.

On the Thursday after his arrival I got word that another high school friend of ours, Jon, a pilot now living in Norfolk, was also in town for a few days. We met up at Transit Lounge in Brickell for a live show with a couple other locals. Around 2 in the morning, we decided it was time for ribs. Four of us jumped into a car and headed out to 3rd and NE 79th Street.

Guided by the purple neon of the Take One Lounge and Strip Club, we maneuvered through street vendors and parked at the far end of the lot. As we walked towards Fat Man Ben’s yellow mobile barbeque enrichment laboratory, I could feel people staring at us. Looking completely out of place once we reached the truck, Ben and his wife were sitting outside on green plastic chairs. Before we could say hello, Ben asked us if we had read the article - it was that apparent.

Unfortunately, Danny failed to mention (or perhaps I glossed over it) that in the name of public safety, Ben has imposed a moratorium on his ribs Sunday through Thursday. After careful study, he’s determined the uncontrollable frenzy resulting from ingestion of his secret barbeque sauce must be restricted to two days a week, Friday and Saturday. As I would come to find out, it’s simply a matter of economics. The frenzy lasts for at least two days, during which you are unable to work as you are overcome by passions you didn’t know you had. If Ben were to make is ribs available daily, we would run the very real risk of economic and cultural collapse. It would be like The Night of the Living Baseheads - if only drug dealers were as socially conscious.

He offered some of his fresh tilapia, but when a man is out for ribs nothing else can satiate him. I promised I’d be back the following night. I don’t think he believed me, but he promised that if I did show up he would have some of his special Tenderoni ribs ready.

Another friend of ours, Mike, was slated to arrive on town the following day and immediately briefed on our mission. He borrowed the family car, a 2007 BMW 335i, met us in Coral Gables, and drove us back to Fat Man’s BBQ at around 11 o’clock Friday night.

The entire scene was a bit much to take in as we drove through looking for parking. People were in the street, car trunks had been converted to kiosks selling everything from bootlegged DVDs to, um…., other items of interest, and there were at least 3 giant smokers cooking all sorts of BBQ. We found a parking spot about a block away next to an abandoned lot. Mike openly hoped that his father wasn’t too fond of his wheels.

Frankly, I think the people there were much more scared of us than we were of them. People kept staring at us as if to ask, “the fuck is wrong with you?” as we casually strolled along the sidewalk. When we approached his van, Fat Man’s wife immediately recognized us and hurried Ben to come to the window and say hello. As he chopped up some samplers, Ben said we were a little late, but he had saved us some Tenderoni - the man’s word is his bond. He offered us our first taste of the frenzy which we hurriedly devoured.

He started us out with a more mellow barbeque sauce designed to create a fever but not a frenzy. He smiled as our reaction to his ribs escalated from Mmmmm… to Mmmm… ohhhhh….. fuck me…. mmmm… these… mmmmm… are….. mmmmmm… oh fuck these are mmm…… some…. great….. fucking….. ribs…. mmm…... We immediately ordered two slabs of his Tenderoni ribs with Fat Man’s Sauce #3. We were ready for the frenzy, or so we thought. Fat Man’s regulars fought back laughter.

As we waited for our ribs, Mike noticed the sign on the side of the truck:

Our BBQ is so good it’ll make you slap the govner’s wife

We engaged in some nervous laughter. Did this sauce really have the potential to change the political landscape? Would ingesting Fat Man #3 mean Crist would get a politically expedient but emotionally fraudulent marriage so that he may “vet” as a vice-presidential candidate and, in turn, cause us to drive up Tallahassee, break into the gubernatorial mansion, find our way to his new wife’s assuredly separate bedroom, and bitchslap the shit out of her? It was hubris, of course; but what if it wasn’t? What if this is why he only offers his ribs two days a week? Would we be able to resist?

Ben proudly chopped up a couple of slabs and gave us a sampler of barbeque chicken. If nothing else, he is intensely proud of his ribs and has a way with customers that the bulk of the self-imporant service staff in Miami would do well to model. Ben cares about his ribs, but he cares more about his customers. If there is anyone left that still appreciates quality customer service, you owe it to yourself to go and meet Ben. I wish everyone who ran a business followed his example.

It quickly became apparent that we would be taking our ribs to-go. There’s unfortunately nowhere to sit outside of the strip club. I’d love to see Fat Man bring out some folding chairs and tables, but alas our conversation turned to a suitable location for rib consumption. As we drove southbound on I-95 we could feel the effects of our sample ribs beginning to take hold. Our minds became foggy. We began to think irrational thoughts. Should we go eat on Key Biscayne where years earlier we’d stalk the beach, underage and drunk on Old English 800, knocking over wooden lifeguard towers? Back to Billy’s house in Coral Gables? No, this was a special night. We hadn’t all been together in months if not years. This needed to be special. We became determine to eat back at our old high school.

Pretending to drive to the Ermita, we surveyed the security presence at La Salle High School. LHS has tightened up since we graduated. Large green gates now encircled all openings to the campus. There was minimal security presence, but enough to deter us from dining while overlooking Biscayne Bay in our old student parking lot. Instead we headed over to the football/track field, found our old benches, and started to dig into ribs.

Succulent pieces of marinated and smoked flesh dripped off the bones. We all struggled to form coherent sentences as the endorphins began to circulate throughout our bodies. Billy, indeed, began to shake uncontrollably. Jon and Mike had trouble handling their slab, but I was tearing through mine without regard to the warning on the van. My pupils began to dilate. I felt an uncontrollable rage building within me.

We thought we might need some water. We had quickly gone through the orange soda we purchased from Ben and were regretting we didn’t pick up a twelve pack on the way over. I looked behind me and saw the Willie Chacon Memorial Water Troth. Chacon was the first coach of the Royal Lions when football was reinstated during our sophmore year. As a testament to how horrifically bad we were, both Jon and I were on the team - Jon was the starting slot receiver and I was the 3rd string running back, just behind Danny Fucking Tramino (for whom I was required to do fumble punishment so he could have more time actually practicing) and a blank slot on the depth chart. Coach had built a watering station that consisted of little more than a hose attached to a PVC pipe with drilled holes. Water would shoot out the holes, you’d get your face wet, and, if you were in my position, go back to crabbing up and down the field because Danny couldn’t hold on to the fucking ball.

The water did nothing to satiate me. The next morning we began our Memorial Day tactical withdraw of the city and headed down to Key West. I was still fuming. I couldn’t understand it, but I felt a restlessness still within me. I felt my hand twitching as I checked the daily news on my phone. Crist was meeting with McCain. Crist… Crist…. I… need… to… slap… his…. his….. wif…. significant othe…. um…. partner.

Fat Man’s BBQ on 333 NE 79th St. Best goddamn ribs in the city - nay, the world.

— Alex Cabrera, May 27, 2008. 2 Comments.

A Scene from a Chinese Restaurant

What follows is a short vignette touching on the topics of racial discrimination and the circle of violence present in so many of American inner cities:

EXT. Sidewalk in urban area - NIGHT

A couple of friends are walking down the street looking for a place
to eat. 

Customer #1
Yo, let's NEXT CHINESE CRYSTAL joint over here and
get some shrimp fried rice and mein at the same time.

They walk into NEXT CHINESE CRYSTAL restaurant.

INT. Next Chinese Crystal restaurant

The friends walk into the restaurant and begin looking over
the menu. In a small room behind the counter is a large
asian cook, Chang, who speaks in a gruff voice, his native
accent betrayed by far too many yearsof working in the hood.

		Chang
	(singing to himself Michael Jackson's You Are Not Alone)

	You are not alone... I am here with you...
	How could this be...

		Customer 1
	Ayo, Chang. What's up...

		Chang
	I'll be right out.			

		Customer 2
	Can we get something to eat here?

Chang walks towards the front counter.

		Chang
	Right, Right. One Second....

Finally gets to the counter

		Chang
	Ok, then. Your order?

		Customer 1
	Ok, ok. Let me get two of those beef fried rices.
	Let me get a half a chicken wing - don't put that
	little retarded leg in it... cut that off...

		Chang
	Ok, then.

		Customer 1
	Don't put no onions in my white rice.

		Customer 2
	Hey, hey. I need four chicken wings fried hard and shit...

		Chang
	What's this?!?

		Customer 2
	I need four chi....

		Chang
	What's this?! What's this?! The two of you?
	At once? Ok, then.

		Customer 1
	Hey, hold up.

		Chang
	You want beef? 

		Customer 1
	No, no. We want beef to eat. We ain't got no beef.

		Customer 2
	I need four chicken wings fried hard, nigga.
	What the fuck you talking about?

		Chang
	Alright. I'll kick your monkey asses my-fucking-self.

And with that Chang does a SOMERSAULT-FLIP OVER THE COUNTER
and lands in between the two friends. The friends recoil and
speaking over one another.

		Customer 1
	What you coming over the counter for?!?

		Customer 2
	You've been watching them kung-fu films or something.

		Customer 1
	The fuck? This nigga's got chops?!

		Chang
	(speaking over the confused friends)

	You think I open in the middle of the hood and
	don't know what's going on? I fucking represent!

		Customer 2
	I'll fuck you the fuck up!

		Chang
	I will avenge my brothers by representing and
	whupping your ass, word is bond.

		Customer 1
	Nigga, this ain't Channel Five, nigga. Someone
	going to die here.

		Chang
	Alright, then. I will show you Flying-Fist-of-Judah 

		Customer 1
	You ain't going to show me shit...

		Chang
	That's right

		Customer 1
	I'm going to show you...

		Chang
	That's right. 

		Customer 2
	Straight from Mortal Kombat!

		Chang
	You're just talking. Obviously, the two of you
	are just bitch ass niggas.

		Customer 2
	Well, nigga, then do something. You talking this
	whole bullshit.

		Customer 1
	What's up, punkass! What's up.

		Chang
	Alright, then. This is a chinese restaurant but like
	Burger King, have it your way.

Suddenly Chang reaches back and PUNCHES Customer 1 right in
the face. A brawl breaks out and Chang begins landing
blow-over-blow to both shocked customers.

		Customer 2
	Awww.... this nigga here....

— Alex Cabrera, May 21, 2008. Start the discussion.

More Bababullshit

I was hungry. It was midnight, I hadn’t had anything to eat, just gotten back on the beach, and knew that all I had in my refrigerator was a Pür water dispenser and a case of Sam Adams. It was going to be junk food that night, and the person on the other end of the line was urging me to break down and grab some McDonald’s. I immediately was resigned to indignation. What she didn’t understand was that I’m boycotting the establishment because of their unfair condiment distribution policies - I like my Golden Fries with BBQ sauce but I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to pay 33¢ for the condiment when those mouth-breathing knuckle-dragging McNugget-eaters get it included with their fried hunks of genetically mutated faceless chicken meat - and just how far someone who was raised Cuban will go in a one-person boycott.

The boycott is something woven into the fabric of Miami ever since Cubans arrived and refused to associated themselves with anything or anyone that had even a peripheral connection with the Castro regime. Taking a moment to forget the corrupt politicians and unethical business practices that the Cuban-American community has produced, one has to admire what we’ve been able to accomplish as a mostly unified community. Regardless of their horrible policies, we do have a senator, a couple of congressional representatives, the highest per-capita income of any hispanic group, and a disproportionate amount of political influence - not bad for a group who’s second generation is just now coming into adulthood.

So while we might not agree with each other all the time, it should fill someone with pride when one of our own is rewarded for their accomplishments by the body public; and while we don’t speak outside of family gatherings, I feel especially proud since the recipient is my cousin. That’s why it was great to hear that Ana Menendez had been honored with a Fulbright Fellowship and is going to have the opportunity to teach American Studies in Egypt. Cuban-Americans throughout the city should be proud that one of our own has received prestigious recognition for her work.

Then again, if we were a logical group of people we wouldn’t have spent the last 40 years in someone else’s country because we fucked up our own beyond recognition.

The news had not yet become public before Val Prieto published it in a barely intelligible post on the always unintentionally comedic Babalu Blog. It didn’t take long for the other shining beacon of unreasoned debate to chime in.

Val Prieto:

It just goes to prove that if one wants to win a “prestigious” award from some entity of the “intelligentsia” one need only be a greyscale writer that shits on his or her own, with the keen ability to stir said shit simply to foment divisive anger, while ignorig the obvious truths if not obfuscating same. Oe must also have a penchant for disliking his or her heritage, while accepting all criticism of same as gospel.

Setting aside Val’s grammatical rape of the English language, one has to wonder what should foment more “divisive anger”: critical discussion of the shortcomings of one’s own community in the hope of advancing understanding between that community and the society at-large; or hate-filled vitriol directed towards a member of the community because they hold a dissenting point of view? What is more self-loathing: being able to admit the shortfalls of one’s own heritage, or wishing death on a person because they’ve been recognized for trying to bridge the gap between our community and the society that was gracious enough to allow us to stay here once we ruined our own nation?

Ana might be too high-minded to address these matters, but thankfully I have neither the professionalism nor the restraint. Besides, when people begin to openly hope for a member of our community, a writer, and a family member to die in a suicide-bombing or at the hands of terrorist organization, the discourse goes pretty quickly from reasoned differences to fucking personal.

The problem with Val and Manuel and their godforsaken readership is that they haven’t yet realized what the rest of us have: they are no different from the government that they spend every waking moment railing against. They are no more tolerant of dissent than the Cuban regime they attack over their imprisonment and treatment of dissenters. The hypocrisy is palatable.

The liberation that the Babalus of the world claim to work towards will never happen so long as people like Val and Manuel continue to espouse a belief that one cannot be a member of our community if one holds a difference of opinion. Ana’s been attacked for not being Cuban enough or self-loating or any one of a number of ridiculous ad-hominem attacks designed to shield these brave internet counter-revolutionaries from any introspection that might lead to the conclusion that there are some facets of our problems that we have created for ourselves.

Don’t take it to personally, Val. While Ana’s talents are taking her to different corners of the world, yours are allowing you to renovate your kitchen in an unincorporated part of the county. You should be proud; after all, Ana has to go half way around the world to visit a shanty town while all you have to do is go into your backyard.

— Alex Cabrera, May 14, 2008. 7 Comments.