What can i say? I like to write:)
Mostly about society and culture.
Two Guys Walk Into a Bar...
Looking around, it was more or less what I had imagined – a cozy, dimly lit, undeniably chic, underground affair that owed much of its appeal to its incidental borrowing of 1920s speakeasy aesthetics. Though its ethos was founded on anything but the historical marshes of American culture. The Lobo was prided on a pedigree; passionately and purposefully Cuban.
Table for Three
We gathered ourselves just beyond the single-doored entrance of the restaurant, ushered in under the harsh confluence of the dark and the cold that titled that ordinary winter evening. Or, perhaps, not so ordinary when considered in light of the occasion that brought us there that night. Ms. Sabel, our close friend of two decades, had just turned twenty-seven, and Sira and I, harbouring a semblance of appreciation and respect for social ceremony, had insisted on our taking her to dinner to celebrate.
In Anticipation of Trump's Obituary
There’s a reflexive moral convulsion that comes from the prospect of speaking ill of the recently deceased. The memory of the dead is something of a sacrosanctity, that, if impinged upon, affords the transgressor with a degree of social disdain. Hunter S. Thompson did not care for this consequence, however, when he penned his scathing obituary of Richard Nixon in 1994. The late, great American journalist even doubled down in an interview three years later when he exclaimed, “…speak no evil of the dead. Well, why not? What the fuck?”
What’s a little torture if I’m getting paid for it?
Let there be no confusion – as I write this, I am in physical pain, but, hell, I’m getting paid for it. I’m lying in a hospital bed, one of those king single-sized affairs all clad in pristine white with a panel of plugs, buttons and dials on the wall behind me. My t-shirt shows bulges here and there from the half a dozen monitoring electrodes that leech onto my chest and the wires that snake down the left of me and meet at the portable ECG machine by my wrist. I wouldn’t dare lift my arm from the bed – exactly why I’m typing this with just my right hand. The slightest movement only enhances the pain, and as it is, I’m in agony.
The Meaning Of Life
A question I’d conjecture we’ve all pondered at one time or another in our lives; indeed, a question that has found the curiosity and obsession of countless intellectuals throughout history, from Plato to Nietzsche and beyond: What is the meaning of life?
The Temperamental Resonance of Squidward Tentacles
It’s funny, just like the genre of the show itself, how our childhood appreciation of ‘Spongebob Squarepants’ – our once giddy adoration for the animated protagonist – is, in adulthood, bewitched to that of an antithesis, where we find more temperamental solidarity with its bitter antagonist, Squidward Tentacles, than we do with show’s eponymous hero, of whom we may retrospectively view, in our more cynical and adult moments, as an idealistic Pollyanna of epic, fictive proportions.