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"A bottle of wine begs to be shared; I have never met a miserly wine lover."
There is no shortage of top ten lists or funny wine quotes clogging the web and promoting the positive effects of wine consumption. If Halloween is a health risk then the best way to avoid over indulging in mass-produced sugar products is to eat a proper meal and focus (in moderation, of course) on a good glass of wine. The sugar won't stand a chance at tugging the heartstrings or clogging up the arteries with a good bottle of red staring down at you.
The great food and beverage writer M.F.K Fisher wrote, "I can no more think of my own life without thinking of wine and wines and where they grew for me and why I drank them when I did and why I picked the grapes and where I opened the oldest procurable bottles, and all that, than I can remember living before I breathed."
Step aside Mr. Letterman, here are my top ten reasons to share a glass this Halloween.
1. You will sound much more intelligent when answering the question, "trick or treat?"
2. Nothing says "thank you neighbour" like a good coffee mug full of red wine
3. It's the quickest way to erase the memory of #Sandy
4. The weather forecast is for cloudy with a chance of wine
5. A liver transplant sounds far less intimidating than a heart transplant (red wine is supposed to protect your heart, right?)
6. It will really help to make those homemade costumes look like Oscar winning wardrobes
7. Two words: wine gums
8. Why should this night be different from any other?
9. The doorbell rings every few seconds and beer takes much longer to pour
10. It rhymes with Frankenstein
Here is what I will be pouring tonight for Halloween (with tasting notes).
Cordella Rosso Di Montalcino 2009 (251462) puts forth a flavour profile making it a dead ringer for a young Brunello. The initial noisome squall gives way to iron scents and the taste of spicy plums. Very approachable, fresh and vibrant. Great food wine for the here and now. 90
Peique Tinto Mencía 2010 (219204) vanquishes hardship for violet pleasure. Sublunary stones rolling through subterranean tar beds of caramelizing sugars. Roses and red berry fruit rise from the burn. 88
Another option is to transform your wine bottle into a scary libation. Here's a video to show you how:


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subset: commoncrawl


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Whatever You Want
DOWNLOAD: Whatever You Want
I very rarely hear an artist for the first time and fall and hard as I did for Vienna Teng, but from the moment she opened her set with 'Whatever You Want' when she played with Over The Rhine earlier this week, I was hooked! Her slightly quirky, syncopated lyrical delivery, the delicately beautifully but complex rhythms and the totally amazing ways her crazy-talented producer, Alex Wong (and also her only backup musician) can turn a snare drum and a few other simple percussion instruments into an orchestra, all had me shaking my head in wonder. And while I'm tossing out compliments, I hear a lot of Aimee Mann in this girl, both in her vocal style and her smart lyrics. WIth all the amazing indie stuff flying at me from all directions, it has gotten a lot harder to truly impress me, but when her set was done I was moved enough to buy all four of her albums! 'Whatever You Want' is off of her 2006 release, Dreaming Through The Noise, but she's touring now to promote her latest album, Inland Territory, and for all you List Members up in Boston, she's are playing the Berklee Performance Center tonight! I don't often push, but I really think this is a CD you should all buy immediately, if for no other reason than the outstanding 'Grandmother Song'…..if you're all nice I might feature that one next week…but in the meantime, I'm expecting all of you to head over to both her MySpace page and her Website and report back to me about what y'all think, and when you're done with that, check out Alex's other gig on The Paper Raincoat MySpace page.


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Cuba's Fumbling Marxism: An Eyewitness Account
Born in Scotland, educated in France and England, JAMES CAMERON has been a reporter for more than twenty-five years. As chief foreign correspondent for the London NEWS CHRONICLE, he was one of the first Western observers to travel freely in Red China, and his account of what was going on inside this Communist country was set forth in his book MANDARIN RED, published in 1955. Now a free-lance journalist, he traveled recently to Cuba at the ATLANTIC'S invitation. Here is what he found.
The sun comes down like an operatic curtain, subsiding into the Gulf in an oversumptuous ostentation of purple and orange, dragging away the clay from Havana as, an hour or so later, it will do over Mexico; as it is now doing, doubtless with less drama, over Florida, ninety miles away across the strait. The tops of the high buildings continue to glow for a while as the warm, eroded houses of the waterfront grow pastel and dusky. By and by the long rampart by the sea is silhouetted with sitting figures like a frieze: clerks, peddlers, soldiers, lovers, girls with long brown legs, old men with nothing on their minds. The sun vanishes like a falling stone.
At the corner of the two main streets an illuminated sign obligingly points the way to seven—or is it eight—nightclubs. Atracciones. Le Show a 22 hrs. One of them is, quite irrelevantly, called Le Red. There will be practically nobody in it at twenty-two hours; perhaps not even afterward. Over the housetops glow the signs: "Viva la Emulacion Socialista," "Ganemos la Batalla," and "Hemos Hecho una Revolucion Mas Grande Que Nosotros Mismos"—"We have built a revolution bigger than ourselves."
Outside the hotel (it is late) a young woman in the blue denim of the militia holds a very old Lee-Enfield as if it were a bouquet. "You want?"
"Very soon, my bill, with discount for good behavior." I recognize her as the assistant cashier I see every day behind the desk; she is married and has one small baby; this is her guard night. "You are the Inglés; you are crazy. Go to bed." "And you?" "Watch my gun, compañero."
Upstairs the loudspeakers start again, playing the "Internationale" with a rumba beat.
The rather eerie jest in the airport of Madrid is that the Spanish aircraft about to leave for Cuba is to all intents and purposes, the same that bore Christopher Columbus on the same haul four and a half centuries ago. After the first few hours waiting, one begins to feel that this may indeed be so; the noble old flying machine waits on the apron among the glossy jets like a hansom cab among the racers, a vintage Connie of the tribe long ago in the United States relegated to the New York shuttle service. Yet it is committed to the longest and most taxing transatlantic service of them all: anything up to twenty-two hours from hemisphere to hemisphere. One normally does London to New York in seven hours, but that is with post-Columbian machinery. The airline's rationale is simple: if you want to go to Havana, how else do you do it? You can, of course, go from Prague, or from Moscow. You can go from Mexico City and contribute your photograph to the picture gallery of the CIA. In spite of its acerbities, for me the Madrid run seemed simpler.
Not many passengers catch the weekly westbound flight. Those who do must be in no burning hurry. The delays on the schedule are frequently counted not in hours but in days. This is not surprising; at the end of its four-thousand-mile trip this dogged old vehicle must turn around and return to Spain—with the same crew, a stint that seems somehow to have escaped the notice of the pilots' unions. The archaic airplane was a credit to Lockheed; inspired by the tradition of the conquistadores, it got there. Each time we took off- at Madrid, Santa Maria, Bermuda—the roof panels fell off with a clatter, adding an extra dimension of drama to the contest with gravity.
Now it came to pass that of the handful of passengers on this plane six were British workers from the industrial Midlands of England, engineers and shop stewards from the factory that makes the celebrated buses, the export of which from Britain to Cuba has caused so much repining in State Department circles in the United States, and an equally overemphatic enthusiasm in official Havana. The invitation of these workers to the land where their handiwork was going was part of the euphoria.
I became somehow involved. No plea, no argument could persuade the exuberant reception committee that I was not of the bus men's company, that I had no association whatever with the manufacture of buses, that I was not even a guest of the government. My explanations were merrily swept aside; I also was embraced by the Cuban union representatives, and deftly whirled through the customs and immigration; my baggage was cleared unopened and my documents taken care of. I didn't see my passport again until the day I left; my typewriter I never saw again.
This was perhaps a small price to pay for the effervescence of the welcome, the daiquiris thrust into our hands, the guitar players who encircled our group of dazed, delighted British workers, playing an air which I shall treasure all my life, since it can have been none other than the "Red Flag Cha-Cha-Cha" Few of these honest Englishmen had ever before left their homeland; they were mesmerized by the glories of travel. "Tha wouldn't get this in Birmingham," said an entranced shop steward as a zealous Cuban Negro official kissed him on the ear.
Still in my role as an honorary bus man, I was ushered into an enormous Cadillac. It looked almost regal. Suddenly the engine came to life with a sound like the crash of gunfire, the deafening roar of a Sherman tank. It had, it seems, long ago lost its muffler. I was later to learn that virtually no automobile in Cuba below those reserved for the leaders had a muffler; the things had fallen off. One of the ten thousand paradoxes of Cuba is that the revolution inherited hundreds of automobiles of quite remarkable luxury and ostentation, most of which now, for want of spare parts, run like jalopies. The characteristic sound of Havana today is the explosive uproar of very expensive cars, unsilenced and running on five cylinders. The Cubans love it. They have a tolerant and engaging quality of becoming fond of the inevitable.
This fashion I came at last to the Hotel Habana Libre. This of course had been the Havana Hilton, and still retained most of the overblown splendors of its species. Already, however, it had begun to acquire that indefinable air that pervades hotels in Popular Democracies the world over: a slightly gray patina of the drab, the unmistakable atmosphere of the utilitarian taking over from the sumptuous. It is hard to describe this very recognizable condition, which has nothing to do with socialism but a good deal to do with carelessness; it comes when an institution intended for the use of the rich is adapted to the use of all corners; it is not particularly disagreeable, and it has perhaps a certain useful social symbolism. It manifests itself in a casual austerity, a vague corruption of detail, a general suggestion of what can only be called efficient run-downness. Mr. Hilton's architects are not likely to flinch from the flashy, and flashiness to be effective requires some attention to upkeep, which the Habana Libre was clearly not getting. Nor, one felt, were the showy surfaces of the hotel lobby improved by the random addition of huge billboards proclaiming the management's enthusiastic adherence to the revolution. But the staff were charming and hospitable. The señor's room was ready; would I please sign here, and to the account of which ministry or department should my bill be charged?
Here we drifted into the troublesome contretemps that has recurred for me all over the Eastern European world, but never before in the sunshine of the Caribbean: I had, finally, to extricate official Cuba from the illusion that I was an honored guest, and that so far from having my checks picked up by the administration, I was actually paying for myself. This caused much head-scratching; the clerks, taken aback by this unorthodoxy, retired to the office for consultation. It is the case that in establishments where almost every guest is exactly what the word implies, as a member of some delegation or advisory committee, the machinery for mulcting people of genuine money becomes rusty.
Yet here, as everywhere else in Cuba, the new disciplinary compulsions seemed to have very thin roots in the natural insouciance of the people. To have pointed out this quaint state of affairs to an Intourist official would have elicited at most a wintry smile; here, everyone saw the point and laughed merrily. Well, since I had money, perhaps I also had some British or U.S. cigarettes? No—too bad; they are of great value.
The bedroom was excellent, spotless, overlooking the great curve of Havana Harbor. A most undoctrinaire abstract print hung above the bed. Then, as I went into the bathroom there came a curious subconscious sense of anticipation -and sure enough, it was fulfilled: among the fine appointments was the bathtub, and it had no plug.
I was uplifted with a sense of absolute propriety. For a generation the old tourist joke had been that no bath in all the Russias ever had a plug; it was the one infallible certainty that everyone knew and no one could explain. And here, in Havana's brand new, efficient, and up-to-date hotel, this dotty irrelevancy had reproduced itself. Was pluglessness part of the arcane symbolism of the Marxist-Leninist proposition? Must there be, with the onset of a People's Democracy, a ritual destruction of bathtub plugs? I find the phenomenon totally baffling; I present it as socialism's most beguiling mystery.
Outside, the sun blazed, the music thumped. The streets of Havana seemed in most respects as crowded and colorful as I remembered them, vaguely, from thirteen years before. There are serious difficulties in observing a Bolshevik theorem adapting itself to a Latin-American society: a marriage of incompatibles that fills the air with hilarious paradox. I found it very moving. I have sojourned in all the comrades' lands, and have come over the years to associate the revolutionary air with something autumnal and chill. I was somewhat dazed by the novelty of a revolutionary society in the sunshine, by all the austerities and disciplines so long identified with the harsher North here interpreted into something curiously at odds with conventional Communism. Here was a revolution that for the first time inherited a capital city largely created for self-indulgence; a regime necessarily stern imposed on a place dedicated for years to ostentatious expenditure. Everything was backside first and inside out: the warmhearted friendliness abruptly stilled by impenetrable bureaucracy; the bizarre effect of a kind of amateur Marxism falling heir to all the gaudy, meretricious properties of what had been the most blatant and spurious of all rich men's playgrounds and jackpots for foreign racketeers. The wonder was that neither phenomenon had wholly canceled the other out.
It chanced that the next day Fidel Castro was to make a great speech—as when, someone remarked, does he not? The day had a great air of steam heated good humor, even of carnival; the sun blazed on a square more densely packed with people than I believe I have ever seen; there was much random conviviality, and the theme was, when would the war begin. Everywhere there were hundreds of dashingly pretty polychrome girls wearing the sort of holiday hats that in Coney Island would have read Kiss Me Quick. Here the legends read: Socialist Emulation to Victory, Proletarians Unite, and All Behind Fidel. Havana includes the greatest incidence of attractive young women in my statistical experience, though too many carry guns for my taste. Despite the imposition of a cloth ration that is punitively small, they all appeared to dress with an impeccable chic, and it was doubtless the strictness of the rationing that resulted in all Cuban girls seeming to have been poured into their costumes with a fountain-pen filler. At the pools and the beaches they would appear in bikinis of almost unbelievably gratifying economy. They would explain: "We must obey the law; we must not waste material."
On this occasion, however, they had gathered only to cry "Fidel, Fidel!" and to listen enraptured to his tour de force. The man himself was up there on the plinth before the vast bust of José Martí: Castro, the shock-haired, bearded, uniformed wonder, arguing, rambling, jesting, threatening, exhorting, mesmerizing above a crowd of at least three hundred thousand, who made the Plaza de La Revolución like a vast bed of multicolored flowers.
To sit immediately below Fidel in full spate is an extraordinary experience. His technique is unique and clearly hypnotic. For two hours he spoke below the brazen sky—the sky which, he cried, is daily profaned and violated by the Yanqui spy planes, "to destroy which," he demanded, "who of us is not ready to die?" As he shot his furious finger aloft, one almost expected to see the microscopic speck of the U-2 drifting balefully by at 60,000 feet, bristling with cameras.
Behind him the enormous poster said: "Si Quieren Paz Con Nuestro Pueblo Pueblo Habra Paz: Pero si Quieren Guerra—No Tenemos Miedo a la Guerra!" Castro echoed it: "We want peace, but we don't fear war!" and they roared approval. "Peace, but only with dignity!" and the applause was like the beat of the ocean. The contemporary word for it all was charismatic; a virtuoso performance, without notes, improvised, histrionic, masterly. The scene was so suggestive of fiesta that it was hard to absorb the truly chilling burden of the occasion: that for eighteen months Cuban gunners had been training on their Russian ground-to-air missiles and will one day try to destroy any reconnaissance plane they can track "however great the international risk."
The moment began to develop an air of fantasy. It was manifest that there was not a soul there who did not believe that Castro and his revolution were imminently to be attacked again; why else was the population under specific orders to stand at action stations, to appreciate and value the likelihood of dying, since sweet and decorous it is to be killed for one's country? It was something quite outside the sullen routine attitudes of the cold war: a small and somewhat irrational nation in the grip of an almost medieval national fervor, so obsessive that it actually appeared to mean what it said. When Fidel said, "If the price of peace is to bend the knee, then that peace we do not want; better the peace of the tomb," he was certainly arguing less as a Communist than as a Cuban. There was something quite sublimely elemental about it, so grandiloquently crazy it had to command attention: that someone should dangle the destinies of a nuclear generation in the language of Henry V.
The food at the hotel was beyond belief. Over the years I have become something of a connoisseur of dreadful eating, but never—even in the late British colonial empire, where gastronomic standards reached a nadir of the odious—had I encountered a place where the cooks had so demonstrably given up in despair. Because of the international character of the customers, almost entirely fraternal delegates or technical advisers from all over the world, a Spanish menu was dispensed with, and instead, a waiter wheeled around a trolley on which prototype platefuls of the half-dozen dishes of the day were displayed in all their cooling horror. You pointed at whichever sample seemed momentarily the least noxious—rice and dried fish, rice and pounded meat, rice and beans -and by and by a passable replica would be produced. The only mellowing factor of mealtimes was that one was allowed a bottle of beer. (Beer was not purchasable anywhere except with food; this was not puritanism but simple scarcity.) I came to look forward to mealtimes for this reason alone, but it was an expensive addiction. Nowhere else since perhaps the days of the Siege of Paris had one paid more dearly for more terrible commons.
I learned very soon that my arrogant insistence on not being a state guest would surely cost me dear, as always where a wholly unrealistic exchange makes currency meaningless. The Cuban peso rates at parity with the U.S. dollar, but its purchasing power is around twenty cents. No ordinarily inedible meal, with a bottle of beer, cost less than six or seven dollars. When I looked around at my cosmopolitan companions, the Soviéticos, the Bulgars, the Japanese, casually signing their bills for future redemption, I sometimes felt I was the only stranger in the republic who was actually paying for anything. It gave one at least the right to sulk or to protest; but this one could never do, so willing and amiable was the service, so certain the knowledge that badly as one was faring, the Cubans fared worse.
How to convey the strange sense of affection and irrational understanding engendered by this extraordinary place. It was very far from comfortable. There was virtually nothing of any practical value that one could buy. The blockade had succeeded in that respect at least: clothes, bread, butter, cereals, anything—they were all rationed to a degree sometimes worse than the roughest British wartime exigencies. To ask for almost anything produced the reflex, No hay, with an odd throat-cutting gesture. A trip around the supermarket was a lesson in humility—"Sears Roebuck: Nacionalizado," full of dreary pieces of notepaper and gritty soap. The elevator man at the hotel smoked Corona cigars, but he would seek long and far for a razor blade or a tube of toothpaste. There was plenty of money and nothing to buy; it was spent in the scores of bars that were the vestigial relics of the Havana of once upon a time—a slug of Bacardi cost a dollar twenty-five; you could get it more cheaply in London or New York.
When there was nothing else to do, the Cubans danced. I could have thrown a bomb at the People's Nocturnal outside my window: the thud of twist music that went on until the small hours. Yet it was gay. Their new buildings were cheap and flimsy, but they were adventurous and exciting. Outside the new Museum of the Revolution they had relaid the sidewalk with half a mile of individual and different mosaic panels, meter-square designs of uncommon merit and charm, throwaway gestures that were the nicest things in Havana. The billboards were brilliant. It takes a smart designer to make a Marxist slogan worth a second look these days, especially here. How fatigued one gets with the hortatory slogan, the wholly ubiquitous claim on loyalty; everything printed embodies the hard sell. In the locker rooms of the hotel pool the notice read: "AVISO—Para mayor seguridad rogamos a los Banistas dejen sus Pertenencias an la Oficina. PATRIA 0 MUERTE—VENCEREMOS." That is to say: "Please leave your valuables in the office. Fatherland or Death—We shall overcome."
The simple question of what to do with one's spare time could not be wholly answered by politics; even in this period of keyed-up dedication the ordinary urban Cuban was not the sort of person to feel his leisure fulfilled by a program of instant Leninism and adult education classes. The transformation of entertainment was striking, and the hangover quite tangible. Most of the Havana movie houses, for example, were playing films from Czechoslovakia or the Soviet Union. These were excellent of their kind, but their message was obviously enigmatic to the Habaneros, and the theaters were half empty, partly, I was told, because the Castilian Spanish in which the movies were dubbed has much the same risible effect on the Cuban ear as a Mayfair accent might tend to have on an audience of Arkansans. This could hardly have been the whole story, however; the exquisite Japanese film The Island (the triumph of which is that it uses no words at all) was equally snubbed.
On the other hand, the biggest movie house of all, in Vedado opposite the Habana Libre, was showing an oldish U.S. film which even when new must have been moderately obscure since I had never heard of it. It was called The Day the Earth Stood Still, and it was jam-packed every night, with a waiting line of teen-agers outside stretching almost to the Museum of the Revolution. It had been playing for weeks and is doubtless playing still. I never saw it, for I could never get near the ticket office.
The Cuban television was similarly in the doldrums, and the intervals between staging three-hour-long open-end tours de force by the Maximum Leader were filled with what seemed an endless succession of vintage Hollywood films, of the kind I had supposed were preserved only for the weary weekends of England's BBC. The director of the Cuban television service, who chances to be an old-guard Communist of much taste and erudition, told me with a sort of ironic resignation that the customers could not get enough of these archaic productions. In any case there was little else, and nightly the shades of Fred Astaire and Judy Garland gamboled eerily over the shaky screens. This seemed to produce no adverse reaction from the high command. Indeed, it was said that the favorite TV personality of Fidel, after Fidel, was Ginger Rogers. To Cuba, for so long the repository of all the pop art of the United States, the North American film culture had been fossilized in its 1960 period.
It was odd, but hardly unexpected, to realize how greatly, and even sentimentally, the Cubans missed the Norteamericanos. For good or ill there had been a half century of unique relationship, and among the clarion calls of official denunciation there could still quite openly be heard the argument that Uncle Sam must have contributed something to the association. The amputation of Cuba from the United States had some analogies with that of Ireland from England a generation earlier, in that it bred regrets among the chauvinists and a certain disappointment, even a sense of loss. This could be rationalized in many ways, and usually was. Yet even among the younger and more earnest revolutionaries of the governmental hierarchy there were many who accepted willingly that the estrangement meant a great deal more than a shortage of spare parts for Chevrolets.
The deprivation was detectable at many levels, and with many different motivations. At the grossest material level it fell heavily upon those who were dependent on tourists: hotel servants, dispossessed employees of vanished casinos, pimps, and hangers-on from the bordello fringe, whose life under the revolution had become markedly austere. Great numbers of these had joined the early ranks of the gusanos (Cubans call those who fled the country gusanos, or "worms"), but many remained behind to proclaim their grievances outside the big hotels in what seemed to me to be a singularly rash and petulant tone of voice. Nobody appeared to pay much attention.
Of much greater moment was the realization among the professional and even the administrative intellectuals that this preposterous isolation from the United States was a very wasting process indeed. The absence of contact at the university level between academic people who had grown used to each other's ways produced a sense of frustration which had nothing to do with politics. Thus far no similar intellectual relationship has developed, or could develop, with the Eastern intelligentsia many thousands of miles away. I heard it argued many times (for when it was appreciated that I was neither an American nor a Russian, a capitalist nor a Communist, these matters were discussed with complete frankness) that the severance had been too abrupt and indiscriminate. An economic blockade was comprehensible, if unreasonable; the political vendetta was acceptable, if tedious. The total intellectual blockade seemed ridiculous. Why, they asked, must the one scientific channel of communication left open be that of meteorology? For it is a quaint facet of the situation that throughout all the acerbities of this Caribbean cold war, the aviation Met-Stations of Miami and Havana have continued to exchange their information and reports. There were many who considered that this piece of sensible pragmatism might be extended.
Meanwhile, the Yanquis continued simultaneously to be reviled, feared, and missed. History was of course being rewritten all the time, or, as was insisted, examined for the first time through the eyes of those who no longer sought to conceal its bitter aspects. Had not Jefferson talked of making Cuba's southern shore the frontier of "our empire of liberty"? Had not Monroe's Secretary of State announced that Cuba's annexation was an "indispensable measure"? People "remember the Maine" in different terms. To the United States those lives were bravely lost in the interests of Cuban independence, but most young Cubans now believe without question that the Americans blew up their own ship in Havana Harbor to justify their occupation of the island. They quote William Howard Taft only in his prophecy that the whole hemisphere must "be ours in fact as, by virtue of our superiority of race, it already is ours morally." As so often in the past, and the present, the many good intentions and generous achievements of the United States are overwhelmed by the stupidities of the record. The occasional rich American estate owners in Cuba who contrived to be enlightening forces and benefactors in spite of being landlords have long been sunk without trace in the well-nurtured memories of the unscrupulous investors and gangster chieftains who were there too.
This is, of course, indispensable stuff for the maintenance of a revolutionary momentum in the face of many discouraging facts. When history is exhausted, there remains the looming presence of the U.S. warship on the horizon and the speculative but always dramatic suggestion of the U-2 overhead. These alone can be invoked to justify the hardships, the queues for the melancholy rations, the introduction of conscription. Only a few months ago Fidel Castro publicly agreed that the American economic blockade was the best help he could have for keeping on the boil the revolutionary mood he believes so necessary for Cuba's recovery.
"It is all, of course, a damned absurdity," said a Cuban official over the evening daiquiri, which is one of the last remaining solaces of the Havana scene, "economically, politically, any way you like to consider it. We are having a rough time, unnecessarily; the Yanquis are brooding and jumping unnecessarily; we Cubans of the ordinary kind are driven into a relationship with powers that are wholly alien to us geographically and ethnically, for reliable and decent as they are, the Soviéticos will never understand us nor we them. The wretched Norteamericanos are a global pain in the neck politically, but we got on with them as people. I was at Columbia three years. Now I can't even read a book in English less than five years old. As for what they know about Cuba—I haven't met an American for two years who wasn't a Party member or pretending to be. If this goes on much longer we shall really have forgotten all about each other what took us fifty years to learn. Then what?"
Saturday night in the Habana Libre—my own ancestral memories took me back to the palais de danse in Glasgow—a multitude of pretty girls provocative and unavailable, yet a dozen times more public necking than would be accepted in Moscow or, for all I know, Minnesota; a total and complete integration of color, the Negroes slightly more attractive and certainly more pursued than the whites.
"Compañero, the Inglés—what do you do here?"
"I do nothing. I try to learn."
"You will learn nothing here in this lousy place; go to my village. Forty people there can read and write; imagine that."
She was right; I later found that they could read and write. This was a phenomenon too; somehow the Chinese got the notion of sending to Cuba some hundred thousand little lamps, which became the propaganda symbol of enlightenment; all over the country the children were rammed through a crash course of literacy. Today the extraordinary spectacle, for those who seek it out, is that of a multitude of twelve-year-olds, complete with ritual lamps, conducting courses of reading and writing among the rustic middle-aged, who will accept the tutelage from the children that they would never accept from the bureaucrats; the young teaching the old. There is much in Cuba that is harsh and crude and wrong, but there was nothing wrong in this.
And yet again, who really knew what was going on? The young barbudos of the Twenty-sixth of July Movement, the heroes of the Sierra Maestra? The old guard of the Communist Party, on whom Fidel perforce increasingly relied? Was either of' these old romantics capable of running a country? Castro himself was clearly distraught with indecision, yet it was he who publicly denounced the veteran Communist Anibal Escalante, his friend, as mastermind of a wholly reprehensible Communist mutual-aid clique operating for the concealment of their own failures. In this he spoke, once again, wholly as a Cuban, for Fidel Castro's bland and total ignorance of the Party dialectic is his special charm. He claims to have read up to page 184 of Das Kapital's 600 pages: "I get my friends to read it up for me." Thus he acquires a high place in the U.S. demonology at what would seem to be modest cost.
Nevertheless, the island became full of Cubans who took the revolution seriously and were boning up on the works of the prophets, which seemed to have a curious effect upon Castro, who was forever insisting that an ability to quote the texts of Marx and Lenin did not necessarily equip a man to run a factory—any more, he said pointedly, than did a good record as a guerrilla in the Sierra. He seemed to have a powerful dislike of dogma, even anticlerical dogma. As an atheist, one of his most compelling arguments came in a speech during the Havana University commemoration of the death of José Echevarria, founder of the Revolutionary Directorate. The previous speaker had read Echevarria's
"political testament," leaving out the sentence "We are confident that the purity of our intention will bring us God's blessing." This greatly angered Castro. "Are we going to mutilate what the man believed?" he cried. "What kind of faith is that in one's own ideas? What conception is that of history? In our struggle the fact that one may be a believer, whether his religion is Christian or whatever, and the other's faith is Marxist, that is no obstacle, and we come here with this display of cowardice to suppress a phrase!"
You do not see as many priests around the streets of Havana as you might have six years ago; however, you still see more than you expect. The Madrid plane brought three Franciscans into town on one flight; they were met enthusiastically by three more, and all vanished into the city with jovial hand wavings. The attitude of the administration toward the Church is equivocal and, it seemed to me, slightly uneasy. Nothing whatever has happened to the major churches of Havana, which is just as well, since one at least, the Cathedral, is an outstanding building of Hispano-American taste. The Jesuits who built it were, to be sure, expelled, but that was in 1767. No one observably has interfered with its work, and its congregation continues, though obviously diminished. Five years is a short space in which to reorientate the thinking of several centuries. The government quite clearly accepts the fact that Cuba is a Catholic nation, and when asked, expresses its view in the phrase so familiar in Russia itself: "We do not persecute those who believe; neither do we encourage them. We do not sustain the Church in any way, but we do not interfere with it. We attempt to be builders, not iconoclasts. The next generation will tell.''
I noticed that the daily newspaper El Mundo carried a column of religious news, "Mundo Catolico." It was a notably offbeat experience to see among the headlines—"Homenaje a Frushchov," "Acto de Reafirmación Revolucionaria," "Necesario el Trabajo Constructivo cada Dia"—the daily calendar of saints; there enshrined among the heroes of labor was the Santoral del Dia: Santos Aquiles y Pancracio y Flavia, martires; Santo Domingo de la Calzada, confesor; German, obispo; Dionisio, martir.
But then, among the reports of the futbol and the basquetbol they also printed the results of the National and American League ball games.
A member of the Foreign Office took me to the Tropicana. It was a very beautiful establishment, crowded to the doors and dull as bean soup. I never was much of a nightclub man. The only time such a place has any value for me is when it is decadent; I regard progressive nightclubs as depressing. The show was lavish and the girls were pretty, but they wore flesh-colored tights, which I find somehow repellent. They sang and danced quite charmingly under an enormous sign that said: "Viva el Internacionalismo Proletario." My Foreign Office friend sat behind a bottle of Bacardi and told me about politics.
"Domestic affairs in Cuba are damned hard work. The Cuban worker is born a skeptic, with reason. He grew bored over the years with the useless promises of one politico after another; he didn't even expect them to come to anything. Now he trusts Fidel. But even now he still has to be reconvinced every day that we aren't joking about the revolution. Anyhow, it's a pragmatic revolution. I for one don't accept the dogmatism of the Soviets. We're dealing with Cubans, and I know how troublesome they are, being one. For example, maybe you can get Slavs to practice Marxist self-criticism. Not here; you know yourself that Latin Americans just don't admit personal error, and don't expect anyone else to. We would be a hell of a race to make over into good Communists. We're too hard to please. My own father now—he was quite a rich businessman; when the revolution came he cleared off to the States, because he knew he wouldn't get any more Scotch in Havana. Now he tells me he's thinking of coming back because he can't get any decent cigars in Miami."
"You still keep in touch with him?"
"Sure. Mail takes about a month; I think it goes through Prague or somewhere."
I remarked that it surprised me that an official of the revolution should continue to be in good standing when his father was a gusano. He shrugged. "I'm not responsible for him, nor he for me. And if we victimized every smart man who had gusanos in the family, we'd get nowhere fast."
He was elegant and cultivated and quite evidently profoundly patriotic, and his politics had a rare objectivity. He had decided that day to be critical of Mr. Jrushchov, as the Latins call the Soviet chief, because he had just read one of Mr. Jrushchov's polemics against modern art.
"He has every right to be a philistine if he likes, but not to set back all the progress of Russian art. We would soon fix him here."
And indeed I am sure they would, for nowhere else have I been shown as much appreciation for the functional uses of contemporary art; it was hard to find anything new that was badly designed. The picture gallery in the hotel was far ahead of the same manner of thing anywhere else. Havana has a stridency, a harshness, a rough edge to every joviality, but it is always prevented from collapse into vulgarity by a sort of inevitable decorum, a built-in appreciation of propriety.
My official friend was not the only one with reservations about the comrades from the East who abounded everywhere, lavishing their bounty and their techniques. The Soviéticos were considered bleak and unresponsive, though much admired for their patience in the face of disorder and inefficiency. The Poles and the Czechs seemed more acceptable. But almost all the técnicos were miles away from the Cuban temperament. Every responsible Cuban was aware, however, that without their help his revolution would long ago have been extinguished; moreover, he enjoyed the new national status that their presence in Cuba implied.
The most astonishing thing about Cuba was that it appeared to be the one country on earth to which no word had ever seeped concerning the Soviet-Chinese schism. Not only was there no comment in the newspapers; there never had been. On holiday occasions large portraits of Khrushchev and Mao Tse-tung were borne in procession side by side. Chinese and Soviet diplomats in Havana were distant, to be sure, but they did not make the tortured efforts to keep out of each other's company that they do elsewhere. When I asked my Foreign Office friend about this he shrugged again. "It is unfortunate, but it is nothing to do with us. Do you know how far away China is? About ten thousand miles. We are sorry, of course, but right now we're too busy."
Busy they were, but not, perhaps, enough. The total reorientation of emphasis in every trading relationship caused extravagant confusions. The United States used to take two thirds of Cuba's exports and provide three quarters of its imports. Now, nothing. Everything had changed. Orders previously made by U.S. brand name and catalogue number, and fulfilled in a matter of days by the Miami ferry, now had to be made months ahead, with unfamiliar specifications, and dispatched across the world. Long accustomed to the ferry service, Havana lacked warehouse space to store goods from thousands of miles away, and while United-States-made plants began to fall to bits through lack of equipment, the docks became jammed with undistributed cargo. Castro and his barbudos rampaged around making speeches, demanding that the loyal Cubans stop their mystical incantations about being "born again" and get down to sorting out the mess. Gradually it became sorted out.
Still, the inheritance from the old days was there; the mass of Cubans who had suffered under a bad regime for generations were saturated in the faults it promoted—laziness, indifference, carelessness, an eroded sense of initiative. It was not easy to evoke a totally new attitude toward property, to persuade that wasting it or misusing it was today not only foolish but undemocratic.
All this the técnicos Soviéticos observed with some pain. Their proclaimed objective was to advise and supply, but not to interfere, nor did they, even when they saw the Cuban concentration on grandiose projects and neglect of the sugar industry, which may have been the island's hereditary curse but must nonetheless remain its chief source income. Their economists flinched from the elaboration of the building projects, the wild ambitions of the architects, the delight in splendidly wasteful gestures of ostentation. They winced at the zestful amateurism of the bearded young state planners, whose first impulse had been instantly to set up factories to make for themselves all the things they could no longer get from the United States. When Che Guevara bought a hundred and forty small factories to produce things like fountain pens and cigarette lighters, the técnicos raised their eyebrows. He pleaded that they must have something to show for the revolution. The Cubans spoke longingly of heavy industry, of steel mills, of prestige shipping lines. Patiently the Russians pointed out that steel was now dirt cheap in the world market, and that shipping tonnage was idle all over the world.
The theorists said that every ruble of direct aid helps to keep things backward; that aid can actually retard development; that every nation must itself raise an important part of its capital development and work out its own economic salvation. Indiscriminate financial aid, they said, is a cushion against political and economic reality. The Bolivian Revolution of 1952, they said, had been drowned in a flood of dollars and never recovered its-momentum.
But the Cubans pleaded: We must justify our revolution; we cannot keep our standard of living low for years. And the Russians replied: Why not? We did.
"But, of course," said my friend, "they were different. Admirable, but different. Hence Cuba's reorientation toward Europe, with long-term credits backed by Moscow in, for instance, London. For that it's necessary that our image be solid, even, in a way, respectable."
There was the rub; the respectable image sorted awkwardly with—as one example—the Cuban commitment to encouraging a Castroist revolt in Venezuela. This is a very awkward problem for the Cubans, since they are half anxious to succeed and half not. They believe that a successful demarche in Venezuela would inevitably bring about U.S. intervention. So "don't," say the Russians;nthis is no time to precipitate crises. But "do," urge the Chinese; this is precisely the moment to put the gringos on the spot. "The fact is," said my friend, "the Chinese are a long way away."
I walked back through the steamy night. In the Avenida de los Presidentes there was a big building protected by a wire barrier and policemen who stepped from the shadows with their guns and required one to pass the place on the other side of the street. On the first occasion when this happened, I had taken the building to be the home of some dignitary who required special protection, which had seemed odd in view of the casual and random way the obvious big wheels of the government moved around town. This was not the case; the building was the Brazilian Embassy. Of late too many disaffected citizens, gusanos-come-lately, had strolled to this place and nipped briskly inside, thus achieving political asylum. "So now we protect the place," I was told. "We do not wish the Brazilians to be embarrassed."
Shortly thereafter the Brazilians broke off relations with Havana anyhow: another problem neatly solved.
Outside the hotel the big bookshop was open until midnight. All Cuba has an unquenchable hunger for books, for reading matter of any kind; there was not much for their comfort here—all the standard Leniniana in Spanish translation; everything one has seen in People's Democratic bookstores everywhere. The place was full. Even those official magazines with the standard colored illustrations of enraptured peasants in transcendental attitudes with sheaves of corn, the "Bulgaria Today" and "China Reconstructs" that are forced gratis into faltering hands throughout the world, are actually bought in Havana. There was a tall pile of a Mexican edition of John Locke's Essay concerning Human Understanding. It cost eight dollars. The manageress told me that they sold about two hundred copies a month, which must be at least a hundred and fifty more than are ever bought today in Locke's native land.
Of course, the collected works of Martí. How many millions of words did that strange and valiant little man produce? Yet there must be many people who remember the Maine who do not remember José Martí or what he did. In Cuba he is canonized, and Martí's liberating rowboat in 1895 is held to be the precursor of Fidel Castro's leaky yacht, Granma, in 1956. The picture of this frail dynamic patriot, with the burning eyes and the immense mustache, falling dead from his rearing horse under the Spanish guns is the universal symbol for Cubans, seen everywhere. This is owing partly to the law, passed in the earliest days of Castro's revolution, that no statues or images may be erected of living figures, however exalted, and no streets named after them. This avoids the proliferation of graven images of the present Maximum Leader; everything is sublimated in the old hero of the eighties, now beyond criticism. Nothing else is beyond criticism.
The Cuban revolution, which has held the imagination of romantic socialists for nearly six years, is facing its hardest time with toughness and élan, making a small success here and a big error there as its leaders ceaselessly admit—drifting perhaps into a bondage it did not plan. It cannot go on like this forever.
The Fidelistas had obviously believed in the possibility of creating a revolution that would be an inspirational model for democratic revolutionaries everywhere, progressing with the full support of the people whose liberties it protected. Indeed, its early appeal was its manifest concern for the people, their practical and cultural welfare, and its experimentalism and flexibility. It postulated the goodwill if not the actual help of the United States. Neither was forthcoming. Within two years the atmosphere had changed; the United Party of the Socialist Revolution had come to being on the principle of "democratic centralism" and was officially guided by "Marxist-Leninism," and the old PSP Communists were its core. The Soviet impact became dominant because the U.S. impact was denied. Perhaps it was inevitable; perhaps it need not have been that way. It seems probable that Castro deduced a lesson from the Guatemala of Arbenz: that any vigorous structural changes he might make would be interpreted in Washington as Communism, so he might as well do it thoroughly.
We already saw, during the 1962 missile crisis, how Cuba could have the world on the edge of the abyss as a freak of geopolitics. Since then the bitter hostility across the ninety miles that separate this island from the United States has become institutionalized into a seemingly inescapable fact of life. Americans may believe that another Bay of Pigs is unthinkable; no Cuban does. They brood endlessly on the tales of the exile organizations fretting and drilling away in Florida and Guatemala, sustained and nourished, they insist, by the CIA. They point to the remote outline of the U.S. warship, forever lying just outside the limits off Havana. They argue the economic quarantine which has isolated Cuba from everywhere except the Communist bloc and a few European eccentrics like Britain, France, and Spain, and which has bred a Cuban reaction almost tribal in its certainties.
So one lived in Havana on two continual levels—the emergency, the conflict, the tensions, side by side with the gay girls and the café crowds, the endless noise and chatter, the solemn Soviet technicians, the cigar-smoking elevator man to whom a razor blade or a tube of toothpaste is a dream of luxury.
To me the most irresistible analogy was that of Israel in the late forties: the same sense of beleaguerment, of privation, of defiance, of a citizenry under arms, of mingled regret and assurance. The effect was reinforced by the curious fluctuating cast of characters who seemed to fetch up in all public places, everyone with some motive other than the ostensible one—pretty girls writing theses, sociological delegates trying to sell textiles on the side, attractive widows who claimed addresses in Rome, saturnine Czechs, vague blond Englishmen forever excusing themselves for an appointment (What appointment? When was any appointment ever kept?). The Cubans, it seemed, were ready to put up with anyone, to fete them and pay their bills, to give themselves the illusion that once again Havana was a cosmopolitan place, and not a lonely, isolated fort.
The Cubans are brave and effervescent and feverishly reckless. Their society is, or could have been, the first of its kind in the hemisphere, even if the words with which they define it spring too often now not from the heart but are borrowed from the more banal jargon of an older and staler revolution.
Castro is young, vigorous, indefatigable, seemingly nourished by resources denied to most people, but he is not immortal. The security with which he surrounds himself may be much more tense than it seems; nonetheless he quite clearly takes fantastic personal chances in his sorties around the country. He has the De Gaulle-like idiosyncracy of goading his protectors by eluding them, and burrowing at random into crowds that could well, in the present neurotic conditions, contain the one hostile gun. One day, you say, that man will surely get the bullet. And inevitably you ask the question: After Fidel, what?
"Everybody says it; what does it mean—they said after Stalin, who? after Nehru, who? after Kennedy, who? A process is a process; Fidel started something he couldn't stop now if he wanted to."
That is all very well; every revolution dominated by a personality has rationalized its continuance thus. A nation without a constitution, relying as this one does on the impetus of continued exhortation, will be in an excruciating dilemma when Castro dies, and this he knows and expresses in a way of which he himself may not be wholly aware. He is thirty-seven, and already he talks like a patriarch; it is his constant custom to refer to his, generation as in the past. His continual addresses to students emphasize that his revolution, the revolution of arms of the Sierra Maestra, is over and done and that the torch has passed from "his generation" to theirs. It is an odd emphasis from a young man still in his thirties. The vast problem that would face Cuba if Castro were to fall tomorrow is that the only effective organizational process that could be bequeathed would be that of the military, and almost certainly that of Ché Guevara, the only man in Cuba who faintly matches Fidel in energy and prestige—and who, as the prophet and apostle of the guerrilla, is himself already a symbol of the past. Everything that the revolution has achieved: the enthusiasm among the young, the near elimination of illiteracy and hopeless poverty, an honest if ineffectual government, the achievement of this mysterious Latin-American quality of dignidad—all these things remain still emblazoned on the banners; they have received no rationalization in straight political terms. There is a certain splendor, but there is no dynasty, no hierarchy, no line of succession; there is not even, as far as we know, a continuing theme. Fidelismo is not yet rooted in Marxism, or in anything else. While the completely romantic Cubans flinch from the drudgery without which no socialism can be established, the thing remains an imponderable.


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In late March, an explosion in disputed waters off the Korean Peninsula sank the South Korean corvette Cheonan, killing 46 sailors. This week, investigators concluded a weapon, possibly a German-made torpedo, destroyed the ship.
North Korea deploys mini-subs and commando submersibles that deliver torpedoes with extraordinary stealth, so Pyonyang's strange Stalinist regime has the capability to conduct surreptitious naval attacks and then plausibly deny responsibility.
North Korea has the weapons, and it has intent -- decades of demonstrated intent. For 60 years, North Korea has repeatedly attacked South Korea. The Korean War began 60 years ago this June, and it isn't over, not officially -- an armistice holds combat in tenuous abeyance, not a peace treaty. One wonders if the naval attack isn't an anniversary celebration of a disguised, macabre sort, appealing to the malign psyche of North Korea's dictator, Kim Jong-Il.
The Korean War started with an explosive communist attack that raised the specter of global nuclear war. Now it appears it may end with a communist implosion, one that risks igniting a brief but terrible nuclear conflict in East Asia, should North Korea hit Seoul or Tokyo with a nuke.
Seoul's suburbs lie within range of North Korean artillery. A North Korean fighter-bomber, heading south from communist airspace, will reach Seoul in minutes. South Korea's Samsung Corp. is one of the largest private employers in the Texas county in which I live. This means Pyongyang doesn't need nukes to attack Texas' economy, a fact of life among the 21st century's economically, politically and technologically linked.
Global linkage and Pyongyang's nuclear quest explain the caution stirring this strange twilight of an old war -- caution expressed in Washington, caution followed to the point of kowtow by a South Korean government that hoped the Cheonan suffered a tragic accident.
The South Korean people, however, are outraged, as their government -- if only for its own political survival -- says it is preparing a response.
South Korea must demand reparations for the Cheonan, but if the North fails to comply, what then? Talk does not faze mass-murdering dictators. When Adolf Hitler militarized the Rhineland, the Western allies flinched -- and the Nazis became more audacious. The Rhineland was a strategic probe of allied will. Sinking the Cheonan is a probe of the U.S.-South Korean relationship and ultimately a probe of U.S. President Barack Obama's commitment to mutual defense. His diplomatic track record, and his personality, incline toward appeasement.
South Korea is mulling tough economic and political sanctions. North Korean elites, however, shield themselves from the consequences of sanctions, and any truly effective sanctions regimen requires rigorous Chinese support. Securing firm support is unlikely as long as Beijing sees South Korean and U.S. leadership as too supine for military action.
Covert options include stoking factionalism within North Korea's armed forces and perhaps among Kim Jong-Il's sons. Kim favors his third son. Setting prince on prince is an ancient tool for toppling tyrant kings. South Korea must pursue these fratricidal solutions. They take time, however, and meanwhile, the nuclear clock ticks.
Destroying selected Northern naval facilities by air attack is an option, though this involves striking land targets, which Kim's propagandists would portray as escalation.
Explicit naval tit-for-tat, which exposes and exploits North Korean strategic weakness before a global audience, has more political impact. Seoul and Washington should consider seizing North Korean ships in open waters around the globe. Ships and cargoes could be held pending reparations. In Asia, Pyongyang might route its ships through Chinese and Vietnamese coastal water (paying bribes to local coast guards in the process), but eventually they will encounter the U.S. Navy. The maritime cowards will encounter cameras and appear on YouTube. The Google world will get it.
In the Rhineland fiasco, the Western allies lost face. This Korean confrontation is also about political face, and it's time Kim and his killers lost theirs.
South Korea and the U.S., its closest ally, cannot avoid forcefully responding to the Cheonan attack because it prefigures a more terrible future where a further emboldened, fully nuclear-capable North Korea acts even more brutally.


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Manuscripts and Publications
Filters: Author is Philbin, Morgan M [Clear All Filters]
Adolescent and Adult HIV Providers' Definitions of HIV-Infected Youths' Successful Transition to Adult Care in the United States.. AIDS Patient Care STDS. 31(10):421-427.. 2017.
Adolescent to Adult HIV Health Care Transition From the Perspective of Adult Providers in the United States.. J Adolesc Health. 61(4):434-439.. 2017.
The Association between Incarceration and Transactional Sex among HIV-infected Young Men Who Have Sex with Men in the United States.. J Urban Health. 95(4):576-583.. 2018.
Factors affecting linkage to care and engagement in care for newly diagnosed HIV-positive adolescents within fifteen adolescent medicine clinics in the United States.. AIDS Behav. 18(8):1501-10.. 2014.
Healthcare Transition for Youth Living With HIV: Outcomes from a Prospective Multi-site Study.. J Adolesc Health. 63(2):157-165.. 2018.
HIV Testing, Care Referral, and Linkage to Care Intervals Affect Time to Engagement in Care for Newly Diagnosed HIV-Infected Adolescents in 15 Adolescent Medicine Clinics in the United States.. J Acquir Immune Defic Syndr. 72(2):222-9.. 2016.
Linking HIV+ adolescents into care: The effects of relationships between local health departments and adolescent medicine clinics.. J HIV AIDS Soc Serv. 12(3-4). 2013.
Linking HIV-positive adolescents to care in 15 different clinics across the United States: creating solutions to address structural barriers for linkage to care.. AIDS Care. 26(1):12-9.. 2014.
Transitioning HIV-infected adolescents to adult care at 14 clinics across the United States: using adolescent and adult providers' insights to create multi-level solutions to address transition barriers.. AIDS Care. 29(10):1227-1234.. 2017.
Transitioning HIV-Positive Adolescents to Adult Care: Lessons Learned From Twelve Adolescent Medicine Clinics.. J Pediatr Nurs. 31(5):537-43.. 2016.
Understanding Care Linkage and Engagement Across 15 Adolescent Clinics: Provider Perspectives and Implications for Newly HIV-Infected Youth.. AIDS Educ Prev. 29(2):93-104.. 2017.
"Youth friendly" clinics: considerations for linking and engaging HIV-infected adolescents into care.. AIDS Care. 26(2):199-205.. 2014.


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How to Make Apple Cider at Home
Like a lot of people this weekend, I went apple picking. (I'm lucky enough to have a few trees in my yard, so I didn't have to go far.) Unlike a lot of people, I couldn't leave well enough alone—pies and crumbles would not suffice. I decided I needed to make cider. Fortunately, I'm not only the type of guy who has six books on the subject, ranging from early 20th-century British manuals to one written by Annie Proulx (seriously), but last year I bought a cider press as well. In other words, I was ready.
So, on one of those blue, flawless September days that make you forget why you miss summer, I got to work. Here are three things I learned:
I'd die as itinerant fruit picker. It took me two hours to harvest two bushels (about 16 gallons) of apples and pears. (Did I mention I picked pears, too? There are two random pear trees in my "orchard" that occasionally bear fruit. This year, they were loaded.) That would earn me about $16. I also fell out of a tree trying to snatch some perfect specimens on the upper limbs. In life as in tree fruit, sometimes the sweetest things lie just out of reach. Then you fall out of a tree.
Apples float. Pears? Right to the bottom.
Know who likes the cider-making process even more than aging hipster wannabe gentleman farmers? Bees. I reached a level of intimacy with them I never thought possible while still respecting each other's boundaries. Also: more than a few fell into the pressing bag. Oh well.
To see my entire cidering process, check out the photos above.


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A very recent paper by Yu & Robison entitled The New Ambiguity of "Open Government" highlights one of the ongoing difficulties of the whole e-government and 'open government' debate, and so, for me, it's not a new ambiguity but something inherent in the whole scheme of things. I'd already mentioned one of their papers in the 'Invisible Hand' in 2008, so the authors weren't new to me either. Essentially, the paper proposes that there is an issue of semantics around the term 'open government' or 'open data', in that it can be open in at least two different senses – political or technical openness provides access to data, whilst philosophical openness provides transparent government, and it is possible to have the former without the latter. Robinson & Yu argue for clarity between the two in any usage. They try to remove the ambiguity around technical openness by labelling one 'adaptable', as Tony Roberts, as I related recently in Open Warfare, uses the expression ' actionable'.
In contrast Fishenden & Thompson, also co-authors in 2010 of "Better for less: How to make Government deliver IT savings", have written a paper entitled "Digital Government, Open Architecture and Innovation: Why Public Sector IT Will Never be the Same Again", which largely ignores the semantic trap and instead creates another term 'open architecture'. Building further on the Digital Era Governance (DEG) concept proposed by Dunleavy & Margetts, they recognise the failings of the New Public Management (NPM) dogma and the fact that it is still ingrained in government, whilst claiming that 'open architecture' will bring us nearer to DEG. I suggested in Accountability in 2010 that NPM was far from dead when the current public service leadership had all grown up with it, and were thoroughly tainted with its concepts, and as institutional isomorphism teaches us, it's pervasive. In terms of 'open architecture' , we already have TOGAF, and that's been there a while now, too. What we need is both philosophical/political openness so that the citizen can see why nothing is changing, along with the technical openness so that data, systems and architectures can 'plug and play'.


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SEATTLE – MMAjunkie.com (www.mmajunkie.com) is on scene and reporting live from Saturday's UFC on FOX 5 event.
The event, which features UFC lightweight champion Benson Henderson vs. Nate Diaz, takes place at Seattle's KeyArena. The main card airs on FOX following prelims on FX and Facebook.
Follow along with our round-by-round updates and official results beginning at approximately 4:30 p.m. ET (1:30 p.m. PT local time) for the prelims and 8 p.m. ET for the main card.
You can discuss tonight's event below. Additionally, you can also get behind-the-scenes coverage and other event notes from on-site reporters Steven Marrocco (@MMAjunkieSteven) and Ben Fowlkes (@benfowlkesmma) on Twitter.
Enjoy the fights, everyone.
* * * *
Round 1 – Referee Herb Dean in the cage for the night's lone Facebook fight, a bantamweight contest. Albert pumps a jab as Jorgensen opens with a low kick. Jorgensen shoots in moments later but has to defend as Albert tries to transition immediately into a submission attempt. Jorgensen pulls immediately free and settles into his opponent's guard. Albert active on his back and looks to roll for a kimura. Instead, he muscles through an incredible sweep and takes the top position. Jorgensen creates his own scramble and avoids more submission attempts while moving back into top position and unloading a few short elbows. Halfway mark, and Albert locks in a triangle choke. Jorgensen somehow survives the attempt and pulls up to his knees. Gutsy effort as the lock came quick and looked very tight. Jorgensen eventually slides out of the choke and settles into top position. Tense moments. Final minute of the first round in what has been a fun scrap to start. Albert tries to work to his feet, and Jorgensen leaps to his back and works in the rear-naked choke. The tap comes just before the bell. Incredible finish. Scott Jorgensen def. John Albert via submission (rear-naked choke) – Round 1, 4:59.
Round 1 – Referee Anthony Hamlett in the cage as the preliminary bouts shift to FX. Leg kicks traded to open, and both are throwing hard to open. Siver mixing in quick punches, as well, as he seems to be starting quickly. Phan still walking forward, and he eats a spinning kick to the body. Siver very active, and he's finding a home for his right hand. Siver kicks the inside of the leg and then the outside. Another spinning kick scores. Siver is in a groove and is beating Phan to the punch. Phan does score with a slick left hand, but Siver is the one with the volume of blows. Front kick scores for Siver. Phan doesn't look rocked, but as the final minute approaches, he's taking a ton of shots. Siver lands hard with a kick to the body. Siver looks for a potential takedown but winds up letting it go in favor of punches. Another big spinning kick from Siver, and he cruises through the first with a 10-9 score on the MMAjunkie.com card.
Round 2 – Siver comes quickly out again with snapping low kicks and straight punches. Siver moving well and looks like he has energy in reserve. Phan still moving forward, but he eats a left that drops him to the canvas. He gets right back up and gets into the line of fire. Siver's kicks are flowing to all levels. Phan is starting to find his boxing range, and he's certainly not intimidated, but he's getting outworked. Front kick to the face again for Siver. Spinning kick to the chin for Siver, and he moves in for a takedown and into side control. Phan on his left side, and he gets half guard. Siver postures up and lands a few short elbows and then several punches. Two minutes remain. Phan trying to slow things down underneath, but Siver is finding room to punch. Final minute of the second, and Siver is in side control. He tries to take the back as Phan scrambles and instead moves to mount. Siver in complete control at the bell. Impressive work through 10 minutes for Siver, who takes the round on the MMAjunkie.com card.
Round 3 – Siver not moving quite as franticly to open the third, but he's still rattling off kicks. Just 30 seconds in, he slips a punch and drives in for a takedown, immediately setting up in top position. Phan has half guard underneath, but Siver is working to isolate the right arm. As Phan is distracted, Siver moves to mount. Phan immediately scrambles back into half guard, but as time ticks away, it's obvious he's in trouble. Punches come from Siver, as well as a few big elbows. Halfway point of the third. Siver uses his leg to isolate Phan's arm and continue to grind away. Punches are relentless from the top, and thunderous elbows and forearms add to the damage. Phan deserves credit for his heart, but he has been overwhelmed in this fight. More punches come in the final seconds, and Siver takes the third round on the MMAjunkie.com card, 10-9, for a 30-27 win. A few 10-8 scores would certainly not surprise. Dennis Siver def. Nam Phan via unanimous decision (30-24, 30-25, 30-26).
Round 1 – Referee Anthony Hamlett oversees this lightweight fight. LeVesseur with an early low kick and then shoots in for a takedown. He elevates Trujillo and slams him to the floor. Trujillo refuses to stay on the floor and scrambles up, but LeVesseur is tied close to the body. Trujillo lands several elbows to the body as he defends against the cage. LeVesseur relentless on the takedown attempt, but he finally lets it go and settles for a clinch. Not much there, and Hamlett resets the fighters. Trujillo lands a nice left hand as LeVesseur shoots in again. LeVesseur does get Trujillo to his knees, but he can't keep him down. LeVesseur tries to move to the back but can't get around the corner. Two minutes remain, and LeVesseur is still tied to the body, and the crowd starts to boo a bit. More elbows inside from Trujillo. He's driving to the body as LeVesseur drops to a knee. LeVesseur is intent on wrestling, but Trujillo is capable against the cage. Another restart as LeVesseur can't get the takedown. LeVesseur shoots in again but eats a knee on the way in. LeVesseur just holds the leg as time winds down. MMAjunkie.com gives the round to Trujillo, 10-9.
Round 2 – LeVesseur doesn't look 100 percent as Trujillo moves forward, bouncing on his feet. Trujillo catches a low kick and pushes LeVesseur off balance. Trujiilo latches on to a guillotine. LeVesseur spins inside, but Trujillo transitions to a north-south choke. It's tight, but LeVesseur somehow survives and scrambles up. He scores with strikes in the pocket, but Trujiilo answers back in massive fashion and drops his opponent. Incredible action to open the round. Trujillo settles into top position. LeVesseur turns and gets to his knees, and Trujillo settles in behind him. They crawl to the feet and reset at the halfway mark. Trujillo leaps in with a right hand. He tries with a left, and LeVesseur slips it and looks for a takedown. Trujillo scrambles free and starts driving knees into the body. Hamlett watching it. Little more than a minute, and Trujillo grinds away with knees. Warnings offered, and LeVesseur can't respond. That's the fight. Abel Trujillo def. Marcus LeVesseur via TKO (knees) – Round 2, 3:56.
Round 1 – Referee Anthony Hamlett in charge again. Martinez moves in immediately after a glove touch and into a clinch even as Cruickshank lands a kick. Not much happening in the clinch. and they're started again in the center. They both fire off wild punches on the restart, and Martinez moves again inside while looking for a takedown. Cruickshank defends against the cage and looks to punch the body. Martinez lets go, and they resume the firefight against the cage, Cruickshank retreats and throws a kick. Spinning backfist lands for Cruickshank. With space, he's dangerous. Martinez bloodied from the early action. Cruickshank unleashes brutal kicks to the body,and Martinez is hurt. He covers up against the cage as Cruickshank continues to punish the body. It looks like he might be done, but he suddenly explodes off the cage with punches. Martinez is fading and hurt, but he's certainly got the heart to move forward. Final minute. Cruickshank flurries with punches and a kick to the had that lands flush. Unsure how Martinez is even standing. Martinez flurries to close in an incredible opening round. MMAjunkie.com gives it to Cruickshank, 10-9.
Round 2 – Martinez pushes forward again an works into a clinch. He walks through a kick to get there, but he can't score the takedown. Cruickshank pulls free and resumes his kicking attack. Straight right for Cruickshank. Martinez walking forward, and his blood has soaked his opponent's white trunks. Pace settling a bit after a torrid first. Cruickshank continues to batter the body with powerful kicks. Martinez's best work comes when he gets into punching range, but he struggles to get there. Cruickshank high kick scores flush to the head, and Martinez is finally out. Walk-off finish for Cruickshank, who just raises his arms. Incredible finish that earns early "knockout of the Night" consideration. Daron Cruickshank def. Henry Martinez via knockout (kick) – Round 2, 2:57.
Round 1 – Referee Dan Miragliotta oversees this lightweight contest. Nijem with an early kick to the body, and he shoots in for a takedown. Proctor wraps his left arm around the neck and looks for a standing guillotine. Nijem stays patient as he presses for the takedown. Proctor doesn't have the choke, and he finally lets go. They both unleash punches in the pocket, and Nijem adds a few knees inside. Kick to the body drops Proctor, and Nijem pounces. Proctor turtles, and Nijem flurries with punches. Proctor covers up against the cage, and Nijem steps in with one hook. Proctor tries to crawl to his feet, but Nijem takes the back. He works over to mount, but Proctor alertly slides out and up to his feet. Proctor's face bloodied, and he returns to the guillotine as he defends against the cage. Nijem again sinks in a hook on a kneeling Proctor, who scrambles to the feet. They flurry, and Proctor lands a solid blow. Nijem looks wobbled, and he tries to slow things down as Proctor settles on top in the final minute. Proctor can't capitalize, and MMAjunkie.com gives the back-and-forth round to Nijem, 10-9.
Round 2 – They start quickly again, and Proctor looks rejuvenated. Nijem trying to fight at range and use his long frame. Proctor finding a home for counter left hooks. Nijem answers with a right-hand return. Nijem reaching with overhand punches that are landing. Still, Proctor looks comfortable and is walking forward. Halfway point, and Proctor seems to have the crisper shots in the standup department. Nijem shoots in for a takedown. Proctor tries to roll through and into top position, but Nijem alertly presses him back down and takes top position. Nijem stands to pass guard, but Proctor seizes the moment and escapes up. He immediately looks to attack the back. He tries to transition into mount and push Nijem to the floor, but Nijem settles on to his knees. Proctor continues to wrap the neck, even as Nijem pulls him over and to his back. Confident work for Nijem, who left his neck in danger while reversing fields. Tight round and finishing on top might have got the frame for Nijem. Still, MMAjunkie.com gives it to Proctor, 10-9.
Round 3 – Both look to box early, and Nijem scores a low kick. Nijem returns to the overhand right and then kicks the body. Nijem has some spark back in the final round. Nijem looks for a takedown, and Proctor tries to dive out for an armbar. No dice, and a kimura attempt fails, as well. Nijem takes top position and wraps the neck a bit as he thinks about the guillotine. Proctor moves to his knees and explodes to his feet. He immediately looks for a guillotine and willingly goes to his back. Nijem settles on top, and then the pair scrambles up. Slick transition from Proctor, who moves to the back and then shifts off for and armbar. Nijem keeps the pressure high and pulls his arm free. Time running down, and while Proctor has had a few good submission attempts, it's Nijem who has spent a lot of time in top position. Less than a minute, and Proctor transitions out to his knees in north-south. Nijem scrambles up at the end and rattles off an impressive flurry that seals the win. MMAjunkie.com gives the round to Nijem, 10-9, awarding him the fight 29-28. Ramsey Nijem def. Joe Proctor via unanimous decision (30-27, 29-28, 29-28).
Round 1 – Referee Steve Newport in charge of this bantamweight matchup. Easton bouncing on the outside, and he misses a spinning kick. Assuncao with a snapping low kick, and he's patient from the outside to start. Easton flurries inside. Assuncao moves out of the way and throws up a high kick. Counter straight for Assuncao, who looks content to let his opponent come to him. Assuncao moving his head and looking for angles, but Easton's non-stop movement making that hard. Halfway mark. Assuncao misses on a high kick. Easton starting to reach with his punches, and Assuncao is timing them well. Final minute. Close round. It's Easton moving forward, but Assuncao is having success on the feet. Assuncao shoots in, but Easton defends well. Assuncao stays tight in a clinch. Reset in the final 10 seconds. MMAjunkie.com leans toward Easton, 10-9, but Assuncao had moments and seemed to claim some late momentum.
Round 2 – Assuncao whiffs on a high kick, as does Easton. Assuncao still content to let Easton come to him. Assuncao misses a kick but comes back with a slick backfist that scores. Leg kicks traded. Low kick from Assuncao, but he eats a counter. Assuncao starting to walk forward a bit, and Easton looks a little out of sorts in terms of rhythm. Easton complains of an eyepoke, but Newport didn't see anything, so the fight carries on. Halfway mark, and big exchanges. Assuncao into the clinch, and he lands a knee to the cup. Assuncao didn't think it was low, but Easton gets a break. Easton aggressive again on the restart. He's definitely moving forward, but Assuncao seems to be more effective in his efforts. Crowd wants the pace to quicken. Assuncao kicks the face and the leg. Easton shoots in, but Assuncao sprawls and pulls easily away in the final minute. Assuncao misses a spinning backfist and stays upright when Easton pushes in. Another close round, but MMAjunkie.com leans toward Assuncao, 10-9.
Round 3 – Easton again the one moving forward, but he's unable to really land anything. Kick to the body for Assuncao, who follows again with a left. Assuncao switches to southpaw and lands two punches. He's managing the distance well and staying away from opponent's attacks while launching his own. Assuncao shoots in and looks for a takedown. He gets Easton off-balance but can't take top position. Easton scrambles away, though Assuncao chases and shoots in again. Halfway mark, and Assuncao tries again for a takedown that won't come. Crowd again implores action, but Assuncao is using smart tactics as he stay away from the big shots. Assuncao pushes in again to the clinch but lets it go as the final minute opens. Easton kicks low but eats a counter. Assuncao a little off-balance, and Easton wants a takedown, but the Brazilian pulls away.Round ends just as it played out all along. Close again, but MMAjunkie.com leans toward Assuncao, 10-9, and awards him the fight 29-28. Raphael Assuncao def. Mike Easton via unanimous decision (29-28, 30-27, 30-27).
Round 1 – Referee Steve Newport oversees the night's final preliminary bout. Stephens rushes forward with a knee that Edwards avoids. Stephens pushing forward. Edwards lands a kick and then looks for a takedown, but Stephens stays up and backs away. Stephens is winging punches with power, but Edwards avoiding early. Edwards has yet to really uncork, though he does look to be in a nice rhythm. That changes quickly, as Edwards lands a clean right hook on the chin. Stephens down, and Newport gives him time to recover, but Edwards is on top and pounds out the result with a brutal series of elbows. Brutal. Yves Edwards def. Jeremy Stephens via knockout (punch and elbows) – Round 1, 1:55.
Round 1 – Referee Dan Miragliotta in the cage as we go live on FOX. Swick circles left on the outside. Brown pushes in and eats a left hand but looks fine. Brown really pushing in to start. Swick countering well, but Brown pushes in for a takedown. Brown tries to set up a D'arce choke. Swick pushing away and is warned for grabbing the shorts to defend. Brown keeps the choke in tight and falls to his back to finish. Swick is trapped, but he looks to be getting enough space to survive. He eventually pops his head up and takes top position. Brown active underneath, and Swick has yet to score from the dominant position. Brown locks in a triangle choke in a slick transition. Swick counters well by swinging up his legs, and Brown struggles to get the proper torque. Final minute. Swick looks fine, and he pushes the legs over his head. Swick tries to attack the neck, but it's not there, and they scramble up to their feet. Good start, and MMAjunkie.com gives it to Brown, 10-9.
Round 2 – Brown takes the center to open. Swick blocks a high kick. Brown leaps in with an uppercut and then rushes forward with an elbow. Brown pushing the pace, and Swick trying to avoid taking any of his opponent's leaping power shots. They move into the clinch, and Brown lands with elbows inside. Swick spins off the cage, but he's struggling to offer much in terms of counters. He breaks away and looks to reset, but he doesn't look 100 percent. Brown seizes the moment and fires off a left hand to the chine and a big right hand follow. Swick hits the canvas, and Brown follows with one more. There's the fight. Impressive finish. Matt Brown def. Mike Swick via knockout (punches) – Round 2, 2:31.
Round 1 – Referee Herb Dean oversees this key welterweight fight. Penn moves forward quickly and walks through a knee to move into the clinch. MacDonald spins off the cage, and they break. Back into the clinch quickly. Nothing there, and they separate again. MacDonald scores a few jab and avoids the counter. Leg kick for MacDonald, and he follows it up with a high kick. Penn presses forward with right hands. MacDonald controlling the center. Jabs traded, and MacDonald kicks to the body. Penn lands a left up the middle and quickly brings the fight to the floor. MacDonald stands, but Penn stays tied to the body. MacDonald spins off the cage and lands an elbow as they separate. MacDonald looks the much bigger man in the cage, and he shoots in, but Penn stuffs it. Still, Penn seems to have lost a little zip as MacDonald staggers him with a stiff left. MacDonald pouring it on. Penn trying to survive against the cage in the final minute. Big elbow over the top from MacDonald. Penn survives, but it's MacDonald's round on the MMAjunkie.com card, 10-9.
Round 2 – MacDonald with an early low kick. Crowd behind Penn, who is still moving forward and looking to engage. MacDonald back to work with a crisp jab. Penn against the cage, and MacDonald digs the body and taps the chin. MacDonald presses forward as Penn retreats to the cage. Penn catches a kick but can't do anything with it. Penn lands a stiff right hand, but he can't build on it. MacDonald kicks to the body, and Penn is hurt. He doubles over. Dean wants to step in, but he lets it go. Punches, kicks and knees for MacDonald as Penn doubles over. Dean yells and asks Penn if he wants out, but the fight carries on. Penn a warrior, but MacDonald is just unloading. Penn is trapped against the cage, and MacDonald is picking him apart. Penn's legacy all that's keeping this fight going. Penn finally does move off the cage with a few punches. MacDonald showboats a beat by shuffling his feet. Crowd doesn't like it. Final minute, and MacDonald scores a takedown. Not much there, but MMAjunkie.com scores the round for MacDonald, 10-8.
Round 3 – Doctors look at Penn, but the fight carries on. His left eye is swollen and black. Still, he pushes forward and into a clinch. Penn gets MacDonald to a knee, but the Canadian simply pops back up and spins off the cage. Penn looks up at the clock. MacDonald in tight, and Dean breaks them apart. MacDonald slips on a spinning kick, but Penn can't move in to capitalize. MacDonald seems to have let off the gas a little. He's comfortable moving into a clinch, though he does land a big elbow as he separates. Jab. Kick. It's all working for MacDonald. Halfway mark of the final frame. Penn trying to muster up something in the closing minutes, but MacDonald stands in front of him and shuffles his feet again. Into the clinch again. Dean breaks them apart. Superman punch for MacDonald. Left hand scores. MacDonald drops his hands and taunts Penn, who has nothing left to answer. Fight ends, and it's clearly a landmark win for MacDonald, who takes the final round 10-9 on the MMAjunkie.com card and earns the fight 30-26. Rory MacDonald def. B.J. Penn via unanimous decision (30-26, 30-26, 30-27).
Round 1 – Referee Dan Miragliotta in charge of the evening's co-feature. Gustafsson looks to use his reach early, as he fights from distance. Gustafsson catches the chin and drops Rua. Gustafsson swarms with punches, but Rua recovers and drops back for a leg lock. It's tight briefly, but Gustafsson creates space and pulls away. Tense moments for the Swede. Gustafsson scores his own takedown but backs away when Rua looks again to capitalize on the leg. Rua battles back and lands a right hand that drops Gustafsson, but he's quickly back to his feet. Rua wraps the body and tries to attack from the clinch. Gustafsson sneaks in a knee and backs away. Rua looks to move to striking range, but Gustafsson timing his counters well to start. Big left for Rua, but Gustafsson is fine and move away. It's back and forth, but Gustafsson doing much better with his hands. Rua chopping the legs, and it's back and forth in the final minute. Rua doing good work inside, especially with his knees. Round ends, and MMAjunkie.com gives it just slightly to Gustafsson, 10-9.
Round 2 – Rua comes out swinging, and Gustafsson looks to be a little staggered. Gustafsson moving well, but Rua continues to fire off heavy, heavy overhand shots. Gustafsson moving in and out. Rua happy to load up on leaping shots, and he's doing little to hide his goal. Gustafsson pushes into a clinch. Not much there, and Miragliotta breaks them. Gustafsson starting to chop the legs a bit, as well. Rua pushes inside but winds up on his back. Gustafsson postures and lands one punch before electing to move away and reset. Two punches score for Rua. They're solid, but Gustafsson stays on his feet. Gustafsson slips another right, and he scores a takedown. Less than two minutes. Rua crawls up to his feet and stays in the clinch. Another takedown for Gustafsson. Rua scrambles up but Gustafsson lands several punches and knees as they reset. Uppercut from Gustafsson followed by a knee that snaps Rua's head back. Rua still dangerous, but he does look to be tiring. MMAjunkie.com scores the round for Gustafsson, 10-9.
Round 3 – Rua's eyes swelling, but he again opens with big punches. Gustafsson moves forward but walks into a right hand. Another takedown for Rua. He initially scrambles up, but Gustafsson trips him again and tries to take the back. Rua rolls for a leg, and Gustafsson scrambles away and back to the feet. Rua still looking to land bombs, but Gustafsson avoids taking any major damage and scores another takedown. He backs away after a few seconds, and we reset on the feet. Kick to the body for Gustafsson, and Rua is slowing and looks hurt. Gustafsson picking his opponent apart. Rua looks up at the clock. He's in survival mode. Gustafsson still moving well, and he pushes into the clinch. Nothing there, and they reset in the center. Final minute. Snapping front kick to the face for Gustafsson. Rua slips as he looks to move and reset. He needs something miraculous in the closing seconds. He lands a left hand, but it's not nearly enough. Gustafsson ends with a takedown, and he claims the round on the MMAjunkie.com card 10-9, as well as the fight 30-27. Alexander Gustafsson def. Mauricio "Shogun" Rua via unanimous decision (30-27, 30-27, 30-26).
Round 1 – Referee Herb Dean in the cage for the night's main event with the UFC lightweight title on the line. Henderson with an early low kick and avoids a few Diaz jabs. Henderson misses a leg kick, and Diaz pushes into a clinch. He knees the leg, but Henderson turns off the cage. Short punches inside for Diaz. Henderson now answering with his own knees. Diaz tries to position himself for a toss, but Henderson remains upright. Jockeying for position inside. Henderson wraps the body and looks briefly for a takedown. Henderson muscling his opponent inside, but Diaz sneaking in several short punches and scoring points. They break, and Diaz lands an elbow. Henderson shoots in on a takedown and winds up in top position. Henderson standing, and he pushes in with big hammerfists. Diaz exposes his back to create room to stand. Henderson stays latched to the body before breaking apart with 90 seconds remaining. Low kick staggers Diaz, but Henderson can't get top position. Knees traded inside on the restart, and Henderson continues with the leg kicks. Henderson punches to move inside. They finish in the clinch, and MMAjunkie.com gives it to Henderson, 10-9.
Round 2 – Stiff leg kick again for Henderson. He gets a takedown shortly after and punches away. Diaz climbs up and eats a high kick and a knee to the body. Henderson pushes in again and smothers Diaz in the clinch against the cage. Henderson controlling the action against the cage. He lands an elbow as they break. Diaz struggling to get his boxing going. Henderson attacks the legs again and then punches to the body. Halfway mark. Henderson jabbing low, punching the leg. He follows with a big punch over the top, and Diaz drops. Henderson follows to the ground and looks to flurry. Diaz offers his back as he moves back to his feet. Gritty work by Diaz, but Henderson giving him no room to work. Left hand again for Henderson, and Diaz's right eye is bloodied from the work. Diaz scores a toss in the final minute, but Henderson moves right back to his feet and resumes the attack on the lead leg. Diaz switches stances with his lead leg badly damaged. Round ends, and it's all Henderson, 10-9.
Round 3 – Henderson continues to attack the leg. Diaz reaching with his punches, and Henderson scores a takedown. Diaz looks to attack the leg, but Henderson pulls free. Scramble on the floor, and they return to the feet. Henderson puts Diaz down again and lands an elbow on top. Diaz tries to get his legs high , but Henderson postures to pull free. Henderson stands and fights through a few kicks to his legs. Henderson looks to advance, and Diaz nearly sweeps but instead attacks the left leg of his opponent. Tense moments for Henderson, but he rolls through it all and moves on to Diaz's back. Diaz pulls free and again attacks the leg, but Henderson looks comfortable. Henderson in a splits as he defends. They scramble away, and Henderson scores with another big shot. Diaz attacks the leg yet again from his back, but he can't capitalize. Henderson pulls free and keeps up his attack. He takes another round on the MMAjunkie.com card, 10-9.
Round 4 – Henderson bouncing as we enter the championship rounds. Diaz still trying to get his vaunted boxing attack going, but Henderson alertly closes the distance and lands a knee inside. Takedown for Henderson, and he tries to take the back. Diaz won't allow that, but he still can't reverse the course of the momentum. Henderson staying in very tight and grinding away on the floor and in the clinch. Diaz up briefly, but Henderson brings him back to the floor, and he's opening up more with his strikes. Henderson striking to the head and body. Diaz tough underneath, and he's looking for options, but Henderson is comfortable on top and delivering strikes. Diaz rolls to the side and briefly secures the right arm. Henderson waits it out and pulls free before resuming his ground-and-pound attack. It's one-way traffic. Diaz is certainly not giving up, and he again looks to snatch the leg. Still, Henderson is in control. Henderson stands, and Diaz waves him down to come into the guard. Henderson refuses to do so, and Diaz crawls to his feet in the final seconds. Round ends, and MMAjunkie.com gives it again to Henderson, 10-9.
Round 5 – Final round, and Diaz is going to need something special. Doctors look at his swollen right eye, but he gets to fight. Diaz is waving his arms, looking to taunt Henderson into doing something silly. Instead, he moves back into the clinch and continues to control the positioning and pace of the fight. Diaz trying hard to wiggle free. Instead, Henderson elevates Diaz and slams him to the floor. Henderson pushes down on Diaz's guard and lands several big elbows. Diaz turns and climbs to his feet. Henderson is absolutely smothering his opponent and controlling every aspect of the action. Diaz tries to secure Henderson's right arm in a kimura grip, but he's forced to let it go. He crawls to his feet and tries again to take the arm, but Henderson is in no trouble. Final 90 seconds, and Diaz looks to score a desperation submission. Instead, Henderson simply slides out and batters his opponent with punches and elbows. Diaz is understandably frustrated. He asks Diaz to punch him on the chin. Diaz lands a strike at the end, but it's not enough. MMAjunkie.com gives the final round to Henderson, 10-9, and awards him the clean-sweep win at 50-45. Ben Henderson def. Nate Diaz via unanimous decision (50-43, 50-45, 50-45) to retain UFC lightweight title.


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Community letters: Grateful for tributes
During a recent tour of Castle Point VA Medical Center, we were approached by Yvette Rodriquez-Cacho, director of volunteer services. She told us of a terminally ill veteran who had made a promise to his 9-year-old daughter.
His condition was deteriorating fast and he knew he couldn't keep his promise. We were asked if we could help. I contacted local DAV chapters and raised funds, making his promise and wish happen. The veteran subsequently died knowing the promise he made was being fulfilled.
Castle Point VA staff, social workers and the following DAV chapters made it possible for his final wish to come true: Chapter 38, Troy, state Commander Tom Reiter; Chapter 144, Castle Point, Commander Tom Wohlrab; Chapter 152, New Windsor, Commander Anthony Preggo; and Chapter 212, Goshen, Commander Tom Aiello.
The real heroes in making this happen are our community members, who despite hard economic times still manage to donate. Your donations allow us to fulfill our mission of making better lives for our veterans and their families. From all of us involved, thank you.
Thomas J. Wohlrab
As the parents of Jane Waleski Unhjem, we want to thank the Goshen community, the Goshen school community, the Goshen High School music department and Orange-Ulster BOCES for the wonderful tributes paid to our dearly missed daughter, who died in such a tragic way. Jane was an extraordinary, caring and considerate daughter, sister and mother. Her absence causes us deep grief, but there is comfort in realizing that she touched so many lives in such a positive manner.
Because of our physical limitations, it is with much regret that we were unable to attend all the loving tributes to our daughter. But we wanted you to know that we have followed, very closely, the outpouring of love and admiration for our dear Jane. Our hearts are filled with deep gratitude to all of you for showing such affection for our daughter. Thank you very much.
Val and Ray Waleski