Habana Diary: Club Rio [1997]

Habana 1997

Stepping out into the warm Habana night. A blast of hot air. The hellish heat. The pleading horns. A pounding, frantic salsa beat. The beat of life. Of Cuba and the night. Pouring out the beaten black doors of Club Rio. echoing down the dark quiet streets, off the dilapidated sun baked apartment ruins.

We slip the doorman a crumpled dirty ten dollar bill. American dollars. No pesos here. Not anymore. A giant hulking black man in his tired tux. He swings open the door.

Eee-yah! Eee-yah! Hands clapping to the beat. Mati tosses back a wisp of golden hair. A raging beauty. A Cubana Marilyn Monroe. Or is it Madonna tonight? Crazy spandex pop dreams. Bare midriff. Mesh top. Dun beat.

Flicks her lipstick stained cigarette to the floor, crushes it with stiletto heel. Grabs my hand. Flashes a girlish smile. Everything lost, all the impossible problems y cares to the swirling salsa beat.

A hopeless puff of air conditioned relief. Lost among the sweaty clammy bodies. Thick smoke. Wild flashing lights. Tugging my hand, we collapse on a worn couch. the cheap vinyl sticking to our skin. In a dark corner. Among the lovers. Fingers entwined. Bodies pressed tight together. Wet stolen kisses. Crazy laughter.

We survey the room. The grimy dated sixties decor. A peeling mural. Typically Cuban; of chicas with big butts. swinging round and round with chicos in tight bulging pants. Eyes wander along the cracked winding bar. More bodies pressed tightly together. Heaving. Swaying. Reaching for a drink.

The bar man pours rum shots. Passes out long necked cervezas gulped back in the heat of the moment. Resting in puddles of water. Ashtrays heaped high. The locals wear their best. Yesterday's hip fashions. Lost in the backwash of Cuba. Of time. The amiga's giggle. Whisper. Throw back their hair. The chicos lean back precariously on their wooden stools. One arm propped up on the bar.

It's a Cuban carnival of life! An old man wanders in looking for a light. Tobacco powder falling out the end of his dried out cigarette. "El Popular". Cigarillo negril. As good as it gets. He sways to the beat. Bumps hips with a girl. Everyone laughs. Somebody passes him a shot. He knocks it back. Licks his lips. Wanders back off into Cuba and the night.

Two police stroll in. Hike up their gun belts. Tip back their caps. Coolly checking out the crowd. Belly up to the bar, they soon are distracted with a drink. The music's cranked up. Trance like. Matching. Surpassing the blasting, pounding, mind numbing beat. Disco. Rap. Latino. Overdrive. Nothing makes any sense. Why should it?

Along the dance floor the jinetera sit. Legs spread. Tits all but spilling out of their skin tight minis. College boys on vacation in loud over sized Hawaiian shirts lean over, cop a feel. Choose a chica for the night. Laughter. Winks. Ven aca, mi amor? Que tal?

The chicas tug their latest hombre out onto the heavy swaying dance floor. Let the guys take them for a spin. The floor's packed tighter and tighter. Impossibly so. With a heavy sigh the music and bodies pump up the salsa beat. More frantic now as the clock above the bar hits three and we move into the homestretch.

The chicas jump up from their couches. Chairs. Mati too. Pelvis' gyrating from somewhere deep inside the pit of their tummy. Gut. Tinny horns blast among the bass beat roar. Mini's sliding up slender legs. Tight asses. Svelte hips. Hands on tummy. Tongues breathlessly between the lips. Bodies sway back and forth. Round and round. To and fro. It's a Cuban ritual: the beat of life. Of Habana, Club Rio and the salsa night.

And then: more disco. Rap. Tired oldies back home. But here? It's new? It's wild! It's international! Forbidden fruit from the world beyond. An impossible dance dream melting into romantic ballads. Lush overtly sentimental strings. Chicas swoon as the chicos hit back the last of their drinks.

Mati grabs my hand. Pulls me out onto the dance floor. Our moist drenched bodies, sweat upon sweat. The swell of her breasts. Hot breathe. Her cheek to mine, I close my eyes. Everything but everything just disappears. The music takes over. We sway in a crazy, timeless embrace.

The lights flicker on. Rubbing our eyes, we spill back out onto the still, silent streets before dawn. Laughing. Strolling hand in hand along the Malecon. The sea wall. The sheer madness of it all. The joy of life. Con mi mujar en Habana y la noche.

Kulture Kult: Boardwalk Empire! Habana Empire!

Or "Spot the History Teacher in Me Part 1"!

Nucky bites the bullet in Boardwalk Empire finale

I was very disappointed in this month's finale of the TV series Boardwalk Empire. Otherwise I thoroughly enjoyed the acting, characters, and the show as a period piece. Nucky gets his just desserts, but it's a big cop out all the same. The finale "jumps the shark" [as they say in the biz: remember Fonzie in Happy Days towards the end....] by very badly and misleadingly departing from the real life story of Enoch L Johnson upon which it is based. A few very key, important issues get lost in the mix!

Enoch Thompson: Republican racketeer! He lived!

The real Enoch Thompson was a US conservative figure and racketeer. Like Nucky in the show, Enoch made his fortune through bootlegging, gambling and prostitution in Atlantic City during prohibition. Like Al Capone in the show, Enoch Thompson was actually brought down on tax evasion charges too. After a 4 year jail term he was released in 1945. Later he worked for an oil company. He remained a Republican backroom political mover and shaker until he died of natural causes in 1968. Don't suppose there's a more interesting and thought provoking end in there somewhere, eh?!? No. No. Just make something up instead! Duh! 

Mobster Meyer Lansky: on the show!

Then there's mobster Meyer Lansky. Like in Boardwalk Empire, he was also in organized crime figure in real life. Lansky was later one of the mafia king pens running mob operations in Habana Cuba until Fidel Castro sent them packing from the country after the 1959 revolution. With their plans thwarted to create a mafia "rogue state" in Cuba just 90 miles south of Florida, Lansky made his way back to the United States where the mob became heavily involved in putting pressure on the US government to overthrow Castro and "restore democracy in Cuba". The legacy of that era continues today with the crippling US 1961 embargo of Cuba still in place. 

Mugshot: The real mobster Meyer Lansky

Wow, now wouldn't that make a great TV series too? Unfortunately one can imagine how it would end!!! Betcha there's lots that wouldn't be used either for political reasons! How unfortunate: often truth really is stranger than fiction. The true story of Boardwalk Empire and Havana Empire, even as a historical drama series could provide a very real case in point! Too bad, the dumbing down of society continues unabated!
Sigh! Alas! There's no need to wonder why!

Big stink: Lansky planned to make Cuba a rogue mafia state!

Further Reading: 

History verses Hollywood matches many of the names from the show to their real life counterparts. You can then easily Google them for more info @ History 

Nelson Johnson's Boardwalk Empire: Birth, High Times and Corruption only has one chapter on Enoch Johnson. However it nicely puts him into context and provides a good overview of his life and times. The rest is a great history of Atlantic City detailing the corruption behind it's rise and a fall as an early 20th century resort and gambling spot. The chapters on race relations with it's predominantly black workforce is quite fascinating. More info @ Boardwalk Empire

The "Cuba Insider" site has a fascinating report on The Cuban Revolution and the American Mafia @ Cuba Nexus

T.J. English's Havana Nocturne provides an entertaining non fiction account of how the mob owned and ran Cuba, but then lost it to the revolution @ Havana Nocturne and @ NY Daily

Cuban writer Enrique Circule's Empire of Habana provides a much more detailed and disturbing account, despite the sometimes awkward translation. Read a Spanish copy if you can. More info @ Havana Empire

The Cuban Editorial Jose Marti Edition: Harder to find. Also in Spanish.

Back To Toronto!

Here I am back in Toronto from my Mexican trip, sitting on the balcony with my morning coffee. It's an overcast day. I brought all my house plants out for some sun and rain when I got back. It's pleasant. I'm surrounded with greenery, looking out at the city, feeling relaxed and very happy with our trip.

I didn't go outside for the first three days back. Nope. I stayed in my man-cave, the music room, listening to my stereo, reading, napping, kind of in free fall. All that vacationing tired me out! Whew! Life is tough and then you die! My niece Katrina finally convinced me that it's nice out and I shouldn't miss it. She's not working this summer either. In the fall she goes to teacher college. I think it is a good idea, as long as she can pay the bills, she should rest up and enjoy herself, the school year ahead can often be very stressful and draining come summer. Practice now! I always like to take the summer off. Time is worth more to me than money. We only live once. She's saying she`s not working to protest stress and wrinkles to ward off any static. I love the cause. Go grrrrl go! Would be nice to be twenty something again eh?

So I walked about downtown Toronto. I was born here, and a Yonge Street walk is just one of those very Torontonian things I still do. As teens we`d always go on Friday or Saturday to Sam the Record Man`s store; Beatle albums were always on sale for $4. There were a lot of really great clubs and local bands back in the sixties and seventies; Ronnie Hawkins and the Band at the Hawks Nest, jazz at the Colonial, Carole Pope at the Chimney, Triumph at the Piccadilly Tube, to name but a few.We`d party, or sometimes just walk around checking out the action and well known characters on the street, never bothering anybody.

Yonge St. has always had it`s ``Toronto the Bad`` side to it with the massage parlours, porn shops, strip clubs and hookers, but that was pretty much shut down long ago. Later it was a punk rock hang out. The Viletones would play Yonge Station while the big bad bouncers would sell the kids bad drugs at the door, and then beat them up and kick them back out onto the sidewalk once they got stoned. The Dog would spit out the words and chew on glass as the band blasted away at their three chord hit `Screaming Fist`. 

My style was more the Talking Heads, the Ramones and the Dead Boys at the New Yorker, a tawdry old movie house that`s now been converted into the Panasonic Theatre. Toronto Punk and New Wave were always first and foremost about the music and fashion. I think so. Yonge St was pretty much just an ugly version of the Queen St West scene where I lived at the time. We had the new wave bands like the Diodes and Dishes at the Ontario College of Art, and the Talking Heads at the Horseshoe Tavern if I remember correctly. There were umpteen local bands playing at the Beverely Hotel, the Shock Theatre and the Crash and Burn Club, or we`d go dancing all night at the Twilight Zone. It was always a very local scene mostly centred around Queen St West Soho.

Did you know Toronto was one of the big three Punk and New Wave Rock epicentres during the mid to late seventies, along with New York,and London. There was a very good book written about it recently `Treat Me Like Dirt: An Oral History of Punk in Toronto and Beyond` by Liz Worth on Ralph Alfonzo`s Bongo Beat Press. It`s a good and very insightful read, but I ramble....

So now here I was post twentieth century, quite middle aged and respectable, just sitting at a window seat in the Second Cup Cafe at Yonge and College, with my coffee and iPhone, people watching. I walked about for a few hours. I won`t belabour this, I`ve done at least one Yonge St blog before. Suffice to say it was hot and sunny. Nice but not as nice as Mexico mind you. I think it`s the humidity from the lake which makes Toronto feel like a sauna during the dog days of summer. The Mayan Riviera had a great Caribbean breeze, not like here.

I bought a bunch of seconds and reminder art books at BMV on Bloor St. West just north of the University of Toronto. This store is amazing! Very cheap and incredibly diverse and well stocked with everything from books to CD`s and DVD`s in the basement. I could spend hours in there. Anyway, I found a stack of books about album cover art from the 1950`s to the 90`s, with info and full colour plates. I collect music and was a disc jockey and radio program director when I was at U of T. It`s been my hobby as long as I can remember, and I have a pretty decent collection of six thousand or so CD`s and box sets, maybe a thousand original LP albums, boxes of old 45`s and cassette tapes etc.

The only problem was I had to trudge home on the subway to my car at Yorkdale Mall carrying this very heavy stack of hard cover books but folk were nice and made way for me, even opening doors and so on. ``Toronto the Good!`` Once home I stayed up late listening to tunes and pouring over my new books matching the cover art with my albums and CD`s until the wee hours.

Long and short of it is I finally got back outside! It had felt so good just to stay home and do nothing after all my adventures in Mexico. Janet and I have been putting a lot into fixing up our condo so it is just the way we like it. 1200 square feet, an ideal place for empty nesters with good security, nice neighbours, a good location. All of our favourite things are here and we are slowly but surely getting it set up just so for when we retire. The irony is that far too often during the year it is like a pit stop between all the things we have to do. I really like just being here and enjoying it, and that`s exactly what I have been doing. Feels great! Now I`m going outside again too. Well done, eh!

I`m trying to set up my Cuba trip to Santiago de Cuba but my Cuban teacher friends are off to Habana and I`ve been there enough for now. Also most of my Cuban Schools Project work is in Santiago, so outside of having a very good time in Habana, which I without doubt would have, it kind of defeats my purpose unless we can co-ordinate our schedules which I am trying to do now. Communications with the Cuban Schools is dicey at best but I am plugging away at it, with no doubt a great story post to follow once I get that rolling, details forthcoming.

My sister Mary Ann is coming to visit from Sudbury for the weekend. We were going to go see the tall ships down at the harbour front but there are no tall ships at the harbour front, so much for that! We`ve got a bunch of other stuff to do too. I can`t quite recall what but Janet is my social director, she`ll know what we`re doing and where we go. Should be fun!

I could go for groceries but it`s lunch and I am sill in my pyjamas. Anyway I hate pushing around the cart with people bumping into me, and then lining up forever at the check-out counter. That`s not to mention having to bring my own grocery bags to help the environment and so on, and then carrying it all upstairs in a buggy cart to our condo. Blech! I think I`ll tidy up the place and we can eat at restaurants while she is here. There`s enough food and drinks in the fridge to get by. Sounds like a plan. ;-)

Bye for now!