Tuesday, June 10, 2003


Raven is sitting in front of the computer screen, speakers blasting out the voice of Hugo Chávez.

Gee, Rave. You couldn’t make him any louder, could you?

“Hey”, Raven turns down the volume, “I thought he was The Leo of Your Dreams?”

He is, but I’m not completely deaf yet.

“When you figure out how to get some headphones to fit on my head, I won’t have to use the speakers anymore. I love this speech—where he says he’s not a little gold coin that everybody likes. But he stole my thunder, though.”

Really, guy—someone stole the thunder of the bird who stole the sun and the moon and stars and put them in the sky so that we have light?

“The bird who used to be white and who turned black going up the smoke hole with the sun, the moon and the stars.”

Oh oh. Rave, where is this going?

“You know Chávez. He said: “I’m ugly—black, not refined or anything—a little crude sometimes. Doesn’t that sound like your friendly neighborhood Raven?”

You’re not ugly! Black, well yes—obviously. Crude—sometimes. I see what you mean that he stole SOME of your thunder.

“He even said he wasn’t a communist.”

Has someone accused you of being one lately, Rave?

“Not since the 50s. Not since Charley McCarthy.”

Rave, I told you before: his name was Joe.

“Whatever.” Raven turns the volume back up. “I love this guy!”

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