Is your commitment to US imperialism and the entitled management of Latin America by its landed, commercial and military elites purely ideological, by heritage, or more traditionally mercenary? Did a sexy girl spurn you in youth for the campus Marxist poet and the superior entertainments of his fitted leather jacket, does it burn?

I would love to read your unreported reporting on democracy as understood through a typical day on a Honduran banana plantation. I mark your compassion for the cattle men of Venezuela. My heart can only break so much for the men who own the cattle. I am sensitive like you, Simon. These men who have done so much for the world through owning. Thank you for loving these Sunday Romans Catholics by way of Bavarian inquisitors, the West in the South over the din of the blacks and homosexual nostalgics and wretched of the earth. Che Guevara t-shirts threaten flip justice from slum and university alike. Your friends need whiskey like a baby needs milk, and the full dignity of their Harvard MBA and smart eyeglasses, Simon. I remember you in Lurigancho and Canto Grande, at the women's graves in Ayacucho. Was that you? And Santiago, too, when the Air Force cast its ballot on September 11. Were you inspired? Some were. Some knew that day who they were and did not sing the Internationale. You do get around, Simon. Like Harvard MBAs get around. And gonorrhea. And Colonels trained in Ft. Benning, Panama.

Weep yourself to sleep, Simon Romero. Remember and cry, Havana 1958 when the whores knew their place. Cry, too, for the oil-drunk bleach kit plastic surgery disasters of Margarita Island. The world cries with you, Simon. And the collectors of German heritage who are happy because the rules are different here, where powdered cocaine liberals drink with sexy Nazis like Stalingrad never happened and the Popular Front didn't make us all feel so beautiful. The only problems left are school teachers and Cuban doctors. Money speaks its own language, at least we have that.

Now an Indian is running Bolivia. I hear the singing was beautiful in the mines of Potosí. Like an orgasm or amputation. Liquid silver poured into the cavities of Spain, and heretics, by your friends; Simon. Thank you for understanding.