Santana realises ‘she’s not there’

Rocker's wife of 34 years files for divorce, citing irreconcilable differences

SAN RAFAEL, California: Carlos Santana and his wife of 34 years are divorcing, according to court documents.

Deborah Santana, who in her 2005 memoir Space Between the Stars described her guitarist husband as being unfaithful, filed for divorce in Marin County Superior Court on Oct 19, citing irreconcilable differences.

Carlos Santana's publicist, Michael Jensen, said the case is “a private matter and there is no comment”.

The musician has said he knew he made mistakes in his marriage.

“I sincerely apologized to her and to my kids when I wasn't in my right mind and did something hurtful,” Carlos Santana said after the memoir was published. “It has helped me become more humble and to try harder to be the man she wants me to be.”

Joke of the Day

There was a man who wanted a pure wife. So he started to attend church to find a woman. He met a gal who seemed nice so he took her home.
When they got there, he whips out his manhood and asks "What's this?"
She replies "A cock."
He thinks to himself that she is not pure enough. A couple of weeks later he meets another gal and soon takes her home. Again, he pulls out his manhood and asks the question.
She replies "A cock". He is angry because she seemed more pure than the first but, oh well. A couple of weeks later he meets a gal who seems real pure. She won't go home with him for a long time but eventually he gets her to his house.
He whips it out and asks, "What is this?"
She giggles and says "A pee-pee."
He thinks to himself that he has finally found his woman. They get married but after several months every time she sees his member she giggles and says, "That's your pee-pee."
He finally breaks down and says "Look this is not a pee-pee, it is a cock."
She laughs and says "No it's not, a cock is ten inches long and black."

Return of the Devil

Ambrose Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary is a classic of satire and literary innovation published in 1911. Every day The Crystal Ship will bring to you one word from this most witty of lexicons. Don’t say I never do anything for your betterment.

ACCUSE, v.t.  To affirm another's guilt or unworth; most commonly as a

justification of ourselves for having wronged him.

Portrait of a Lady - 8

he pig is on holiday. The farm is in disarray. So the other animals decided to take charge. The sloth was elected to lead the lesser animals. He tried, but was an abysmal failure. The pompous bull snorted and took charge, but his tail kept getting in the way. The mouse twitched anxiously, the mule nodded wisely. The donkey brayed loudly, and everyone was forced to listen. The peacock played with her nails. It was degeneration without the decadence… everyone masturbated, but no one achieved an orgasm. Disgusted they dispersed, with promises to meet again.

Only the vulture smirked… once it feeds on the carrion, it will move on to a better farm.

But I am trapped here. There is no way out. One day I will become like them – I will scratch my belly, toss my mane, and hoot idiotically. But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll at least achieve an orgasm.

Memoirs of a traveller - Dubai

This is Dubai. Sheikh Zayed Road lit up the night sky as the beacons atop the Emirates Tower and the Fairmont Hotel blinked, as if surprised by all the construction work around them. The cars blazed a path through the concrete leviathans while pedestrians peered into window displays wondering if that Gucci handbag would clash with their Dunhill luggage set.

I sat, along with a friend (both fresh off the proverbial boat) at the Gallops pub in the Admiral Plaza Hotel in Bur Dubai. All around us was the mob of humanity. A group of Indian labourers drank in the dingy corners, afraid to invade the space of the number of ‘white’ faces that lined the bar, and looked anxiously at the door. The digital clock flashed seven o’clock.
A few minutes later the doors swung open and in walked a bevy of gorgeous ladies dressed to send a man wild with lust, and aching to part with the money in his wallet.
Among them was arguably one of the best-looking women I have ever seen. At over six feet she wore an air of stoic confidence that Eastern European women are so famed for. She walked up to a table of labourers and sat down amongst them. They seemed apprehensive, but a conversation ensued. Minutes later she walked out with four of them in tow. She stood out in the group as they walked passed me — not because she was taller than the lot of them — but because the scent of her perfume jostled for space with the stench of sweat and sun-baked skin that emanated from the men. Her clothes hugged her body, as if protecting her from the grimy, shredded apparel of her suitors.
The door shut behind them and I stared at it for a while.
“New in Dubai?” asked the Irish bar manager. She had obviously seen my eyeballs try to unscrew themselves from my socket and march up to the woman to profess their undying love.
I nodded. “It’s the first of the month,” she said. “It’s payday. The labourers usually come in here and blow their month’s salary on whores and alcohol in one night.”
It was only weeks later, after I had met the girl’s ‘sister’, that I found out her name was Jana. They came from Kiev in the Ukraine, and her favourite colour was blue.
Three months after this incident, Jana and a few other girls were said to have been deported from Dubai for speaking up after one of their friends was allegedly raped and murdered by a group of local men. Her body was found in the desert between Dubai and Abu Dhabi...a stone’s throw away from one of the country’s infamous labour camps.
Dubai’s labour camps are out-of-bounds for journalists, nay forbidden. My favourite newspaper, The Guardian, has been banned from the Middle East because it rarely pulls its punches when it comes to reporting on the region’s human rights record.
Beneath the shimmering veneer of Dubai’s burgeoning real estate market and its skyrocketing tourism numbers, lies a river of Styxian proportions. Labourers from the sub-continent toil in 12-hour days under a blazing Arabian sun — sometimes seven days a week — for as little as Dh1,000 (Rs10,700) a month: many send a large portion of this back home to their families, whom they haven’t seen in years. In some cases their ‘accommodation’ sees them herded 10-to-a-room; the room in question being a dank part of a 500 unit whole. Hygiene levels are disastrous and freedom, as Janis Joplin sang, “is just another word for nothing left to lose”.
A taxi driver once told me that the only reason he didn’t return to his hometown in “Trivandrum [sic]” — where his family live — was because he wasn’t sure of getting a job with a similar salary. He was earning Rs12,000 a month, sharing a room with six other drivers, and was allowed one-month’s leave every three years.
“To leave the Gulf and return without a better job is a sign of weakness. Also, my boss has told me that if I leave, he will ban me from coming back to the Gulf,” he told me. He hadn’t seen his wife in 18 months, but had just celebrated the birth of his second son.
“Things are like that in my village. No problem,” he reacted to my inappropriate calculations.
In all likelihood, Dubai will emerge as one of the world’s premier cities. But while the well-to-do expatriates draw their shades against the setting sun, and clamber into downy beds, another part of the city fitfully sleeps. And in the darkened alleyways of the camps and the graffiti-adorned streets of the city’s poorer quarters, a labourer counts his coins and looks up as a blonde walk towards him.
This is his dream, as much as it is hers.
“Dubai”, I was once told, “is a land of prostitutes. The only difference is in the things you sell.”
A soul and a body are hard to align, but every now and then they combine to form a whole. This is Dubai.

Joke of the day

A man walked into a bar and sat down, ordered a beer. As he sipped the beer, he heard a soothing voice say "nice tie!".
Looking around he noticed that the bar was empty except for himself and the bartender at the end of the bar.
A few sips later the voice said "beautiful shirt".
A little worried, the man decides to play the slot machine. As he puts a coin in the bandit he hears a harsh voice say, "You ugly cunt."
Looking around there's still no-one around.
A couple of seconds later the second voice said, "Fuck off you ugly tosser!"
At this, the man called the bartender over. "Hey...I must be losing my mind," he told the bartender. "I keep hearing these voices, one saying nice things, and one being really offensive, and there's not a soul in here but us."
"Ah" answered the bartender. "the peanuts...they're complimentary, but the bandit's out of order."

Diary of a Lady - 7

Fickle

Pronunciation: \fi-kəl\

Function: adjective

Etymology: Middle English fikel deceitful, inconstant, from Old English ficol deceitful; akin to Old English befician to deceive, and probably to Old English fāh hostile — more at foe

Meaning: marked by lack of steadfastness, constancy, or stability; given to erratic changeableness

She's been judged. Step right up ladies and gentleman, here comes the fickle one. She'll change her tune tomorrow, but that's another day, isn't it? For now, she's tired, restless and sore all over, like she's been tackled by a football team. (Sigh, if only).

She bruises easily, I should know. I'm forced to comfort her, to give her the strength to tackle an unwanted day, to watch out for her, to allay her fears, to calm her mind and discard her inadequacies. I'm there to hold her hand when she visits the dentist, to keep her company when she's feeling alone. I do not judge her, I only protect her. It is my purpose. At least I have one, she has none.

You've read her diary – is she fickle or selfish? Is she inconsistent or is she simply riding the waves? She's spellcheck -- always looking for the ultimate high, but too much of a coward to jump in the absence of a safety net. I'm just her alter ego protecting her from shattering into a million pieces.