“What is it, Diego?”

“You’ve been hiding in your bedroom since the U.S. Marines marched into Baghdad. Surely, you do not still think you’re next on Señor Bush’s axis of evil hit list, do you?”

“And why not? Ever since that endless Beach Boys summer over 41 years ago, the concert embargo has enslaved our little island paradise. For over 41 years they have denied us shows by Tracy Chapman, ZZ Top even Bastard Sons Of Johnny Cash so that they may douse the flames of our revolution. Now, Diego, I fear Señor Bush is merely positioning himself to toss that last bucket of sand onto the passionate fire that is Cuba and smother us all.”

“But I still don’t understand why you insist on hiding in your bedroom, Fidel. According to your favorite media outlet, the Fox News Channel, the yanqui president has his hands full and hasn’t even mentioned Cuba in weeks.”

“He hasn’t?”

“No, Fidel.”

“Then the rumors that I feared are true, Diego. Your benevolent despot has been reduced to the level of a second-rate dictator in the eyes of our capitalist oppressors. While I longed for the day when The Cramps or Bela Fleck & The Flecktones would come to our sun-kissed beaches and play in our own Verizon Amphitheatre, he has ignored us in favor of what? Iraq, Iran and North Korea.”

“You forgot Syria.”

“Syria! Yet another wound in your leader’s pride, Diego. I’m afraid that in the eyes of the world the American presidente has relegated me to the list of one hit wonders. Yet, unlike Starland Vocal Band, there will be no ‘afternoon delight’ for yours truly.”

“I’ve never seen you so depressed, Fidel. Perhaps that White Stripes CD that Oliver Stone left behind will cheer you up.”

Ah, yes, the Motor City’s first family of rock. When I hear that brother and sister duo play their own unique brand of garage grunge, my mind hearkens back to the ’60s and the wonderful sounds of The Rolling Stones and The Yardbirds.”

“Brother and sister? But the media claim that Meg is Jack Stripe’s ex-wife.”

“All the more reason to respect a man like Señor Stripe, Diego, for he knows how to keep his family close, and his enemies closer.”

“But, Fidel, I do not understand this obsession with bringing concerts to Cuba. For years I’ve heard you go on and on about the concert embargo, and how it prevents you from booking John Mayer or R.E.M. into our island’s nightclubs and sports arenas. Yet, we have fine musicians right here in Cuba. Musicians who play the music of our homeland.”

“Bah! Don’t talk to me of Cuban musicians, Diego. I’m up to my beard in Cubans. However, none of them touch my soul like Yanni tickles his keyboards. None of them ease my sufferings like the sweet harmonies of the Eagles. No, Diego, I’m afraid my time is past. I’d leave this island if I could, perhaps get a condo in Miami’s South Beach, or follow The Dead from city to city, but the people need the firm, oppressive hand of a leader such as myself to lead them to freedom.”

“Speaking of which, Fidel, the Cuban people are waiting for your weekly radio address. What should I tell them? Should I send the technicians home?”

“Wait, Diego. Tell me, can the technicians hook the microphone up to my JVC CD player?”

“I’m sure they can, Fidel.”

“Then tell them to bring their equipment into my bedroom and I’ll give our people the radio address of the century! I’ll play my Springsteen CDs while speaking about the pride of the workers. I’ll play my Pearl Jam CDs while I praise the revolution. I’ll play the latest by Beck and dedicate it to the people of Cuba. I shall be… DJ El Supremo!”

“As you wish, Fidel. I’ll tell the technicians to set up their equipment in your bedroom. But…”

“But what, Diego?”

“But in order to broadcast, won’t you have to come out from under your bed, Fidel?”

“One step at a time, Diego. One step at a time.”