Is the 100th post a milestone?
If anything, I wonder if I should continue now. I made this blog to practice my writing, and, quite frankly, I'm not sure it has helped much (I think I posted more things that I didn't write than things I did). Either way, I thought I might celebrate this momentous post with nothing auspicious, just something else I didn't write--but oh boy, do I love it. From the stupendous Their Eyes Were Watching God:
"Don’t care how good anybody could play a harp, God would rather to hear a guitar."
Monday, May 28, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Old Habits . . .
. . . are very hard to start again. At least the good ones.
I used to run every morning and if I could sneak it in at the evenings also. If you happened to be in my hometown during my high school years, you probably saw a lunatic boy running aimlessly around the "duck pond" and streets--be it in the summer's heat, winter's coolness, day or night sun or rain.
But that was two years ago.
Recently I noticed an alarming sign of onset obesity: I could no longer fit in a pair of pants. I decided it was time to pick up running again. Goodness gracious, Mission Impossible 5. Running three miles is still pretty quick, but I feel dead at the end.
Here's to an active summer. (Hopefully.)
I used to run every morning and if I could sneak it in at the evenings also. If you happened to be in my hometown during my high school years, you probably saw a lunatic boy running aimlessly around the "duck pond" and streets--be it in the summer's heat, winter's coolness, day or night sun or rain.
But that was two years ago.
Recently I noticed an alarming sign of onset obesity: I could no longer fit in a pair of pants. I decided it was time to pick up running again. Goodness gracious, Mission Impossible 5. Running three miles is still pretty quick, but I feel dead at the end.
Here's to an active summer. (Hopefully.)
Monday, May 21, 2012
The Art of Cooking Out
You can read what Pablo Neruda had to say about this subject in his "Ode to an Onion."
The secret is in the wrist, just as in everything in the kitchen. Here's my "fool"-proof guide to a successful barbeque (substitute veggie meat in lieu of any carcass if you do not enjoy munching on dead animals):
1. Pick a grill or place your mobile grill in a shady place, so you don't end up grilled yourself.
2. Pour a generous amount of lighter fluid in the base of the grill, ensuring an even burn below.
3. Get a good brand of charcoal. Cheap charcoal deceives you by burning fast . . . and then it's gone.
4. Don't pile on too much charcoal. Trust me, you don't want to look down at your arm and notice that half of your arm hairs are charred. . .
5. Make sure your meat is well tenderized, about six hours before the actual cooking. If not, you might as well save time and buy Jerky.
6. When you place your meat on the grill, make sure they are close to the middle, and DON'T overcook. If not, might as well buy Jerky.
7. Make sure there is enough meat for EVERYONE. People turn into mindless meat eating monsters really easily.
8. For you vegetarians making a Portobello mushroom instead, cook gills up for Seven minutes, drain, turn over and cook gills down for five minutes. Any less and you might as well pick a fresh mushroom. Any more and you might as well eat some of the charcoal.
9. If you for some reason skipped number 1, apply sunscreen. You're probably feeling the sun right about now.
10. Hey, only turn the meat once. I don't know if you already turned it, and if you haven't, not yet. Not until this side is cooked right. Like a pancake. If you turn many times, might as well buy Jerky.
11. The fire is perfect for cooking other things, too. Grill chicken, veggies, wrap potatoes in aluminum foil and make "baked" potatoes, and if you don't watch out, you can end up with grilled fingers.
12. Make sure you have a covered container to put the meat in, and a flyswatter close by. Those are pesky bugs. . .
13. If you didn't follow number 1, put a cap on. Your nose will thank you later.
14. Keep water close by. The heat of the sun plus the grill is overwhelming. Especially if you didn't remember number 1.
15. Remember number 6 for the other side of the meat as well!
16. Poke and fan the coals regularly. If not, your food won't cook evenly and it will take ten years to cook.
17. Serve (and eat!) hot. If not, might as well buy Jerky.
The secret is in the wrist, just as in everything in the kitchen. Here's my "fool"-proof guide to a successful barbeque (substitute veggie meat in lieu of any carcass if you do not enjoy munching on dead animals):
1. Pick a grill or place your mobile grill in a shady place, so you don't end up grilled yourself.
2. Pour a generous amount of lighter fluid in the base of the grill, ensuring an even burn below.
3. Get a good brand of charcoal. Cheap charcoal deceives you by burning fast . . . and then it's gone.
4. Don't pile on too much charcoal. Trust me, you don't want to look down at your arm and notice that half of your arm hairs are charred. . .
5. Make sure your meat is well tenderized, about six hours before the actual cooking. If not, you might as well save time and buy Jerky.
6. When you place your meat on the grill, make sure they are close to the middle, and DON'T overcook. If not, might as well buy Jerky.
7. Make sure there is enough meat for EVERYONE. People turn into mindless meat eating monsters really easily.
8. For you vegetarians making a Portobello mushroom instead, cook gills up for Seven minutes, drain, turn over and cook gills down for five minutes. Any less and you might as well pick a fresh mushroom. Any more and you might as well eat some of the charcoal.
9. If you for some reason skipped number 1, apply sunscreen. You're probably feeling the sun right about now.
10. Hey, only turn the meat once. I don't know if you already turned it, and if you haven't, not yet. Not until this side is cooked right. Like a pancake. If you turn many times, might as well buy Jerky.
11. The fire is perfect for cooking other things, too. Grill chicken, veggies, wrap potatoes in aluminum foil and make "baked" potatoes, and if you don't watch out, you can end up with grilled fingers.
12. Make sure you have a covered container to put the meat in, and a flyswatter close by. Those are pesky bugs. . .
13. If you didn't follow number 1, put a cap on. Your nose will thank you later.
14. Keep water close by. The heat of the sun plus the grill is overwhelming. Especially if you didn't remember number 1.
15. Remember number 6 for the other side of the meat as well!
16. Poke and fan the coals regularly. If not, your food won't cook evenly and it will take ten years to cook.
17. Serve (and eat!) hot. If not, might as well buy Jerky.
Words of Wisdom from my Papa
El que no sabe que vive para los demas no ha aprendido a vivir.
They who know not that they live for others has not learned to live.
They who know not that they live for others has not learned to live.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
From the Extraordinary Mind of C.S. Lewis, III
We were made not primarily that we may love God (though we were made for that too) but that God may love us . . .
The Problem of Pain, Ch. 3
The Problem of Pain, Ch. 3
Friday, May 18, 2012
Finally, the Documentary I Waited For For So Long . . .
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZBit-LYz0Y&feature=fvwrel
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
The Moon is Down
One of the best short novels I've ever read. Not surprisingly, it's Steinbeck.
"It is impossible to break man’s spirit permanently."
"It is impossible to break man’s spirit permanently."
Growing Pains
Some of my closest High School friends got together at a small restaurant in the next town to catch up. Some showed up in brand new shiny cars, others in that same clunker from high school, and still some of us still asked for a ride. It had been almost two years since I had seen some of them, but we picked up right where we left off: the same jokes, the same grudges. It was great.
We talked about what we had been up to all that time: new relationships, broken relationships, failed classes, changes in majors, and new-found bacchanalian inclinations. I ate one of the biggest burgers in my life, and after a group picture we headed back to one of our houses. Parking was not found easily, the overgrown shiny cars did not fit in the little driveway. Inside they joked at how they all were within months of being fully recognized as adults and I was still years away . . .
I left rather early, and later went to my old high school on assignment from the local paper ($30 don't hurt) and saw how much it had changed. An old building demolished, open spaces and fields now held buildings, and the students all looked like, well, children.
Weird.
Later that night, my brother and sister and I shared some stories of old. We went on for a couple of hours, and all I could think of was man, when I'm old, I'm gonna be one of those old people that don't shut up.
We talked about what we had been up to all that time: new relationships, broken relationships, failed classes, changes in majors, and new-found bacchanalian inclinations. I ate one of the biggest burgers in my life, and after a group picture we headed back to one of our houses. Parking was not found easily, the overgrown shiny cars did not fit in the little driveway. Inside they joked at how they all were within months of being fully recognized as adults and I was still years away . . .
I left rather early, and later went to my old high school on assignment from the local paper ($30 don't hurt) and saw how much it had changed. An old building demolished, open spaces and fields now held buildings, and the students all looked like, well, children.
Weird.
Later that night, my brother and sister and I shared some stories of old. We went on for a couple of hours, and all I could think of was man, when I'm old, I'm gonna be one of those old people that don't shut up.
Monday, May 14, 2012
From the Amazing Brain of Mark Twain, II (or, This is going on my office wall next year)
I am not the editor of a newspaper and shall always try do to right and be good so that God will not make me one.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Sportsman's Woes
Writing this is taking longer than usual.
Now, I'm not all that great in typing, but I can hold my own when it comes down to it. What's keeping me at under fifty words per minute right now is one finger.
I don't know how many times I have to tell myself I'm not going to play basketball again. Ever since I quit the team in exchange for running my freshman year of High School, I have gotten hurt almost every single time I step on that court. I don't know why I keep playing, I'm not good at all.
Either way, after coming home for the summer, I challenged my brother to a tennis match. I took advantage of all the playing I've done at school the past few months to finally beat him at something. I'm not very good at tennis either, but I'm better than my brother--okay, he probably never plays. So it was unfair, and sure enough, my ego was boosted for a while and I felt good about myself after winning without dropping a set.
The next day the tables were turned.
He challenged me to a game of basketball, and I knew he was trying to get back at me after the night before. I accepted the challenge, and regretted it almost instantly. He went on to a 134568145-1 point run against me, and I was feeling as though it was all revenge.
Then, he shot it and missed, hitting the rim. This rim we were playing at has got to be the stiffest rim in the world, so when the ball hit it ricocheted back towards my face at two and a half times the speed of light. I managed to put my left hand up and the next thing I knew my pinky felt like it had been laid in the path of a train. I quickly pulled it just in case it was dislocated, and thankfully it wasn't, so I tried shaking it off, but it bothered me. Two minutes later it had turned a weird shade of green. Two minutes after it was swelling, and by the time the game had ended and home was in sight, it had grown to twice the size of a normal giant's thumb.
Ever since then, I have been miserably denied any movement with my pinky, and this puts the tip of my ring finger out of order as well, courtesy of the shared tendon.
I guess it just comes with trying to be athletic. Like a friend told me, "Silly Pablo, don't play if you don't know how." She followed that up with a ":)". Not cool. But I guess she was right. So for the billionth-and-one time, I'm not going to play basketball again!
Now, I'm not all that great in typing, but I can hold my own when it comes down to it. What's keeping me at under fifty words per minute right now is one finger.
I don't know how many times I have to tell myself I'm not going to play basketball again. Ever since I quit the team in exchange for running my freshman year of High School, I have gotten hurt almost every single time I step on that court. I don't know why I keep playing, I'm not good at all.
Either way, after coming home for the summer, I challenged my brother to a tennis match. I took advantage of all the playing I've done at school the past few months to finally beat him at something. I'm not very good at tennis either, but I'm better than my brother--okay, he probably never plays. So it was unfair, and sure enough, my ego was boosted for a while and I felt good about myself after winning without dropping a set.
The next day the tables were turned.
He challenged me to a game of basketball, and I knew he was trying to get back at me after the night before. I accepted the challenge, and regretted it almost instantly. He went on to a 134568145-1 point run against me, and I was feeling as though it was all revenge.
Then, he shot it and missed, hitting the rim. This rim we were playing at has got to be the stiffest rim in the world, so when the ball hit it ricocheted back towards my face at two and a half times the speed of light. I managed to put my left hand up and the next thing I knew my pinky felt like it had been laid in the path of a train. I quickly pulled it just in case it was dislocated, and thankfully it wasn't, so I tried shaking it off, but it bothered me. Two minutes later it had turned a weird shade of green. Two minutes after it was swelling, and by the time the game had ended and home was in sight, it had grown to twice the size of a normal giant's thumb.
Ever since then, I have been miserably denied any movement with my pinky, and this puts the tip of my ring finger out of order as well, courtesy of the shared tendon.
I guess it just comes with trying to be athletic. Like a friend told me, "Silly Pablo, don't play if you don't know how." She followed that up with a ":)". Not cool. But I guess she was right. So for the billionth-and-one time, I'm not going to play basketball again!
Momma/Mama/Mami/Mum
To say that she is the best mom in the world would be cliché.
To say that she is the best mom in the world would be the truth.
To say that she is the best mom in the world would be the truth.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
713
I don't want to move out of my dorm room.
Yes, I want to go home, but there's something about this room that I wish I could take with me. Maybe because I have such a nice view--both sunsets and the shimmering city at night--I want to stay. Or because the friends I have on seventh floor are like family.
Next year I will be off-campus again, and while this time I will be ten steps away from the college (as opposed to half a mile my freshman year) I won't have that dorm family feel. Almost thirty people in seventh floor, and every floor below me as well. One huge family. The only place that's felt like home since I left for college two years ago.
I won't miss Aron being noisy in the wee hours of the morning or going to sleep extra early, condemning me to silence; or when the elevator did not work and I had to climb all those stairs. Or the noisy people on the other side of the hall blasting hip hop music at 3:30 in the morning.
I will miss random people coming in and chilling. I will miss pestering my suitemate and pranking my RA. I will miss crashing in others' rooms for a night, or during a break watching movies all night--at least until I fell asleep, everyone else kept watching.
I don't want to move out.
Yes, I want to go home, but there's something about this room that I wish I could take with me. Maybe because I have such a nice view--both sunsets and the shimmering city at night--I want to stay. Or because the friends I have on seventh floor are like family.
Next year I will be off-campus again, and while this time I will be ten steps away from the college (as opposed to half a mile my freshman year) I won't have that dorm family feel. Almost thirty people in seventh floor, and every floor below me as well. One huge family. The only place that's felt like home since I left for college two years ago.
I won't miss Aron being noisy in the wee hours of the morning or going to sleep extra early, condemning me to silence; or when the elevator did not work and I had to climb all those stairs. Or the noisy people on the other side of the hall blasting hip hop music at 3:30 in the morning.
I will miss random people coming in and chilling. I will miss pestering my suitemate and pranking my RA. I will miss crashing in others' rooms for a night, or during a break watching movies all night--at least until I fell asleep, everyone else kept watching.
I don't want to move out.
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