It started around nine o'clock on Sunday May 1st. President Obama was going to make an address of some sort, eventually it was leaked that it would be about Osama bin Laden. Even more to the point, as time went on, it was that Osama bin Laden had been killed. My initial reaction was one of joy. No lie. I was happy he was dead, and borderline ecstatic about it all. Some news correspondent brought up that it was eight years to the day that George W. Bush waddled across the deck of an aircraft carrier with a "Mission Accomplished" banner waving in the background. I, of course, trailed off in my mind about how much I hate George W. Bush.
Then I come back to the newscast. I'm still excited that this Boogieman of the last ten years is dead. For so long he had been the embodiment of the most horrific act on American soil, and for all those alive after September 11th, pure evil incarnate. I can understand the cathartic release those that lost loved ones, friends, family members, or coworkers in the attacks. It must be the same for those that know someone that have lost their lives, been injured, or are still serving overseas in the multiple wars we, the American "we", continue to wage. America has served up a huge heaping tablespoon of retribution for all those involved since September 11th.
In the flurry of modern day social media the next hours were bombarded with words like, "RIP Mother Fucker" "Rot in hell Bin Laden" and a personal favorite "Osama bin Laden Hide and Seek World Champion 2001-2011." Pictures, I can only assumed photo-shopped, of a bloodied bin Laden started cropping up and another one with The Statue of Liberty holding bin Laden's head instead of carrying a torch. Crowds began gathering in front of the White House and at Ground Zero. People at baseball and basketball games joined in with the chants and cheers of a victorious America. Chants of "USA, USA, USA" and the singing of the National Anthem broke out across America.
President Obama confirmed the news leaks and reports that Osama bin Laden had been killed. So there we have it. A country rejoices in the death of one man. A man that plotted in the deaths of thousands on a single day and even more since then. In the modern age, wars have always been against a target, normally a country or faction contain within the borders of a country. America has made bin Laden the target. But terrorism, or even terrorists, don't belong to a singular country. Terror is a feeling. Killing one man will not bring an end to these wars or the threat of another attack. But that isn't the point. The point comes when I wake up in the morning.
I read an actual headline taking up a majority of the front page reading "ROT IN HELL" placed over a photo of Osama bin Laden. I open my computer and it hits me.
And I mean really hits me, I'm reading this as someone's status on Facebook.
"I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that" -- Martin Luther King, Jr.
The "hit" portion of that is what alcoholics call a "moment of clarity." For the better part of the past evening and still continuing through the morning, America has been celebrating the death of a man. Evil, yes. A single man that served as the head of a terrorist organization that have committed horrible attacks against our country, yes. If your memory banks are up for it, try and recall how you felt on September 11th. You've just witness passenger airplanes flown into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and one downed in the wooded fields of Pennsylvania. Then news footage of radical Muslims is broadcast as they cheer in the streets at footage and reports of the attacks; they burn America flags. They have killed thousands of people, and... and they rejoice. Chants, cheers, and singing break out. The aftermath of September 11th saw the American people swell with nationalism and wage war against an entity, that entity had a face in Osama bin Laden. But the real fact that I seem to be lost in is our reaction to the news. We rejoice just as those who struck out against us did. If he had died on American soil would we have dragged him through the streets cheering as his beaten and dismembered body flopped behind the masses like they did to journalists, soldiers, or other victims over the years?
I'm not sure if it would be better stated as hypocrisy or irony when thinking of our American ideals, but I am left thinking of the last line of George Orwell's Animal Farm:
"Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which."
Barbarians, heathens, terrorists, or whatever label, we, as a people, media, or country can give them seems fitting after the atrocities we have witnessed. Yet, here we are ten years later, we've all shed tears over loved ones, claimed pride of their sacrifice and service to the cause, and now, finally, we all have rejoiced in the death of the enemy. Publicly and proudly.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Oh Where, Oh Where, Can You Be?
Where are you? Seriously, I am getting older and I think my looks may only have, at most, the better part of this decade. That line of thought being brought on by finding my first grey hairs, but I may luck out and end up like Anderson Cooper, minus skin cancer, or George Clooney. God, let be like George Clooney, but without the lack of commitment. I have dated off and on for most of my life and now I have the feeling I’m staring down the barrel of a shotgun. I see people getting married and they always do that bullshit “They’re my soul mate” line during the wedding and all I can do is try and figure out if mine is the room; or what they are doing at that moment. (Or after a rough break up, create a pool on the divorce date… Kidding keep those invites coming, I love open bars). I know the line isn’t bullshit when they say it, it just feels that way in my self-loathing think-tank that is drowning in whiskey at the time. So, where are you soul mate? When are you going to pop up?
Were you that girl I saw waiting for the bus reading a book, when I was driving to my cousin’s restaurant to consume an overly large bacon cheeseburger? I am a grocery store enthusiast, but I don’t really think that is where I’m going to run in to you. I mean, I get a lot of looks but I’m not the over 40 type. No offence ladies. Although, if the teaching job market continues this way, I’ll be trying to sign up for Gigolos on Showtime in no time. I just don’t believe that somewhere between a sack of potatoes and the mist of the produce, you are going to reveal yourself. You know what I mean, those moments where everything in the perceivable area, and presumably the world, fades away and all of sudden it is just the two of you. No one else is there. The world is yours. Just like the scene in Titanic on the bow of the boat, but without Celine Dion, a boat that will inevitably sink, and me ending up freezing to death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That small moment of perfection that ushers in the honeymoon phase of a relationship that always creates this bar that everything after will be measured, judged, and for some will become the executioner. But you’re soul mates, right? You make it through the lull that follows; find ways to make everything new even when it isn’t. So where are you?
I believe at this point, everyone I’ve come across is damaged goods. I do NOT mean that I’m not. I’m fucked up, that is certain. I'm probably more fucked up than you; I just hide it better, or at least until it swallows me whole. If we get to that point, just tell me to write or sit on the beach. It’s like my version of Prozac, or whatever those moody people eat by the handful these days. I just mean that I’m not a bellboy at hotel and I really don’t want to carry around your baggage, you shouldn’t have to carry mine. I understand that the past haunts more us than we would like, or more than we are willing to admit, but there is fine line between acceptable and unacceptable.
Where was I? Right. I can’t get to the magical moment, the honeymoon phase, and whatever comes after because I don’t know where you are. Remember when you were little and the kids in the neighborhood all used to play hide-and-go seek? I always, no matter my pre-game ritual, had to really take a piss while hiding. Somewhere in my body the anticipation was so overwhelming that it demanded urination. Only thing that has ever been close to that is calf raises, not sure why my bodily functions are linked to my calves or hiding. So really, I’m getting older and I’m getting tired of pissing.
Where are you? Sometimes I think I’ve already met you. Even to the point that we have dated. We probably had a horrible break up that involved an onslaught of emotions, vulgarities, and blame. We may still be friends, or not. How many times have you just walked right by me without me noticing or not acting on it? I sometimes hope we haven’t met. That I can get that world fading moment and be in complete disbelief and look around like a jackass to see who it is you’re really looking for, because it cannot be me. But then, the opposite scenario plays out on the old eye-lid picture show. We’ve met before. You or I know someone that knows someone who knows one of us. Then one day we see each other and randomly end up walking around the town like time just stopped for us. Then as we drag our feet to part our separate ways, because the tension of the thought of what happens next is something we don’t want to face just yet. Then it happens. BAM! Just like that… the world fades… and it’s just us. In my mind this is usually followed by the hottest and most passionate sex that would melt celluloid and make Jeff Buckley come back to life. But hey, that’s just me. The one thing I do not want is to meet you in a damn bar. Seriously. I’m not gushy romantic type of guy, actually that’s bullshit, I am. I just don’t want to have to weigh out whether or not the world is fading away, I’m blacking out, or you’re trying to date rape me. If we do, we should end up talking all night only stopping for refills and empties, letting our respective friends pass by the wayside. Then I ask for your number, only to be nervous wreck before calling to set up a date. Everything after that is amazing, melting, and happily ever after.
http://phons08194.deviantart.com/
Were you that girl I saw waiting for the bus reading a book, when I was driving to my cousin’s restaurant to consume an overly large bacon cheeseburger? I am a grocery store enthusiast, but I don’t really think that is where I’m going to run in to you. I mean, I get a lot of looks but I’m not the over 40 type. No offence ladies. Although, if the teaching job market continues this way, I’ll be trying to sign up for Gigolos on Showtime in no time. I just don’t believe that somewhere between a sack of potatoes and the mist of the produce, you are going to reveal yourself. You know what I mean, those moments where everything in the perceivable area, and presumably the world, fades away and all of sudden it is just the two of you. No one else is there. The world is yours. Just like the scene in Titanic on the bow of the boat, but without Celine Dion, a boat that will inevitably sink, and me ending up freezing to death somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That small moment of perfection that ushers in the honeymoon phase of a relationship that always creates this bar that everything after will be measured, judged, and for some will become the executioner. But you’re soul mates, right? You make it through the lull that follows; find ways to make everything new even when it isn’t. So where are you?
I believe at this point, everyone I’ve come across is damaged goods. I do NOT mean that I’m not. I’m fucked up, that is certain. I'm probably more fucked up than you; I just hide it better, or at least until it swallows me whole. If we get to that point, just tell me to write or sit on the beach. It’s like my version of Prozac, or whatever those moody people eat by the handful these days. I just mean that I’m not a bellboy at hotel and I really don’t want to carry around your baggage, you shouldn’t have to carry mine. I understand that the past haunts more us than we would like, or more than we are willing to admit, but there is fine line between acceptable and unacceptable.
Where was I? Right. I can’t get to the magical moment, the honeymoon phase, and whatever comes after because I don’t know where you are. Remember when you were little and the kids in the neighborhood all used to play hide-and-go seek? I always, no matter my pre-game ritual, had to really take a piss while hiding. Somewhere in my body the anticipation was so overwhelming that it demanded urination. Only thing that has ever been close to that is calf raises, not sure why my bodily functions are linked to my calves or hiding. So really, I’m getting older and I’m getting tired of pissing.
Where are you? Sometimes I think I’ve already met you. Even to the point that we have dated. We probably had a horrible break up that involved an onslaught of emotions, vulgarities, and blame. We may still be friends, or not. How many times have you just walked right by me without me noticing or not acting on it? I sometimes hope we haven’t met. That I can get that world fading moment and be in complete disbelief and look around like a jackass to see who it is you’re really looking for, because it cannot be me. But then, the opposite scenario plays out on the old eye-lid picture show. We’ve met before. You or I know someone that knows someone who knows one of us. Then one day we see each other and randomly end up walking around the town like time just stopped for us. Then as we drag our feet to part our separate ways, because the tension of the thought of what happens next is something we don’t want to face just yet. Then it happens. BAM! Just like that… the world fades… and it’s just us. In my mind this is usually followed by the hottest and most passionate sex that would melt celluloid and make Jeff Buckley come back to life. But hey, that’s just me. The one thing I do not want is to meet you in a damn bar. Seriously. I’m not gushy romantic type of guy, actually that’s bullshit, I am. I just don’t want to have to weigh out whether or not the world is fading away, I’m blacking out, or you’re trying to date rape me. If we do, we should end up talking all night only stopping for refills and empties, letting our respective friends pass by the wayside. Then I ask for your number, only to be nervous wreck before calling to set up a date. Everything after that is amazing, melting, and happily ever after.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Still Around.
I knew a genius once,
they talked of branches, failure, and the sun
I don't speak with the genius,
but I know I was the lucky one.
Stuck
Ever get that feeling you're stuck on a teeter-totter and there is a fat kid on the other end that doesn't look like he going anywhere anytime soon? It is one of those situations where you can't really move any which way without completely screwing yourself over. On one side there is mad gunmen waiting to drill you as soon as you step off. On the other a tiger pit waiting to skewer you. Then all you can do is stare at the little fat fucker and wish you had a redo. And not like "Can I be where I was ten minutes ago;" no it is one of those full blown rewind the time so I can restart my life. You just want to take it ALL back. Not just some of the stuff, the whole shebang. Partridge in a pear tree, start at square one, so maybe, just maybe you can become a semblance of what you think you should be or actually become what you believe you should be.
What do you do? Check out? Is that the answer you've been looking for? "The easy way out," some old man would say, or "We never expected this," some not too close family member might say, probably as ignorantly as possible on some obscure news cast. How are you going to do it? Pills? Seems easy, but you know better. Most overdoses from pills are violent, messy, and most importantly, painful. You might not even be able to keep down a lethal enough dose. Then you just failed again. Plus most people picture checking out of this world with some gusto or at least peacefully, not covered in vomit. Oh, how about that bathtub and razor-blade combo that is dramatized on countless made for t.v. movies. Eh, but then your left with the fact that someone will find you. That's great. You give up, and someone has to see you in a pool of diluted but still dark blood water and naked as the day you were born. Great image for them to be haunted by every time they close their eyes.. Isn't it bad enough you want to end it since all you do is cause people pain... obviously inflicting more pain and hurt wouldn't really be the best way. Maybe it is. Just one last bit of pain for anyone who gives a fuck about you but that is it, you're out. You could jump off something tall, but then you run the risk of being the most unlucky mother fucker on the face of the planet and surviving as a paralyzed person who fucking hates themselves. Best case scenario, they bury you in a Hefty bag. Fuck that. Okay we're down to a bullet. You know where the gun and ammunition is, load it up, dress sharp, and click; it's all over. After a big mess and a closed casket, people can forget about you and that little fat fuck on the teeter-totter can rot in agonizing hell. Do you do it? No. You can't. Somewhere inside of you there is that unselfish tick that won't allow you to go through with it. Or maybe you're just too big of pussy to actually go through with anything in your life. Finalizing scares the fuck out of you. Maybe you're just an asshole that wants the last word in everything and you've become so torn over the idea that it would be the biggest last word ever, but then everyone will talk and you'll be dead. So your response time will be shot to shit. So what now hot-shot?
You hate yourself. You've just invested serious thought about ending it all. But you can't. Hansel and Gretel never bread-crumbed this shit out for you. Slide down the teeter-totter kick the kid in the face and never look back. Live. You choose to live. Purge out the demons you have lurking in your head. Get yourself together. And milk the world for everything you want. Because lets face it. We all die. And most don't get the chance to pick. So go live your life, besides you smoke two packs a day, you're well on your way and you didn't even think about it.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Three Reasons Why I Am Amazing
#1 Chimichurri
Served with everything Argentinian. I prefer to cook meat in it, dip meat in it, and sometimes on a nice summer day, bath in it. This particular recipe will crank out about half a medium size bowls worth.
1. 1/2 cup coarsely chopped parsley
2. 6 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3. 8 large garlic cloves, minced (5 tablespoons)
4. 4 tablespoons oregano leaves
5. 4 teaspoons crushed red pepper
6. Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
7. 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Great for baking things in. Cut it in half for more than enough to dip into.
#2 Grilled Cheese
Seems simple, but this is more about the art of the grilled cheese than the ingredients. TOAST THAT SHIT BEFORE YOU GRILL.<-- That is the whole reason this is here.
1. LIGHTLY toast the bread
2. Lightly butter (On side to be grilled)
3. Lightly buttered skillet
4. Toast butter side down on skillet
5. Cheeses (I like combos but knock you socks out, I also use shredded cheese)
6. Put the top bread slice on cheese'd slice (Cheese'd is a word, a good, good word).
7. Sprinkle Oregano on the top
8. Parmesan Cheese dust the top
- The Parm will brown making for a crunchier than typical Grilled Cheese
9. Turn over sandwich and repeat 7 and 8 on the new top
10. Remove god-like grilled cheese and consume
#3 Salsa Verde
This plus cheese, meat, and a tortilla and I can be successful on any deserted island. Great for hiding shitty cuts of meat. This one is about making it about 3 times until you find out how hot you like it. (Note for others: Pepper cutting = wear gloves, I speak from experience in soaking my fingers in baking soda and water for hours on end afterward).
* 1 1/2 lb tomatillos (Very interesting little things). I put weight since depending on where you shop determines size. Fresh/Ethnic Markets and they are about the size of regular tomatoes. Chain stores and they are about the size of a ping-pong ball. You'll have to husk them and then your fingers will feel about the same as they did after school in your friends' basements or garages.
* 1/2 cup chopped white onion
* 1/2 cup cilantro leaves (CHOPPED)
* 1 Tbsp fresh lime juice (I also add a dash of lemon) Citric acid helps preserve as well as flavor.
* 1/4 teaspoon sugar
* 2 Jalapeño peppers OR 2 Serrano peppers, stemmed, seeded and chopped
Pepper choice and preparation is where the magic happens. I usually do 2 Jalapeño peppers and a Serrano, 2 big 1 small respectively. Beat the peppers on the counter, a very nice Mexican lady schooled me on this once. Then slice, lengthwise, into quarters, seed them. In a frying pan with the lightest amount of olive oil roast the peppers. Add to the rest.
* Salt to taste
I blend the living crap out of my Salsa Verde and jar/bottle it. You can leave it chunkier if that is your thing. It gets better/hotter after a couple of days. Shake well and often.
If you do these right, you're on your way to cool.
Served with everything Argentinian. I prefer to cook meat in it, dip meat in it, and sometimes on a nice summer day, bath in it. This particular recipe will crank out about half a medium size bowls worth.
1. 1/2 cup coarsely chopped parsley
2. 6 tablespoons red wine vinegar
3. 8 large garlic cloves, minced (5 tablespoons)
4. 4 tablespoons oregano leaves
5. 4 teaspoons crushed red pepper
6. Kosher salt and freshly ground pepper
7. 1 cup extra-virgin olive oil
Great for baking things in. Cut it in half for more than enough to dip into.
#2 Grilled Cheese
Seems simple, but this is more about the art of the grilled cheese than the ingredients. TOAST THAT SHIT BEFORE YOU GRILL.<-- That is the whole reason this is here.
1. LIGHTLY toast the bread
2. Lightly butter (On side to be grilled)
3. Lightly buttered skillet
4. Toast butter side down on skillet
5. Cheeses (I like combos but knock you socks out, I also use shredded cheese)
6. Put the top bread slice on cheese'd slice (Cheese'd is a word, a good, good word).
7. Sprinkle Oregano on the top
8. Parmesan Cheese dust the top
- The Parm will brown making for a crunchier than typical Grilled Cheese
9. Turn over sandwich and repeat 7 and 8 on the new top
10. Remove god-like grilled cheese and consume
#3 Salsa Verde
This plus cheese, meat, and a tortilla and I can be successful on any deserted island. Great for hiding shitty cuts of meat. This one is about making it about 3 times until you find out how hot you like it. (Note for others: Pepper cutting = wear gloves, I speak from experience in soaking my fingers in baking soda and water for hours on end afterward).
* 1 1/2 lb tomatillos (Very interesting little things). I put weight since depending on where you shop determines size. Fresh/Ethnic Markets and they are about the size of regular tomatoes. Chain stores and they are about the size of a ping-pong ball. You'll have to husk them and then your fingers will feel about the same as they did after school in your friends' basements or garages.
* 1/2 cup chopped white onion
* 1/2 cup cilantro leaves (CHOPPED)
* 1 Tbsp fresh lime juice (I also add a dash of lemon) Citric acid helps preserve as well as flavor.
* 1/4 teaspoon sugar
* 2 Jalapeño peppers OR 2 Serrano peppers, stemmed, seeded and chopped
Pepper choice and preparation is where the magic happens. I usually do 2 Jalapeño peppers and a Serrano, 2 big 1 small respectively. Beat the peppers on the counter, a very nice Mexican lady schooled me on this once. Then slice, lengthwise, into quarters, seed them. In a frying pan with the lightest amount of olive oil roast the peppers. Add to the rest.
* Salt to taste
I blend the living crap out of my Salsa Verde and jar/bottle it. You can leave it chunkier if that is your thing. It gets better/hotter after a couple of days. Shake well and often.
If you do these right, you're on your way to cool.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Age
Everything ages. Even ages age, eras are born then crumble and die. Countries and empires share the same fate. Greece, Rome, Persia, whatever the hell Russia was; it doesn't matter eventually time conquers all. Time will conquer you. It is the one insurmountable fact, you are going to die. One day. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow; maybe you're already dead. Life doesn't always fade out when a person punches their ticket. Sometimes choices snuff that out long before the physical end. There was a kid I grew up with. A bright shining star in the world around him with a promising future ahead. Slowly, his star began to go supernova... white dwarf on red giant star. Someone with promise ends up climbing thirteen balconies to kill an old man or starts a drug addiction that only ends with an early grave. For what? A gang? Drugs? Pleasure? I don't know, and I don't really care anymore. I've seen a ton of stars come and go. The universe is looming with the darkness; empty slots where light once stood. The point is that we all have promise; some burning bright ambition, potential, or fate. But all it comes down to is when are you going to fizzle out and more importantly will you know if you already have?
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