Real men must not fear the kitchen

I'm a hot piece of man, but I must admit that with all my perfections I still need to work out some kinks.

Today I’m trying my hand at cooking dinner—and I mean not just making me some eggs, but real “honey, I’m home cooking.”

I got the Foreman grill out, cut the meat into pieces, per internet advice, marinated the meat as best I could using—vinegar, lemon, oranges, and some foreign kitchen spice substance. I then put the marinated slices on the grill and waited. It smelled good, but it tasted horrendous. Actually, the texture was doable, but it was too dry. There goes sixth dollars worth of meat.

The rice—I am still waiting to see, but if my previous venture is any indicator—I’m dead meat!

I’ve always feared the kitchen, not because of the cultural machismo that plague many men, but because I grew with a family of sixth.

This meant that if I screwed up six dollars worth of meat, I would be exiled and excommunicated from my family—and that’s assuming I got off lightly. My point is if six people don’t eat on account of someone’s Rachel Ray venture, there would be blood in the house and I don’t mean the movie.

Father screaming: “There goes $7.50 cents of meat, 2 percent of the electric bill, and one-tenth of the gas bill.”

Mother screams: “You’ve burned my spatula and darken my fork,”

Sister: “What were you thinking?”

Brothers: “Thanks a lot ass.”

But my hope and call to action is simply—Men do not fear the kitchen.

In my case, it is the only thing keeping me from being a Sexy Deity. I've met my match, my worthy adversary, but assuming I don't go broke, I intend on overcoming it.

Shifting

Every, evening, just before the sun sets he leaves his apartment, walks four blocks to the nearby plaza and sits outside a café. This is a common ritual, except sometimes he grades papers, sometimes he writes briefs, and sometimes he simply looks at his computer to see what others have said about his freelanced articles. Everyday, however, he sits, drinks a warm coffee and becomes an observer.

Today he proofs and edits a Sunday morning sermon that his good friend will give later in the week. Before going over the piece, he sits and stares as the people as they pass. In the early evening, he notices the after school students going into the library, children leaving with their mothers, asking them if they could read a particular children's book before going to bed. As the sun sets, the plaza drifts from a cool afternoon breeze to a sea of streetlights and lamppost illuminating a shifting crowd—the age demographic has changed. Now the kids are older. They resemble students he teaches Monday and Wednesday at the city’s community college.

By now, he has enjoyed the transient motion, finished his coffee, typed the edits for his friend’s sermon, and pulled out the literature papers that he has to finish grading by tonight.

There she is. His one inconsistency in an otherwise perfect world—she is the one person that has thrown his world out of sync and into chaos. She has dark wavy hair y los ojos de una gitana. He melts just at the sight of them. In her, he sees adventure, vitality and freedom—everything he lacks.

They have exchanged brief conversations before, but today she is with her crowd of usual friends. He is too involved in meeting deadline. In a moment, his eyes tire. He looks away from his papers for a second and looks up. She stares back at him. The silent stare is enough to speak volumes of what they feel.

She is Muslim

He is Christian

Before the night is over, she makes her way to him.

—Do you think your God would forgive you if, in the name of Love, you gave up his name?

He smiles. Gets up, puts his papers in his bag, without ever taking his eyes away from her. He met deadline, pulls his chair in. They walk away from the well-lit plaza in a perfect silhouette.

Parallel Universe---An Oldie but a Goodie

Lights out, center stage, the ref blows the whistle the ball is in play. It touches my fingertips.

Ten seconds on the clock. I dribble the ball. No one is open.

Nine, I find my teammate.

Eight, he can’t get a shot. I move above the three-point line.

Seven, he passes.

Six, it’s on me again. Two defenders come to guard me.

Five the crowd gets on its feet. Four, the purple and gold uniform is pulled, as I break free from the defense.

Three, I plant my feet behind the three point line and leave my defender behind.

Two, the ball goes up.

One…the buzzer goes off…. Swish!

Growing up with my grandparents in Nicaragua my grandpa wrote a letter to my mom who, at the time, was living in California with my dad and two brothers. I was in Nicaragua because when my parents moved there were too many “What ifs” in regards to my premature birth.

I didn’t know the letter existed until 16 years later when my mom read it aloud one evening. As I listened, I remembered how my life changed years earlier when I came to the U.S. and found a new passion.

I am about 8-years old, outside in the yard bouncing a basketball. I practiced my jump shots, layups and three-pointers. The ball bounces off the asphalt. I run before it bounces again… Swish, I can hear the ball spring, it echoes. This time I go further, swish, the asphalt sounds like a hardwood floor.

“Come watch a movie,” my brother calls from the inside. He comes outside with a wide smile like someone who just won 600 Chuck E. Cheese tickets in one sitting. "My dad just got HBO, let's go inside and see what movies are on."

"No, thanks, I want to keep practicing.”

"Come on, man. That's all you do, all day, don’t be a loser.”

"Yeah, well, all you do is watch TV all day, so leave me alone."

As he made his way back to the house, I realized we were different. I like sports. He likes cinema. I want to be a ball player he wants to be Spielberg.

I keep dribbling the ball. The asphalt, the bounce and the dirt on my nails and palms become part of a child-like euphoria.

I want to be like Grant Hill and Allen Iverson. That’s all that mattered. No television, no cartoons, just the game.

A few months later, we were coming home. As dad pulled in with our boxy grey Volvo we noticed we couldn’t park. The neighborhood kids were in the middle of a pick-up game. The 5-foot Iron Gate which dad always locked to keep this sort of thing from happening did little to nothing to deter them from hopping over. Our court was the heart of the neighborhood.

"Can you park outside, sir?”

"Sure" my dad said.

"We are about to finish"

"Okay"

After we got out of the car I remember feeling disillusioned. "It's my court, it’s mine. I worked too hard and for too long not to be able to play.”

For too long I’ve wanted to play with them, not watch them or cheer them from the sideline.
It was then when I realized I would never be as good as my ambitions. This sport would only extend its invitation to a spectator, an outsider looking in, and one that would never play but live vicariously only through watching.

Years later I am in the living room. We were sitting down as my mom reads my grandpa’s letter. The closing lines written in Spanish:

Dentro de un mes ira al Kinder lo que nos dará una mayor oportunidad para
ver su desarrollo. En cuanto a su altura nada se puede hacer si tomamos en
cuenta la altura de sus dos abuelas sin necesidad de verlo cualquiera puede
inferir que no podrá jugar básquet con los Pistones de Detroit.

…In English

In a month he will start kindergarten, which will give us a better
opportunity to see his development. With regard to his height, there’s nothing
we can do if we take into account the height of both his grandmothers. It
doesn’t take much imagination to rule out the possibility that he will ever play
for the Detroit Pistons

We live in a parallel universe. My grandfather died just about a year before I picked up a ball.

Boxer Briefs-Never enough of a good thing

B4 I begin I want to thank Diane and Catie for giving me advice on my dilemma yesterday. But now...for something completely different.

This may sound a little intimate and perhaps a bit dirty, but I have a deep appreciation for boxer briefs. First, I don't think you can ever have enough boxers. Second, the right pair makes all the difference, and lastly, my relationship with them can be best as described using the following phrases:

• Long Term Commitment
• Longevity

I grew up short and poor which meant that I would buy boxers that in a John Stockton era would be considered shorts. Therefore, my boxers would last a few years b4 being decommissioned. So as you would have it. I share a bond with most of the fellas I have now. I've had them for years!

I was going through my clothes and I realized one of my veteran briefs was in bad shape. Farewell amigo It was a hell of a bumpy ride.

So there you have it. If we can over the fact that I'm talking about underwear--now you know what to get me for X-mas, B-Day, or any other occassion that might put you in the giving mood...

BOXERS

Did I do right by this--Do I have a say?

I occasionally google myself to see if my stories have been getting much play. Lately I discovered that my immigration pieced was linked via-blog (Thank you citizen journalists wannabes) to USA Today. Click here

I need your help deciding whether this was right or wrong. I felt empowered to defend my work and decided to fight back some of the heat my story received. Too bad I accidently posted it twice, because now it will be cached two times forever more.

But my dilemma and my question is--did I do right by this?

Someone posted anonymously the following comment about my story:

What – the – heck is wrong with our society today. Over the years, Republicans gave tacit approval to illegal immigration to benefit various corporate contributors. Democrats give resulting 'soft-hearted' approval to people here illegally because of social problems. Why can't we respect our Laws, like every other country does!

It's not just our leaders that are at fault. We, The People need to make our voices heard! Why wasn't there a 'Public Outrage” against our country's previous administration when we attacked another country for no reason. Why do we feel no need to unite against religious leader's extortion of our country's Congressional / Senatorial representatives. Why do we feel no love or affection for American “Labor”, letting Congressional / Corporate leaders gut our system of worker's rights, and even ship our jobs overseas merely to increase the profit margin. All in the Orwellian name of Free Trade... sort-of like its the Patriotic thing to do.
We have been forced to view even the smallest hourly wage increase by workers as Inflationary. Yet, we as citizens and investors have not responded negatively enough to the Millions / Billions / Trillions of dollars handed to corporate leaders, lawyers, politicians, and now Bankers and Wall Street speculators that do nothing to create real Wealth.

Well, that 1.5 Trillion talked about in this article is merely a red-herring. We have high unemployment now and cannot afford to give jobs to people who failed to respect our country enough to enter legally. We have a way to admit refugees, that is not the issue. And there are plenty of actual law-abiding individuals who might appreciate having a job, and legally create that 1.5 Trillion in growth over the next ten years.

I felt like Eminem for a moment and decide to take a citizen stance and defend myself:

This is what I responded:

I know this is late, but thanks very much for reading my column. I always appreciated when someone reads my work, but to the person that went on a rant about how illegal immigrants should be deported and not given a helping hand, I just have a few suggestions.

1. Like me, make sure you address yourself by your real name and not anonymously. If you are going to criticize someone, the least you can do is be honorable and show your true colors--do not hide behind a wall of secrecy.

I have a lot of respect for your viewpoints but when you hide your name, it undermines your integrity and it is very hard to take you seriously.

2. My numbers are not red herring. I backed up my research with various sources including the CATO institute. Again, if you knew anything about journalism you would know that journalist do it with at least two sources and they uphold the belief that a story needs to be balanced, credible and have integrity. We do not hide our sources and we definitely do not hide our names.

THE ULTIMATUM FOR MY ACTIONS?

If you guys think I overstepped my boundaries I will promise to stop inserting my personal opinions on stuff that happens in both my personal and professional life---this blog included.