In the past 12 hours I've learned more about hurricanes than I'd like to admit. I've learned that hot air fuels these storms of doom, that when they hit land they sometimes split into several deadly tornadoes, and most shockingly, Rita, is the third most powerful storm ever recorded in the Atlantic Ocean.
Houston, stands in Hurricane Rita's patch of destruction. The country hasn't seen a hurricane hit land as a category 5 since Andrew in 1992. At at wind speeds of 175mph, Rita appears more dangerous than anything the Texas or Louisiana coast has ever seen --even more potent than Galveston's storm in 1900 (155 mph) or NOLA's heartbreaker (Katrina, which was only a cat 4 at landfall) from merely three weeks ago.
I'm scared shitless.
My parents, residing in my boyhood home, have stubbornly, yet confidently decided they're going to stay put (for now at least). My dad has assured me that he'll make the most prudent decisions about their safety --a statement which I have complete faith in. And it looks as if they'll be following city recommendations on what to do. I'm just horrified that if that recommendation comes too late, it might be too late to leave.
The decision to leave is a tough one anyways. I mean, where would they go anyways? They can't board a plane to come here since I'm pretty sure all flights are booked. They don't really have anyone to stay with in Dallas, Austin, or San Antonio. And, even if they did who's to say that those cities aren't along Rita's path also? It's just too early to tell.
Also, all hotels in most of the state appear to be booked up. Friends have informed me that traffic is moving at a rate of 3.3 miles per hour. What if they run out of gas? It's not like you can pull over and fill up --gas stations are tapped out.
I can't even call them as I keep getting "All circuits are busy messages". I have to leave text msgs for them to call me back.
And worst of all I can't do anything about it as I'm in fucking California.
All I can do is pray for their safety...
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Stupid Drunk Games
Yesterday afternoon I hurredly fired off some bullshit emails to give my collegues the impression that I was still toiling away at some bullshit task.
I threw on some rags, kissed my daughter on the cheek, and jumped in the ride.
Detination: the city
Agenda: Watch the Monday Night Football doubleheader and get absolutely blitzed.
It didn't matter where or with who. As long as the games are shown and drinks keep coming, I'll be happy. Since I don't get out much any more I have to make the most each precious opportunity --to keep sane.
I get ahold of G and my new drinking buddy S. Although S whines about being broke and having to save up for an upcoming bachelor party, he agrees to "have a drink or two". G is always down. Don't these fuckers understand Monday night in a bar watching football while throwing down Jamesons and spitting game at hoes represents the last vestige of youth and irresponsibility for me??
We begin the evening at the Chieftain, our safe home bar I guess. We order pitchers of their special, Pilsner Urquell (with a free order of wings) and get down to business. Eating, drinking, watching football, whispering sweet nothings about nasty sex acts to the any half-decent woman who wants to listen... The place is filled with squares from the OracleWorld conference so our increasingly rambunctious behavior induces non-approving glances from many patrons. We decide we need to go somewhere a little edgier.
Boo yah... we end up at Rich's 93 hanging amongst a plethora of San Francisco's shadiest hustlers and twenty dollar whores. Now that's more like it --not a single OracleWorld tote bag in sight. While G plays in his weekly pool league in the rear of the bar, S and I try to go pint for pint. Newcastle's the poison tonight. I curse as I realize I just lost a few c-notes due to Joe Horn's idiot play near the end zone (while stretch to get the ball over the plane of the goal line he fumbles the ball which results in a touch back) --in effect keeping the total under 43.5 (I had the over). Fuck betting on NFL.
I notice I'm always about half a pint ahead of S. This is due mainly to the fact he can't stop recounting stories about his deprived childhood in upstate New York. All those summers spent in Canadian hockey camps must of taught him to drink like a pussy too. I call him out. He obliges and downs his beer grudgingly. After a few pints and a few more tales of youthful disobedience the fucker decides to call me out.
"You think you're a tough guy?", he challenges. Not being accustomed to hanging with slow drinking white boys, I answer back. "Hellz jeah, whats up??", I accept his challenge. He pushes his forearm again mine and in between he places a lit cigarette. Damn.. these crackers are crazy. I'm lit from the drink and feel as if I could beat the shit out of anyone.. plus my body is almost numb from it. I feel a warm sensation burning the hairs on my arm.. no biggie. The damn thing burns down to the filter. We both laugh and agree that wasn't shit.. just a stupid drunk game.
The night comes to a close, I stumble towards to BART station and some how get home in one piece. I drink half a gallon of gatorade and pass out on the couch.
This morning I'm staring at my arm in disbelief. It looks as if someone bit a off quarter-sized chunk of my forearm. Disgusting. It even obvious that it came from a fucking stogie. Looks like I'll be wearing long sleeves the next month or so. Never again.
I threw on some rags, kissed my daughter on the cheek, and jumped in the ride.
Detination: the city
Agenda: Watch the Monday Night Football doubleheader and get absolutely blitzed.
It didn't matter where or with who. As long as the games are shown and drinks keep coming, I'll be happy. Since I don't get out much any more I have to make the most each precious opportunity --to keep sane.
I get ahold of G and my new drinking buddy S. Although S whines about being broke and having to save up for an upcoming bachelor party, he agrees to "have a drink or two". G is always down. Don't these fuckers understand Monday night in a bar watching football while throwing down Jamesons and spitting game at hoes represents the last vestige of youth and irresponsibility for me??
We begin the evening at the Chieftain, our safe home bar I guess. We order pitchers of their special, Pilsner Urquell (with a free order of wings) and get down to business. Eating, drinking, watching football, whispering sweet nothings about nasty sex acts to the any half-decent woman who wants to listen... The place is filled with squares from the OracleWorld conference so our increasingly rambunctious behavior induces non-approving glances from many patrons. We decide we need to go somewhere a little edgier.
Boo yah... we end up at Rich's 93 hanging amongst a plethora of San Francisco's shadiest hustlers and twenty dollar whores. Now that's more like it --not a single OracleWorld tote bag in sight. While G plays in his weekly pool league in the rear of the bar, S and I try to go pint for pint. Newcastle's the poison tonight. I curse as I realize I just lost a few c-notes due to Joe Horn's idiot play near the end zone (while stretch to get the ball over the plane of the goal line he fumbles the ball which results in a touch back) --in effect keeping the total under 43.5 (I had the over). Fuck betting on NFL.
I notice I'm always about half a pint ahead of S. This is due mainly to the fact he can't stop recounting stories about his deprived childhood in upstate New York. All those summers spent in Canadian hockey camps must of taught him to drink like a pussy too. I call him out. He obliges and downs his beer grudgingly. After a few pints and a few more tales of youthful disobedience the fucker decides to call me out.
"You think you're a tough guy?", he challenges. Not being accustomed to hanging with slow drinking white boys, I answer back. "Hellz jeah, whats up??", I accept his challenge. He pushes his forearm again mine and in between he places a lit cigarette. Damn.. these crackers are crazy. I'm lit from the drink and feel as if I could beat the shit out of anyone.. plus my body is almost numb from it. I feel a warm sensation burning the hairs on my arm.. no biggie. The damn thing burns down to the filter. We both laugh and agree that wasn't shit.. just a stupid drunk game.
The night comes to a close, I stumble towards to BART station and some how get home in one piece. I drink half a gallon of gatorade and pass out on the couch.
This morning I'm staring at my arm in disbelief. It looks as if someone bit a off quarter-sized chunk of my forearm. Disgusting. It even obvious that it came from a fucking stogie. Looks like I'll be wearing long sleeves the next month or so. Never again.
It's Been A Long Time...
I shouldn't have left you without a dope rhyme to step to...
Yeah, I know, that was lame.
Due to my utterly hectic lifestyle I no longer have time to transcribe my precious thoughts in this here weblog. By no means am I joyous about that. But here's some kewl-ass links (credit to tmmb):
Get a human every time
Ashton Kutcher's phone hacked
How about the recipe for the Chik-fil-a chicken sandwich:
CHICKEN SANDWICH LIKE CHICK-FIL-A
1 egg
1 cup milk
2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, halved
1 cup flour
2 1/2 teaspoons powdered sugar
2 tablespoons salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
3 cups peanut oil
4 plain hamburger buns
2 tablespoons melted butter
8 dill pickle slices
Mix together the egg and milk. Place the chicken in this mixture, and let sit for at least an hour.
While the breasts are sitting, mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and pepper.
Once the sitting is done, dredge in the flour. (For ourselves and our favorite customers, after the first dredging, we would put them back in the milk bath for a few seconds, and re-dredge! This is not company policy, however!)
Place the Peanut oil in a deep fat fryer, and bring up to a high heat.
Once up to 375 F., gently drop chicken into the oil, and let cook until golden brown. (This is for those of us who do not have a pressure cooker. If you do, follow the note below!)
Lightly butter the buns, and grill until heated through. Place two pickles on each bun, and place a hot breast on each!
Note: Chick-Fil-A actually uses a Pressure Fryer (not a pressure cooker) to cook the Filets in. If you have one, use the peanut oil according to the instructions for frying in it. Desired heat is 400 F. Once steam starts shooting through, cook for about 4 minutes.
Servings: 4
Home Cookin, Chick-Fil-A (Posted By Former Employee)
Yeah, I know, that was lame.
Due to my utterly hectic lifestyle I no longer have time to transcribe my precious thoughts in this here weblog. By no means am I joyous about that. But here's some kewl-ass links (credit to tmmb):
Get a human every time
Ashton Kutcher's phone hacked
How about the recipe for the Chik-fil-a chicken sandwich:
CHICKEN SANDWICH LIKE CHICK-FIL-A
1 egg
1 cup milk
2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, halved
1 cup flour
2 1/2 teaspoons powdered sugar
2 tablespoons salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
3 cups peanut oil
4 plain hamburger buns
2 tablespoons melted butter
8 dill pickle slices
Mix together the egg and milk. Place the chicken in this mixture, and let sit for at least an hour.
While the breasts are sitting, mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and pepper.
Once the sitting is done, dredge in the flour. (For ourselves and our favorite customers, after the first dredging, we would put them back in the milk bath for a few seconds, and re-dredge! This is not company policy, however!)
Place the Peanut oil in a deep fat fryer, and bring up to a high heat.
Once up to 375 F., gently drop chicken into the oil, and let cook until golden brown. (This is for those of us who do not have a pressure cooker. If you do, follow the note below!)
Lightly butter the buns, and grill until heated through. Place two pickles on each bun, and place a hot breast on each!
Note: Chick-Fil-A actually uses a Pressure Fryer (not a pressure cooker) to cook the Filets in. If you have one, use the peanut oil according to the instructions for frying in it. Desired heat is 400 F. Once steam starts shooting through, cook for about 4 minutes.
Servings: 4
Home Cookin, Chick-Fil-A (Posted By Former Employee)
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