You’ve got that perfect mask,

Of pity and concern,

Layered over apathy,

Oh all the wicked things you’ve learned,

You say you just need time,

You say you just need space,

I can’t hear your words,

I’m too busy reading to your face,

It’s saying it’s too late,

It’s saying that time was never there,

All your dreams, your hopes, your needs,

Well I wish that I could care,

Yeah you wish that you could care,

But you say you’re tired,

You’ve been in love for too long, now, too long, oh no oh no,

And I say I’m sorry love,

But I don’t know what I did wrong, now, what’s wrong, whoa-ho-oh-oh,

I’ve done all I can,

To be yours, to be the perfect man,

For you love,

The man, for you love,

But all the work in the world,

All the pretty words mean nothing girl,

When you don’t want to be loved,

God knows you don’t want my love,

You say you want to be set free,

Far from love, yeah, that’s far from me, love, far from me,

You say you’ve gone to find yourself dear,

Well I found you, you’ve always been right here, love, right here,

But you say you’re tired,

You’ve been in love for too long, now,  too long tonight, Jesus Christ,

And I say I’m sorry love,

But I don’t know what I did wrong, now, what’s wrong now with us,

Yeah but I know someday,

Someday you’ll have found yourself you see,

You’ll figure out what you want,

Oh girl you’ll find what it is you need,

And you’ll think back,

You’ll think back on what you had,

And it’s only fair,

What you always wanted was always there,

And I can’t wait to see the day,

When you come by my way,

No I can’t wait to see the day,

When I get to hear you say,

I thought I wanted to be set free,

Far from love, but baby, I want you to love me, oh boy,

I went and I found myself dear,

I realized, my place here, with you boy, it’s hear,

And I’ll smile as I say,

I’ll say I’m tired,

And well, hell, you know the rest.

I’ll never fear like that anymore… A wounded heart on a lacerated soul… A broken life, an useless plot… I want so much to forget my death…

Feel bad. Extremely bad. My heart is failing. I thought I would fall today in the University… My favourite teacher could cheer me up for a while notwithstanding all that happens… Really, it seems that clever men like my company.

I hate it. I hate all. I hate you.

This may be the season when the country stops to reflect on what they are thankful for, but gratitude has been a reoccurring theme over the last five months of my life.  It’s easy to get caught up in the drudgery of every day trials, woes, frustrations and disappointments.  But rather than giving in to the usual whining, venting and complaining, I think of one thing and it brings me back to reality: my sister.

If anyone has the right to host a pity party it is Rosario.  After all, her life was altered abruptly due to the decisions and actions of another person.  She has endured excruciating pain, mental and emotional trauma, eight hours of painstaking surgery, irritating side effects from pain medication, and a tediously long recovery, not to mention she left her life in LA to stay with our parents for the rest of her recovery.  The independent Rose has had to rely on others for her most basic needs.  She has never been one to sit on the sidelines, but she has had to watch her friends and family carry on while she is left behind as her body continues to heal. 

Rosario has suffered all of this and much more because of one person’s decision.  And she could be brooding over what she has lost, wallowing in misery, but she has chosen not to.  “It takes to much energy to be bitter,” she has said, “and I need all my energy focused on getting stronger.”  Of course, Rosario still has her difficult moments.  She has mourned the loss of her freedom, independence and way of life, but she has never cried out “Woe is me!” or even asked “Why me?!” 

Instead, Rose has embraced her cross, and whenever she is tempted to slide down the slippery slope of resentment and into the grimy slop of self-pity that pools at the bottom, she pulls out her Grateful List, which starts with “I’m grateful to be alive!”

It goes on from there:

I’m grateful my injuries weren’t worse.

I’m grateful I’m here and not in the hospital.

I’m grateful I’m not on a feeding tube.

I’m grateful for my family who has been taking care of me.

I’m grateful for my friends and their prayers.

I’m grateful for everyone who has generously donated to my emergency fund.

I’m grateful for the thousands of people praying for me.

I’m grateful for the doctors and surgeons who helped save my life.

I’m grateful for the detectives and police who have worked on my case.

The list could go on for a while, and rightly so.  Our whole family has a lot to be grateful for this year.  Each of us were and continue to be impacted by Rosario’s experience.  God’s grace and blessings have been abundant.  We have nothing to complain about.  Even if we do have a frustrating moment and start to whine, Rose is quick to remind us, with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulder, “It could be worse: you could have a bullet in your chest!” 

 That’s all it takes to bring us back to reality.  We are reminded, in that one sentence, how precious each moment is and that we should not waste it complaining about trivial matters.  We should, instead, reflect on our own Grateful List.

At the GR Marathon

Is it only the lack of trust, the fear to trust? Or is there something else? I don’t know. I’m just tired and totally destroyed… What do I want except of oblivion? What do I have to do with all these feelings I have, all this anger, despair and deep offence? What do I have to… So many questions. And no answer.

Its a two Batch day, I’m doing 12 litres a piece and actually taking my time over it. I decided to Mash then Sparge and collect, then Mash then Sparge and collect followed by 2 boils.

AG#13 – Bloody Nelson

Fermentables:
Golden Promise 2090g
Wheat Malt 260g
German Cara Red 260g

Hops:
Nelson Sauvin 60 mins 0 lbs. 0.4 oz 10g (FWH)
Nelson Sauvin 15 mins 0 lbs. 0.4 oz 10g
Nelson Sauvin 0 mins 0 lbs. 0.4 oz 20g (I’ve doubled this from 10g as the hops were smelling good)

Final Volume: 12 Litres
Original Gravity: 1.048
Final Gravity: 1.012
Alcohol Content: 4.7% ABV
Total Liquor: 18.8 Litres
Mash Liquor: 6.5 Litres
Mash Efficiency: 75 %
Bitterness: 34 EBU
Colour: 15 EBC

The Grains, golden promise pale malt, wheat malt, carared malt, 1 tsp gypsum:

New toy with little Brewing calculator on it, mashed in @ 67.7c:

FWH & 1 Tsp Gypsum:

Floaters:

12g of Nottingham Yeast:

20min steep of flame Out hops:

Rehydrated Notts yeast within 1 degree of my wort temp:

All put to bed now, lots of yeast for the 12L length, should get going pretty quick.
I’m not too sure if the CaraRed Malt has done its stuff, looked a bit straw-like in the boiler, will see better at bottling.
Near as damn it hit my OG just a point or two out.

AG#14 – Black Promise

Fermentables:
Golden Promise 1880g
Wheat Malt 260g
Black Malt 100g
Crystal Malt 100g

Hops:
Northdown 60 mins 5g (FWH)
Whitbread Golding 60 mins 5g (FWH)
Fuggle 60 mins 5g (FWH)
Whitbread Golding 20 mins 20g
Home Grown Fuggle 10 mins 21g

Final Volume: 12 Litres
Original Gravity: 1.044
Final Gravity: 1.012
Alcohol Content: 4.1% ABV
Total Liquor: 18.5 Litres
Mash Liquor: 5.9 Litres
Mash Efficiency: 75 %
Bitterness: 36 EBU
Colour: 86 EBC

Grain weighed out, golden promise pale malt, black malt, crystal malt, wheat malt, 1 tsp gypsum, 1/2 tsp Calcium Chloride:

New toy with little Brewing calculator on it, mashed in @ 66c:

Good deep colour, though tastes a bit mild I was hoping for more of the Black malt flavours:

FWH:

WGV going in!:

Home grown Fuggles going in:

Near enough for me:

All done, I just hope the Black malt comes through with the flavour as well as the colour.

Stump Cross Ale

One of the many good things about writing a beer blog, is that people who know and love (or like) you will often see an interesting beer while out on their travels and bring it back to you to try.

My parents did that very thing on a recent trip into North Yorkshire. As they were on their way home from Richmond, they called me to say that they’re picked up four bottles of beer from the Richmond Brewing Company. Two for me, and two for my brother.

Next time I saw them, I collected the bottles, and sure enough, they looked interesting. One was called Stump Cross Ale (named after Stump Cross in Pateley Bridge, obviously) and promised to be “a rich full flavour English bitter” brewed with limestone filtered cave water and the other was Richmond Station Ale, “a golden coloured, fruity crisp ale” named after the historic Richmond Station in which the brewery is based.

Alas, these beers did not live up to my hopes.

Richmond Station Ale

Presumably neither are bottle conditioned (at least neither claim to be so anywhere upon them), and while I don’t believe this is the be all and end all, as CAMRA might, it can often lead to a blander, less exciting beer, and that was the case here.

Both were far from diabolical, but neither seemed to pack any punch, both tasting decidedly similar and strangely watery. While the Station Ale did have a nice malty taste lurking somewhere in there, it tasted more like the kind of beer you’d expect a massive brewing corporation to churn out that the work of a small, independent brewery.

A damn shame, but there are plenty more beers in the sea.

If you wish, you can discover more about Richmond Brewing Company here

Coffee and tea are probably the most common sources of a bitter taste in most people’s diets. Beers can be bitter, as can certain additives in fancy cocktails (such as Angostura bitters). For older folks, a common bitter flavor is the aftertaste of a chlorhexidine rinse. But Chinese foods also use bitter tastes, such as this beef with bitter melon in black bean sauce, from Canton Cooks:

To note, bitter melon is quite bitter, but hardly in the same league as chlorhexidine. The most interesting bitter flavor I’ve run into recently is Chinese broccoli. If you go to Ming’s Bar BQ and order a dish rich with broccoli, they’ll ask, “leaf broccoli or crown broccoli?”, or perhaps “Chinese broccoli or crown broccoli?” The Chinese product has a stem and a large dark green leaf, and a very mild bitter flavor. I’d say the dominant flavor and textures I note in Chinese broccoli are the freshness of the green vegetable and the sweetness of it.  The combination of green freshness, sweetness, and a bitter so mild it could be a bubblegum flavor are an interesting and refreshing combination.

Have you encountered an interesting flavor combination recently? Care to post about it?

Produttore: RIDGEWAY BREWERY (REGNO UNITO)

Tipologia birra :  BITTER ALE

Alc: 4%

Colore: Mattone

Schiuma fine bianco sporco. Al naso si presentano odori erbaceum di mandarino e fiori ma senza una particolare intensità. In bocca il corpo è leggero ed il gusto quasi rotondo (impensabile per una bitter) anche se un pò legato.  A dispetto del suo nome l’amaro si rivela solo nel finale senza mai essere pungente.

Questa birra ci ha molto delusi, perché da un produttore come Ridgeway ci aspettiamo molto di più

Voto: 3,3/5

Bahan-bahan

• 100 gram mentega/margarin
• 150 gram tepung terigu
• 350 cc susu cair
• 250 gram daging ayam, cincang, sangrai sebentar
• 1 buah bawang bombay
• 1 sendok teh garam
• 1/4 sendok teh pala bubuk
• 2 butir telur, kocok
• 100 gram tepung parnir
• 1/2 sendok teh merica bubuk
• 1 sendok teh gula pasir
• 2 sendok makan air

Cara membuat

• Potong bawang bombay kecil-kecil, tumis dengan margarin hingga layu, masukkan tepung terigu, aduk rata.
• Tuangkan susu sedikit demi sedikit, aduk terus supaya tidak menggumpal.
• Masukkan daging ayam, garam, merica bubuk, pala bubuk, dan gula.
• Setelah matang, angkat dari api, dinginkan.
• Bentuk berupa bulatan-bulatan sebesar bakso, lalu celupkan dalam kocokan telur yang telah dicampur dengan sedikit air, angkat.
• Gulingkan pada tepung parnir, lalu goreng dalam minyak panas sampai kecoklatan.

DEAR ACCUSED,

I’M WRITING TO YOU BECAUSE I’M SO ANGRY INSIDE. I KNEW BOTH OF YOU SINCE BEFORE I CAN REMEMBER AND I NEVER WOULD HAVE THOUGHT THAT YOU GUYS WOULD LET ME DOWN, ESPECIALLY TO THIS LEVEL. I LOOKED UP TO YOU’LL… LIKE RECENTLY OR WHEN I GET ASKED, WHAT IS MY DEFINITION OF A “REAL MAN”… AND YOUR TWO NAMES COME TO MIND. I WAS RAISED WITHOUT A FATHER BUT THATS EITHER HERE OR THERE CAUSE THE TWO OF YOU STEPPED IN (MORE OR LESS) FOR MY SISTER, BROTHER AND I. ALL OF THE GOOD MEMORIES I HAVE BEEN TARNISHED FOREVER CAUSE BOTH OF YOU CHOSE THE WRONG PATH…NOT ONLY FOR YOURSELVES BUT FOR THE FAMILY MY GRANDMOTHER (GOD REST HER SOUL) LEFT BEHIND. I CAN’T FATHOM WHY THE ONLY PERSON WHO REALLY KNEW MY GRANDMA PASSED AWAY WITHOUT HER ENTIRE FAMILY NOT NOTIFIED IMMEDIATELY OR BETTER YET WASN’T GRANTED A PROPER FUNERAL WITH ALL US US AT ATTENDENCE BECAUSE OF YOU BEING BITTER & SELFISH SIR… TO THE YOUNG GIRL WE AS A FAMILY OPENED OUR HEARTS TO, WORDS CAN’T EXPRESS HOW SORRY I AM THAT YOU NOW HAS TO GO BACK TO SQUARE ONE BASICIALLY WHERE YOU LEFT OFF CAUSE OF ACCUSER #2 STUPIDITY. SHE WAS JUST GETTING HER LIFE BACK ON TRACK WITH A SENSE OF SECURITY. ALTHOUGH THE LOVE IS STILL THERE, THE RESPECT IS BEYOND REPAIR.

      Filled With Dismay,

      Chic Realness

I was young and impressionable.

There was Leo Durocher with Herman Munster, and Wes Parker shacking up with Greg Brady’s teacher.  I fell in love with that blue cursive insignia on the front of the uniforms, and the almost pornographic promise of a real-life Farmer John Dodger Dog - “Eastern-most in quality and Western-most in flavor”.

On the diamond there was The Infield.  There was Dusty and Yeager, Mota and Sutton.  Messersmith and Marshall. In the dugout was Walter Alston and then Tommy Lasorda.  We were seemingly always in the World Series and we hated the Giants.  Life was simple.   It was seductive.

Being a Dodger fan even came with a proud history.  A nice Jewish boy like me could not help but be fascinated by Sandy Koufax.  We were the team of Jackie Robinson – aligning us with the good guys in the civil rights narrative.  Being a Dodger fan also somehow connected me to Duke, Pee Wee,  Gil – I learned of the boys of summer from the warm, nostalgic sepia toned voices of Vin Scully and Jerry Doggett. I’d been indoctrinated.

Hoodwinked.     Bamboozled.

I didn’t land on Dodger Stadium.  Dodger Stadium landed on me.  But it felt good for a long, long time… so I bought it all hook, line and sinker.

Looking back, there was always a dark side.  Some spoke of never forgiving the O’Malleys for tearing the heart out of Brooklyn.  This was easy to forgive as it mirrored the move west made by my own family.   Every now and then someone spoke bitterly about a poor Elysian Fields neighborhood destroyed in order to make room for a then state of the art stadium.  I’d ignore these complaints as if they came from a Giant’s fan’s mouth.  They were incongruous.  The Dodgers were the good guys.  End of debate.

Exactly when the bloom started coming off the rose, I cannot tell you.  Perhaps it was the night Al Campanis had one too many before appearing on Nightline.   Maybe Gibson’s ‘88 home run was so epochal that it ushered in an era of darkness.  Maybe God judged us unfavorably for trading Pedro Martinez for a guy who wore his socks funny.  For all I know Jody Reed practiced the dark arts on us.  I dunno.  Maybe I simply grew up and started seeing the ugly side of things for what they were.  I did not have a child’s ability to ignore inconvenient truths anymore.

The once history-laden franchise became leaden.  Our scouting department (once the envy of baseball) began producing flawed players (though often incredibly impressive in one or two aspects of their game)  and made a habit of cutting corners, forging birth certificates and drafting carelessly.

More disturbingly, the O’Malleys began to seem complacent.  After 1988 it seemed that they were satisfied to field a team that was sorta kinda good enough – never getting that final piece again as they had with Kirk Gibson.   Even with five consecutive flawed but talented rookies of the year and a roster full of young overachievers like Ismael Valdes, Darren Dreifort and Chan Ho Park – the front office failed to provide the proven talent needed to augment that inexpensive nucleus.   In retrospect it was clear they were preparing for a sale – so we fans suffered.

Our suffering ought to have ended with the sale of the Dodgers.  Orphan franchise gets adopted by loving new parents and all is well.  But this story was being written by Charles Dickens and we were sent packing to Rupert Murdoch and Fox.  I suppose they could have had good intentions for us.  After all – they were willing to invest and wanted a winner.  But they knew nothing about baseball yet still meddled in baseball decisions.

The nadir came when they bypassed our own GM to trade our franchise player for another team’s  salary dump.  Then needing to hire a new GM, they chose yes man Sheriff Kevin Malone – the only person desperate enough for the job that he was willing to attempt their absurd mandate – to try and buy a championship in a single mediocre free agent market.  The payroll exploded.  The team fizzled.  Fox lost interest.  Malone was fired.

So we endured years in the wilderness as new GM Dan Evans was left with the thankless task of running a team with virtually no payroll space to make moves, few players with any trade value, and nothing much of value in the minors.    Long term contracts to the likes of Todd Hundley ensured that it would take years to clean up the mess.  But slowly and methodically he  rebuilt the roster, the farm team and the scouting department into good health.   But lacking support from the ownership his teams were left to twist in the wind.  Again.. we fans had waited patiently for the franchise to heal from its many self-inflicted wounds.  We focused on the better days around the corner and were stoic as  teams that had the potential to contend were wasted.  When we needed a big bat we got Jeromy Burnitz and a ticket out of the playoffs in the first round.  Like any good Dickens novel we were about to be sent off again to another dysfunctional situation.  Fox was preparing to sell.  Enter Frank McCourt.

Frank McCourt was one of us.  A dumbass baseball fan who thought he knew baseball better than the pros.  The prevailing fad in baseball at the time was Moneyball and sabermetrics.  Baseball executives loved the idea of winning on the cheap and a new generation of egghead fans spurred on by the echo chamber of the internet suddenly developed a mass case of Stockholm Syndrome and spents all sorts of energy analyzing their team’s payroll flexibility and obsessing on prospects.  Never mind that it wasn’t their money (or maybe it was, as baseball owners like McCourt were busily raising prices for tickets, parking, etc…) and most of the prospects fetishized never cracked a big league roster.   These fans encouraged Frank McCourt to run the Dodgers as a medium market team.  He was more than happy to oblige.

It should also be noted that Frank  McCourt was a Boston native fan who bought the Dodgers only after failing to purchase his beloved Red Sox.  Like Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo he set out to remake us into the object of his desire – firing the resourceful Dan Evans in favor of Paul Depodesta and his laptop – the Robin to Billy Beane’s Batman and most importantly – a guy who  clearly reminded McCourt of Boston’s wunderkind Theo Epstein.

In short order,Paul Depodesta gutted a first place team and inexplicably began yet another rebuilding.   His team had to be made to reflect his philosophy – the fact that the team he inherited was already winning was of no consequence.  We fans deserved a payoff for our patience, but  we were to be denied it in order for the boy genius to  prove that he could shock the world with little more than Hee Seop Choi and baling wire.  Like Lucy with her football he forced fans like me to do our best Charlie Brown impression as we fell head over ass – yet another rebuilding caused by yet more self-inflicted wounds.

A dismal 71 win season followed and McCourt fwas forced to fire his pet Theo clone to avoid being run out-of-town himself.  This time Ned Colletti was hired as  clean up man.  Which brings us to the last few years, as once again we see the emergence of a potential contender (perhaps the best team since the Garvey/Cey/Lopes Dodgers of my youth)  – but virtually no commitment from ownership to get over the hump.  You need look no further than the post season just completed a few weeks ago.  Our biggest deficit was starting pitching.  The two teams that outlasted us had aces that they’d added via free agency or trade for 3009….players we likely could have had (in the case of CC Sabathia- a player who actually waited for us to make an offer for weeks before signing with NY).  The Yankees and Phillies wanted a championship and were willing to do what it took to get one.  Frank McCourt wanted one too – but he wanted it with minimal investment on his part.

And now we head into this hot stove season.  While the fans of the Yankees and Phillies have visions of sugar plums in their heads, we’re all left to wonder if our owner will allow us to pursue even a second tier pitcher.  And the announcement of McCourt’s impending divorce on the eve of the NL Championship series was one hell of a buzzkill causing us to have to worry about the next Dickensian turn of events.

So am I bitter?   As Sarah Palin would say, you betchya.  As long and pathetic as all of the above has been, I haven’t scratched the surface of all of the thousand little deaths I’ve died as a Dodger fan.  The big homers to Barry Bonds.  Karate kicks.  Beaten up water coolers.  The closing of Dodgertown at Vero Beach, Daryl Strawberry, Gary Sheffield, the great disappointment that was Paul LoDuca. The dismal fate of Eric Gagne. The phantom appearances of  Billy Ashley,  Angel Pena and Edwin “Joel” Guzman.  The utter predictability of  Adrian Beltre and the fall of Raul Mondesi.  Sure I’m bitter – I’ve earned my place on this particular couch.

In his introductory post my friend Dodger Fan in New York promises brilliance.   I’m sure he’ll deliver as I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy his writing on this subject for years.  I’m less of  a home run hitter than he is – perhaps more of a Chad Fonville type. Hopefully I can deliver a timely hit now and then .  If you’ve made it this far reading this, chances are strong you’ve suffered too.  You deserve our best effort and a place where you can feel safe from the  next big letdown.

We’re here for you.  We understand.

EQ = EMOTIONAL QUOTIENT

Minsan sa buhay ko, may professor na nagsabi sa akin na mababa daw ang EQ ko.

Gusto nyong malaman kung bakit?

Ito ay dahil sa isang Panda black pen. Oo. Pen.

Galit na galit siya sa klase namin nun. Ito ata ung time na kumalat ang tsismis na sa isang major exam, pinayagan kami ng isang Exam Proctor na magkopyahan (in closed doors kuno kaya hindi ko maintindihan kung paanung kumalat un). Normal lang naman ang mga kopyahan sa high school pero dahil Upper Hethero, big deal. Nakarating sa adviser namin pati na din sa iba pang teachers at ayun, naghalo ang balat sa tinalupan.

Natatandaan kong bungad ni Sir K sa klase namin: I just can’t understand you guys. I’m very disappointed. Naturingan pa naman kayong Upper hethero, tapos ganyan kayo. Act like your age. Cheating on a major exam? For God’s sake, hindi na kayo mga elementary students! (umuusok ang bumbunan pati ilong) blah, blah, blah, (sa sobrang haba ng sinabi niya, hindi ko na matandaan ung iba at ung iba kinalimutan ko na, mejo masakit sa puso at nakakapanting ng tenga)

Sa kamalas-malasang pagkakataon, asa front row ako nun, lahat ng laway ni Sir sinalo namin ng mga katabi ko. Kabado pa kami at baka may madampot si Sir na kung anu at ibato samin. Ang masama nyan, bigla siyang mag-incredible hulk at mabuhat nya ang teacher’s table tapos ibato sami, kami ang unang casualty pag nagkataon.

Bago pumasok sa room namin at nagsimula ang kanyang sermon, may kaklase akong nanghiram sakin ng Panda black pen, at hindi ko maubos maisip na kung kelan mainit ang ulo samin ni Sir at umaatikabong sermon ang inaabot namin, dun nya naisip isoli ang ballpen ko. Dun siya nakaupo sa silya sa likuran ko.

**Eksena**
Kaklase ko: pabulong: Aubrey. Aubrey, ballpen mo.
Ako: (dedma habang tinatawag na lahat ng santo, as if kabisado, para lang tigilan ako ng kaklase ko, para maisip niyang wrong timing siya)
Kaklase ko: Aubrey. Aubrey, ballpen mo.
Ako: (dedma pa din, in full concentration, baka sakaling tigilan niya ako)
Kaklase ko: (sinusundot na ung likod ko ng sarili kong ballpen para lang kuhain ko un)
Ako: (lumingon na sa wakas at madaliang kinuha ang pen sa pag-aakalang hindi mapapansin.)
Sir K: Ms. Buenaventura, anu yan? (napansin pala niya)
Ako: Ballpen po.
Sir K: Alam mo, ang baba ng EQ mo! (nang-gagalaliti sa galit)
Ako:( tulala, hindi maisip kung anung kuneksyon ng ballpen sa kabababaan ng EQ)
Sir K: I’m out of here. You should think about your mistake guys. You messed up big time. (sabay walkout)
Ako: (medyo nahimasmasan, gustong gusto ko tumayo dun at habulin si Sir para itanong kung anung kuneksyon ng ballpen sa mababang EQ, kaso dahil galit siya hindi ko na itinuloy kasi baka kung san pa mapunta ang usapan, mahirap na, mamaya makick out ako ng wala sa panahon, yari ako kay hitler)

Pagka-alis ni Sir K, medyo lulugo-lugo ako. Ang masigawan sa harap ng madlang-klase ang pinakaayaw kong eksena sa buhay. Feeling ko api ako at wala akong kakampi. Ang ikinasama pa ng loob ko nun, ako lang ung sinabihan ni Sir na mababa ang EQ. Ba’t hindi kasama ung isa kong kaklaseng nangulit sakin? Unfair. Isa pang pang-asar, buong 3rd grading to 4th grading period ata ng 3rd year high school life ko, naging expression sa klase namin ang “Alam mo ikaw, ang baba ng EQ mo!”. Naastigan nga ako sa sarili ko at hindi ko naisip lumipat ng iskul. Siguro kung iba-iba un, lumipat na. Pero naisip ko nung time na un, bakit ba, kung mababa ang EQ, so what, keber, suntukan na lang. (hehe)

Nung time na un, naobsessed ako sa mga IQ and EQ test online. Lumalabas sa mga results (kung totoo man ung mga yun), na may slight above average akong IQ at average na EQ. Pilit kong kinukumbinsi ang sarili na hindi naman siguro mababa ang EQ ko. Sinabi ko un sa tita ko, sabi niya, hindi naman daw mababa ang EQ ko. My personality is the result of my stressful childhood. Buti na lng kinausap ko siya. Of all people, she should know. Guidance Counselor siya ng isang prominenteng iskul nun sa probinsya namin.

Teka, ano ang nga ba ang ibig sabihin ng EQ?

Emotional Quotient is a self-perceived ability, to identify, assess, and manage the emotions of one’s self, of others, and of groups.

EQ, sinusukat, malaki daw ang ginagampanang papel kung paano makitungo ang isang tao sa kapwa niya tao.

EQ, nung panahong yun, hindi ko alam kung paano ito sinusukat. At hanggang ngayun, malabo pa din sakin kung paano.

EQ, minsanang ginamit para gawing panukat ng pagkatao ko.

EQ, luma na. EI na kasi ngayon ang uso. Emotional Intelligence. Kaya kapag sinabihan ka ng “Alam mo ikaw, ang baba ng EQ mo!, sabihan mo, “Hoy, ikaw, ang baba ng IQ mo, luma na yan, EI na ngayun ang uso! Edi nakabawi ka kahit paano.

Huwag niyong isiping super bitter ako sa teacher ko na yun. Pero minsan akong naging bitter. Hindi sa kanya kundi dun sa ginawa niya pero anyways labs ko pa din siya. Mabait naman siya pag walang topak. At kahit may topak siya minsan, magaling naman siyang teacher. Yan ang hindi pwedeng tawaran. Dahil kahit balibaliktarin man ang mundo. At paulit-ulit akong ipanganak sa iba’t ibang panahon, mas mamatamisin kong paulit-ulit maranasan ang masabihan ni Sir K na mababa ang EQ ko kesa ang dumaan sa mundong ito nang hindi siya naging parte ng buhay ko. Isa siya sa pinakapaborito kong guro.

Notes on Student Protest: Lancaster, Friday 13^th, 2009

Revolt against the false fathers, teachers and heroes…

- Herbert Marcuse (1966)

A phrase haunts my mind… Tragic though it undoubtedly is, it sounds very fine. But it is inaccurate:

“We  will recuperate our own protest”

Today I went with stupid hope in my heart to join with student protest in Lancaster. Slightly late, I ran down the street, toward the marching banners. The protest, as all who were there must know, was against the current Higher Education system: against raising fees, against removing the fee cap, and for “fairer funding”. The protest was organised primarily by LUSU (Lancaster University Student Union – NUS) members – and I really am truly thankful to them for having got people out there on the streets.

We walked up through the town, chanting, turned and crossed onto Dalton Square, to stand opposite the Town Hall. It was a good cheerful atmosphere: jubilant, cheeky, youthful. Let me say now that this is where my alliance lies: with youth, irreverence, solidarity. In the mass there is an energy analogous to that of those green shoots we have all watched at high-speed, bursting concrete and sealed boxes. It is this energy that is the essence of protest, and it is this that links in solidarity all who struggle.

It is also this that scares the living shit out of those who rely upon and nurture the system. We are as puny as those green shoots, whilst they wield armies, nuclear weapons, and worse – that deadly crushing weight that is bureaucracy: which has blinded and deafened our powers of empathy and analysis, asphyxiated autonomy, and which finally has come to stand over us, leering busily, rusted gutting knife in hand, cutting out of us the corrupted remains of our imagination. It often seems that all that we have left to us is that lingering libidinal energy; but it is exactly this that the bureaucratic system can neither master nor contain (only divert, distract, diffuse).

The truth of this struck me today, witnessing that we no longer know even what it is we want, our desires have been so manipulated. A further painful insight: as students we have reproduced in our own system the very structures of power and of governance that we oppose. What is student “democracy” but a flimsy facsimile of British “democracy”? What are our NUS leaders but children aping their bullying fathers? LUSU, in its current form, is nothing but a playground for wannabe MPs. (Did you hear, did you hear today, if it wasn’t obvious already, Ben Wallace’s condescending comment? Perhaps he is more astute than he looks. It was something close to: “I’m sure one day Michael [Payne, LUSU President] will make a great MP, though unfortunately he wants to join Labour”.)

What did we achieve today? Perhaps we should ask first what we lost today. We should ask why it is that we crave leadership so badly that we reproduce the Master/mastered relationship in every aspect of our political lives. Perhaps we should question why it was that we were as a crowd so willing to start singing: “Ben Wallace is our hero”, when, if you were able to hear clearly, there can not have been a single aspect of Ben Wallace’s little speech that you can have agreed with.

What did Ben Wallace’s speech contain? More of the same: wait until the HE Review is out; you students should think of yourselves as consumers of education; be unhappy little consumers, but be patient little consumers.  Does he not know how the word “consumers” insults our pursuit and, more importantly, the bond between us and our tutors? Does he not know that we have no faith in the powers of any government review? Does he not know that we despise him and his words; surely MPs must know by now that they are hated?

Why do we collude with this? Why do we try and work within the system? Why use “democratic” means? It is these professional politicians, this system, and this sham-democracy that chains us. And yet we have accepted its judgments and promises? I would rather we had achieved no pledge signing today; I would rather we had failed with dignity. I would rather we had maintained our own sincerity intact, refusing to collaborate, our aim being only to express our anger and our hatred at the system, and joyful solidarity with each other.

As it is, that haunting phrase – “we will recuperate our own protest” – remains inaccurate, because there is nothing to recuperate. We set out already recuperated; we never stood outside of the system, from the beginning we only reinforced it.

Of course, it is easy for me to say this; in that crucial moment I lacked the courage to shout out:

“What ever happened to free education?”

and

“Fuck Fees; Fuck MPs!”

and

“Education is not for sale!”

and

“Students, not consumers!”

and simply

“Fuck you!”

I lacked cojones at the critical moment. I chickened out. Now I am consigned to a negative role; I didn’t manage to assert a presence, a positive force. Now I’m ashamed, and bitter, and really fucked off.

In future, let us not ask for our Lords and Masters to be clear with us, so we can participate in their system. Let us demand free education, and full funding for universities, students and academics. In fact, let us demand wider change, in solidarity with the struggles of others throughout the world. Let us reject politicians and their rhetoric, spit out their language, shit on their terms, revile their system, and participate in our own way. Let us no longer demand, in fact, but act: let us bring about a revolution!

Love and solidarity!

——-Wit

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/group.php?gid=166626259503&ref=search&sid=514660574.1907676201..1

 (Save it, Baby! Count me in!)

So, it goes like this . . .

Death.

Such an odd thing.

Especially when you know that some one is going to die… in a matter of moments.

Eminent death.

Nothing can be done.

You wait there… until the decision is made.

Until the decision is made.

. . . __________________________________

The  pulsing beep stops.

Just one loud long blare of announcement… that the heart… well, no longer feeling… beating… living…

BEEP…______________________________

Until silence.

Another decisive switch is turned.

The time noted.

Heads hung low.

Silent tears of the unstoppable, unescapable moment.

Pause the reality.

Yes… it is the end…

Be well,

Belle

  78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award Winner

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK - An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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Save it, Baby! Count me in!

Tiden kryper fram riktigt långsamt. Och jag är bitter och ganska låg just nu. Och just idag är en riktigt dålig dag av många anledningar.