Home

I'm home for the weekend. And while I don't have much to say for now because I'm tired and haven't quite developed a coherent thought since my midterm (which I'll be getting 17% extra credit on), I can't help but be reminded of the things that make me hate television. While my return home is to spend time with my family, I've thus far been subjected to nothing but awful televisual programming and hours on the couch going through endless commercials during Close Encounters and dealing once again with the underdeveloped mind of Bill Maher. To add to that frustration, Mr. Maher has on his panel tonight none other than the headache inducing Ashton Kutcher and for his opening segment via satellite had invited none other than one of the biggest disgraces to Americans everywhere (but so revered by a large population), Sean "Diddy" Combs who thanked the American people for "throwing aside race" during this election and later said that everything was going to be ok because we have a black president in office. Really, "Diddy," that's throwing aside race? I was on the phone with my brother yesterday as he was wishing me a happy birthday (and unfortunately he continued to talk) and he suggested that I go out to a bar while I was home. I assured him that going to a bar in our hometown would be far too depressing. Why? For one, seeing all of the lowlifes left in town from high school would be like unleashing rabid wolverines in my pants and saying that everything would be alright. I'm certain I would consume copious amounts of alcohol until I could no longer hear what they were saying or feel anything. In short, alcohol and my hometown are not a good mixture when out in public. Jason then suggested I venture the way of Brea for a drink. Great idea! Now only if I had friends to do that with. While I am nearly positive that I will enjoy dive bars in my neighborhood and have the ability to frequent them alone, I don't necessarily feel like driving 20 minutes to be anti-social at an upbeat location. Thanks for knowing your own brother, jackass. I can't help but think that I need to leave the Hills behind and to make my triumphant return years later after I've become a derelict and lost my way (or become oddly successful). One thing I will say, and I'd like to let this thought mature for some time (or at least until I am safe and sound in San Diego again), but during my drive home and my subsequent arrival at the house of the better part of my youth, I couldn't help but think of one thing: Crock Pot. It's odd, this device of food preparation has captured my attention for hours now and the thoughts I am able to conjure are "Crock Pot" and its functioning, mechanics and ultimate food preparation. And while I entice you all with that word, let it stew in your minds for a few days and allow yourselves to take into consideration the wonders of the Crock Pot, for my next lengthy piece will be on this slow-cooking contraption. Expect light posting over the next few days as tomorrow I'll be quite busy and Sunday I must catch up on homework and write a short paper, and of course Mondays are my long days wherein I get back to my apartment and vegetate for hours until bed time. Then again, I do that on most other days, too. Oh good, I see the clock is reaching the 21st hour. That means that Bill Maher will no longer be on the television and I will soon be on my way to the ever-reliable Sam's house to play video games and celebrate my quarter (third, half, only time will tell) life. Side note: my favorite number is 82 for some reason. Perhaps that will be the age that I die. We Cubans have longevity. Some other time, friends.