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Upon further review: Instant Replay = Game Over, World Series Over, Over-easy egg tops re-reviewed green chile fettuccine carbonara alfredo. Over.

3 Nov

What do movie sequels have in common with instant replays? 
The odds against me adding ‘really awesome TV watcher’ to my LinkedIn skill set seem greater than or equal to Hollywood sequels from the previous century dictating the outcome of the 2015 World Series: Cubs Win!?!?
  

The Game Changer Variable

BTTF2 scripted prior to the implementation of MLB’s NFL envy Instant Replay Review rule, or if not football then horse racing’s photo finish – yet another gambling-related boner; yer up DraftKings – on behalf of MLB’s Puritan brain trust.

  


Upon further review: Game Over

 All MLB outcomes – or in the parlance of my fellow Chicagoans: ‘BELCH’ – no longer rest in the hands, arms, legs, eyes, jockstraps, superstitions and mouths turgid with seeds, bubble gum and/or smokeless tobacco blessed by the baseball gods: Nada, Nope, Nein, Nyet. 

Like its head-traumatized Uncle Rico: The NFL – and OTB parlors all across this proud nation- all MLB games now are ultimately decided by one assumes a Vatican of white men with the finest tuned TV watching skills in the universe. Never again shall a call at the plate be made based on sight & sound, guts & nose, skill & experience (unless elaborated upon in LinkedIn profile as ‘really awesome at watching TV’) and so apocryphal anecdotes such as the one to follow will be rendered as meaningless as home run records set while under the influence of steroids or even the Cubs 2015 campaign: 

‘Babe Ruth once took a called strike from Walter Johnson reputedly traveling with such speed that the Babe didn’t even see the ball pass the plate. No sooner did said ball smack into the leather of the catcher’s mitt and the ump yell ‘yer out’ did the Babe beam back at the man in blue asking, ‘Cmon ump. Did you even see that pitch?’ ‘Well, no,’ replied the ump. Ruth: ‘Me neither. But it sounded outside.’ 

So maybe it wasn’t babe Ruth and maybe it was Yogi Berra (RIP) and maybe the pitcher was Nolan Ryan (rookie season). And maybe blue made the right call. Or maybe it never even happened. Without instant replay, the truth shall neither be known or overturned.

Auden can’t love wingtips …so suggests my Google drive spell check because technology is never quite right, just more right than you or me will be ever again…and now that the robots of perception have taken over MLB, instant replay is the most right ever and bigger than all of us (the World Series included; the proof is a recent decision to delay the 2015 Fall Classic to review whether or not to continue with game one or two without instant replay by reviewing the delay of the game’s instant replay; apparently a pair of Harry Carey specs and empty 40 of Falstaff where discovers next to the chewed through broadcast truck cables) 

And now that I’ve ejaculated my truck over the instant replay rule delaying the play of a game – and this blog – MLB fixated on in order to ramp itself up to PS2 speed allow me to produce for you a conciliatory instant replay of my own device, an olive branch of you will or if you prefer, a casserole, only because you can’t eat a slow motion instant replay I remade the dish from my last post and rephotographed it and upon further review the sweet smokey flava came from bacon shoplifted from the butcher by my 16 month old felon of a son. (Both my son’s identity and that of the butcher will remain anonymous in order to protect me from CPS and the security camera monitor’s career prospects should he or she care to apply for upcoming openings with MLB, as instant replay booths eventually become as ubiquitous as really awesome TV watchers.)

  
Instant Replay: Green Chile Alfredo Linguine Carbonara con bacon

   
    
 

Bigger than Jesus the Beatles, and yoga pants: Esteban Trabajars

15 Sep

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At the current rate of Final Cut Pro post-production, by Christmas 2020, the globe shall be subjected to more Steve Jobs cinematic biopics than those of Jesus Christ, The Beatles and Luke Skywalker en todo. This epidemic outbreak of epic celluloid certainly gives this one pause to ponder some deeply mundane ponderables: Is the iPhone our Gutenberg Bible (with upgrades)? Did Steve Jobs die for our Sims?*

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(*You read that right, a cringe-worthy blasphemous pun. So crucify me whydontcha?)

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Does SJ’s getting all messiahy with it not at least begin to explain the daily commute tableau wherein within a stuffed El train all but the homeless – me too – gaze into luminous Apple gadgets with a reverence traditionally reserved for sacred texts, Kim Jong and yoga pants?

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What but an unshakable iFaith sways we users into believing we the meek shall one day inherit an upgrade to auto-spell recognizing Spanglish as both a word and a dialect, accurate weather apps, and the voice of Siri shall be replaced by that of Demi Moore’s tadpole?
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What Would that these miraculous iPhones might trans-substantiate binary data into iGrub to feed the masses.
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Entrada Yo (and/or the Wu)

Communion Green Chile Green Alfredo Linguine Con Pork Chop Chop Chop Chop Ain’t Nuthin to You-Know-What With

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Ingredients con instructions:
1. Roasted NM Green Cream Sauce
Heat up and constantly stir 2 tbsp o butter and flour until brown

Separately warm 2 cups of whole milk

Remove roux from heat, slowly stir in milk by the ladle.

Stir in:
An onion – diced and sautéed
A bulb of oven roasted garlic – smushed
Quart bag of chopped, seeded and skinned rotated NM green chile
A fistful of fresh cilantro – chopped
Mexican oregano to taste
Salt and pepper to taste

Slowly simmer until all ingredients smell like one. Cool. Blend into purée. Return to pot. Stir in 2/3rds of queso.

2. Half-box of fettuccini – al dente
(Google it)

3. A seasoned to ur liking grilled pork chop or two –  chopped

Butter a casserole dish. Mix ingredients but for 1/3 cheese, then glop into casserole dish. Top with 1/3 cheese. At 350 bake covered for 30 minutes or until burbling and smelling as one. Slide under broiler till cheese browns.

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(aqui con huevo)

Mas sagradoso than Esteban Trabajars…

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Mas sabrosa than pantaloons Del yoga…

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El escarbajo optional.

Summer Blockbusters, Artery Blockers and the Art of Turning 50

29 Aug

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Admit it. Jaws best scene comes when a great white’s guts bloody contents slosh onto the dock. We all want to see a limb or two but instead get better: car license plates, a lava lamp, and a bunch of junk that suggests this great white invented the South Beach diet, along with the Hollywood Summer blockbuster.

Some fishermen bring in a fairly large tiger shark. Hooper knows it’s not the shark they’re after, even though the mayor and the rest of the town are convinced their troubles are over.

Summer simmering down to its wet end here – or perhaps those are curt cobain’s tears falling on the Foo Fighters fest @ Wrigley 2night (Rewind: Pearl Jam’s Friendly Confines gig 2013 rain delay also awash in The God Of Grunge) or sweat maybe staged an unlikely play of thoughts starring Jaws, Junk and El Preferrido canned tamales.

 

The tin can tamales I wolfed down back in July. And I felt a responsibility to my loyal readers and family to wait until the test results came in. Over the span btw tamales and The Foos my biological calendar reminded me yo lived to be Fifty:

 

Up until now, I treated mi vida antigua as a series of pop quizzes. At the half-century mark, true standardized testing begins. The format runs from true or false to multiple choice, essay, a greasy finger slid up your butt, to basic arithmetic.

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Me, I performed a modern mid-century durability self-test of sorts with said tin tamales (ahora the alchemy of the meandering metaphor madness) by first cooking up (Cobain reference) the gelatinous BP grease slick floating atop the tamales y the tamales then shot up the red hot sabrosa greasy mess into my maw igniting hallucinatory visages of a cross section of my wax paper arteries clogged up with lava lamp lard (Jaws).

 

We the help of some large cued cottage cheese: aces.

The Effervescent Influence of Bob’s Burgers, Frozen Burritios y yo.

24 Jun

 

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The esposa y yo spend far too mucho tiempo @ Bob’s Burgers. Because of my latent tendency to distrust anything popular (breathing, eating and breeding practice notwithstanding as well as the use of the word ‘notwithstanding’ and Shakespeare and sure, why not, music, diapers, 501s, reading, erotica, writing and lists and run-on sentences; the parenthetical) BB only recently topped our que. Lucky us, cartoons being cartoons, nothing on the show will age but the cultural references. The Happy Everlasting Animated Video Eternal of Netflix.

Netflix labels Bob’s as ‘cult TV’ which I take to suggest that what it lacks in mass appeal it makes up in mass suicides. I open ahora on Bob’s por que our bingeing is due in no small part thanks to Bob’s charms, hearty hars, parent/child empathy, and for me at least story-lines ripped from my memoirs (teenage son of a local lunch counter proprietor decades before “local” took to meaning “bourgeious”). Por ejemplo: Bob fires his kids from the restaurant who then become (spoiler alert) drug mules. That was me, not once but 7 times: fired by mi madre. (Yo Snowden, I leave the drug running rumors for you to hack out.)

Bob’s art most profoundly imitated mi vida largo in ‘Bad Tina.’ About a third into this fine episode, the neighborhood kid your parents warned you about, Tammy Larsen, shows her truant colors inspiring mi esposa to look over at me and pregunta:

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“Did you have any friends like that growing up? [pause for ill-fitting recollection] I did.”

[Lock-down pause]

“I was that friend growing up.”

“Oh my…I mean, of course.”

“The ring leader, the “bad influence”, everyone said “oh, he’s just trying to get attention” but really what was going on was I was trying to free my peers from the blood-sucking talons of authority, claws sharpened on the rotting corpse of regimented public education, remember how my very first day of kindergarten I talked all the kids at the bus stop to walk back to my house with me because “Who needs school when you have toys?” and then again in junior high because “Who needs school when you have MTV?” and again in high school because “Who needs school when you have Starship Fantasy ?” and when my oppressive authority figure of a mother fired me from the restaurant for the third or maybe it was the fourth time I talked my little sister into getting fired along with me because “Who needs to a job  when you’ve got roller skates?”

“I get it. I get it. You know you can’t ever tell our boys about any of this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

[authoritative pause of the Roku]

“I swear on my mother’s cremains. I can even get them out of the closet it you like.”

[Satisfactory unpause of Roku]

Because “Who needs to tell anyone anything when you’ve got the Internet?”

“What was that?”

“I love Bob’s…and you.”

Okay, so I made up most of that last conversation from about “of course” on. A slight digression/diatribe may have followed mi esposa’s “Oh my” moment, with me prattling on about my being born with a rebel corazon kicking at my ribcage (Read: angsty adolescent internal hormonal drone warfare) and even setting up a table at my high school organization assembly for an “Anarchists Club” which of course rejected all applications but even before I could finish that spiel mi esposa’d fallen fast asleep not out of boredom – I quite often remind myself – but because unlike the animated universe of Bob’s burgers, raising even two boys, there’s rarely enough time or sleep to go around. And because we don’t run a family restaurant, preparing food for ourselves has become less of a chore or work and more like a special occasion, even when the definition of “cooking” gets broadened to mean unwrapping some frozen thing for the nuker.

For new families and/or because “Who needs a food blog recipe when you have frozen burritos?” let these IMOs be my bad influence on your poor eating habits.

 

PJ’s Organic Traditional Chicken

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Not sure which traditions the organic chicken followed prior to its beheading and karmic destiny to bring a smile to this burros tortilla and – in addition to a light tongue blistering – this consumer’s face. Savory C +

 

Amy’s Burrito Cheddar

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The only bomb of the bunch los ninos have a taste for (along with Cedaphil, sidewalk chalk and library books). Underdeveloped palates not the best judges. A strong stand-by: B

47th Street Pizza Lemonito Burrito

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Organic, Kosher, hormone free, no trans fat, lemon(?)really anything but what I expect in a frozen burrito and the best explanation as to why it tastes like lentil soup. Though the toro-beating tortilla made it worth the purchase. Like they say around my alma mater ASU: ‘D’s get degrees’: C-/D+

 

Good Food Made Simple  – Uncured Canadian Bacon

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There’s no accounting for good tasering and no cure for this sad, soggy, snapless schlub. F

 

Good Food Made Simple – Turkey Sausage

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Frozen burrito trope: the healthier the ingredients the nastier the texture and flavor:F

 

Good Food Made Simple – Southwestern Veggie

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Rhymes with wedgie: F

The Anasazi Burrito

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You know how they named all those Korean SUVs Santa Fe and Tucson when they have about as much to do with Down Yonder as a frozen burrito would the Anasazi? Except of course for the Adobe notes (as in mud not software) slightly better than hospital food: D

 

The evol line

No evol lost on this flight o deliciously packaged bass-ackward sottirrub.

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Shredded Beef: C

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Uncured Bacon (American): C

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Chicken Rice & Beans: C

And let’s not be afraid to call a wrap a wrap instead of racially stereotyping this ‘lean and fit’ (WTF?)  burrito because it’s spicy. This phony’s about a Mexican as Donald Trump:

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Egg White & Spinach: D

 

If you are still with me you may be wondering (like me): How can such healthy burros be a bad influence? All but Amy’s are so thoroughly unappetizing one scalding bite and you’ll be gunning it to the Late Night Taco Bell drive-thru soon as the kids are asleep even if you don’t have a babysitter or a car, not without first pausing Bob’s Burgers and finishing your beer, of course.

Unless you’re blessed enough to get your grubby manos on one of these (I luckily got the last one and have not seen them since. Manna from El Dio indeed):

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A+fckin A+mazing

Get Rico Quick Con El As Nasty As It Wants To Be Salsa Picante (Hunter var.) recipe

25 Feb

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Lovely, iddint it…and yet here we estamos otra tiempo on the Internet making crap up the Internet that will turn miraculously turn into the indisputable truth upon the clicking of ‘post’. As we know, computers don’t lie. Don’t believe me? Google it. Google computers lie too. Computers lie. Mira what I’m getting at. aqui. Powerful stuff this computing omnipotence equalamemte our impotence before them.

A couple postings back rocked this power to its logical ecclesiastical extreme, pronouncing, not unlike a computer God, how the Internet is heaven-sent eternal life in byte-sized chunks, what with these spiels surviving me and living forever. (You’re welcome Facebook for taking my annunciation doctrine and running with it.)

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 And thank you too fifty shades of grey lady Ms. NY Times for running a Sunday edition, week last times two, casting online commenters, twitters and all other opinionated occupants of the unauthorized (read corporate) Internets into a kind of op-ed hell. At last count, 4-5 pieces in three separate sections addressed these demonic behaviors; condemning every last practitioner of the dark art of opining, stirring loyal readers greying anxiety embers, yet again.

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What torture both social psych PhDs and J-school reporters reported to both dish out and endure upon this global electro-info communication sphere – which they neglects to remind us is free to not use, and as of this writing not one single person has died due to lackof use then again I bet it you Google this you’d get any answer you wanted – but because we pay for it I suppose we are supposed to suppose this entitles One Nation Under Google all them protections guaranteed by the Constitution and/or Bill of Rights.

Mi dos pesos: seeking virtual S&M? Why not go see, listen to or read 50SofG?

CONCLUSION:
Mira: Am I the only one who smells a warning label coming on?

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IMO: Yo tengo as much truck con warning labels as 2-Live Crew.

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So let’s make congress to make better use of our tax dollars so the men and women of The Hill can get on to the real biz of PAC bargains by jump-starting self-censorship and designing our own warning labels, especially if like it do for 2-Live Crew = guaranteed gold.

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 And here’s mi warning label that’s gonna spin some mi peligroso bloggin’ salsa into gold:

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And here’s the recipe for that there salsa free for you to exploit so long as you print out and slap on the above warning label…for the children…

How “As Nasty As It Wants To Be Salsa Picante: Hunter Var.” Gets Made (and you get rico)

(Same as Kojak only fruitier and brighter; just like Hunter)

The Batch Size

2 cup = avg med hot sauce bottle

The Contents

The dry/smoked whole chile peppers: 

1 – Ancho

2 – Pasilla Negro

3 – Guajillo

3 – Pulla

3 – Japones

4 – Arbol

1 clove of minced/smushed garlic

tsp vinegar

pinch of Mexican oregano

2 cups water

salt to taste

The Directions

  1. Seed and stem peppers (I did this under running cold water. sorta works)
  2. Skillet roast at medio heat 5 minutes or so
  3. Transfer bowl, cover with hot water. Cover bowl
  4. Soak peppers for an episode of Hunter

So consider yourself as warned as London on side 1 of ITANOMTHUB y brew up a batch of ANAIWTBSPHv, douse something liberally with it

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…crack open a cerveza, drop the needle on your nastiest vinyl, throw the munch, slurp, repeat.

How happy am I my parsley has a Facebook page?

12 Nov

Amazing times these.

Diga me dudes and doo-dooettes: as a longstanding member of Facebookaholics Anonymous I’ll never know whether parsley might have ever accepted el amigo request para mi, let alone cilantro’s, rosemary’s or basil’s. One thing, that I do know there’s a lot of ruins in Meso-po-tamia uh uh uh uh uh oh uh….sorry but the great B-52s honoring our veterans go boom in me cans ahora…that parsley and some potatoes make the best of amigos, and on this here concocted western plata, besties for real for all time.

Besty Westerny Homey Fryies

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How: In a hot, small skilled unskinned boiled potato chunks fried atop diced onions seared in butter and olive oil seasoned with Jillipepper/garlic/salt/pepper add to this fresh NM green chile (2015) upon which you fry/steam and egg next to a slice of smoked cheddar by putting a couple drops of water in the lid of which you cover the heap with until said egg is cooked beyond its original slimy state: lowered to no heat. Go boom atop with the fresh, chopped (though I prefer mine scissored) Facebook parsley.

 

Hit it Fred: