As Is apparently en vogue these days, I've recently received a South Park version of myself using this handy website. Thanks Dallas. I had tremendous pleasure receiving this emailed gift so I thought I'd pay it forward a bit.
Here's Sasha. She was so kind as to share my 'South Park Character'
Here's Kevin
and of course Renu.
This is my new baby. Surprised?
Thanks to the shocking largess of my parents, family, and family friends for my highly anticipated (on my part) graduation from medical school, I’ve finally been able to afford a gorgeous new flat-screen television to support my film addiction. Now I know what you are thinking: “Cecil? With a television? Really?”
Despite common assumption, I have not lived these last two years without a television out of some grand protest against mind-numbing and equally vapid American programming, or against deeply distracting global fascination with celebrity, or even against that jolly juggernaut that is conspicuous consumerism. My apartment (henceforth described as the Afro-Persian Palace), has comfortably been sans boob-tube simply because...welll...I couldn't find a decent place to put it. More specifically, my old 13-inch television/VCR combo from a previous apartment (that I owned since I was still a Power Ranger viewer) was just terribly awkward in the living room. So, why clutter things with big black boxes? Of course, in the end, it did become more about anti-vapidity, anti-celebrity, and anti-consumerism but only after months of slowly awakening from the deeply penetrating and bewitching spell of that American siren: television airwaves.
So why the change? Namely Netflix. As described before, I love Netflix. I enjoy all the juicy obscure, psychologically dynamic, artfully shot, exquisitely written, socially critical, painful, joyous, and truly satisfying films I want. Three at a time to be specific. Given that residency is a Goosebumps-inducing, one month away, and graduation is one week behind me, I’ve got quite the unique opportunity to endulge in my independent/foreign genre-heavy habit.
After months of toying with the idea, days of CNet browsing, and a recent windfall, I decided to head to Circuit City. Thus begins our story.
My not-so-high-strung Dallas-native compatriot, and recent LCD television owner, joined me for moral and objective support. It was objective in that I knew it would be much more difficult for me to drain my account on something with intoxicating enormity with an attentive audience (particularly one from Dallas).
We arrived at Circuit City replete with sales (after leaving to quickly compare at the less-than-customer-oriented BestBuy) and I knew exactly which model and size I wanted. My mind’s eye, which hadn’t fully committed to a location in the Afro-Persian Palace's living room (aptly described by Nirav as similar to those posh back rooms of clubs 'where people hook-up'), pictured the most appropriate size and brightness necessary to not overwhelm viewers and provide a impressive experience. The Samsung 32” LN3242H (though its sounds remarkably like a Canadian postal code). Who would gain the commission? Let the games begin.
“Ah...You’re back. What can I do for you?” Said the slightly scruffy and similarly thin East Asian Circuit City rep. His red polo shirt was about 2 sizes to large for his frame.
“Yes....I want this one.” I said with my Texas sun-bronzed and fully extended index finger firmly directed with all the confidence and conviction of Napoleon Bonaparte in so many of his portraits, at the shelved aforementioned LCD screen.
“Uh, okay. Well...”
Off we went to his cryptic green and black monitored sales screen to briskly tap away at dozens of buttons with a strange exciting staccato. Then came the upsell. Perhaps he didn't recognize my titanium certitude.
“Have you thought about a service plan? We have a three year limited warrantee to guarantee.......(I began at this point to tune out his parroted monologue)...."
"Uh, yeah, I'm not interested. Thanks though." I politely retorted.
"What sort of service plan to you have now. For example, for your computer? This is very sensitive equipment and with the service plan...(I again my attention becomes listless)..."
"No. Thanks."
"Alright."
Bliss returns. My imagination quickly fills with the sort of jocund family scenes that Rockwell would have painted if 1080i, high definition liquid crystal displays were invented during his day. My mouth waters at the possibility of a High Def Dashboard display of my pictures, movies, and music. Hmm...I think I'll watch Happiness again. Kirin and Sharj would lo......
"What about your power supply?" He said, interrupting a rather pleasurable daydream.
"Huh?"
"What sort of surge protector do you have? We have a great range of power consoles that will clean your 'dirty power.'"
My my enthusiasm for a quick sale waned and was swiftly replaced by skepticism and vexation with these words 'dirty power.' I mean come on. What sort of fool am I?
"I'm sorry what power?"
"Dirty power. Look."
Before Sasha and I was a large red glass encasement of a rather severe looking metal powerstrip with the female counter part to every plug imaginable. This was all accentuated with a central similarly foreboding red nob with three settings: clean, off, and dirty. Sasha was looking up at the newly irksome gentleman with a glance that reminded me of my requests for her to accompany me for some chicken tikka masala, country dancing, or until very recently red wine. Its somewhere between polite reticence and disgust. I shared her look.
He flicked his angular wrist to reveal a whir and a constantly changing digital reading of some sort. 63.2, 58.9, 64, 61.9.
"You see the dirty energy? Your product is sensitive to dirty energy. With this power center you decrease your risk of damage to your television's interior."
With a raise eyebrow I asked, "Sure. But was is this number. Is it current, or resistance, or what? What am I looking at here."
"Its a representation of dirty energy. Dirty power can damage your television's interior...."
"Yeah, but you want me to buy something, and I don't know what this number is. I know its...
'dirty energy' but what am I looking at? What's this number?"
"Its dirty energy."
Sasha with a mock seriousness, repeats 'its dirty energy.'
He quickly glances at my Indian sandals and begins again with equal momentum.
"Would you run a mile in your sandals? No. You'd rather run in tennis shoes, right?"
With an incredulous stare and pause, I retort, "Yeah, but at least I'd see the blisters, and blood. But you still can't tell me what this flickering number is."
"Its dirty energy." His shirt size is 3 sizes too small for his relentless sales bravado.
At this point Sasha has had to remove herself due to her uncontrollable laughter. My compassion returns and I take delight in an impossible situation, and begin to chuckle myself.
"I appreciate your metaphor, but I'll have to pass. I'm not interested."
I guess I should expect a 30 year-old Circuit City worker to be well-versed in some basic physics, though he is trying to sell me something I have absolutely no need for. He'll have to come much harder than 'dirty energy.' He of course tries his monologue again, but I continue to smile and restate mine.
Eventually, I open my trunk to a (unnecessary) dolly-chauffeured large thin box and drive off to relive the situation with Sasha. Later that evening I enjoy literally hours of Indian film and gorgeous (albeit understandably vapid) high definition broadcasts of Hidden Palms on the CW.
Details to follow but quick recap
5:45 arrival to Jones Hall
Hoards of people outside
Office whispered 'threat to building'
People inside evacuated
Graduation cancelled
Graduation uncancelled and planned for Baylor campus in Texas Medical Center
Graduation speakers short and hilarious
Graduation memorable
Hippocratic Oath said
Degrees conferred
Jumped in Cullen Fountain
Tried Amy's for dinner/champagne
Went to Hotel Derek for cousin's graduation reception
Went to Marquis II for further celebration
Asleep in bed with most memorable graduation to date
More photos etc to follow
So, I've got about 3 hours to go before the start of graduation.
"It just seems like such a silly thing to be anxious about." I clearly agreed with my friend's assessment of our apparently shared insomnia. Benadryl, which normally takes me out until well into the morning was hardly sufficient to carry me to 6am. Am I anxious about graduation?
Apparently. But so far so good.
Today was the Luncheon for graduating medical and graduate student from Baylor COM. There were these insane looking 8 feet tall puppet-like contraptions that one normally sees at a Caribbean or Latin American Carnival. Very incongruous with the normally staid administration; well except for that whole Baylor/Methodist split of course. What they were doing in a ballroom of future physicians and researchers (and their equally delighted family and friends) is beyond me. One particularly delightful mother of one of my friends confided, "I'm not sure why they are here either, but I'll just take a picture."
I'm sure her sentiments were shared by many others.
So with these sorts of quasi-bureaucratic functions also to be shared were speeches and awards. Thankfully, the speeches were brief. The faculty receiving teaching awards were also well received (certainly well deserved). Then there were the awards of the Alumni Affairs Office.
So there was the requisite award to Stacey given her tireless, den-mother-like efforts at keeping our class together and organized these last three years. I believe her husband at one point suggested that we solve our nation's energy crunch with her seemingly inexhaustible supply. This was followed by another plaque to another student who I haven't talked to much, but who is apparently in very nicely with the Alumni Office.
Then there was the Alumni Student Award of Recognition. This award was given based on a write in ballot amongst students for a fellow classmate who is apparently in very nicely with other students. I was still finishing a rather adroit exchange with Ribka and then, "This award goes to Cecil Ray Web...Web..ber, Jr."
(add blank stare and a curious look of disbelief here)
I was clearly shocked. First, the mispronunciation of Webster kinda took me back, but with the realization that there are no other students named Cecil Jr. at Baylor, I figured it was me. So, I stood up more than a bit stunned and less than gracefully made my way to the stage to receive my fancy new plaque. The flashes from well-wishers didn't help my disorientation, but I'm very grateful.
Once again, Mrs. Brown was right about the "Bright student. Social butterfly" thing. I clearly never thought I'd collect certificates or awards for my time at Baylor. The excellence in psychiatry award was enough to last me well into residency. In any case, thanks to whomever keeps keeping me in mind.
Well, 3 hours to go and I've still got to iron my robe.
In kindergarten, my teacher wrote on my report card, "Very bright. Social butterfly."
Saint Mary's, Mrs. Brown is apparently still right (about the latter).
I had an exhaustive day with my dearest Ethiopian friend, Ribs. From the moment I picked her up from the terribly far and terribly named Bush Intercontinental Airport, it was as if her weeks of absence evaporated. This made me a bit more comfortable with the prospect of not having her around for the next three years of course. A wonderful exhaustive day. There were some difficult to answer questions about the psychology of family dynamics, bags/boxes/books, and our national (read Texan) pastime of eating. (As a matter of grave importance, I must go on the record as saying that I'm a zealous new fan of bacon & blue cheese hamburgers à la Baby Barnaby's. Aye.)
So, as with any great wine-kissed evening, we bade each other good night and headed to the comfortable solace of our respective beds.
This is until 11:30p.
"Hey, we're in the Village. Wanna hang out?"
I think I only hesitated for 0.2 seconds. My initial exhaustion vanished with the prospect of soiréeing with my favorite "browns (you'll have to ask Kiran about the origin of this moniker)." Within 10 minutes, the living room was again busy with the lovely Ms. Das (pictured under protest above), the nihilistic and equally sharply poetic Sharj, our cryptically sarcastic friend David, and of course our conspicuously sarcastic friend Kiran.
Sharjeel sipped away at his Veronica (1 part Crème de Cacao, 1 part Frangelico) as our suitably and conspicuously sarcastic friend Kiran, as usual, began to air his protests to the world. David, Rini, and I played audience to his hilarious tirade against various head of state, stupid people, and ironically flakiness. This was all topped off by a reviewing of our 2004 class skit "General Hospital." In order explain the inane BCM/Methodist Hospital split my friend Steph and I co-wrote this hilarious mock-soap opera with David cast as Luke (as in Saint Luke's Hospital), Lori as Nell (as in Cornell University), Steph as Bay (as in Baylor College of Medicine), and myself as Meth (as in Methodist Hospital). I'll have to post it one day, but needless to say we relived David's brilliantly cheesy performance as the handsome man-of-the-hour Luke. We must make another.
After a late night run to the supermercado, we made some ginger chai and called it a night...finally...around 4am with droopy smiles and what would be later sore abdominal muscles. Clearly must do this again. Fortunately, we didn't wake Kevin who is currently mercilessly tortured by the insanity of the gynecology department. Perhaps we can recreate the whole thing Saturday at Dancing Oaks.
Miraculous. This is the only word to describe our class' ability to organize together one last time (as a large group at least).
At 5:30 the Afro- Persian Palace was empty save for some multi-culti electro- tango. Suitably, I suppose, since I did invite people over to my place at "5:30p brown people time." A half hour later, the doorbell rings to reveal some fellow Scandinavian cinephiles and a China travel partner. 6:15 (about 30 minutes before we were technically supposed to be at the Rice University parking lot to catch the buses down to Clear Lake) there is a flood of nears and dears all swapping recent travel stories. I love fourth year. The living room became abuzz with future cooter cutters (OB-GYNs), pediatrons, shrinks, and of course the ubiquitous Morehouse Man. So, after quick refreshers we headed out to the Rice Parking lot around the corner to catch our ride out to our class party.
We headed out to Clear Lake (which is apparently between the Gulf of Mexico and Houston) to have one last class party out on a boat. Correction. Out on two boats. The first boat seemed to me, someone who is sensitive to Texas stereotypes, a bit on the honky, Mississippi riverboat, Adventures of Tom Sawyer side. But much to my delight it was actually none of those things. Just casual Texas exuberance on two levels of party deck (one of which was a frigidly air-conditioned). The second was a one level casino boat. While gambling laws in Texas and certainly the restricted funds of Baylor College of Medicine's Office of Student Affairs forbids us from real gambling, we did enjoy fictional chips and the raffle tickets they garner.
Relatedly, this was perhaps the last time I will see some of my classmates. This is obviously both good and bad. It was a great opportunity to say adios to the needlessly borracho, the gauche conversation hogs, and of course, those unfortunate souls who refuse to discuss anything but tests and medicine. To them, I say adieu. But I will miss the Jewish-Ethiopians, my Saudi-raised Indian country-dancing teachers, the high-stung and just as fun grandmother-approved Dallas natives, and many more. I them, I say à bientôt.
The night progressed suitably. Thanks to Edward (and his approaching move to Los Angeles), my alcohol collection has burgeoned. So as any good receiver of gifts, I decided to pay it forward and share. Using my fellow future psychiatrist's Australian "Go Green" bag, we packed away our boating essentials and dropped it off with the bar tender. "So, is this for just your friends or everyone?" the Southern blond inquired.
As any good Morehouse Man, I decide that there needs to be an appropriate password. This was with the knowledge that the password would essentially become useless in 20 minutes or so, but would still require those that would like to partake blithely in spirits to know where it came from.
"The password is, 'I love kicker dancing.'" Add wink to the bartender here subsequently followed by the big toothy smile and slowly raising eyebrows of a bartender resigned to the idea of a Black physician kicker dancing fanatic.
Needless to say it was a fun night. Our East Texas drama-queen, I'm fairly certain, crossed some personal space boundaries with one of our Lebanese classmates with a fairly popular Michael Jackson song accompanying her. There was also the requisite quasi-homo erotic kisses our Indian friend was giving out to his golfing buddies' cheeks. This is not to mention any number of plausible would-be sexual harassment claims. Man-nipples are not to be pinched. At the very least, not on boats.
There was a suitable amount of drama from desi former couples and homophobes, newly returned faces from the bowels of academia, and of course my 7 year old Panameño rum. The music was great (good work Guzu) and I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Sigh.
Though I do think of the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center as pretty failed in its attempt to add vitality to the Federal Triangle, AND dislike how Republicans try to name everything in DC (a city that disliked him as equally as he disliked it), AND seems like yet another neoclassical marble mausoleum I really do love this little sculpture in the plaza. Its a stylized flower. Very stylized. I love it. At the very least, the RRBITC (awful acronym) has the miraculously hilarious saving grace of the irreverent Capitol Steps. Think pre-1995 Saturday Night Live replete with the delicious political humor. Lovely.
Until the start of graduation. They can't stop me now. Updates to follow soon. Yet another wedding and other notables.
As long as we're being nostalgic, here is a picture of our lovely facilities at the Fouad Hotel in Al Iskandariyah, Egypt. Notice the handmade bidet with a special frigid water feature to keep those sphincters perky. As a reactionary contrast here are some amazing flowers from Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. Who doesn't like flowers?
À la Gonzo, I'm currently listening to that polyglot misnomer band Brazilian Girls. I saw them at Austin City Limits last year and LOVE them.
"Jique" from "Talk to La Bomb"
This whole graduation thing has got me all nostalgic. First off, I'm sooooo delighted to be receiving graduation gifts (read, very well received checks for financially vulnerable medical students). My paternal grandmother, Big Mama in my Bryan, Texas family parlance, for decades worked in a small restaurant preparing the most amazing pies. The owner of this restaurant recently gifted me a book entitled "Wisdom: 365 Thoughts from Indian Masters." So let's follow my stream of consciousness. As I sat on the floor reading all sort of great words of thought by Krishnamurti, Mahatma Gandhi, the poet Rabindranath Tagore, I curiously picked my journal from India (circa 2002) from the shelf. I could smell the curry. This of course led to Egypt (circa 2004) and China (circa 2003) journal browsing. In a new twist on my 'non sequiturs' I decided to publish three entries; one from each would do. Enjoy.
Tangent:
In their bedroom and bathroom walls were posters of cowboys. Besides providing a bit of nostalgia, it provided me a seed of thought. What about this country and its people do I find so similar to my native land [the United States]. More specifically, what does Texas have in common with this subcontinent?
ONE
The most obvious: Hospitality in India is rivaled only by Texas. No where on earth are you provided the same care from strangers as you would get from your own grandmother. This is, of course, unless if you share your last name with that of a shrub. But that's neither here nor there.
TWO
The food. Though completely unrelated in origin and development, the food of both India and Texas share one common element. The quality of prepared food is measured in the severity of sniffle and sweat. Spiciness seems to be the common culinary currency. Unlike Bengla, I am thoroughly familiar with this language.
THREE
Family structure. This seems to be more distantly related form my eyes. Though not uncommon in Texas, it is a bit more difficult to find multiple generations of extended family in the same house. Grandparents, their children, and their children's children. However, the inclusiveness of family friends is all too familiar. Mr. Das becomes uncle, Sharoni becomes sister. Mrs. Child becomes Aunt Wendy and Allycin, cousin. It feels warm and just as pleasant.
FOUR
Bovine reverence. Both Texas and India hold high esteem for the cow, though for, to say the least, very different reasons. Both, however, can be described as religious fervor. In both Texas and India close contact with a cow would not be out of the ordinary.
Hmmm....
Unfortunately, the art of bargaining seems to be ultimately limited by my lack of Arabic. In a country where you bargain for everything, this can be a bit of a problem, but there are some bright spots (better get your shades).
"I need some sun glasses"
As most of the group split off to go back to the [Fouad Hotel], to include the fiercely independent [crazy, wild-berry eating] Swede, I thought it best to keep the Galveston-native company.
Kelly browsed the ubiquitous local selection of sunshades that mimicked every Euro/American brand available in the known world. Within seconds, a nice young, and very well-tanned Egyptian approached. WIth a big curious smile and the slighted hint of malintention, he began to colorfully hawk his wares. Once he realized that neither of us comprehend his language, he said,
"Where are you from?" with the typical North African rolled 'r.' Of course, Ms. Gallagher did not answer. It is more difficult to bargain in the shadow of the world's economic behemoth. He asked me multiple times. As Kelly further browsed and incessantly replied curtly "La" or "no" to his hand-picked selections, I answered his former question.
"Brazil"
No sense in not having fun.
"A Rinaldo! Football!"
-add vigorous soccer movements and a very enthusiastic countenance here. After a minute of insisting I play football, Kelly picks out a pair of shades.
"Beckham?" (How much)
"Twenty."
Laughter from the pseudo-Brazilians
"Ten"
Our friend was smiling but obviously a bit hesitant.
".....Okay Okay."
As Kelly reaches in her wallet, "Twelve?"
"La."
"Okay okay."
By this point our Egyption friend has heard "La" and its Anglo-equivalent "no" at least a dozen times and half a dozen times he echoes. With her new shades in hand with possible UV protection (for even the regular 'glasses' were labeled as such) we head past the tracks to our beloved [hell-hole] Fouad Hotel.
...The rest of the night, however did not favor us.
After a gleeful and certainly eye-opening evening we return to Shanghai Second Medical University [now Shanghai Jiao Tong University School of Medicine]. The guard at the entrance of the university I am sure was wondering why these four Americans were out so late on a school night. But we laughed and joked and Edward, Shaheen, and I bid our goodnights to Audrey for she stayed in the oh-so exclusive and posh women's dorm), and made our way jovially to our's.
Locked.
Locked with of all things, a bicycle lock.
Crap. The three of us males immediately see if Audrey shares our fate. At best we could bunk with her and at worst we could commiserate together.
"Is your locked too?!" a still happy albeit a bit taken aback Audrey calls out to us. "I forgot, they told me to be in by midnight the first day!" Us boys had no such warning so we found ourselves at a loss for words at 1:05 in the morning. So, in true American style (i.e. a disregard for rules and a go-it-alone mentality) we thought it best to break into our dorm and of course stow Ms. Sung in Shaheen room since he had an extra empty bed. With the sort of agility only reserved for acrobats and tax-evaders each of us one by one wiggle in the crevace between the not-so-thoroughly secured glass doors. First Audrey, then myself, and followed by an apprehensive Edward, and an equally awkward Shaheen. Despite muling over possible Chinese felony convictions and the impossible to exclude potential of execution by firing squad, we trailed to our room glowing, gleeful, and thoroughly exhausted. Both Edward and I had pleasant dreams of north-western Chinese prison camps. It remains to be seen if that will indeed come to fruition.
Kolkata, India
Dubai, UAE
Paris, France
London, England
Panama, Panama
Buenos Aires, Argentina
These are the places that I've decided that are acceptable to quench my desire to leave the country for 5-10 years. Clearly, this has got to give my (future) psychiatry skills a new dimension, right? Perhaps this will translate to a pan-cross-supra-cultural expertise in psychodynamic psychotherapy. Or is it that I'm a restive, visa-monger? Won't know until I try.
I think the above is in order of likelihood. Kolkata being, of course, where I picked up my Sushil nickname and indophilia, it seems like the most logical choice. Balmy winters, English speakers, suitably familiar, and very unlike these amber waves of grain. In any case, anyone have thoughts on any of the above?
If you felt a comfortingly warm zephyr scented with an uncanny sensibility in Houston today, it was the oh-so pleasant arrival of the Colonel and his missus. Mom and Dad came to take care of some family matters in addition to graciously humoring me with hilarious pictures on the couch. The two are currently deciding where to flex their passports next as their 30th anniversary is quickly approaching this summer. I'm clearly lobbying for Buenos Aires (though I'm clearly not going), but I think the Colonel is pulling for Italy. Any thoughts?
I know its a bit early for another 'non sequitur,' but I just love this huge sculpture, called "Cupid's Span" by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen on the Embarcadero in San Francisco. Clearly gotta move there.
Okay, I've found a new favorite coffee shop. Inversion Coffee House. Since the terrible departure of the Westheimer Deidrich, there has been a noticeably gaping hole in my collection study/pleasure reading/people watching venues. Starbucks, as any pre-hipster knows, is passé and better left to the corporate masses. Trapioca and Tea House are only suited for marathon study sessions given its middle of nowhere location. Ecclesia (aka Taft Street) still leaves a needlessly Christian aftertaste despite its hip/bookish vibe. Lets not even discuss painfully early closing hours. This place settles nicely in the black-rimmed glasses, grad school, my-other-car-is-a-Prius demographic. After all, it is the Art League of Houston's ground zero. Furthermore, this aptly puts to rest the rumor that Dan Havel and Dean Rucks's installation sculpture Inversion (pictured above) would become yet more three level, soulless, stucco townhomes.
The irony of this all is that I actually detest coffee. I prefer to find comfort in a warm, straight from the third world, cup of tea. That being said, I'll take any place that pipes in the most random mix of delightlfully tacky 1990s Montel Jordon, brow raising Beach Boys, pulsating Come and Ride the Train by Quad City DJs, and other anachronistic pop anthems in the same breath as Nelly Furtado's Promiscuous. I mean come on. This is what this city is about, right?
Last weekend at the behest of our friend Kevin, Sarjeel and I accompanied our aforementioned friend to a performance of classical Indian Music. Where? The Hobby Center? Nope. Wortham or Jones Hall? Wrong again. It was at the very underground Free Range Studios. As the three of us (mind you our trio represented Iran, Pakistan, and Black America) approached what looked to be a rather shabby warehouse we were a bit hesitant. The last whispers of a post-industrial vermilion sunset were escaping, the pock-marked street was nearly deserted, and our awareness of our browness sharpened. But much to our relief we spotted a silver Mercedes accompanied by its a confidently exiting white owners. Clearly white Houstonians wouldn't be here unless they knew what was up.
We followed our alabaster guides just past a truly démodé chain link fence which betrayed the amazing performance that was to come. After a simple set of instructions from some very relaxed group of South Asians, the three of us Indophiles shuffled in what clearly looked like what has become surprisingly typical in Houston: a 'only if you know its here,' pan-visual & performing arts workspace. The warehouse, in long neglected and soon-to-be gentrified east Houston (quelle surprise), was replete with a strangely beautiful, semi-prostrate, giant Gumby, a cacophonous collection of painted works, and (my favorite) another random assortment of 'multi-culti' denizens of Houston.
Add one part accented English, one part gritty rationalism, one part honey-dipped aural pleasure, and shake until delightful.
Only a fool would assert that Houston's charm is easily accessible to the casual observer, but that is precisely what makes this city so much fun. You put in a little work, and follow some white folk and voila. We witnessed an amazing two and a half hour performance and left nearly teary eyed.
Okay. This is why I can visit but never stay in the Texas countryside. We all know the incredible beauty that are Texas wildflowers. Every spring the fields explode with a cacophony of color, scent, and tourists. But as my mother, fellow and Morehouse alumnus Dowin, and I were heading to Chef Pasqual's in bucolic Round Top what do we discover?
Wild hogs
About 18 of them scurrying across the road with all the impatient zeal of Bayrou's political French center. Given my fumbling with the camera, I was only able to capture three of the less detestable hairy piglets. These were the 'cute' ones of the feral bunch as compared to the hygenically unimaginable trio of full-grown adult hogs escorting the "passel of hogs" (as they are apparently known). I'll be off ham for a while.
My uncle, DeWayne Burnett (known in some circles as DB), with his oh-so-delicious Texas culinary skills, has recently opened a barbecue stand in Brenham, Texas. To say the least he has quite the knack for double entendres. Stop by if you can, but you'll have to bring your own sense of decency; its not included in the price.
