San Bernardino Quotes

Kaso kailangan nya ko.." "Eh para san pa--" "At kailangan kita. Kailangan kita Athena.

I love you. Yung pagmamahal ko sayo kasing lalim ng pinakamalalim na dagat sa buong mundo. I love you. Yung pagmamahal ko sayo kasing laki ng pinag sama samang planeta. I love you. Yung pagmamahal ko sayo mas matagal pa sa forever. I love you. Yung pagmamahal ko sayo hinde na mapapalitan ng kahit sino. I love you. Kahit ilang beses pa kitang kelangan pakasalan gagawin ko. Kahit na sa lahat ng simbahan sa buong mundo, gagawin ko. I love you. Kahit na ipagtabuyan mo ko, kahit na mag sawa ka sakin, kahit na iwanan mo ko, ikaw at ikaw parin ang mamahalin ko. Hahanapin kita kahit san ka magpunta. At pag nahanap kita, hinde na kita ulit papakawalan pa. I love you. Kahit gaano kasakit, kahit gaano kahirap hinde kita iiwan. I love you. Yung pagmamahal ko sayo, hinde na mawawala. I love you, Athena. I love you, I love you, I love you.. UhnJaeNa, YongWonHee.

I love you.. Kahit na san ako mag punta, ikaw lang mamahalin ko. I love you.. Kahit na ilang beses mo akong saktan, ikaw parin ang mamahalin ko. I love you.. Kahit na pagod na pagod na ko, ikaw parin ang mamahalin ko. I love you.. Kahit sa kabilang buhay.. ikaw parin ang mamahalin ko. I love you.. kahit na sobra sobra na yung pagmamahal ko sayo, patuloy parin yung pagmamahal ko sayo. I love you.. Kahit na sandali lang yung pagsasama natin, masaya ako dahil nakasama parin kita kahit papaano.. I love you, Kenji.. I love you.. I love you.. I love you.. UhnJaeNa,YoungWonHee..

Espero que en algún lugar haya otro ser humano que haya sentido alguna vez lo que estoy sintiendo ahora... y también espero que este ser humano no esté encerrado en La Castañeda o en el San Bernardino.

Some people around San Bernardino say that Arthwell Hayton suffered; others say that he did not suffer at all. Perhaps he did not, for time past is not believed to have any bearing upon time present, or future, out in the golden land where every day the world is born anew.

train, burdened by no luggage whatsoever, he arrives in San Bernardino, California, on a warm Tuesday night in June,

In some ways it was the conventional clandestine affair in a place like San Bernardino, a place where little is bright or graceful, where it is routine to misplace the future and easy to start looking for it in bed.

In the spring of 1854, he moved down to “the Monte” (later called El Monte), the first exclusively white settlement in Los Angeles County, located on the stage road between San Bernardino and Los Angeles. Susan Thompson’s family had opened a hotel there called the Willow Grove Inn, and the Richardsons, another Brewster party family who had made it to California in 1852, had settled just a few miles away.

Ladies and gentlemen, after Columbine, Newtown, Sandy Hook, Virginia Tech, San Bernardino, Orlando, Vegas, Parkland and now in our own community, one thing should be clear to citizens and politicians alike. Our society needs stricter laws for people who purchase guns for the purpose of perpetrating criminal acts. We need tougher laws for people who buy guns to sell to criminals or kids. These laws should severely punish anyone in these categories—neither suggestion steps on the Second Amendment . . .

In essence, the message was always the same, “I want one of those mixers of yours like the McDonald brothers have in San Bernardino, California.” I got curiouser and curiouser. Who were these McDonald brothers, and why were customers picking up on the Multimixer from them when I had similar machines in lots of places? (The machine, by this time had five spindles instead of six.) So I did some checking and was astonished to learn that the McDonalds had not one Multimixer, not two or three, but eight! The mental picture of eight Multimixers churning out forty shakes at one time was just too much to be believed. These mixers sold at $150 apiece, mind you, and that was back in 1954.

Forget bringing the troops home from Iraq. We need to get the troops home from World War II. Can anybody tell me why, in 2009, we still have more than sixty thousand troops in Germany and thirty thousand in Japan? At some point, these people are going to have to learn to rape themselves. Our soldiers have been in Germany so long they now wear shorts with black socks. You know that crazy soldier hiding in the cave on Iwo Jima who doesn’t know the war is over? That’s us. Bush and Cheney used to love to keep Americans all sphinctered-up on the notion that terrorists might follow us home. But actually, we’re the people who go to your home and then never leave. Here’s the facts: The Republic of America has more than five hundred thousand military personnel deployed on more than seven hundred bases, with troops in one hundred fifty countries—we’re like McDonald’s with tanks—including thirty-seven European countries—because you never know when Portugal might invade Euro Disney. And this doesn’t even count our secret torture prisons, which are all over the place, but you never really see them until someone brings you there—kinda like IHOP. Of course, Americans would never stand for this in reverse—we can barely stand letting Mexicans in to do the landscaping. Can you imagine if there were twenty thousand armed Guatemalans on a base in San Ber-nardino right now? Lou Dobbs would become a suicide bomber. And why? How did this country get stuck with an empire? I’m not saying we’re Rome. Rome had good infrastructure. But we are an empire, and the reason is because once America lands in a country, there is no exit strategy. We’re like cellulite, herpes, and Irish relatives: We are not going anywhere. We love you long time!

Later we will look in more detail at how the Long Telegram and NSC-68 should shape the plan to destroy our jihadist enemies today, but for now consider this passage from Kennan’s original secret cable:         In summary, we have here a political force committed fanatically to the belief that with [the] U.S. there can be no permanent modus vivendi[,] that it is desirable and necessary that the internal harmony of our society be disrupted, our traditional way of life be destroyed, the international authority of our state be broken. . . . Kennan was writing about the USSR, but this description of a fanatical enemy incapable of living in peace with America applies word for word to the jihadist organizations behind all the major terrorist atrocities from 9/11 to the San Bernardino massacre.

It is vital to acknowledge the new reality before taking any steps to change the existing policies. The world is not the same anymore. Tackling religion-based terrorism is perhaps one, if not the most serious threat the world face in the 21st century. Unfortunately, more terror attacks like the ones in San Bernardino, Brussels and Paris are expected to occur. While those attacks were a reminder of the challenges that lay ahead, they exposed the need to have an improved early warning system that may ultimately save civilian lives. Such a system should take into account the shortcomings of the current warning frameworks and evaluate the usefulness of warnings generated by improved models that would cover a broad range of attacks, larger geographic areas within the country in question and a wide range of potential attack scenarios. The system is likely to facilitate well informed decisions on the assessment of information gathered from different sources. In this vein, finding a balance between protecting human rights and ensuring national security is key.

Yo, Y.T.," Roadkill says, " 'sup?" "'Sup with you?" "Surfing the Tura. 'Sup with you?" "Maxing The Clink." "Whoa! Who popped you?" "MetaCops. Affixed me to the gate of White Columns with a loogie gun." "Whoa, how very! When you leaving?" "Soon. Can you swing by and give me a hand?" "What do you mean?" Men. "You know, give me a hand. You're my boyfriend," she says, speaking very simply and plainly. "If I get popped, you're supposed to come around and help bust me out." Isn't everyone supposed to know this stuff? Don't parents teach their kids anything anymore? "Well, uh, where are you?" "Buy 'n' Fly number 501,762." "I'm on my way to Bernie with a super-ultra." As in San Bernardino. As in super-ultra-high-priority delivery. As in, you're out of luck. "Okay, thanks for nothing." "Awwww," he begins. "Surfing safety," Y.T. says, in the traditional sarcastic sign off. "Keep breathing," Roadkill says. The roaring noise snaps off. What a jerk. Next date, he's really going to have to grovel. But in the meantime, there's one other person who owes her one. The only problem is that he might be a spaz. But it's worth a try.

You ever hear about those wildfires near San Bernardino, back in 1999, they destroyed, like eighty homes and about ninety thousand acres?” I shrugged. Seemed like California was always on fire. “I was the kid who set that fire. Not on purpose. Or at least, I didn’t mean for it to get out of control.” “What?” “I was only a kid, twelve years old, and I wasn’t a firebug or anything, but I’d ended up with a lighter, a cigarette lighter, I can’t even remember why I had it, but I liked flicking it, you know, and I was hiking back in the hills behind my development, bored, and the trail was just, covered, with old grasses and stuff. And I was walking along, flicking the lighter, just seeing if I could get the tops of the weeds to catch, they had these fuzzy tips— “Foxtail.” “And I turned around, and … and they’d all caught on fire. There were about twenty mini-fires behind me, like torches. And it was during the Santa Anas, so the tops started blowing away, and they’d land and catch another patch on fire, and then blow another hundred feet. And then it wasn’t just small fires here and there. It was a big fire.” “That fast?” “Yeah, in just those seconds, it was a fire.

Kilometa mbili na ushei kidogo kutoka katika sanamu la Yesu Mtoto liitwalo Niñopa, katika Kanisa la Parokia ya Manispaa ya Xochimilco ('Sochimiliko') la Iglesia de San Bernardino de Siena, Mexico City, kulikuwa na nyumba ndogo ya siri ('safe house') ya Kolonia Santita iliyojengwa bila uzio wa ukuta au seng’enge isipokuwa miti iliyopandwa kuizunguka bila mpangilio wowote. Ndani ya nyumba hiyo Mpelelezi Maarufu Duniani John Murphy alikuwa akiteswa na magaidi kumi na mbili; waliokuwa wakiendelea kushangaa jinsi alivyookoka katika ajali ya ndege iliyoua watu zaidi ya mia tatu huko Uholanzi, na jinsi alivyoweza kuingia katika ofisi ya siri ya Panthera Tigrisi, kitu kilichomchanganya akili Tigrisi na makompade wote wa Kolonia Santita duniani kote. Bila Mtoto wa Rais wa Meksiko Debbie Patrocinio Abrego, na mwanasesere wa nyoka wa Mtoto wa Mwanasheria Mkuu wa Serikali Lisa Madrazo Graciano, John Murphy angeanguka.

the Vagos Motorcycle Club, an outlaw biker gang composed mostly of ex-military personnel, known as “violent predators” and dubbed the “largest urban terrorist” organization in the United States by San Bernardino County DA Michael A. Ramos. Intelligence sources warned that the Vagos, known as “the Green Nation,” posed an “extreme threat” to law enforcement.

Members had purportedly infiltrated public safety agencies, operating as moles, securing sworn and nonsworn positions, and working undercover to obstruct and dismantle police investigations. “Can you get inside?” Detective Samantha Kiles1 of the San Bernardino Sheriff’s Department (SBSD) challenged me one chilly morning before Thanksgiving 2003. She sat across from me in a room in the department’s Criminal Intelligence Division and warmed her hands on her coffee mug.

Their era was ending when Jim Clyman got to Independence in ’44 and found Bill Sublette, who had first taken wagons up the Platte Valley in 1830, now taking invalids to Brown’s Hole for a summer’s outing. It was twenty-one years since Jim had first gone up the Missouri, forty years since Lewis and Clark wintered at the Mandan villages, thirty-three years since Wilson Hunt led the Astorians westward, twenty years since Clyman with Smith and Fitzpatrick crossed South Pass, eighteen years since Ashley, in the Wasatch Mountains, sold his fur company to Smith, Sublette, and Jackson. Thirty-two years ago Robert McKnight had been imprisoned by the Spanish for taking goods to Santa Fe. Twenty-three years ago William Becknell had defied the prohibition and returned from Santa Fe in triumph. Eighteen years ago the Patties had got to San Diego by the Gila route and Jed Smith had blazed the desert trail to San Bernardino Valley; fourteen years ago Ewing Young, with Kit Carson, had come over the San Bernardino Mountains, making for the San Joaquin. There had been a trading post at the mouth of Laramie Creek for just ten years. Bent’s Fort was fifteen years old. Now the streams were trapped out, and even if beaver should come back, the price of plews would never rise again. There were two or three thousand Americans in Oregon, a couple of hundred in California, and in Independence hundreds of wagons were yoking up. Bill Sublette and Black Harris were guiding movers. Carson and Fitzpatrick were completing the education of John Charles Frémont. Forty years since Lewis and Clark. Think back to that blank paper with some names sketched in, the Wind River peaks, the Tetons, the Picketwire River, the Siskidee, names which, mostly, the mountain men sketched in — something under a million square miles, the fundamental watershed, a thousand mountain men scalped in this wilderness, the deserts crossed, the trails blazed and packed down, the mountains made known, the caravans carrying freight to Santa Fe, Bill Bowen selling his place to go to Oregon, half a dozen wagonwrights setting up at Independence … and, far off, like a fly buzzing against a screen, Joe Meek’s cousin, Mr. Polk, preparing war. Whose country was it? III Pillar of Cloud ALL through February Congress debated the resolution to terminate the joint occupancy of Oregon, and by its deliberation, Polk thought, informed the British that we were irresolute.

Jason remembered a quest he’d taken for Camp Jupiter years ago in San Bernardino.

only increased the debt, as governments rightly have borrowed. By March 2012 there were some $43 trillion of government bonds in issue,8 compared with only $11 trillion at the end of 2001. That is only a fraction of Western governments’ true liabilities, once you factor in pensions and health care. The numbers for many cities are even worse: San Bernardino in California and Detroit in Michigan both filed for bankruptcy because of these off-balance sheet obligations. And who will pay for all this? In “old Europe,” for instance, the working-age population peaked in 2012 at 308 million—and is set to decline to 265 million by 2060. These will have to support ever more old people: The old-age dependency ratio (the number of over-sixty-fives as a proportion of the number of

On this same line, huge San Bernardino Valencias found their way to the 1884 World's Fair in New Orleans, where they attracted crowds. No one could imagine oranges grown in the western United States. It was then and there, more or less, that the phenomenon of modern Los Angeles began.

The plan had frustrated some members of Apple’s privacy and security team. They couldn’t reconcile Apple’s public refusal to help the FBI in the San Bernardino case with its quiet compliance in China. Instead of his high-minded promise to protect customers’ privacy, Cook had capitulated to the demands of a government known for surveilling its citizens, only to later ask for help from the very U.S. government he had once defied. The practical Cook seemed to lose his moral compass when faced with pressures in the market he had built.

I’ve always liked the drive from L.A. to Vegas. Through only a few towns after San Bernardino but a lot of flat, dry desert, much of it on four-lane freeways, then, like a concrete and neon oasis: Fabulous Las Vegas.

On days off, Bell patronized the Mexican restaurants on San Bernardino’s West Side, the city’s historic barrio. He noticed how more and more non-Mexicans were eating Mexican food—this in a city that had just desegregated its swimming pools and was about to desegregate housing and schools. Feeling that tacos were the way to beat the McDonald’s, Bell passed the idea by his wife, who dismissed it as foolish: whites wouldn’t buy the food because it was too spicy, she argued. When Glen suggested toning down the heat, his soon-to-be-ex retorted, “Then even Mexicans won’t buy it.

The American taco can boast of two birthplaces: Los Angeles and San Bernardino, California. But its baptismal font is the pan angrily bubbling with oil at Cielito Lindo, a tiny stand in downtown Los Angeles named after a classic ranchera song meaning “Beautiful Little Heaven.” From here come taquitos filled with shredded beef, grabbed fresh from that roiling pan, then anointed in a creamy salsa, more pureed avocado than chile.

San Bernardino County was the largest county in the contiguous United States, which meant policing was a challenge and getting from point A to point B was time-consuming.

Successful agricultural colonies existed in San Bernardino, colonized by the Mormons.

Leonard Hernandez spent a substantial portion of his career serving San Bernardino County, California, as a librarian.

On September 11, 2001, there were no more than a few hundred al Qaeda members hiding out in Afghanistan. Three months later, when the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) paramilitaries, U.S. Army Delta Force and U.S. Air Force finished bombing them, and Osama bin Laden had escaped to Pakistan, there were not enough of the terrorists left alive to fill a 757. Now, 20 years after that brief, one-sided victory, there are tens of thousands of bin Ladenite jihadists thriving in lands from Nigeria to the Philippines. Recently, and for almost three years, some even claimed their own divinely ordained caliphate, or Islamic State, temporarily erasing the border between Iraq and Syria. Local chapters of their group keep popping up all over the region. The State Department consistently reports a vast increase in the number of global terrorism incidents compared to the pre-September 11th era. Al Qaeda, the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria (ISIS) and their “lone wolf” copycats have carried out multiple, deadly attacks in more than a dozen major Western cities in the past decade, including Brussels, Paris, Berlin, London, San Bernardino, Orlando, New York City, Pensacola and Corpus Christi. Something must be wrong. The problem is that our government is ignoring and misrepresenting the real causes of the terrorists’ war against the United States.

The private road to it curled precariously up the rugged edges of brown leaping cliffs, and from the jealously stolen lawn in front of the building you could look down and see Palm Springs spread out beneath you like a map, and beyond it the floor of the desert mottled gray-green with greasewood and weeds and cactus and smoke tree, spreading through infinite clear distances across to the last spurs of the San Bernardino mountains and widening southwards towards the broad baking spreads that had once been the bed of a forgotten sea whose tide levels were still graven on the parched rocks that bordered the plain.

She had only the faintest ugly memory of what had brought BZ and Helene together, and to erase it from her mind she fixed her imagination on a needle dripping sodium pentathol into her arm and began counting backward from one hundred. When that failed she imagined herself driving, conceived audacious lane changes, strategic shifts of gear, the Hollywood to the San Bernardino and straight on out, past Barstow, past Baker, driving straight on into the hard white empty core of the world. She slept and did not dream.

of the tiny aircraft and helped the third passenger aboard, his girlfriend Sandra, 30. The plane taxied and sped down the runway. As it rose into the blue California sun, Norman felt a surge of excitement. But as they banked east over Venice Beach, it was clear there was a storm ahead. In front of them a thick blanket of grey cloud was smothering the San Bernardino Mountains. Only the very tips of their 3,000 m (10,000 ft) peaks showed above the gloom. Norman Senior asked the pilot if it was okay to fly in that weather. The pilot reassured them: it was just a thirty-minute hop. They’d stay low and pop through the mountains to Big Bear before they knew it. Norman wondered if he’d be able to see the slope he’d won the championship on when they wheeled round Mount Baldy. His dad nodded and sat back to read the paper and whistle a Willie Nelson tune. Up front, Norman was savouring every moment. He stretched up to see over the plane’s dashboard and listened to the air traffic chatter on his headphones. As the foothills rose below them, he heard Burbank control pass their plane on to Pomona Control. The pilot told Pomona he wanted to stay below 2,300 m (7,500 ft) because of low freezing levels. Then a private plane radioed a warning against flying into the Big Bear area without decent instruments. Suddenly, the sun went out. The greyness was all around them, as thick as soup. They had pierced the storm. The plane shook and lurched. A tree seemed to flit by in the mist, its spiky fingers lunging at the window. But that couldn’t be, not up here. Then there really was a branch outside and with a sickening yawn, time slowed down and the horror unfurled. Norman instinctively curled into a ball. A wing clipped into a tree, tumbling the plane round, up, down, over and round. The spinning only stopped when they slammed into the rugged north face of Ontario Peak. The plane was instantly smashed into debris and the passengers hurled across an icy gully. And there they lay, sprawled amid the wreckage, 75 m (250 ft) from the top of the 2,650 m (8,693 ft) high mountain and perched on a 45-degree ice slope in the heartless storm.

Dave, I didn’t make it to work Monday because I was helping a wizard rescue a baby Prince out someplace between Barstow and San Bernardino?

I had memorized the procedure when I watched the McDonald’s operation in San Bernardino, and I had done it exactly the same way. I went through the whole thing once more. The result was the same—bland, mushy french fries. They were as good, actually, as the french fries you could buy at other places. But that was not what I wanted.

The San Bernardino massacre of the innocent by jihadis saw a very swift response by local law enforcement: they were there in about four minutes. But, by that time, 14 people were dead and 22 wounded.

In the days following the San Bernardino attack, for every American concerned with “Islamophobia,” another was searching for “kill Muslims.” While hate searches were approximately 20 percent of all searches about Muslims before the attack, more than half of all search volume about Muslims became hateful in the hours that followed it.

I think this country has been a bit tossed by the waves in recent weeks. Watching in the way our media allows us, up close, this pain and tragedy in San Bernardino, has given folks a sense that the waters are rough and maybe we’re going under. Everybody who lived in New York on September 11 knows that feeling. There was a great feeling in this city that the water is high and waves are rough and are we going to go beneath the waves? New York did not. Fourteen years later, I think this great city is smarter and stronger and a little bit less naïve, a little bit more focused on the threats, as the Commissioner said, but not bitter, not resigned, not cynical, and certainly not suffering. On September 11, I believe this entire country, this entire world thought of themselves as New Yorkers. I think a month ago, we all thought of ourselves as Parisians. I think a week or so ago, we were all part of San Bernardino community. I think today, we are all Americans and citizens of the world. I think that we are people who understand that we must work together, we must grow together, we must stand together, and that is the answer despite the tossing of the waves, keeping ourselves well above water.

After the San Bernardino attack, Alison Anderman, with the Law Center to Prevent Gun Violence, noted: “California is leading the way [with stricter gun control laws], but California is surrounded by a country that has much weaker laws, and we know that a lot of the guns used in crime in California are trafficked in from other states. What we do need is a comprehensive Federal system that puts tough strict regulations in place that make it hard for people who mean to do harm to get guns.

When children in detention at the San Bernardino County Probation Department in California become violent, they are moved to a cell with the walls painted in bubble gum pink. Paul E. Boccumini, director of clinical services for the department, said, “The children tend to relax, stop yelling and banging and often fall asleep within ten minutes.” The use of brute force was previously used to calm psychotic and manic juveniles. “We used to have to literally sit on them,” said Boccumini. “Now we put them in the pink room. It works.

construction of backcountry roads for timber and mining interests, then charge hikers to park on these same roads. This author (Harris) and many others believe that the Forest Service should receive proper funding from our tax dollars and from commercial users, not from parking fees on public lands. Purchasing a day pass is a logistical problem for long day hikes that start before the stores open. At the time of this writing,

It was not long after the “Fold-a-Nook” fiasco that I became intrigued by the stories of the McDonald brothers and their operation that kept eight Multimixers whirring up a bucket brigade of milk shakes out there in sunny San Bernardino.

their fifteen minutes of fame. Alan Townsend? Maybe. During their interview, Orr had told Tracy she felt guilty about what had happened to Andrea while under her roof. Could helping Andrea to start a new life have been Orr’s way to cleanse herself of her own perceived sins? What did Tracy really know about Penny Orr? Nothing. She went back to her cubicle, hit the space bar on the keyboard, and brought her monitor to life. She logged on to the Internet, pulled up the website they used to conduct LexisNexis searches, and input information to run Penny Orr through the system. The search provided a history of the person’s past employers, former addresses, relatives, and prior criminal history. The history for Penny Orr was short. She’d moved twice, from the San Bernardino home address to a townhome, to the apartment complex. She’d had one sister, deceased. She had no prior criminal history. She’d had one employer. Tracy’s stomach fluttered. Penny Orr had spent thirty years working for the San Bernardino County Assessor. Sensing something, Tracy opened another Internet page and searched for the Assessor’s website. Pulling it up, she clicked her way through the pages until she came to a page announcing that, effective January 3, 2011, the offices of the County Assessor, County Recorder, and County Clerk had been consolidated. To the left of that announcement was a light-blue drop-down menu for the departments’ various services, including a link to obtain certified copies of a birth certificate. CHAPTER 31 T

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It seemed that the marriage had reached the traditional truce, the point at which so many resign themselves to cutting both their losses and their hopes." "In some ways it was the conventional clandestine affair in a place like San Bernardino, a place where little is bright or graceful, where it is routine to misplace the future and easy to start looking for it in bed." "January 11, 1965, was a bright warm day in Southern California, the kind of day when Catalina floats on the Pacific horizon and the air smells of orange blossoms and it is a long way from the bleak and difficult East, a long way from the cold, a long way from the past.

I was heavy with exasperation in a city of pre-apocalyptic heat and pre-emptively obsolesced futurity. It was a city that expanded beyond its capacity in advance of itself, a city designed to punish anyone poor or ugly or infirm in it, I thought, the moment the globe went hot, I thought, the season the water ran out, I thought, on a bus in Los Angeles in a heat wave. (…) I needed the purple line or the red line to Union Station then the San Bernardino line back to Claremont back to my host’s, but I was feeling so hard for the people in the heat wave, people at the bus stop sweating like I was sweating, all of us the tragic consequence, I thought, of the historical forces that enabled Matthew Barney’s gilded shit.